by Molly Macrae
“I love the way you throw specifics around,” Thea said. “Somehow they really seem to do something for me.”
“That sounds like an old song, doesn’t it?” I tried a smile on Thea. It didn’t make the difference of a dent or a dimple on her brown face. “But that’s how we always start, isn’t it?” I said. “Someone did something. Somewhere along the line we get involved. Somehow we figure it out. We start with unknowns. This time we just have a few more than usual. We don’t know the name of the body in the dump. We don’t know the name of the person who put it there.”
“We don’t know that it is a body,” Thea said.
“True. Hang on.” I wrote who buried the body on another sheet and slid it out of the way.
“And we don’t know if the person who buried the—arm or whatever—was in any way responsible for why he or she buried it.” Thea clucked her tongue. “A ‘few’ unknowns. Yeah.”
“What if it is only an elbow or an arm,” Ernestine said, “and it was a farming accident? Or an amputation?”
“So you’d toss it in the household dump?” Mel asked. “Ernestine—ugh. I think you know I’m not the squeamish type, but that gives me the willies.”
“They’re theories, though,” I said. “And coming up with theories is one of the things we can do tonight.” I jotted accident, amputation, and Bowman on the Geneva sheet.
“We aren’t entirely without specifics, either,” John said. “We don’t know who the bones are, but we know where they are. That gives us the name Holston, and the name Holston gives us a place to start looking.”
“Back to the lords of the manor,” Mel said. “Did they have an abundance of money and position back then, too, or was the house and land they had typical for the period?”
“Their fortunes might have ebbed and waned,” John said, “and that’s easy enough to check. I assume there are Holston family records of various types at the Homeplace. Phillip was working there. Isn’t it likely that’s where he started his research?”
“I asked Nadine what he might have been working on,” I said. “Other than familiarizing himself with the site and jumping into the Hands on History program, he wasn’t into anything that she was aware of.”
“And we aren’t going to find an entry in Great-Aunt Sally Holston’s diary saying, So-and-so was buried too shallow in the family garbage dump this morning, and the Ladies Aid Society came for tea this afternoon.” Mel ran her fingers through her spikes, then splayed her hand on the table. “There’s something wrong about the whole body-in-the-dump thing and it’s got me rattled.”
“That’s because you’re kindhearted,” Ernestine said, patting her hand. “You can’t imagine disposing of someone that way, but your spikes aren’t prickly enough to keep the pictures out of your head.”
“But there might be clues in the records,” John said. “We can sift for them while the archaeologist is sifting the dirt around the bones. Does Nadine know the materials well enough to help us narrow the scope of the search? Surely she’ll appreciate our help in solving this puzzle.”
“I would think so. She’s understandably stressed about everything going on out there, but if we approach her the right way, I think she would welcome the help.”
“We can take it to her in the form of a serious proposal. Directors are like captains and admirals, aren’t they? Happiest when dealing with that kind of formality?” John rubbed his hands as though happiest when anticipating a good formal declaration of intent.
I jotted Holstons on the back of another page and shoved it aside.
“It seems to me we need to find Phillip’s research notes,” Ernestine said. “If we find them, won’t we find out what he knew about Geneva?”
I pointed the pen at her. “Absolutely, Ernestine, and if he was any kind of historian, he made notes about where he found the information.”
“But will Nadine let us look through his office? And the computer in his office?” she asked. “That might be trickier, due to privacy concerns.”
“I’ll add it to the proposal,” said John.
“Nice device, John,” Mel said when she saw him tapping notes into his phone.
“I’m an old sea dog and I love new tricks.”
“When are you going to upgrade, Red? You’re archaic there, with your papers strewn all over.”
“I’ve got my own trick. Show you in a minute.” I wrote Phillip’s research on the Phillip Bell page. Then I almost started another page with a note about searching the cottage at the Homeplace. But I didn’t, and I told myself it was because we were going to have enough paper and ideas on the table and it had nothing to do with the notion creeping around the edge of my higher motivations—the notion that if Nadine drew the line at some of us looking around the cottage and through Phillip’s belongings for information he’d stowed there, then I knew a window, out of general view, that was easy to slide quietly open. And I had it on the reliable authority of my friend Not-Really-a-Burglar Joe that entering without breaking wasn’t technically, too awfully, criminal. Especially if you did it only once.
Ardis noticed my hesitation. She’d been quiet—listening and giving me encouraging prompts. Now she had one eyebrow raised and looked at me with her mm-hmm face. I took evasive action.
“So, on to Grace Estes,” I said, and all ears perked up. All eyebrows returned to normal levels. “They’ve arrested her, and I know we don’t know what evidence they have against her, but I think they’re wrong and that we still don’t know who killed Phillip. This morning Cole Dunbar said they didn’t know what killed him. They couldn’t identify a weapon. I thought it was an animal, a dog or something. When I found him . . . it looked like . . .” My hand went to the side of my neck. “It looked like multiple bites, to me. As though something had bitten and raked. Deputy Dunbar said it wasn’t, but . . . the attack was vicious.” The fingers against my neck curled into a fist and I bounced it off my lips a few times before continuing. “I hope Grace wasn’t capable of doing that. Here’s something else, though. I called Phillip late yesterday afternoon and a woman answered. They were, well, it sounded like they were having a good time. If you know what I mean.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Thea said, “who answers the phone at a time like that?”
“The point is, I don’t know who the woman was. I thought it might be Grace.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew they’d been married. Nothing more than that. It could’ve been anybody.”
“We need to know who she was,” said Mel. “I’ll start a few conversations at the café, see what I hear about Phillip. And Grace.”
“Good.” I turned to Ernestine. “I know you don’t know Grace, but if she isn’t released on bond right away, would you go talk to her? Not to pump her for information. Not obviously, anyway.”
“Don’t you want to do that yourself?”
“If she’s out, I definitely want to talk to her, but I think Deputy Dunbar would find a visit from me highly suspicious.”
“He would, dear, because he isn’t nearly as obtuse as he lets on. But, oh my, I just thought of something. I can dress up like Aunt Bee and take cookies for Grace and her cellmates, if she has any. That would be a comfort, don’t you think? And a hoot?”
“A hoot and a half, at least,” Mel said. “Go for it. I’ll supply the cookies.”
“May I be Aunt Bee, Kath?”
“Mel’s right—go for it.” I looked over at Thea. She seemed to have nodded off. “Thea? Hey, Thea?” She jumped a bit, but then shook herself awake without being too surly. “Can you work your database magic and see what you can find out about four people?”
“Sure, I can tickle the keys and come up with the goods.” She flexed her fingers and cracked her knuckles. “For two pieces of the galette.”
“No one else asked for special favors.”
She crossed he
r arms. “Four people, two pieces. One now, and one goes home with me.”
I looked at Mel.
“If this investigation creates galette addicts, my work is done.”
“Fine. Two pieces, but you’re on call.”
“Not indefinitely.”
“For the duration of the investigation. We’ll renegotiate for future investigations. Phillip Bell is the first name.” I tapped the paper with his name on it. “Here are the others. Nadine Solberg, Grace Estes, Fredda Oliver, Wes Treadwell, and Jerry Hicks.” As I said them, I wrote each name on the back of a separate sheet.
“I can’t help but notice that you’re a math moron,” Thea said. “That’s one-third again as many people as you stated.”
“That’s what ‘on call’ means. Added value for me. I forgot Jerry Hicks, so in he goes, and Nadine is so obvious she should be a given.”
“Who are they?” John asked. “Those last three?”
“Fredda’s the caretaker at the Homeplace. I haven’t met her and don’t know if I’ve ever seen her. According to Cole Dunbar, she tells more believable lies than I do.” There was a poorly concealed snicker followed by a grunt of pain.
“Go on,” Ardis said, avoiding a glare from Mel.
“Joe knows Fredda. He recommended her for the job. That’s a point in her favor, I guess. Wes Treadwell is the newest member of the Homeplace board.”
“Somebody with money, then,” John said.
“He dresses and acts like he has money. Jerry Hicks is the archaeologist. I don’t know any more about him than that. Oh, except he’s done recovery of unexpected human remains before, but that goes with the job. Maybe none of these people fit into this picture, but I’m somebody who’s pathologically nosy, and I want to find out.”
“And Dr. Thea, though aggrieved at her workload, will attend to your affliction,” Thea said. “May I?” She reached for the sheets of paper.
“Not yet.” It was time for my trick. I pulled the papers toward me and counted them—nine—good, that worked neatly. I dealt them out on the table in rows of three. “We’re kind of crazy to be doing this, don’t you think? We’ve done it before, sure, but we’ve blundered and we’ve gotten into some trouble. And Thea’s right: The authorities are competent. Up to a point. But it’s at that point that I can’t help myself. Give me a puzzle and eccentric bits and pieces of information, and I want to make a pattern—a pattern that solves the puzzle.”
Ardis stood up and moved her hands above the grid of papers as though smoothing them. “You’ve conjured a quilt.”
“She has,” Mel said. “She’s right about crazy, too. This might be the craziest case we’ve worked on yet.”
That reminded me. “Speaking of crazy, have any of you ever heard Shirley or Mercy talk about a Plague Quilt?”
Chapter 11
Mentioning the Spiveys and their Plague Quilt was a meeting stopper, though not a comment stopper. Reactions ranged from the spontaneous and heartfelt “Spiveys” spit out by Ardis, to the thoughtful but equally dismissive “If they were socially aware and civic-minded, I would assume they’ve made an AIDS quilt, but knowing them, I seriously doubt that, and in that case I can’t imagine what in the world they are talking about” from Mel. Thea, continuing her irascible theme for the evening, reflected that Shirley and Mercy were a plague unto themselves and everyone around them. John asked if I did know what they were talking about. By then I regretted bringing it up and said as much. That put the mm-hmm look back on Ardis’ face, where it sat until Mel served the galette.
Mel watched carefully as we sampled, then dug into the dark chocolate and raspberry nestled into the buttery, flaky . . . “What do you think?” she asked.
“You could negotiate world peace and tame wild beasts with a slice of this heaven,” Ernestine said. “Bless your heart, Mel Gresham.”
Judging by the soft moans of satisfaction rising around the table, we all agreed. But when the last crumbs disappeared from her plate, Ardis crooked a finger, inviting me to lean closer.
“There’s more to that Plague Quilt than meets the eye, mark my words. And you know more about it than you’re letting on.”
That seemed like a good time to leave. When I looked in the den to see who might like to leave with me, Joe, Geneva, and Ardis’ daddy were glued to an old episode of Law & Order. It was one with Lennie Briscoe offering his glib take on the world—shouting his glibness because the TV volume was so high. Geneva lay like a mist on the floor between the two recliners, her chin propped in her hands.
I waved to catch Joe’s attention. “I’m taking off. See you tomorrow?”
He started to get up. “Why don’t I walk with you?”
“Sit yourself back down, son,” Ardis’ daddy yelled. “You’ll miss the best part. Lennie always gets his man.”
“Oh, great,” Geneva said.
“I’d better—” Joe tipped his head toward Ardis’ daddy.
“Quiet!” Ardis’ daddy yelled.
“It’s too late for quiet,” Geneva roared back. “You spoiled the ending. Now we all know Lennie gets his man!”
Joe, looking sheepish, mouthed “sorry” and dropped back into his chair. Geneva swirled out of the room in a huff. I waved again and closed the door.
“If Daddy didn’t like having Ten there so much, he wouldn’t yell,” Ardis said. “They’re getting along fine.”
“I do not know when I have run into a more peculiar family,” Geneva said. “I suggest we get out while the getting is good.”
“Do you think we can have progress reports for Fast and Furious on Friday?” I asked the others before they got away. “That gives us two and a half days, and maybe by then we’ll hear something from the archaeologist.”
John said, “Aye, aye, Captain,” and took Ernestine’s arm. As they went out the back door, I heard Ernestine asking him if “captain” was really the right word for the person in charge of a posse. Ardis started singing about the foot bone being connected to the ankle bone, and I hurried to collect my notes before Geneva caught on and took further offense. I saw Thea put not one, but two more pieces of galette onto a paper plate. When she looked up and saw me watching, she put her nose in the air and said, “Special compensation for rush orders.”
“It’s her waistline, Red,” Mel said. “Let her watch it and you can watch your own.” She handed me a plate covered with a paper napkin. Under the napkin were two pieces of heaven all my own.
* * *
“No,” Geneva said.
We were headed for the Weaver’s Cat—one of us walking, the other doing a meandering float, as though a capricious breeze were blowing an eddy of fog back and forth across the sidewalk. Breezes didn’t affect Geneva that way, though; her own whims did. For instance, answering a question I hadn’t asked. I looked around before speaking, but didn’t see anyone else nearby. Blue Plum generally rolled up its streets by nine or so, even on a pleasant late-summer evening. It was probably safe for me to talk without resorting to the cell phone subterfuge.
“What question are you answering?”
“Your nosy question about my hair. It is not red.”
“Really? Not even strawberry blond? Then why did your father call you Ginger?”
“I am not sure I should answer any more questions until you apologize effusively for your heartless treatment of me.”
“I have never wanted to hurt you, Geneva, and I’m sorry I did.”
She stopped wafting to and fro and floated beside me. “You are not very good at effusion, but you are honest. I forgive you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank goodness that is blown over, then.” She billowed in and out, as though that cleared the air, and then she settled in beside me again. “I am glad we are friends again. Argyle will be, too. He missed sitting in your lap.”
“Did you have something
to do with him not sitting in my lap?”
“I was angry.” She made a sound that could only be described as a nervous titter. It wasn’t pleasant. “And that reminds me. There is another point that needs to be corrected. For the record.”
“What point is that?”
“I would have brought it to your attention earlier, but I was caught up in your dramatics.”
“Okay—”
“But it is not okay, and that is why it needs to be corrected. Mattie and Sam are the posse’s first cold case, not this skeleton in the dump.”
Mattie and Sam. As misty as Geneva’s memories were, she was convinced—and she’d convinced me—that sometime in the past she’d seen a young couple lying dead in a green field. A hundred years ago? A hundred and fifty? She didn’t know, and I’d never found any record or reports of a sensational double murder. But she’d recounted the incident in such vivid, painful detail that I’d promised to help her find her Mattie and Sam.
“You’re right, Geneva. I’m sorry I forgot that.”
“You are forgiven,” she said. “Now the record is straight. Everything is fine, and I am overjoyed that you have given up that wretched, horrible, insulting idea that I am buried in a garbage dump.”
* * *
After gulping, I walked the rest of the way to the shop with Geneva, saw her in, and nearly melted when Argyle twined around my ankles, but then I skedaddled home with a “sick headache.”
And nearly had a genuine sick headache when I saw Clod Dunbar’s patrol car parked under the streetlight in front of my sweet little yellow house. Worse, he wasn’t in the car; he was sitting on my front porch swing, the mellow porch light softening his starched corners. Drat. He was the kind of surprise porch guest that made me seriously consider taking the swing down. But I loved that swing, and the house and the swing had been Granny’s, and Granny would have been gracious to her uninvited guest and offered a glass of sweet tea.
