Quilt Trip: A Southern Quilting Mystery (3 page)

Beatrice said, “While there’s still a little light in the house to see by, we should find candles or flashlights. If you tell me where to find them, I’ll gather them together.”

Muriel gave her a measuring glance. “Good thinking. Perhaps you should have been the one to speak on behalf of the Village Quilters. I don’t have many candles, I’m afraid. Getting more supplies for the winter was on my list of things to do, but once I got my diagnosis, it all seemed rather pointless. If you go to the dining room, there’s a sideboard there. The bottom drawer should have candles and matches in it.”

“And flashlights?” asked Beatrice.

“There are a few,” said Muriel with a shrug. “The closest is on the floor of the kitchen pantry,.”

Beatrice walked through the dark hall to the dining room, where there sat a tarnished silver tea service and a brassy pitcher on a sideboard. Spiderwebs stretched across the corners of the room. These weren’t the tentative, gossamer-like webs that Beatrice quickly dismantled in her own cottage. These were architectural wonders—thick, corded webs of active spiders. Beatrice shivered again.

When she opened the sideboard drawer, she saw candles and a matchbook. She picked them up and headed to the kitchen. Beatrice raised her eyebrows when she opened the pantry door. There wasn’t much food in there. Maybe enough for a dying woman living on her own, but definitely not enough for houseguests. She found the flashlight on the floor and turned it on. It put out an anemic bit of light with a sputtering beam. It was going to be a dark night.

Beatrice returned to the library. “This is all I found,” she said, putting the candles and flashlight onto a heavy mahogany table. “Do you think there are any other candles or flashlights or matches anywhere else?”

Muriel shrugged her shoulders.

Posy shivered, which reminded Beatrice of another point. “I see a lot of radiators around. I know it’s going to be a cold night. Do the radiators work?”

“They used to work,” said Muriel in a cool voice. “About twenty-five years ago. Since then I’ve used firewood. But it was time to place my order for more last week and it simply didn’t seem important, with everything else I had on my mind. So I’m afraid there isn’t much firewood. Well, there should be enough for several days, but that’s it.”

“I’m sure everything is going to work out fine,” said Meadow with a sunny smile. “We certainly won’t be here any longer than a couple of days. I bet by tomorrow morning this will all be melted. Or else Cork will have figured out where we are and have called the cavalry.”

Beatrice distinctly remembered a brutally cold forecast, but she didn’t want to be the pessimist in the group.

“There are plenty of bedrooms here,” said Muriel, “if that’s any consolation. And they’re all made up, although the rooms and bedding might be rather dusty. I’m feeling very tired, so I think I’m going to lie down in mine. . . . It’s the bedroom at the very end of the upstairs hall. You’re all welcome to whatever rooms you find. Let’s see—there are nine of you. I believe I have six other bedrooms. Some of you will need to bunk together.”

The Village Quilters decided to share rooms—Beatrice with Meadow and Posy with Miss Sissy. And quilters Holly Weaver and Dot Giles offered to share with each other, too. Muriel suggested that the Village Quilters use the adjoining set of bedrooms, and then directed Holly and Dot to the other bedroom with twin beds.

“After I put my feet up,” said Muriel, “I’ll figure out what we’ll eat for supper. Not to worry—there’s plenty of food. We just won’t all be eating the same thing,” she said with a short laugh.

The cold air and the darkness in the house made everyone sleepy and most of the quilters headed upstairs for a nap. Portraits of long-dead Starnes ancestors lined the staircase and their eyes seemed to watch the quilters’ ascent.

“It’s almost like a set from a horror movie,” muttered Beatrice to Meadow. “All we need is a suit of armor in the hallway upstairs and pipe organ music.”

“You said Southern gothic before,” reminded Meadow. “I don’t think you can put a suit of armor and a pipe organ into a Southern gothic set.”

“This house does have that gothic feel to it, though,” said Beatrice. “A crumbling mansion, complete with turrets and rotting cupolas, and the heavy, dark atmosphere inside.”

“Don’t you have to have dead bodies and jilted spinsters for a Southern gothic?” asked Meadow thoughtfully. “So that rules our situation out. Muriel was married several times that I know of.”

There was no suit of armor upstairs, but that unreal feeling persisted. Beatrice and Meadow peeked through various doors until they found a room with twin beds; it adjoined another room where Posy and Miss Sissy would stay.

“Well,” said Meadow, hands on her hips as she surveyed their room. “Well.”

The room felt drafty, making Beatrice shiver as she walked in. There were faded heavy velvet curtains at the windows. The same heavy dust pervaded the room. There was a chunky walnut desk holding yellowed black-and-white photographs of what Beatrice supposed were Muriel’s grim relatives. A rickety chair that needed to be caned stood next to the desk. The twin beds were covered in bedspreads that had seen better days. The woolen Oriental rug was moth-eaten and there was the head of a startled moose on the wall.

“I won’t be able to sleep a wink with that awful creature gawking at us. Not a wink!” exclaimed Meadow.

But Meadow was soon snoring loudly in one of the room’s twin beds. Beatrice sighed. She wished she had something to read. But then, who’d have guessed that she’d need a book tonight?

After an hour had gone by, Beatrice heard the sounds of arguing. One of the voices sounded male—Colton Bradshaw, presumably. She couldn’t make out who the other voice belonged to. Meadow continued her enthusiastic snoring, so Beatrice moved quietly to the door and opened it.

Beatrice saw Muriel’s daughter, Alexandra, standing at the top of the steep staircase, eyes narrowed, listening intently to the voices below. Dot and Holly’s door was open, and they didn’t appear to be in the room. Winnie Tyson stood outside her door, away from the stairs.

With her door open, Beatrice could make out the voices easier. It was Muriel talking with Colton Bradshaw. “Regardless, I want to go ahead and make the changes in my will. It’s the whole reason you’re here, Colton.”

“It’s most irregular. Especially with heirs here.”

“What difference does that make? We’d planned on making the change this afternoon after the meeting. Once the ice melts, you’re heading back to work hours away. I’m
dying
, as I mentioned to you before. I don’t know if I’ll be available to sign a revised will later on when it’s convenient for you to return here,” said Muriel, exasperated.

“There’s no expectation of privacy here. I won’t do it tonight. Let’s try for tomorrow afternoon, Muriel. Perhaps the ice will have melted by midafternoon and this impromptu house party will be over.” Colton sounded as though he was not particularly pleased about the gathering of quilters—and least of all being included in it.

“You’re being stubborn. Lucky for you that I’m so tired or I’d put up more of a fight. I suppose we can work on it tomorrow afternoon. But we’re changing it tomorrow, no matter what. If the ice is still trapping us here, then we’re going to go to a quiet room to get this done,” said Muriel.

“And aren’t you going to have that private conversation?” asked Colton. “I thought that was part of your plan for this afternoon.”

“Well, as you pointed out, this hasn’t been the best time to have a private conversation,” Muriel said. “I’ll talk with her after supper.”

•   •   •

Supper looked to be a do-it-yourself affair until Meadow and Posy took the reins. “Everybody stop messing in the pantry,” said Meadow. “Posy and I will put a meal together. I think it would be best if we could avoid opening the fridge for as long as possible, so we’ll try to make something from the pantry.”

Beatrice said, “Muriel, if you have a cooler, I’ll put the food from the fridge outside. It’s so cold out there that it will obviously keep better there than in here. Just in case the power doesn’t come back on soon.”

Muriel did have an ice chest, so Beatrice busied herself with transferring food outdoors while Meadow and Posy worked on supper.

And somehow they came up with a perfectly decent meal. They cut up apples for everyone, and found peanut butter and bread and made sandwiches.

They sat in a tremendously large and dusty dining room with vast, dark Victorian furniture and tarnished silver with elaborate patterns. Since they were being careful to preserve the supplies, their food was lit by one meager candle flickering bravely in the gloom.

Meadow was as bubbly as usual. “Now I call this an adventure!” she proclaimed several times, attacking her supper with gusto. Posy smiled gently at her friend.

Miss Sissy quickly gobbled up her sandwich and apples and stared greedily at everyone’s plates as if prepared to pounce if anyone lost their appetite.

Alexandra Starnes gave Meadow a coldly calculating smile, as if she was searching for ways to burst Meadow’s bubble. “That’s the spirit. Hopefully you can hang on to that attitude through the night. It’s going to be a cold one and we won’t have any heat, since Mother’s heat pump runs on electricity.”

Muriel gave her daughter a thoughtful gaze. “That’s true, Alexandra. But we do have plenty of quilts. Every closet in this house is full of them. Each person here could load fifteen quilts on their bed and we still wouldn’t use up all the quilts. This family has been involved in the craft for generations, and I’ve finished quite a few quilts myself. Ordinarily, a heat pump is an energy-efficient method of heating and cooling in this mild climate. This is only a minor, temporary setback.”

This positive note appeared to squelch Alexandra, who picked at her food in irritation.

Yet somehow the negative mood spread. The quilter who’d been introduced as Winnie spoke up. “At least you have a place you can call your own, no matter how hard it is to keep it up.”

The bitterness in her voice made Beatrice raise her eyebrows. This must be one of the quilters Muriel Starnes had been referring to when she’d talked about doing people wrong.

Muriel looked sharply at her. “That’s true. Although living in a drafty mausoleum isn’t as pleasant as you’re making it sound.”

“Still, it would be nice to have a home you couldn’t get evicted from. That’s a luxury—believe me,” said Winnie.

“Life doesn’t actually owe you anything,” said Alexandra, rolling her eyes. “If you want stability, make your own.”

“It’s better to be independent, instead of depending on others for money,” said Muriel with a meaningful frown at Alexandra.

“You think I haven’t worked?” asked Winnie bitterly, turning to face Alexandra. “I’ll have you know I work hard every single day, despite my age. But teachers aren’t paid what they’re worth. It’s easy to be smug about being independent when you’ve always had money to fall back on.”

Holly Weaver anxiously wound a strand of red hair around her finger as she listened. The quiet librarian finally couldn’t wait to smooth everything over and jumped in. “I think they’re both equally important—striving for independence and also trusting and relying on others.”

“An interesting position for you to take, since you grew up in foster care,” said Muriel, tilting her head to one side. “And by the way, Holly, I was wondering if I could have a word with you after supper.”

“Of course,” murmured Holly, knitting her brows in confusion.

This was greeted by silence until Dot Giles said in her jolly voice, “You’re right, Holly. They’re both important. As for jobs—they sure are tough, aren’t they, Winnie? And nobody is grateful for your service. Yessiree, it used to be that you could work for the same company for thirty years and get the gold watch at your retirement party. Sure isn’t the same, is it? No loyalty these days.” She clicked her tongue. “Such a pity!”

Beatrice got the distinct impression that Dot was making a point of some kind.

Meadow took a big bite of her sandwich, apparently not picking up on any of the negative vibes at the table. Miss Sissy glared balefully at her empty plate, and then peered hopefully at Colton Bradshaw’s. He had been picking at his food throughout the meal and had eaten only a few bites.

Unlike Meadow, Posy was sensitive to the tension in the air. She sighed with relief when supper was finally declared over and they retired to their rooms for the night.

•   •   •

“Well, it’s a little musty in here, but it’s home,” said Meadow, turning down her covers. “Do you think we should open the windows for a few minutes to air out the room?”

“Meadow, we’ll freeze to death if we do. It’s cold enough in this room already,” said Beatrice.

“Once we pile all the quilts on, we’ll be nice and cozy,” said Meadow firmly. “Our room alone has almost ten quilts in it . . . plenty to keep us warm. Did you see this quilt? Isn’t it lovely?”

All the quilts were lovely, actually. Muriel was clearly an adept quilter and apparently came from a long line of gifted quilters. The quilt that Meadow was pointing out was an excellent example. Although the colors were faded from time, red strawberries still popped on a creamy background. The fruit waved on delicate green stems.

Meadow was continuing. “Yessiree, I think we’re in fine shape in this room. Except for that moose head on the wall over there. I’m thinking about throwing a quilt over the thing so it will stop gawking at me.”

“At least we ended up with a flashlight. Even though it’s a pretty pitiful excuse for a flashlight.”

“What’s nice about having a flashlight is that we can turn it on and off at a moment’s notice,” said Meadow. “We don’t have to fumble around with matches first.”

“I hope it doesn’t immediately run out of batteries,” said Beatrice. And with that, the flashlight sputtered into darkness.

Beatrice sighed. “Shoot. I should have knocked on wood.”

“Yes, you should have. Heaven knows there’s plenty of heavy Victorian furniture to knock on. Oh, well. We were about to turn in anyway. Maybe we’ll win the lottery for the candles tomorrow night,” said Meadow.

“I’m hoping we’ll be out of here by then!” Beatrice hesitated. “I think I should go to the bathroom once more before I go to sleep. I can feel my way out.”

“Well, be careful. This is no time to break a hip.”

No, it wasn’t. Beatrice carefully felt her way to the door and opened it to head for the small hall bathroom.

As she stepped into the hall, she heard sobbing coming from downstairs, but she couldn’t see who was crying. Beatrice heard a steady-sounding Muriel saying, “Are you all right, Holly?”

And finally Holly was able to stutter out, “No. No, I’m really not. Look, I need to turn in and get some sleep.”

Muriel gave a dry laugh. “I’m tired, too, but I haven’t slept for weeks. I’m sure tonight won’t be any better with a houseful of guests. But I do have a sleeping pill that the doctor prescribed for me for when I really need to have a night’s sleep. I’ll take that tonight.”

They both began to head up the stairs. Beatrice quickly stepped into the bathroom to avoid an uncomfortable encounter.

•   •   •

Beatrice slept harder than she thought she would. Meadow’s snoring made for a white noise, while the cold air in the room and the stress of the day set the stage for a deep sleep.

The sound of a creaking door—all the doors on the second floor had that annoying trait—woke her up briefly. Beatrice made an attempt to read her watch in the dark before finally giving up. If it was pitch black outside, then clearly it wasn’t time to wake up yet. She rolled over and went back to sleep.

The next time Beatrice woke up, the sun was just starting to light up the room. She and Meadow had left the heavy curtains open, hoping a small amount of moonlight would illuminate their room overnight. Now the sun was lighting the room up quickly. She got up, feeling the cold floor on her feet, and walked to the window. Although it wasn’t as cloudy as it had been the day before, the landscape outside the window was completely iced over. There would be no leaving until that sheet of ice melted.

They hadn’t made plans for breakfast since no one was particularly excited about their ordeal. It would probably be oatmeal and cornflakes—and there might not be enough milk to go around. And the meal would quite possibly be accompanied by arguing or drama. Muriel Starnes was the kind of person who stirred up the passions of people around her while remaining unaffected herself.

Beatrice turned her cell phone on to see whether she had better reception upstairs than she’d had downstairs. There were no signal bars on her phone, though, and she saw to her dismay that she only had about twenty-five percent charge remaining. She quickly turned the phone back off.