Patch of Trouble, page 3
part #6 of Southern Quilting Mystery Series
“Except that it would make it more costly to print,” said Beatrice.
“Well pooh! I thought you said you had an idea.”
“I think we should definitely incorporate more images. From a budget standpoint, they may have to be in black and white. But black and white photography, with the right treatment, can really look amazing. And we need to try to include as many interviews from the older residents of Dappled Hills as we possibly can. Not only because stories will also sell books, but because in this town everyone is related to everyone else—and people will want to buy a book with their Aunt Mabel or Paw-Paw or whomever in it,” said Beatrice.
Meadow seemed to be unsuccessfully hiding a small smile. “That sounds like an excellent plan. I knew you’d be just the person to figure out how best for us to handle the project.”
Beatrice felt alarmed. “Now, I’m only giving advice. I’m not saying that this is my project. I want no ownership of this project, Meadow. None.”
“Think of it! Not only do we capture the thoughts and beautiful old quilts for posterity, we may actually be able to make some good money for the guild in the process!” said Meadow, waving her hand in the air as she warmed to the topic. “And we’ll try to include pictures of people, too. As many current residents as possible. And dead residents! Because who wouldn’t buy a book that has a picture of their dearly departed sister in it?”
“Now, Meadow!”
But Meadow was on a roll and warming to her topic. “And who best to capture these lovely old quilts for our book than you? You were a museum curator, for heaven’s sake! For folk art! In a very prestigious museum in Atlanta! Just look at you!”
Beatrice didn’t think she looked like much wearing the same old beat up khakis and tired baby-blue shirt that she’d been loafing in earlier in the day. And this morning was starting to seem like a lifetime ago. Beatrice’s head throbbed. “That’s a big project. I’ll have to think about it. The whole point about being retired is that I was planning on relaxing.”
Meadow rubbed Boris before giving a quick whistle and motioning him out the door. As her parting words, she said, “But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? You can’t relax. So you might as well be productive, right? Okay, bye for now!”
Beatrice found that, after her unusual day, she was able to easily doze off in the hammock with the sound of Noo-noo’s gentle snoring as a lulling accompaniment.
Not only was Beatrice able to take a nap, she was able to work with great focus on her quilt for a good hour without being afflicted by that all-too-familiar restless sensation. She loved the feel of motion in the pattern with the Snail’s Trail blocks in a bold blue and green color wash. She took Noo-noo for an evening stroll, felt more exhausted than she thought she would afterward, ate scrambled eggs with shredded cheddar for supper, and turned in early.
Because of her restful day, Beatrice was wide awake before dawn. She tossed around in her bed in an effort to coax herself back to sleep by somehow lying differently, but couldn’t manage it. She rose for the day, ate tomato soup for breakfast since she’d had breakfast for supper, and then headed out to the hospital. Because it was so early, she hoped she might be able to catch the doctor on his rounds and hear firsthand what he had to say about Miss Sissy’s injuries.
Despite being acquainted firsthand with Miss Sissy’s ravenous appetite, Beatrice decided that hospital breakfast food might need supplementing. Especially considering Miss Sissy’s disdain with the idea of chicken broth and gelatin from the day before. She threw in a couple of English muffins, some butter in a plastic container, and a couple of bananas in a plastic bag. As an afterthought, she grabbed a large, finished nine patch quilt full of vibrant reds and blues, and headed out.
When Beatrice arrived in the hospital room, Miss Sissy was having a lively argument with the doctor, who seemed on the verge of losing his patience. He looked relieved as Beatrice entered the room. “Is this your mother?” he asked.
“She’s not,” said Beatrice briskly. “She’s a friend, though. Is there something I can do to help?”
“I’m trying to convince her that it might be a good idea for her to consider moving to a ... well, a senior living community,” said the doctor. He removed his glasses and absently cleaned the lenses as Miss Sissy fussed at him.
“No!” she said scornfully.
Beatrice saw that the old woman was worked up which probably wasn’t great for any injury-related headaches. She briskly said, “Miss Sissy does have a good number of friends in town. We’ll be sure to help keep an eye on her. She spends much of her day at the quilt shop in Dappled Hills.”
Miss Sissy’s eyes lit up at the mention of the Patchwork Cottage. “Posy is there. And a cat! Maisie.”
The doctor gave a resigned sigh. “I only mentioned it because, if she’s prone to taking tumbles, she might have a fall at home and not be able to get help for a while. That can be very distressing. Does she at least have a cell phone?”
Beatrice shook her head. She knew that Miss Sissy had even had her regular phone service disconnected recently for failure to pay. It had been an oversight on Miss Sissy’s part, and it seemed to indicate that some things were slipping past her.
The doctor glanced at his watch. “I’ve got many more patients to see. Your friend is ready to be released for home. But this is my only bit of advice for you—get her a cell phone. Make sure she knows how to use it and charge it. And that she carries it with her.”
And that I receive the bills, thought Beatrice rather glumly. “That won’t be a problem,” she said. “Thanks for your time.”
Miss Sissy glared at the doctor as he walked out. “Mutant!” she hissed.
Beatrice was used to Miss Sissy’s random insults or name calling, so ignored her. Although she did spare a hasty glance at the door in the hopes the doctor hadn’t heard her. “I brought something for you,” she said quickly, in an attempt to salvage their visit.
Miss Sissy’s beady eyes lit up as Beatrice pulled the quilt from the tote bag and carefully covered Miss Sissy with it.
The old woman reached out a gnarled hand to gently run her fingers over the fabric. “Pretty,” she said gruffly.
Beatrice gave a small sigh of relief. “I’m glad you like it.”
“For me to keep?” asked Miss Sissy, tilting her chin in determination.
That hadn’t really been part of the original plan. And Miss Sissy probably had over a hundred quilts at her house. She’d been quilting for seventy years, for heaven’s sake. And she was a far better quilter than Beatrice was. “Of course,” said Beatrice stiffly.
Miss Sissy smiled in satisfaction.
Now that she was in a better mood, Beatrice decided to move on to a more sensitive topic. “Do you think you could learn to use a phone like this one, Miss Sissy?” she asked. She pulled out her smart phone and handed it to the old woman.
Miss Sissy glared suspiciously at the device. It wasn’t the most expensive phone and it didn’t have all the bells and whistles of some others ... but apparently it was alarming enough.
“Maybe one of those basic phones then,” said Beatrice with a sigh.
Miss Sissy looked cunning. “One that flips open.”
“Oh, so you do know something about phones. You want a flip phone. That should be easy enough,” said Beatrice. “I’ll pick one up and show you how to use it.”
Miss Sissy gave her a scornful look. “I use phones!”
“Yes, but this phone will allow you to send text messages. At least, it will if I buy a plan for it, which I guess I should,” said Beatrice.
Her thoughts on inexpensive pay-as-you-go phones with hopefully inexpensive pay-as-you-go texting were cut short by a rap on the hospital door as Ramsay poked his rather anxious face around it.
Chapter Three
Ramsay gave Miss Sissy what he clearly thought was a reassuring smile. Miss Sissy snarled in return. Being in the hospital clearly wasn’t good for Miss Sissy’s temper, nor, apparently, was the hospital breakfast, as Beatrice had suspected. The plastic tray had been shoved as far away from her as possible. The cup of gelatin looked as if it had been ravaged by a wild animal. There were crumbs on the plate that Beatrice suspected having possibly belonged to toast. There was no evidence of any other food. Beatrice reached in her bag and pulled out the English muffins and bananas as Miss Sissy eyed them hungrily.
The old woman voraciously attacked the food. Ramsay said, “Beatrice, may I speak with you for just a second outside?”
Beatrice followed Ramsay into the hall. He absently rubbed a hand across his high forehead. “Brilliant idea, bringing food. That should settle her down a little. I wanted to ask Miss Sissy a few questions, but I needed to feel her out and see what kind of a mood she was in. Is she real agitated today?”
A couple of workers from food service pushed by them with a tall cart for used trays. When several nurses slid past them, Ramsay motioned Beatrice into the lounge where they could talk without being endangered by the swiftly moving staff. They settled into chairs and Ramsay gave a contented sigh as he sat. Since the seating in the lounge was far from comfortable, Beatrice assumed that he’d not gotten much rest the previous night.
She said, “Miss Sissy was very agitated, yes, but I think she’s better now. That doctor really got her blood pressure up earlier. He wasn’t the best of people to handle her. But he had a good suggestion about getting her a cell phone. I think I’ll take care of that. She doesn’t need to be falling down and unable to reach anyone.”
“Could just get her a house phone,” said Ramsay with a shrug. “She’s used to those.”
“Yes, but she still goes off driving. If she stuck around the house, I could see it,” said Beatrice.
Ramsay grimaced. “She shouldn’t be going off driving. She’s a menace to society behind the wheel. But that rickety old Lincoln of hers is bound to suffer a breakdown at any time, with any luck. A cell phone is a great idea, now that I think of it.”
“Sorry for the tangent. You wanted to ask me something? Or were you just checking her mood?” asked Beatrice curiously. She was hoping, now that nosy Meadow wasn’t around, that Ramsay would let down his guard and talk about the case a little, like he usually did.
Fortunately, Loose-Lipped Ramsay appeared to be on hand. “I was mostly just checking her mood, feeling her out. The state police will want to talk to her, of course, with a murder and everything. And her reported altercation with the deceased. But I want to prepare her for that and also ask her a couple of questions before they do. Will she be discharged soon?”
“Right away,” said Beatrice. “Lucky that I was here so I can drive her back.”
Ramsay nodded, but Beatrice could tell his mind was miles away. “This case is something else,” he muttered. His cell phone buzzed at him and he heaved a tremendous sigh, studiously ignoring it.
“Nobody thinks that Miss Sissy had anything to do with this fellow’s death, do they?” asked Beatrice sharply. “He was found a good distance away in the woods. It’s not as if she could have dragged herself after him and killed the man after injuring herself. Not a younger man like that. Not an old woman like she is.”
Ramsay said, “Technically, no, she couldn’t. But that’s only because she was in the hospital by the time he died, according to the medical examiner’s preliminary reports. He died in the afternoon between the time y’all left for the hospital to see Miss Sissy and when you discovered him. The hospital makes for a pretty solid alibi. Otherwise, not to argue with you, but I’d pit Miss Sissy’s wiry strength and utter determination against larger, younger opponents.”
“How did he die?” asked Beatrice.
“Blunt force trauma,” said Ramsay. “The medical examiner believes it was likely a hammer.” He rubbed his eyes this time and Beatrice realized again how tired he must be. “Meadow will flip out.”
“I suppose his killer wasn’t some stranger passing through town? Like the victim?” asked Beatrice. “No itinerant murderer?”
“There is evidence that points to the fact that it was personal,” said Ramsay. “Somebody got desperate when this guy started asking the wrong people questions.”
“Wrong people? Like Miss Sissy?”
“And, from what I can gather, others, too. What I’m trying to find out is who he was talking to. Since you’ve done a good job so far today calming Miss Sissy down, maybe you can give me a hand?” He gave her a hopeful look. “All I want to do is wrap this case up as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” said Beatrice. Besides, it would be a good way to get more information. “What makes you so eager to wrap it up? Have you been reading any good books lately? Penning any poetry?”
Ramsay didn’t spend much time talking about his high-brow reading and writing outside his close circle of friends, but he was extremely fond of quiet nights with a collection of Faulkner. And reading and writing poetry.
“Have I told you that I’m trying to get some of my poetry published? That’s right. I’m querying literary journals and magazines. I figure that the state is always looking for a poet laureate—why shouldn’t it be me?”
Beatrice didn’t have a good answer for that one. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t read any of his work. She wondered if a village policeman living a contented life had good poetry in him. But who was she to say? “I hope you’ll find the perfect publisher,” she said sincerely.
They walked back down the hall and into the small hospital room. Beatrice stood near Miss Sissy’s bed, shaking her head as Ramsay pointed to the metal chair nearby. He pulled it up to sit right beside her. “Miss Sissy, I’m glad to hear you’re going to be heading back home today.”
She stared suspiciously at him and gave a grunt in return.
“There’s no place like home, is there? Especially that cozy cottage of yours.”
These genial comments were met with hostility from Miss Sissy.
Ramsay cleared his throat. “I do have a few more questions for you, if you’ll humor me, Miss Sissy. You know, about the bad guy you saw yesterday.” Ramsay shifted uncomfortably in his seat a bit, likely remembering that he hadn’t really believed her.
Miss Sissy grunted again, eyes narrowed.
“You see, your bad guy ran into trouble. He’s dead now,” said Ramsay kindly, reaching forward to clumsily pat the old woman’s crippled hands. “So you shouldn’t worry about him anymore. That doesn’t mean, naturally, that you should let up your guard at home. Be vigilant when answering your door, don’t talk to strangers, that kind of thing. Beatrice tells me that you’re going to have a new cell phone,” he added in a jolly voice.
Miss Sissy spat out, “FLIP phone.”
“Right,” said Ramsay, soothingly.
“Who is he?” asked Miss Sissy.
“Your bad guy? His name is Oscar Holland,” said Ramsay. He closely watched the old woman’s reaction. And there was definitely a flicker of recognition there. Miss Sissy muttered unintelligibly to herself.
“Did you know Oscar Holland?” asked Ramsay softly.
She shook her head, and more wiry strands of hair slid out of her loose bun and spilled onto her pillow.
“Are you certain? Because it seemed like he knew you. Your name is scattered through his notes. You see, he was quite the note-taker. He had index cards on him in that khaki jacket of his—they looked like the kind of index cards you use when you’re interviewing someone. Your name and address and possible questions for you were on these index cards.”
Miss Sissy knit her brows and continued dark muttering.
Ramsay continued, “What’s more, he had some sort of old notebook in his hotel room here in Lenoir, just down the road here from this hospital. It almost served as a journal. It wasn’t his, but it mentioned lots of people—Dappled Hills residents who are now elderly.”
Miss Sissy looked at Ramsay and then looked away. “Not me. Didn’t do anything.”
“I know you didn’t do anything,” said Ramsay soothingly. “But I need a clearer picture of what did happen. And how you’re connected to the man you saw.”
“Didn’t know him!”
“But do you—or did you—know his mother? Because his mother figured prominently in his notes and a bit in this notebook/journal,” pressed Ramsay. The old woman gave a croaking sigh. “Mrs. Holland. Years ago.”
“That makes sense. Apparently, she just recently passed away in a Lenoir retirement home. Her son was with her. And, judging from the notes we found, she had quite the deathbed confession,” said Ramsay.
Beatrice raised her eyebrows. “A confession? Of a crime?”
“That much we really don’t know. But we do know that she felt guilty enough or just plain worried enough about something in her possession that she felt she needed to share it with her son right before she passed away. And then Oscar Holland took this notebook she handed him and decided to investigate something, himself. Perhaps he wanted to get answers or some justice? And he was abruptly killed,” said Ramsay.
Beatrice asked, “Doesn’t that seem especially sudden? He shows up at Miss Sissy’s house and then ends up murdered hours later?”
“It looks like he’s been in the area for over a week since his mother died,” said Ramsay. “I don’t believe Miss Sissy was the first resident he spoke with.”
“But surely some of that time was spent in Lenoir, going through his mother’s things or arranging a memorial service,” said Beatrice.
“Still, it does leave some unaccounted-for time for him to poke around in Dappled Hills’ past,” said Ramsay.
“Didn’t know,” said Miss Sissy. She seemed rather agitated. “Thought he was bad. Didn’t know who he was.”
Beatrice said briskly, “Of course you thought he was bad. A strange man shows up on your doorstep? You’re right to be careful, Miss Sissy.”
“So he shows up at your door?” prompted Ramsay gently.
Miss Sissy stayed silent.
“Did he ring the doorbell or knock?” prompted Beatrice.
Miss Sissy barked, “Knocked. Loud. Like I was deaf.”
