Patch of Trouble

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Ramsay left immediately to dutifully investigate a parking place dispute at the Dappled Hills post office. Beatrice, Wyatt, and Meadow told Miss Sissy goodbye and then headed out of the hospital.

Wyatt said, “Thanks to you both for coming all the way out to Lenoir. I was really worried when I first got the call from the hospital. She’s been here before of course, and I’m listed as an emergency contact from the last time. They didn’t give a lot of information, except that she was agitated. I’d gotten the impression she’d been in a car accident.”

“Which was certainly believable,” said Beatrice fervently.

“I figured that she’d calm down a lot more if you were both here,” said Wyatt. “I hope you weren’t doing anything important.”

Meadow said thoughtfully, “I’m not sure if I can even remember what I was doing when you called. I’ve totally lost that thread.”

“I was relaxing,” said Beatrice with a shrug.

Wyatt and Meadow raised their eyebrows and gave each other a smile. Meadow said, “Relaxing? Pooh.”

Beatrice said a little defensively, “Well, I was attempting to relax, anyway. Noo-noo was trying to show me how by snoring next to me.”

“I’m not sure you completely understand the concept of relaxation, Beatrice. How do you try to relax? Relaxation isn’t a task to check off your list or a competitive sport. It’s a lack of doing,” said Meadow, waving her hands in the air.

Beatrice pursed her lips. Her inability to relax was something that she’d rather not have spotlighted. It was the one thing she was working hardest on. Could she help it that every time she sat down and put her feet up the dishes from the sink called out to her? The dust bunnies under the bed? The corgi for a walk? Life and her own busy brain seemed locked in a conspiracy to deny her downtime.

Wyatt gently steered the conversation in another direction. “I think I know what Meadow was doing, if it helps. I think you were about to talk to Beatrice about being part of a new group service project at the church.”

Meadow snapped her fingers. “Of course! Bravo, Wyatt. Yes, that’s exactly what I was doing. I was just mulling over the idea that I could put Boris on his leash and walk over to your cottage and talk about the group.”

Beatrice was now feeling an abundance of caution for a couple of reasons. For one, she wasn’t sure that belonging to yet another local organization or group of some kind was the right prescription for helping her relax. For another, she was hoping that her quiet afternoon wasn’t going to be destroyed by Boris the Great. Unfortunately, his greatness was only evident in his massive size. He was part Great Dane, part Newfoundland, and—insisted Meadow, though Beatrice had yet to find proof of it—part corgi. His size was matched only by his appetite. Boris had claimed Beatrice’s kitchen counter as his own personal food trough on more than one occasion.

Eager to escape a future encounter with Boris when she felt least prepared for one, Beatrice quickly said, “Let’s talk about whatever it is now, then. On our way back home.”

Wyatt gave Beatrice a rueful smile at her efforts to leave Boris out of her afternoon plans. “I’ll see you both later,” he said as he got into his car. “Thanks again for coming out.”

The unfortunate thing about Meadow trying to talk about anything with any degree of focus or concentration was that her driving was all over the place. Beatrice clung to the passenger door in abject terror and slammed an imaginary brake with her right foot all the way back to Dappled Hills. She was sure there must be wide-eyed horror on her face the whole time.

“You see,” said Meadow thoughtfully, “I wanted to honor the social part and the service part of quilting. I wanted to really make the Village Quilters guild current. The wonderful thing about quilting is that it can be a peaceful solitary endeavor, or it can be a bonding social event. Personally, I think we all do plenty of solitary quilting.”

“You would,” murmured Beatrice glumly.

“So this made perfect sense. And we can tie a lovely service project in, to boot. And you have more opportunities to see Wyatt at the church because this won’t merely be a weekly event. We’re going to make it three times a week while we’re getting it all off the ground,” said Meadow.

“Won’t that mess up the ladies who work?” asked Beatrice. “Not everyone is retired or ... well, like you.” Meadow did a lot, but nothing that she was officially paid for.

“It’s in the evenings!” said Meadow. “We’ve been very, very careful to make sure that everyone can get there.” In her excitement and, to emphasize their caution in coming up with times, Meadow swerved the wheel. She continued on, oblivious, as Beatrice gripped the door that much tighter.

“It does sound like a good idea,” admitted Beatrice.

“And we also get time to meditate on a lovely scripture-based lesson. Do you know the last time I had a chance to do that during the week?” demanded Meadow.

“I’m going to assume it was a while back.”

“At least twenty years ago! When Ash was in school!” said Meadow.

This conversation, mostly a one-way conversation with Meadow extolling the virtues of their new activity, continued the rest of the way to Dappled Hills. Beatrice responded at all the appropriate times. But when Meadow drove past Beatrice’s house, she snapped out of her nodding and murmuring routine.

“Meadow! You’re so wrapped up in your monologue that you drove by my house!”

Meadow waved a hand vaguely. “I wanted to show you the fabric I’ve got. And give you a copy of the pattern for the first quilt we’ll be working on so that you can see it in advance. I always like to give the pattern a once-over before group quilting, don’t you?”

Beatrice sighed. “Poor Noo-noo probably needs to go potty.”

“This will only take a second, I promise. You can take a look at the fabric, grab a pattern and then it’s just a quick jog back to your house,” said Meadow.

Apparently Beatrice was also about to get a little exercise in the process, to top off the day.

Her mood improved, as usual, when she set foot in Meadow’s house. It was a converted barn with lovely old exposed rafters and a ceiling that soared like a cathedral. Quilts hung from every surface and from the ceiling and walls in riotous color. Boris cantered over and sniffed Beatrice’s khaki slacks with thoughtful interest. He shot her a reproachful look with his amber eyes for not including Noo-noo in her visit. She reached down and scratched behind the big dog’s ears and he flopped onto his back with a grunt for a belly-rub.

Meadow’s fabrics for the babies were pretty and the pattern certainly looked doable. Beatrice’s favorite had blue and pink dots and fabrics with kittens batting balls and puppies gnawing pink bones that could be cut and incorporated as different panels. But after Beatrice had given her blessing to the fabric, Meadow wasn’t quite done with their conversation. “Oh, that reminds me. I also wanted to talk with you about some ideas I had to raise quilting awareness in town.”

“Quilting awareness?” murmured Beatrice. She glanced briefly but longingly at the door.

“Oh, you know. Recruiting into the hobby. Or into the Village Quilters guild ... either or both. Here, I could use a little exercise myself today. My poor old ticker got quite the jolt when I heard about Miss Sissy’s accident. Or whatever it was. It could use a little exercise. I’ll walk you home,” said Meadow. “You need to let Noo-noo out, I know.”

At the word walk, Boris exploded into action, rushing for his harness and leash and intently staring meaningfully at Meadow. She absently put the gear on Boris while saying, “That’s right. Quilting awareness. Because sometimes I just don’t think the quilting community is getting the word out. Posy says younger people think quilting seems complicated. We all know that it’s only as complicated as we let it be. Maybe we need to reach the next generation through motion media.”

They walked outside and Meadow pulled the door shut without locking it. Beatrice supposed that when one’s husband was the police chief that it might be a bit safer than for anyone else.

“Motion media?” asked Beatrice, a bit more politely than she felt. “I don’t think I know about that.”

“Sure you do! It’s like Facespace and Instatwitter and all that,” said Meadow. Boris loped excitedly through the woods between their two houses and Meadow dug her heels in to slow him down.

Beatrice said, “Oh, you mean social media. And you’re right, that would probably be a smart way to reach out to younger quilters. Particularly with one of the apps that centers around photography. The textures and colors of quilting are so vibrant that the excitement might translate better.”

Meadow beamed at her. “And that insightful statement is exactly why I want to nominate you as the Village Quilters’ social media ambassador.”

“What? Just because I know what it is doesn’t mean that I use it,” spluttered Beatrice.

Meadow was starting to huff and puff as Boris picked up speed again. “But you have Piper to help you out. Your daughter would be the perfect resource for you if you got stuck. No, you’re The One. I’m sure of it. And then there’s just one other thing. One other teeny project.”

Beatrice was opening her mouth to heatedly protest when Boris suddenly skidded to a stop, stiffened, sniffed the air, and started baying pitifully. It was a bay: there was no other word for it. Meadow and Beatrice stared speechlessly at the dog.

“I’ve never heard him make a sound like that. Not ever,” said Meadow breathlessly.

“He smells something,” said Beatrice. “Let’s give him a little lead on the leash.”

Meadow loosened up her grip on the leash and they watched the big dog stare into the woods. He took a few steps and then bayed again, looking at Meadow with a sad expression on his broad face.

“Good boy,” she said in an encouraging voice. She caught up with him and reached down to give him a loving rub. She turned to Beatrice and whispered, “What do you think it is? Does he smell some sort of strange animal or something?”

Beatrice shook her head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, he’s really concerned about it. And that makes me concerned about it. I definitely want to get to the bottom of what’s making him anxious about our woods.”

Meadow made some more encouraging sounds at the dog and he took some more steps forward. And a few more. And then he was leaping forward again, pulling Meadow behind him, barking and baying and jumping up and down in a rocking sort of movement.

“What’s that over there?” asked Meadow fearfully. “Behind that bush?”

But Beatrice had already figured out what it was and she knew Meadow had too. It was the body of a man.

“I suspect,” she said slowly, “that it might be Miss Sissy’s bad guy.”

––––––––

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.”