Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case (4 page)

It seemed beyond progressive to have a bathroom in the barn, but it made sense for the festival. On-site facilities kept customers on the grounds ready to spend more money, yet renting porta potties would cut into the profit margin. Toilet paper, paper towels, and soap were cheap by comparison.

The woman and her children hustled away, but I spotted someone else skulking by the back of the barn. I blinked, squinted, whipped out my cell to take a picture. She’d covered her blonde hair with a blue ball cap but hadn’t changed from the jeans and summer sweater she’d worn earlier. The one that enhanced her Dolly Parton chest.

Shoot fire. If Hellspawn’s minion was here, was Hellspawn herself far behind?

Detective Shoar had been wrong about the troublemakers staying away, but I’d routed them once, and I’d do it again.

The minion peered out from behind the corner of the barn, spied me, and gave me a
come here
wave, but I was already on the move.

I STOMPED THROUGH THE MOWED FIELD GRASS TO
where the woman stood at the corner of the barn.

“What are you doing back here?” I demanded.

“Finding you.” Coming from a tall, big-boned gal who looked like she could snap me in half, her breathy voice startled me. Deep but breathy. Like Marlene Dietrich doing Marilyn Monroe, and yes, I’d dated an old-movie buff.

The minion craned her neck, her gaze darting from me to the main yard and back. “I’m Trudy Henry.”

“What do you want, Trudy?”

She hesitated, bit her lip, and again scanned the area as if looking for spies. “I want to buy one of your aunt’s white oak baskets. One with the rope handle braided in with blue gingham fabric. I have money.”

She wedged a fat roll of twenties from her jeans pocket, and I couldn’t help but stare.

“Your boss pays you big bucks, huh?”

Trudy made a sour face. “This is from my savings. May I buy a basket?”

Sincere as she sounded, I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to come back to the festival today.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Can I buy one later if your aunt has any left over?”

“I’ll ask her for you,” I said more kindly. The girl was about my age but reminded me of an awkward puppy. “Is that all you wanted?”

“Actually, no. I need to warn you about Ms. Elsman. I’m not supposed to talk about her business, but you need to know she’s, uh, pretty determined to get, ah, what she wants.”

I stiffened. “Which is what?”

“You need to ask your aunt about that. Like I said, I shouldn’t be talking to you at all, but I’m worried about how far Ms. Elsman will go.” Trudy looked close to tears. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. Please, talk with your aunt.”

With a wave, Trudy galumphed off toward the back of Sherry’s property and disappeared into the woods that extended to the next street over. In spite of not having visited Sherry before now, I
had
listened when my mother talked about playing hide-and-seek out behind the house. She’d mentioned her old home often in the weeks before her stroke, had longed to visit again. Then it had been too late to bring her.

It wasn’t too late to help Sherry. Trudy’s warning worried me even more than the kitchen fires, and my resolve to get these mysteries sorted out doubled.

I spent the rest of the morning selling handwoven baskets to a steady flow of festival customers. Sometimes Sherry stayed with me for a spell. More often I manned the wares without her, although she flitted back to check on sales or to introduce me to groups of people. I met two women who had taught with Sherry at the junior high school and three others about my age who had been Sherry’s students. A former-student fireman and four city and county bigwigs stopped by, too.

The young women didn’t shop Sherry’s baskets. They flirted with Ben Berryhill, a tall, muscles-on-muscles fireman, and with the equally tall Bryan Hardy, introduced to me as the county’s deputy prosecuting attorney. Though I kept expecting Ben to mention Sherry’s kitchen fires, he never did. Bryan Hardy’s baby face belied the age he had to be to have finished law school, practiced law, I presumed, and now hold an important office. His black-framed glasses made his face look even broader and younger, but he also seemed quiet, almost shy for a guy in his position. The Houston attorneys I’d dated had been more flash and brash, and I found myself liking Bryan’s hazel eyes and soft-spoken voice. What little I heard of his voice.

Shopping took a backseat with the teachers, too. They schmoozed with Mayor Patrick Paulson and councilpersons Kate Byrd and B. G. Huff. Were they two of the councilpersons Detective Shoar had seen lunching with Hellspawn? How many others were there? I put Huff and Byrd in my mental Rolodex.

Not one person mentioned Sherry’s explosions or fires, and I wondered if she had asked them to keep mum. Not one of them bought baskets either, except for the mayor. He scored points with me when he purchased an egg basket before he wandered away with the others.

Sherry’s behavior puzzled me yet again. She talked easily with everyone else, but with me she acted jittery, her eyes never quite meeting mine. Even in the one moment we had without shoppers surrounding us, when I apologized again for arriving without notice, her gaze only skimmed my face.

“At least let me order pizza or go pick up dinner,” I said.

“No need, child,” she said, waving away the offer. “We have supper all set. Ham salad, chicken salad, cottage cheese with olives and tomatoes, and Maise’s famous fried okra. You’ll stay with us, no arguments. I’ll share Eleanor’s room and you’ll have mine.”

“I don’t want to put Eleanor out, Sherry. I can bunk with you.”

She gave me another of her near-panicked glances.

“Or I’ll take the sofa,” I amended. “Or find a hotel room. I’ll only be here a few days.”

“No, no, it’s all settled. Now, will you watch the baskets again for a while?”

“Sure, I will. And thank you.”

She cocked her head, peering at me like an inquisitive bird, then patted my arm and took off.

What had happened to the serene, never-ruffled Sherry Mae of eighteen months ago? The question nagged at me, but I shoved it to the back burner of my brain and sold more baskets.

•   •   •

WHILE PEOPLE CAME AND WENT THROUGHOUT THE
day, the crowd never really thinned. In the late afternoon, when artists began packing up what little seemed to be left of their wares, shoppers hustled to score last-minute buys.

Sherry had fewer than a dozen baskets remaining in her stock, two made of rough jute that I learned were crocheted, not woven. As I packed the wares in a large cardboard box, I remembered Trudy’s request to buy one of Sherry’s white oak baskets. Sherry made distinctive long hemp rope handles wrapped in fabric with the ends artfully frayed. Two were left. Should I hold one out for Trudy now? No. If she followed up on her request to buy a basket, I could find one for her quickly enough. I finished packing and broke down the rest of the boxes for easy storage.

At five fifteen, the last of the vendors wheeled her SUV out of the gravel drive and the yard looked pristine. The crepe myrtle sapling didn’t have so much as a bent leaf, and there wasn’t a scrap of trash anywhere. Impressive, especially considering the number of people who’d been on the grounds today.

I folded Sherry’s tables and leaned them long way against the porch rail, then strode to the south part of the wraparound porch to help Aster, Maise, Dab, and Eleanor with their tables. I knew they were capable of folding the tables on their own. They’d managed the setup, after all. But, hey, they were all in their early seventies and had been on their feet all day.

Besides, I needed all the brownie points I could get with his group.

I found the Silver Six in a hushed-tone huddle. Folded tables rested on two hand trucks along with a couple of intact boxes—packed with their own festival leftovers, I guessed—and more neatly folded boxes. I couldn’t overhear them, so I took a moment to observe them more closely.

No outward signs of illness, and they all seemed mentally sharp enough. Heck, I was beginning to droop from the long drive and the long day, while the seniors seemed to have reserves of energy. Sherry stood tall as a five-foot woman can, and had kept a trim figure. Eleanor had, too, while Maise and Aster had figures like my mother. Matronly, Mom had called it. Dab was thin but not emaciated, Fred rounded but not morbidly obese. Except for Fred using a walker, he didn’t look the least bit infirm, and neither did the other compatriots. Or would that be conspirators?

Eleanor looked up and spotted me, all conversation halted, and every face turned my way. Yep, they were plotting. At least they all looked healthy doing it.

I waved and bounced down the stairs, weaving my way through the herb garden. “That was a wonderful festival,” I said as I approached. “Shall I move these tables for y’all?”

Sherry smiled. “Certainly, Nixy. They go in the barn. Dab and Fred will show you where, right, gentlemen?”

“Whatever you wish,” Dab said gallantly.

“And your unsold baskets? There weren’t many, and they all fit in one box I left on the porch.”

“Those go in the basement, but I’ll take care of them.”

“You sure? It’s a big box.”

“But not heavy. Now, when you finish moving the tables, Nixy, bring your things and come on in for supper.”

“I’ll even break out my dandelion wine to celebrate,” Aster said.

I expected immediate action, yet, except to shift from foot to foot, no one moved. Maise glanced at her watch, gave a small nod, and they all turned toward the road.

I turned with them, having to shade my eyes against the intense western sun, even though I wore my sunglasses. Birds chirped, but nothing moved. No cars passed. The rustic rail fence didn’t appear to be damaged, and the cute farmhouse mailbox enclosure was intact and upright as far as I could see. Nothing seemed out of place because, again, there was not so much as a gum wrapper in the yard.

Impatience got the best of me.

“I’ll bite. What are we looking at?”

“Not looking at,” Maise said. “Waiting for.”

Sherry linked her arm in mine, and I had another flash of memory about my mother. “Jill Elsman has been driving by each afternoon about this time,” she said. “We wave at her.”

“Just being friendly?” I asked doubtfully.

“Psychological warfare,” Maise snapped. “She thinks she’s intimidating us. We retaliate with a peaceful show of force to keep her off balance.”

“She’s already unbalanced,” I muttered, but waited shoulder to shoulder with the Six until another few minutes passed.

“Don’t look like she’s comin’ today,” Fred barked. “I’m hungry.”

“All right, then, let’s move out. Ladies, with me. Men, show Nixy where to stow the gear.”

I spent the next thirty minutes bemused and bumping table-laden hand carts through the yard and into a storage room in a front corner of the barn. Fred and Dab escorted me on the first load run, but Fred stayed in the barn to tinker with the riding lawn mower parked there. I also caught sight of plastic bins on a workbench holding blocks of wood, wood slats for baskets, and coils of white and tan rope. Even without an artistic gene in my DNA, my fingers itched to touch and test the textures of the art supplies.

With my suitcase and my brown suede hobo bag, I entered the house through the back to get a look at the country kitchen, which took up nearly a quarter of the downstairs. I glimpsed Maise at the oven, Aster at the counter, and Eleanor standing at a round pedestal table but saw no telltale scorch marks before Sherry intercepted me. She’d removed the barrette in her hair again and bangs flopped over one eye.

It struck me as odd that she was finally looking at me directly when she hadn’t done so most of the day. I didn’t have time to puzzle on it, though. With a firm grip on my arm, Sherry steered me away from the heavenly smells of dinner to the back hall and staircase.

“Did Sue Anne tell you much about the Stanton homestead?”

“She did, and you sent photos to me, Sherry, but the house is even nicer than I imagined.” I eyed the original hardwood floors and the plain but gorgeous banister and spindles. A large window splashed late-afternoon sun on the landing, and we turned to the second set of steps.

My mom had talked about the Stantons being a larger clan at one time, so I knew the house had four bedrooms upstairs and boasted three full bathrooms. Bathrooms were as rare as closet space in a house this old, but my ancestors had been forward thinking enough to build both as they added to the house. Or desperate for bathrooms.

“We womenfolk are up here with Dab,” Sherry said. “Fred’s downstairs. My Bill couldn’t handle the stairs at the last, and since we had two parlors, we converted the back one into a bedroom and cut another door to the downstairs bath. Dab and Fred share that one.”

Bill, I recalled, had suffered a stroke several years before my mother did. Unlike my mom, Bill had lived another year before a second, fatal stroke.

Sherry stopped at the end of the hall, opened the door on the right, and I sucked in a breath. The room was painted a soft spring green with white sheers on the four windows. A burl wood dresser, dark wood night table, and overstuffed chair with a needlepoint footstool had perfect places in the room, but the centerpiece was the homemade quilt with a spring flowers motif covering the four-poster bed.

“Your great-grandmother made the quilt,” Sherry said softly. “It’s a bit faded, and it’s been mended over the years.”

“It’s beautiful, Aunt Sherry,” I breathed. “The whole room is you.”

“Thank you. I like it, though the morning sun will wake you, so sleeping late is nearly impossible. The master bath is through there,” she said on a smile and pointed to the right. “Do you want to freshen up before we eat?”

“I’ll just wash my hands and be right down.”

“Don’t dawdle.”

I didn’t. I didn’t even take time to snoop. Hunger pangs hit like a hammer, and, besides, the doors were closed in both the upstairs and downstairs halls. I followed the sound of voices to the front of the house where a double wide doorway opened onto the dining room. A long, dark wood sideboard held candle sticks and decorative bowls, and an old farm table, equally darkened with age, was set for seven and laden with food. Three glass beverage pitchers, and a bottle surrounded by cordial glasses. Everyone but Dab was seated, and he came through a swinging door with another chair he plopped down next to Sherry at the far end of the table.