Barbara Graham - Quilted 03 - Murder by Music

by Barbara Graham

  Theo had been consulted on issues involving community protocol.

  As part of the decorations, Theo had been asked to special order sixty full bolts of white tulle. Either they would be able to decorate the barn in style or the local dance teacher could make enough costumes for a production of Swan Lake, including dressing the audience.

  Theo first met the mother of the bride on one of her excursions from Lexington to Silersville on fact-finding missions. Theo thought she was lovely and gracious. She also thought the mother-of-the-bride has a difficult job in many weddings. On her shoulders are wings borrowed from fairy godmothers. She is there to help her daughter achieve the wedding of her dreams. At the same time, she is supposed to protect the father-of-the-bride from bankruptcy. A difficult balancing act at times. Add in keeping the bride from nervous fits, pacifying cantankerous family members, losing that stubborn twenty pounds and finding a dress that is flattering.

  Now Elf's untimely arrival and the tragedy of Scarlet's death threatened their grand plan. Theo was almost positive not even Elf could derail the wedding, but stranger things had happened.

  Like Tony telling her Mr. Beasley had ordered a car for her. And paid for it. Theo couldn't believe it. Or at least she wouldn't believe it until she saw it.

  Suddenly fatigued, she signaled for Tony to take her home. The sight of Blossom dancing with her two suitors made her smile. What would Blossom do with a house and plenty of money of her own? Would she still cook and do housekeeping, or would her life take a completely different direction?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Patrick's adoptive parents, the MacLeods, arrived on Wednesday morning, perhaps twelve hours behind Elf's dramatic intrusion on Ruby and Mike's wedding. Tony knew because his mom called to complain about Elf. While Celeste had been giving her parents a private tour of the museums and explaining what she and Patrick planned for the reception, Elf arrived at the museum with her driver.

  “Can't you come out here and get rid of her?” said Jane.

  “Her who, Mom?” Tony really hoped she wouldn't say Elf.

  “Easter Lily, of course.” Jane rattled something into the earpiece. It sounded like thunder. “She has no business being here.”

  “What is Celeste doing about it?”

  “Nothing.” Jane sniffed. “I don't know what is wrong with the girl. I thought she'd have a bit more spine.”

  “She's probably trying to keep peace with one of her mothers-in-law to be.” Not for the first time, Tony wondered how different his life would be if Theo's parents hadn't died when Theo was just a baby. He'd never had to deal with in-laws. “You ought to call Patrick's folks and have them join you all. As I understand it, the MacLeods are staying with her mother. She lives just down wind of Nellie Pearl. I'm sure they'd welcome a reason to get away from the smell of camphor.”

  “Ha, ha, ha.”

  Before Tony could think of something else to irritate his mother with, she whispered into the phone, “Never mind. Not only are the MacLeods here, but your wife and Katti just arrived.”

  Katti coasted up to the handicapped space, hung the blue wheelchair tag on the rearview mirror and jumped out of the pink Cadillac. She pointed a finger at Theo. “You stay. I find peoples.”

  Theo laughed and saluted. Katti was born to lead. She was going to organize herself and Claude and probably the whole dump before Christmas. She and Theo had come to check on the quilts designated for display and find appropriate storage for the rest. To celebrate Celeste's wedding, they wanted to have as many wedding quilts as possible hanging for viewing during the reception. Theo had been surprised at the number that had been donated. Families were proud to have something in the museum. Some of the quilts were little more than worn out rags, and some looked pristine, like the couple had never used them.

  Theo's personal favorites were the ones so worn that it was difficult to identify many of the fabrics. They were well-loved quilts.

  Katti trotted back from her fact-finding mission and opened the trunk to retrieve Theo's wheelchair. “Here too is all the parents.” She grinned. “Fighting is in barn. We go there?”

  Tamping down the nosy side of her nature took a bit of work. Theo finally shook her head. “No. We are going into the museum.”

  “Too bad.” Katti helped Theo out of the car with natural expertise. “More fun where yelling is.”

  Katti needn't have worried about missing the family battle, Theo thought when the group consisting of the bride and her parents, the groom's parents and the groom's birth mother burst into the museum building. Everyone was talking. No one was listening. The six people created enough sound to drown out what Theo was saying to Jane.

  Her mother-in-law's eyes filled with tears. “I don't think this is going to work out.” She sniffled. “What if Celeste quits?”

  “Where do you get these ideas?” Theo patted Jane's shoulder. “Celeste might do away with a couple of Patrick's relatives, but she's not leaving the museum. She loves it here. I've seen her face when she is setting up an exhibit. She can't stop smiling.”

  Jane's reply was drowned out by a scream coming from the doorway.

  “I am his mother, and you will do as I say!” Elf stormed across the gift shop toward the quilt display. As if reading Theo's mind, Katti stepped into Elf's path, sending the irate woman in another direction. “It needs more flowers. I'll order them myself. It still looks like a barn!” Leaving a trail of perfume almost visible in the air, Elf charged past Katti, a cell phone pressed to her ear.

  Theo heard the door slam. Then silence. Finally, Celeste's voice could be heard. She sounded calm and gracious. “I want you all to meet my friend Theo. She's our museum's quilt expert.”

  Five people gathered near Theo's worktable. “Hello.” Theo studied their faces. The bride was still smiling. Always a good sign. The couple she didn't know was introduced as Celeste's parents, the Durands. Their smiles looked a bit strained. The MacLeods, she remembered from when they lived in the area. The MacLeods weren't smiling at all.

  Theo didn't blame them. The wedding was only two days away and Elf as a surprise guest had its drawbacks. Theo suspected the area florists were about to get a lot of business.

  Tony stared at the reports on his desk. It was a tall stack, almost burying his new super-jumbo sized jar of antacids. He wondered when he would be able to order them in a fifty-gallon barrel. It would save a lot of time, and hopefully money, if he could trot into the storeroom with a gallon pickle jar and a scoop each morning and get his day's supply.

  Okay, so he was stalling. The reports had to be read, and he guessed if any of them had a little sticky note with the words “Here's your killer” on it, Ruth Ann would have put it on the top. He peeked at the edges of the files. Nope. Not a single one. Whoever had strangled Scarlet LaFleur with a wire around her neck and dropped her in the shrubbery had gotten away with it. So far.

  He started with the file on the top, mostly because it was the skinniest. The phantom with the .22 had been shooting again. Sheila's notes were legible and concise. He wondered why everyone couldn't be so capable.

  According to Sheila, sometime during the past week, a shooter or shooters had destroyed stop signs and road signs. Shots had gone through Roscoe Morris's trailer home, which he knew about. Tony didn't know someone had apparently killed a garden gnome. One of the shots had barely missed hitting the unpopular game warden, Harrison Ragsdale. Another had barely missed hitting Nem, the elderly egg man, while he was selling boiled peanuts. A sticky note from Sheila indicated she was checking with his competitor, Old Man Ferguson. Evidently she'd heard rumors of a boiled peanut feud.

  A sign near the elementary school had been victimized. Sheila had been called out to the Shady Nest, a monstrosity of a project, high on the mountain overlooking the town. According to Sheila, the front door screen on the foreman's trailer had no fewer than ten holes in it.

  The shooting near the school caught his full attention. The crackpot was getting more dangerous
each day. The incidents were getting more frequent and were now all over the county and in town.

  Sheila reported collecting shell casings—properly bagged, tagged and sent off to be analyzed—she'd found while digging in vegetation. She lined up the shots as best she could, but her technique lacked what she referred to as “finesse and total scientific ability.” There were many more holes in things than she had found the brass for.

  She had a tip from an unknown source, indicating she should talk to the person shooting a rifle near the Shady Rest. Knowing the shooter was Angus Farquhar, she respectfully requested one of the male deputies check it out. If none were available or willing, she would do it herself, but not alone.

  Frowning, Tony considered Sheila's request. She was not an alarmist. She was competent, clever and a fine shot. He'd never heard of her asking to be removed from any case because of her gender. He'd check this out for himself. No one was allowed to intimidate one of his staff.

  The Shady Rest was the community's nickname for the Shady Nest, which was only a marginally better name for the housing development. The plan, or so he'd been told, had been to build quality patio homes for retirees or anyone who wanted to live in a beautiful mountain setting in a maintenance-free home. The homeowner dues covered snow removal, trash, exterior painting and even such items as plumbing emergencies, light bulb changing, and landscape work.

  Tony had heard a different story from his brother. Admittedly, Gus couldn't build anything substandard. Theo's wheelchair ramp was ample proof, but Tony had heard a fair amount of grumbling and had served the management of Shady Nest with legal papers from several homeowners. In short, management was being sued for everything from misrepresentation to fraud to endangerment.

  As he drove up the winding mountain road, he couldn't help but notice the beauty of his surroundings. The mountains were spectacular. This was one of the most beautiful autumns in memory. He lowered his window to enjoy the scents of the season.

  Then he heard it. The crack of sound only a rifle could produce. Either someone was hunting, or vandals were taking pot shots again. The sound was more in line with a .22 than with a higher caliber gun, something for deer.

  He drove around the turn below Shady Nest and heard it again. Ka-boom. Following the sound, he turned off the road and onto a pair of ruts winding through tall grass and shrubs. Ka-boom. He stopped in a clearing near a cabin. Angus Farquhar sat on a ladder-back chair, on his own front porch, shooting his own pickup truck. Surrounding him was an arsenal of rifles and handguns, and next to him was a bottle of scotch, two-thirds empty.

  He was wearing nothing but his unwashed underwear and lace up boots. No wonder Sheila refused to come up. The man really was a pig. He even looked like a pig. His big pink body was sparsely decorated with gray hairs, and his nose sort of turned up like a snout. He wasn't as smart as pig, though, or as fastidious about his personal grooming.

  Angus had a long history of petty crimes. He also had a long history of public intoxication. It was not illegal to get drunk on your own porch or to shoot your own truck. He wasn't anywhere near the city limits.

  “Angus.” Tony wanted to be sure the man knew he was not alone. “It's Sheriff Abernathy.”

  Angus lifted his bottle and took a big swig. He swallowed a fair amount, then spat the excess back into the bottle before offering it to Tony. “Join me?”

  “Thank you, but no. I'm on duty.” Tony could think of a few things he'd like less than sharing a bottle with Angus, but not many.

  Angus shrugged. He lifted an old rifle and took aim at his truck. Ka-boom.

  “Why are you shooting your truck?” Tony saw the multitude of holes in the radiator and all the antifreeze on the ground. The only thing left in the windshield was a few glass fragments. “It can't have been that much trouble.”

  “It ain't the truck I'm shooting.” Angus glared. “It's the pack rats.”

  “Pack rats are causing more damage than your arsenal?”

  Angus narrowed his little pink piggy eyes and spat, just missing Tony's feet. “Any of your business?”

  Tony thought he could get away with killing the man. There were no witnesses. He could claim self-defense. He doubted anyone in the county would object. Someone might suggest a parade in his honor. Too bad he was saddled with a conscience.

  “Are you shooting at the Shady Nest buildings?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you hit any of the Shady Nest buildings?”

  “Nope.” Angus took another swig of whiskey. “They claiming I have?”

  “I'm claiming your aim could be better. It can't be over fifteen feet to the front bumper of your pickup, and I'd say you've missed more than you've hit or there would be pack rat carcasses all over the ground.”

  Angus spat in Tony's direction. “I want you off my land.”

  “I'm leaving now, Angus.” Tony didn't turn his back to the pig. “But I'll come back with a warrant if I have to and drag you down the mountain, handcuffed to my bumper.”

  Tony noticed the days were getting shorter. Darkness came before a lot of workers made it home for the night. A fair number of 'possums, raccoons and other small creatures failed to safely cross the highway. It wasn't unusual to have several deer a night become victims of their own poor judgment and timing. The odd thing was the road kill seemed to be vanishing. He hadn't noticed there being more carrion eaters in the area. The last person he'd ask would be Harrison Ragsdale, the local game warden.

  Nicknamed, Hairy Rags, the man set Tony's teeth on edge. He carried a maple wood cane, shaped like a shepherd's crook, but not because he needed help walking. He carried it crook down, and he walked a fair amount, always swinging the cane back and forth, ready to hit anything in his path. The man hated animals. All kinds. He didn't like people either. Tony thought it made his choice of profession beyond curious.

  Tony had tried discussing the issue of the man and his job with his supervisor. Sighs and apologies meant the man's job was safe. No one liked him. No one thought he did his job exactly as described on the spec sheets. No one was prepared to go through all the hoops required to fire him. The man would eventually retire.

  In the late afternoon, Roscoe showed up at the doorway of Tony's office, dragging a highly intoxicated Quentin. “I can't take him home like this.” Releasing Quentin for a moment, Roscoe's arms swung in wide circles. “He'll fall out of the truck.”

  The pair of them were regular visitors. Tony rose to his feet. He tried to herd the two men in the direction of the jail side of the building where Quentin could safely sleep off the alcohol. Tony looked at Roscoe. “Can't you just buckle him in and lock the door and take him home?”

  “Not with Baby. He can't ride inside with my Baby.” Roscoe's eyes widened when seemed to remember where he was and who he was talking to. “I mean, er, uh, that is, er, Quentin don't like my driving.”

  Tony's sluggish brain caught up, and he understood. Roscoe knew he couldn't legally keep the bear cub. As a rule, he walked within the law and he had been warned to not keep the bear as a pet. Tony glanced out the front window into the parking lot. Roscoe's pickup sat under one of the myriad lights, and he saw a dark figure sitting in the passenger seat, wearing an orange vest and a wide brimmed orange hat. The arm extending from the cab looked dark and furry. Even from this distance, Tony could see long claws drumming on the outside of the door.

  As Tony watched, entertained by Roscoe's ursine passenger, Hairy Rags drove in, parked next to Roscoe's truck, emerged without looking at the glossy furry arm and strode toward the station. He was swinging the cane double time. He charged through the front door and at a nod from Tony, the desk officer unlocked the door into Tony's wing of the building.

  Roscoe made a whining sound and Quentin staggered, almost falling. Tony grabbed Quentin's arm and steadied them all. He glared at Roscoe. “You've got to release the bear into the wild.” Not waiting for a response, Tony led his little group toward the game warden. “Good evening.”


  Pointing at Roscoe with his cane, the warden said, “Arrest that man.”

  “For what?” Tony kept moving forward.

  Quentin began singing. “Oh, love—”

  Roscoe's eyes filled with tears and he tried to get behind Tony.

  “He's got a bear.”

  Irritated by everything about Hairy Rags, Tony just stared. “This is Quentin Mize, not a bear, and he's going to the drunk tank for a while.”

  Angered by Tony's attitude, the warden made a jabbing motion with the tip of his cane, almost striking Roscoe. That was too much for Tony. He dropped Quentin's arm and grabbed the cane in the middle of its long side and gave it a good jerk.

  Hairy fell forward, releasing the cane so he could break his fall. “It's mine.”

  Tony placed one foot on the man's shoulders, shoved Quentin and Roscoe toward the front desk where Flavio Weems sat, eyes wide. “Lock up the drunk one—let the other go.”

  Flavio leapt into action.

  Tony watched Roscoe almost fly back to his pickup, his skinny arms and legs churning. Tony waited until he saw the headlights come on before he stepped back. “You can get up.”

  “Give me my cane.” Hairy didn't budge.

  “No.” Still incensed that the man had the gall to practically assault him in his office, Tony wasn't about to back down. “No.”

  Hairy's eyes narrowed and his lip curled up over his teeth. “I'll have you arrested.”

  “Try.” Tony felt like slamming a fist into the man's jaw, but didn't.

  “He's stealing road kill to feed a bear. Do you know how many laws he's breaking?”

  Ignoring part of the man's question, Tony snapped back. “Do you have any proof?”

  “You're helping him. That makes you as guilty as he is.”

  “I'll tell you what I'm doing.” Tony reached down and lifted the man to his feet but didn't hand over the cane. “I'm trying to determine who murdered a woman. Do you think your road kill issue is more important?”

  “No, but . . .” Hairy Rags narrowed his eyes until they were mere slits. “They're breaking the law, and you're an accessory.”