2 Knot What It Seams (9 page)

Glen nodded and gave a vague look at Meadow’s casserole. There appeared to be food everywhere—sitting on the counter, in containers on top of the fridge, and stacked on his stove.

Meadow rolled up her sleeves. “Glen, you don’t appear to be in any mood to tackle this cornucopia of lovingly donated casseroles. Why don’t you and Beatrice sit down and chat for a little while? I’m going to go through everything and see what needs freezing and what needs refrigerator storage.” She opened their fridge and peered in. “And maybe I need to make room in your fridge for some of this stuff to begin with.” She settled down on the floor and started examining the condiment bottles and jars of pasta sauce in Glen’s refrigerator. She glanced up to see that Beatrice and Glen weren’t moving. “Go! Shoo!” She waved at them.

They obeyed this time and Beatrice and Glen walked into a small den that was very modestly decorated. Glen sank into a slip-covered sofa and Beatrice noticed for the first time the fine lines around his eyes and how tired he seemed. “This must have been an incredibly difficult day for you. I promise we’ll be gone soon. I guess you know how Meadow is—she sees a job to be done and she jumps in with all engines firing.”

Glen gave her a faltering smile. “She’s nice to take care of it for me. I knew I needed to organize the stuff in there, but every time I opened the fridge door I put it off. You’re right. It was a rough day.”

They sat quietly for a few moments, the only background noise the sound of clinking glass into a trash bag as Meadow appeared to be throwing out all types of jellies and sauces and salad dressings.

“I’m sure,” said Beatrice slowly, “that part of what made it so exhausting is the range of emotions you must be experiencing. For one thing, the unexpectedness of it all.”

Glen rubbed the side of his face with a big hand. “That’s true. From the moment I showed up at the quilt show, expecting to see Jo there, it’s been one surprise after another.” He paused, then continued. “I’ll go ahead and tell you this—you came with Meadow, so you might already know, anyway. The police are saying that Jo’s death was no accident. They’re saying she was murdered.”

Beatrice hoped her expression had the appropriate amount of surprise on it. But Glen wasn’t looking at her, anyway.

“I know that there were some people who really didn’t like Jo. But she was a very warmhearted and giving person. She didn’t suffer fools lightly, but she was always so giving of her time and talents. Making quilts for the children’s hospital and the nursing home. Helping to organize fund-raisers. She cared a lot about people.”

Beatrice said carefully, “Does that mean that the police have been asking you questions?”

“Oh, sure. You know how it is—the husband is always the prime suspect if there’s a murder.” Glen smiled wearily at Beatrice. “They wanted to know if I had the opportunity to tamper with Jo’s brakes.”

“And you did?”

“Well, sure I did! I live here. It would have been as easy as pie to nip out to the driveway and take a wire cutter and cut the lines just enough so that the fluid would start a slow drip.” His own words shook Glen up a little, and his face turned ashen at the thought of what had happened to the Jeep.

“Did you see or hear anybody that morning? See anything suspicious?” asked Beatrice.

Glen smiled at her. “Thanks for thinking that someone else must have done it. I hope everyone in Dappled Hills will be as fair as you. This won’t be a fun place to live anymore if everyone is talking about me behind my back or is convinced that I’m a murderer. To answer your question . . . no. I didn’t hear or see anything that morning. I sure wish I had. Jo was trying to get ready for the mail route and for judging the show, and I was trying to get ready, too, so that I’d be able to arrive at the show later and give her some support. I wasn’t spending time staring out the windows.”

“I don’t think Dappled Hills will be quick to judge,” said Beatrice. “You’re someone who’s been in town for a long while and has contributed a lot to the community.”

Glen brightened a little. “Thanks. I hope you’re right.”

Meadow walked in. “Okay, Glen, I’ve got you all set. I cleared out anything from your fridge that was past its expiration date. Then I put in the casseroles and stuff that might not freeze as well. Then I pulled out some old food from your freezer and put in the casseroles that could be frozen. You should be good for a while.”

“Thanks, Meadow. You’re a lifesaver. I’d have ended up throwing away most of those casseroles, I’m sure, if you hadn’t organized it all.”

She beamed at him and reached out to pat his arm. “Glen, it was a pleasure. I’m sure you don’t feel up to doing it yourself, and it makes me feel good to help out.” Meadow turned to Beatrice. “You may not know it, but Glen is a real asset to Dappled Hills. He volunteers his time almost every day out of the week. One day he’s at the area food bank, another he’s helping with the Crisis Ministry, assisting folks who can’t pay their utilities. And you’re also helping out with the area underprivileged children and adult literacy, right?”

Glen nodded. “I’ve been out of work for a while now, and I couldn’t stand hanging out in the house and not doing anything. I was driving Jo crazy moping around, so she recommended that I talk to Penny Harris.”

Meadow explained to Beatrice, “She’s Dappled Hills’ top volunteer. Sort of a Super Volunteer.”

“Penny explained all the different groups that needed help . . . not all of them in Dappled Hills, of course, since it’s such a small town. Some of the other, larger mountain communities needed volunteers, too. I was happy to spend all this extra free time doing something useful. Besides, with me being unemployed for so long, I kind of related to all those folks who needed help. A lot of them were like me—they had a good job, and then they lost it and found themselves in a real spot.” He stared down at his hands. “I guess I’ll be spending more time than ever volunteering now. Just to keep myself busy since Jo’s gone.”

Meadow folded her hands to her chest. “So touching, Glen!” Then, in typical nosy Meadow fashion, she asked, “Do you have any ideas about who might have put you in this awful mess? Who could possibly have done this to Jo?”

Glen recoiled a little. “I don’t know that I could say, Meadow. It’s not something that I have any evidence or proof of, even if I had some ideas. If I did, I’d have let Ramsay know. There were people who didn’t like Jo, and that’s a fact. But I hate to think that one of those people might have done something like this.”

“That’s totally understandable, Glen,” said Beatrice with a squelching glare at Meadow. “Maybe Meadow should’ve asked who you knew of who wasn’t getting along with Jo very well.”

Glen shook his head and said slowly, “Opal Woosley, for one. And I don’t think Karen Taylor has ever liked Jo—I think she gets her feelings hurt when she doesn’t win the quilt shows that Jo judges. Jo was also telling me something about the mayor the other night. She was upset at something he was doing, I think.” He said again, in a stronger voice, “But again, I don’t think any of those people could have killed Jo. I can’t believe it. Y’all were good enough not to automatically assume that I’d murdered Jo, so we should extend the same courtesy to the others.”

But
someone
had murdered Jo. And it sure hadn’t been someone who liked her.

* * *

The next morning, Beatrice had barely finished her cup of coffee and English muffin when the phone rang. It was Meadow. Naturally.

“I know this is short notice, but Karen Taylor is free tonight for supper. Want to come? I’m going to make something yummy.”

Beatrice was trying to remember Meadow’s purpose for this dinner party. Meadow took her silence as disapproval and quickly added, “There won’t be a lot of people coming—I know you’re not crazy about big parties or anything. I just want to get a sense of what Karen would be like as a member of the guild. So it’s going to be you and me and Karen and maybe Posy, too . . . I have to ask her.”

“And Ramsay?” asked Beatrice.

Beatrice could tell from Meadow’s voice that she must be making a face on the other end of the line. “No, not Ramsay. He’s being impossible, Beatrice,” she said in what she considered a whisper. It was more of a stage whisper and Beatrice heard Ramsay saying in the background, “Meadow! I told you that I don’t need to be inviting murder suspects over to dinner! It’s not appropriate.”

“So Ramsay’s clearly not going,” said Beatrice drily.

“I guess not,” said Meadow with irritation. “I think he’ll be eating tomato sandwiches in our bedroom.”

“And reading Thoreau and enjoying my solitude!” said Ramsay distantly.

“And missing out on a mouthwatering feast!” said Meadow. To which, there was no reply. Meadow
was
an excellent cook and he’d decidedly be missing out. “Which is very stinky of him. And now I won’t have any men there, which throws the balance of a dinner party completely off. Pooh!”

Meadow paused for a moment to think this through.

“Oh! I’ve had a brilliant idea. I’ll invite Wyatt over. Having a minister at the dinner party means that we’ll all be on our best behavior. And he’s so charming at parties, anyway. Don’t you think so, Beatrice?”

Beatrice didn’t deign to answer. But her heart gave a little leap at Wyatt’s name.

“Anyway, that would make it perfect and more low-key and not quite as unbalanced. Let’s see . . . that makes four of us. No, five. Perfect,” said Meadow.

“Do you want me to bring anything?” asked Beatrice. She didn’t really
want
to bring anything, but figured it would be polite to ask.

“Ummmm.” Meadow suddenly was tripping over her words and stuttering in a very un-Meadow-like manner. “Well, you see, I’m not sure if we’re going to eat right when everyone gets there or maybe just visit first. Then you’d have to go to the trouble of cooking, or maybe even of going to the store. And we’d have to reheat what you brought. Trouble. Lots of it. Yes. So I’ll see you at six, then. Yes.” And she quickly hung up.

Apparently, Meadow wasn’t much of a fan of Beatrice’s cooking.

* * *

Beatrice was never exactly sure what to wear to dinner parties in Dappled Hills. But this was Meadow. She guessed she’d be fine in her black pants and white tunic with some dangly jewelry. Ramsay opened the door when she rang the bell. He had a dour expression on his face. “Meadow is still getting ready. I guess. She disappeared into our bathroom. And one of her timers is going off.” He straightened up and his eyes pleaded with Beatrice. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about that?”

Beatrice squared her shoulders. “I can try. She probably needs to pull something out of the oven, right?” They walked over to the stove, where a timer was gently dinging. Very unlike Beatrice’s timers, which had a shrill buzz to remind her to stop whatever she was doing. Beatrice peered dubiously into the oven. “Let’s take it out, to be on the safe side. It looks done to me.” She pulled it out of the oven and placed it gingerly on the counter.

And it smelled absolutely delicious. It appeared to be some sort of bacon-wrapped chicken with a scrumptious sauce over rice. Southern cooking at its finest.

There was a tremendous thumping noise from the back of the barn, and then Meadow appeared moments later with one arm out the top of her dress. “Help! Help, y’all! My zipper broke on this stupid dress and now I can’t get out of it. Oh, help!”

There was a tapping at the barn door as Meadow’s panicking increased.

“Must be one of my murder suspects, arriving for dinner,” said Ramsay grimly.

Beatrice said, “Here, Ramsay, why don’t you go into the back and help Meadow with her dress—get her into it or out of it? I’ll greet the guests and finish up fixing the supper.”

At Beatrice’s mention of cooking, Meadow’s eyes grew even larger than they already were. Ramsay was pulling her into the back as Beatrice hurried to the door as another timer started going off. Hadn’t she taken everything out of the oven? What could that timer be for?

Beatrice opened the door and saw an apologetic Posy standing there with an especially wild-looking Miss Sissy. Posy, as usual, was tidy and sweet with a baby blue cardigan that sported a cute beagle broach. Miss Sissy, on the other hand, looked as though she’d forgotten to comb her hair this morning. “Hi, Beatrice!” said the tiny, bespectacled woman brightly. “Lovely day, isn’t it? Are you standing in for Meadow?”

“Just temporarily,” said Beatrice, hurrying back to the kitchen. She lifted the lids on the pots. Were these things cooked, or not?

Posy sidled up to her. “Do you think Meadow will be upset?” she asked, blue eyes widening anxiously. “Miss Sissy wandered over right when I was leaving and sort of demanded to come along. She even mentioned being hungry.” They both glanced over at Miss Sissy, who was at the kitchen table, steadily consuming the bowl of Goldfish crackers that Meadow had set out.

Beatrice shrugged. “You know Meadow. I don’t think she’ll really mind. Posy, does this chicken look done to you? The timer keeps going off and I can’t figure out what it’s for. And Meadow has had some sort of wardrobe malfunction and can’t come out yet.”

Posy inspected the chicken doubtfully. “Do
you
think the chicken is done?” she asked in her gentle voice.

Beatrice frowned at it. It appeared a little pink. “Are these chicken
breasts
or chicken
thighs
? Because chicken thighs sometimes seem like they’re not done yet and they’re very done.”

There was a knock at the door. Beatrice and Posy gave Miss Sissy a helpless look, but she’d moved on from the Goldfish crackers and onto what appeared to be a plate of cheese olivettes. Beatrice sighed. She’d have enjoyed trying Meadow’s version of cheese olivettes.

Posy said, “How about if I try to figure out what’s going on with supper and you take care of the door? Everyone’s really starting to arrive.”

Miss Sissy picked up the plate of hors d’oeuvres and held them close to her chest, glaring ferociously at Beatrice as she passed by.

It was Wyatt at the door. Beatrice cursed herself for putting a hand up to her hair to make sure her platinum white strands were in order. She could never feel totally natural around Wyatt. Fortunately, he didn’t appear to notice. He gazed deep into her eyes as if they were the only ones there, and gave that smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. She cleared her throat and tried to speak. Talking was usually an issue for her whenever Wyatt was around. This was very vexing to Beatrice, since she considered herself an excellent communicator. She’d been a museum curator, for heaven’s sake! She’d given tons of talks about folk art—even impromptu talks. But none of them, reminded a little voice inside her, to Wyatt.