Vineyard Quilt: Pattern Of Betrayal Part 5

"Fair enough," she said. "Has the coroner determined the cause of death?"

"You need the coroner's report to tell you that?"

Julie supposed she deserved that. Alice had been found facedown next to a heavy blunt object, with a knot the size of St. Louis on the back of her head. "The candlestick," she muttered.

"Does it belong to the inn?"

"Yes. Well, we've owned it for a week. It was a prop for the murder mystery."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"You know, 'with the candlestick in the dining room,' like in the board game Clue," Julie added.

"Are you saying it was your fake murder weapon?"

"Yes and no." She closed her eyes, fighting the headache that was starting to form.

"Why don't you tell me more about this weekend you had planned."

Julie sighed. How many times would he ask her the same question? Was he trying to trip her up or catch her in some lie? Why she'd thought he would be any help to her was the real mystery. "It was simple, really. All the guests were supposed to determine who killed Inga."

"And she was supposed to be hit on the head with a giant candlestick?" Frost asked.

"No, she was supposed to drink poisoned wine."

"The wine was poisoned too?"

"Not really poisoned," she said. "The wine was fine. We added almond extract to it to make it smell like it had been tainted with a.r.s.enic. Inga was supposed to drink it even though it was meant for Shirley. No one was supposed to get hit in the head." Especially not Alice.

"If Inga was your victim, who was supposed to have killed her?"

"Daniel."

"Ah, Franklin. I should have known he'd have some part in this."

"Daniel didn't do anything," Julie said.

"Are you sure about that?"

Julie bristled at the detective's accusatory tone. "Positive. He was with me the entire time." She'd told Frost all of this the night before, and she'd had enough of the conversation. She felt like a dog chasing its tail. "You know what? I've got to get back to work."

"Of course."

She sighed. "Why do you hate me?" She nearly slapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Across the line, she could almost hear his grimacing smile. "And there's where you're wrong, Miss Ellis. I don't hate you at all."

"We're looking for Julie Ellis." The young man read her name off the card he held in one hand. He stood just inside the door of the inn, looking sorely out of place in a pair of denim overalls and a sport coat. Two women flanked him, one on each side. They were dressed a little nicer, but something about them both screamed "country." One wore slacks and a b.u.t.ton-down shirt, the other a flower-print dress reminiscent of Alice Kramden, from the old TV show The Honeymooners, might wear.

"I'm Julie," she said, walking around the registration desk. "How can I help you?"

The man's blue eyes filled with tears, but he sniffed them back. There was something familiar about the way he held his chin and the downward turn to the corners of his mouth. "I'm Rusty Peyton. Alice is-was my mother." He mopped his face with a handkerchief. The woman to his left stifled a sob, while the one on his right remained stoic and cool.

"Mr. Peyton," Julie said, taking his handkerchief-free hand into her own. She felt the card he read from earlier crease beneath her grasp. "I am so sorry for your loss."

He dropped his head and wiped at his face again. "Thank you. The police said we could come by here and pick up her things. We're taking her home this afternoon."

The dark-haired woman on his left, the one wearing the dress, sobbed again, a choked and strangled sound.

"This is my wife, Serena Peyton," he said, indicating the bereft woman. "And this is my sister, Amelia Peyton."

Bleach-blond Amelia shot Julie a twist of her mouth that Julie could only a.s.sume was meant to be a smile of greeting. It was more on the side of a grimace.

"Can we get on with this?" Amelia asked, eyeing her surroundings as if she had somehow found herself at the city dump. "This place gives me the creeps."

Julie blinked. Not exactly the response one would expect from a girl who had just lost her mother. "Of course."

Amelia turned to glare at Julie. "Your inn is clearly not a safe place to be. You failed to protect my mother."

Julie blinked again and then turned to the less hostile Rusty Peyton. "Nothing like this has ever happened here before."

"Like that helps anyone now," Amelia said over Serena's continued sobs. "Our mother is dead!"

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Julie said again. It was all she could say, though she knew it was weak. What was the protocol for an inn manager who was faced with the family of a murdered guest? Someone should write an etiquette book on it-Avoiding Awkward Innkeeper Interactions. Maybe she would. "Let me get the key, and I'll show you to her room."

A horrified look crossed Rusty's face, and he shook his head. Like Alice, he had brown hair, though his wasn't streaked with gray. "No ma'am," he said. "I don't think I can pick up her things like that."

"Oh, for pity's sake, I'll do it," Amelia said, s.n.a.t.c.hing the key out of Julie's hand as she stood there, stunned. She knew grief could get angry, but it was still shocking to see.

In one quick swipe, Rusty took the key from his sister and deposited it back in Julie's hand. "Miss Ellis, would you do us the favor of gathering our mother's things?"

It was unorthodox, to be sure, but gathering Alice Peyton's things might offer a clue or two about who killed her. The police had already searched her room the night of the murder, of course, gathering any clues that they could. But maybe they had missed one.

Julie closed her fingers around the key and smiled rea.s.suringly at Rusty. "Of course I will. In the meantime, why don't you make yourselves comfortable in the tearoom?" She ushered them into Shirley's place, which was nearly full.

"Shirley, please give Alice Peyton's family anything they want, on me."

"You got it." Shirley was busy working behind the counter but paused to give the family a sympathetic look, which was met by a judgmental stare from Amelia. Julie guessed it was inspired by Shirley's outfit, which made her look like a wayward gypsy-handmade handkerchief skirt, matching hat, and patchwork vest in bright shades of purple and red.

As the Peytons settled in at the last available table, Julie joined Shirley at the counter to find out why the tearoom was so crowded.

"It's been like this since the mur-since I opened." Shirley caught herself before she actually said the word. And for that, Julie was grateful. She didn't think the sobbing Serena Peyton could stand to hear it.

"I'll be back down in a few minutes," Julie said. "I can give you a hand if you need it."

Shirley smiled gratefully. "I'll holler at Hannah if I get in over my head."

Julie nodded and turned back to the Peyton trio. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

The bell over the door tinkled as Julie pa.s.sed by on her way to Alice's room, warning that another visitor had entered the inn. She smiled absently in the man's direction and then did a double take. Tall and blond, there was something familiar about him. It was a subtle deja vu, as if she'd seen him before but never actually met him.

He smiled in return, but his eyes remained sad.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"No, thank you. Just meeting someone." He headed in the direction of the tearoom.

Julie cast him one last look before heading up to the second floor. Her stilettos clicked against the stairs as she climbed. Out of habit, she knocked on the door before shaking her head and letting herself in.

She fully expected to walk into a room that looked like it had been rifled through by the police-drawers hanging open, possessions strewn about. But the room was immaculate. Everything looked neat as could be. All the drawers were in place, the closet door shut. The bed had been stripped and clean sheets were placed at the foot of the mattress, waiting for the next guest to arrive.

Inga, housekeeper extraordinaire, strikes again.

Julie spotted Alice's suitcase and overnight bag sitting off to one side. Inga had even packed the woman's bags, knowing eventually the family would come for them.

Of course, the family didn't know they were already packed.

Julie quickly lifted the overnight case onto the bed and unzipped the top. Shampoo, deodorant, and toothpaste-nothing special there. Even Alice's makeup bag was filled with ordinary, everyday cosmetics. Then again, what was Julie expecting to find? A note that said, "In case I'm murdered, know that so-and-so is responsible"?

She sighed and closed the overnight bag. Then she lifted the suitcase to the bed and unhooked the latches. It was a hard-sided style from the eighties with fake satin interior and an elastic pocket sewn into the top.

All of Alice's clothes were stacked inside so neatly that Julie was almost loath to disturb them. Almost. She reached inside and ran her fingers over the material. Jeans, a sweater, slacks, shirts, one dress, and three pairs of shoes.

How was she planning to survive the weekend with only three pairs of shoes?

Other than the lack of footwear, she found nothing remarkable in the case. Julie ran her hands inside the elastic pouch and brought out a newspaper from the city of Little Rock, the Arkansas News Today. It wasn't the entire paper. At least Julie didn't think so. It was about the same thickness as the Straussberg paper, and her little Missouri town was much smaller than Little Rock, Arkansas. The portion of paper was folded in half and included the front page. There was an article about a kids' museum opening and the new tax initiative that had been pa.s.sed. Nothing incredibly noteworthy. At least not from where Julie was standing. She unfolded it and glanced at the back. One headline in particular jumped out at her: "Rare Find in Missouri B&B."

It appeared to be the same article written about the Quilt Haus Inn that had run a few days earlier in the local Straussberg paper. This meant Alice had known about the journal before she came to Missouri.

Yet, she'd seemed so disinterested when I brought out the journal for everyone to see.

Julie thought for a moment. Maybe it was all a coincidence. After all, what would a nearly worthless Civil War journal have to do with Alice's murder? It was possible that Alice hadn't even noticed the article hidden on the back page.

Julie tucked the newspaper back into its pocket and neatly repacked Alice's suitcase. She latched the case, gathered both bags, and headed out of the room. She'd ponder the newspaper article discovery later. Right now, she had a grieving family to deal with.

She carted the cases down the stairs and left them by the front desk.

She heard Shirley telling a story to a group of guests as she walked into the tearoom. The amount of gossip that found its way into the woman's "historical" talks was nothing short of a miracle.

"I have your mother's things at the front desk when you're ready," Julie said to the Peytons. "But there's no rush. Take all the time you need."

Rusty stood, stretched his long legs, and gave her a grateful, watery smile. "Thank you, ma'am. We appreciate that, but it's time for us to get her back home."

Julie followed them to the front of the inn.

"Is this everything?" Rusty asked, gesturing toward the bags on the floor.

Julie nodded. He picked up both bags; then, realizing that he didn't have his hand free to shake hers, sat the large suitcase on the ground and clasped her hand in his large callused one. "Thank you for your help, Miss Ellis."

"You're most welcome." But somehow that didn't seem to be quite enough. She needed to say something rea.s.suring. "I'm sure your mother really appreciated you arranging this trip for her."

Serena sobbed, Amelia rolled her eyes, and Rusty looked confused.

"We didn't buy her this trip," he said. Then his voice turned sour. "Her boyfriend did."

Julie frowned. "I thought she said that she was recently divorced, and her children paid for this trip as a present to her."

"Well, ma'am," Rusty said, "I don't know why she would say something like that. Or maybe you just misunderstood. Our father died when we were in elementary school. Mother never remarried. There was no divorce."

After the Peytons left, Julie went about her daily inn duties, still thinking about the bizarre circ.u.mstances surrounding Alice Peyton. She checked the account ledgers, paid a couple of bills, and unclogged a toilet on the second floor.

Ah, the glamorous life of an innkeeper, she thought as she booted up her computer.

"Julie!" Inga's staunch accent stiffened Julie's spine. Something in the woman's tone told Julie that whatever she had to say was not going to be good. "Something must be done."

Julie pasted on a look of concern as Inga stormed toward the front desk. She closed her laptop and gave the housekeeper her full attention. "What's wrong?"

The housekeeper's cheeks were stained with pink, and the normally starched perfection that defined Inga seemed less p.r.o.nounced than usual. Her hands fluttered about in uncharacteristic agitation. "These gawkers! They come in, leave their trash, put fingerprints on everything, and then they leave. They're running me in circles."

"Julie?" Shirley called out, marching toward the desk, an annoyed expression on her face. "You have got to do something."

"So I've been told." Julie rubbed at her temples. "What's wrong?" Her look of concern was already turning into one of irritation.

"All of these people! They're coming in and hovering around, but they're not buying anything." Shirley shook her head. "I'm not talking one or two. There are dozens of them. You saw how packed it was this morning."

"Not just this morning. All day it's been like this." Inga grimaced. "They want to see the police tape and the candlestick."

"I hope you told them the candlestick is in the police evidence room," Julie said.

Inga crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "I tell them nothing."

The bell above the door chimed as someone else entered the inn. It had been going off nonstop all day. But Straussberg was a tourist town; without the tourists there was no trade.

"I know we need customers in the shop, but I don't like the kind of people that have been coming in today," Shirley said. "Something needs to be done. I can hardly take care of my real customers, thanks to all the others milling around just so they can claim they've been to a real murder scene." She paused. "I suppose if they at least bought something that would be better."

"And make it even harder on the kitchen," Inga replied sharply.

Julie waved a hand to indicate the conversation was at its close. "I'm sorry, ladies. I know how difficult this is, but let's be patient. We can't afford to offend locals or tourists who might recommend the inn to a potential customer."

"For all the wrong reasons," Shirley said under her breath.

"This will die down soon. I'm betting by tomorrow."

Inga grunted her dissatisfaction. "At least put a sign on the door that says gawkers aren't welcome. Or maybe a two-cookie maximum for the tearoom."

"I think you mean a two-cookie minimum," Shirley said.

Inga just glared at her.