Patch of Trouble

Chapter Two-2

MEADOW PULLED OUT HER phone to call Ramsay once more and then dropped her phone in a bunch of old, dried leaves as Boris whined piteously beside her.

Beatrice said, “I’ve got it,” although she was a bit shakier than she liked. “Ramsay,” she said when he picked up, his voice curious on the other side. “Meadow and I were walking back to my house with Boris and we found a body. Or, rather, Boris found it, I suppose.” She tightened her lips as she felt the temptation to be garrulous in her nervousness.

“What?”

“A body.” Beatrice walked to the other side of the bush, being careful to give a wide berth so as not to disturb any potential evidence. “Actually, I’m going to ensure it is a body and not someone in need of medical assistance.” She peered over at the figure on the ground. It was a bearded man around forty-five years old wearing a white shirt and khaki jacket with khaki pants. A brimmed hat lay on the ground next to him. And, judging from the state of his head, Beatrice decided that he was not a good recipient of medical assistance. “No, he’s dead, I’m afraid,” she said quickly. Beatrice took a deep breath. “Hope you’re finished with the dispute at the post office.”

Beatrice could hear sounds on Ramsay’s end like he was getting his keys out. He said briskly, “You don’t recognize him? He’s not someone we know?”

“I’ve never seen him before. I wondered ... well, it seems so coincidental. I wondered if he might be Miss Sissy’s bad guy.”

Ramsay said, “Does he look like a bad guy?”

“If bad guys wear safari-type clothing,” said Beatrice. “But then, Miss Sissy does frequently get the wrong idea.”

“I’m on my way,” said Ramsay and hung up.

Ramsay was there in minutes. But it was long enough for Meadow to have worked herself up into a froth. “The idea of someone from outside Dappled Hills coming to town, bullying poor Miss Sissy, and dying in our woods!” she fumed.

Beatrice said dryly, “Technically, we don’t really know what happened to him. His injuries could be a result of his run-in with Miss Sissy.”

“You don’t really think that!”

Beatrice said, “No, I don’t. But still, I don’t think we should make the mistake of underestimating Miss Sissy. Particularly if she believes she’s being threatened.”

Meadow pulled the still-anxious Boris a bit farther away. “Don’t you find it odd that he’s here? This stranger?”

“I’m not absolutely sure that I could recognize everyone in the town,” said Beatrice with a shrug.

Meadow retorted, “Well, I’m absolutely sure that I could. And I’ve never laid eyes on him.” She took another fleeting glimpse at him. “Never!”

Ramsay was already pulling off the side of the road nearest their spot in the woods. He was on his phone, likely alerting the state police. He rang off and then said grimly, “So, over there? Behind the bush?”

Beatrice and Meadow pointed wordlessly.

As Ramsay started securing the crime scene, although Beatrice wasn’t sure who else besides she and Meadow might happen along through the woods, she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She frowned and pointed at the bit of whiteness in the bush by the body. “What’s that, Ramsay?”

Ramsay carefully reached into the bush and pulled out a notebook. He grimly scanned a couple of pages. “Okay. Looks like our guy had some questions for Miss Sissy. So, despite the look of him, I suppose he was her ‘bad guy.’” He frowned at the notebook. “There’s something right in the back of my memory on this. But I can’t quite get it.” He flipped pages until he got to the first page. “This is kind of odd.”

Meadow made a snort of frustration. “For heaven’s sake, Ramsay! You can’t just say things like that to us and then not explain them! What’s so odd about the notebook? What sort of questions does the guy bring up? Any clues to his identity? We know he’s not one of us—that is, a Dappled Hills resident.”

Ramsay carefully put the notebook in a plastic bag that he pulled out of a uniform pocket. “And you know this is an investigation.”

“You’ve always let us in on things before,” wheedled Meadow. Boris, uneasy at the tone between his master and mistress, gave a corroborating short bark.

“Right now there are some things I need to do with the crime scene before the state police arrive. Taking statements from both of you is one of them,” he said briskly. “The notebook just ... I guess it just reminds me of something from long ago.”

After the statements were taken, Ramsay waved them off. Meadow left in a huff and Beatrice walked away more thoughtfully.

“Really!” said Meadow, breathing hard as Boris bounded away in his efforts to leave the scene as quickly as possible.

“It’s his work,” said Beatrice absently as she strode forward to keep up with Meadow and her dog. “But his comments were interesting.”

“What comments? The fact that he saw ‘something kind of odd?’” She gave a sigh of relief as Boris finally came to a stop at Beatrice’s front door.

Beatrice supposed that she was now going to be entertaining Meadow and Boris for a while since Meadow was not going to be able to use her favorite cut-through across the woods.

“No, the fact that he said the man had ‘questions’ for Miss Sissy. Does that mean he was a journalist of some kind? But why would something seem familiar to Ramsay? You say this victim doesn’t look familiar to you?” asked Beatrice.

“Never seen him before in my life,” said Meadow with a shrug as Beatrice unlocked the door to the cabin and led them inside. Noo-noo gave Beatrice a reproachful look for bringing Boris along and she bent to rub the little dog as she let her outside for a potty break.

“Well, I’m sure Ramsay will get to the bottom of it,” said Beatrice.

“Ramsay? I’m thinking that you and I will get to the bottom of it. But I’m going to weasel out as much information as I possibly can from him as soon as I get a chance,” said Meadow with a smirk. “He’ll be worn out when he comes home tonight. Investigations take it out of him, not to mention dealing with the state police. On top of a trip out to question Miss Sissy at the hospital. He’ll be ready for a huge meal, a glass of wine, and one of those boring tomes he’s always reading. And I’ll be there with a chilled glass of red wine, his favorite comfort food, and a few questions.”

“What’s his favorite comfort food?”

“Meatloaf. And I’m a master of meatloaf,” said Meadow with a good deal of personal satisfaction.

It might have been the talk of meatloaf or the talk of wine or the talk of being worn out, but Beatrice suddenly had the longing for her hammock and a nap with Noo-noo close by. “Meadow, I’m feeling some of the strain from the day, myself. But, before you go,” she said pointedly, “was there something else you were going to ask me about?”

Meadow stared blankly at her.

“A teensy little project?” prompted Beatrice with a slight edge to her voice now.

“Oh! Oh, that’s right. Yes, so besides the hospital project and the social media things, I’ve another project percolating. It’s absolutely fantastic that the Village Quilters are doing all of these service projects, of course. But we’re also in need of some, erm, coins in the coffers,” said Meadow.

Boris gave a short, sharp bark and looked meaningfully toward Beatrice’s tiny kitchen.

Beatrice let Noo-noo back in and heading for the kitchen, saying, “I’m listening. Just getting some treats.” At the word treat, Boris’s tail started pummeling Beatrice’s wood floors loudly and Noo-noo grinned at her, brown eyes dancing as she kept a wary eye on Boris. She disapproved of doggie visitors receiving treats in her own home.

Meadow said, “Right. So, money. I’d been thinking what a rich history Dappled Hills has. And a lot of it intersects with quilting.”

“And the Village Quilters would, I’m imagining, be featured rather prominently and come out looking pretty well in the book,” said Beatrice dryly.

“Naturally! There’s no other way for our guild to look than utterly amazing. Then we can sell the books in local stores and raise funds for traveling to quilt shows as a group or for introducing others to the craft,” said Meadow.

Noo-noo politely received the treat from Beatrice, being very mindful of where Beatrice’s fingers were in the process. Boris, on the other hand, gazed ravenously at her as if he might devour her entire hand. Beatrice dropped the treat on the floor and slid it with her foot toward the big dog. No point in losing any extremities over a dog treat.

“The only thing, Meadow, is that I’m wondering how popular this book is going to be. How many people will want to put down money for a Village Quilters guild history that also touches on the history of Dappled Hills? Not that Dappled Hills doesn’t have a very rich history and culture. I mean, you and I would buy a book. Posy and Elaine would. All of our guild ladies would purchase a copy. Other than that, though? I just don’t think we’d have a massive bestseller on our hands,” said Beatrice.

Meadow looked thoughtful. “We could go more into the local town history. That might broaden the appeal a little farther.”

“Would it? By how much? What you’re proposing is a project that would likely take a good deal of time and would be appealing to a limited audience. I’m just not sure it’s a good investment of our time,” said Beatrice. She gave the dogs another treat and watched as the food disappeared immediately. “Unless ... I may have an idea.”

Meadow’s eyebrows rose hopefully.

“The appeal for this kind of book will be the photography. The quilts,” mused Beatrice.

“Aha! That would help make it more interesting!”

“Except that it would make it more costly to print,” said Beatrice.

“Well pooh! I thought you said you had an idea.”

“I think we should definitely incorporate more images. From a budget standpoint, they may have to be in black and white. But black and white photography, with the right treatment, can really look amazing. And we need to try to include as many interviews from the older residents of Dappled Hills as we possibly can. Not only because stories will also sell books, but because in this town everyone is related to everyone else—and people will want to buy a book with their Aunt Mabel or Paw-Paw or whomever in it,” said Beatrice.

Meadow seemed to be unsuccessfully hiding a small smile. “That sounds like an excellent plan. I knew you’d be just the person to figure out how best for us to handle the project.”

Beatrice felt alarmed. “Now, I’m only giving advice. I’m not saying that this is my project. I want no ownership of this project, Meadow. None.”

“Think of it! Not only do we capture the thoughts and beautiful old quilts for posterity, we may actually be able to make some good money for the guild in the process!” said Meadow, waving her hand in the air as she warmed to the topic. “And we’ll try to include pictures of people, too. As many current residents as possible. And dead residents! Because who wouldn’t buy a book that has a picture of their dearly departed sister in it?”

“Now, Meadow!”

But Meadow was on a roll and warming to her topic. “And who best to capture these lovely old quilts for our book than you? You were a museum curator, for heaven’s sake! For folk art! In a very prestigious museum in Atlanta! Just look at you!”

Beatrice didn’t think she looked like much wearing the same old beat up khakis and tired baby-blue shirt that she’d been loafing in earlier in the day. And this morning was starting to seem like a lifetime ago. Beatrice’s head throbbed. “That’s a big project. I’ll have to think about it. The whole point about being retired is that I was planning on relaxing.”

Meadow rubbed Boris before giving a quick whistle and motioning him out the door. As her parting words, she said, “But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? You can’t relax. So you might as well be productive, right? Okay, bye for now!”

Beatrice found that, after her unusual day, she was able to easily doze off in the hammock with the sound of Noo-noo’s gentle snoring as a lulling accompaniment.

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