Shear Trouble (3 page)

“Now, look here,” said Jason, his genial expression hardened, “you can’t talk to her like that.”

“I can talk to her any way I please,” said Frank. “She’s my mother.”

Frank spun on his heel and stalked out the door into the store. Jason stared after him, and then followed him
out. “I’ll be back soon, love,” he called over his shoulder to Martha.

In an attempt to divert everyone’s attention back to quilting, Posy greeted the ladies, made sure everyone had entered their name for the door prize, and they all started working. There were quiet moments, but in general, the room was filled with laughter and conversation and, almost, a sense of family.

There was also a lot of coming and going. Sometimes the quilters found that they could use a bit of different fabric to add to their quilt. There were also women visiting the table of food and drinks that Posy had provided in the store—she’d put out a tray of mini quiches, some prosciutto-wrapped cheeses, vegetables and fruits, and punch. And, of course, there were June Bug’s delicious cakes—a German chocolate five-layer, a peanut butter swirl cheesecake, and a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.

Beatrice, as she’d expected, had run into some trouble with her pattern fairly early on. Cutting the pieces for the quilt was a lot trickier than she’d guessed. But Miss Sissy glanced over, saw she was having problems, and skillfully put her on the right path. Surprisingly, Miss Sissy advocated a shortcut—an acrylic template that Posy sold in the store. Miss Sissy helped Beatrice tape the fabric to the back of the templates and use a tool to cut the center blocks for the quilt.

In general, the retreat seemed like a very smooth
and organized event. Posy was relaxed and happy and also seemed to be making a fair number of sales, including the templates and tool to help Beatrice with her quilt. The only person who appeared to be having any trouble was Phyllis.

“Where did my new shears go?” she asked plaintively. It was her nearly constant refrain for the next twenty minutes. She’d looked under bunches of fabric and peered under her table.

Posy helped her search. “Could you have set them down on someone else’s table while you were chatting, maybe?” she asked.

Phyllis pursed her lips thoughtfully, and then shook her head until her frosted blond hair tumbled around her face. “I don’t think so.” Then her eyes narrowed and she said in a hard voice, “But they’re expensive shears. Maybe someone took them.”

There was a small gasp from the assembled quilters, and the feeling of family quickly dissipated. Beatrice raised her eyebrows. Was Phyllis seriously leveling an accusation of theft at these quilters? These were all neighbors, all friends of hers. Over shears? Now she
was
seriously wondering if Phyllis was a good candidate for the Village Quilters.

“In fact,” she said, “if I had to guess, I’d say that Martha might have taken them.” Phyllis turned to stare at Martha Helmsley.

Martha gave a startled laugh. “Me? Why on earth would I take your shears? Even if they
were
nice. I have the means to go into the store and purchase my own, you know.”

“I bought the last pair,” spat Phyllis.

“But I can always order more!” said Posy, hurriedly, anxiously fingering her beagle pin.

“I wouldn’t want yours,” said Martha. She had a slightly disgusted expression on her face as if she suspected that Phyllis’s shears might have some terrible, transferable germs on them.

“Something wrong, Mom?” came a grim voice. Beatrice turned to see Martha’s son, Frank.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked sharply. “I thought you had things to do today.”

“I wanted to check and see if there was anything else you needed,” he said in an innocent tone. Beatrice noticed that he was holding a paper plate loaded down with food. Apparently, hunger had kept him at the store. Or, perhaps, the realization he should smooth things over with his mother a bit, considering that she was his sole provider.

“Everything okay?” Frank repeated, this time somewhat impatiently.

“Yes,” said Martha in a chilly voice. “Everything is fine. Phyllis and I were simply having a misunderstanding.”

Phyllis was opening her mouth again, as if to dispute that fact, when Beatrice quickly broke in. “Phyllis, I can help you find your shears. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

Phyllis continued looking under various quilts and fabrics and notions on different tables, searching for the scissors.

Hadn’t the storeroom been searched enough? Beatrice had the feeling that the missing shears were likely in the main area of the store. Maybe Phyllis had absently laid them down as she was entering the retreat. “I’ll check the store,” she offered. It was a relief to get away from the bickering in the back room, anyway.

Beatrice first checked out the most likely areas of the store where Phyllis might have absentmindedly put down her scissors: the buffet table and the ladies’ room. No shears. She also looked at the checkout counter to see if she’d laid them down while fumbling with whatever she was carrying. Nothing.

Beatrice walked into the sitting area with the sofa and chairs and peered at the coffee table and the seat cushions—she saw nothing. Then she headed to the far end of the store near the windows.

And saw Jason Gore, unmoving, behind a display case. Phyllis’s missing shears were stuck into his chest.

Beatrice sharply drew in her breath, drawing back from Jason’s body, her heart pounding. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed police chief Ramsay Downey, Meadow’s husband. She punched the numbers with trembling fingers. “Ramsay,” she said hoarsely as he answered, “there’s been a murder at the Patchwork Cottage. Jason Gore is dead.”

“What?” said Ramsay in a voice that was a mixture of surprise and exasperation. “All right, I’m on my way. Keep everyone far away from the body. Actually, have everyone step out of the shop entirely. I’ll be right over.”

As Beatrice was hanging up the phone, she heard a startled cry. She turned to see Phyllis right behind her, weaving unsteadily on her feet, a hand to her throat. “Jason,” she said in a soft voice.

“Did you find the silly shears?” Martha impatiently asked behind them. She stopped short, gazing at Jason with a horrified expression. “Jason!” she shrieked.

Beatrice said in a gentle but firm voice, “I’ve called Ramsay. We’re to keep away from this area and wait outside for him to arrive.”

Her words went unheard, though, as Martha turned on Phyllis. “You. This is your fault—your doing!” she spat out.

“Of course not,” said Phyllis with a gasp, blinking in a dazed manner. “I’d never . . . I couldn’t . . .”

“They’re
your shears
,” bellowed Martha. “And you’re the one who wanted revenge on Jason. He left you at the altar, didn’t he?”

Now Phyllis’s voice had an edge to it. “No, actually, he didn’t. It was weeks before the wedding when he left. And, by the way, you can’t have it both ways, Martha. Did I want Jason back, or did I want him dead? You’ve told everyone in town it was the first. Now you’re claiming it’s the second.”

“Because they’re
your shears
!” Martha’s pretty face was mottled with a blotchy red as her voice rose. “And now he’s dead!” Now there were other quilters peeking out behind her with their own gasps.

“I told you, they went missing!” Phyllis, trembling, appeared to be ready to launch herself at Martha.

A deep voice behind them murmured, “What’s this?
My, what a shame.” Beatrice turned around to see Martha’s son, Frank, gazing at Jason’s body with more than a hint of satisfaction on his face.

Miss Sissy’s grizzled face peered out around Frank to stare at the body on the floor. “Evilllll,” she hissed.

“All right,” barked Beatrice in as commanding a voice as she could muster. “Everyone outside the shop. Out!” She pointed to the shop door. “Let’s head out all the way to the parking lot.”

Martha and Phyllis reluctantly left, still looking as if they were both furious and shocked at the same time. Meadow muttered to Beatrice, “At least Phyllis’s shears were found and we don’t have to hear about them anymore.” Beatrice quickly stuck her head in the storeroom, explained there’d been an accident, and that Ramsay had asked everyone to please congregate in the parking lot. The quilters quietly followed.

The young man who’d acted so aggressively when Jason was entering the shop gazed at the women curiously as they gathered in the parking lot. He walked over to their group. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said quietly. “I’m Tony Brock—I work at the hardware store there. What’s going on?” he asked Beatrice.

She hesitated and then said, “Jason Gore has been found dead in the shop. He was apparently . . . murdered.”

Beatrice watched as an indefinable emotion crossed
his features. It was quickly suppressed and he said, “That must have been awful for all of you. Who found him?”

Beatrice swallowed. It had, actually, been awful. But everything had happened so fast that she didn’t think it had had time to sink in yet. It was starting to, though, and she thought she might be plagued with some bad dreams in the nights to come. “I did,” she said quietly.

Tony asked, “Did you call Ramsay? Did he ask you all to stay out here?”

Beatrice nodded.

She watched as another man, tall and spindly with glasses and gray hair, hurried toward the group of quilters standing in the parking lot. He rushed right up to Martha and said, “Someone in the hardware store said there’d been a murder at Posy’s shop! I was worried sick about you.”

Martha, who’d been staring blankly into space, gave him an irritated look. “I’m okay, John. But it’s Jason. He’s gone.” He reached out as if to give Martha a hug, but she pulled away from him, wrapping her arms around herself and delving back into her thoughts.

The sound of a car made Beatrice turn and they saw Ramsay’s police cruiser approaching the group. He parked and got out to walk over to speak with Posy, who’d been anxiously standing away from the others, feeling a strong responsibility as store owner. Ramsay was a short, balding man with a stomach that had seen
its share of Southern cooking. But Beatrice had found him kind and fair, although he certainly seemed to have a dislike of police work. He’d much rather be at home, rereading his beloved
Walden
 . . . or maybe watching
Wheel of Fortune
on television.

Posy handed Ramsay the shop keys and he secured the scene. Ten minutes later, he left the shop and motioned Beatrice over.

“You okay?” he asked, squinting in concern. “You’re looking a little pale, there.”

She’d been feeling a little ill, as a matter of fact. Beatrice, unfortunately, had had occasion to discover other murder victims. But they’d always appeared as if they were sleeping somehow. This was a much more violent, furious crime. She nodded at Ramsay, though, in reassurance.

“So . . . what happened, Beatrice? It sounds like you happened on Jason Gore’s body?” he asked. “You didn’t see or hear anything? No clues as to who might have done this?” Ramsay watched her intently.

“I didn’t see or hear a thing. I was looking for Phyllis Stitt’s lost shears,” said Beatrice. She sighed. “And I found them.”

Ramsay raised his eyebrows. “Lost shears? Like the ones that were used . . . ?”

“I’m afraid so. The very ones,” said Beatrice. “For what it’s worth, she’d claimed all along that they were missing. That’s why I set out to look for them. She was
blaming Martha for swiping them up until the shears were discovered.”

“And now they’ll be taken away in an evidence bag,” said Ramsay grimly. “I suppose I should speak to Phyllis first.”

“You might want to tread softly,” warned Beatrice. “She’s apparently ultrasensitive right now about being blamed for anything. She is trying to get into the Village Quilters guild because she thinks everyone in the Cut-Ups believes she was trying to steal Jason away from Martha.”

“Was she?” asked Ramsay.

“I guess that remains to be seen,” said Beatrice with a small shrug. “But she really didn’t seem love-struck to me.
Or
bent on revenge for him running out on her.” She lowered her voice. “Although it sounded as if Martha thought so. Martha is apparently the main reason why Phyllis wants to get out of the Cut-Ups guild.”

Ramsay gazed over at the assembled group of quilters and sighed. “Here goes nothing. Hopefully the state police can get over here soon and give me a hand. Let’s hope somebody saw something helpful.”

*   *   *

“You’ve got to solve the mystery, Beatrice. I’m counting on you.”

It was way too early in the day, decided Beatrice, for a visit from Meadow. Apparently, discovering bodies took a real toll on Beatrice. She’d slept in for the first
time in ages, although that probably had a lot to do with the fact that she’d had such a hard time falling asleep last night. Now she was sitting in her nightgown and robe, drinking a very dark cup of coffee with great determination.

Meadow, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy. She was dressed in a very colorful tunic and flowing pants in a different bright color. Her eyes gazed earnestly at Beatrice through her red-framed glasses. Boris, the Genius Dog, was with her. Beatrice watched them both with tired eyes. The kitten watched Boris with wary ones. She’d chosen to sit up on the top of the cabinets. How she’d gotten up there, Beatrice couldn’t say.

“Why are you counting on
me
to solve the case, Meadow? You have a police chief husband. I’m pretty sure that Ramsay’s investigating techniques are a lot better than mine are. Besides, I can’t imagine that Ramsay would be very happy with me getting in the middle of his murder investigation.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Meadow. “I’m sure he’d be eternally grateful if you’d help. After all, Ramsay despises police work. He’s always just praying that somehow it’ll all go away so that he can write poetry again or read some big, boring book. You have a real talent, Beatrice—you’re a Gifted Amateur. I’m convinced you can use your skill to find the real killer—because Ramsay is very shortsightedly focused on poor
Phyllis right now. Can you imagine how stressful that is for her?”

“That’s only natural,” said Beatrice mildly. “After all, those
were
Phyllis’s shears that were used as the murder weapon. And she did have a history with the victim.”

“Oh, anyone could have gotten hold of those silly shears,” said Meadow. She waved her hand impatiently. “And Phyllis wasn’t the only one who had a problem with Jason. Honestly, Phyllis could possibly be an asset for the Village Quilters. Although I don’t think we really need another member in the guild right now—after all, we recently took on June Bug, even if she doesn’t come to meetings very often. But even if the guild votes
not
to induct Phyllis, I know we have to get to the bottom of this mess. It’s not good for our community.”

“I’ll ask some questions and see what I can find out.” Meadow’s face lit up. “And I’ll start with you. I need all the dirt on Jason Gore.”

“Didn’t I already do that? Tell you what I knew?”

Beatrice shook her head.

Meadow heaved a great sigh and absently patted Boris for a moment. “I’m not too sure I know a lot. You heard about the Phyllis/Martha/Jason relationship thing.”

“The love triangle you mentioned at the retreat. Yes. But what’s going on with Tony Brock?”

Meadow frowned. “Tony Brock?”

“Yes. You know—the young guy who works at the hardware store next to the Patchwork Cottage. He was glowering at Jason when he was walking into the quilting retreat,” said Beatrice. She took another sip of her coffee, although she was starting to feel more awake now. “And he seemed interested in finding out what happened when he saw us all standing out in the parking lot.”

“Oh. That’s right,” said Meadow. She let go of Boris and leaned back in her chair. Boris immediately shuffled off into Beatrice’s kitchen, although Beatrice was now paying little attention to the dogs as she focused on Meadow. “You see, Jason Gore might have been a bit of a con man.”

“A con man. In Dappled Hills?”

“Where better?” asked Meadow, spreading out her hands. “After all, when you’re in a small town, people trust you. Everyone knows everyone here. And the people in the town might not be particularly sophisticated or have much experience with crime. It’s the perfect place to find a mark.”

“Maybe that’s what Frank meant at the retreat when he told his mother that Jason wasn’t the man she thought he was. When did Jason move here? Or was he a part of the town for a long time before he decided to run a scam?” asked Beatrice.

Meadow gave a hooting laugh. “
Run a scam?
You
sound like a gangster yourself. I guess that’s what living in Atlanta teaches you, right? Okay. Well, he was here for a couple of years, I think. He moved in, saying that he was some sort of a financial consultant and wanted to take some time off from city life. He’d come from New York, he said. He did seem to have very expensive clothes,” she said musingly.

“Did he buy a house?” asked Beatrice. “Was he acting as if he was going to settle down here?”

Meadow nodded. “He
said
he wanted to settle down. In fact, his mother and brother followed him down later on. They didn’t seem to have much income, and we all understood that he’d persuaded them to join him in Dappled Hills because he wanted to help look after them. Although they didn’t seem to corroborate his story that they were all from New York. A little confusing, that. Anyway, he wanted to rent first, so that he had plenty of time to make a decision before buying a house. He was also considering building a house, he’d said. So the fact that he was renting a house made sense. And he was so charming, Beatrice,” added Meadow with a sigh. “Half the town must have fallen in love with him.”

“I guess, if he was a con man, he must have gotten himself put in positions of trust right away,” said Beatrice.

“That’s apparently how it works,” said Meadow.
“He volunteered over at the church all the time. He was even a greeter on Sunday mornings. The best greeter ever. Oh, he’d ask you how your quilt was coming along or if your arthritis was doing any better. He’d even give me dog treats in a sandwich bag to give to Boris after church. I think he got along very well with Wyatt, and for a minister, Wyatt is a pretty discerning judge of character, I think. And he seemed as if he had plenty of money. He always tipped nicely and bought sweet gifts for Phyllis or flowers or took her out to restaurants. He advised people on their retirement savings when they asked him about it. And they usually
did
ask him about it because Jason explained that he’d made a comfortable living by day trading.” She startled a bit as something occurred to her. “I guess he wasn’t even certified for that.”

“When did everybody find out that he was trouble?” asked Beatrice.

“When he left town. He left at night, just like a thief. Apparently, he didn’t even tell his mother and brother that he was taking off. Poor Phyllis was a disaster. She’d really loved him. She felt totally humiliated. I’ve always wondered—did Jason even care for Phyllis or was it always a scam? Phyllis is really well off, you know,” explained Meadow. She frowned. “Or—at least—she
was
well off. I wonder how much she spent on Jason. It seems as though she’s living a very simple life
these days. Not buying a lot of new clothes, driving the same car year after year. I think she’s definitely cut back on her spending.”

“You’d think, if he was only dating Phyllis for her money, that he would have gone through with the wedding,” said Beatrice.