Shear Trouble (9 page)

Beatrice said quietly, “I’d love to see his work sometime, Martha. Maybe you could still go ahead with a show. It might give you more of a sense of closure. And you know it’s what Frank would have wanted.”

Martha looked thoughtful. “That’s a good idea, Beatrice. Thank you. I might have to look into doing that. I’d love for everyone to see what a talented artist he was.”

Meadow came into the sanctuary and gave Martha a fierce hug. “I am so sorry!” she said in her big voice. “What an awful thing.”

“How is it going outside?” asked Beatrice quietly.

Meadow said, “Posy’s sign about the quilt show being canceled is working well and quilters and other attendees are turning around and heading back home. Miss Sissy is helping, too, although maybe in a more flamboyant way. She’s shaking her cane at people and shouting about murder when they drive up. Wyatt said the basement room was free at the end of next week, so we’ll shoot for that time to reschedule the quilt show.”

“Have the state police arrived yet?” asked Beatrice.

“A car was just pulling in when I left,” said Meadow.

“I was hoping to talk with Ramsay for a second,” said Beatrice.

“Let me sit with Martha—I think you can catch him before he gets stuck in there with the other police,” said Meadow.

Beatrice hurried out of the sanctuary and into the breezy night. She decided that she didn’t want to be like Frank—she didn’t want to know something that could put her in danger or get her killed. Investigating was intriguing, yes . . . but only to the point that you kept your wits about you and kept yourself out of trouble.

“Ramsay?” she said quickly. “There’s one thing I’ve remembered that I thought you should know. Frank Helmsley told me at the funeral yesterday that he knew who killed Jason Gore.”

Ramsay’s face was grim. “I sort of thought that might have been the case. Blackmail sure sounds like a good way to supplement your income when you’re relying on your mom to provide for everything. Did he give you any hints about what he knew?”

“No. And I did urge him to tell you what he knew.”

“I’m sure he was real eager to do that,” said Ramsay with a snort.

“Not especially, no. He said something like ‘that was for him to know and for you to find out.’ Do you suppose that he met his killer at the church to blackmail him?”

“Maybe. Of course, we don’t know for sure if this is an accident or a murder. And it’s a strange place to meet, since Frank should have known that there would be a gaggle of quilters here later today,” said Ramsay. He gave a small wave to the SBI as the group headed toward them.

“Not if he were meeting the killer in the afternoon. He must have thought it would give him plenty of time—the quilting show wouldn’t have started for hours and it wasn’t like blackmailing someone was going to take much time,” said Beatrice. “And everyone knows that Wyatt visits folks in the local hospitals on Tuesday afternoons.” It seemed as though there were something else she was forgetting, too. She frowned, trying to remember.

“Good point,” said Ramsay, nodding. “Thanks for telling me, Beatrice.” And then he was swept away by the state police.

After a restless night, Beatrice decided to give up on sleeping by the time the clock hit five a.m. She started a load of laundry, put away the dishes in the dishwasher, and then looked down at Noo-noo, who was gazing up at her hopefully.

“Want to go for a walk?” asked Beatrice, and smiled as Noo-noo grinned up at her and gave a sharp bark to indicate her approval.

It was still dark out, so Beatrice grabbed a flashlight along with the leash. Although she was dragging a little from lack of sleep, Noo-noo seemed full of energy and darted ahead of her into the darkness.

There were so many unanswered questions about Frank Helmsley’s death. Was he blackmailing Jason Gore’s killer? Who was that person? Or was his death
an accident? If it was, why was he even at the church at the time of his death?

Beatrice’s walk had an aimless quality to it and she let Noo-noo lead the way. She soon found that Noo-noo had decided to lead her to Meadow and Ramsay’s house. And Beatrice saw lights on. She knew that sometimes Ramsay couldn’t sleep—and that he frequently got up very early, even if he
could
sleep.

Noo-noo trotted confidently over to the front door of the barn. Boris, probably hearing Noo-noo’s toenails clicking on the driveway (no genius required, Beatrice thought with a sniff), put his great paws up on the windowsill by the door and grinned at them. This made Ramsay peer out the window, too, to see what Boris was so enchanted by. He gave a quick wave and moved to open the door.

“You’re up awfully early, Beatrice,” he said, motioning her to a chair around the kitchen table and bending to pet Noo-noo.

“Up early or never really fell asleep,” said Beatrice. “And it looks as if you’re in the same boat. You’re dressed and everything.” She gestured to Ramsay’s uniform. “I guess Meadow and Ash are sleeping, though.”

Ramsay nodded. “Although this is the time of day when Meadow usually wakes up, so I’m sure she’ll be joining us soon.”

As if waiting for her cue, Meadow said, “Are y’all
talking about me?” She put her hands on her pajama-clad hips and mock-glared at them before beaming. “So we’re having breakfast? Omelets are in order. Something with some substance to it.” Meadow started rummaging in the fridge and pulling out eggs, blocks of different cheeses, an onion, mushrooms, bacon, and spinach.

“Can I help you, Meadow?” asked Beatrice.

“Absolutely not! I’m the queen of this kitchen,” said Meadow. She crouched to open the pots-and-pans cabinet.

“Won’t we wake Ash up?” asked Beatrice. Considering what Piper said, Beatrice wasn’t exactly eager to have a conversation with Ash right now. She had a feeling that she and Piper weren’t on his favorite people list.

“That boy sleeps like there’s no tomorrow,” said Meadow with a snort. “Sometimes I’ll come in here and rattle all my pots and pans just to see if I can raise him from the dead. Never any luck.” She gave Beatrice a sidelong look. “And right now, what with all the things on his mind, I have a feeling that he isn’t sleeping too great at night.”

Ramsay looked curiously at Beatrice with his eyebrows raised.

Beatrice decided she wasn’t going to touch that one. Instead she said, “Ramsay, did the state police give you any more information last night?”

Ramsay rubbed his eyes with both hands. “They did and they didn’t. At first glance, they couldn’t really say whether it was an accident or not. They did say Frank had some bruises that
could
be self-defense and the bruises looked recent. But they could just be from bumping around in his art studio. It sure looked as though he’d been drinking, although we’ll have to get the results on that, too. He could have been a little drunk and taken a wrong step and pitched down the stairs.”

“Pooh on that,” said Meadow, gesticulating in the air with the frying pan she’d pulled out. “That doesn’t even make any sense. Why on God’s green earth would Frank Helmsley be wandering around at the church and suddenly decide to go down the basement stairs? I accept that he might have been drunk enough to fall, but I can’t understand what he was doing there in the first place. He’s no churchgoer. No, if he was at the church, he was up to something.”

Beatrice nodded. “It does seem rather odd for it to be an accident. I’d have to say that somebody pushed him down those stairs—because he knew something about Jason’s death.”

Meadow cracked several eggs at once and opened them into a bowl with a flourish. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Beatrice. We’ll head over to Martha’s today.”

Ramsay, resting his head in his hands, rubbed his temples as if they were starting to hurt. “Now what are
you and Beatrice up to, Meadow? Y’all aren’t the Bobbsey Twins, you know. Somebody out there is dangerous. You don’t want to be messing with them.”

Meadow put her hands on her wide hips and glared at Ramsay. “You just said that Frank’s death could be an accident. There’s certainly nothing dangerous about an accident. It’s not like there’s a gang of stone staircases skulking around and waiting to ambush people.”

“I don’t
know
if it’s an accident yet. Maybe it’s not. Either way, you and Beatrice don’t need to be poking around where you don’t belong.” Ramsay poured himself another cup of coffee and looked as though he wished it were a different type of beverage instead.

“Good!” said Meadow, yanking a spatula out of a nearby drawer. “Because we do belong at Martha’s house. A quilting sister has suffered a terrible tragedy—no,
two
terrible tragedies. The very least we can do is to bring her solace. In the form of casseroles.” She turned to Beatrice. “Isn’t that right, Beatrice?”

“It
is
the Southern way,” said Beatrice with a small smile.

“And while we’re there expressing our condolences over iced tea, we’ll be sure to find out if Frank was all bruised up when she saw him,” said Meadow.

Ramsay rolled his eyes at Beatrice. “How do you plan to ask
that
in a sensitive way to the grieving mother?”

“I think what Meadow is saying is that we’ll ask her
if Frank seemed completely normal to Martha when she saw him. Something like that,” said Beatrice with a smile.

“I guess this means that we’re not going to keep Martha on our list of suspects,” said Meadow thoughtfully as she folded over an omelet. “Considering the fact that I really can’t picture her being responsible for Frank’s death.”

“What?” Ramsay blinked as if he needed to go get some more sleep. “You thought Martha was behind Jason’s death?”

“Sure, why not?” asked Meadow in a breezy voice.

“Because she was crazy about him, for one thing. She seemed devastated that he was killed.”

“Yes, but Jason was supposed to be such a flirt. Apparently, he couldn’t seem to help himself. Martha could have gotten fed up with Jason’s behavior and . . . well, and finished him off.” Meadow rummaged in the fridge for some milk.

“But if she murdered Jason, then who murdered Frank?” asked Ramsay.

“That’s the problem with that theory, as I was saying,” said Meadow. “Martha wouldn’t have harmed a hair on Frank’s head. So maybe there are two killers?” she asked hopefully.

Ramsay groaned. “God help me if there are two killers in this tiny town! No, Meadow, I think you’ll just have to take Martha off your list, that’s all.”

Meadow had already made several omelets and placed them on the table and now she was whipping up pancake batter.

Beatrice’s stomach growled as she put an omelet on one of the plates. “Is it wrong to be this hungry before six a.m.?”

A deep voice from across the room said, “Was there a breakfast feast planned for this morning and my invitation got lost in the mail?”

“Ash!” said Meadow in amazement at the tall, handsome man in plaid pajama bottoms and a white cotton T-shirt. “How on earth are you up at this hour? I’ve lost all credibility now—I just finished telling Beatrice that I could bang around in the kitchen all I wanted and I’d never wake you up.”

Ash sleepily sat down at the large wooden kitchen table across from Beatrice. He smiled a greeting at her, which put her a bit more at ease. “It wasn’t the noise that woke me up, though. It was the aroma of a delicious Southern-style breakfast.” He squinted at the wall clock. “Maybe I can go nap for a little while after I eat.”

A few minutes later, they were eating a feast of pancakes, sausage, fruit, and omelets. Beatrice was surprised how much she ate, considering how early in the day it still was. “Noo-noo,” she said sadly, “maybe we’d best walk for another mile or two to work our breakfast off.”

“Like you ever gain weight,” scoffed Meadow. “Or, if you do, you clearly take it right back off again.” She gave her own generous stomach a reproachful glare. “All right, so we have plans for today. We’ll go to Miss Martha’s house bearing gifts. What time? Right after lunch? Does that give us enough time to cook?”

Considering Beatrice wasn’t even sure what she was going to make, this made her think for a moment. “I suppose I’ll make my pimento cheese,” she said doubtfully. Now she was feeling more insecure about her cooking than she usually did. At least the pimento cheese was something she regularly made and knew how to do.

“You mean your
fabulous
pimento cheese,” said Meadow with a flourish. “Don’t sell it short—it’s great. And we’re going to work on those cooking skills of yours, right? All you need is a little practice, since you’re a bit rusty. Okay, I’ll pick you up at about one o’clock.”

Beatrice stood to go, clipping the leash back on Noo-noo’s collar. Ash said, “And tell Piper I said hi, if you see her.” A shadow crossed his face before he quickly got up and moved to the coffeepot for another cup.

*   *   *

“You’re so sweet to come by,” said Martha. She looked as elegant as usual but had skipped her customary eye makeup or else it had been cried off. Her eyes were red from weeping and lack of sleep. She seemed genuinely happy to see them.

“We wish we could do more,” said Beatrice. “Do you need anything? Need us to run to the store for you or something?” She glanced around. Ordinarily she’d have offered to help a friend clean up in preparation for the company that comes along with funerals, but Martha’s stately home took tidiness to a new level. A few minutes later she glimpsed little June Bug scrubbing industriously at what Beatrice presumed must be a smudge. It was imperceptible from here. June Bug gave her a quick wave before resuming her work, even more enthusiastically than before.

“You know what I’d really like?” asked Martha. “I’d love for someone to sit down and talk with me for a few minutes. My nerves are—well, they’ve been better.” She reached a shaking hand up to push stray strands of hair from her pale features.

Beatrice and Meadow exchanged glances. “We’d love to,” said Beatrice.

“Let me just get us some drinks and cheese and crackers,” murmured Martha. It seemed she was almost on autopilot. She’d always been an impeccable hostess.

“Certainly not,” said Meadow hurrying to the kitchen. “I can find my way around any kitchen. And if I have any questions about where things are, then June Bug can point me in the right direction, I’m sure.”

“Darling June Bug,” agreed Martha in a tired voice.

Meadow bounded off to save the day with
refreshments and Beatrice sat down on an antique settee that was actually more comfortable than it appeared. Martha said, “Everyone has been so kind. June Bug is busily freezing all types of foods—I won’t have to cook for weeks. But no one wants to stop and talk. That’s really what I’d like more than anything—a visit.”

Beatrice said, “I’m sure they’re not sure what to say. It’s such a terrible thing to lose a child, even a grown-up one. None of us knows how to react.”

Tears welled in Martha’s eyes. She fought them back for a few moments before saying, “I know Frank wasn’t perfect. But he was my son.” She leaned forward in her chair to peer intently at Beatrice. “I thought more this morning about what you’d asked me last night. If Frank had said something unusual or mentioned something that had seemed out of place.”

Beatrice drew in a swift breath and nodded. “Did something else occur to you?”

“It didn’t seem strange at the time. But I was so very busy,” said Martha. Although it wasn’t a question, she said it with a pleading voice. “I was trying to get ready for the quilt show and doing several things at one time. I should have listened to Frank more. I wish I’d known that was the last time I was going to see him.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and then continued. “He was full of bravado. But that was in keeping with Frank’s usual way. He always had big plans.”

“What were his big plans this time?” asked Beatrice.

“Well, he was unhappy with me for threatening to take away some of his income. I wanted to make him more independent,” Martha said sadly. “Jason had advised me time and time again that that would be the best thing I could do for Frank—to help him stand on his own. Jason thought that not only would Frank be more productive in his studio if he had to be, but he’d also start setting up shows and finding ways to sell his art and make a living off it.”

“What did Frank say?” asked Beatrice.

“He said that I didn’t have to worry about him anymore. That he wouldn’t really need my help—he had his own ways of making money. At the time, I thought he was just being childish and throwing something back in my face that wasn’t really true.” She shrugged and hesitated for a few moments before saying, “I also thought that he was a little tipsy and didn’t know what he was saying.”

So he had been drinking before going to the church. “Was that normal for Frank? Was he a heavy drinker?” asked Beatrice.

Martha thought about this. “I wouldn’t have said so, no. Not ordinarily. He certainly drank. Sometimes I saw him looking . . . less than sober. He never drove that way, but Dappled Hills is perfect in that you can walk it so easily. I figured that maybe he drank a bit so that he could face a blank canvas or drank a bit so that he could face the fact that what he’d painted wasn’t as
good as what was in his head. But I wouldn’t say that he drank all the time. And I knew he hadn’t been painting yesterday, because he told me he needed to go buy more paints—I think he was hinting that he could use some extra money. But when I asked him if he did, that’s when he launched into not needing my help as much anymore.”