Patch of Trouble

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

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RAMSAY GAVE MISS SISSY what he clearly thought was a reassuring smile. Miss Sissy snarled in return. Being in the hospital clearly wasn’t good for Miss Sissy’s temper, nor, apparently, was the hospital breakfast, as Beatrice had suspected. The plastic tray had been shoved as far away from her as possible. The cup of gelatin looked as if it had been ravaged by a wild animal. There were crumbs on the plate that Beatrice suspected having possibly belonged to toast. There was no evidence of any other food. Beatrice reached in her bag and pulled out the English muffins and bananas as Miss Sissy eyed them hungrily.

The old woman voraciously attacked the food. Ramsay said, “Beatrice, may I speak with you for just a second outside?”

Beatrice followed Ramsay into the hall. He absently rubbed a hand across his high forehead. “Brilliant idea, bringing food. That should settle her down a little. I wanted to ask Miss Sissy a few questions, but I needed to feel her out and see what kind of mood she was in. Is she real agitated today?”

A couple of workers from food service pushed by them with a tall cart for used trays. When several nurses slid past them, Ramsay motioned Beatrice into the lounge where they could talk without being endangered by the swiftly moving staff. They settled into chairs and Ramsay gave a contented sigh as he sat. Since the seating in the lounge was far from comfortable, Beatrice assumed that he’d not gotten much rest the previous night.

She said, “Miss Sissy was very agitated, yes, but I think she’s better now. That doctor really got her blood pressure up earlier. He wasn’t the best of people to handle her. But he had a good suggestion about getting her a cell phone. I think I’ll take care of that. She doesn’t need to be falling down and unable to reach anyone.”

“Could just get her a house phone,” said Ramsay with a shrug. “She’s used to those.”

“Yes, but she still goes off driving. If she stuck around the house, I could see it,” said Beatrice.

Ramsay grimaced. “She shouldn’t be going off driving. She’s a menace to society behind the wheel. But that rickety old Lincoln of hers is bound to suffer a breakdown at any time, with any luck. A cell phone is a great idea, now that I think of it.”

“Sorry for the tangent. You wanted to ask me something? Or were you just checking her mood?” asked Beatrice curiously. She was hoping, now that nosy Meadow wasn’t around, that Ramsay would let down his guard and talk about the case a little, like he usually did.

Fortunately, Loose-Lipped Ramsay appeared to be on hand. “I was mostly just checking her mood, feeling her out. The state police will want to talk to her, of course, with a murder and everything. And her reported altercation with the deceased. But I want to prepare her for that and also ask her a couple of questions before they do. Will she be discharged soon?”

“Right away,” said Beatrice. “Lucky that I was here so I can drive her back.”

Ramsay nodded, but Beatrice could tell his mind was miles away. “This case is something else,” he muttered. His cell phone buzzed at him and he heaved a tremendous sigh, studiously ignoring it.

“Nobody thinks that Miss Sissy had anything to do with this fellow’s death, do they?” asked Beatrice sharply. “He was found a good distance away in the woods. It’s not as if she could have dragged herself after him and killed the man after injuring herself. Not a younger man like that. Not an old woman like she is.”

Ramsay said, “Technically, no, she couldn’t. But that’s only because she was in the hospital by the time he died, according to the medical examiner’s preliminary reports. He died in the afternoon between the time y’all left for the hospital to see Miss Sissy and when you discovered him. The hospital makes for a pretty solid alibi. Otherwise, not to argue with you, but I’d pit Miss Sissy’s wiry strength and utter determination against larger, younger opponents.”

“How did he die?” asked Beatrice.

“Blunt force trauma,” said Ramsay. “The medical examiner believes it was likely a hammer.” He rubbed his eyes this time and Beatrice realized again how tired he must be. “Meadow will flip out.”

“I suppose his killer wasn’t some stranger passing through town? Like the victim?” asked Beatrice. “No itinerant murderer?”

“There is evidence that points to the fact that it was personal,” said Ramsay. “Somebody got desperate when this guy started asking the wrong people questions.”

“Wrong people? Like Miss Sissy?”

“And, from what I can gather, others, too. What I’m trying to find out is who he was talking to. Since you’ve done a good job so far today calming Miss Sissy down, maybe you can give me a hand?” He gave her a hopeful look. “All I want to do is wrap this case up as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” said Beatrice. Besides, it would be a good way to get more information. “What makes you so eager to wrap it up? Have you been reading any good books lately? Penning any poetry?”

Ramsay didn’t spend much time talking about his high-brow reading and writing outside his close circle of friends, but he was extremely fond of quiet nights with a collection of Faulkner. And reading and writing poetry.

“Have I told you that I’m trying to get some of my poetry published? That’s right. I’m querying literary journals and magazines. I figure that the state is always looking for a poet laureate—why shouldn’t it be me?”

Beatrice didn’t have a good answer for that one. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t read any of his work. She wondered if a village policeman living a contented life had good poetry in him. But who was she to say? “I hope you’ll find the perfect publisher,” she said sincerely.

They walked back down the hall and into the small hospital room. Beatrice stood near Miss Sissy’s bed, shaking her head as Ramsay pointed to the metal chair nearby. He pulled it up to sit right beside her. “Miss Sissy, I’m glad to hear you’re going to be heading back home today.”

She stared suspiciously at him and gave a grunt in return.

“There’s no place like home, is there? Especially that cozy cottage of yours.”

These genial comments were met with hostility from Miss Sissy.

Ramsay cleared his throat. “I do have a few more questions for you, if you’ll humor me, Miss Sissy. You know, about the bad guy you saw yesterday.” Ramsay shifted uncomfortably in his seat a bit, likely remembering that he hadn’t really believed her.

Miss Sissy grunted again, eyes narrowed.

“You see, your bad guy ran into trouble. He’s dead now,” said Ramsay kindly, reaching forward to clumsily pat the old woman’s crippled hands. “So you shouldn’t worry about him anymore. That doesn’t mean, naturally, that you should let up your guard at home. Be vigilant when answering your door, don’t talk to strangers, that kind of thing. Beatrice tells me that you’re going to have a new cell phone,” he added in a jolly voice.

Miss Sissy spat out, “FLIP phone.”

“Right,” said Ramsay, soothingly.

“Who is he?” asked Miss Sissy.

“Your bad guy? His name is Oscar Holland,” said Ramsay. He closely watched the old woman’s reaction. And there was definitely a flicker of recognition there. Miss Sissy muttered unintelligibly to herself.

“Did you know Oscar Holland?” asked Ramsay softly.

She shook her head, and more wiry strands of hair slid out of her loose bun and spilled onto her pillow.

“Are you certain? Because it seemed like he knew you. Your name is scattered through his notes. You see, he was quite the note-taker. He had index cards on him in that khaki jacket of his—they looked like the kind of index cards you use when you’re interviewing someone. Your name and address and possible questions for you were on these index cards.”

Miss Sissy knit her brows and continued dark muttering.

Ramsay continued, “What’s more, he had some sort of old notebook in his hotel room here in Lenoir, just down the road here from this hospital. It almost served as a journal. It wasn’t his, but it mentioned lots of people—Dappled Hills residents who are now elderly.”

Miss Sissy looked at Ramsay and then looked away. “Not me. Didn’t do anything.”

“I know you didn’t do anything,” said Ramsay soothingly. “But I need a clearer picture of what did happen. And how you’re connected to the man you saw.”

“Didn’t know him!”

“But do you—or did you—know his mother? Because his mother figured prominently in his notes and a bit in this notebook/journal,” pressed Ramsay. The old woman gave a croaking sigh. “Mrs. Holland. Years ago.”

“That makes sense. Apparently, she just recently passed away in a Lenoir retirement home. Her son was with her. And, judging from the notes we found, she had quite the deathbed confession,” said Ramsay.

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. “A confession? Of a crime?”

“That much we really don’t know. But we do know that she felt guilty enough or just plain worried enough about something in her possession that she felt she needed to share it with her son right before she passed away. And then Oscar Holland took this notebook she handed him and decided to investigate something, himself. Perhaps he wanted to get answers or some justice? And he was abruptly killed,” said Ramsay.

Beatrice asked, “Doesn’t that seem especially sudden? He shows up at Miss Sissy’s house and then ends up murdered hours later?”

“It looks like he’s been in the area for over a week since his mother died,” said Ramsay. “I don’t believe Miss Sissy was the first resident he spoke with.”

“But surely some of that time was spent in Lenoir, going through his mother’s things or arranging a memorial service,” said Beatrice.

“Still, it does leave some unaccounted-for time for him to poke around in Dappled Hills’ past,” said Ramsay.

“Didn’t know,” said Miss Sissy. She seemed rather agitated. “Thought he was bad. Didn’t know who he was.”

Beatrice said briskly, “Of course you thought he was bad. A strange man shows up on your doorstep? You’re right to be careful, Miss Sissy.”

“So he shows up at your door?” prompted Ramsay gently.

Miss Sissy stayed silent.

“Did he ring the doorbell or knock?” prompted Beatrice.

Miss Sissy barked, “Knocked. Loud. Like I was deaf.”

Apparently, his fateful visit had gotten off on the wrong foot immediately.

“Did you open the door or talk through the door?” asked Ramsay. Miss Sissy stared down at the crisp, white sheets and Ramsay rolled his eyes at Beatrice.

“Opened the door,” confirmed Miss Sissy. “Told him to go away. Go away!”

This certainly sounded likely.

“Should have told me. Should’ve called to say he was coming,” said Miss Sissy sulkily. She stopped abruptly when she remembered that she didn’t have a house phone anymore.

Ramsay said, “How did you get hurt? Did Oscar do that? Or did you get hurt accidentally, somehow?”

Beatrice noticed that he was being very kind to Miss Sissy. But then, what would you expect from a cop who wrote poetry and loved Faulkner and Steinbeck?

Miss Sissy blew out a large sigh. “Chased him.”

“You chased him?” asked Ramsay.

“That’s right. With my broom!” Miss Sissy held up an imaginary broom to demonstrate her broom brandishing technique.

“So he didn’t hurt you? He didn’t hit you on the head at all? Didn’t cause the injuries that you have?” asked Beatrice.

Miss Sissy looked mulish. “Did too. Wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been there.”

“So you were chasing him and you fell,” recounted Ramsay. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“Must’ve,” said the old woman viciously. “Can’t remember. Knocked out.”

“All right, so the man wasn’t directly responsible for your injuries. Can you remember if, before you chased him off, he mentioned visiting anyone else in Dappled Hills? Or if he were planning on visiting someone?”

Miss Sissy thought hard, putting her gnarled hand to her temple to aid the process along. Slowly she said, “Gwen. Said Gwen.”

Ramsay nodded encouragingly. “Gwen. Who still lives here in the area. And is actually still involved in the community.”

Beatrice shook her head. She wasn’t familiar with Gwen. She was starting to think, though, that if this case dealt with Dappled Hills’ past, especially in some sort of criminal way, that the Dappled Hills history that Meadow was so eager to work on was going to be an excellent vehicle for soliciting information.

“Isn’t in the guild!” spat out the old woman.

“Was she in the guild a long time ago?” asked Ramsay.

“Not the Village Quilters,” said Miss Sissy with a haughty sniff.

Ramsay made a note that Gwen was likely a former member of the Cut-Ups. Then he pulled an old and battered folio-style notebook out of his inside pocket. “There are other names in Oscar’s notes. Some of them are familiar to me and some I don’t know as well or at all.”

He read out a few names and Beatrice surreptitiously jotted them down on the back of a receipt for future reference. “Ida was one. That’s an unusual name and I’m thinking it’s the Ida who used to do a lot of work at the church.”