Pattern of Betrayal (Vineyard Quilt Mysteries Book 2)

by Mae Fox

  Pattern of Betrayal

  Copyright © 2014 Annie’s.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. For information address Annie’s, 306 East Parr Road, Berne, Indiana 46711-1138.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Library of Congress-in-Publication Data

  Pattern of Betrayal / by Mae Fox & Amy Lillard

  p. cm.

  I. Title

  2014916058

  AnniesCraftStore.com

  (800) 282-6643

  A Vineyard Quilt Mystery™

  Series Creator: Shari Lohner

  Series Editors: Shari Lohner, Janice Tate, and Ken Tate

  Cover Illustrator: Kelley McMorris

  10 11 12 13 14 | 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Millie’s Coffee Cup Cozy

  PROLOGUE

  “Set it on the desk and back away slowly.” The mysterious figure known only as Ghost watched the cold surge of fear wash over the woman’s face.

  It was sad really. These museum security guards were just cop wannabes who had no idea of the true worth of the treasures they were supposed to keep safe.

  The guard’s eyes darted from Ghost’s masked face to the gun pointed at her. She set the pre-Columbian statue on the desk and then raised her hands in the air as she backed away. “There. Please don’t shoot me. I have a family, you know.”

  Yep. Ghost made it a point to know as much as he could about the people who guarded the priceless treasures he intended to take. He knew where they lived, what they drove, and where their kids went to school. He even knew what kind of ice cream they bought. “Just do as I say and no one has to get hurt. Understand?”

  The guard nodded and backed up a couple more steps.

  Ghost approached the desk and snatched the statue. It was about the size of a coffee can, a heavy thing, and ugly to boot. But it would fetch a fine price on the market. Ghost already had a buyer in mind. He tucked the statue under one arm, relishing the feel of it. So much money.

  “You have what you came for,” the guard said. “You should leave.”

  The woman seemed to be gaining back some of her moxie. But no matter. Ghost had the treasure.

  “Your radio,” Ghost said. “Put it on the desk.”

  She didn’t move an inch.

  “Radio. Desk. Now.” Ghost set the statue down and leveled his gun at her.

  She was at a distinct disadvantage. Pepper spray was the most dangerous thing on her utility belt. Still, Ghost didn’t want a face full of capsaicin.

  The guard pulled the device from her hip and laid it on the fine wooden desk.

  “And your phone.”

  The guard looked as if she might protest, but she unclipped her phone and placed it next to her radio.

  By the time he took the pepper spray, her hands were shaking.

  Ghost slid the guard’s phone across the desk and onto the floor, where he smashed it to bits with the heel of his shoe. The radio suffered the same fate.

  The guard gasped. Judging by the look on her face, she feared her head would be next. But Ghost was a thief, not a killer.

  Except for that one time … but that was different. That guard had been mouthy, disrespectful, and had failed to follow instructions. As long as this one did as she was told, everything would be fine.

  “I’m leaving now,” Ghost said, scooping up the statue once more. “And you aren’t to move until a full fifteen minutes have passed. I’ve got someone watching this building.” It was a lie, but the guard didn’t know that. “His instructions are to shoot anyone who tries to follow me, and then he’ll go to 54 Carpenter Lane and shoot Sarah and Christopher while they eat their mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

  The woman choked back a cry; then she swallowed hard and nodded.

  Ghost motioned with the gun. “On the floor. Now.”

  She looked almost relieved and did as instructed.

  Good girl.

  With a smile, Ghost strolled out the door, statue in one hand, gun in the other. It had gone well, but gloating would have to wait. A more pressing matter was at hand—getting from L.A. to Straussberg, Missouri, in time for the next job. Who would have thought a Victorian inn located in the middle of nowhere USA would be a lucrative target? Ghost sighed. In this business, one never knew where the next paycheck would come from. Today it’s a trendy museum … tomorrow, the Quilt Haus Inn.

  ONE

  “Salmon isn’t going to be cost effective,” Hannah Marks said. She adjusted her glasses and tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her notepad. “I decided to go with chicken. Joseph Winkler quoted me a good price on whole chickens from his organic farm. I figure coq au vin.”

  “Uh-huh.” Julie Ellis stood at the front desk and ran her finger down the sign-in book for the Quilt Haus Inn. She pushed her dark hair over one shoulder and shook her head. “It’s crazy.”

  “Coq au vin is French, but I wouldn’t say it’s crazy.” Hannah looked up from her notepad. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “Sorry,” Julie said, her steady gaze transfixed on the open book in front of her. “We had a cancellation yesterday, but it looks like we’re booked solid now.” Which was a good thing since this would be the first ever Quilt Haus Inn murder mystery weekend. How Julie had ever allowed the newly retired owner, Millie Rogers, to talk her into holding the event she’d never know. Murder was one thing she had seen more than enough of lately.

  “Yep,” Hannah said. “I booked the last room.”

  “When?” Julie looked up at her good friend and assistant, the painfully level-headed woman who had followed her from the big city to a touristy village in Missouri to live the quiet life. It was an unexpected yet necessary move after Julie had unwittingly angered a few of the wrong people in her former profession as an antiquities recovery expert. But Hannah seemed to really enjoy the slower pace of small-town living. Julie was … learning to adjust.

  Hannah shrugged. “I booked it late yesterday afternoon.”

  “But it was cancelled late yesterday afternoon. I took the call myself.”

  “Consider it a blessing.”

  Julie would consider it something, though she wasn’t sure blessing was the right word. Strange coincidence, maybe.

  Until that point, she had been struggling to book rooms for Millie’s experimental murder mystery weekend—an idea the owner had hatched as she was making plans to retire and get to work on her bucket list. Then Millie had “skedaddled” off to see the cave paintings of Baja and left Julie to figure out how to make it work. In order to get the reservations needed for the unique weekend event, Julie had been forced to go outside their normal venues. After all, their target guest list was even more specialized than usual. They normally catered primarily to quilters and seamsters. For this event, they were seek
ing the same people, but ones who were also murder mystery buffs.

  In Julie’s opinion, they should have waited until autumn to host the event so they’d have a full year to plan instead of only a few months. But once Millie set her mind to something, it was hard to move her from it. So, they advertised and posted the upcoming fun to the inn’s website and everywhere else Julie could think of. Even with the ad in the number four mystery magazine in the country, it was only at the last minute that the rooms had filled up. Just last week they had had only two confirmed reservations. A short five days later they were full.

  “So, what do you think?” Hannah asked.

  “I think it’s strange.”

  “You think chicken is strange?”

  “I’m sorry … what?”

  Hannah closed her notepad. “I knew you weren’t listening to me.”

  Julie smiled at her sheepishly. Ever since they’d arrived in Straussberg, a small tourist destination in the rolling hills of Missouri wine country, Hannah had taken her job as head cook at the Quilt Haus Inn very seriously.

  “You’re right. I wasn’t,” Julie said. “And I apologize. But I know whatever you serve will be amazing.”

  Hannah blew out a frustrated breath, stirring the blond hair that had escaped her ponytail. “I’ve just never served a dinner before. I mean, not here. And I want it to be perfect.”

  “It will be.”

  Shirley Ott poked her head around the corner, her bright red hair like a copper halo. “It’s showtime!” she singsonged. She looked particularly festive in her grass-green skirt and bright yellow gypsy top. The scarf looped around her neck was patterned with every color of flower known to man and then some. Shirley was the resident storyteller and keeper of the small fabric shop and tearoom on the first floor of the inn. She loved all things bright and colorful, even in her hair, and sewed most of her clothes herself. “I thought you’d want to know that the first few guests have arrived. They’re in the tearoom.” With a wink, she turned and disappeared, a blur of red, yellow, and green.

  “And so it begins.” Julie began heading out to greet her guests, pausing to glance back at Hannah. “Are you coming?”

  Her friend shook her head. “I’ll meet everyone soon enough. I really need to get dinner started.” Hannah gave Julie a tight-lipped smile and hurried toward the kitchen.

  “Don’t fret,” Julie called after her. “You can’t go wrong with coq au vin.”

  Hannah stopped and gave her friend a genuine smile, and then headed into the kitchen, shaking her head.

  In appearance, the inn was as charming as a bed-and-breakfast could be. Victorian-era furniture and matching accessories filled the large mansion, with special attention given to the popular gathering area of the tearoom/fabric shop, which was run by Shirley. The main level also boasted a cozy library, a formal dining room, and a large breakfast room with white-linen–covered tables.

  Julie still felt somewhat uneasy about the last-minute bookings, and she nearly sighed with relief when she saw the two little elderly women sitting in the tearoom, sipping from their cups and enjoying the latest treat from Hannah’s kitchen. They looked normal enough. Why am I being so paranoid about this?

  “Ladies,” Julie said in greeting as she entered the room. “I’m Julie Ellis, your innkeeper. I’d like to welcome you to the Quilt Haus Inn.”

  The ladies nodded in unison. They both wore polyester pantsuits in bright colors with cream-color shells underneath.

  “I’m Sadie Davidson,” the thinner of the two women said. Her suit was a bright aqua and made Julie think of the swimming pools in Miami. Three strands of perfectly matched aqua-color beads hung around Sadie’s neck and clacked together as she moved. “And this is my bestie, Joyce Fillmore.”

  Bestie? Julie figured at least one of these two ladies had granddaughters. “It’s so good to have you both here.” She offered a welcoming smile.

  Joyce smiled in return. Unlike Sadie, who had snow white hair, Joyce seemed to favor a blue rinse that made her own cap of curls shine like periwinkle chrome. She was tall and solid, a handsome woman.

  “We are so happy to be here!” Joyce exclaimed. “This was on our bucket list.”

  “A murder mystery weekend was on your bucket list?” Julie asked.

  “Number twenty-five,” Joyce said. “This inn is the perfect place …” Joyce turned to Sadie and added dramatically, “for someone to die.”

  Julie laughed with Sadie. She was starting to think this wasn’t such a bad idea.

  “An inn with a quilting theme is an added bonus, to be sure.” Sadie smiled, revealing twin dimples in her rosy cheeks. She looked like the quintessential granny, a large purse with a twist clasp looped over one arm. Julie suspected her big white suitcase likely contained everything from peppermints and tissues to bingo daubers and an extra tube of nude lipstick.

  Julie went on to explain the amenities of the Quilt Haus Inn, particularly those that catered to quilters and crafters. “This weekend we have an Amish-style quilting frolic to go along with the murder mystery.”

  The quilt frolic had been Hannah’s idea, a way to bring Millie’s murder mystery brainchild to life and still keep some kind of quilting theme.

  “Tell us, dear,” Sadie asked, “how will it work?”

  “Yes. When will someone die?” Joyce added. They’d clearly been “besties” for a long time.

  Julie smiled. “It’s simple, really. We’ll have special meeting times throughout the day so everyone can get together to quilt and discuss the clues in the case as things unfold. At the end of the weekend, the quilt will be given to the guest who solves the case.”

  “And the winner also gets a free weekend stay next year, right, dear?” Sadie pressed.

  “That’s right.” Julie nodded as the sound of a voice outside caught her attention. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure. Please enjoy your tea. I’ll check you in at the front desk when you’re finished.”

  The ladies gave another synchronized nod, and Julie left the tearoom.

  The bell above the door chimed. The couple that strode into the foyer consisted of a bored-looking man with thinning brown hair and a small frown, and a woman who looked happy enough for the both of them. The man’s attire seemed somewhat out of place for mid-Missouri—khaki shorts, athletic sandals, and a Hawaiian print shirt that was loud and untucked. Julie got the feeling he’d rather be anyplace else in the world. It was as if he’d planned to vacation in an exotic locale and somehow ended up in Straussberg instead.

  “Hi,” the woman gushed, removing her floppy white hat. She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head to perch like a plastic tiara on her frizzy hair. “We’re the Calhouns. Susan and Kenneth.” She pointed at herself and her husband in turn, as if Julie wouldn’t be able to figure out who was who without a little help.

  “Welcome,” Julie said with a smile. She introduced herself as they registered and took their key. “Everyone is gathering in the tearoom before the event starts. If you’d like to get settled first—”

  “Oh, no,” Susan said with a wave of her hand. “We can do that later.”

  “I’ll show you the way, then,” Julie said as she helped Kenneth settle their bags by the front desk.

  Julie led them to the tearoom where she hoped some refreshments and a story or two from Shirley would make Kenneth look a little less like he’d rather be having dental work done. Julie got the distinct impression that the whole weekend had been Susan’s idea. Julie hoped he would reign in his less-than-enthusiastic attitude and play his part in the mystery like a good sport.

  For the next hour and a half, Julie checked in guests, handed out keys, and directed the motley group of mystery quilters to the tearoom. Aside from Sadie, Joyce, Susan, and Kenneth, the guest list included Alice Peyton, a fifty-something divorcée whose frown was deeper and wider than Kenneth’s. Alice told them all that she had received the trip as a gift from her kids, but she didn’t look very happy about it. Maybe, like Kenn
eth, she’d had her sights set on someplace with a beach.

  Dr. Liam Preston also joined the group. He was handsome in a bookish sort of way, with wire-rimmed glasses, wavy blond hair, and a dimpled chin. He introduced himself as a professor of literary studies. He certainly looked the part with his khaki trousers and tweed blazer complete with leather patches at the elbows. What he didn’t look like was a quilter. But Julie kept her mouth shut. She’d learned the hard way with a previous guest, Daniel Franklin, that looks could be deceiving.

  Julie had been more than a little caught off guard last autumn when the ruggedly handsome Daniel had stepped into the lobby and requested a room. She hadn’t pegged him for the type to enjoy something as quiet and traditionally feminine as quilting. Yet, he knew more than most about patterns and techniques. He’d decided to remain in Straussberg and open a museum. Now he was something of a friend—a very handsome friend. But that wasn’t the point. No, the point was that she vowed not to make assumptions about any of her guests again.

  She tried to apply that same theory to Gregory Wilson, the forty-year-old bachelor standing across the room from her. Gregory had a thinning patch of light hair, a middle-aged paunch, and beady eyes that shone behind thick glasses. He made no effort to share his motivation for attending the weekend event. In fact, he didn’t say much at all. He simply listened to everyone tell their stories while he drank his tea in silence. Suspicious silence.

  “I’m not going to judge,” Julie whispered to herself as she waited for the last guest. “I am not going to judge.”

  Carrie Windsor, the first guest to make a reservation and the last one to arrive, finally skittered into the inn a half hour before the festivities were set to begin. Like Gregory, she wore glasses. Unlike Gregory, her oversized specs ate up half of her petite face, covering it from forehead to cheeks. She wore her pale blond hair pulled back with a claw clip, a few tendrils escaping to wisp around her face like a shaggy halo. The youngest in the group, she appeared to be no more than eighteen. Yet her eyes, though covered by the glasses, had an age about them that belied her pixie stature and innocent air. She looked a little like she had been caught in a storm, her clothes windblown and stretched out. In fact, everything she wore looked faded and old, as if she’d owned it since the dawn of time. She smiled politely and ducked her head as Julie handed her a room key.