Shear Trouble (6 page)

“
That
didn’t go well,” muttered Beatrice. It was a good thing that she hadn’t invited Wyatt over. Although she disagreed with Meadow that men were simple enough creatures that a good meal would win them over, she certainly didn’t need to push Wyatt
away
with an awful one
.

She tossed the quiche into the trash and decided to clean up all the dishes and drippings a little later. For a simple meal, she’d sure made a huge mess. It was enough to make her wonder—was she able to take on a serious relationship at this point in her life? She was so set in her ways . . . ways that included food from the grocery store deli . . . that she wondered if she could adjust to life with a man again.

*   *   *

The police apparently released Jason’s body sooner than Beatrice had thought might be the case. The following morning, there was a funeral announcement in the Dappled Hills newspaper. And the day after that was the graveside service itself.

Wyatt officiated at the service and kept it fairly brief, which was in line with Martha’s wishes. Beatrice saw
that the attendees were somber, but no one looked teary. Phyllis looked a bit pensive. Beatrice, standing near the back of the gathering, thought again that Phyllis seemed an unlikely suspect, despite the evidence against her. She was the only one, besides a stoic Martha, who seemed genuinely saddened by Jason’s death.

Martha’s son, Frank, arrived late to the service and stood near Beatrice at the back. Beatrice noticed that Martha turned and that her eyes hardened when she spotted her son walking in, finally fitting in with his trademark black since everyone appeared to be wearing darker colors. Beatrice also saw that Frank appeared a bit unsteady on his feet. She glanced at her watch. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Rather early to have been hitting the bottle.

Frank was entertaining to watch during the service. He sneered throughout it, weaving more and more as he tried to stand still. At one point when Martha rose to speak a few words about Jason, Frank couldn’t seem to keep himself from rolling his eyes. That was the point when he finally noticed that Beatrice was looking at him. Thinking that he’d found someone who agreed with his opinion of Jason, he staggered over to Beatrice. She could tell he wanted to talk, so she gestured for him to follow her a little farther out so they wouldn’t disturb anyone.

“Can you believe this drivel? So bourgeois,” he snorted. “I should never have come. But I couldn’t win,
could I? Either Mother would have been furious that I skipped the funeral, or else she’d be mad that I came. Couldn’t win,” he repeated, with a self-pitying sadness in his eyes.

“You didn’t like Jason very much, did you?” asked Beatrice in a soft voice.

Frank gave a hoarse laugh. “Of course not. Why would I? The guy was determined to get rid of me. He got his kicks by telling Mother what a waste I was—that she shouldn’t support me. Then he’d act all concerned about me and say, ‘Frank, the best thing that could happen to you is if you were forced to earn a living.’ Really? And that would help my art
how
? Jason Gore didn’t
get
art, that’s what the problem was. Fascist.”

Beatrice winced as Frank’s voice got louder as he became more agitated. A few people turned around to look in their direction and Beatrice took Frank by the arm and led him farther away. “Your art is the most important thing to you, isn’t it?”

His gaze finally softened a little at the mention of art. But his voice still had that hint of superiority in it as he said, “Of course. Naturally, a philistine like Jason Gore isn’t going to understand that. Money is the only thing that drove him. And he saw money flying out the door to me. I’ve always gotten along with Mother and she always supported my art. Until Jason came along.” Frank stared, broodingly, in the direction of the casket.
“He wasn’t even good to her,” he muttered unevenly as he took a stumbling step to keep his balance. “Somebody told me he cheated on her. Wasn’t even faithful. Couldn’t even manage
that
.” He finished his rant with a sneer.

“It sounds,” said Beatrice carefully, “as if you had many reasons to be glad that Jason is dead.”

Frank’s attention snapped back to her again as he suddenly realized what he’d been saying. “Look,” he said in a gruff voice, “I had nothing to do with that. Nothing.”

Beatrice nodded at him but allowed herself to appear doubtful.

“I didn’t,” he repeated, his voice rising. “I know his death worked out well for me, but I couldn’t kill somebody. No way.”

Beatrice led him even farther from the assembled mourners since several toward the back were turning around to stare at them again.

“All right. So you had nothing to do with his death. But somebody did, Frank. And you were on the scene that afternoon,” she pointed out.

Frank nodded. “Just bringing Mother some stuff she forgot. Very inconvenient,” he added in a slightly whiny tone.

“But you stuck around for a while, didn’t you? You were still there when the retreat ended so abruptly,” probed Beatrice.

Frank’s face flushed with color. “There was food there,” he muttered. “June Bug had made cakes. She cooks for Mother sometimes and I thought I’d hang out and maybe get a bit of a meal out of it.”

Frank Helmsley really was a sponger. “At one point, it looked as though Jason was following you into the store to talk with you. What did he have to say?” asked Beatrice.

“Same old song and dance. I should be very grateful for Mother’s kindness to me. And I should treat her better. I should stand on my own two feet. Blah, blah, blah.” Frank narrowed his eyes at the memory.

“While you were in the shop, did you see anything or hear anything?” Beatrice remembered Miss Sissy’s adamant statements and added, “Men’s voices, for instance?”

A cagey look crossed Frank’s face. “Maybe I heard something. Maybe I saw something. Maybe I know who did it.”

A certainty rose in Beatrice as she looked into Frank’s bleary eyes. He did know who did it. “Frank,” she said urgently, “you need to let me know who’s behind this. Whoever it is, he’s obviously dangerous.”

Frank said nothing and Beatrice continued. “If you don’t want to tell me, you should at least tell Ramsay. He’s right over there.” She gestured to Ramsay, who was standing opposite them at the other side of the group. Ramsay, in fact, was leveling his gaze right in
their direction with a questioning look. Beatrice had a feeling that she’d be hearing from him later about the tête-à-tête she and Frank were having.

“I’m not telling Ramsay anything,” said Frank, in a suddenly childish tone. “That’s for me to know and him to find out. Let him do his job for once. Besides, that kind of information can be useful.”

His eyes had a greedy gleam that made Beatrice wonder.

After Frank had staggered off, the service wrapped up quickly. Beatrice was surprised to see Tony Brock there. Wasn’t he supposed to have a huge grudge against Jason? She was so focused on staring at him that she didn’t notice Miss Sissy walking up to her until she growled, “Tony is a nice boy.”

Beatrice jumped. The old woman was standing right at her elbow, watching Tony with her. “That’s right. You’re friends with Tony, aren’t you?” Miss Sissy, fortunately, seemed to be having a good day.

Miss Sissy nodded fiercely. “Tony visits me a lot. Helps me around the house. Brings me groceries.”

Nice of him. Particularly since Miss Sissy could be a handful. And Beatrice knew from personal experience that Miss Sissy sometimes didn’t pay you back for
things. Debts were conveniently forgotten by her on a regular basis.

Beatrice said, “I’m surprised to see Tony here today. I don’t think he and Jason were friends at all, from what I’ve heard.”

Miss Sissy gave her a sharp look. “Weren’t friends. Wickedness.”

Beatrice moved ahead quickly before Miss Sissy could harp on her favorite topic. Things always went downhill quickly from that point. “Jason cheated him. Is that right?”

Another nod from Miss Sissy as hair flew out of her loose bun. “Tony is a clever boy. Should have gone to school. Stole his money. Evil!”

Looking for clarification from Miss Sissy could be tricky. “It was his grandfather’s money, right? But it was earmarked for Tony’s education?”

Miss Sissy gave her a scornful look. “Tony’s money. For school.”

Beatrice glanced over in Tony’s direction and saw that he was only a couple of yards away and seemed to be coming to talk with them. “We’d better hush,” she muttered to the old woman. “Tony is walking over.”

“Tony is good,” said Miss Sissy fiercely.

“But you heard men’s voices. In the shop before Jason was killed.”

“Not Tony!” spat out Miss Sissy.

Beatrice shushed her as Tony finally joined up with
them. She could tell that Miss Sissy was completely besotted with the young man and would refuse to think badly of him, no matter what. He smiled warmly at her and said, “Ready to head over to the reception? And then Posy said she’d take you home afterward since I’m not going to stay.”

Ah. So he’d driven the old woman to the funeral. That would explain his presence there. Naturally, Miss Sissy would have wanted to attend—her curiosity alone would have propelled her there.

“Tony, do you mind if I talk to you for a couple of minutes?” Beatrice asked quickly.

Tony raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Of course not. Mrs. . . . Coleman, isn’t it?”

“Beatrice,” she said, nodding.

“Miss Sissy, do you think you could wait out in the car for us?” asked Tony. He handed over his keys.

Her gaze fell greedily on the keys. She grabbed them and sprinted off.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Beatrice. “You’re pretty brave to give Miss Sissy your car keys—you’ve got to know she’s a holy terror on the roads and she might even hijack your car. How did you get her to accept a ride from you in the first place? She always seems to want to drive herself just to scare the populace of Dappled Hills out of their wits.”

Tony grinned at her and she realized that, when he smiled, he really was an attractive young man. He was
lean and fit and today wasn’t wearing his customary T-shirt and blue jeans, instead sporting khakis and a dark button-down shirt. “You have to know how to work Miss Sissy, that’s all.”

“Clearly, that’s a skill I haven’t yet acquired. How did you manage it?” asked Beatrice.

“Easy. I work on cars a lot—I’m not certified or anything, but I know a lot about them. All I had to do was to disable Miss Sissy’s spark plugs. She realized her car wouldn’t turn on and called me. I used my buddy’s tow truck to tow it away. Now Miss Sissy thinks that her car has some sort of really odd and serious problem,” said Tony. “She’s not asking many questions, either, since she likes me and I’ve been giving her lifts. Figure it’s my good deed for Dappled Hills.”

“I’ll say,” said Beatrice fervently. It would be a relief not to suddenly have to dodge when Miss Sissy’s aging Lincoln started veering onto the sidewalks.

Tony gave her a bow. “My pleasure.”

“That was very smart of you. In fact, I’ve been hearing from various Dappled Hills residents how bright you are,” said Beatrice.

Tony looked questioningly at her.

“I’m still new to town, and folks have been trying to get me caught up. I understand that Jason Gore actually left town with the money that had been set aside for your education. Is that correct?”

Tony’s eyes darkened. “Let’s just say that if people
liked him, it’s because they didn’t really know him. Jason wasn’t the friendly, helpful, great guy that everyone seems to think he was. I know better. He changed my life—and not in a good way.”

Beatrice said, “I know you were working right next door to the Patchwork Cottage on the day of the murder. . . .”

“Hey, I didn’t have anything to do with that, Beatrice.” Tony looked searchingly at her as if wondering who this sixty-something-year-old actually was.

“Of course not,” said Beatrice in a soothing tone. “I was only going to ask if you’d seen or heard anything that might help track down who did this.”

“You seem awfully interested in who killed Jason,” said Tony, squinting doubtfully at her.

“I’m a fan of puzzles and of figuring things out,” said Beatrice. “And the murder is having an unfortunate effect on my quilting guild.”

“Okay. Well, I wish I could help you out, but I was up to my eyeballs in work. I didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything.”

Tony’s eyes were shuttered and Beatrice couldn’t help getting the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on.

“There’s no one you can think of who might want Jason out of the way?” pushed Beatrice gently.

Tony gave a harsh laugh. “Besides me, you mean? I’m sure I could think of a few. Martha’s son, Frank, for
one. Maybe he was giving you a nice story when he was talking to you a little while ago, but I promise you that he was always thinking about money and the fact that his mother was lavishing it on Jason.”

“He doesn’t work, I believe.”

Tony shook his head. “No. It sort of burns me up, to be honest. Here I am, working my tail off every day, and Frank is dabbling in a little paint or squishing some clay into shapes. Living off his mother. It’s not right.” He gave a quick shrug. “If you ask me, he wanted to protect his cushy lifestyle. He’s the one the police should be talking to.”

A loud, repetitive honking rent the air. Tony and Beatrice swung around to see Miss Sissy in the driver’s seat, staring at them as she honked.

“I’d better run,” he said quickly. “She might decide to drive through the cemetery to pick me up.”

Beatrice stared at his back as he dashed away. Tony Brock must have the patience of a saint. But had he had that much patience with Jason Gore?

*   *   *

Meadow had driven Beatrice to the funeral, although she’d stood with Posy through the service. She caught up with Beatrice and they walked to Meadow’s van together. “How was the sleuthing?” she asked in her pseudowhisper.

Beatrice glanced around them and was glad to see that no one was within earshot. “Not too bad. I wasn’t
sure when I’d have a chance to talk with Frank Helmsley, so I was glad I was able to ask him a few questions.”

Meadow snorted as she unlocked the doors for them. “It looked like he was three sheets to the wind to me. He could barely stand up straight, could he?”

“It did seem to be a challenge.” Beatrice opened the passenger-side door and stared at what looked to be a five-thousand-page book on the seat of the car. “Um . . .”

Meadow snorted. “From Ramsay, of course. Did you encourage him, Beatrice? I warned you about encouraging him when it came to books. Now you’ve got to read . . .” She squinted at the title. “. . .
The Brothers Karamazov
by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. And if you encouraged Ramsay in his big-boring-book obsession, then you deserve it. Oh, and I have a food processor and some other stuff in a bag in the backseat. I’ll try to remind you about it when I drop you back off.”

Beatrice hefted the tome and placed it in the backseat of the van. “He just happened to notice I was reading something lightweight.
Literally
lightweight. This thing must weigh a ton.”

“Russian literature. You know. Good luck with that.” Meadow gave a short laugh.

“It’s supposed to be a masterpiece,” said Beatrice with a sigh as she climbed into the front seat.

“Well, whatever you do, don’t tell him you like it, or else you’ll be saddled with more.”

Beatrice carefully fastened her seat belt as Meadow started the engine. Meadow’s driving wasn’t nearly in Miss Sissy’s league, but it could be fairly hair-raising as she sped around the mountain bends. “At least Frank didn’t embarrass his mother too badly, although he was clearly drunk. He sure wasn’t much of a fan of Jason Gore.”

“Martha was keeping an eye on him, though. She probably half expected him to mess things up.” Meadow pressed on the accelerator as if getting to the funeral reception was of the utmost importance.

Beatrice clung to the passenger door and felt a bit queasy as they started rounding the mountain curves on the way to Martha’s house. “Slow down a little, Meadow. We’re in no rush to get there, are we?”

Meadow glanced her way in surprise. “I didn’t realize you liked a poky pace, Beatrice.” But she obediently hit the brakes. “So, do you think Frank is responsible for getting rid of Jason? What was his motive? Greed?”

“That
would
be his motive. He admitted that he lived off his mother’s generosity while he made his art. Frank called Jason a philistine and said that he was trying to persuade Martha to cut him off. But he swears he had nothing to do with Jason’s death,” said Beatrice.

“Well, naturally, that’s what he’d say, right? He was hardly going to admit his guilt to you right at his poor victim’s funeral, was he? Can you imagine? Ramsay would have had to make a huge scene by interrupting
the service and arresting Frank on the spot.” Meadow shuddered.

Beatrice hesitated. “I know. Of course he’d try to convince me that he was innocent. He was drunk, though. And he was telling me that he
knew
who was responsible for the murder. He really convinced me that he knew the killer.”

Meadow took her eyes off the road to stare at Beatrice until the van swung into the shoulder and she swerved to get back on track. “For heaven’s sake! If he knows who the killer is, then why doesn’t he get with Ramsay and fill him in?”

“I got the feeling that he might be wanting to do something with that information,” said Beatrice slowly. “He did say that it was Ramsay’s job to find it out and that he wasn’t going to tell him.”

“How is Ramsay supposed to solve cases if people won’t tell him what they know?” demanded Meadow, giving the steering wheel a whack with her palm.

“I was wondering if he might be planning on using his information to extort money out of someone,” said Beatrice. “He said something about knowing information that could be useful somehow. He’s obviously not swimming in cash right now. Maybe he’s thinking he’d like another revenue stream besides his mother. It’s got to be a little scary to be solely dependent on one source of income.”

“So he’s wanting to diversify?” Meadow clucked. “I
never did think that Frank Helmsley was the sharpest knife in the drawer.” She pulled into Martha’s long driveway and drove toward a very large home with white bricks and black shutters. “Wow, there’re a lot of cars here. I wouldn’t even have said there were this many people at the funeral.”

“You know how folks are about free food around here,” murmured Beatrice. “Although I’m pretty sure Frank won’t make it. And Tony mentioned that he wouldn’t be here.”

“It’s not like Miss Sissy to miss free food,” said Meadow, shaking her head.

“Tony was planning on dropping her off.”

Meadow said in a mulling voice, “You know, I half fancy Martha for this murder.”

“What? But she was so crazy over Jason. She seemed devastated at his death.”

“Now, hear me out. Yes, Martha was crazy over Jason. But she did have access to those shears. Maybe she
did
swipe Phyllis’s scissors when she wasn’t looking. And I keep hearing these rumors that Jason was flirting with other ladies. I could see Martha wanting to shut that down. Can’t you?” asked Meadow. “And using Phyllis’s shears would have been the perfect way to get revenge on her if she was trying to steal Jason back.”

“Cutting off her nose to spite her face? Because she
wouldn’t have had Jason, either—not if she killed him with Phyllis’s shears. It just doesn’t make any sense at all, Meadow. Besides, I don’t think Martha would have seen any woman as a serious threat. After all, her financial situation was part of her appeal to Jason—and no one in town could match it,” said Beatrice. “You said yourself that it looked as if Phyllis was living on a budget.”

“Well, you could be right. I’m still keeping Martha in the suspect pile, though. Oh, I know what I was going to ask you about. You spoke awhile with Tony, too,” said Meadow as she parked and turned off the car. She turned in her seat to look at Beatrice. “Did you find out anything from him?”

Beatrice shrugged. “He was pretty cagey. He hinted at past trouble between him and Jason but didn’t really spell it out. He did basically tell me that he wasn’t Frank Helmsley’s biggest fan.”

Meadow laughed. “No, I guess he wouldn’t be. Tony works like crazy and I can’t see him holding much stock in somebody who has never held down a real job. Not to put down Frank’s art, but as far as I know, he’s never sold anything. It would be different if he were making an income off his art and just needed his income supplemented. It’s sure never been on sale here in Dappled Hills—no art shows, nothing. Tony, on the other hand, works in the hardware store, makes
deliveries for folks who don’t drive anymore, does odd jobs, puts up with Miss Sissy, works on cars . . . whatever he can do to make a few extra dollars.”

Beatrice watched as a bald man in a well-worn suit glanced in a nervous way around him, straightened his suit jacket, squared his shoulders, and walked into Martha’s house. “Who’s he?” she asked, gesturing.