Barbara Graham - Quilted 04 - Murder by Vegetable Read online

  He hurried to help her. “Get me out of here,” he whispered.

  Theo ignored his plea. Instead of helping, she actually winked at him and headed for Miss Cindy.

  “It's so much easier to practice with the skirts and whatever you plan to wear on your feet.” Miss Cindy squealed and clapped with delight. “I love the skirts, Theo. Thank you!” Cindy turned to face the men. “By the way, I've ordered some black fishnet stockings that should fit y'all just fine. Isn't it amazing what you can shop for on the Internet?”

  Before any of the men could raise an objection, two of the smallest women in town started handing out the skirts. The men grumbled but stepped into them and tied them over their day clothes. Tony decided Napoleon's dictatorial nature probably had more to do with his diminutive height than his ambition to rule as emperor.

  Tony looked into the mirror again. The image of the shiny black skirt tied over his chocolate brown uniform shirt, complete with badge, froze him in place. At least his khaki pants hadn't been transformed into black fishnet stockings. “I can't do this.”

  Miss Cindy, whom he decided to nickname Miss Napoleon, reached up and patted his back. “You'll be fine, Tony. Once you have your bonnet and wig on and aren't wearing your uniform, you can pretend to have fun.”

  Bonnet and wig? He thought he shook his head, refusing to cooperate, but Miss Napoleon didn't seem to notice.

  Miss Napoleon demonstrated how to grasp the skirts so the dancers could swish and flip them. Checking the mirror, Tony decided there was safety in numbers. They all looked equally bizarre. Even the normally handsome Wade appeared less so than usual. Claude Marmot, whose body hair was thick and dark, was going to look like a dancing bear. Their former sheriff, Harvey Winston, didn't seem as tall as he once had, maybe because of the ever increasing size of his belly. Tony relaxed a bit and experimented with flipping his skirt. This might turn out to be fun.

  “I'm Veronica. Are you Theo?”

  Theo bobbed her head even as she said, “Yes. I'm glad to meet you.” Theo had wanted to meet Veronica. The extent of the understatement made her laugh. In fact, she was obsessed with curiosity about a woman who was both a university professor and Roscoe's girlfriend. A real live girl. And now Veronica was here, standing in her quilt shop. If Theo wasn't seeing her in person, she might doubt the woman's existence.

  Veronica spoke softly so Theo stepped closer and thought Veronica smelled like roses. “I wanted to ask you a question, Theo.”

  “Would you like to go upstairs to my office, or would you rather have coffee in the workroom?” Theo made her offer in front of witnesses. If Veronica preferred the privacy of her office, Theo couldn't be blamed. Theo was sure every ear was tuned in, waiting for Veronica's answer.

  “Let's have coffee down here. I'd love to see what your group is working on.” Veronica headed for the workroom and stopped just inside. It was a busy day in the workroom and women of all ages and description were busy working on the raffle quilt.

  Standing near her, Theo was struck by the woman's ordinariness. She was a bit taller than Theo herself and thin, but the curtain of hair was real. Thick and glossy, it practically begged to be touched. Her features were closer to plain than pretty, but a little makeup might be all she'd need to swing to the gorgeous end of the scale. “Your hair is beautiful. Has it always been long?”

  “Thank you. And no.” Veronica pulled the mass of it over her shoulder and sat on one of the folding chairs. “Some days I get so tired of it I'm tempted to grab a pair of scissors and just whack off a couple feet of it.”

  “You could donate that much to Locks of Love and not miss it much,” said Caro. “Some cancer patient would love a wig made from it.”

  Veronica smiled at the older woman. “What a splendid idea. Let's cut it now.”

  And so they all agreed. Seconds after meeting Theo's group of friends and customers, Veronica was standing on a box and one of the shakiest hands in the room held the scissors. Theo opened her mouth to protest, but a booming voice behind her silenced them all. “Don't.”

  Prudence Sligar Holt, hair stylist, arm wrestler, and mother of a herd of children, was not the kind of woman who could be intimidated by others. Rising from her seat at the quilt frame, she lifted the scissors out of Caro's trembling hands. “If we're going to do this, let's do it right. I've cut hair for Locks of Love before.” She bent over and glared into Caro's sweet face, but her voice was gentle. “Let me do it, Caro, honey?”

  “I'm so relieved you're here.” Caro wobbled toward her chair. “I'd have nightmares for the rest of my life if I mangled it.”

  In seconds there was a party at Theo's shop. The grapevine was operating at full power. Quilters and non-quilters alike joined the party, met Veronica, admired her hair, both the donated and the stuff still on her head, cooed at Theo's infants, and generally indulged in laughter and socializing.

  While Theo's brain worked on a civil approach to being nosy, others stepped in.

  “How did you and Roscoe meet?”

  “What do you think about the bear?”

  “What do you think about the vending machine?”

  “Who are your people?”

  “Is marriage a possibility?”

  Theo admired Veronica's poise, but she supposed anyone who was smart enough to earn a Ph.D. and teach at a large university was no stranger to rude questions. “You don't have to answer,” Theo whispered, then held her breath, hoping Veronica would tell them all about herself.

  Theo watched as Veronica held up a hand, signaling for silence. Her gesture worked. The quilters, usually an unruly, but not rude, bunch, settled onto their folding chairs and sat, leaning forward, mouths closed. The only sound was the puffing of one quilter's portable oxygen tank.

  “I'm Veronica Weathersby.” She stood straight, hands held low in front of her. She was gripping her thumbs. “I certainly understand your curiosity about me. I'm a bit curious about all of you too.” She flashed them a smile. “I'll admit that Roscoe is not like most of the men I meet in the world of academia, and that's good. He's honest, hardworking, and has built me the most amazing trebuchet. I cannot imagine a more romantic gesture.”

  “A whatzit?” The question came from the back row.

  “Oh, you'll see it at the festival. It's a small version of a siege weapon. It has a swinging arm and a net. Back in the Middle Ages, it was used to throw rocks or whatever at castle walls during an attempt to break in.” Veronica's smile was radiant. “Roscoe and I met at a picnic for people interested in learning about life, tools, and weapons from a much earlier era.”

  “Well, I can certainly believe Roscoe would love to throw rocks at things.” Prudence's voice rang through the room.

  “Oh, not as much as I do.” Veronica spread her hands. “I love siege machines the way your group loves sewing machines.”

  As a way of shutting down the conversation, her comment failed. The noise level in the room skyrocketed. The general consensus was a question. “How could anyone not love quilting?”

  “I do love Baby.” Veronica regained their attention with a whisper. “She's the sweetest animal.”

  “Is she talking about that bear?” An elderly woman bellowed. “Ought to be shot before it eats one of us.”

  Veronica stopped smiling. “Baby is a good bear. She eats bugs and grubs and berries.”

  Theo stepped forward. “Thank you, Veronica. You've been more than gracious about dealing with us.” She glared at the bear-hater. “I'm sure we can all enjoy the differences as well as the similarities between us.”

  Gretchen slipped through the back door carrying a takeout box from Ruby's and set it on the counter next to the coffee pot. “I bought cookies.”

  The audience dissolved, heading for treats in a more or less civilized manner.

  “What a great idea.” Theo looked toward the front door. “I didn't even see you leave.”

  With a laugh, Gretchen handed Theo a cookie she'd removed from the box on the walk
back. “I thought with Veronica as our impromptu guest, a few treats might produce a banner day of sales.”

  Watching the cookie eaters begin to prowl around the workroom, Theo could tell they'd soon be out in the fabric area, shopping. “You deserve a raise.”

  “So true, Boss, but that's life.” Gretchen trotted toward her cutting table, preparing for the expected onslaught.

  Theo was surprised when Veronica pulled her aside. “Roscoe thinks you're the perfect woman.” If Theo had a moment to decide what would be the least likely statement she could imagine, she wouldn't have come close to that one. She just stared at Veronica.

  “Really.” Veronica nodded for emphasis. “It's because you make beautiful things and because you don't make him feel worthless.” She whispered. “Plus, you like watching baseball.”

  At that Theo laughed. “I don't suppose you like baseball?”

  “I love it. But”—Veronica's voice dropped even lower, and she spoke the words as if she were confessing to a terrible crime—“my favorite team is his team's arch rival.”

  Theo gave her statement some thought. “Do you get along with Baby and Dora?”

  “I love Baby.” Veronica looked discouraged. “I just can't warm up to the vending machine. Maybe it would be easier if she was filled with chocolate.”

  “You'll do fine.” Theo gave the professor a quick hug and went to help Gretchen.

  Tony received frequent updates from the frustrated search and rescue ground crew as they moved from the parked car into the ancient forest. Not surprisingly, given their missing person's predilection for dressing in camouflage, the search plane failed to spot any movement the size and shape of a hiker. The dogs, including Dammit, were their next best option.

  Late in the afternoon of the second search day, they found him, almost by accident. He lay on the ground, dressed in camouflage, half under a rhododendron. Its heavy, glossy leaves formed a natural shelter for him, and his clothing blended him into the leaf and shadow pattern.

  Mike relayed their position and the condition of the hiker. Through the radio, Tony heard angry words from the hiker.

  “What took you so long? I saw your plane fly over at least three times yesterday.”

  Mike said, “You've made yourself invisible.”

  “I'll sue.”

  Mike muttered into his radio. “Can we leave him out here?”

  “I'm afraid not.” Although Tony sympathized.

  By the time the rescuers shepherded their ungrateful charge back to civilization, there had apparently been a series of threats on both sides. The rescued man suffered from diarrhea and dehydration. His disagreeable attitude didn't endear him to anyone. As soon as the doctor finished his examination and assistance, the man stomped away with no offer of thanks to anyone.

  In a county the size of his, Tony didn't have enough deputies to lose one to a fool's errand. He thought he'd enjoy sending the hiker a bill for wasted time, and certainly understood now why his own brother had not been concerned about his disappearance. He might have been hoping never to have to deal with his sibling again.

  RUNNING IN CIRCLES

  A MYSTERY QUILT

  SECOND BODY OF CLUES

  Sew a 4 1/2″ by 1 7/8″rectangle of fabric (B) on two opposing sides of 4 1/2″ by 1 7/8″ rectangle of fabric (D). Make 12. Label (B+D)

  Repeat, sewing fabric (B) with fabrics (E), (F), and (G).

  Press to darker fabrics.

  Trim to 4 1/2″ square

  Label (B+E), (B+F) (B+G) and set aside.

  Layout:

  Place the 4 1/2″square of fabric (A) next to the 12 blocks labeled (B+D) with rectangles of fabric (B) along one side of (A). Sew.

  Repeat on opposite side of (A) with blocks (B+E).

  Press to (A). You will have twelve strips—D+B+A+B+E.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful. Spring was putting on a show of fresh green leaves, colorful flowers, birds, and vistas to inspire poetry. The bright blue sky highlighted the distinctive haze on the mountains, tinting the hills rather than masking them like the heavy summer air. People poured onto the museum grounds.

  Tony thought the turnout for the Ramp Festival had to exceed even his mom's optimistic plans. At least no one could say his mom and aunt gave a party and no one came. What was she thinking now? Too many people? Not enough people? He watched her trotting around the craft booths on the far side of the lawn. Separated from the rest of the festival booths and events, the lines at the food booths snaked around the eating area, allowing people waiting to get food to chat with those eating. There wasn't an empty chair or bench in sight. A small flock of enterprising and fearless ducks wandered through the diners, pecking at any fallen treat.

  The mixture of aromas coming from the food booths made his stomach rumble, suggesting he explore the foods offered. There were a couple of booths run by restaurants and professional caterers. Ruby's Café booth offered mostly desserts. He'd seen Blossom and her coterie of suitors carrying pies and cakes to it. He wondered if he should start with apple pie. Next to Ruby's booth was a small tent shelter providing shade to the two men cooking popcorn in a giant black kettle. The barbeque sandwiches at the Baptist church's booth came on paper plates and were accompanied with a handful of flimsy napkins. Not to be outdone, the Methodists were cooking hamburgers and hot dogs on a pair grills made from salvaged steel barrels.

  Slightly removed from the other food offerings, the actual ramp dishes had their own little area. Those products were being given away as part of the contest and celebration. Empty commercial-size condiment jars with slots cut in the lids had been decorated and labeled by competitor. The voting was monetary. Whichever jar collected the most money determined the winner and would win the grand prize, a trophy—a ramp created by a clay artist. It was actually quite attractive. All the money donated was to go toward the senior citizens' programs and facility.

  Wearing matching bright blue T-shirts printed with “Relic Squad” in fluorescent yellow, the six oldest participants—Nem, Portia, Ada, the Bainbridge sisters, and Caro—handed out napkins and forks, sprinkled pepper, red or black, added salt, offered ketchup. Gnarled, shaking hands perhaps took longer to do the work, or failed to spread the seasoning across the food's whole surface, but no one complained. It was part and parcel of the event. Their tip jar was kept busy.

  Members of several youth organizations, including the scouts and Chris and Jamie's baseball teams, had been hired to clear tables and pick up trash. The boys and girls were earning their pay. Tony didn't know when he'd ever seen so many paper napkins. Some of the diners were actually leaving tips on the tables for the cleanup kids. Maybe his team would be able to buy a couple of new bats for the coming season.

  On the stage, the Elves were performing. The dreaded group sounded a bit less hideous than Tony remembered. It might have had something to do with crowd noises and the unexpected problem with the speakers. No sound could be heard coming from them. Tony hoped the issue would be resolved, only after the Elves finished. The schedule allowed them ten minutes. If they tried to go over the limit, Tony might grab a pitchfork and lead the charge, like villagers chasing Frankenstein's movie monster.

  The Elves stopped singing, which inspired a wave of enthusiastic applause. Everyone smiled, clearly relieved to have it over and done, performers as much as the audience. The Elves took a bow. As they headed from the stage, they received another big ovation. Luckily there was no time allowed for encores.

  The Elves looked excited by their warm reception. Tony wondered if the audience ought to have provided so much encouragement. The way he saw it, either the Elves would plan on performing at every public event, or they would head for Nashville, expecting to make it big. He hated for the kids to be crushed. On the other hand, he'd heard worse sounds on the radio, so maybe they would end up being rich and famous and having groupies follow them around. The idea made him laugh out loud. A few heads turned his way, but no one ask
ed him what he thought was so funny.

  Miracles do happen. The sound system recovered from its technical difficulties just in time for Mayor Cashdollar to announce the next part of the entertainment. The vegetable weapons were going to fire their first rounds, and he directed the audience's attention toward the field.

  At the far end of the museum property, a colorful series of pennants separated the food, crafts, and music portion of the festival from the vegetable warfare, as Tony thought of it. Quentin prepared to blast a potato from his cannon. Roscoe and his lady friend stood next to their small trebuchet, and a visiting scholar from the medieval club waited near his catapult. The group had arranged everything so the festival goers would be able to see both the machines do their work and the result of their collection of vegetables striking the targets.

  Tony heard the cannon boom and saw a potato fly through the air and slam into a temporary wall of straw bales, totally missing the target, a stock tank filled with water and little yellow rubber ducks.

  Even without hitting the intended target, Quentin and his cannon received wild applause. Turning to face the audience, Quentin crossed an arm over his waist and made quite a courtly bow.

  The medieval scholar with the catapult fired next. The roly-poly visitor was obviously having a great time. Whenever Tony saw him, the man wore a wide grin. Dressed in a period costume of black tights and what looked like a long crimson shirt, the little man looked like a bright red apple with toothpicks for arms and legs and a red “Robin Hood” hat with long pheasant feathers hanging off the back of his head. His catapult was a fairly straightforward weapon—it worked like an oversized spoon in a food fight. The catapult threw a small pumpkin, probably past its prime. The orange projectile slammed into the front of the stock tank and shattered, sending a plume of rotting vegetable marrow into the air. The audience cheered and clapped. The owner tipped his plumed hat.