2 Knot What It Seams (7 page)

“Well . . .”

Beatrice quickly added, “And what about the mayor? You saw the incident between Jo and the mayor unfold with your own eyes at the town hall. Remember how Jo insinuated that she had something damaging that she could use against Booth?”

Ramsay gave a rather pathetic sigh. “Yes, that was troubling. Although it could easily have been an empty threat.”

“For an empty threat, it made Mayor Grayson absolutely furious.”

Ramsay thought intently for a few moments, without speaking. Then he said, “I’ll get a mechanic to check out the car for me—just in case. I suppose I can spare that money from the police budget. But please don’t let on to anybody that I’m even considering the possibility it was murder. Especially not Meadow.”

“Especially not Meadow
what
?”

They turned to see a sleepy, but rapidly waking and curious Meadow behind them. “Are y’all having a party and didn’t invite me?” Meadow jammed her hands on her wide hips. She was wearing a large red T-shirt and green fleece pajama pants. The pajama pants were inexplicably covered with question marks. “Or are y’all having a romance?” She gave her loud, whooping laugh that made Noo-noo growl softly. The growling, naturally, got Boris all wound up. His throaty, booming bark made Noo-noo even more alarmed. It became very, very noisy for the middle of the night. And suddenly, Beatrice did feel very tired and sleepy.

She decided to leave all the explaining to Ramsay and head back home.

Chapter 5

Apparently, Ramsay
had
explained because the next couple of days were blessedly Meadow free and quite quiet. In fact, the only times Beatrice had even left the house were to take Noo-noo on walks on different trails off the Blue Ridge Parkway.

She hadn’t really even thought about Jo. She walked, she tried reading a psychological thriller for the first time, she worked on her appliqué, she had supper with Piper one night after Piper’s in-service training was through, and she even practiced her biscuit-making ability for breakfast one morning, since her attempts at baking usually ended in disaster. It was blissfully mellow in her cottage and felt very much the way Beatrice had always fondly imagined retirement to be. For a little while, Beatrice felt very much at peace.

Which, of course, meant it couldn’t last. It would be a short-lived idyll. Sure enough, the quiet ended with a doorbell’s ring and a breathless Meadow on her front porch.

Meadow had an excited Boris on a leash, and seemed to have been pulled the entire way to Beatrice’s cottage. The beast immediately galloped in and helped himself to Noo-noo’s water bowl. Boris’ owner shuffled in and helped herself to most of the sofa, sprawling across it while she tried catching her breath.

It didn’t take long for Meadow to recover from the sudden, intense exercise of her walk. Beatrice stuck a glass of iced tea in her hands and Meadow guzzled it down, then panted, “Beatrice! It
was
murder!”

Beatrice sank down into an overstuffed gingham armchair. “Was it? What did Ramsay say?”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Beatrice. I don’t know how you managed to get Ramsay to investigate that accident, but you did! I could have told him and
told
him it was murder until the cows came home and he’d never have checked Jo’s car out.”

“What did he find out?” asked Beatrice. It wouldn’t do to try and rush Meadow. Resistance was futile. She’d have to wait for her to tell the story her way.

“Maybe it’s because I brought up Opal and the whole psychic thing,” said Meadow in a musing tone. “Ramsay’s very funny about the supernatural. He’s not a believer.” Boris finally finished draining Noo-noo’s water bowl and plopped onto the hardwood floor, thumping it loudly with his tail to express his excitement over the visit. Meadow stared blankly at the dog while Beatrice got back up, filled the water bowl again, and sat back down. “What was I talking about before we got started on Opal? Oh, right.” She sat up a bit straighter on the sofa and leaned forward. “Jo was murdered. The brakes on Jo’s Jeep were tampered with.”

Beatrice said, “Ramsay’s mechanic could tell they’d been tampered with? The Jeep is old—there wasn’t just a natural brake problem?”

Meadow shook her head vigorously. “Nope. He said the mechanic mentioned that the brake lines to the front and rear brakes were cut open enough to make for a slow leak of brake fluid. They weren’t completely severed, but were very clearly deliberately cut—probably with wire cutters. Which everyone has! Don’t
you
have a pair of wire cutters?”

“No, I sure don’t. I didn’t have the need for anything like that in my Atlanta apartment. I had a pair at the museum, but I never brought them home.”

“Well, we have some. Although I certainly had no desire to murder Jo! I was thrilled that she was going to fill our empty spot in the guild. Now we’re back to square one.”

Beatrice started counting to ten in her head. If Meadow went off on that train of thought, she wouldn’t return to the station for a while.

Luckily, Meadow was able to stay focused on the murder this time. “Anyway, whoever cut the brake lines was pretty careful. The brake fluid didn’t leak out right away—if it had, Ramsay says, then Jo would have noticed the brakes were gone before she even left her driveway. Whoever did it wanted there to be a slow leak so that after she’d been driving for a while, the brakes would have finally completely given out . . . and she’d have been on those mountain curves with no brakes.”

Beatrice said, “Couldn’t she have used the emergency brakes? Seems like that would have stopped the car or at least slowed things down long enough for Jo to regain control of the Jeep.”

“Not really, according to Ramsay’s mechanic. The emergency brake works with the rear brakes only, so she’d have ended up with only twenty percent or so of her braking power. At the speed that Jo was driving, going downhill on mountain curves in the pouring rain, she might not even have had the time to react enough to pull up on the emergency brake. At any rate, the mechanic said that the emergency brakes hadn’t been used.”

Beatrice sat quietly for a moment, digesting the information. “So I’m guessing they ordered an autopsy done on Jo?”

“Ramsay called in the state police as soon as the mechanic reported back to him. They ordered the autopsy right away. But Jo’s body was fine—the only injuries resulted from the trauma of the crash.”

“Doesn’t it sound like her killer would have had to be someone with some knowledge about cars?” asked Beatrice. “A mechanic or someone whose hobby involved cars?”

“Not really. Ramsay said that anyone with an Internet connection could easily and clearly find out about sabotaging brake lines. You can find out anything on the Internet these days—there’s all sorts of information on any kind of illegal activity you’re interested in.”

Beatrice said, “Somehow, I can’t see these quilters creeping around under Jo’s Jeep with a flashlight during a tremendous rainstorm to find the brake line.”

“They certainly could! There’s nothing tougher than a quilter,” said Meadow, fiercely defending the murderous potential of her fellow quilters.

“They’re tough, for sure,” said Beatrice, thinking of Patchwork Cottage fixture Miss Sissy. She wouldn’t want to be on that old woman’s bad side. “Since the autopsy is finished, I’m guessing the funeral will be soon?” Traditionally, in the South, bodies were very quickly buried . . . a practice that was likely rooted in the pre-air-conditioning era.

“I’m hearing that the funeral is arranged for tomorrow. I’m going to take Jo’s husband—that’s Glen—a frozen chicken casserole. You know he’s going to end up with all this food, and these poor men sometimes don’t know what to do with it all—and they end up tossing tons of it out and then going hungry weeks later and having to learn to cook before their mourning period is over.” Meadow shook her head sorrowfully. “So I’m going to bring it frozen with taped instructions stuck on the top for defrosting and cooking the casserole and I’ll stick it right in his freezer.”

“Maybe I could bring something like pimento cheese sandwiches,” said Beatrice slowly. Having lived by herself for so many years in a city like Atlanta, she’d fallen somewhat out of the habit of cooking. It had been very easy to simply pick up ready-to-eat or ready-to-cook meals from her favorite grocer’s deli section. Her husband had died when Piper was still in high school, and after Piper had left for college, she’d found it wasn’t exactly fun to cook for one. “At least then he’ll have some decent food for lunch, too.”

“Make sure you don’t cut the crusts off,” Meadow reminded her sagely. “Men don’t like to eat sandwiches without crusts. They think it’s sissy.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. By the way, Meadow, I was wondering who you thought might go to Jo’s funeral?”

Meadow shrugged, still planning her casserole in her mind. “Pretty much the whole town, I’d think. There’s really nothing else going on tomorrow, after all. And she
was
the mail carrier for Dappled Hills. There’s not a soul in town who doesn’t know her.”

“Well, sure, but whom from our group? Which quilters might be there?”

Meadow thought for a moment, tapping her fingertips together. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re already thinking about murder suspects? Let’s see. I’m sure that Karen will
not
be there. She’d know how hypocritical it would make her look to go to the funeral. On the other hand, I think that Opal
will
be there. She would want proof that Jo is really dead.”

“And how about someone like Booth Grayson?” asked Beatrice.

“He’ll probably go. He’s running for reelection, so he’ll be shaking hands and kissing babies wherever two or more people are gathered together. Ramsay said that he’s going to the funeral . . . a sure sign he thinks suspects will be in attendance. He’s now rereading one of his favorite books and he wouldn’t go to a funeral unless he absolutely had to,” said Meadow, with a wave of her hand. “And, Beatrice, I know someone else who will be attending the funeral.”

Beatrice would have asked who, except she knew Meadow’s we-have-a-secret smug smile a little too well. She sighed.

Meadow continued, anyway. “Wyatt. Wyatt Thompson will be there!”

“Naturally, he’ll be there. He’s a minister, after all, and Jo was a member of our church.” Beatrice kept her voice even, although her heart gave a little leap when Meadow said Wyatt’s name. Silly heart. It had no permission to do that.

Meadow wasn’t at all deflated. “It occurs to me that you need to move forward with this relationship, Beatrice.”

“It isn’t a relationship at all!”

“Which is precisely my point. You haven’t even started
flirting
with him! And you spend more time with my husband than you do with him. It’s pitiful. Have you even been to church recently?”

“As a matter of fact, I was there last Sunday,” said Beatrice, sounding more defensive than she wanted to.

“And when did you go to church before that?” asked Meadow.

Beatrice stared guiltily down at her shoes. She’d meant to go to church the couple of Sundays before that, but her backyard had been so beautiful and quiet. She’d had her own sort of worship services in her hammock, admiring God’s handiwork. She cleared her throat. “You know there’s nothing going on between me and the minister, Meadow. Besides friendship, that is.”

Meadow rolled her eyes. “I surely do know that. But it doesn’t have to be that way. He’d be delighted if you made some sort of move. I mean, look at you! You’ve got this cute bob of platinum blond hair—”

“It’s white hair, Meadow,” corrected Beatrice glumly.

“Well, if it
is
white, it doesn’t seem white. It looks very blond. Like Marilyn Monroe.”

Her analogy stunned Beatrice momentarily into silence.

“You always look classically chic,” continued Meadow.

Beatrice blinked down at her khaki capris and pink button-down shirt.

“And if you’re a day over sixty, then I’m the Queen of England!” said Meadow, slapping her thigh for emphasis.

“Better go claim your throne, then,” said Beatrice in an even glummer tone.

Beatrice could see the wheels spinning in Meadow’s head. It was something she didn’t like to see. To interrupt whatever matchmaking plans Meadow was concocting, Beatrice quickly switched to a subject dear to Meadow’s heart. “What are we planning to do with the Village Quilters membership now? Are you planning recruitment again?”

She felt her shoulders relax a bit as Meadow immediately launched into the convoluted pros and cons of jumping right into recruitment versus waiting in observance of Jo’s untimely demise. At the end of her monologue, she said, “But this time I do intend to exercise more caution in placing a member with our group. You were so right about Jo. I simply couldn’t see it! We shouldn’t recruit someone especially murderable this time. I was thinking that we could get to
know
some prospective members, one on one, you know? What I thought I might do is have a couple of Friends of Quilting dinner parties and invite potential new members. Maybe Karen Taylor for the first one?”

Beatrice frowned. “I thought you said that Karen was entrenched in the Cut-Ups guild. Isn’t she happy there? Won’t it stir up bad feelings between our groups if we try to solicit members from the other quilt guild?”

“It’s up to Karen to decide which group best fits her needs,” said Meadow with a pious tone. “We’re simply giving her the opportunity to make a choice.”

It all sounded like a good way to make enemies. But Beatrice wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to quiz Karen on Jo’s murder. Karen wasn’t someone she was going to run into very often, otherwise. “You’ll invite me to your dinner party, Meadow?”

Meadow beamed at her. “I certainly will, Beatrice! Thanks for taking such an interest in our Village Quilters membership.”

Or something.

* * *

Meadow was perfectly correct with her funeral attendance speculation, a fact that rankled Beatrice. Opal Woosley was at the funeral, with bells on. There were no somber garments for her . . . she wore a party dress covered with vibrantly colored flowers and even had a gardenia in her hair. She had a dazzling smile plastered on her face and exhibited not the slightest inclination to put up a false show of grief.