Pattern of Betrayal (Vineyard Quilt Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

As promised, the guests were taken by van to the police station and fingerprinted individually. Then they all returned to the van and were driven back to the inn.

They received several strange looks while at the station. It was one thing to be dressed in costumes in the privacy of the inn, but to have to go out into public—even worse, to the police station—well, that was more than any of them were prepared for.

The atmosphere on both trips was strained. Julie could almost feel the accusations running through everyone’s minds.

Only Kenneth seemed blissfully immune to the tense atmosphere around them. “Don’t get me wrong,” he told Julie after they were back at the inn, “but this is far more interesting than a murder play.”

Julie wondered if he really felt that way or if he was trying to bait the others with his weird comments.

“Someone died,” Susan scolded. “This isn’t cause for celebration.”

“You’re right about that,” Liam agreed. “But it is also rather interesting. Like
CSI
, but for real.”

“I, for one, think it’s terrible,” Joyce said with a sniff. “And I’m more than a little nervous being cooped up with the likes of all of you.
Someone
killed the woman.”

“I still say it’s possible that the killer sneaked in, did the deed, and then sneaked back out,” Kenneth said.

“It’s all so very sad,” Sadie said, shaking her head.

“It isn’t like we knew her or anything,” Kenneth said.

Susan swatted his am. “It doesn’t matter if we knew her or not, she was still a person. It’s a terrible thing.”

“What’s terrible is them keeping us here like a bunch of caged animals,” Gregory said.

“Oh please. Did any of you even know the woman’s last name?” Kenneth asked, looking around at each of them, almost daring someone to answer.

“Peyton,” Julie supplied in a cold voice. “Her last name was Peyton.” Kenneth’s enthusiasm rubbed her the wrong way. She could only hope this was how he relieved stress.

“Who cares what her last name was?” Gregory asked. “We shouldn’t be made to stay here while the Keystone Cops run around and try to blame all of us for her death.”

Susan’s eyes widened. She turned to her husband and whispered something in his ear.

Kenneth merely shrugged.

Susan sat back in her seat, looking a bit stunned.

“I mean, let’s be honest. One of us probably killed the woman,” Gregory said. “No one snuck in and back out
undetected. That’s just wishful thinking. And now we have to stay locked up together for seventy-two hours, knowing that one of us is a murderer. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to call my attorney.” Gregory scanned all their faces as if looking for an ally in the group.

“Should we?” Joyce asked, looking at Julie.

“But I don’t have an attorney,” Sadie murmured. “I’ve never needed one.” Her hands fidgeted in her lap, making Julie wonder if she quilted when she was upset. If that was the case, the quilt project would be finished with time to spare.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Daniel broke in. “All of this speculation and talk of attorneys isn’t solving anything. Let’s wait to see what the police find.” His deep voice was reassuring to Julie, whose nerves had grown more frayed with each passing minute.

“I agree,” Liam said. “Until we know more, we should assume that everyone here is innocent and let the police handle it. For all we know, her ex-husband broke into the inn and killed her so he didn’t have to pay alimony. Or maybe she managed to fall and hit her own head on that candlestick.”

Gregory scoffed. “Sure, you go ahead and believe that fairy tale if it makes you feel better.”

Anxious murmurs rippled through the room.

Julie noticed that Carrie remained quiet through the entire conversation. The young girl kept her bespectacled eyes down and studied her chewed-up nails as if her life depended on it.

As Julie glanced around at the other faces, from the worried frowns of Sadie and Joyce to the shocked smile plastered across Susan’s anxious features, an unsettling thought occurred to her: If one of the guests
hadn’t
killed Alice Peyton, then one of her staff most likely had.

J
ulie stood and clinked her spoon against her juice glass. “If I could have everyone’s attention please.” Breakfast was a tense affair. Most of the guests had been in various states of shock since the prior evening, but in the light of the morning, fresh suspicions and conspiracy theories reared their ugly heads.

“I know the events of last night still have everyone a bit shaken,” Julie said. She was thinking about Shirley, who was still so unnerved. “But since everyone is here and has to remain in town,” Julie continued, “I see no reason not to move ahead with our original quilting plan. It might help to ease some stress.”

“About that,” Gregory started. “I don’t see why I should have to pay for my room since I’m required to stay here now, and your security seems less than adequate.”

There’s always one.

“Mr. Wilson,” Julie began, “I do apologize for the inconvenience, but given our present circumstances and the fact that we are a business, I feel it’s more appropriate to focus on the positives and continue with our weekend plans as best we can. You most certainly will not be charged for the murder mystery portion of the weekend.”

He snorted. “So, no full refunds is what you’re saying.”

Julie took a deep breath to keep from losing her cool.

“We’re still going to quilt,” Sadie said, which brought a stern look from Gregory. “I do find it relaxing.”

“I think that sounds like a lovely idea,” Joyce agreed.

Susan sniffed as if she might start crying again at any moment.

“I agree it might be a good stress reliever. Despite everything,” Julie said, “I’d still like to present one of you with the quilt come Monday when you’re able to leave town. Are we all in agreement?”

Most of the guests agreed.

“And no more murders, right?” Susan asked. “Not even pretend ones?”

“No more murders.” Julie uttered the words she hoped would prove true.

Shortly after breakfast, everyone headed out for historic home tours, wine tasting at the vineyards, and walking tours of the quaint town. The guests seemed more than anxious to get away from the inn for a while, and Julie couldn’t blame them.

Since she didn’t have to man the front desk, she shut herself in her office and called Detective Frost. He was definitely a bulldog, but this time his tenacity might benefit her if he could shed some light on the events of the previous evening.

“Julie Ellis, what a surprise,” he drawled. He didn’t sound at all surprised. More like he had been waiting all morning for her call.

“I have a couple of questions about last night.” She drummed her fingers against her desk and waited impatiently for his answer.

“You know I can’t discuss an open case with you.”

“Of course not,” Julie said as sweetly as possible, “and I wouldn’t ask you to. It’s just,” she exhaled audibly, hoping to elicit sympathy from Frost, “I have seven people here who are very worried about the situation. Can you tell me anything
that would help me reassure them?”

He let out a long sigh. “I’ll tell you what I can. But if I can’t answer, I can’t answer.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “Has the coroner determined the cause of death?”

“You need the coroner’s report to tell you that?”

Julie supposed she deserved that. Alice had been found facedown next to a heavy blunt object, with a knot the size of St. Louis on the back of her head. “The candlestick,” she muttered.

“Does it belong to the inn?”

“Yes. Well, we’ve owned it for a week. It was a prop for the murder mystery.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“You know, ‘with the candlestick in the dining room,’ like in the board game Clue,” Julie added.

“Are you saying it was your fake murder weapon?”

“Yes and no.” She closed her eyes, fighting the headache that was starting to form.

“Why don’t you tell me more about this weekend you had planned.”

Julie sighed. How many times would he ask her the same question? Was he trying to trip her up or catch her in some lie? Why she’d thought he would be any help to her was the real mystery. “It was simple, really. All the guests were supposed to determine who killed Inga.”

“And she was supposed to be hit on the head with a giant candlestick?” Frost asked.

“No, she was supposed to drink poisoned wine.”

“The wine was poisoned too?”

“Not really poisoned,” she said. “The wine was fine. We added almond extract to it to make it smell like it had been tainted with arsenic. Inga was supposed to drink it even
though it was meant for Shirley. No one was supposed to get hit in the head.”
Especially not Alice.

“If Inga was your victim, who was supposed to have killed her?”

“Daniel.”

“Ah, Franklin. I should have known he’d have some part in this.”

“Daniel didn’t
do
anything,” Julie said.

“Are you sure about that?”

Julie bristled at the detective’s accusatory tone. “Positive. He was with me the entire time.” She’d told Frost all of this the night before, and she’d had enough of the conversation. She felt like a dog chasing its tail. “You know what? I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Of course.”

She sighed. “Why do you hate me?” She nearly slapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Across the line, she could almost hear his grimacing smile. “And there’s where you’re wrong, Miss Ellis. I don’t hate you at all.”

“We’re looking for Julie Ellis.” The young man read her name off the card he held in one hand. He stood just inside the door of the inn, looking sorely out of place in a pair of denim overalls and a sport coat. Two women flanked him, one on each side. They were dressed a little nicer, but something about them both screamed “country.” One wore slacks and a button-down shirt, the other a flower-print dress reminiscent of Alice Kramden, from the old TV show
The Honeymooners
, might wear.

“I’m Julie,” she said, walking around the registration desk. “How can I help you?”

The man’s blue eyes filled with tears, but he sniffed them back. There was something familiar about the way he held his chin and the downward turn to the corners of his mouth. “I’m Rusty Peyton. Alice is—was my mother.” He mopped his face with a handkerchief. The woman to his left stifled a sob, while the one on his right remained stoic and cool.

“Mr. Peyton,” Julie said, taking his handkerchief-free hand into her own. She felt the card he read from earlier crease beneath her grasp. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

He dropped his head and wiped at his face again. “Thank you. The police said we could come by here and pick up her things. We’re taking her home this afternoon.”

The dark-haired woman on his left, the one wearing the dress, sobbed again, a choked and strangled sound.

“This is my wife, Serena Peyton,” he said, indicating the bereft woman. “And this is my sister, Amelia Peyton.”

Bleach-blond Amelia shot Julie a twist of her mouth that Julie could only assume was meant to be a smile of greeting. It was more on the side of a grimace.