by Price, Cate
There was that feeling again—like déjà vu—or a ghost of a dream that you struggle to remember when you wake up but it drifts away.
Dottie Brown choked down a bite of date nut bread as Martha swung around to her. “I’ve asked the sheep farm where I get my handspun yarn to do a sheep-shearing demonstration. And my knitting class ladies have made three baby blankets and four scarves so far.”
Across the table from me, I watched in fascination as Eleanor slathered two hefty slices of bread with a half-inch layer of butter and took a cranberry orange scone, which she wedged onto the side of her plate.
“Ruth, you’re up!” I think we all jumped as Martha rapped on the easel with her marker.
Unperturbed, Ruth consulted some notes in a cream leather binder she’d brought with her. “Let’s see, my friend who owns the stables will be providing two ponies for pony rides. I have a roster of judges lined up, and some angel sponsors will provide the prizes for the flower, fruit, vegetable, baking, needlework, and junior art competitions. I’ve convinced Precision Rentals to supply tents, tables, and an admission booth.” She frowned as she peered at her notes. “Oh, and Tony Z will provide haircuts for free, but we’ll ask people to make a donation.”
“Excellent, excellent!” Martha beamed at her as she strode back and forth. Her gaze landed on me. “Daisy?”
“Um, I thought we could do a farm stand.” I was improvising as I’d only come up with this idea last night. I hadn’t had much time to devote to the fair preparations until now. “Ellen at the lavender farm has promised to donate honey, and Annie from the herb shop will give us soaps and candles. Flutter Gifts in Sheepville is donating ten homemade birdhouses, and Fresh and Fancy will give us fruit butter, chutney, pickles, and homemade jellies. Joe and I have lots of fresh vegetables in our garden, too, and I bet I can find others willing to spare some extra produce.”
“Very nice. Good idea.” Martha blocked out a farm stand not far from the entrance to the auction grounds.
“Sarah has some walkie-talkies for the parking attendants to use, and it turns out that Chris Paxson knows the band that played at the Sheepville Pub on Friday night. They’ve offered to play for free.”
“Wow! That should bring in some people,” Patsy said. “They were awesome!”
“And Chris offered to help with parking or wherever we need him.”
Patsy waved a hand in the air. “I’m here to volunteer, too. Use me and abuse me as you need.”
Debby and Cee Cee nodded. “Us, too,” Debby said. “We’re not on a committee, but we’d like to help.”
Martha smiled. “We’re going to need lots of publicity for this thing. Feet on the street, handing out flyers, and asking merchants to post a notice in their windows.”
Patsy raised her hand as if she were still in school.
Martha pointed the marker at her.
“I know the deejay on WSEP. I bet I can get him to do an announcement on the air.”
“Fabulous.”
Betty cleared her throat. “I can open the auction building so people can use the restrooms. We can also use the snack bar for water and ice and to store food.”
“That’s great,” Eleanor said. “Although it brings up another question. What about insurance?” Eleanor had volunteered to be treasurer. “I’ll look into that. And how about an admission fee of five dollars per person?”
“That sounds good,” Martha said.
“And what are you doing, madam?”
“I’m organizing. Plus I’ll be running the baking competition.”
“Of course.” Eleanor gathered up the last crumbs of her scone with her pale pink painted fingernails.
We hashed over names of volunteers and got into more specifics of each job until it was time for lunch. Martha had hired Magic Plate Catering, and the servers went around the table now with a first course of strawberry spinach salad.
My heart warmed at watching Martha in her element, seeing the sparkle in her eyes. Her house was full of people, with lots of good food and good conversation. Just the way she liked it.
Betty was eating salad with one hand and writing with the other as fast as she could.
The second course was a Monte Cristo sandwich. I bit into the smoked ham and melted Gruyère and closed my eyes in delight. There were tiny containers of maple syrup and blackberry jam on the plate for dipping as well as homemade potato chips and thin slices of melon.
Heaven.
“Now, what else?” Martha said. “There has to be something we’re forgetting.” She crunched on a potato chip. “Ooh, I know. We’ll need a cleanup crew afterwards, so that we leave the auction grounds exactly as we found them.”
“And trash and recycling containers,” Liz Gallagher added.
“Do you have anyone to create the flyer for the event?” Cee Cee asked.
We all stared at her. How could we have forgotten her exquisite penmanship and access to commercial printing companies?
“We do now,” Eleanor said, to the sound of laughter from around the table.
“Seriously, that would be great if you’d handle that.” Martha beamed at Cee Cee.
“No problem.”
It was amazing how my one simple idea had grown into such a grand event. There were so many things to think of. Ruth had a huge binder already, and Betty was writing nonstop.
I pushed my plate away, leaving half a sandwich. I had a notion in the back of my mind to ask Joe if he’d like to go to the Bridgewater Inn for a romantic dinner tonight. I knew he would be toiling away on the kitchen all day, and Sarah’s comment about me working too much still rankled.
Betty set her pen down and flexed her fingers. “I think I’m getting carpal tunnel. You know I’d love to help out with the flea market, but I donated a whole bunch of stuff to the church rummage sale at the beginning of June. It felt so good to clean out my closets.”
Among the answering murmurs of agreement, I heard that tiny bell again.
“What kind of stuff?” I demanded. “Any shoes? Boots?”
“Oh, I’m sure there were. But why on earth do you want to know, Daisy?”
“Just humor me. What kind of footwear?”
“Let’s see. Some sandals I didn’t like anymore, a pair of blue velvet shoes that were dyed to match a dress for a wedding that I’ll never wear again, and several pairs of Angus’s old boots. Although who would want those, I don’t know.”
A chill ran down my spine. What if the killer had bought some of Angus’s boots at the rummage sale? What if he wore them to walk around the barn and commit the murder, leaving the only footprints visible those of big-footed Angus?
“Did you see who bought them? Angus’s boots?”
“Why?”
“Because I think it’s possible that if someone got hold of a pair, they could have worn them to cover their tracks and put the blame squarely on Angus.”
Across the table I saw Eleanor watching me closely. Even though she was convinced, like everyone else, that Angus was guilty, I could tell she was intrigued by my reasoning.
“No, I didn’t even go to the rummage sale,” Betty said. “It was right before my hip surgery. I called the church and they sent someone round to pick up the boxes off the porch.”
“Who?”
She frowned, thinking back, while I held my breath.
“Little Frankie. Frank Ramsbottom’s kid.”
Chapter Sixteen
I had a sudden wild urge to talk to Cyril. He would understand the monumental importance of this discovery, whereas around me talk scattered in all directions like it does when a bunch of women get together. How much money the church raised at the sale, how hard it was to clean out a house when a parent died, how much clutter one could accumulate over the years.
No one else seemed to see the significance of this latest piece of information. I wasn’t sure what I could do with it either, apart from being absolutely sure that I wasn’t going to give the precious pen I’d found to Ramsbottom.
/>
As the conversation veered toward the best method to make margaritas, I realized the meeting was about to turn into a full-fledged party.
I’d planned to leave here by early afternoon so I could get home in time to freshen up. After all this time spent with Angus and Ramsbottom and especially the Perkins boys, I suddenly craved a night alone with my husband.
Speaking of the aggrieved brothers, I did have one piece of unfinished business.
“Betty, are you ready to go?” I asked.
Her face fell. I could see she was intrigued by the thought of fruity frozen cocktails.
“Look, you can stay here for a few minutes longer if you like. I need to stop at the store and pick up something anyway before I bring you home.”
I left Betty being treated to her first ever strawberry daiquiri.
Outside Martha’s house, the Subaru turned over once and then faded. I tried a couple more times, praying I wasn’t flooding the engine, before it finally coughed into life. I gave it a good rev and took off.
When I got to the store, I headed straight up to the second floor. There were three bedrooms upstairs—two to hold sold items and new merchandise, and one room for cleaning supplies, repairs, and ironing.
I’d gone through my records of early purchases and knew exactly which auction item Tom Perkins had referred to. I’d never sold the quilt his grandmother made because I liked it so much, and appreciated how much hard work had gone into its creation. It was an extremely difficult, but beautiful Amish pattern called “Robbing Peter to Save Paul,” the irony of which was not lost on me.
I stood on a step stool and took it down off the wall, smoothing the soft fabric, and admiring the curved patterns of purple, pink, blue, and orange and the intricate interplay of light and dark for the last time.
I folded it carefully and found a large shopping bag to place it in. If life was all about maintaining good karma, then I was going to try to fix mine. No matter what Angus said about the Perkins family getting a fair price, I wanted to absolve my part in the whole thing as much as I could. If nothing else, it would ease my conscience if I gave the quilt back to them. Money could do strange things to families after someone died, and I was prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt.
I went back to Martha’s to get Betty, but getting her out of there was like dragging a fifteen-year-old away from the school dance. I waited impatiently as she slowly sipped her drink. Why the hell did Martha have to give her such a tall hurricane glass? This was going to take forever.
When we were finally in the car, I called Joe and asked if he’d like to go to dinner. He said he still had about another hour’s worth of work in the kitchen before he wrapped things up. I told him I had one more errand to run anyway.
As I hung up, I reflected that he’d sounded pleasant enough, but not particularly interested. What was that magazine article about half of married couples cheating on each other? How superior I’d felt that it could never happen to Daisy and Joe, the fairytale romantic couple.
I swallowed against a quiver of panic. I’d make it up to him tonight.
Once in Sheepville, Betty decided she needed to stop at the grocery store, and I didn’t have the heart to refuse. The daiquiri had made her slightly loopy, and each purchase was an event to be discussed and ruminated over until I thought chewing on broken glass might be less painful. Finally we reached the checkout, and I stood as much of the friendly conversation between Betty and the girl on the register as I could until I grabbed some bags and started stuffing produce into them before she’d barely rung them up.
Back at her house, I helped Betty carry the groceries inside and put them away. “Okay, Betty, that’s everything. I’d better get going. Thanks again for taking the notes today and for letting us use your place for the fair.” I headed for the front door.
“Oh, it’s no problem at all. I’ll type up the notes and send them around to everyone. There is one more little thing while you’re here, Daisy, if you wouldn’t mind?”
I sucked down a deep breath, and smiled as brightly as I could.
“What is it?” Let’s hope it’s a quick little thing.
“Well, Angus never had time to put the window unit in the bedroom and it’s so hot up there. I haven’t been able to sleep.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I’d get Joe to come and install the heavy air conditioner for her, but with all that he had going on, who knew when he’d get to it?
Resigned, I followed her up the stairs and into her bedroom, which was certainly god-awful hot. The setting sun blazed orange fire against my eyeballs as I struggled to lift the air-conditioning unit up onto the windowsill. Betty wasn’t much help, and I bore the brunt of its weight. She disappeared downstairs for several minutes searching for a screwdriver to secure the side panels, while I held it steady, my arms quivering. I counted to one thousand and started over again, feeling the sweat prickling across my forehead.
The sun was touching the horizon now.
Time was slipping away, I thought in desperation. Joe would have stopped work on the kitchen by this time and be waiting for me. I’d have to rush in the door with yet another excuse.
It was like one of those dreams I used to have when I was teaching, where I was trying to get ready in the morning, but everything was moving in slow motion, everything was going wrong, and when I finally made it to the school building, I couldn’t remember which class I was teaching, or which room.
Betty came back with a manual screwdriver, and we finally got the unit situated in the window. I screwed the panels in on either side. When I finally satisfied myself that it was safe, I blasted the setting to max cool and stood there for a moment gasping for breath.
Now I’d need to take a shower when I got home, too. Joe and I would have to have one of those late European dinners.
I jumped in the car and took a left out of the auction grounds. I should have taken a right and headed straight home, but the quilt sitting in a large bag on the front seat reminded me how much I wanted closure. Joe used to laugh that there was no stopping me once I got the bit between my teeth. Besides, it would only take a few more minutes.
Back past the pub, the bank, and the supermarket, through the center of Sheepville, past the intersection with Burning Barn Road and Hildebrand’s garage, I drove until I came to the outskirts of town and Perkins Feed Supply.
Not surprisingly, the store was already closed for the day. I got out of the car and looked around, but the huge shed was locked up, too, and the parking lot deserted.
Damn. I’d have to venture down to their house.
The driveway seemed endless as I drove down a slight slope toward the substantial sprawling brick ranch. The grass in the front yard had been cut with a mower blade set too low, and had burned out in scorched patches. No landscaping or summer flowers softened the austerity of the house’s façade. It looked as though someone had created a flower bed under the living room window at one time, but now it was just a rectangle of bare earth spotted with weeds.
There were no lights on inside the house. I knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. I peered in the living room window. Typical minimalist bachelor décor. Black vinyl couch, massive flat-screen TV, a coffee table littered with last night’s pizza box and other debris, a pair of sneakers on the floor, and not much else. I walked around the house, past two forlorn bushes, looking for any sign of life. There was an extensive deck built across the back that looked fairly new and an industrial-sized barbeque grill.
At this time on a Saturday night, the Perkins boys were probably already down at the Sheepville Pub, tying one on.
The house was set in a dip in the land and the ground that gradually sloped up behind it held a white barn, a silo, and several clusters of outbuildings. I looked over at the hay barn, pig stable, and smokehouse up on the first rise to the left, but all seemed still and quiet there, too.
To the right of the house and set back about a hundred feet was anothe
r large building, most likely for farm equipment. Past that, and directly in line with the house, was a smaller structure, hidden from view of the main road. A dim light was on inside.
I shifted the heavy bag holding the quilt to my other hand. This would be my last try. If I couldn’t find anyone there, I’d leave the bag on the front step with a note.
I headed across the grass toward the weak pinpoint of light, but after only a few feet I skidded on something slimy.
Crap.
Literally. I’d stepped in a cowpat about six inches in diameter. I lifted my foot up to take a look at the sole of my shoe, grateful that I wasn’t wearing open-toed sandals. I kept going, trying to wipe my shoe off against the dry grass as much as I could.
There was one windowless door in the front of the dilapidated wooden building, but instead of knocking, I decided to take a tour around. I’d rather meet up with one of the Perkins boys out in the open than in a confined area.
When I walked around the back, I gasped in surprise. There had to be at least twenty cars parked in the field in long vertical rows.
What were all these cars doing here? And why not park in the front? One of the pickup trucks looked like Jimmy’s, but it couldn’t be. As I got closer, I saw there were no stickers on the bumper.
I took a quick look at the rest of the cars. Why the heck was there a patrol car in the last row? Had the police come to arrest Tom Perkins for something?
There was one window in the back of the outbuilding, but it was too high up for me to see inside. Against the wall was a jumble of construction-type garbage almost grown over with grass, so I set the bag down and hauled a five-gallon paint bucket out of the debris. I turned it upside down against the side of the building. Teetering on top, I stretched up inch by inch until I could peek inside.
A group of men were sitting at what looked like four folding banquet tables pushed together in a square. Across from me I recognized Smitty, one of the bartenders from the pub; Arnie Holder, Sheepville’s tax collector; Henry Moyer, president of the 4-H Club; a bunch of the auction regulars; and Tom Perkins, who was smoking a cigar.
