Quilt Trip: A Southern Quilting Mystery (4 page)

Beatrice heard signs of stirring out in the hall, so she smoothed down her clothes—which
did
look as if she’d slept in them—and walked downstairs to the kitchen. There she saw Winnie, trying out an older-model cell phone and making a face.

“Nothing?” asked Beatrice.

Winnie shook her head and glared at her phone. “I was hoping that maybe I could get a signal, but we’re really in a bad spot here. I really want to get out of here.”

Beatrice wondered over that a little. She could understand wanting to get out of there—she wanted to leave, too. It was inconvenient, it was cold, there were no changes of clothes, meals required a good deal of creativity, and the tension in the house was strange and strong. But the sheer desperation in Winnie’s voice was perplexing.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” Winnie continued with frustration in her voice. “But my guild really pushed me to come to make a pitch for us to be in charge of that scholarship. Muriel had sent an invitation directly to me. I knew I should have thrown it in the trash.”

Beatrice frowned. “I wonder how she knew who to contact in each guild? Muriel seems so isolated here.”

“She probably has a computer of some kind here,” Winnie said with a shrug. “She’s a sharp businesswoman and probably manages her own stocks and things like that. It helps if you have a computer.”

“Why isn’t Muriel keeping up her house better, then? If she is so successful and has such good business sense?” asked Beatrice.

Winnie gave her an irritated scowl. “Who knows? And I, for one, don’t care. If I had to guess, I’d say that she simply doesn’t care about the house. If she cares about something, she’ll pour money into it. Or maybe she’s just too cheap to put money into an old house.”

The possibility of a computer was good news, at any rate. Hadn’t Meadow said that Muriel didn’t have any electronics in the house? “Let’s track the computer down, then! We can e-mail the police department or our friends and get out of here.”

“No power, remember?” Winnie reminded her in a gloomy tone.

No power. It was very easy to forget that, when you were so used to having it.

Dot Giles joined them, along with Holly Weaver. “What are y’all thinking about for breakfast?” Dot asked, pulling open the pantry doors. “My tummy is starting to really growl at me. Hmm. If we want traditional breakfast food, it looks like there is cereal. Or we could have bread with butter . . . No toast, though, obviously. Otherwise, we’re going to start getting into cold canned soup.”

Holly laughed. “I’m hungry, too, but the thought of having cold chicken noodle soup at eight thirty in the morning isn’t doing anything for me.”

“Well, there is milk in the ice chest outside. And maybe Muriel will have other ideas for breakfast foods,” suggested Beatrice. “Has anyone heard her up and about this morning?”

Alexandra Starnes entered the kitchen and raised her eyebrows when she heard Beatrice’s question. “Mother isn’t up yet? Age must finally be getting to her. She was always up with the chickens. Used to drive me nuts.”

Beatrice suddenly felt uneasy. “Alexandra, maybe you’d better check on her.”

“That’s not necessary, is it?” Alexandra said. “She’s an old, sick woman and she said herself that she was very tired yesterday.”

“Then I’ll check on her,” said Beatrice. Alexandra’s attitude made her furious. She couldn’t imagine having a daughter like her. Her Piper had always been loving and caring. She was in California, visiting Meadow’s son, but Beatrice knew that as soon as Piper tried calling her and couldn’t reach her she’d start frantically calling around. She hated putting her daughter through that.

The unspoken criticism stung Alexandra and she moved quickly to the kitchen door. “Never mind. I’ll do it.”

By this time, the rest of the quilters and Colton Bradshaw had come downstairs.

“Good morning, everyone!” Meadow said cheerfully. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

Winnie groused, “Beautiful and cold. I don’t think we’ll get much melting this morning.”

“Did anyone get a signal on their phone?” asked Posy, an anxious frown creasing her brow. “I’m sure Cork must be beside himself with worry now. I hope my sub from yesterday will run the shop today so the quilters can buy their supplies.”

“I tried but couldn’t get a signal,” said Beatrice. “What’s more, my phone’s battery is about to die now.”

They talked a little about how long it would take their close friends and family to wonder where they were, but were interrupted by a pale-faced Alexandra. She stood stiffly in front of them, mindlessly twisting her watch around her wrist.

“Mother’s dead,” she said quietly.

The group gave a collective gasp.

“But she was fine last night!” said Meadow. “Tired, but healthy enough. Are you sure?”

“I think I can tell when someone’s not breathing,” said Alexandra haughtily. Beatrice was struck again by her lack of emotion. Yes, she appeared surprised or concerned, but hardly grief-stricken.

Colton Bradshaw seemed more like he’d been dealt a blow. “I don’t believe you. I’m going up to see for myself.”

Alexandra shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Beatrice jumped up and hurried to catch up with Colton, who was already halfway up the stairs.

“It can’t be. It would be too convenient,” muttered Colton, almost to himself. “Her dying like this. With all of us here. And under the circumstances.”

Beatrice frowned. “What do you mean, ‘under the circumstances’? My understanding was that Muriel suffered from a terminal illness.”

But Colton tightened his lips and moved faster toward Muriel’s room.

Alexandra had left the door ajar and Colton pushed it the rest of the way open. The room was huge and so was Muriel’s bed. Although she hadn’t been a small woman and was very imposing when she spoke, she seemed tiny in the massive canopied bed with the heavy curtain, tremendous headboard, and thickly columned bedposts.

For all his hurrying before, Colton now hung back in the doorway, so Beatrice walked up to Muriel. The bedsheets covered her smoothly, as if she’d been carefully tucked in, and her face was calmly at peace, as if she were sleeping. Beatrice couldn’t resist double-checking for a pulse, but quickly dropped her hand after a moment, not finding one. There was a small glass and a bottle of pills beside the bed. Beatrice read the label and saw they were sleeping pills. Muriel had mentioned she was planning to take one and it looked as if she’d followed through.

Beatrice took a tissue from a nearby box and carefully opened the bottle of pills. The bottle was nearly full. She read the label. The prescription had recently been refilled.

Colton said, “I can’t imagine she would . . . she didn’t . . .”

“No,” said Beatrice. “The bottle is full.”

Colton released his breath in a relieved sigh. “I couldn’t believe she would. She had such strength of character.” There was real admiration in his tone.

Beatrice carefully studied Muriel, very gingerly lifting an eyelid. “Colton, I hate to say this, but I don’t think her death was natural.” Her voice shook a little as she spoke.

“You don’t?” He didn’t sound surprised at all and Beatrice gave him a sharp look.

“No. I know that Muriel was desperately ill, but we can’t assume that’s the reason she’s passed away. I’ve actually run across this before—there was another murder investigation I was close to and there were signs of suffocation . . . bloodshot eyes, a whiteness around the mouth. Muriel has those same signs,” said Beatrice. “And if she took a sleeping pill, she was likely sleeping very soundly, making it even easier for the murderer.”

Colton shifted uneasily, then took his carefully ironed handkerchief out of his suit pocket to dab the beads of perspiration from his face.

Beatrice glanced around the room, trying to see if anything appeared out of place. But everything seemed very much in order. Besides the bed, there was a heavy walnut-colored armchair with an ottoman, a large mahogany desk, a bookcase full of dusty books, a couple of chests of drawers with mirrors . . . Nothing appeared remotely odd or out of place.

Posy and Meadow appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Was it . . . ?” Posy asked, clutching her cardigan around her neck as if she felt a chill.

“Murder? I’m afraid so,” said Beatrice.

Meadow’s mouth dropped open, and for once she wasn’t making lemonade out of lemons. “Are you sure, Beatrice? After all, she was a very sick lady. Couldn’t she have simply died in her sleep?”

“It certainly doesn’t look that way. Unfortunately, there are indications that she may have been suffocated,” Beatrice said grimly.

“What are we going to do? So we’re stuck here with no way out—with a murderer?” asked Meadow.

Colton shook his head. “Muriel Starnes was targeted. I don’t think we’re in some horror movie situation where a crazed killer is trying to eliminate everyone. There was a reason she was murdered.”

Beatrice shivered. Reason or not, it was a very unsettling thing to discover.

“We haven’t even had breakfast,” spat out Meadow indignantly. “This is unforgivable!”

Posy looked anxiously at Beatrice. “What happens now?”

“Well, we’ve all tried our phones this morning and they don’t work. We have to wait for the ice to melt or for someone to find us here.” She stared at the still figure in the massive bed. “We should also preserve this space as a crime scene. Is there a way to lock this door from the inside and pull it shut behind us?”

“In this room, there is,” Colton said. “Unfortunately, the doors on our own bedrooms can’t be secured. Well, I believe some of the doors have locks, but the locks would be easy to pick open.”

Meadow’s eyes grew even wider. “We can’t lock our doors tonight to keep out the homicidal maniac? Beatrice, are you a light sleeper?”

Beatrice ignored her and shepherded everyone out, taking the tissue again to turn the glass lock on the door, then pulling it shut behind her. She tested it on the other side. It had locked.

They rejoined everyone downstairs.

Holly asked in a small voice, “It’s true, then? She’s dead?”

Alexandra rolled her eyes.

“I’m afraid so,” said Beatrice quietly.

They were quiet for a few moments. Then Dot said, “Well, good riddance.” She blinked at the scowls directed at her from the others. “Y’all will have to excuse me if I don’t boohoo over Muriel’s death. I can’t stand to be fake. Muriel wasn’t the nicest person sometimes—I say, what goes around comes around.”

“You knew her before yesterday?” asked Posy.

“Oh, yes. I think all of us knew her before yesterday. We’re all involved with the quilting community, yes, but that wasn’t the only reason we were here. You heard Muriel’s ‘apology’ last night. It wasn’t much of one, just a kind of blanket apology to all of us who knew her. That’s because she was rotten,” said Dot, without any animosity in her voice.

Holly sniffed a few times and Beatrice was surprised to see that she was genuinely affected by Muriel Starnes’s death. “Well, I didn’t know her before yesterday. And I wish I’d known her better,” she said in a soft voice.

Winnie Tyson snorted. “You’re the only one,” she said.

“There’s more, I’m afraid,” said Beatrice. “I’m positive that Muriel Starnes’s death wasn’t natural.”

They all stared at her. Finally, Winnie said, “What do you mean, ‘not natural’? Of course it’s natural. She told us herself that she was terminally ill.”

“It’s clear that she’s been smothered,” said Beatrice briskly. “The signs are all there. I’ve locked up her bedroom and we’ll leave everything intact for the investigators to study.”

“I don’t believe it,” Dot said roundly. “Not a word! I think you’ve been hitting the brandy . . . Beatrice, is it? There was a sick old woman and she died. End of story.”

“Not the end of the story.” Beatrice’s voice was quiet and firm. “Most of the people here have a past that features Muriel Starnes. It’s obvious that no one liked her.” Seeing Holly splutter, she quickly added, “Except, perhaps, for Holly. Who may not have known her very well. Now, I don’t know what’s up and I’m drawing conclusions about her death, it’s true. But I do know that with the suspicions I have, the police would want us not to disturb the body and to keep her room blocked off. That’s what I’ve done.”

Miss Sissy suddenly erupted. “Murder! Wickedness!”

Winnie closed her eyes briefly at Miss Sissy’s interruption. “So what you’re saying,” she stated in her dour voice, “is that someone here, obviously, killed Muriel Starnes. And we’re trapped in here with a murderer.”

“Evil!” offered Miss Sissy.

“I’m suggesting that there were reasons why someone might have wanted to murder Muriel, that there was opportunity to do so, and that the suspects are limited to the people here in this house, yes,” said Beatrice.

“I nominate Beatrice,” said Meadow stoutly.

Now everyone was staring blankly at Meadow instead of Beatrice.

“For what?” scoffed Winnie. “Most likely to be delusional?”

“For investigating the case, of course. For finding out who killed Muriel Starnes. Then we can lock this person up somehow until we get rescued,” said Meadow calmly.

“Wickedness!” hollered Miss Sissy.

“There, there, Miss Sissy,” said Posy soothingly. “We’re working everything out to make us all safe. And,” she said in her sweet voice, “I second the nomination. Beatrice could act as a temporary law enforcement officer.”

“And then we could report the results of her investigation to my husband,” said Meadow. “He happens to be the police chief of Dappled Hills.”

“This
isn’t
Dappled Hills,” Winnie pointed out in a grouchy voice. “The sheriff would be the one to make any arrests.”

“Whatever,” said Meadow airily. “I don’t worry over details.”

“It would certainly make me feel a lot more secure,” said Posy with a slight shiver. “Beatrice has such wonderful sense. I’m sure she could get to the bottom of all this. Or at least help us feel like we’re doing something. What an awful thing to have happened!”

Colton Bradshaw said slowly, “It does make sense for us to delve deeper into this event while our movements are still fresh in our minds. Perhaps Beatrice can log the interviews in a notebook for the police.”

“Beatrice can solve it!” said Meadow. It sounded like a rallying battle cry.

“I don’t know why Beatrice is such a perfect choice,” Winnie said in a peevish tone.

“For one thing, she’s solved cases before. She has a real knack for it,” said Meadow, looking down her nose at Winnie. “She’s solved cases that my husband, the police chief, couldn’t solve.”

“I’m sure he would have eventually,” said Beatrice quickly.

“And for another, she’s very, very clever,” continued Meadow.

Beatrice sighed.

“Besides, she’s not at all involved with this mess. She’d never met Muriel Starnes before yesterday and I had to drag her over here with me.”

That, at any rate, was true.

“For heaven’s sake,” Alexandra said with twitchy exasperation. “Let the woman poke around, if it will make her happy and make Meadow shut up.”

“Well!” Meadow said coldly.

“I think I will, actually,” said Beatrice. “I do like figuring things out, and there is a safety issue to consider with this particular problem and our close proximity.” Besides, Beatrice was already feeling a monstrous case of cabin fever stirring up. She had a tendency to be restless and knew it was already setting in with a vengeance.

Meadow was pleased. “Now that that’s settled, let’s have breakfast.” She put her hand over her mouth, chagrined. “Sorry. Did that come across as callous? Y’all knew her, after all. Should we have a moment of silent reflection?” A faint blush crept up Meadow’s cheeks.

“I think your idea to have breakfast is perfectly reasonable,” said Alexandra, moving toward the pantry. “Mother would have wanted us to eat, after all.”

•   •   •

After a breakfast of cold cereal, Colton cleared his throat. “I was thinking that Muriel’s study might be a good place for you to conduct your interviews, Beatrice. It’s a smaller space than the library and would be easier to heat. You should go ahead and get started while we all still clearly remember our movements last night.”

Alexandra sighed. “I can’t believe we’re really going through with this farce of an investigation.”

Beatrice ignored her. “Good point. And I wondered if I could talk to you first, Alexandra. To get a fuller picture of your mother, since I wasn’t long acquainted with her.”

Alexandra had a sour expression as she followed Beatrice to the study behind the library. Colton took a couple of pieces of wood from a small stack in the kitchen and started a fire there. This smaller room was a good deal more cheerful than the library, and Beatrice had the feeling that Muriel spent a lot of time here. There was a well-worn toile armchair that proved it. There were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on several of the walls, but these books were more modern and seemed to have been read. She didn’t see signs of the industrious spiders in here—no webs in the corners. There were small oil paintings crammed in between the built-in bookshelves, and a lovely crown molding adorned the room. Overstuffed armchairs covered with frayed fabrics and scattered with old needlepoint pillows filled the space. It was very cozy.

“How are we with wood?” asked Beatrice, frowning. Colton was trying to conserve the firewood.

“There’s more wood in a stack near the back door,” Colton said as he poked at the fire with a poker. “I think we should have enough for a few days if we conserve it. But the wood by the back door isn’t covered.”

Beatrice groaned. “So it’s sopping-wet wood, then. That’s not going to help us out much.”

“I’ll go out there in a minute and bring in another stack,” said Colton. “That way it can at least start drying out and perhaps we can use it sometime tomorrow.”