Patch of Trouble, page 10
part #6 of Southern Quilting Mystery Series
“So you think that Vivian eventually just decided to move away?” asked Beatrice slowly. “But didn’t she leave her things here behind her?”
Jake looked curious. “No. That is ... yes, in a way. She did take some things with her and then left behind the things that she didn’t care about or that didn’t matter. That would include me, in a way,” he said a touch bitterly. “But she also left a typewritten note for whomever might be looking for her ... saying that she had left for better things. Something like that. I’ve never stopped looking for her online.”
Beatrice and Meadow looked at each other. Should they broach this topic? How could they bring it up in a gentle way?
Meadow still had her hand on Jake’s arm when she said quietly, “There’s a tragedy you need to know about, then. Ramsay just learned. Vivian never did leave town. She was murdered.”
Jake’s face was a mask of shock. “What?” he asked, numbly.
Beatrice said, “Someone murdered Vivian. Her body has been concealed for years and only just discovered now.”
“But why now?” asked Jake, holding his hands out, palm up, beseeching them. “Why would Ramsay discover her? Why would you be asking questions about her? It’s been decades.”
“It’s because of a man—a stranger—who came to town and was asking questions,” said Beatrice, watching him closely.
He betrayed nothing on his face but grief, though. “The man who died? The one they found in the woods?”
Meadow said, “That Beatrice and I found, yes. He came to town for the express purpose of asking questions about Vivian. Until he was murdered.”
Beatrice said delicately, “I don’t suppose he came to speak to you? It sounded like he was speaking to everyone who knew Vivian.” Or, at least, anyone who had a strong reaction to Vivian—either positive or negative. Because those were the only ones listed in her journal.
Jake’s expression was unreadable as he said firmly, “I only saw him when I was out a few days ago. He was at Ida Calkin’s door, talking to her. I made a mental note to myself that there might be solicitors out and I should peek out before opening the door. That’s all.”
“Are you able to leave the shop?” asked Beatrice, lifting her eyebrows in surprise.
He looked at her silently for a minute before cautiously saying, “I can. But I don’t often.”
“Do you have someone to watch the shop for you while you’re out?” asked Beatrice.
“I just put a back soon sign up. It’s the kind that has a clock with arms where you can show the time you plan on being back,” said Jake.
Beatrice thought wistfully that she would have loved to be able to use such a device in Atlanta when she’d been alone at the museum. It wouldn’t have gone over as well with patrons as it apparently did with Jake’s customers at the bakery.
“Were you out a couple of afternoons ago?” asked Beatrice, trying to sound offhand about it.
Jake’s eyes were wary, though. “Was that when that guy was killed? No. That was a very busy day here. I was at the shop all day long. Had a couple of birthday cakes to make.”
Which were presumably made in the back of the shop. Where no one could corroborate if he was there or not.
“Why do you think the man was talking with Ida?” asked Meadow curiously.
Jake said brusquely, “I told you—I thought he was a door to door salesman or something.”
“No, I mean, what do you think he was doing now that you know what he was doing?” asked Meadow in her usually convoluted way.
Jake shrugged. “If he was asking questions of people who knew Vivian, I guess he was asking Ida about the accident. You’d remember that, Meadow. Ida couldn’t seem to get over the fact that it was an accident. It wasn’t a matter for the courts. Ida’s sister should have been wearing a seatbelt. Vivian wasn’t under the influence, wasn’t speeding, and wasn’t driving recklessly. It was an accident. And, if I were looking at people who might have something to do with Vivian’s death,” he swallowed hard at the word death, “then I might logically want to start with Ida. She held quite the grudge against Viv.”
Chapter Ten
More customers came in the bakery and Jake left their table with a relieved expression on his face. As Beatrice and Meadow walked out, Beatrice intoned, “All roads lead to Ida.”
“It certainly appears that way,” said Meadow. “Are we heading that way, then? Here, pull out your phone and let’s see what Vivian has to say about Ida before we go.”
Beatrice obediently pulled up the journal entry involving Ida.
July 9th
Of course, one reason no one may like me is because of the accident. That accident still haunts me so much that I can’t stand to write about it. I would never have wanted anything to happen to my new friend. Never. I wish I’d made her wear a seatbelt ... she just hated them so. And I wish that deer, bounding out in front of my car, hadn’t startled me the way it did. I guess I’m too much of a city girl still. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat for weeks after it happened. My doctor recommended that I start a journal as a way to not only practice my journalism skills, but also as therapy in a way.
She was my only friend here—a new friend, but still ... a friend. Ida, of course, blames me. I can see the hatred in her eyes. It makes me feel like I must watch my back at all times.
Meadow said, “Poor Vivian. Clearly, it was just a horrible accident. Even the police didn’t press any charges, which they certainly would’ve if they thought it was some sort of vehicular manslaughter. I guess Ida just never got over it.”
“Ida and her sister were very close?” Beatrice asked.
“Yes. Although there was a huge age difference, as I recall. I think Ida might have been more like a mother to Fiona.”
“Sure,” said Beatrice. “Sounds like an easy set-up. What’s she like, by the way? I’ve met her a few times, but I don’t know her.”
“Oh, she’s very nice. Sweet old lady. The kind with twinkling blue eyes and cookies constantly coming out of the oven,” said Meadow as they got into the car. “Although the way she thinks of herself as matriarch of Dappled Hills annoys me.”
“That’s all I need. More baked goods. Maybe we should walk to Ida’s house on second thought,” said Beatrice.
“We can if you want to. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s just leave the car here and walk back to it later on,” suggested Meadow. “It’s not that far of a walk.”
Perhaps Meadow was remembering that Ida’s house wasn’t so far of a drive. Because it was over four miles later up steep hills that they finally arrived at the old woman’s gingerbread style house, which was surrounded by dense woods.
Meadow was huffing and puffing and Beatrice was rather breathless herself. “It didn’t seem that far away,” gasped Meadow.
“Never mind,” said Beatrice. “We probably could use the exercise after all the muffins this morning.”
“Then we double it on the way back,” moaned Meadow. “And I just realized you don’t have your fancy camera with you. We won’t look very convincing.”
“I think we’ll be fine. As far as Ida knows, my cell phone has the best camera around. That’s what we’ll tell her, anyway.”
Meadow said, “I wouldn’t bet on it. If even Miss Sissy is now technologically advanced, who knows how far along Ida might be?”
At first glance, the gingerbread house was a confection from a fairytale. On closer inspection, however, there was quite a bit of chipping paint, and some floorboards on the verandah looked as though they could prove dangerous. There was a menacing thicket of thorny bushes waving at them on the side of the verandah. The thorn bushes were nearly as scary as Miss Sissy’s.
Meadow noticed, too. “Maybe Ida has fallen on bad times,” she said in her stage whisper that could probably be heard back at the bakery.
Beatrice saw a flutter of lacy curtains in a downstairs window. “Shh! She’s right there.”
Meadow immediately rang the button of a doorbell.
And no one came.
Meadow stared at Beatrice. “You saw her, right?”
“Perhaps she thinks we’re trying to sell her something and doesn’t want the embarrassment of telling us no,” murmured Beatrice. “Understandable. We should have phoned first.”
Meadow wasn’t one for giving up, though. She decided that the bell must be malfunctioning and tried knocking on the door instead. Or, rather, pounding. “Ida!” she hollered. “It’s Meadow Downey. I want to feature you in a quilting book!”
“She’s not deaf, is she?” asked Beatrice, wincing at the pounding.
“Who knows? It’s been a while since I’ve talked to her. A lot can go wrong with a person in a short period of time at our age, you know.” She put her head even closer to the door, bellowing, “A quilting book, Ida! You! In the book!”
“She’s going to think you’ve been drinking in the middle of the day,” hissed Beatrice.
But whatever the reason, Ida did open the door. And, perhaps, one could consider her a sweet little old lady. She had the appropriate crocheted shawl, likely created by Ida herself. She had the bright blue inquisitive eyes. She wore the slightly faded floral dress with a pair of sensible orthopedic shoes. Although she could only be a few years older than Beatrice and Meadow, she had the part of being the storybook old woman down pat. Still, though, there was something in those blue eyes that wasn’t quite so inquisitive. The dull gaze she turned on Beatrice was indicative of something. Beatrice just wasn’t sure what it was.
Meadow made a hurried introduction. “You know Beatrice, don’t you, Ida? Um ... may we come in? We stupidly walked here and I for one am completely exhausted now.”
“Oh dear,” said Ida automatically and without much inflection in her voice. “Yes, of course. Come on inside.”
She led them into a dim interior with peeling interior paint, some weathered furniture, and creaky floors and past an old cat in a sunbeam who gave them a scathing look. Meadow raised her eyebrows at Beatrice. The only decorations in the whole place were quilts. Quilts were either hung or draped everywhere. There were also some old photos in dusty frames that were scattered about on equally dusty tables.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting something to drink?” asked Ida stiffly.
Meadow said in a meek voice, “It would be nice. If you have something.”
“I’ve got water. I just don’t have ice,” said Ida. She left them in the dim living room as she headed to the back of her house, presumably to her kitchen.
Beatrice lifted her eyebrows at Meadow and Meadow shrugged. “I guess she’s not one to appreciate the unexpected visit.”
“Perhaps,” said Beatrice, “there’s more of an art to the unexpected visit. Perhaps we should have brought something with us from the bakery. Because the air here certainly isn’t permeated with the scent of freshly baked goods.”
“I guess she’s been under the weather. Or something,” said Meadow with a frown as she considered the matter. “I’m trying to remember the last time I saw her. I believe it was at the church picnic. She seemed like her usual, jolly self at that point.”
“That was only a few weeks ago. Maybe she’s just in a bad mood. Or maybe,” Beatrice said archly, “she’s in a bad mood because of Oscar Holland poking into her past.”
Ida returned with the two waters which she sat on a rickety coffee table in front of the equally rickety sofa they were perched on. Beatrice and Meadow were just about to take a sip when Ida quickly said, “Now then. What exactly is all this about a quilting book?”
Meadow greedily gulped down a few sips before explaining what they were trying to accomplish with the quilting history. Ida didn’t want any pictures taken of herself, but she certainly had ideas about which quilts she might want to have featured. Beatrice found herself taking numerous photos. She also found that Ida was quite the control freak and demanded to see each picture that Beatrice took, telling her which ones she wanted redone. Beatrice felt like she was an actress in a bad Hollywood movie with a demented director.
Meadow tilted her head to one side, considering the photo shoot. “Don’t you see how it will be more effective, more appealing, with you in at least one of the pictures, Ida? It’s good to have a human element. You can take the time to change or spruce up, if you want to. Beatrice and I have all the time in the world.”
Beatrice gave Meadow a sour look, which Meadow studiously ignored.
Ida looked doubtfully down at her faded floral dress and the sensible shoes. She put a hand up to her white hair which certainly hadn’t been combed either that day or probably the last few. “Do you think so?” she asked.
Meadow beamed at her. “Absolutely! It’ll be darling. We’ll wait.”
As Ida disappeared upstairs, Beatrice settled in more comfortably on the groaning sofa. “I better make this water last. I have a feeling this is going to take a while.”
Surprisingly, however, it didn’t. Ida returned wearing an old, but still serviceable pair of black slacks and a stiffly starched white blouse. Her white hair was pulled severely back in a bun. But, overall, she looked so much better than she had minutes ago that Beatrice blinked.
Beatrice said, “You look wonderful, Ida.” And she meant it. It was quite the transformation in a short period of time. And maybe this was a lesson to Beatrice to keep her appearance in mind, even on those days when she’d rather not. Which was nearly every day.
The compliment, which Meadow immediately echoed, brought the twinkle back to Ida’s eyes. The next few photos that Beatrice took, in a couple of different rooms, were much better than the first. Especially since she opened the blinds and curtains to bring in even more daylight for the pictures. She figured the grouchy cat in the other room would thank her if she could. And Ida’s general temperament had improved and she was no longer trying to direct every picture that Beatrice took.
After ten more minutes, they were finished. It was definitely time to work in questions about Oscar and Vivian while Ida’s guard was down. The trick was to work them in naturally so that she wouldn’t immediately put a wall back up.
Meadow started heading in that general direction. “You know, working on this history had reminded me of so many things, Ida. It made me realize how much I’ve seen and experienced in this small town over the years. Sometimes people think that nothing happens in a small town, but I’d beg to differ.”
Ida gave her a faint smile and nodded.
Beatrice cleared her throat and took her cue. “Meadow’s been good to fill me in on a lot of the things that happened. It’s tricky, of course, for me to help out on a history when I’ve so recently moved to Dappled Hills.”
“Yes,” said Ida with amusement, “how did you get roped into doing that?”
“Just luck, I guess,” said Beatrice, making a face. “Actually, my part has mainly been photography since I used to do a good deal of it for my job back in Atlanta. One thing I’ve noticed as Meadow has filled me in on the history is, it has a way of reaching from the past and impacting the future.”
Ida was listening closely now, no longer nodding in agreement. But she definitely had Ida’s attention. It was almost as if she knew what was coming.
So Beatrice took a deep breath and plunged right in. “One interesting tale I came across was the disappearance and reappearance of Vivian Hastings.”
Now the corner of Ida’s mouth turned down in a sneer. There was no pretense here that Ida didn’t know who Beatrice was talking about.
“What do you mean by reappearance?” asked Ida after a moment. “Couldn’t have reappeared.”
“I meant only that Ramsay unfortunately discovered her remains in the lake,” said Beatrice. “Why do you think she couldn’t have reappeared? Did you know that she was dead all along?”
But Ida, the twinkle now long gone, stared stony-faced at her. She silently shook her head. “I was merely thinking that Vivian certainly wouldn’t return to a town that she disliked forty years ago. She wouldn’t have any fond memories. Why would she bother?”
Meadow said gently, “As I remember, you had reasons to dislike Vivian. One of the reasons had to do with that picture over there, doesn’t it?”
Now Ida’s eyes flashed in fury. It was almost like the grudge she carried was as fresh now as it was then. “Vivian killed my little sister, Fiona. So, no, I don’t have any reason to mourn her. But I had no idea that she was dead. I figured she was so unhappy in town that she simply decided to leave.” She paused. “Why did Ramsay think she was in the lake?”
Beatrice said, “It has to do with another recent death. The death of a man named Oscar Holland.”
Ida muttered under her breath, repeating the man’s name to herself as if to jog her memory. “I give up. Who’s Oscar Holland?”
Beatrice affected a look of surprise. “Oh, I thought you’d know him for sure. Everyone says he came by your house to talk to you the other day.”
A blotchy flush crawled up the side of Ida’s neck. “Everyone sure seems to know a lot about my business,” she snapped. “I suppose I did have a visit from him. I didn’t know his name. If he was a young fella wearing a safari hat and a khaki vest. He was most insistent in his nature. Yes, I do remember him.”
Beatrice and Meadow both found themselves leaning forward slightly. “What did he want? What did he ask you?” Were they finally going to get some answers on this question?
“Very impertinent,” she said. “Almost as if I were at fault in some way or as if I had a secret of some kind.” The flush was more prominent on her neck.
Beatrice and Meadow just waited, allowing her to tell the story her own way.
“He asked me if I had been angry with Vivian. If I had any idea what happened to her when she left town. Of if I knew if she hadn’t left town. He also asked me about other people in town and if I knew them and if I thought they were angry with Vivian, too.” She snorted. “Clearly, he didn’t come from a small town if he asked whether I knew the other people or not.”
