“A hoot and a half, at least,” Mel said. “Go for it. I’ll supply the cookies.”
“May I be Aunt Bee, Kath?”
“Mel’s right—go for it.” I looked over at Thea. She seemed to have nodded off. “Thea? Hey, Thea?” She jumped a bit, but then shook herself awake without being too surly. “Can you work your database magic and see what you can find out about four people?”
“Sure, I can tickle the keys and come up with the goods.” She flexed her fingers and cracked her knuckles. “For two pieces of the galette.”
“No one else asked for special favors.”
She crossed her arms. “Four people, two pieces. One now, and one goes home with me.”
I looked at Mel.
“If this investigation creates galette addicts, my work is done.”
“Fine. Two pieces, but you’re on call.”
“Not indefinitely.”
“For the duration of the investigation. We’ll renegotiate for future investigations. Phillip Bell is the first name.” I tapped the paper with his name on it. “Here are the others. Nadine Solberg, Grace Estes, Fredda Oliver, Wes Treadwell, and Jerry Hicks.” As I said them, I wrote each name on the back of a separate sheet.
“I can’t help but notice that you’re a math moron,” Thea said. “That’s one-third again as many people as you stated.”
“That’s what ‘on call’ means. Added value for me. I
forgot Jerry Hicks, so in he goes, and Nadine is so obvious she should be a given.”
“Who are they?” John asked. “Those last three?”
“Fredda’s the caretaker at the Homeplace. I haven’t met her and don’t know if I’ve ever seen her. According to Cole Dunbar, she tells more believable lies than I do.” There was a poorly concealed snicker followed by a grunt of pain.
“Go on,” Ardis said, avoiding a glare from Mel.
“Joe knows Fredda. He recommended her for the job. That’s a point in her favor, I guess. Wes Treadwell is the newest member of the Homeplace board.”
“Somebody with money, then,” John said.
“He dresses and acts like he has money. Jerry Hicks is the archaeologist. I don’t know any more about him than that. Oh, except he’s done recovery of unexpected human remains before, but that goes with the job. Maybe none of these people fit into this picture, but I’m somebody who’s pathologically nosy, and I want to find out.”
“And Dr. Thea, though aggrieved at her workload, will attend to your affliction,” Thea said. “May I?” She reached for the sheets of paper.
“Not yet.” It was time for my trick. I pulled the papers toward me and counted them—nine—good, that worked neatly. I dealt them out on the table in rows of three. “We’re kind of crazy to be doing this, don’t you think? We’ve done it before, sure, but we’ve blundered and we’ve gotten into some trouble. And Thea’s right: The authorities are competent. Up to a point. But it’s at that point that I can’t help myself. Give me a puzzle and eccentric bits and pieces of information, and I want to make a pattern—a pattern that solves the puzzle.”
Ardis stood up and moved her hands above the grid of papers as though smoothing them. “You’ve conjured a quilt.”
“She has,” Mel said. “She’s right about crazy, too. This might be the craziest case we’ve worked on yet.”
That reminded me. “Speaking of crazy, have any of you ever heard Shirley or Mercy talk about a Plague Quilt?”
M
entioning the Spiveys and their Plague Quilt was a meeting stopper, though not a comment stopper. Reactions ranged from the spontaneous and heartfelt “Spiveys” spit out by Ardis, to the thoughtful but equally dismissive “If they were socially aware and civic-minded, I would assume they’ve made an AIDS quilt, but knowing them, I seriously doubt that, and in that case I can’t imagine what in the world they are talking about” from Mel. Thea, continuing her irascible theme for the evening, reflected that Shirley and Mercy were a plague unto themselves and everyone around them. John asked if I
did
know what they were talking about. By then I regretted bringing it up and said as much. That put the
mm-hmm
look back on Ardis’ face, where it sat until Mel served the galette.
Mel watched carefully as we sampled, then dug into the dark chocolate and raspberry nestled into the buttery, flaky . . . “What do you think?” she asked.
“You could negotiate world peace and tame wild beasts with a slice of this heaven,” Ernestine said. “Bless your heart, Mel Gresham.”
Judging by the soft moans of satisfaction rising around the table, we all agreed. But when the last crumbs
disappeared from her plate, Ardis crooked a finger, inviting me to lean closer.
“There’s more to that Plague Quilt than meets the eye, mark my words. And you know more about it than you’re letting on.”
That seemed like a good time to leave. When I looked in the den to see who might like to leave with me, Joe, Geneva, and Ardis’ daddy were glued to an old episode of
Law & Order.
It was
one with Lennie Briscoe offering his glib take on the world—shouting his glibness because the TV volume was so high. Geneva lay like a mist on the floor between the two recliners, her chin propped in her hands.
I waved to catch Joe’s attention. “I’m taking off. See you tomorrow?”
He started to get up. “Why don’t I walk with you?”
“Sit yourself back down, son,” Ardis’ daddy yelled. “You’ll miss the best part. Lennie always gets his man.”
“Oh,
great
,” Geneva said.
“I’d better—” Joe tipped his head toward Ardis’ daddy.
“Quiet!”
Ardis’ daddy yelled.
“It’s too
late
for quiet,” Geneva roared back. “You spoiled the ending. Now we
all
know Lennie gets his man!”
Joe, looking sheepish, mouthed “sorry” and dropped back into his chair. Geneva swirled out of the room in a huff. I waved again and closed the door.
“If Daddy didn’t like having Ten there so much, he wouldn’t yell,” Ardis said. “They’re getting along fine.”
“I do not know when I have run into a more peculiar family,” Geneva said. “I suggest we get out while the getting is good.”
“Do you think we can have progress reports for Fast
and Furious on Friday?” I asked the others before they got away. “That gives us two and a half days, and maybe by then we’ll hear something from the archaeologist.”
John said, “Aye, aye, Captain,” and took Ernestine’s arm. As they went out the back door, I heard Ernestine asking him if “captain” was really the right word for the person in charge of a posse. Ardis started singing about the foot bone being connected to the ankle bone, and I hurried to collect my notes before Geneva caught on and took further offense. I saw Thea put not one, but two more pieces of galette onto a paper plate. When she looked up and saw me watching, she put her nose in the air and said, “Special compensation for rush orders.”
“It’s her waistline, Red,” Mel said. “Let her watch it and you can watch your own.” She handed me a plate covered with a paper napkin. Under the napkin were two pieces of heaven all my own.
* * *
“No,” Geneva said.
We were headed for the Weaver’s Cat—one of us walking, the other doing a meandering float, as though a capricious breeze were blowing an eddy of fog back and forth across the sidewalk. Breezes didn’t affect Geneva that way, though; her own whims did. For instance, answering a question I hadn’t asked. I looked around before speaking, but didn’t see anyone else nearby. Blue Plum generally rolled up its streets by nine or so, even on a pleasant late-summer evening. It was probably safe for me to talk without resorting to the cell phone subterfuge.
“What question are you answering?”
“Your nosy question about my hair. It is not red.”
“Really? Not even strawberry blond? Then why did your father call you Ginger?”
“I am not sure I should answer any more questions until you apologize effusively for your heartless treatment of me.”
“I have never wanted to hurt you, Geneva, and I’m sorry I did.”
She stopped wafting to and fro and floated beside me. “You are not very good at effusion, but you are honest. I forgive you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank goodness that is blown over, then.” She billowed in and out, as though that cleared the air, and then she settled in beside me again. “I am glad we are friends again. Argyle will be, too. He missed sitting in your lap.”
“Did you have something to do with him not sitting in my lap?”
“I was angry.” She made a sound that could only be described as a nervous titter. It wasn’t pleasant. “And that reminds me. There is another point that needs to be corrected. For the record.”
“What point is that?”
“I would have brought it to your attention earlier, but I was caught up in your dramatics.”
“Okay—”
“But it is not okay, and that is why it needs to be corrected. Mattie and Sam are the posse’s first cold case, not this skeleton in the dump.”
Mattie and Sam. As misty as Geneva’s memories were, she was convinced—and she’d convinced me—that sometime in the past she’d seen a young couple lying dead in a green field. A hundred years ago? A hundred and fifty? She didn’t know, and I’d never found any record or reports of a sensational double murder. But she’d
recounted the incident in such vivid, painful detail that I’d promised to help her find her Mattie and Sam.
“You’re right, Geneva. I’m sorry I forgot that.”
“You are forgiven,” she said. “Now the record is straight. Everything is fine, and I am overjoyed that you have given up that wretched, horrible, insulting idea that I am buried in a garbage dump.”
* * *
After gulping, I walked the rest of the way to the shop with Geneva, saw her in, and nearly melted when Argyle twined around my ankles, but then I skedaddled home with a “sick headache.”
And nearly had a genuine sick headache when I saw Clod Dunbar’s patrol car parked under the streetlight in front of my sweet little yellow house. Worse, he wasn’t in the car; he was sitting on my front porch swing, the mellow porch light softening his starched corners.
Drat
. He was the kind of surprise porch guest that made me seriously consider taking the swing down. But I loved that swing, and the house and the swing had been Granny’s, and Granny would have been gracious to her uninvited guest and offered a glass of sweet tea.
Although, if Clod hadn’t seen me yet . . .
“Evening,” he called before I could turn and creep away into the shadows. “Why don’t you come on up and sit a spell?” He followed the invitation with a warm chuckle. Points in Clod’s favor—he didn’t hold a grudge, and he amused himself.
“Hi.” A point in my favor—I knew when to be wary. I climbed the steps but stayed on the top one, and I put the back of a hand to my forehead where I hoped to feel that headache popping up any second.
“It’s a warm one.” He was still in uniform.
“Sorry,” I said, wondering if the uniform was good news or bad, “I know I should offer you tea, but I don’t have any made . . .”
Clod stood up. I tittered nervously.
Drat
.
“A glass of something cold would be nice, but don’t worry about it. I’m not here for refreshments.” He hooked his thumbs on his belt and didn’t say anything else.
“Okay, um, why are you here, then?” Maybe not sounding as gracious as I imagined.
“I thought you’d like to know, so that you can spread the word to your gang, and you don’t have to waste any more of your time, especially your evenings, nosing around—”
“You thought I’d like to know what, Deputy?” Graciousness went right out the window.
“Grace Estes was arrested tonight.”
I crossed my arms. “It was on the news.”
“I thought you’d like to know on what grounds.”
Now the porch light wasn’t being any more kind to him than I was. Even though it wasn’t terribly bright, it highlighted his wrinkled uniform and tired eyes. The light didn’t have anything to do with his voice, but his syllables were less starched, too. Less . . . abrasive. He stepped closer. A hint of cigar surrounded him.
“She told us where to find the weapon.”
“You smoke?”
“Didn’t you hear me? Or are you ignoring me?”
“I heard. But remember what you said this morning? You said I’m nosy. Do you know what else I am? I’m also a skeptic. So, what is it and where was it?”
He tilted his head, as though that made it easier to
read my face or my mind. But he didn’t answer my questions. “You and your bunch up there at Ms. Buchanan’s tonight, you can call them off, tell them to stand down. There’s no need for you to mount your own investigation.” He sucked in a huge and noisy breath before continuing. “I will admit,” he said, “that you have, upon occasion, found out the truth before the department did.” The pain behind that admission worked for a few seconds on his face. “But not now. Not on this one. We have it covered. We are satisfied and the D.A. will be satisfied, too.”
“But not yet?”
“Pardon?”
“You said the D.A.
will
be satisfied. Does that mean she still has questions?”
“No.”
“It kind of does.”
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Are you saying I twisted your words?”
“Yes, because you did.”
My anti-sarcasm program flew out the window after my graciousness. “You mean that can happen? Words can be twisted to mean something else? To prove something? To satisfy someone’s need for an easy answer?”
He started to growl.
“And what we were doing at Ms. Buchanan’s tonight, Deputy Dunbar—and I’d
love
to know how you know where my friends and I were—what we were
doing
was taste-testing a new dessert for Mel. And if you don’t believe me,
here
.” I shoved the paper plate at him. “Try it
yourself
.” The paper napkin fluttered off, and he gazed down at those two luscious slices of galette sitting side by side. Under the porch light they appeared to be one huge, heartbreaking helping.
Clod accepted my belligerent generosity with a surprised blink.
“And now, Deputy, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long day. A long day that started out badly for me, but even worse for someone I liked. And nothing about the day has, in any way, improved, because now someone else I like has been accused of murder. Good night. Enjoy your galette.”
“My what?”
I pointed at the plate, then turned my back and fumbled for my keys in my purse so I wouldn’t be tempted to grab it away from him.
“Well, thanks. Good night.”
Dratted man.
* * *
I desperately wanted to know what the weapon was and how Grace knew where to find it. And to know if she’d confessed, a detail Clod hadn’t included in his goodwill visit. I was almost desperate enough to scan the darkened street for sneaky, loitering patrol cars, and if the coast was clear, to hop in my own car and drive over to the jail to ask her. But if the jail had visiting hours, they were probably over. What time was it, anyway? Going on nine. Was I desperate enough to hop in the car and drive over to Mel’s to see if the galette’s visiting hours were over? No. I might have lost the sarcasm battle at the end of the day, but surely I had
some
self-control. Also, I had a recipe for one-minute chocolate cake in a mug—invented by some desperate genius for just such moments of sudden deprivation.
A call from Nadine Solberg saved me from myself and a one-minute mugging.
“I hope I’m not catching you at an inconvenient time,” she said.
“Not at all, Nadine. I heard about Grace.”
“In regards to that, I’m calling to let you know nothing has changed from this morning. Hands on History will take place tomorrow as planned.”
“Oh, gosh, I hadn’t even thought—” Or had I?
Nadine interrupted my words and distracted thoughts. “Students will arrive at nine. I’d like volunteers to arrive at least half an hour before their units are scheduled to start.” She sounded as though she was reading from a script. Under the circumstances, who could blame her?
“Thanks for calling. I know you’ve had to make some quick changes to the program.”
“The program will take place and continue as planned,” she repeated. “We’ve made some personnel adjustments—”
“Adjustments?”
My outburst finally jogged her loose from her rehearsed content, but not in a useful or friendly way.
“I have more calls to make, Kath. I don’t have time to discuss decisions or vocabulary. If my choices have offended you, then you should be aware that volunteers who wish to withdraw may also do so at this time.”
“Has anyone withdrawn? Students
or
volunteers?”
She didn’t answer.
“Nadine, I’m asking so I know how to plan for tomorrow, not because I’m backing out. If I need to, I can rustle up more quilters. I wasn’t offended, and I didn’t mean to offend
you
. I’d like to help in any way that I can.”
“Five students have withdrawn. Well, no. Let me rephrase that. Their parents withdrew them.”
“That’s a shame.”
“But understandable.”
“It is.”
“I do have more calls to make, Kath.”
“I’ll let you go, then. But Nadine? Try not to worry. Do you know what my grandmother would have said? She was a great one for working through problems. She would have said ‘Go for the smooth.’”
Nadine responded with a short, exasperated snort. “I’m sure your grandmother was a wonderful person, full of wise country ways, but I have no idea what that means. I need to go.”