Patch of Trouble, page 6
part #6 of Southern Quilting Mystery Series
Chapter Five
July 4th
Dappled Hills has been interesting. It’s both everything I thought a small town would be, and something very different.
I’ve met a lot of people here already. If I want to meet more, I probably need to start joining clubs or other activities. Quilting is really popular here. I never thought of myself as a quilter, but there are women here who are eager to show me how to do it. It might be a good way of making friends.
One thing has been sort of odd. I’m sure that one of the people I met isn’t who they say they are. I’m not going to write anything down until I’m sure, since I carry this journal along with me to serve as my writing notebook, too. But I know this person is a criminal, no matter what kind of story they’ve concocted about themselves here in Dappled Hills. My aunt would usually tell me that my imagination is running away with me, but in this case? I think she’d agree with me and would recognize this person on sight.
It was early in the morning as Beatrice read Vivian’s notebook over a cup of coffee. Beatrice reread the first journal entry again, looking for more clues as to what might have been going on in Vivian’s head when she was writing it. It appeared she had made it as inexplicable as possible, which was most annoying. But Vivian seemed to have figured out that a small town like Dappled Hills could be rather nosy. And if she were carrying around her journal, she likely was trying to keep her thoughts private, even if someone managed to read some of it.
A rap at her door startled her and her gaze automatically flew to the clock. Seven o’clock was early for a visit. This meant it was probably Meadow, who frequently didn’t conform to strict visiting hours. She peered out the window by her front door and saw that it was indeed Meadow. Unfortunately, Boris was out there, too, tongue lolling out and a grin on his massive face at the prospect of visiting his neighbor, so generous with giving treats. But she would have expected Boris to accompany Meadow at this point in the morning. Meadow, despite her determination to work in more minutes of exercise each day, found it quite an uphill battle. Most of her walking centered on exercising her massive dog.
Noo-noo gave her mistress a long-suffering look as if she knew who was at the door. Beatrice murmured, “I’m rewarding you in advance,” and tossed the corgi a cookie. “Coming!” she called to the door and Boris gave an excited yelp in response, his tail drumming the porch floor in excitement at hearing Beatrice’s voice.
“I saw your lights on,” said Meadow beaming at her friend. She turned to Boris, loudly yelping, and said fondly, “Shush! Shush, Boris! No crying!” She turned and walked inside with Boris loping after her. “So I thought we’d pop by. You’re going to the organizational meeting tonight, aren’t you?”
“Organizational meeting?” asked Beatrice, her heart sinking. Why was everything sounding like work now?
“I made it sound quite corporate, didn’t I?” laughed Meadow. “It’s not as serious as all that. It’s the first meeting of our children’s blanket project. And the meditation, which Wyatt will be in charge of, of course. It may take a little longer than the rest of the meetings. You know how it is just starting out: you have to hand the materials out and you talk about your purpose then you give deadlines and the process simply takes a bit longer. But then the meetings get more focused and honed and all.”
As Beatrice’s face apparently continued to look blank, Meadow said, “Mercy! Didn’t I tell you the first meeting is this evening? I swear I’m getting so forgetful in my dotage. And here I am prattling on about first meeting logistics and inefficiencies!”
“Must have slipped your mind,” said Beatrice. She tossed Boris a couple of treats so that he would calm down a little. He snapped them up with his great teeth before they hit the ground. She slid Noo-noo another couple more for her sweet patience. Although she was feeling as if she should get a treat, herself for her patience in dealing with Meadow’s madness and her ravenous Boris at a very early hour in the morning. “You only mentioned that we’d been meeting in the evenings because everyone was working.”
“Right. And then I guess I got distracted. Which is hardly a wonder considering our dramatic day!” She glanced over at the table to see Beatrice’s phone. She nodded toward it. “Have you been looking at the journal? What does it say?”
“I haven’t gotten too far yet. Actually, I just started. I was exhausted last night and turned in without even taking a look at it,” said Beatrice. Her phone suddenly dinged and she and Meadow stared at it. “Someone else is trying to get in touch with me this early?”
Meadow’s phone dinged as Beatrice was reaching for hers. “What on earth?” muttered Meadow.
Beatrice sighed. “Miss Sissy is apparently up.”
“I seriously underestimated her ability to text,” said Meadow, blinking at her phone.
“Your message was from Miss Sissy, too?”
“Unfortunately,” said Meadow.
“She appears to be in an adventurous type of mood,” said Beatrice. “When it comes to technology anyway.”
“I’m surprised she even knows my cell number,” said Meadow, still staring at her phone.
Beatrice flushed. “I added it to her contacts. For some reason, I thought that she might only use it in the case of an emergency.”
“Well, you know Miss Sissy. Perhaps she thought this was an emergency,” said Meadow.
“Unlikely. How could ‘Reprobates!’ be considered an emergency?” Beatrice sighed again. “This may be even worse than the whistle that Wyatt gave her to help her feel safe.”
“Nothing is worse than that whistle,” said Meadow emphatically. “Now let’s see. What were we talking about before? I’ve lost my train of thought. Oh, that’s right—the journal.”
Beatrice shrugged. “I haven’t gotten very far, as I was saying.”
She showed Meadow her phone and Meadow pulled reading glasses out of the front pocket of her bright red shirt. She pulled off her regular glasses and put on the reading ones. “I’ve got to get another pair of bifocals,” muttered Meadow. She read the journal thoughtfully, finally giving it a “phish!” as she finished and handed the phone back to Beatrice.
“This reads like a bad novel,” said Meadow, making a face. “She’s so determined not to disclose the identity of the person that she goes way too far.”
“I gather that she was carrying this notebook around with her? Do you remember her doing that?” asked Beatrice. Noo-noo plopped down on Beatrice’s foot to let her know she would protect her from Boris, who was now making loud slurping sounds as if he might consume anything in his path.
Meadow threw up her hand, nearly throwing Beatrice’s phone with it. “Who knows? I remember very little about Vivian. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself for being so clueless.”
Beatrice kept hoping that the information she was looking for must be buried somewhere in Meadow’s memory, if she could only find a way to unlock it. She prodded, “Were you one of the ‘women who were eager’ to show her quilting?”
“Heavens no! All I was interested in at the time were china patterns, which wedding dress I was going to attempt to stuff myself into, and which florist or even semi-talented friend could do Ramsay’s and my flowers on the cheap. I promise you, recruitment into the Village Quilters wasn’t anywhere on my mind,” said Meadow.
It was hard to believe. Meadow was such an ardent recruiter for the guild. It may even qualify as conscription instead of recruitment. “The notebook, though? This journal? Do you remember seeing her walking around with it?”
Meadow frowned in concentration. “Not really. Although I do remember that she wanted to be a writer. It was that time when everyone was trying to figure out what they wanted to do with their lives, you know? And Vivian wanted to write. I assumed she wanted to go into journalism.”
Beatrice jumped on this. “But why? Why did you assume that?”
“Well, she was a cub reporter at the local paper. And she certainly seemed as though she needed to make some money.” Meadow snapped her fingers. “And, yes! Yes! Because she carried around a notebook. I remember talking to her about my wedding, spotting the notebook in her hand, and saying something coy like are you going to quote me on that?”
“What did she say back?” asked Beatrice, hoping to get more information on what Vivian was like. Was she someone who could engage in light conversation? Was she serious? Did she think too highly of herself?
Unfortunately, Meadow seemed to have few insights. “I have no idea what she said. I did think she was nice, so she mustn’t have been very rude. But I was busy at the time.”
“Did she have any other friends?” asked Beatrice.
“You mean any friends. Because, sadly, I wasn’t one of them. I seem to recall that she hung out some with ... oh, what’s her name.” Meadow tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling as if the answer were up there. “Sam Holland.”
“Was he a boyfriend?”
“No, he was a she. Samantha Holland,” said Meadow. Her eyes opened wide. “Wait a minute! That must be the dead body’s mother. Oh, my word. I can’t imagine why I didn’t make the connection.”
“The woman that Miss Sissy was talking about? She was married at the time?” asked Beatrice. “And if she was our victim’s mother—well, wasn’t she a lot older than Vivian?”
“She was. So I suppose that she was a bit of an odd choice for Vivian to make friends with, but then she probably didn’t have a lot of choice, either. Perhaps Vivian looked at her as more of a mentor. Or maybe Vivian was learning more about quilting from her, if she were so interested in quilting. Sam was a very proficient quilter. But how did Sam Holland get hold of Vivian’s journal? And why, if Vivian were a friend of Sam’s, did Sam feel guilty enough over Vivian to give her son Vivian’s journal as she lay on her deathbed?” Meadow thumped the table next to her and Noo-noo jumped. Boris, who was now taking a nap, merely opened one eye to gaze at Meadow with outrage before closing it to fall fast asleep again.
Beatrice said, “If they were friends, maybe she knew about the notebook and decided to grab it. After all, it probably has some personal information that Vivian wouldn’t have wanted getting out. So she could have been protecting Vivian’s privacy. Perhaps she didn’t even look at the journal until years later. Maybe she only suspected that something had gone amiss with Vivian and was unable or just unwilling to invest the time in investigating. Then, when she approached the end of her life, maybe she realized or accepted that something bad had happened to Vivian. That could have made her feel guilty enough to turn over the diary—a belated hope for justice for her friend.”
“Which is all well and good, Beatrice, and certainly inventive of you. Very good ideas. We should share them with Ramsay. But here’s the flaw in your theory. At least, I think it’s a flaw. I would accept your theory better if Vivian were dead. But as far as we know, Vivian merely left town to get a job somewhere else. Or maybe she was disappointed with life in Dappled Hills. It seemed like she had some reservations about it when she was writing,” said Meadow. “Although I can’t imagine that. She would have had more friends than she would have been able to handle if I hadn’t been so tied up with the wedding planning. And if she’d gotten fully involved in the quilting community, she’d have found a ton of friends, too. I mean, we even consider Gwen and Ida our friends because they’re quilters. And I don’t even think they’re likable people at all.”
“Getting back to the journal entry, who do you think she could have been talking about?” asked Beatrice.
“Who? You mean the person who resembled a criminal?” Meadow snorted. “Who knows? Although I guess it makes sense if it’s one of the people she kept mentioning in her journal. Let’s hope she got more lax with her reporting as she went on. Otherwise, it’s not going to be a very helpful read for us.” She considered the ceiling again, thoughtfully. “Criminals. Criminals. Maybe Gwen.”
“You really seem to have something against this Gwen,” said Beatrice. “I’m looking forward in horrified anticipation to meeting her.”
“Oh, she’s not all that bad. And she’ll be at the quilting meeting tonight, or at least she said she would. Sometimes she doesn’t show up for things,” said Meadow.
“Charming.” Beatrice, always on time, had very little patience for people who weren’t.
“It’s very annoying, I’ll agree. That’s why we never allow her to take any important roles. She’s simply not dependable,” said Meadow.
“Undependable. But a criminal?” asked Beatrice. “We’re talking about an old woman who quilts.”
“She wasn’t always old. And she wasn’t always a quilter. She could be anything in a former life,” said Meadow.
Beatrice was beginning to suspect that Meadow was purposefully throwing Gwen under a bus at this point, metaphorically speaking. “You bring up a good point, Meadow,” she said to redirect her.
“Do I?” She replied with some surprise.
“You certainly do. For Vivian to suspect that this person even had a former life as a criminal of some kind, would necessitate the person either originating from another town, or leaving Dappled Hills for some time before returning. Which of the people listed in the journal would have done such a thing?” asked Beatrice.
Meadow said, “I know Gwen went away to college,” said Meadow. “And then ... let’s see. Who are the other suspects? I forget.”
“We don’t know if they’re suspects or not. They’re just people Vivian listed in her journal. And we don’t know if Vivian was even killed or if she just left to peddle encyclopedias in the Midwest or something,” said Beatrice.
“Yes, but we do know that Oscar was murdered. Ramsay was most clear on that point. And Oscar was going around asking questions of all the people in the journal,” reminded Meadow. “It doesn’t look good for our Vivian, I don’t think.”
“Good point. So on to the suspects. We have Hugh and Gwen, starting out.”
Meadow said, “Huey. I can’t wrap my head around calling him Hugh. It seems to me like he’s been in Dappled Hills for forever. He was mayor here briefly and he was a state representative. Everyone did his banking with him for ages and ages.”
“So he’s from here?”
“He’s from here.” Meadow frowned thoughtfully. “Although I believe he went away for a while when he was young. His parents were very strict types. They sent him to a military school or something. And then he went away to college.”
“Well, I doubt at a military school he’d have the opportunity to engage in much criminal conduct. Unless he found a way to escape. But if he went away for college too, that means he was gone for quite a while. Maybe he had a chance to get into some trouble,” said Beatrice.
“Mayyyybe,” said Meadow doubtfully. “He just seems like the upright type. You know—the typical politician.”
“Ida?” asked Beatrice, looking through the notes.
“She’s also been in Dappled Hills for more years than I care to count. If she were involved in any criminal activity, it would have to be something white collar. I can’t see her doing anything else,” said Meadow.
“But has she left town?” asked Beatrice. “Did she have the opportunity to commit a crime?”
“She also went away to school. I guess she could have done something while she was away.” Meadow made a face. “It’s very disturbing to think of all my neighbors as potential criminals.”
“And we still have Jake to consider.”
“There are a few of those here. Who knows?” said Meadow.
“Who is it most likely to be? Someone older, right? Our age or older? Who might not have grown up here?”
Meadow sighed. “I suppose that could be Jake Hunter. But this is becoming seriously depressing. He was always such a cute guy. I had a crush on him, myself. He’s a widower now, but still pretty cute.” She gave Beatrice a sideways glance.
“Don’t be looking at me. I’ve got Wyatt, remember? Save your matchmaking for someone who needs it,” said Beatrice.
Boris, now sleeping, rolled over onto his back, feet in the air. Noo-noo gave him a disgusted look.
Meadow stood up. “All right, so let’s start seeing some of these people once it’s later in the morning. What do you think ... eleven o’clock? Something like that? And of course we’ll use the history as our excuse.”
“To really make it a good excuse, we’ll have to make sure to see other people, too,” said Beatrice glumly. “Otherwise, we’ll be just the same as Oscar. And you know what happened to him.”
Chapter Six
They made plans for Beatrice to pick up Meadow at eleven. That gave Beatrice plenty of time to get dressed and ready for her day and even take a short walk with Noo-noo before picking up Meadow.
Meadow hopped into her car, a bit breathless. She smiled at Beatrice and then frowned, glancing around the seat and floor of the car. “Where’s your camera? You haven’t managed to stuff it into your pocketbook, have you? You always keep such a small purse. I don’t know how you manage. I’m like Mary Poppins—I’ve got everything stuffed in my bag but a coatrack.”
“Oh, right. I’d forgotten that I’m there to take pictures for the book,” said Beatrice with a sigh. She kept forgetting that she was actually at the start of a potentially massive project, not just an investigation of a mysterious death.
“It’s okay. Let’s just run by and get it real quick before we head out,” said Meadow, putting on her seatbelt. “So who is first today?”
Beatrice drove back home again. “I thought we’d go in the order of the names mentioned in Vivian’s journal. Which means Hugh, Huey, or whatever he’s called should be first.” She paused. “Actually, it didn’t occur to me that he might not be a fit for our cover story. How might he fit into the Wonderful World of Quilting?”
“Pretty easily, actually. He was the mayor when the Village Quilters approached him about having a craft festival. He was surprisingly gung-ho. I believe he was trying to think of ways to draw visitors to our little hamlet—you know—a revenue-raising device of some kind. The fair was heavily attended and we continue to have it today—and we’re about to have it again, of course.”
