Quilt or Innocence (10 page)

“Honestly,” said Beatrice, “I’m less concerned about my safety and more concerned about neighbors blaming neighbors for murder. You heard everyone tonight—considering the pros and cons of their friends and neighbors being involved. If this case isn’t solved quickly, everybody in town is going to start being suspicious of everyone else. I’m going to do a little poking around.”

Wyatt raised his eyebrows at her in surprise, making Beatrice laugh. “I’ve got my own selfish reasons for doing it. I’m retiring here, and Dappled Hills won’t be nearly as much fun if all the neighbors are suspicious of each other. Besides, I’ve always had a knack for investigating.”

Wyatt’s eyebrows lifted even higher, disappearing into his hair. Beatrice said with a smile, “Well, I was investigating the background of some interesting art, but still. Poking around is poking around! I think I might be able to find something out.”

* * *

Whenever she’d
thought
she’d gotten all the supplies she needed to make a simple quilt block, she kept realizing there was more still to get. Patchwork Cottage seemed to be becoming a fixture in her life. It made sense why all the quilters had been anxious that it might suddenly close.

As she walked up to the shop, Beatrice saw Amber coming out the door.

The murder investigation seemed to be getting to her. Amber had dark circles under her eyes and she hadn’t dressed or done her makeup with her usual attention to detail.

Amber raised her eyebrows at Beatrice and said in a teasing voice, “So we haven’t run you out of Dappled Hills yet, Mrs. Coleman? I’d have thought with all our murder and mayhem that you’d have run screaming back to Atlanta.”

Beatrice said drily, “Right. Because Atlanta is completely crime free. Daisy mentioned that
you
might actually be moving to Atlanta. She’s helping you find a teaching position there?”

Amber smiled, but it didn’t quite make it up to her eyes. “She certainly is. Daisy is nothing if not efficient. I mentioned once or twice in passing that I’d love to check out the big-city scene, and next thing I know, she’s networking with her contacts.”

Amber almost seemed to be hiding something with her carefully blank face. Was there some reason why she
needed
to move from Dappled Hills? A reason other than wanting to meet new people and live in a larger city?

“And your mother? I suppose Felicity would stay here in the area,” said Beatrice.

Amber rolled her eyes. “You couldn’t budge Mother from North Carolina with a crowbar! She definitely wants to stay in the area, but she knows I’m sure not going to
meet
anybody around here. I haven’t yet, and there aren’t tons of single guys moving into town. Mother was forty when she had me, which was super late back then. Now I’m thirty-five and not even in a relationship. I’m sure she’d like a chance at having some grandchildren to spoil. If she’s at a retirement home, then I won’t be worried about her—I know they’ll take good care of her.” It all sounded pretty practiced. Maybe Amber was still trying to justify it to herself. Her actions
could
be considered a little selfish, although the desire to have a change of scenery and pace was completely understandable. Beatrice had done it herself.

“I’m sure they’ll take care of her,” Beatrice said. “And she’ll be glad to know you’re having fun in Atlanta. Mamas are always happy when their children are happy.”

Now Amber’s eyes seemed to really light up. “You know, I think Atlanta
will
make me happy. There’s just so much I want to see and do—I want to eat great food and drink great wine and go to amazing parties and stay out all night and not have people wonder where I am. I just want to go out and
live
.” The passionate nature that Beatrice had seen a glimpse of the night of the bee was really out in full force.

Beatrice said, “I’m surprised you’ve stayed in Dappled Hills all these years. Why haven’t you left before now?”

Amber shrugged. “I grew up here. And when I got out of school, there was a teaching job just waiting for me. Then Mother ran into some financial trouble. I felt like I needed to stick around for a while to make sure she was going to be okay. But now the time has come to blow this joint.”

As though misinterpreting Beatrice’s thoughtful silence, Amber quickly added, “Of course, I wouldn’t leave until all of this mess with the murder investigation is over. Especially with Mother being a suspect.” She gave a short laugh.

Beatrice said, “I’m sure your mother isn’t much of a suspect.”

“I don’t know about that. But I do know there are some people who make just as strong of a suspect as my mother.” Beatrice raised her eyebrows questioningly at her, and Amber said in a quiet voice that Beatrice had to lean in to hear, “I’ve been really wrestling with telling Ramsay, but I guess I have to. I heard Savannah and Judith having a huge squabble a week before Judith was murdered.” Amber looked down at the sidewalk. “And I love Savannah—I really do. I don’t want to have to go tattling to Ramsay about this.”

Somehow it was hard to picture the prim Savannah engaging in a shouting match. “Really? What were they arguing about?”

“It was probably a lot of built-up anger that finally set Savannah off. From what I hear, Judith has been picking on both Savannah and Georgia for ages. Then, about a week ago, I was sitting at one of the outdoor tables at the coffee shop, working on some lesson plans on my laptop, when I heard them arguing across the street. I don’t think they even noticed I was listening, they were so wrapped up in their argument. Judith was talking in a really scornful voice about Savannah’s quilts and blaming them for our losing a place in the last quilt show.”

Beatrice said, “That sounds like exactly the kind of accusation that would be sure to get Savannah’s goat. She seems to take a lot of pride in her quilting.” She remembered Savannah’s precise stitching and eye for detail.

“She takes her quilting
very
seriously. And, really, her work is
perfect.
There’s not ever a stitch out of place.”

“Why would Judith blame Savannah, then?”

“She said that Savannah’s quilting was uninspired.” Amber imitated Judith’s harsh voice and condescending tone. “That maybe she was
technically
good, but to place in juried shows, you need to be
better
than good . . . You need to be creative.”

“Is that true?”

“Well, it sure helps. Quilts are usually judged by category, and we’d like to have some quilts we can put in categories like Art-Pictorial or Art-Abstract. Creative composition can really help out. Yes, it’s great that the piecing is accurate, but the theme and design is important, too. Of course, Meadow is always pushing us to do our best or try new things. Honestly, it’s a little surprising that
Meadow
wasn’t the one murdered,” said Amber in a fond voice. “I can tell that Savannah has murder on the brain whenever Meadow forces her away from her geometric patterns.”

“What did Savannah say back to Judith?” asked Beatrice

“She didn’t just
say
it—she yelled it! With her hands on her skinny hips and her chin jutting out. She looked like she was about five years old . . . I thought she was going to stomp her foot next. Anyway, she said that Judith was jealous of her because she was a better quilter and Judith knew it. Then
Judith
became even more furious and told Savannah that Georgia was holding them back from winning competitions, too.”

“That couldn’t have made matters any better,” said Beatrice.

“No. And the truth probably hurt, because even though Georgia is a much more creative quilter than Savannah will ever be, she gets sort of dreamy and forgetful sometimes and leaves things hanging that we have to fix later on a group quilt. And on her individual quilts, she’ll make mistakes like not having enough space to let the judges’ eyes rest, or needing more contrast, or not having consistent binding corners. Sometimes even her straight lines won’t be all that straight.” Amber shrugged. “Maybe Savannah recognized the truth in what Judith was saying, because suddenly she seemed really threatening. She told Judith to watch her back or she’d be sorry.”

Beatrice said, “You’d probably better tell Ramsay about it, then, Amber. Especially since Savannah sounded like she was making a threat.”

“At the time, it sounded sort of childish. I envisioned Savannah sabotaging one of Judith’s patches . . . You know, something like that. Because, although she’s very serious, Savannah is really pretty immature at heart,” said Amber.

“But now you think maybe it wasn’t an idle threat?” asked Beatrice.

“No. I think that maybe the final straw came on the night of the bee when Judith was taunting Savannah and Georgia. I think she snapped and ended up coming after Judith. After all, Judith announced to everybody in earshot that she was planning on taking a solitary stroll in the park to work off any frustration. Savannah could have biked home, stuck some sort of hammer or something in her bike basket, and biked over to the park to confront Judith. Georgia would never tell if she wasn’t where she said she was. Instant alibi.”

Beatrice said, “I know that Savannah is really protective of Georgia. Is Georgia the same way about Savannah?”

“Oh, absolutely!” It looked like Amber was going to say more about that, but then she pressed her lips shut as if to keep inside whatever gossip she’d been about to spill. “Absolutely,” she repeated instead. Then she hurried on, “Although it’s more obvious with Savannah and Georgia. Of course they’re twins, but Savannah has always been the stronger of the two. The only time Savannah relinquished any of her control over Georgia, she ended up getting married to someone who cheated on her. After that, Savannah has been even more determined to keep an eye on her sister and make sure she stays out of trouble. That’s why I’m saying that Savannah could have been involved in this crime. Judith might finally have pushed her too far.”

“You said that other
people
were equally strong suspects. Is there someone else you have in mind?” asked Beatrice.

Amber shrugged. “It seems to me that the quilting bee was the final straw for Judith’s killer. And Judith was really trash-talking. She said something about Daisy, too, didn’t she?”

“She did,” said Beatrice, nodding. “Judith made a comment about Daisy not being able to be a social climber anymore . . . something like that.”

“I don’t know about social climbing,” Amber said, “but I know Daisy cares a lot about her quilting. That’s how she spends most of her time, apart from all the clubs she belongs to. I’ve seen a lot of rivalry between those two. I’m not sure exactly what Judith was referring to at the bee, but it wouldn’t shock me if old anger and jealousy made Daisy suddenly crack.”

Quilting seemed like such a
tame
pastime at first. Beatrice was thinking this through when Amber took a look at her watch. “Sorry I kept you so long, Beatrice. I’ve got to get going.”

* * *

The dried-out casserole was annoying on a couple of different levels, Beatrice decided. On one level was the time and money she’d spent at Bub’s, getting ingredients for a dish she ultimately destroyed. On the other level was the regrettable fact that now she had nothing for supper . . . and the prospect of a lot more dried-out casseroles in her future until she got back into the cooking groove again.

She
thought
she’d chosen a foolproof recipe. She’d cooked it practically once a week at one point in her life. You’d think that making it would still be rote. But no—the pasta in the casserole was overcooked in some areas and crunchy at the top of the casserole where she’d forgotten to cover the dish. The chicken was rubbery and bland. The seasonings were all wrong. Beatrice made a face. She couldn’t bring herself to choke it down. Not even with the promise of the peach-flavored ice cream she’d picked up as a treat from Bub’s. Actually, she’d also gotten a basket of peaches there. Couldn’t she cut some up over the peach-flavored ice cream and call that supper?

Her exploration of this philosophical question was interrupted by the doorbell and Noo-noo’s eruption of barking. “Noo-noo!” she fussed at the ecstatically barking corgi. “Don’t you think I can hear the doorbell?”

Beatrice peered out the peephole. It was Meadow, wearing a red caftan and a big smile. Beatrice wasn’t feeling in a very Meadow-like mood. Could she hide? No, Meadow had probably heard her fussing at the dog. But what was that she was carrying—could it be food? It was a testament to Beatrice’s hunger that she opened the door with such alacrity. Meadow was many odd and irritating things . . . but she was definitely a top-notch cook.

“Hello, neighbor!” said Meadow brightly. “I’ve brought you some goodies to enjoy. I know it couldn’t be easy to move your household from one place to another. Do you mind breakfast for supper? It’s one of Ramsay’s and my most favorite things. I’ve got you a quiche Lorraine made with our free-range chicken eggs and some wonderful cured bacon that I pick up locally at the farmers’ market. You’ll love it! And I’ve got a chicken casserole that you can throw in the oven tomorrow for supper.”

Meadow bustled in and found a spot for the casserole and quiche. “I think I’m going to have to regularly make some covered dishes for you. It was
too
fun skipping through the woods between our houses. I tell you, I felt exactly like Little Red Riding Hood in my red caftan. I shall have to buy myself a hooded sweatshirt!” She gave a booming laugh that reverberated through Beatrice’s cottage like a skipping stone on a quiet lake. Her little house seemed so much smaller when Meadow was here.

Meadow sniffed the air. “But I didn’t come in time! Have you been cooking? Did you make your own chicken recipe? Something smells absolutely delicious, Beatrice!”

“Does it?” Beatrice looked dubiously at the casserole. “Dinner didn’t turn out quite like I’d planned. I guess it’ll take a while to get back into the rhythm of cooking again.”

“Could I have a bitty spoonful?”

“Be my guest.” Beatrice handed Meadow a spoon.

Meadow took a healthy bite, then looked up at the ceiling in a considering manner as she tasted the food. “Beatrice, maybe you forgot salt and pepper. This might even be better over rice or over pasta al dente.” She took another small bite off her spoon, then said thoughtfully, “You know who would love this casserole? Ramsay. He doesn’t really care for spicy food. Gives him heartburn.”