Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case (2 page)

Not the first time I’d heard that, especially when I wore cargo shorts, a T-shirt, not-so-white tennis shoes, and my blah-brown hair in a ponytail. Never mind that I’m only five foot three.

I gave him my stock reply. “I’m twenty-nine. Our family has youthful genes.”

“Hunh.” He blinked then frowned. “You know where Sherry Mae lives?”

“Uh, sort of.” I had Internet directions.

“‘Sort of’ won’t cut it. You can follow me out there,” he said as he closed a big hand around my elbow and guided me to the glass front door.

“Why the hurry?”

“Because I just got a call that there’s trouble at the house.”

I SCRAMBLED TO MY CAMRY AND TOOK OFF BEHIND
Detective Shoar. He didn’t use his lights or siren, so it wasn’t a challenge to keep up with the patrol car he drove. Not on the relatively level and straight streets with nearly zip traffic. It wasn’t as easy to keep calm. Though he’d said “trouble” at the house, not “emergency,” my breath clutched in my chest as I imagined a fire or worse raging at Aunt Sherry’s. True, no screaming fire trucks followed us, but I’d forever blame myself if I’d come to Lilyvale a day too late.

I’d about worked myself into a baby ulcer when Detective Shoar’s brake lights flashed and snapped me out of my head. I refocused my attention on the line of vehicles parked in the newly green grass just off the two-lane blacktop road. More cars, bearing license plates from as far away as Kansas and New Mexico, nosed along the split rail fence a few feet higher than the road. Beyond the cars, portable white tents rose in neat rows, and behind those, at the apex of a gentle upslope, sat a sprawling two-story farmhouse.

Sherry’s home. I knew it immediately from my mother’s and Sherry’s photos, and I breathed easier just seeing it perfectly intact with no smoke boiling from the windows. But was Sherry hosting a giant garage sale?

Then I spotted a banner lashed to the rustic fence rippling in the breeze:
FOLK ART FESTIVAL
.

I mentally smacked myself for not remembering. Aunt Sherry’s last letter had brimmed with news about the event, but I hadn’t paid attention to the dates. Not important now. The crux was that the house looked fine. No one ran screaming from the grounds. So what kind of trouble call had Shoar taken?

His patrol car hung a right at the mailbox enclosed in a skinny-mini version of Sherry’s farmhouse, and I followed him up the gravel driveway. To my left, on a chain-link fence, hung hand-lettered signs that read
HANDICAPPED
,
POLICE
, and
FIRE
. Talk about being prepared.

Shoar wheeled into the police-marked space, and as soon as I parked by a blooming dogwood, I shot out of my car and dogged his steps past clusters of people. Unnaturally quiet and watchful people.

Except for one man who stepped in Shoar’s path.

“What’s going on?” I heard Shoar ask the man, but I hustled past them.

As I climbed the porch stairs, I spotted my five-foot-nothing Aunt Sherry standing behind two six-foot folding tables that blocked the front door. A coatrack held small baskets of woven hemp and willow, and larger baskets made of those and other materials were scattered on the porch floor. A long swath of blue gingham fabric lay in and around the fallen baskets, the edges fluttering as if agitated by the swirling emotions instead of the mild breeze.

Sherry held one hand to her chest, the other hovering over a barrette in her hair. Her eyes held annoyance and a hint of fear. Three women and two men flanked her, looking on with concern but saying nothing. These were her housemates, I realized. The rest of the Silver Six. I remembered their faces from the Christmas card Sherry had sent.

A blonde, rawboned, big-chested woman wearing jeans and a summer sweater stood off to the side, her eyes wide with horrified fascination.

Opposite my aunt stood the snarling star of the showdown in progress. She leaned over the folding table, her bloodred fingernails scary-long and lethal-looking as she pointed at Sherry.

“You’ll come to an agreement with me, Mrs. Cutler, and you’ll do it soon or you’ll be very sorry.”

“But, Ms. Elsman,” my aunt began.

“No ‘buts,’” the Elsman woman interrupted. “I want that option on your land, and I will by God have it.”

She tucked her asymmetrically cut black hair behind an ear, lifted a stiletto-shod foot, and deliberately speared one of the medium-sized hemp baskets lying on the porch.

Blame it on being tired and stressed, but the woman stomped on my last nerve, and my temper flared in a sonic boom of fury.

“Back up and back off, lady,” I snarled, whipping off my sunglasses.

I heard heavy boot steps behind me—Detective Shoar’s, I guessed—but was too incensed to let him take the lead. I stormed to Sherry’s tables.

The woman casually turned and arched a brow. “My name is Elsman, Ms. Jill Elsman, and I suggest you stay out of this. It does not concern you.”

“Actually, it does.” The black-haired, black-eyed demon woman towered over me, but I stood straight and let her have it. “It so happens that Mrs. Cutler, the woman you just threatened, is my dearest aunt.”

“Nixy?” a voice said faintly.

I barreled on. “In addition, you happen to have flattened a fine piece of folk art.”

“That little basket?” Hellspawn snorted and gave the basket a shove with her shoe. “What do you know about real art?”

“According to my art degrees and my position at the prestigious Gates Gallery in Houston, I know quite a lot. I know something of the law, too, and I believe we’ll be filing charges of harassment, criminal mischief, and property damage. Or is it called malicious mischief in Arkansas, Detective Shoar?”

I looked over my shoulder and caught his expression of surprise.

“Criminal mischief covers it,” he drawled, but then his eyes turned all cop. “I suggest you leave now, Miss Elsman.”

“Suggest all you like, Detective,” she sneered, “but this event is open to the public.”

“However, since you’re creating a disturbance, ma’am, I think it best if you go now.”

She huffed, glared at me, and then snapped her fingers. “Trudy.”

I whirled to see sweater girl jump to attention. Aha. Hellspawn’s minion, it seemed. She scuttled after the wicked witch like a faithful, fearful dog at heel.

And Shoar? You could’ve knocked me over with one of Sherry’s minibaskets when he winked at me before he leisurely followed the routed twosome. I hoped he’d be certain they left because I needed to find out what the heck was happening here.

“Pixy Nixy?”

I had no more than turned when I was enfolded in Sherry’s gentle hug. Although I winced at the grade school nickname Sherry had resurrected, the strong wave of warmth from my aunt comforted me in a way I hadn’t known I missed. My mother had hugged me like this, and emotion swelled as I returned the embrace.

“Dear child,” she said as she released me, “I hardly recognized you with your hair up like that. Did I miss an e-mail telling me you were coming?”

“Um, no, Sherry.” She’d taken the barrette from her hair, and bangs fell over her left eye. She no longer looked frightened, but the sweep of bangs made her seem more vulnerable for some weird reason. I reached for a fast white lie. “I just thought I’d surprise you and experience the folk art festival. You’ve told me so much about it.”

“I see.” She gave me an
I know you’re fibbing
teacher look, and since she’d taught junior high and high school, the expression fit. Then she smiled. “Well, I’m glad to see you, but I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy today.”

“That’s okay. I’ll pitch in and help.”

“Not until the rest of us properly meet you.”

A tall, dapper man with a full head of white hair pulled up one side of his baggy khaki pants, then the other side, but they settled back on his bony hips as he moved to stand beside Sherry. He took my hand and bowed slightly. “Dwight Aloysius Baxter, at your service.”

“Dab, don’t hog the girl,” said a woman with short steel-gray hair. She wore a shirtwaist dress and an apron so blinding white, it could’ve been seen from space. Her facial structure held traces of American Indian ancestry a couple of generations removed and care lines etched her skin. “I’m Maise Holcomb, and this is my sister, Aster Parsons.”

Maise’s erect bearing gave me a flash of memory. Sherry had spoken of Maise and Aster, her first roommates, in the days after my mother’s death. Maise had been a U.S. Navy nurse during Vietnam, and Aster had been something of a flower child. Not antiwar, but pro-peace. The differing ideologies hadn’t split up the sisters, Sherry had said. They’d remained close.

Aster was more tanned than Maise, wearing her faded brown hair in a long braid, and decked out in more tie-dye than I’d seen since the gallery hosted a retro exhibition. She hugged me and I caught the essence of herbs. Rosemary? Lavender? Something both fresh and soothing, though I couldn’t place it before Aster released me and my beaming Aunt Sherry took over the introductions.

“Last but never least, Nixy, this is Eleanor Wainwright and Fred Fishner.”

I had to stop myself from gaping at the lovely and nearly wrinkle-free black woman with short salt-and-pepper hair decked out in an amber designer suit. I offered my hand to both Eleanor and her polar opposite, Fred. He was almost completely bald with a slight paunch covered by a white T-shirt and crisp light blue overalls. Screwdrivers and pliers and a dozen more tool-type gadgets poked out of every pocket. Even the two cargo pockets on both legs bulged. Then there was his walker, an overflowing tool belt strung across the front of it.

Fred banged his walker. His tools clanked, and arm muscles bunched. “Enough chitty-chat. I’m behind at my fix-it booth. See you later, missy.”

“I do believe Fred is correct,” Eleanor said in a cultured drawl as Fred clumped around the porch swing toward the driveway where I had parked.

“Right. We have tables to man, sales to make,” Maise said. “Quick time, now. Let’s get these baskets reorganized.”

I moved to help as Sherry untangled the blue gingham checked cloth from a willow basket. She draped the fabric on the table and arranged her display with Aster and Eleanor helping, Maise supervising.

I handed Sherry the last item—the basket Big Bitch Foot had stomped. “Aunt Sherry, I really need to know what’s going on here.”

“With the sale or that basket?” she asked innocently. “I can repair the basket, you know.”

“With that Hellspawn woman, Sherry. Please don’t dodge the question.”

“Elsman, dear, and, truly, it can wait.”

“No, it can’t,” I said more quietly because boot steps approached behind me. “I want to be prepared if she comes back.”

“She won’t,” Sherry said, smiling at someone over my shoulder.

“I agree,” Detective Shoar drawled. “I’m pretty sure the lady and her assistant will stay away for the duration of the festival.”

“Pretty sure?” I challenged.

“You lit into her hard. I don’t think she’ll want to go another round with you today.”

“And after that? Do you know why she was badgering Aunt Sherry?”

“I’ve seen her around town. Miz Sherry, mind if I borrow your niece for a few minutes?”

“Borrow away,” she said with a shooing wave. “Better yet, go shop.”

Shoar gestured for me to precede him, so I stomped down the porch steps, then ended up following him to his patrol car. He leaned his fine butt on the trunk and crossed his booted ankles.

“What?” I asked after seconds of silence. Yes, I knew about the cop silent-treatment trick. I watched my share of crime shows. Didn’t mean I couldn’t hurry Shoar along.

“It took you so long to get here, I sure didn’t expect you to jump to Miz Sherry’s defense.”

“I couldn’t leave my job until last night,” I said, sounding more indignant than I’d meant to.

“I’m not talking about just this time. I’ve been trying to get you to visit your aunt for a month.”

“Well, I’m here now, and I don’t do bullies. Which begs the question, why didn’t you call Hellspawn on her threat?”

“I didn’t hear her make it. I came up just as you went ballistic.” He paused and gave me a stern look. “You sure had a mouthful of legal terms handy. Why is that?”

“I’ve dated three lawyers. Now about Hellspawn. Do you know her?”

His lips twitched. “Three lawyers?”

“Different specialties. Hellspawn?”

“I don’t know her personally.”

“You want to expand on that?”

He shrugged. “She’s a land developer, from what I hear. I’ve seen her at the courthouse, and I’ve seen her having lunch with a couple of city councilmen, but I didn’t think much of it.”

“Why not? If she’s after Sherry’s land, I’ll bet she’s greasing palms.”

“That’s worth considering, but the lunches all took place at the Lilies Café.”

“Why do you make that sound unimportant?”

“Clark and Lorna Tyler own the Lilies Café and the Inn on the Square. The building was Lilyvale’s original saloon and hotel, and that’s where Elsman and her assistant are staying. That’s also where Jill Elsman had lunch with Clark Tyler and the other councilmen and women. Nothing smacked of clandestine meetings.”

“For a cop, you’re not very suspicious.”

He gave me a slow smile. “You seem suspicious enough for both of us, but I will tell you this. Sherry’s not the only landowner Elsman has approached, and a few have called in complaints about her.”

“No one will press charges?”

His expression darkened. “To my knowledge, she hasn’t done anything illegal yet, Ms. Nix.”

“Nixy.”

“Nixy, then. I suggest you talk to Miz Sherry and her friends about Elsman,” he said as he took a business card from his shirt pocket, “and keep me updated. Call anytime.”

I accepted the card. “Updated about Hellspawn or the kitchen incidents?”