Barbara Graham - Quilted 04 - Murder by Vegetable (8 page)

The spotter plane was already in the air.

On his way out to search on the ground, Deputy Mike Ott stopped to talk to Tony. His companion, the magnificently homely bloodhound named Dammit, sat and began a leisurely exploration of one his oversize ears with a back paw. Mike said, “He could be anywhere. We'll start at the car and see where we go.”

Tony had heard frequent complaints from the S & R group about lack of visible clothing on the people they rescued. It was a miracle any of them were found. “I don't suppose he's wearing something easy to spot, like a bright blue and yellow shirt or jacket?”

Mike's burst of laughter did not sound particularly amused. “Camouflage. According to his brother, everything he wears, from his pants to his pack, is designed to blend with his surroundings. If he's fallen and broken his leg, he'll blend right in with the bushes and grass.” Mike bent over and carefully massaged Dammit's legs, preparing him for long, strenuous hours of searching.

Rocks, water, and rumors of feral hogs were just a few of the possible hazards the hiker and his want-to-be rescuers might face. Tony could remember a time they'd searched for days and finally spotted their missing person—decidedly not hoping for rescue—but he was trespassing, and his arrest had been one of the more entertaining searches since he'd taken office. The man was dumb as a brick and turned out to be a felon missing from a work release program. He'd chosen to focus on the “release” portion of the agreement.

But nothing Tony had learned about today's missing hiker indicated anything more suspicious than a bad attitude, or his brother's, mixed with poor judgment.

Tony had to admit he was dying of curiosity as he stared at the small group of vegetable weapons sitting in horse trailers, now parked in the far end of the museum parking lot, near the hill. According to Gus, the intriguing cannon Quentin built was just big enough to launch a potato. In comparison to the other weapons, it was a modern marvel. Its long barrel looked like nothing more than a length of pipe with about a five-inch diameter. The two medieval weapons going on display were a trebuchet and a catapult. They were almost fascinating enough to get him to join their medieval weaponry club. Almost. The weapons were built to scale but well smaller than the devices designed to lay siege to a castle.

Roscoe, the owner of the trebuchet, had borrowed a Bush Hog and cut down all the vegetation in the area designated for the war machines before vanishing from sight.

With Tony watching, a small caravan of enthusiasts soon arrived, parked near the trailers, and went to work. Quentin trotted past Tony and joined the group, leaving Gus and Kenny still working on the stage. With great good cheer, the group did hard physical labor, carrying bits and pieces Tony guessed weighed well more than a hundred pounds each. It took four men to carry the long arm of the trebuchet up the hill to the place chosen for its setup. Tony suspected the location had something to do with the broad, reasonably flat surface of packed-down red clay. The catapult had wheels, but they were wooden and looked handmade. They lacked something in roundness, so to haul it up the hill, the workers got help in the form of a twenty-first century tractor.

Fearing they might try to enlist him into what appeared to be grueling manual labor, Tony backed away, but anticipated the demonstration with interest.

He didn't back away fast enough. “Sheriff.” The word was softly spoken about at the level of his left shoulder blade. “I'd like you to meet someone.” As shocked as he was to have Roscoe slip up behind him, it was his companion whom Tony found interesting.

Skinny little Roscoe who possessed bad teeth and a loving attitude didn't release the arm of the woman at his side, a slender woman with exceptionally long dark chestnut hair. Tony could see some strands of silver glisten in the single braid hanging down her back, stopping at her knees. Large, dark eyes glowed with humor and intelligence. They were her best physical feature, but what Tony liked best was her laugh. He'd heard her laugh while the equipment was being unloaded.

“Professor Veronica Weathersby.” Roscoe's grin was delighted and exposed every bad tooth in his head. “Sheriff Tony Abernathy.”

The professor held Roscoe's hand with her left and offered her right to Tony. They shook hands briefly before she withdrew hers and placed it gently on their clasped hands. When she spoke, her voice was soft and had a faint, almost British, accent. “I'm always pleased to make the acquaintance of one of Roscoe's friends.”

Tony felt like making a courtly bow. If he'd had any idea how to do one, he might have. “I am pleased to meet you too.” He wondered how many questions he could ask without being considered unbearably nosy. He started with a straightforward one. One he knew the answer to already. He hated to admit he'd heard gossip. “Professor of what?”

“My specialty is medieval life and culture.”

Tony did wonder how she and Roscoe had met. Roscoe's major social functions were sports events, particularly baseball. While Tony sorted through various ideas about how to probe into their relationship without being considered boorish, Veronica voluntarily explained.

She waved in the direction of the weapon. “We met at the organizational meeting of a new group. Our group tries to recreate as faithfully as possible some of the culture of the past—weapons, clothes, food. We hope to do demonstrations, and maybe someday there will be enough of us to have a full-day celebration of our own and invite the public.”

Tony decided she might have more degrees than the average university, but she was cheerful and pleasant and had no air of superiority about her. She liked Roscoe. Tony thought inevitably someone would stick Veronica with the nickname Ronnie—and the couple would become known as Ronnie and Roscoe.

“Do you get along with the bear?” Tony still wondered if Baby had run away or was lost or something more sinister.

“Yes, she's very sweet.”

“Any sign of her?” said Tony.

“Baby's still missing.” Roscoe's voice sounded froggy, like he'd been calling the bear too much or was percolating a head cold.

Veronica patted his shoulder and pressed her forehead to his. “I'm sure if something bad had happened to her, we'd have found out by now.” She lifted tear-moist eyes to Tony. “With the unusual white spot on her chest, she's very identifiable.”

“I'll ask Harrison Ragsdale,” Tony promised. “He's the game warden and not much for cooperation, but I think you're right. Bad news does travel pretty fast.”

Roscoe snuffled into a handkerchief.

Veronica smiled gently and led her beau toward their machine. “Would you like to see our beauty, the trebuchet?”

Tony didn't have to be invited a second time, and walked up the hill with the unlikely couple. The moment Tony finished talking with them and examining their trebuchet, he planned to call Theo to tell her all about the professor, and to gloat. This was the second piece of really exciting news he'd heard before Theo. If he kept a journal, it would be written in big letters right after “Ruby is pregnant.” Tony patted the siege machine. “It's fascinating. I can't wait to see it operate. Who did the actual construction of this?”

“I built it and Quentin helped.” Roscoe cast an adoring look at the professor. “We couldn't have done it without Veronica's instructions. She knows all about these things.”

Veronica actually blushed. “It is a scaled-down model, but one quite capable of launching stones and melons and pumpkins with remarkable force and accuracy.”

Quentin charged past them, evidently having finished his task with the weapons, at least for the moment, and waving to the threesome. He jumped up on the stage and went back to his task of shoving the boards tightly against each other while Gus and Kenny nailed them down.

The festival site was taking shape, but Tony's enthusiasm for the event dropped another notch as he watched the stage floor taking shape. The idea of doing the can-can in a ruffled skirt didn't hold any appeal. He might have dreamed of a career playing baseball, but never once had treading the boards of theater appealed to him.

He glanced at his watch. Speaking of the can-can, he needed to get to rehearsal. Their choreographer, Miss Cindy, had volunteered to work with them after her creative movement classes for four-year-olds ended. She was almost seventy and could still kick higher than any of his group. The dance studio was simply a large room with a smooth wooden floor at the back of the carpet-remnant business owned by her husband.

Before he turned on the ignition, he couldn't resist calling Theo and gloating about meeting the professor.

Theo was miffed. Tony got to meet Roscoe's girlfriend before she did. The injustice of it all had her pacing the floor in her workroom. Over in the corner, out of her range, the twins slept in their small crib. Chris and Jamie wouldn't be out of school for another hour. Carrying the baby monitor with her, she went downstairs to the shop.

Gretchen was cutting fabrics for a customer. They were deeply involved in determining just how much of each were needed for a project.

In the workroom, a few ladies were gathered around their latest group charity quilt. This one was to be raffled at the Ramp Festival to raise money for the food bank. People could donate either canned goods or cash in exchange for a ticket. The quilt top was one Theo had built while testing the pattern for one of her mystery quilts. The overall illusion was of a series of eight pointed stars within larger stars. The fabrics were all deep blues, maroons and browns. Even though it was quite elegant, it had served its purpose and Theo had donated it, hoping they would sell lots of tickets.

The quilters chatted quietly as they worked. When they saw Theo, they waved her over. “Grab a chair and needle, sugar, you might as well put in a few stitches with us.”

Theo obliged, pulling a chair closer to the frame and picking up a needle where someone left off quilting. “Do you think it will be ready by Saturday? I know we can work on it at the festival, but usually more talking than quilting happens in public, and we can sell more tickets on a finished quilt.”

“That's for sure.” The oldest woman laughed. “I do enjoy a good gossip and a barbeque sandwich.”

“What about the ramps?” Theo didn't care for them herself, but would nibble a bite of ramp pie just because it was the reason for the gathering. “They are pretty pungent.”

“I remember going out with my grandmother to gather them in the spring. She always said they'd keep us healthy. But really, I think it was all about money. We had nothing, and eating ramps and dandelion leaves was one way for us to get vegetables. It wasn't like now when we can buy greens any time of the year at the grocery store.”

“How do you prefer your ramps? In a pie, soup, sprinkled on a sandwich?”

“Soup, I think. When I have them in pie I like to sprinkle a lot of pepper on it. It kind of balances them out and you kind of don't notice the strength of the ramps.”

“Interesting.” Theo wondered how to pass on the information about Veronica and decided just to spit it out. “Have you all heard about Roscoe's girlfriend?”

“The vending machine or the bear?” The speaker got the giggles and could barely finish her question.

“Neither,” said Theo. Suddenly her needle was the only one still moving in and out of the quilt. The other quilters were frozen in place. Taking pity on them, Theo elaborated. “A real live woman. She's a professor at the university.”

“Well, cut off my legs and call me shorty.” The elderly woman leaned forward. “Tell us more. Have you met her?”

“Not yet, but Tony has, and she's going to be helping the medieval warriors show their machines. He says she's very nice.”

“Speaking of Roscoe, did that pet bear of his ever show up again? I'd sure hate for Hairy Rags to catch it, because that awful man likes nothing better than causing some animal misery.”

“So why is he a game warden?” Theo threaded another needle. “If he dislikes animals.”

Three heads shook in confusion.

“All I know is he swerves his truck in the direction of any animal, a pet or a wild thing, crossing the road.” Tears welled in one woman's eyes. “I know he's responsible for my kitty going missing.”

“How do you know?” Theo thought if there was evidence, they could get him fired, fined, and run out of town. Ragsdale's absence would make Silersville a nicer place to live. Before anyone could come up with an explanation, a faint cry came through the baby monitor. “Oops, my fan club is waking up.” Theo headed upstairs.

Lined up in the dance studio, facing a wall of mirrors, Tony wanted to run away. Five of the six dancers, himself included, listened to Miss Cindy's careful instructions. The sixth, Halfpenny, was still out searching for the missing hiker. The energetic older woman talked nonstop, and put them through a series of warm-up exercises apparently designed to make him feel larger and more awkward than before.

“How is Theo doing with the skirts?” Miss Cindy asked Tony.

“I know she's been working on them. I'll call.” Tony grasped any excuse to delay the inevitable. It turned out to be a brief delay; he hadn't even gotten the phone out of his pocket when he spotted Theo struggling to open the glass fronted door while buried by the frothy black, orange, red, and yellow of the skirts.

He hurried to help her. “Get me out of here,” he whispered.

Theo ignored his plea. Instead of helping, she actually winked at him and headed for Miss Cindy.

“It's so much easier to practice with the skirts and whatever you plan to wear on your feet.” Miss Cindy squealed and clapped with delight. “I love the skirts, Theo. Thank you!” Cindy turned to face the men. “By the way, I've ordered some black fishnet stockings that should fit y'all just fine. Isn't it amazing what you can shop for on the Internet?”

Before any of the men could raise an objection, two of the smallest women in town started handing out the skirts. The men grumbled but stepped into them and tied them over their day clothes. Tony decided Napoleon's dictatorial nature probably had more to do with his diminutive height than his ambition to rule as emperor.