Shear Trouble (5 page)

Phyllis paused and asked brightly, “Would you like some more lemonade, Beatrice?”

*   *   *

On the way back home from Phyllis’s house, Beatrice ran by the store and bought more cat food, and another cat toy for the kitten. When Beatrice arrived back at her cottage, she saw a grinning Boris the Dog sitting at her front door. An indignant Noo-noo looked out the front picture window.

“If he’s such a genius,” muttered Beatrice, “why does he keep forgetting where he lives?”

Boris bounded around her as she fumbled with her keys, trying to open the door while fishing her cell phone out of her pocketbook and holding on to the bags from the store. “Meadow,” she said, when she’d finally found the phone and punched her number in, “Boris is over here paying a visit.”

“What an intuitive, brilliant boy he is!” Meadow said effusively. “He senses you’ve had a rough time and wants to bring you comfort.”

The comforting Boris galloped past her into the cottage, making a beeline for the kitchen with Noo-noo scampering behind him as fast as her legs would allow her. “I’m not sure that’s why Boris is here, Meadow. I believe he may have ulterior motives.” She followed the dogs into her small kitchen and noticed that both sets of dog eyes were focused on the canister of treats she kept on her counter. The kitten was nowhere to be seen. She was probably up on as high a surface as she could find.

“Let me give Ramsay a quick call,” said Meadow. “He just left in the cruiser a minute ago—he can swing by and pick Boris up.”

Beatrice was still trying to decide whether to reward Boris’s bad behavior with a treat when Ramsay opened her front door, poking his head through cautiously. “Beatrice?” he called.

“Come on in,” she called back. Boris, hearing his master’s voice, joyfully bounded out of the kitchen, ending her dilemma.

Ramsay quickly snapped a leash onto the dog’s collar and then squatted down to give him a hug and accept Boris’s wild kisses.

“Can we trade dogs?” he asked Beatrice. “Owning Boris is like having a toddler in the house again. Noo-noo is always well-behaved.”

Noo-noo grinned at Ramsay as if she understood every word.

“She’s got a different temperament, that’s all,” said Beatrice. “She doesn’t get as . . . well . . . excited as Boris does. I hear Boris has other talents, though.” Ramsay gave Beatrice a curious look. “I understand he’s gifted,” explained Beatrice, hiding a smile.

Ramsay made a
pish
sound and waved his hand dismissively. “Meadow’s madness. Boris . . . gifted—ha!”

Ramsay slowly stood back up as if his back hurt a bit. He had smudges of circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his uniform didn’t look as pressed and neat as it ordinarily did. “I’ve got some coffee,” she offered. “You look as though you’ve had a long day.”

Ramsay brightened. “That would be great, actually. I didn’t even have a chance to get a full cup this morning.” He kept a tight hold on Boris’s leash as Beatrice walked off to get them some coffee.

Beatrice poured him a cup and they both sat down in the living room. “Are
you
doing all right?” asked Ramsay, scrutinizing her face. “Yesterday’s . . . event . . . must have come as a huge shock to you.”

Beatrice nodded. “It was, of course. But now I’ve moved on and would simply like to know what happened. It always seems incredible that there would be murders in Dappled Hills. I feel as if we live in the safest place in the world.”

“We do, we do,” Ramsay hastened to say. As police chief, perhaps, he felt a strong sense of responsibility to defend that point. “But people are people, no matter
where you go. I’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t worry.” He clumsily patted Beatrice’s hand, and then knitted his brow as a thought occurred to him. “Meadow’s not trying to rope you into investigating this murder, is she?”

Beatrice hesitated. She didn’t want to throw Meadow under a bus, but she didn’t feel right lying to Ramsay, either. “Let’s just say that I’m keeping my ears open, that’s all. If I hear something, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

This answer seemed to satisfy Ramsay and they sipped their coffee in comfortable silence for a few moments. Then Ramsay said, “You haven’t heard anything so far, have you? Any hints are welcome. As usual, I want to wrap up this case as fast as I can so that I can get back to what
really
matters.” Which, to Ramsay, would have little to do with police work.

“No, I haven’t really gotten anywhere yet. Except that Jason seemed to be disliked by several people.”

Ramsay nodded, absently reaching down to scratch Noo-noo behind the ears until Boris bumped his hand to grab his attention. “Oh yes. I guess you’ve been hearing about Eric, then. Small towns do gossip, don’t they? I bet when you lived in Atlanta, you likely didn’t come across it, did you?”

Eric? Who on earth was Eric? Beatrice decided she might get more information if she played along. “Oh, I’d say there was plenty of gossip in Atlanta, too. But,
yes . . . Eric. I suppose he couldn’t help being upset with Jason, though.” Beatrice waited, hoping that Ramsay would ruminate on that point a while.

Apparently, Ramsay was happy to oblige. “I suppose so. After all, he moved to Dappled Hills to be near his half brother. He likes it here, liked the people. Then Jason got half the town riled up with him for one thing or another and ran off like a thief in the night. Poor Eric was left behind to face the music. Reckon I wouldn’t be too happy myself.”

“No, I guess not.” Beatrice paused. “I don’t want to ask you anything you shouldn’t talk about, but I was wondering about Jason’s death.”

Ramsay took a long sip of his coffee and then nodded at Beatrice to continue.

Beatrice spread out her hands in a supplicant manner and said, “Maybe you can help me to understand it. Here we are, in a roomful of women. About a dozen of us. We’re not staying in the room, either—we’re leaving regularly to find the refreshments or to visit the ladies’ room or even to buy a different fabric or a needed notion from Posy from the shop. And a man—a grown man and a healthy one—is murdered with a pair of scissors and we don’t hear a thing.” She shrugged. “I can’t wrap my mind around it.”

Ramsay sighed. “It does beat all, doesn’t it? At first, I thought I was going to have more information than I could handle, considering all the potential witnesses.
But then I realized y’all had been wrapped up in your quilting too much to really focus on much else. And I guess it was pretty noisy in there, too—what with the sewing machines running and everyone talking at once.”

“And there was a bit of drama between Martha and Phyllis,” said Beatrice.

“I did hear a little about that from Meadow,” said Ramsay.

“What I’m thinking,” said Beatrice carefully, “is that there was probably another reason that this murder was so quiet. Perhaps he was unconscious when he was stabbed.”

Ramsay raised his eyebrows. “Have you got an informant in the state police?”

Beatrice smiled at him. “Sounds like I guessed right.”

“Some sort of blunt-force trauma knocked him out first. Then he was murdered with the shears.”

“I’ve always heard that stabbing is a very personal type of crime,” said Beatrice.

Ramsay gave a short laugh. “I think most victims would say that
any
type of murder is personal. But yes—I think stabbing implies a certain level of dissatisfaction with a victim. It shows anger.” He reached up with his free hand and rubbed his eyes.

“I’d better go,” he said with a sigh. “Especially since I need to drop Boris by the house before I head to work again.” He stood up and Boris followed his lead.
Ramsay’s gaze dropped to Beatrice’s coffee table and he squinted at the title of the book there.
“Golden Summer,”
he read. “Hmm.”

“I can’t recommend it,” said Beatrice. “Although everyone tells me it’s a terrific book if I stick with it.”

“Looks a little lightweight to me,” said Ramsay doubtfully. “I’ve got some books that I’d love to let you borrow, Beatrice. I’ll bring one to you the next time I see you. I can tell you’re a person who gives back books.”

She was. And she had the feeling that she’d be only too eager to hand Ramsay’s literary tomes right back to him.

One thing that Beatrice had learned since moving to Dappled Hills was that Posy’s Patchwork Cottage was a major town hub. It was one of the best spots to see people, gossip, and gather information. Beatrice found her pocketbook and peered into her wallet. It was also, clearly, a good place to spend money. She’d have to stop by the bank along the way.

As she’d hoped, the Patchwork Cottage was bustling with activity. Posy gave her a quick wave as she continued checking out a quilter. Miss Sissy was, as usual, snoring away in the sitting area. She’d apparently tried to work on the jigsaw puzzle that Posy had put on the table in the sitting room, since there were several puzzle pieces in her lap. Beatrice was glad to see that Martha Helmsley was there. And, actually, surprised to see her there, considering the large amount of
fabric she’d recently purchased and the scary scene from yesterday.

Martha spotted her and walked over, holding a bunch of fabric. “Beatrice, it’s good to see you here. I wanted to let you know that I was so impressed with you yesterday—the way you kept your head and did all the right things. I felt—well, I felt as though my world were coming to an end. Your attitude really helped me to keep calm. Although I know I didn’t handle everything as well as I could have.” She put the pile of fabric on a table and sat down in a chair next to Miss Sissy.

Beatrice sat down next to her and spoke in a low voice. “I don’t think you should be too hard on yourself. You were facing a crisis and you reacted to it. That’s only natural. And look at you now—you’re picking up with your life again and trying to move forward.”

Martha’s eyes grew misty and she blinked a few times to chase the tears away. She cleared her throat and said, “That’s the best way of handling a tragedy—don’t you think? Although I nearly broke down before coming over here.” She gestured to the fabric with a well-manicured hand. “Jason had gotten me these fabrics as a surprise. Bless him. As soon as I saw them, I knew there was no way I could use them in any projects, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Now . . .” She shrugged, fishing for a tissue from her purse. “I figured I could return them. But it makes me so sad.”

Beatrice waited a moment while Martha dabbled at her eyes and Miss Sissy snored loudly beside them. “I was talking with Ramsay earlier,” she said finally, “and he was saying that it was tough investigating since none of the quilters had really seen or heard anything while we were in the retreat. I knew that I hadn’t witnessed anything that seemed important. Did you?”

Martha’s eyes hardened. “I certainly did. I saw that Phyllis lost her shears. And then I saw that she’d found them again. That’s what I witnessed. I don’t understand why Ramsay is trying to talk to people when it’s clear who is responsible for Jason’s death. Phyllis.”

“Phyllis says that her shears were taken from her and that anyone could have murdered Jason with them,” said Beatrice. “She thinks that maybe someone was trying to set her up by taking her shears and using them for the crime.”

“Well, of course she says that. Wouldn’t you?” Martha gave a short laugh. “The facts are that Phyllis’s shears were responsible for killing my Jason.” Her eyes filled again with tears. “I suppose she thinks that
I’m
somehow behind Jason’s death. Since she thinks someone is setting her up, it’s pretty definite that she’d blame me.”

“Which is ridiculous, of course,” murmured Beatrice.

“Naturally! Does she think that I went out in the store, stabbed Jason, and returned to quilting without
even a wrinkle or a spot on my white outfit? She’s insane. Or desperately trying to switch blame from herself over to me.”

Beatrice said, “So you didn’t leave the conference room or notice anyone else who did?”

“I was very, very busy with my grandmother’s flower garden pattern, actually. It’s a tough pattern—have you attempted one, Beatrice?”

Beatrice shook her head. “Those hexagons—they seemed as if they might be tricky.”

“If you had, you’d know what I mean. You really have to focus on it,” said Martha smoothly. “And it’s all hand-stitched. The hexagon pieces are paper pieced.”

“You didn’t get up even once from it?” asked Beatrice. “Not even with all the snacks to tempt you?”

“Perhaps I got up once,” said Martha slowly. “One quilter came back in the back room with some really yummy-looking cake that I understand June Bug made. And June Bug is such a fabulous cook, as well as a housekeeper—you know she helps me out a couple of times a week. I do believe I got a slice of cake at one point, but then I got right back to work on my quilt.”

Beatrice knew that Martha had left the room more than once. She knew this because she’d been keeping an eye on both Phyllis and Martha. The two women had certainly seemed to be gearing up for some kind of fight, and Beatrice was going to try to defuse the situation before it happened—mostly for poor Posy’s sake.
“I could have sworn that you left the room more than once, Martha,” said Beatrice.

Martha’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to investigate Jason’s death?” she asked coldly. “Really, Beatrice. I think that’s something better left to the police. Don’t you?” Her hands tightened on the fabric she was holding in her lap. She glanced around the store for a moment as if trying to collect herself. “I might have gone back into the store for a napkin. It was a very moist cake, you see.”

“I know you think that Phyllis is behind this, but is there anyone else that you can think of who might have wanted to do Jason harm?” asked Beatrice.

“Jason was a
lovely
person,” said Martha in a censorious tone.

“I’m sure that he was.”

“It’s very difficult for me to imagine that
anyone
would want to do him harm.” She gave Beatrice a stern look.

“Of course it is,” said Beatrice, nodding and waiting.

“Although I sometimes wonder about John,” said Martha. She sighed. “I guess each of us has our trials in life. I do believe that John might be mine.”

“John. Let’s see. John is a friend of yours, right? I believe that I saw him right after we left the retreat—didn’t he come over to make sure you were all right?” Beatrice remembered that John Simmons had been trying to win Martha’s affections for years—but that apparently she was unswayed by his efforts.

Martha looked away. “That’s right. He’s—I suppose he’s always hoped that we might end up married.”

“You’ve known him a long time?”

Martha sighed again. “All my life. I think he’s been pining after me since nursery school.”

She clearly didn’t want to talk about it. But Beatrice was sure that Meadow would be able to provide her with some more insights later on.

“I should get going,” said Martha, slowly standing up and looking tired. “By the way, Beatrice, I wanted to let you know that I’m going to be planning Jason’s service and holding a small reception afterward. You’re most welcome to come. I don’t know exactly when it will be, but I’m thinking in the next couple of days. The police have to . . . well, you know.”

Beatrice realized that Jason’s body must not have been released from the police yet. “I’d be happy to come, Martha, of course.”

Martha took her fabrics to the counter to return them. Beatrice glanced over at Miss Sissy, who had one eye open, watching her. “How much of that conversation did you hear, Miss Sissy?”

Miss Sissy opened the other eye and sat up. She looked more disheveled than usual, with iron gray hair falling loose out of her bun. “Wickedness,” she muttered.

But there was a gleam in those old eyes that made Beatrice suspect that Miss Sissy was actually having
one of her good days. “Which part was wicked?” she asked.

“Everything!” spat the old woman. “And lies. Lots of lies.”

Beatrice had realized that Miss Sissy knew a lot more about things going on in Dappled Hills than she really let on. “What do you know about this John that Martha was talking about? Have you seen him around?”

Miss Sissy nodded and more hair fell out from her bun. “Stalks her.”

“John stalks Martha?” asked Beatrice, startled. “Martha doesn’t seem like the kind of person who might put up with that for years.”

“Stalks her!” said Miss Sissy sharply. “All foolishness.” She gave Beatrice a canny look. “June Bug knows. Ask the June Bug.”

“I will, I will,” said Beatrice in a soothing voice. She studied the old woman for a moment and then asked, “Did you see anything during the retreat? You left the room a few times, didn’t you?”

“A body has to eat,” muttered Miss Sissy. Miss Sissy was never one to let snack time pass her by. “June Bug brought cakes!” she said, rather defensively.

“Well, that’s what the food was there for. But did you see or hear anything suspicious?”

Miss Sissy paused. “Men’s voices. In the quilt shop.”

This was hardly a revelation and Beatrice tried not
to show her disappointment. “Wouldn’t there have been men’s voices, though? After all, Jason was there. And Martha’s son, Frank, came through to bring her something she’d forgotten.”

Miss Sissy glared at her and slapped her hand on the table next to her, making her glass of lemonade shake precariously. “Not Frank. Another man. Talking to Jason—the dead boy.”

If Beatrice needed another reason to discount Miss Sissy, she’d just gotten one. Jason was no boy. Could she possibly be talking about Tony Brock? The young man at the hardware store that Meadow said had been cheated out of his college education? Or was Miss Sissy simply delusional again?

She must have looked skeptical, because Miss Sissy shook her fist at her. “I heard them talking!”

The old woman seemed to be returning to a familiar chorus now. Beatrice stood up. Time to go, for sure. “Well, it was nice speaking with you, Miss Sissy.”

Miss Sissy, with her usual surprising spryness, jumped to her feet with an agility that Beatrice admired. “Remember,” she said, urgently staring into Beatrice’s eyes, “it’s always the money. The love of money is the root of all evil.”

The two women stared solemnly at each other for a few moments. Beatrice felt again that Miss Sissy still had some shrewd ideas bouncing around in that head of hers. She could also be incredibly intuitive.

This train of thought was derailed, however, as Miss Sissy spotted a bowl that Posy had set out for customers on a nearby table. “Peppermints!” she hissed. And she was gone.

*   *   *

Later, back at home, Beatrice found her mind drifting to thoughts of Wyatt. She’d really like to see him—to spend some time with him and even bounce a few ideas off him regarding the investigation. She knew he was busy now, though, especially as he planned for the upcoming funeral. Well. This was the twenty-first century, after all. Shouldn’t she also reciprocate an invitation? What did other widows do in these cases? She found it hard to believe that they sat around in their ivory towers and waited for the handsome prince to show up.

Meadow had mentioned a dinner. Maybe that would be a good idea. Something simple. Then, if she pulled it off, she could keep the food warm and invite Wyatt over for an off-the-cuff meal. That would still keep things low-key, but intimate.

But where were her cookbooks? She didn’t dare look up recipes online because she’d end up spending hours looking through them and then get distracted by her e-mails. No, better to go with something out of one of her cookbooks. Beatrice walked into her kitchen and stared at the cabinets. She couldn’t remember having
seen the cookbooks lately. Maybe they were in one of the high cabinets, out of the way.

She pushed a chair into the kitchen and carefully stood on it to look in the highest cabinet. Sure enough, there was her old cookbook, complete with frayed edges and old food stains. She reached for it, straining. She could barely feel the book with her fingertips. She stretched some more, grabbed the book enough to knock it off of the shelf, and then to her horror, realized the chair was sliding backward on the floor. Beatrice fell to the floor, hitting it right after the book fell and narrowly missing hitting her chin on the counter on her way down.

Beatrice lay for a few moments still on the floor, heart pounding. Then she carefully tested her arms and legs. Everything seemed in working order, although she felt a little sore. She glared at the cabinet. How on earth did she get the book up there to begin with? She carefully returned to her feet, wincing. Next time she’d get out the step stool. It had rubber feet.

Later, she decided that the fall had been an ominous start to her cooking project. Because what she then launched was definitely not the culinary masterpiece that Meadow had charged her with cooking. First of all, she decided, for the meal to truly appear casual, she needed to make it from ingredients she already had in the house. After peering around her pantry and kitchen,
she felt a little like Old Mother Hubbard. She had some frozen vegetables, some shredded cheese, some eggs, and a bit of ham. Maybe a quiche?

Beatrice flipped through the old cookbook, shoving old newspaper and magazine clippings back into it as she went. No to the Beef Bourguignonne. There was no way she could make that look like a last-minute thing. Where were the quiche recipes?

She found the quiche section of the cookbook and then frowned. Did she have a pie shell? She pulled open her freezer and saw one. She should be in good shape, then. They could have quiche and a bit of fruit and maybe some ice cream for dessert. And wine . . . she had wine in the fridge.

It all should have gone well. She even felt a sort of creative surge when she was cooking . . . enough to confidently throw in some mushrooms that she’d forgotten she had. But then she apparently put in too much broccoli and ham and mushrooms in the pie shell, because the egg mixture wouldn’t all fit in. And surely . . . shouldn’t she be pouring in all the mixture? Wasn’t there something important in the mixture that would help gel this quiche together? She forced as much into the pie shell as she could and slid it into the oven—as the filling sloshed over the bottom of the hot oven.

Beatrice fussed at herself, and used a metal spatula to try to scrape out what was quickly becoming fried
egg. There was an unfortunate burned smell, too. And fifty minutes later, when the quiche should have been done, she peeked into the oven. The outside of the quiche was pretty brown, she thought as she studied it critically. She pulled it out and cut into it . . . and found the inside was all mushy and uncooked.