Pattern of Betrayal (Vineyard Quilt Mysteries Book 2)

by Mae Fox

  “Why would Kenneth give you trouble?” Frost’s brown eyes pinned Julie again.

  Julie pressed her lips together but then decided there was no sense in hiding it from Frost. “Liam accidently hit him in the head with a lamp.”

  The detective’s brows shot up. “Assault?”

  “No, no, no. It was an everyday sort of accident.”

  “Right.” Frost scribbled another note on his pad.

  “But the really good news is we found out that the cooking oil company is responsible for Joyce’s exposure to peanuts,” Julie added quickly. “So, no one tried to poison Joyce. Isn’t that fantastic?”

  He didn’t look impressed by the news.

  “Oh! And we found the journal,” she said.

  “Where was it?” Frost drawled. “In your purse?”

  Julie bit back a sharp retort and launched into the story.

  Detective Frost put on his business face and scribbled in his notebook as another officer came in.

  “You again?” the young officer said to Julie.

  Julie shrugged good-naturedly. “What can I say?”

  Detective Frost filled him in on the particulars, set him to writing the report, and then turned back to Julie. “So, you have no idea who’s responsible for this?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Frost sighed with exasperation. “You mean we’ve been standing around here gabbing for half an hour, and all the while you’ve known who did this?”

  “I was answering your questions.”

  Detective Frost put his notepad away and folded his arms across his broad chest. “OK, Miss Ellis. Will you kindly enlighten me as to whom you think spray-painted that threat on your property?”

  “I’d be happy to,” she said with a small grin. “It was Alice’s killer.”

  FIFTEEN

  Detective Frost stared at Julie like he wanted to strangle her. “Do you find this amusing, Miss Ellis?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” she replied, wiping the grin off her face. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I find the situation ghastly. But I’m being honest. It’s clear to me that Alice’s killer did this.” She waved a hand toward the graffiti on the wall. “And it’s obviously someone who has easy access to the inn.”

  “Thank you for spelling that out for me,” Frost said, pulling out his notepad again. He walked closer to the wall to study it. “What’s interesting is that the perp doesn’t say ‘I’m coming after you,’” Detective Frost pointed out. “He says, ‘it.’ ‘I’m coming after it.’ Any idea what this is in reference to?”

  “The only thing I can think of would be the old Civil War journal. News of it made the papers. Someone must think it’s more valuable than it really is.” Julie paused. “And then there’s Eric Rutherford.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Alice Peyton’s boss.”

  That brought Frost to attention.

  “Julie,” Daniel called. From the sound of his voice, he was standing in her office doorway. “You might want to come take a look at this.”

  No. No, I don’t.

  “Excuse me for a moment, please,” Julie said to the detective. She quickly made her way to her office.

  “You are not going to believe this,” Daniel started, opening the Civil War journal. “Look here.” He pointed at the page and then began to read. “‘Becky is new in town, but Tom loves her. He wants them to become engaged. One kiss ought to do it.’”

  It took a moment for what Daniel read to sink in. Becky, Tom … “You don’t mean …?”

  Daniel smiled and flipped back to the front. He pointed to the inscription written in a spidery, slanted scrawl. “Property of SLC 1861.”

  “Samuel Langhorne Clemens,” she whispered in awe.

  Daniel nodded, the grin on his face wider than the Mississippi River that Clemens so artfully wrote about. “We would need to have it authenticated, but it sure looks legit to me,” he said.

  Julie picked up the book and held it in her hands, staring at it in wonder. Of all the treasures she had ever recovered in her previous life of antiquities bounty hunting, this one seemed truly special. Perhaps because she could trace it back to an American icon. Everyone knew who Mark Twain was. “Do you think it really was his?”

  “The dates fit. Clemens volunteered for the war in 1861. He only served for two weeks before his company disbanded.”

  Behind her, Detective Frost whistled. “Sorry. Couldn’t help but overhear. That sure is something.”

  Gently, Julie thumbed through the pages. Not all were written on and not all of the writing was legible. A handwriting expert would have to be called to authenticate the ownership, but all the signs pointed to one thing: The book had belonged to one of the greatest American writers of all time.

  “I can’t donate this to the auction,” Julie said.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Daniel said. “But don’t let your hopes get too high. It could turn out to be nothing. Or some kind of hoax.”

  True. She’d spent enough time in the art business to know the world was full of fakes and reproductions. The book she’d found could be nearly priceless or not even worth the paper it was written on. But she had a feeling this was the real deal, and she was usually right about these sorts of things.

  “I’m sure Aston can help us out with that,” Julie said.

  “Who’s Aston?” Frost asked.

  “A book expert. I emailed him pictures of some pages he requested this morning.”

  The detective nodded. “Be sure to let me know what he says. I’d like to talk to your staff and guests, and I plan to check into this Eric Rutherford fellow too.” He walked out of the office and made his way back to the front of the inn with Julie trailing behind. “In the meantime, I suggest you do your best to fly under the radar and stop making people angry.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Julie said with a wry smile. If she knew how to do that, she would have started a long time ago.

  After talking to the guests in residence and Hannah, Detective Frost took pictures of the wall and told Julie to call if she saw anything else suspicious.

  “I’d give you my card,” he said on his way out, “but you already have one.”

  Sometime around three, Sadie arrived at the inn with a pale-looking Joyce in tow.

  “Oh dear, I’m so happy to see you.” Joyce grabbed Julie for an uncomfortable hug. “I’ve been so worried that you would be mad at me.”

  Julie disentangled herself from the woman’s embrace. Joyce was surprisingly strong for a woman who had been two steps from death’s door the night before.

  “Why would I be upset with you?” Julie asked.

  “For ruining the weekend.”

  Julie bit her lip to keep from laughing at the absurd statement. “You did no such thing.”

  “Is the quilt finished?” Joyce asked.

  “No—and speaking of that,” Julie said, “we have a little more work to do on it. I was hoping I could get all quilting hands on deck in the tearoom to try and finish it up.”

  “That sounds lovely, dear,” Sadie said.

  They found Carrie, Susan, and Liam already in the tearoom, hard at work on the quilt. Kenneth sat close by, entertaining himself with a cheater’s game of solitaire.

  “What did we miss?” Joyce asked as she settled down next to Carrie.

  Shirley’s eyes twinkled as she started the new tale of what all happened after Joyce had gone to the hospital, including Liam clunking Kenneth on the back of the head, the plot of the murder mystery, and the return of the Civil War journal.

  “And then the company called and said that the oil Hannah used for the oven-fried chicken Saturday night was contaminated with peanuts. That’s what caused your reaction—not a crazed killer.”

  “Oh.” Joyce almost sounded disappointed by the news.

  “I’ll have Hannah get you their number. I’m sure there’s a lawsuit brewing on this one already,” Shirley said.

  Joy
ce waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want to sue anyone. I’m all right. And it was an accident.”

  Julie could hardly believe the graciousness of the lady. They didn’t make them like her anymore.

  Joyce sighed. “I have a confession to make though.” She twisted her mouth this way and that as if the contortions would help her say what needed to be said. “I don’t quilt. I’ve always wanted to learn, but I never did. When Sadie mentioned coming here for the weekend, I was so excited to get away that I never gave it a second thought until that first day when someone gave me a needle. I’m so very sorry that I deceived you. I never meant any harm.”

  Susan patted her arm reassuringly. “That’s all right. Kenneth doesn’t really quilt either.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Everyone but Kenneth. “I’ll have you know I make nice, even stitches,” he huffed.

  “Well, you are a doctor,” Carrie said wisely.

  “What about you, Dr. Preston?” Joyce asked with a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Are you really a quilter, or did you come here under false pretenses as well?”

  “A little of both,” Liam said without a hint of apology in his voice. “My parents died when I was eight. My grandmother raised me, and she was an avid quilter. Every time I pick up a needle and thread, I can’t help but think of her.”

  Joyce reached over and patted him on the cheek. “You are a good boy,” she said. “Even if you did lie about your name.”

  Liam blinked several times, noticeably at a loss for a reply.

  Joyce chuckled. “My dear man, did you think you had any of us fooled?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Clearly you feel that we aren’t your audience and therefore wouldn’t have bought your books or seen your picture,” Sadie said.

  Liam looked like he had been hit by a bus. “Does everyone here know who I am?” he finally asked.

  They all nodded.

  “And no one said anything?”

  “I thought the ruse was rather exciting,” Joyce said.

  “In all fairness, Liam Preston is my name. Liam Preston Wallis—L.P. for short.”

  Julie looked to Carrie. The girl had her head bent so low over the quilt that Julie didn’t know how she could possibly see. Julie never had finished her research, but to think that the young girl was anything more than a poor college student seemed wrong somehow. But even after Liam’s confession, Carrie remained closemouthed.

  “Did anyone see today’s paper?” Shirley asked. “That cute little pop star disappeared.”

  “Which singer?” Susan asked.

  “CeCe,” Shirley said.

  “Disappeared?” Liam asked.

  “Evidently, she went into her bus on Thursday night, crawled through the window while everyone was asleep, and disappeared. Her manager is fit to be tied. I guess her family is pretty concerned too.”

  “Joyce called me from the hospital earlier and told me about it. I love CeCe’s music,” Sadie said. She bounced a little in her seat as if a pop song were playing in her head. “I’m sure she’ll reappear when she’s ready. It’s probably all part of a master marketing plan.”

  Julie realized that what she’d overheard Sadie talking about when she and Daniel were following the woman may well have been related to the singer’s disappearing act—not the murder.

  “Didn’t she win that television show The Singer?” Susan asked.

  “Year before last,” Shirley nodded. “Then the article said she spent a couple of months in the studio, recording an album, and she’s been on tour ever since.”

  “Do they still call them ‘albums’?” Kenneth asked.

  “Yes dear,” Susan said without looking up from her stitches.

  “It’s a legitimate question, given all the changes in the music industry these days,” he said defensively.

  Sadie and Joyce nodded as if they kept current on all the new technological advances in the music world.

  Julie listened to the chatter. This—this—was what she had imagined the weekend would be like. Sipping coffee, telling stories, peace and quiet. No murders or snakes or vandalism.

  And still no Gregory. She almost hated to ask about him. The lack of drama was one thing, but without her sourpuss guest there, complaining every step of the way, the peace took on a whole new level of tranquility. Still, she wished she knew where he was. Especially after the threat that had been left on the sitting-room wall. “Has anyone seen Gregory?”

  “I’m right here.” The man in question sauntered into the room.

  “Would you like to sit down here, dear?” Sadie asked, patting the seat next to her.

  Gregory shook his head.

  Where had he been all day? Julie wanted to ask, but for once, he wasn’t complaining, and she thought it best to let it slide for the moment.

  “We were just talking about pop stars and quilting,” Sadie said to him, not one bit offended that he refused her offer of a place to sit down. “How did you become a quilter?”

  “I’m not really a quilter,” Gregory confessed without an ounce of shame.

  Julie knew taking that ad out in the mystery magazine had been a mistake. And here was additional proof.

  “But I paid my way through college working in a tailor shop and then doing car upholstery,” Gregory added.

  “Really?” Joyce asked. “How interesting.” She had joined Kenneth at the card table and was trying to make him play fair. “If you didn’t come here to quilt, that must mean you’re a mystery buff.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. And I needed to get away for a while. My life’s been hectic lately.”

  Julie narrowed her eyes at him. If he needed to get away so badly, why had he waited to reserve his room until the very last minute? And how had he managed to time his phone call just right and snap up the late cancellation?

  Crazy coincidence. That’s what it had to be. If he were after the journal, he’d have made his reservation earlier.

  Thinking about the old book made Julie want to spring from her seat and check the office safe to make sure it was still there. She’d asked Daniel to lock it in the safe when he left, but she hadn’t actually seen him do it.

  Now I’m being paranoid. The journal is safe and sound.

  At the moment, she had an inn full of guests, a murderer on the loose, a potential vandal, and a house full of probable liars. She glanced over at Kenneth. As soon as Joyce turned her head, he shuffled the deck to get better cards to the top of the draw pile.

  He gave Joyce an innocent smile as she turned back around.

  Julie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  SIXTEEN

  To say that dinner was a strained affair that evening would be the understatement of the year.

  Hannah had made a pasta-and-shrimp dish (after double-checking to make sure no one had a problem with shellfish), a salad of spring greens, and homemade French rolls with fresh butter.

  It should have been satisfying and wonderful, the perfect ending to a not-so-perfect weekend. But hateful looks were thrown about like daggers, and frowns reigned as the expression of choice.

  “This is fun,” Daniel whispered dryly to Julie. He’d come over so they could look at the journal together later in the evening—after the guests left. Julie was glad to have him in her camp.

  She took a drink of water and tried to act as if everything were normal. Wine from one of the local vineyards had been served, but she limited herself to half a glass so she’d be better prepared for … anything. She looked around at the guests. What an interesting, colorful bunch of people. Despite all of their many quirks, she really couldn’t imagine any of them being a murderer. Even Carrie had somehow wormed her way into Julie’s heart. Oh, she knew the young girl still had secrets, but those were hers to keep. Secrets didn’t make someone a criminal. Everyone had secrets.

  Yet, the fact remained that one of them was likely a killer. There was no other logical explanation for the weekend’s events.

  “Did you h
ave a good day today, Gregory?” she asked, hoping for a clue as to where he had been.

  At the sound of her voice, everyone looked up and then looked at Gregory. “I suppose.” He glared at her as if she’d crossed some imaginary line with the question.

  She would not be deterred. “Did you do a lot of sightseeing?”

  He shrugged.

  “Where did you go?” she asked as innocently as possible.

  “I don’t have to tell you that. You’re nothing but a busy body. Why do you always eat with us anyway? It’s weird.”

  Carrie gasped at his outburst.

  “You are rude.” Daniel pointed his fork at Gregory for emphasis.

  “And?” Gregory tossed down his napkin. “I’ve had enough of this. Why don’t you ask everyone else where they were today, dear innkeeper?”

  With tremendous willpower, Julie kept her tone civil. “OK. Sadie, I saw you in town today. Did you have a nice time?”

  “It was lovely,” Sadie said, her voice quiet and subdued. Not at all the Sadie of the past few days.

  “Yes, the hardware store is lovely this time of year,” Gregory sneered. “Did you get all the paint you needed?”

  The room fell completely silent, and a few forks paused in midair. “Are you accusing Sadie of painting that ghastly threat on the wall?” Joyce’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  Gregory only shrugged, but his expression spoke volumes.

  “Sadie wouldn’t do something like that,” Carrie said, her face turning bright pink. “She’s a sweet little lady.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Sadie said.

  “You’re only saying that because she has one of your songs as her ringtone,” Kenneth said slyly. “And for the record, I also find it odd that Sadie went to the hardware store. If it’s true.”

  The room fell silent again for one split second, and then the chaos erupted.

  Carrie stood and acted as if she were going to leave. Then she sat back down again and pulled off her glasses, tossing them aside. “Fine. You’re right. I’m not who I’m pretending to be.”