2 Knot What It Seams (29 page)

“But, Meadow—the weather. Can’t we send Mrs. Starnes or whoever she is an e-mail to express our qualifications?” asked Beatrice.

Meadow vehemently shook her head. “No, because Mrs. Starnes doesn’t have electronics in her house. She’s an eccentric old woman, Beatrice.”

Beatrice bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that there was an eccentric old woman sitting right next to her.

“Besides, I’m sure she would have invited us if she’d remembered. She simply forgot about contacting a representative from the Village Quilters guild. We’re helping her out,” said Meadow in a righteous voice. She paused. “And I’m sure it was also an oversight that she forgot to contact the Cut-Ups guild, but it wasn’t my business to contact them.”

“We’re foisting ourselves on her under the guise of being helpful,” muttered Beatrice to herself. Aloud she groaned. “Look. It’s sleeting.”

“Pooh. Who cares about a little sleet?”

Clearly not Meadow. Actually, it looked like a combination of sleet and freezing rain. Beatrice had the feeling they were embarking on an adventure. And this adventure was starting with the precarious driveway now facing them.

Dappled Hills was a small, picturesque mountain town full of steep hills. Beatrice was accustomed to rather treacherous driveways. But the driveway Meadow was currently scaling put all other driveways to shame.

“Where are the switchbacks?” asked Beatrice. “We’re going straight up. Shouldn’t there be switchbacks to keep us at a gradual, safe ascent?”

“This house and driveway are so old that there probably weren’t a lot of people using switchbacks when it was being built,” said Meadow airily. “We’ll be fine.”

The narrow, graveled, potholed road stretched through dense trees straight up the side of a mountain. At the crest sat a dilapidated old Victorian house complete with a turret, dormer windows, a wraparound porch, and a steep roof. Its gingerbread trim looked like it had a bad case of rot.

As they finally crested the top of the driveway, they saw a few other cars parked in front of the house. “See,” said Meadow. “It’s not as if we’re interrupting a huge party or anything. Looks like there are probably five or six other people here. Besides, I come bearing food and quilts! Who’s going to turn that down?”

Beatrice had a feeling that old Muriel Starnes likely had gobs of quilts in her aging Victorian mansion. But she’d agree with Meadow on the food. Meadow was a fantastic cook, and Beatrice had been enjoying the aroma of whatever wonderful food she’d cooked all the way from home. She couldn’t wait to dig into it. “What did you bring?”

“Poppy seed ham and Swiss biscuits and hot bacon and artichoke dip. Doesn’t it smell yummy? Could you help me with these quilts?” Meadow said as she got out of the driver’s seat and slid open the side door.

Meadow had flung the quilts into the back of her messy van before they left, and Beatrice eyed them in dismay. “Meadow, these quilts are getting wrinkled and dirty! You didn’t put them on hangers or in a garment bag or something?”

Meadow waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, no. Quilts are made to be
used
, Beatrice. Who cares if they have a little dirt on them? That’s life! Quilts aren’t merely an art form, although I know that’s usually how you view them.”

Beatrice was a retired art curator who’d moved from Atlanta to the tiny town of Dappled Hills to spend more time with her grown daughter. Meadow was right—she saw quilts through the eyes of a curator. She noticed the artistic merit (or lack of it) of them first, then thought of ways to best display and preserve the quilts.

But before Beatrice could voice more concerns, Meadow trotted brazenly up the warped wooden steps onto the wraparound porch, balancing the bowls of food as she went. The front door had apparently originally been painted black, but now most of its paint had peeled off. She lifted the heavy brass door knocker and rapped authoritatively at the front door.

Beatrice obligingly followed her, a stack of quilts in her arms. A breeze blew up, and she shivered from the chill, hugging the quilts tighter with one arm and pulling her full-length black wool coat around her with the other.

A dour-looking, balding, older man wearing a suit and a frown opened the door. He raised his eyebrows at Meadow’s wildly colorful appearance. Meadow was solidly constructed and tall, but had never shied away from wearing large prints and bright colors. He looked somewhat more comforted when he studied Beatrice in her no-nonsense coat, khaki pants, and tamed hair. “Are we expecting you?” he asked doubtfully.

“Mrs. Starnes
should
be expecting us,” said Meadow breezily. Meaning, of course, that Mrs. Starnes should have invited them, but hadn’t. Beatrice’s head started pounding.

“I brought hot dip and chips and ham biscuits,” said Meadow with a big smile, as if that guaranteed her entry.

The man opened his mouth to inquire further, but snapped it shut again and frowned as he squinted down the gravel driveway.

Another car was crunching through the gravel as it made its way up the driveway. The man crossed his arms and started looking as if he was going to offer a major roadblock to anybody trying to enter the house.

“It’s Posy!” said Meadow delightedly. She explained to the grim man, “It’s Posy Beck, owner of the Patchwork Cottage shop in Dappled Hills. She’s in our quilting guild.”

Beatrice groaned softly. “Look who’s with her.”

“It’s Miss Sissy!” crowed Meadow, who didn’t appear to understand that adding a crazy old woman to the mix wasn’t going to make it any easier to gain entry to this gathering. The sleet mixed with freezing rain fell harder.

Pulling Meadow aside, Beatrice whispered to her urgently, “Meadow, we need to leave. We’re clearly not encouraged to come inside, and the weather is getting worse. How will we get out of here if the ice starts accumulating? We’re on the top of a mountain.”

There was a cough behind them, and an old woman hunched over a walker gazed steadily at them. The man gave a concerned exclamation and reached to assist her, but she waved him off with irritation. “I’m fine,” she grated. “Let these women in, Colton. It’s pouring down rain—or something—out here.”

Colton still acted reluctant. “Do you know them, Muriel?”

“I know they’re quilters because they’re holding quilts,” she said drily. “It appears as though that other car holds more quilters. They’re all welcome here.”

Colton tightened his lips as though trying to keep from arguing; then he stepped aside to let Meadow and Beatrice in.

“I have hot dip and ham!” said Meadow brightly to Muriel Starnes.

Muriel gave a small smile and hobbled in with them. “We’re all sitting in the library,” she said.

Meadow was unfortunately, and as usual, in a very chatty mood. She’d said any number of inane statements before reaching the library, and when she arrived in the library, she didn’t seem affected whatsoever by the general atmosphere in the room.

But Beatrice was. The library was a large room, and a cold one. In fact, the entire house was cold. Beatrice shivered and decided to leave her coat on. A stone fireplace held several shards of wood that were quickly burning out. The sight of books ordinarily had a cheering effect for Beatrice, but these books had a depressing never-read look about them. She sniffed delicately. There was definitely a scent of decay and mold in the room.

The gathering of quilters was fairly subdued. Actually, they were completely mute. They nodded a greeting in response to Meadow’s over-the-top hello, then took to either looking around the room or staring at their quilts or their hands as Beatrice and Meadow set down the food and the quilts. The women were all of various ages. No one else had brought anything to eat or drink, and Muriel Starnes didn’t appear inclined to offer anything. Everyone appeared to be waiting for some sort of speech or official welcome of some kind.

Colton came in with Posy and Miss Sissy. His expression was one of disdain. Posy, fluffy as usual in a pastel cardigan and beagle broach, beamed at everyone and looked completely innocuous, so Beatrice had to assume that it was Miss Sissy who was responsible for Colton’s dismay. She was looking even wilder than Meadow—most of her hair had pulled out of her bun, and she wore a long floral dress that had seen better days.

“Wickedness!” proclaimed Miss Sissy, hissing the word as she glared suspiciously around the room.

Posy and Beatrice exchanged glances. Apparently, this wasn’t one of Miss Sissy’s good days.

Muriel Starnes walked over to a large armchair and carefully sat down, keeping her walker in front of her. “Thanks to everyone for coming,” she said in a voice that was weak but still had remnants of authority in it. “It’s certainly a tribute to the quilting craft that I have such a good turnout. Perhaps even,” she said thoughtfully as she looked at Meadow, Beatrice, and Miss Sissy, “more of a turnout than I anticipated.”

Beatrice felt herself blush. Meadow looked completely unconcerned.

“I’m going to let my lawyer, Colton Bradshaw, explain the general setup of the foundation I’m creating and give more information about it,” said Muriel, sitting back in her armchair and looking weary.

“Lawyer!” said Meadow, chortling. “I thought he was your butler!”

Colton gave her an icy look and stood up, holding several papers that he appeared to be planning on reading. Beatrice sighed. Judging from that script of his, they might be trapped here for hours.

“Thanks to Muriel Starnes’ generosity, the assembled are gathered here today to offer insight and input on finding and vetting qualified and worthy recipients for the quilting scholarships,” he intoned.

Beatrice sighed. His delivery wasn’t very good, either. Tuning him out, she began watching the other women in the room. It was an odd group. Most of the women were studying Colton seriously. Meadow, on the other hand, was like a wriggling puppy. She could barely stand to wait for Colton to finish before enthusiastically giving her thoughts on the scholarships.

Two of the older quilters had unreadable expressions on their faces. One of the women looked fairly sour, and the other was blankly watching Colton read his prepared statement. Shouldn’t everyone be as enthusiastic and excited as Meadow? Weren’t they supposed to be selling themselves as good candidates to administer the scholarships?

Muriel didn’t appear to be listening to a word Colton was saying, but then, she’d already surely be familiar with his little speech. Her hooded eyes watched the other women closely. Sometimes the quilters caught her staring and looked away.

Miss Sissy was ravenously gobbling down all the crackers, having apparently decided that she didn’t care for some component of the bacon-and-artichoke dip. Then she hungrily eyed the ham biscuits.

Colton finally concluded his speech. Or maybe he was only pausing to catch his breath. But Meadow jumped in while she had the chance. “I’ll speak for all of us, I’m sure, when I say that I’m absolutely thrilled that you’re helping ensure the longevity of the quilting craft through your foundation. And I want to explain how the Village Quilters guild is perfect for administering this scholarship. You see, our guild’s amazing history—”

Muriel Starnes interrupted as seamlessly as if Meadow hadn’t been speaking at all. “Thank you, Colton. And now I have a confession to make. I haven’t been completely honest with you about the reason you’re all here.”

There was suddenly a great, scary, snapping
pow
outside the window, and the lights went out.