2 Knot What It Seams (6 page)

Opal’s eyes were huge. “It was no accident. I saw it—clear as day.” She saw Beatrice peering closely at her and explained, “I have the sight, you know. I had a vision of a dark figure going underneath the car.”

“You saw a dark figure going underneath Jo’s Jeep? When?” asked Beatrice.

Opal shook her head vigorously. “No, no. I
just
saw it. In my head. With the sight.” She gave a shudder as if shaking off a particularly sticky spirit.

“Her
gift
, Beatrice,” said Meadow in a warning voice. That’s right. Meadow hadn’t wanted her to upset Opal for fear of paranormal repercussions.

Meadow was already pulling her phone out of her pocketbook. This was going to be interesting. Ramsay clearly had no intention of calling the accident murder or doing much of an investigation of it. He was likely only wanting to go back home, get out of the rain, and relax with some restorative classical literature.

Meadow stuck her finger in her ear to focus on her phone call over the high volume of the excited voices in the room. “Ramsay? It’s me. Hey, Opal says that you need to treat the accident like a crime scene. That’s right.” She paused for a minute and listened hard to the phone. “She does know something about it, yes. She saw the crime happen! Opal saw the Jeep being tampered with!” Another pause. “No, no . . . she saw it in her head. She has the sight, you know.” Meadow frowned. “We lost our connection.”

Naturally.

“Oh no,” gasped Meadow, reaching up to clutch at her throat in dismay. “Jo’s husband, Glen, is coming in.”

Sure enough, a rain-soaked and rumpled man wearing old khakis and a tired-looking button-down shirt was shaking off the rain and wrestling with a wet umbrella. He turned to walk farther into the room, then stopped with a puzzled expression as he took in the quilters’ horrified expressions. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

* * *

As he was the only true official in the room, the onerous task of informing Glen of his wife’s untimely demise had fallen to Booth Grayson, who handled the job with a brisk efficiency that Glen likely handled better than the weepiness of various motherly quilters. Already upset by the phone call, Meadow was a red-eyed disaster from the morning’s drama. It was the final straw to have Glen come by the quilt show to support his wife, only to discover her death. Now, plied with iced tea and brownies, Meadow had subsided into a quieter state.

Booth left the quilt show with relief, glad to have an excuse . . . and a ride. Since Glen wanted to see the accident site, Booth offered to drive him in Glen’s car. After the two left, Meadow said sadly to Beatrice, “And now we need to find another member for the Village Quilters again. Back in the same spot! It’s such a tragedy!” She loudly blew her nose.

“I’m still not convinced it’s totally necessary to find another member,” said Beatrice, wanting to avoid the whole hashing-through process that had gone on before Meadow had decided to ask Jo to fill the empty spot. “Besides,” she said in a low, pointed voice, “this is hardly the time to figure that out.”

Meadow clearly needed distracting. Karen, who’d been pacing up and down the long wall of quilts, joined them again. Beatrice said, “Don’t you need to make a decision about the quilt show? You’re one of the organizers, right? Do we continue on or try to regroup and set everything up for another day?”

Karen said, “I think we decided it would be a lot of time and expense to set everything up again and rent the space, didn’t we? But you and the other organizer need to find a substitute judge.”

Meadow started blinking her eyes quickly and giving suspicious-sounding sniffs—the mere threat of tears made Beatrice leap into action. “Meadow!” she cried. “You’ll make a fantastic judge. You haven’t got a quilt entered, anyway, have you? You know how to be fair and impartial, right?”

Meadow sniffed a little and affected a noble expression.

“You’ll be perfect. Just tell the other judges the change in plans, and get to it.”

Karen and Beatrice watched as Meadow straightened her shoulders, grabbed a notebook and pen from her huge, quilted pocketbook, and hurried off with an expression of determined duty on her face. “Good job,” said Karen, exhaling in relief.

“It was necessary,” said Beatrice. “Meadow was on the brink of obsessing over the guild membership, what with our losing members recently and the Cut-Ups getting some really expert quilters. And there’s no sense in wallowing in this all . . . better to finish with the quilt show today, then go pay our respects to Jo’s family later on. Then worry about the guild roster later.” Or
never
worry about the guild roster.

* * *

Beatrice tossed and turned in her bed as she replayed the day’s events in her head. Fortunately, the rest of the quilt show had gone just fine. Karen won the awards she deserved and Beatrice enjoyed viewing the other quilts that were spotlighted. And Meadow and the other organizer had made a very poignant ending to the show when they gathered everyone in prayer for Jo’s husband and in Jo’s memory.

Still, there’d been enough drama to keep Beatrice awake into the wee hours. Noo-noo watched Beatrice anxiously from her dog bed, aware of her mistress’s uneasiness. Usually at this time of the night, Noo-noo lay flat on her back snoring or smacking her lips in her sleep.

Finally giving up on sleeping, Beatrice got up. Quilting had really helped her sleep the last time she’d had insomnia. She’d grown to enjoy working on simple appliqués—anything elaborate enough to require focus meant the relaxation factor was lost. There was still so much to learn about quilting and so many different ways of experimenting with techniques. She was currently trying needle-turn appliqué. She’d traced some two-section flowers (she was trying to keep it simple) onto freezer paper, labeled the parts, cut them out, then ironed them onto the soft, pastel fabric that Posy had recommended. Then she’d cut out the fabric and pinned it to the background block. Now she was turning and slip-stitching to appliqué it. It seemed to be going well, although she’d like to have a couple of good reference books to look at every once in a while. She’d have to see what Posy had at the Patchwork Cottage, since she hadn’t had a chance to purchase any yet.

As she stitched, she mulled over the events of the day. No one had been surprised that the elderly Jeep had gone over the side of the mountain on such a nasty day. Everyone had probably been thinking that the same thing could so easily have happened to any one of them. But it hadn’t—it had happened to Jo, who’d made plenty of enemies. And that’s what made it suspect.

Was Ramsay going to investigate this accident any further? It must be tempting for him simply to leave it alone . . . let it be a tragic accident. Still . . .

Beatrice laid the appliqué down. Mistakes. She’d made several mistakes over the last few minutes. Quilting was out. And, clearly, sleep wasn’t going to happen. Noo-noo continued eyeing her with interest. She squinted at the clock. Three o’clock. The rain had stopped hours before and it had cleared out the atmosphere. Maybe if she stretched her legs and hashed everything over, she’d erase it from her head enough to fall asleep afterward.

“Want to go for a walk, Noo-noo?”

Noo-noo cocked her head at Beatrice as if not certain she was hearing her right. She quickly got over her confusion, though. A walk, day, night, or middle of the night, was
always
a good thing.

Beatrice changed out of her pajamas, grabbed the corgi’s leash and collar, and they set out into a beautiful night. The moon was nearly full and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky after the storm had blown through with such fury. The night air was the perfect temperature and had that clean, just-rained scent. Noo-noo pulled eagerly at the leash.

As they started off, Beatrice noticed there was a light on at the Downeys’ barn. And it wasn’t as weak as a night-light. It looked like someone was really up. Beatrice and Noo-noo paused. She couldn’t just go up and knock on the Downeys’ door at three in the morning. That would scare the living daylights out of them. Wouldn’t it? But it certainly was tempting to see who was up and to maybe hash over Jo’s death—particularly if it were Ramsay who was awake. Beatrice bit her lip, thinking it through.

Finally, she squared her shoulders and headed for the barn. It wasn’t as if Meadow didn’t ever call on
her
at the worst possible times. Not, to be perfectly honest, that these visits had ever been in the middle of the night, though. Still . . . Meadow didn’t simply pop by—she came by with that great beast of hers that was always yanking food off Beatrice’s counters. She glanced ruefully down at Noo-noo. She had her furry friend with her, too. But Noo-noo was a much better behaved guest.

Before rapping with the large door knocker, Beatrice peered tentatively through the large window next to the door. Apparently, neither of the Downeys worried much about pulling the curtains. She saw, at their huge wooden kitchen table, Ramsay—very respectable in pajamas and a navy bathrobe, wearing reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and reading a thin, hardback book with what appeared to be avid interest.

Beatrice gently used the door knocker and watched as Ramsay glanced up with mild surprise, but no alarm. Their dog, Boris, barely lifted his huge head to stare at the door, then dropped back down and off to sleep. Some watchdog.

Ramsay laid the book down and walked over to let Beatrice in. He took off his reading glasses and motioned Beatrice and Noo-noo inside. “Hi there, Beatrice. Couldn’t you sleep, or is something wrong?” His kind eyes looked searchingly at her.

She shook her head, still feeling a little silly for coming by. “It’s insomnia. And I’m sorry to drop by here. . . . I saw your light and figured you’d be the perfect person to talk everything over with.” She held out her hands. “Although why you’d want to on your off-hours, I’m not sure.” It suddenly didn’t seem like such a great idea.

Ramsay wasn’t a bit concerned. He reached in the fridge and took out the milk container. “Would you like a glass of milk maybe? I was just about to have some myself.”

She nodded, sitting at the kitchen table and giving an absent pat to Noo-noo, who was still trying to figure out what they were doing there.

As he was bringing out glasses from the cabinets, Beatrice glanced at the book he’d laid down on the table.
Walden
. You’d never have guessed at Ramsay’s sensitive nature by looking at him.

She glanced around the interior of the barn. Besides Meadow’s delicious cooking, the barn was the best part of coming over to the Downeys’. In the daytime, skylights lit the huge interior beautifully. Even in the dim light you could see the exposed rafters and posts of the soaring, cathedral-like ceiling. And Meadow had quilts everywhere. As Jo had pointed out, Meadow paid a special homage to the crazy quilts—hanging them haphazardly on the walls and draping them over most pieces of furniture.

“So you were disturbed by Jo’s accident?” he asked, setting down the milks and sitting across from Beatrice at the table. He thoughtfully studied her. “Meadow was, too. But y’all were smart to refocus her by having Meadow substitute for Jo as a judge for the show. She loved it. And it tempered all the bad news.”

“She’s asleep now, I guess?” asked Beatrice.

“She was sleeping like a baby when I got up.” He sighed. “Even after all my years of working accidents, it still gets to me.”

“Just a softie at heart,” said Beatrice, smiling.

“Meadow did have some worries, though, before she dozed off. She kept muttering about Opal.”

Beatrice said, “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, too. Not about Opal,” she added, with a dismissive wave as Ramsay’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. “But what Opal was talking
about
.”

“That Opal had a psychic vision and believes that Jo was murdered?” Ramsay’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the word
murder
. “Beatrice, you’re a reasonable woman. In fact, you’ve been a beacon of sanity in this quirky town since you moved here. You’re well aware of the kind of weather we had yesterday. I can attest to the fact that Jo wasn’t the most careful of drivers. I’ve stopped her and given her a ticket, believe it or not, while she was on her route.” He took a soothing swallow of milk.

“I’m sure that’s all true,” said Beatrice, with a nod.

“That Jeep wasn’t exactly brand-new, either. Jo was quite rough on those brakes,” added Ramsay.

“I bet she was,” said Beatrice.

Ramsay blinked with dismay as he realized Beatrice wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “What makes you think Jo’s accident could be murder?” Boris lifted his great head off the floor at the anxious pitch in his master’s voice, and smacked his lips a little as he squinted at the shadows in the room for possible sources of the anxiety. Seeing nothing, he immediately lay back down and dropped back to sleep.

“For a very simple reason—no one liked her,” said Beatrice. “I’ve gotten the very distinct impression that there were at least three people who were delighted to see Jo dead.”

Ramsay’s face brightened. “Well, but that’s different,” he said cheerfully. “There are
plenty
of people whose death wouldn’t make me lose any sleep.” He cast a longing look at
Walden
. Right now perhaps even Beatrice would make his short list.

“It’s more than that,” said Beatrice, spreading out her hands imploringly. “Karen Taylor and Jo were practically screaming at each other at the Patchwork Cottage the other day.”

“Artistic differences?” asked Ramsay.

“That appeared to be the basis of it,” said Beatrice. “But it could have been anything . . . the
why
didn’t matter. It was the emotion itself and the way they seemed to hate each other.”

Ramsay stared down at his milk glass and swirled the last bit of the drink around in his glass.

“And Opal Woosley was livid whenever Jo’s name came up or whenever she was around her. Again, I’m not real clear on the
why
, but the important thing was her reaction. When I picked up the cake for the guild meeting, she told me she had reasons for disliking Jo. At the quilt show, she was clearly elated at the news of Jo’s death.”