Appliqued to Death

by Kathleen Suzette

  Appliqued to Death

  A Home Economics Mystery, book 1

  Copyright © 2019 by Kathleen Suzette. All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Books by Kathleen Suzette:

  Appliqued to Death

  A Home Economics Mystery, book 1

  Clam Chowder and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 1

  A Short Stack and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 2

  Cherry Pie and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 3

  Barbecue and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 4

  Birthday Cake and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 5

  Hot Cider and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 6

  Roast Turkey and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 7

  Gingerbread and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 8

  Fish Fry and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 9

  Cupcakes and a Murder

  A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 10

  Books by Kate Bell, Kathleen Suzette

  Candy Coated Murder

  A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, book 1

  Murderously Sweet

  A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, book 2

  Chocolate Covered Murder

  A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, book 3

  Death and Sweets

  A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, book 4

  Sugared Demise

  A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, book 5

  Confectionately Dead

  A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, book 6

  Apple Pie A La Murder,

  A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 1

  Trick or Treat and Murder,

  A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 2

  Thankfully Dead

  A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 3

  Candy Cane Killer

  A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 4

  Ice Cold Murder

  A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 5

  Love is Murder

  A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 6

  Strawberry Surprise Killer

  A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 7

  Pushing Up Daisies in Arizona,

  A Gracie Williams Mystery, Book 1

  Kicked the Bucket in Arizona,

  A Gracie Williams Mystery, Book 2

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  April 1955

  The spring sunshine warmed my face as I drove to work. My hands were on the steering wheel and Bill Hayley and His Comets played on the radio. Listening to rock and roll was a guilty pleasure of mine, one not befitting a high school teacher. I sometimes forgot this, and it rarely escaped attention.

  I made a right turn and headed around the back of the Salyers Union High School, stopping twice as students darted out in front of me. When they realized they were running out in front of a teacher, they paused and mouthed the word, ‘sorry.’ I gave them my disapproving teacher look.

  “Miss Taylor!” I heard someone call as I slowed my car at the crosswalk and four more students crossed in front of me.

  I glanced in her rearview mirror. “That man will be the death of me,” I muttered beneath my breath.

  Principal Jefferson waved at me from behind the car, but I pretended I didn’t see him. When the four students got to the other side of the street, I drove on, then pulled into a parking space in the teacher’s parking lot. I idled the car, listening to the last refrains from Rock around the clock, knowing Principal Jefferson would catch up to me. It wasn’t like I could avoid him forever. I hummed along to Bill Haley’s singing, then glanced in the rearview mirror again, this time to look at my own reflection. I lifted my sunglasses for a better look. My red lipstick had already faded since applying it earlier in the morning.

  When the song ended, I put the car in park and shut the engine off. My red purse sat beside me on the seat and I rummaged through it, finding an errant tube of lipstick at the bottom. Leaning forward, I applied the tip of the lipstick to my lips and refreshed the color. Pressing my lips together, I puckered them, then removed a tissue from my purse and pressed my lips to it, blotting up any smudged color.

  “Miss Taylor,” Principal Jefferson said, suddenly at the car’s side. He breathed heavily, having trotted to catch up to me.

  “Missus,” I corrected without looking at him. I tapped the sides of my sunglasses, letting them fall back into place. The disadvantage to driving a convertible was that I couldn’t roll up the window and ignore him.

  He breathed air out loudly. “Mrs. Taylor,” he said. “As a teacher, you need to be mindful of the impression you’re making on our students. We’re raising the next generation of American citizens here at Salyers Union High School and we want them to become productive members of society. A teacher’s job is one of the most important where preparing youngsters is concerned.”

  I tucked the lipstick back into my purse and turned to look at him. “Impression? What impression are you talking about?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “The impression one makes when they pull up to a high school full of rowdy and impressionable teenagers, driving a—a convertible, and blasting rock and roll music.” He looked down his nose at the car as if it were the problem. Then he looked back at me. “And will you please remove those dark glasses when I speak to you?”

  I sighed and pulled off the black cat-eye style sunglasses. “Better?”

  He gave a curt nod of his head. “We have a reputation to uphold at this school. Children need to understand that we expect a lot out of them and blasting rock and roll music doesn’t get that message across.” He straightened his suit jacket and brushed at imaginary lint.

  I looked at him and bit back the response that threatened to spill from my lips. “I’m not sure what kind of reputation that would be. I merely drove my car into the parking lot and parked.”

  He nodded again. “The music, Mrs. Taylor. The music needs to be kept down. Actually, it would be more appropriate to listen to music that doesn’t contribute to teenage delinquency. Something like Benny Goodman or Lawrence Welk.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Certainly, Principal Jefferson.” It was easier to agree with him than to point out that the music hadn’t been loud. With the car’s top down, it
was certainly distinguishable as rock and roll by anyone nearby, but I had kept it turned down to a reasonable level. But arguing would get me nowhere.

  “Fine, then. Your cooperation is much appreciated,” he said, glancing at the car again. “Be sure you aren’t late to class.”

  “I won’t be late,” I assured him.

  He stared at me a moment longer. “I’ll be going, then,” he said, but made no move to leave.

  I gave him a strained smile and wished he would move on. “Have a good day, Principal Jefferson.”

  He nodded, and finally turned and left, having caught sight of Donna Grayson parking on the line of her parking space. I sighed. Days that I ran into the principal were always days that turned out badly.

  Salyers Union High School was the only high school in Salyers, Indiana and as such, every teenager in our small town was going to attend at one point or another, regardless of the high school’s reputation. But gaining a bad reputation in a small town could be brutal for an individual and I didn’t want that.

  I raised the convertible’s roof and got out of the car. Stopping a moment, I admired it before heading to my classroom. It had been a Christmas gift from my husband Daniel, the high school’s math teacher. I still hadn’t gotten used to it being mine. The blue and white two-tone paint and whitewall tires made me feel guilty somehow. It had been pricey, and I had told him so. But Daniel wouldn’t return it, saying he wanted his wife to drive the best. A 1955 convertible Chevrolet Bel Air had been more than I had dreamed of, but now it was mine and I wasn’t going to allow Principal Jefferson to make me feel bad about it.

  In some ways, I knew the gift was because at thirty-four, I had yet to conceive a child and the car was a consolation prize. I hated to be ungrateful—Daniel was a good man with a big heart. It was his way of telling me he didn’t regret marrying me. Our mothers pointed out that it still wasn’t too late for a baby whenever they got the chance. A baby could still happen. But in my heart, I knew it was too late for me.

  I straightened up the gray tweed skirt and jacket I wore and headed to the home economics wing of the high school where I taught sewing. My best friend, Peggy Wilkes, taught cooking. Peggy’s classroom was catty-corner from the sewing room and between the two of us, we taught the household budgeting and the home management classes. The girls of Salyers Union High School would be well-prepared for life once they left school. Sometimes I wondered if what we taught them here would be enough though. Some girls weren’t cut out to be wives and mothers. Some dreamed of college and careers and I wouldn’t be the one to dissuade them. How could I? I had gone to college with the intent that I was merely biding my time while Daniel got his teaching degree. When we married, I was sure I would become pregnant right away and I would stay home with the children. When no children showed up, I thought it a waste not to go to work, and the sewing hobby that I loved was now my career.

  “Sarah Louise Gill,” I admonished as I passed a group of boys and girls sitting on the edge of the brick planters.

  It was all the admonishment Sarah needed as she scooted away from Billy Adams, looking appropriately embarrassed. “Sorry, Mrs. Taylor.” Billy tried to hide his smile but didn’t say anything to me.

  The school had a strict policy on public displays of affection, and Sarah had been sitting too close to the boy. A boy that wasn’t even her boyfriend. It was better that I said something to Sarah rather than Principal Jefferson.

  Peggy stood near the corner of the home economics wing, a grin on her face. I smiled back, giving her a slight shake of my head.

  “You’re getting too wild, young lady,” Peggy said, miming Principal Jefferson when I reached her. She burst out laughing, unable to keep it in.

  I grinned and then chuckled as I retrieved the classroom keys from my purse. “I’ll be the death of these poor innocent children if I’m not careful,” I whispered. Some of our first period girls were gathering nearby, waiting for the first bell to ring.

  “You’ll never live it down if they find out what a wild life you live. That sweet and innocent act you put on is going to crumble one day,” she whispered back.

  I chuckled again, put the key in the doorknob, unlocked it, and pushed the door open, flicking on the lights. “Once a woman has a convertible, it’s all downhill where her reputation is concerned,” I said, heading to my desk. I sat down on the wooden chair, scooting it back with my feet. The back, left-hand wheel caught and rubbed against its caster and I scooted harder, making a mental note to bring in some grease.

  Peggy sat on the edge of my desk, the skirt of her sunny yellow checked dress splaying across the top. “I’m still jealous of that car. I wish I had made Cal buy me one before we divorced. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  I smiled and put my purse in the bottom drawer, and untied the blue kerchief holding my short, curly nutmeg-colored hair in place and folded it, placing it in the drawer beside my purse. “You weren’t thinking. That lawyer of yours should have suggested it.”

  “It’s one of my greatest regrets. All the men turn and look when you drive by. That’s the real problem. Principal Jefferson doesn’t like you getting the attention. A modern schoolteacher should still look like a schoolmarm.”

  I chuckled. “They don’t look at me, they look at the car.”

  “Sure they do,” she said knowingly. “What did old man Jefferson say?”

  I crinkled my nose. “The usual. Loud rock and roll music and a convertible car will lead our children astray.” I looked up at her. “He doesn’t realize that some of our children have been astray for years.”

  Peggy laughed, running a hand through her short blond hair. “To be honest, I’m surprised he’s let me continue teaching. A divorcée on staff! The horror!”

  “I can’t see how he can allow a divorcée to teach the future homemakers of America,” I agreed.

  “I might plant rebellion in their young, innocent hearts,” she said. “Imagine, a young lady that might want to be treated decently by a man!”

  We both laughed and then looked up when Margaret Atkins stood at the door.

  “Good morning, Margaret,” I said, stifling my laughter. “You’ve still got a few minutes before the bell.”

  She nodded. “I wanted to show you the fabric my mother bought for me,” she said shyly. She clutched a white paper bag that said Stinson’s on it in large navy blue letters. Most of the girls bought their fabric at Stinson’s, except for some of the wealthier girls. They went to Allison’s in Muncie.

  “Of course,” I said, getting to my feet.

  Margaret came forward timidly and opened the bag. “My mother wants me to make a dress out of it.”

  I frowned. Margaret was a first-year student and making dresses would come next year. She pulled out a folded piece of fabric that had tiny pink and yellow flowers on a white background and held it up.

  “That’s lovely fabric,” I told her. “How about we make a skirt? If there’s enough fabric, we can make a blouse to go with it. You still need two more projects to earn your grade for the year.”

  Margaret’s mouth made a straight line. “My mother wanted me to make a dress.” She gripped the edge of the white paper bag in one hand and continued holding up the folded fabric in the other. “For summer.”

  I sighed. Margaret was timid and kept to herself. Her mother was the complete opposite—loud and pushy. I felt sorry for the girl. She got lost in her mother’s personality.

  “I’m sorry, Margaret, but sewing dresses is for sophomores. I think I explained that at the beginning of the year.” I had mentioned it on numerous occasions, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  “I think that’s lovely fabric, Margaret,” Peggy said from her perch on the edge of the desk. “It looks so pretty for spring and summer. It will make a nice skirt and blouse ensemble.”

  Margaret nodded and looked up at me. The glasses she wore made her eyes look twice their size and her thin shoulders hunched up in disappointment. “My mother
said I could have this fabric if I made a dress. For summer. She said I couldn’t have the fabric if I didn’t make a dress. It was expensive.”

  The class had already made skirts and then later, simple blouses this year. They had a choice of what they wanted to make for their final two projects. But a dress was not one of the choices. “I’m sorry Margaret, but if I bend the rules for one person, then everyone will want me to bend the rules for them.”

  Margaret’s eyes watered and she blinked. “All right,” she finally said and headed to her cubby to put her fabric up.

  I looked at Peggy and shrugged. I hated to disappoint Margaret, but I had clearly spelled out the class requirements over and over. Freshman students made simpler skirts and blouses, pillowcases, embroidery, and applique projects. Margaret had made a lovely set of white pillowcases with appliqued cats on them last month. The girl could handle making a dress, I was sure, but some of the others in the class weren’t ready and I was not going to change how I taught the class for one girl.

  I turned and shrugged at Peggy. She shrugged back in sympathy.

  Chapter Two

  “Hey!” someone out in the hall shouted. The exclamation was followed up by blue language. Peggy and I jumped to our feet and went to the classroom door. The boys from the art class across the hall were pushing and shoving one another in front of their classroom door. A small group of four girls from the art class huddled together, standing apart from the boys. The art class was primarily attended by boys. Girls that took art were a little different and were many times deemed social outcasts by some of the other girls in the school. Aligning oneself with one of those girls could be high school societal suicide.

  “Boys!” I warned. “That kind of language and behavior is best used off-campus.”