Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case Page 4

  Shopping took a backseat with the teachers, too. They schmoozed with Mayor Patrick Paulson and councilpersons Kate Byrd and B. G. Huff. Were they two of the councilpersons Detective Shoar had seen lunching with Hellspawn? How many others were there? I put Huff and Byrd in my mental Rolodex.

  Not one person mentioned Sherry’s explosions or fires, and I wondered if she had asked them to keep mum. Not one of them bought baskets either, except for the mayor. He scored points with me when he purchased an egg basket before he wandered away with the others.

  Sherry’s behavior puzzled me yet again. She talked easily with everyone else, but with me she acted jittery, her eyes never quite meeting mine. Even in the one moment we had without shoppers surrounding us, when I apologized again for arriving without notice, her gaze only skimmed my face.

  “At least let me order pizza or go pick up dinner,” I said.

  “No need, child,” she said, waving away the offer. “We have supper all set. Ham salad, chicken salad, cottage cheese with olives and tomatoes, and Maise’s famous fried okra. You’ll stay with us, no arguments. I’ll share Eleanor’s room and you’ll have mine.”

  “I don’t want to put Eleanor out, Sherry. I can bunk with you.”

  She gave me another of her near-panicked glances.

  “Or I’ll take the sofa,” I amended. “Or find a hotel room. I’ll only be here a few days.”

  “No, no, it’s all settled. Now, will you watch the baskets again for a while?”

  “Sure, I will. And thank you.”

  She cocked her head, peering at me like an inquisitive bird, then patted my arm and took off.

  What had happened to the serene, never-ruffled Sherry Mae of eighteen months ago? The question nagged at me, but I shoved it to the back burner of my brain and sold more baskets.

  • • •

  WHILE PEOPLE CAME AND WENT THROUGHOUT THE day, the crowd never really thinned. In the late afternoon, when artists began packing up what little seemed to be left of their wares, shoppers hustled to score last-minute buys.

  Sherry had fewer than a dozen baskets remaining in her stock, two made of rough jute that I learned were crocheted, not woven. As I packed the wares in a large cardboard box, I remembered Trudy’s request to buy one of Sherry’s white oak baskets. Sherry made distinctive long hemp rope handles wrapped in fabric with the ends artfully frayed. Two were left. Should I hold one out for Trudy now? No. If she followed up on her request to buy a basket, I could find one for her quickly enough. I finished packing and broke down the rest of the boxes for easy storage.

  At five fifteen, the last of the vendors wheeled her SUV out of the gravel drive and the yard looked pristine. The crepe myrtle sapling didn’t have so much as a bent leaf, and there wasn’t a scrap of trash anywhere. Impressive, especially considering the number of people who’d been on the grounds today.

  I folded Sherry’s tables and leaned them long way against the porch rail, then strode to the south part of the wraparound porch to help Aster, Maise, Dab, and Eleanor with their tables. I knew they were capable of folding the tables on their own. They’d managed the setup, after all. But, hey, they were all in their early seventies and had been on their feet all day.

  Besides, I needed all the brownie points I could get with his group.

  I found the Silver Six in a hushed-tone huddle. Folded tables rested on two hand trucks along with a couple of intact boxes—packed with their own festival leftovers, I guessed—and more neatly folded boxes. I couldn’t overhear them, so I took a moment to observe them more closely.

  No outward signs of illness, and they all seemed mentally sharp enough. Heck, I was beginning to droop from the long drive and the long day, while the seniors seemed to have reserves of energy. Sherry stood tall as a five-foot woman can, and had kept a trim figure. Eleanor had, too, while Maise and Aster had figures like my mother. Matronly, Mom had called it. Dab was thin but not emaciated, Fred rounded but not morbidly obese. Except for Fred using a walker, he didn’t look the least bit infirm, and neither did the other compatriots. Or would that be conspirators?

  Eleanor looked up and spotted me, all conversation halted, and every face turned my way. Yep, they were plotting. At least they all looked healthy doing it.

  I waved and bounced down the stairs, weaving my way through the herb garden. “That was a wonderful festival,” I said as I approached. “Shall I move these tables for y’all?”

  Sherry smiled. “Certainly, Nixy. They go in the barn. Dab and Fred will show you where, right, gentlemen?”

  “Whatever you wish,” Dab said gallantly.

  “And your unsold baskets? There weren’t many, and they all fit in one box I left on the porch.”

  “Those go in the basement, but I’ll take care of them.”

  “You sure? It’s a big box.”

  “But not heavy. Now, when you finish moving the tables, Nixy, bring your things and come on in for supper.”

  “I’ll even break out my dandelion wine to celebrate,” Aster said.

  I expected immediate action, yet, except to shift from foot to foot, no one moved. Maise glanced at her watch, gave a small nod, and they all turned toward the road.

  I turned with them, having to shade my eyes against the intense western sun, even though I wore my sunglasses. Birds chirped, but nothing moved. No cars passed. The rustic rail fence didn’t appear to be damaged, and the cute farmhouse mailbox enclosure was intact and upright as far as I could see. Nothing seemed out of place because, again, there was not so much as a gum wrapper in the yard.

  Impatience got the best of me.

  “I’ll bite. What are we looking at?”

  “Not looking at,” Maise said. “Waiting for.”

  Sherry linked her arm in mine, and I had another flash of memory about my mother. “Jill Elsman has been driving by each afternoon about this time,” she said. “We wave at her.”

  “Just being friendly?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Psychological warfare,” Maise snapped. “She thinks she’s intimidating us. We retaliate with a peaceful show of force to keep her off balance.”

  “She’s already unbalanced,” I muttered, but waited shoulder to shoulder with the Six until another few minutes passed.

  “Don’t look like she’s comin’ today,” Fred barked. “I’m hungry.”

  “All right, then, let’s move out. Ladies, with me. Men, show Nixy where to stow the gear.”

  I spent the next thirty minutes bemused and bumping table-laden hand carts through the yard and into a storage room in a front corner of the barn. Fred and Dab escorted me on the first load run, but Fred stayed in the barn to tinker with the riding lawn mower parked there. I also caught sight of plastic bins on a workbench holding blocks of wood, wood slats for baskets, and coils of white and tan rope. Even without an artistic gene in my DNA, my fingers itched to touch and test the textures of the art supplies.

  With my suitcase and my brown suede hobo bag, I entered the house through the back to get a look at the country kitchen, which took up nearly a quarter of the downstairs. I glimpsed Maise at the oven, Aster at the counter, and Eleanor standing at a round pedestal table but saw no telltale scorch marks before Sherry intercepted me. She’d removed the barrette in her hair again and bangs flopped over one eye.

  It struck me as odd that she was finally looking at me directly when she hadn’t done so most of the day. I didn’t have time to puzzle on it, though. With a firm grip on my arm, Sherry steered me away from the heavenly smells of dinner to the back hall and staircase.

  “Did Sue Anne tell you much about the Stanton homestead?”

  “She did, and you sent photos to me, Sherry, but the house is even nicer than I imagined.” I eyed the original hardwood floors and the plain but gorgeous banister and spindles. A large window splashed late-afternoon sun on the landing, and we turned to the second se
t of steps.

  My mom had talked about the Stantons being a larger clan at one time, so I knew the house had four bedrooms upstairs and boasted three full bathrooms. Bathrooms were as rare as closet space in a house this old, but my ancestors had been forward thinking enough to build both as they added to the house. Or desperate for bathrooms.

  “We womenfolk are up here with Dab,” Sherry said. “Fred’s downstairs. My Bill couldn’t handle the stairs at the last, and since we had two parlors, we converted the back one into a bedroom and cut another door to the downstairs bath. Dab and Fred share that one.”

  Bill, I recalled, had suffered a stroke several years before my mother did. Unlike my mom, Bill had lived another year before a second, fatal stroke.

  Sherry stopped at the end of the hall, opened the door on the right, and I sucked in a breath. The room was painted a soft spring green with white sheers on the four windows. A burl wood dresser, dark wood night table, and overstuffed chair with a needlepoint footstool had perfect places in the room, but the centerpiece was the homemade quilt with a spring flowers motif covering the four-poster bed.

  “Your great-grandmother made the quilt,” Sherry said softly. “It’s a bit faded, and it’s been mended over the years.”

  “It’s beautiful, Aunt Sherry,” I breathed. “The whole room is you.”

  “Thank you. I like it, though the morning sun will wake you, so sleeping late is nearly impossible. The master bath is through there,” she said on a smile and pointed to the right. “Do you want to freshen up before we eat?”

  “I’ll just wash my hands and be right down.”

  “Don’t dawdle.”

  I didn’t. I didn’t even take time to snoop. Hunger pangs hit like a hammer, and, besides, the doors were closed in both the upstairs and downstairs halls. I followed the sound of voices to the front of the house where a double wide doorway opened onto the dining room. A long, dark wood sideboard held candle sticks and decorative bowls, and an old farm table, equally darkened with age, was set for seven and laden with food. Three glass beverage pitchers, and a bottle surrounded by cordial glasses. Everyone but Dab was seated, and he came through a swinging door with another chair he plopped down next to Sherry at the far end of the table.

  “Nixy, sit there at the foot so we can all see you,” Sherry said as she pointed to the chair closest to the foyer.

  With Fred on my left, Eleanor on my right, I took my seat, and after Aster gave thanks for the bounty, we dug in. Saucers piled with homemade bread, big bowls with the cold meat salads and crisp, evenly browned fried okra, and small bowls with condiments made the lap around the table. I opted for sweet tea and accepted a splash of dandelion wine.

  I expected dinner chatter about the festival, but the Silver Six ate in silence so profound, they’d give vow-silent monks competition. And, okay, I shoveled down fried okra so divine, my taste buds had a religious experience.

  But I needed answers, and at this moment, I had a captive audience.

  “Aunt Sherry, I mentioned that I have to leave Tuesday, right?”

  “It’s not the least bit inconvenient to have you longer.”

  “Thank you, but the point is I have only a few days to help out. And first, I need to know what’s going on with the explosions and kitchen fires.”

  “Detective Shoar’s been tattling on us?” Her tone went for playful. I didn’t buy it.

  “He’s concerned about your safety and the safety of your neighbors.”

  Fred harrumphed, and Maise cleared her throat.

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “I have a lovely recipe for bananas flambé, but it always goes flambooey. Same when I try it with peaches and berries. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

  “No offense, Maise, but coming from someone who can fry okra this perfect, that story sounds like a lot of baloney.” I set my fork on the plate, sat ramrod straight, and gave each of the Six a hard stare. “Time to come clean, ladies and gentlemen. What’s really going on?”

  Chapter Five

  SILENCE HUNG OVER THE TABLE AS THE SIX exchanged glances. Then Aster shot out of her chair and grabbed a blue bowl from the sideboard.

  “Let’s enjoy a little calming lavender,” she said as she sprinkled tiny purple buds down the center of the table, deftly avoiding the food.

  Fred growled and slapped his thick ham salad sandwich on his plate.

  “I do believe Fred is immune, Aster,” Eleanor said.

  “Bet my last nuts and bolts, I’m immune. I’m mad and I’m stayin’ that way. Who’s she to be askin’ questions when she don’t know nothin’ about—”

  “Fred!” cried the women.

  He crossed his arms. “I’m just saying she’s awful nosy for a niece who hardly pays attention to her aunt.”

  “Fred, please don’t,” Sherry cautioned.

  “Well, she is, dadgumit.” Fred shifted his gaze from Sherry to me. “We’re the ones who’ve been with Sherry through thick ’n thin these past years, and she with us. Me after my accident, Dab after his Melba died, Aster and Maise when their house burned, and Eleanor when—”

  “That’s quite enough, Fred.” Aster spoke with steel in her tone and smacked the bowl of lavender on the table.

  “Point is,” Fred went on, “we’ve been knowin’ each other long before we started sharin’ this house. You don’t know diddly squat about us, and you shouldn’t be stickin’ your nose in our business.”

  I took a measured breath.

  “You’re right, Fred. I don’t know nearly enough about any of you, and I haven’t been the best of nieces to Sherry Mae. But I want to be a better niece, and I want y’all to be safe. To do that I need information. So educate me. Please. Let’s start by talking about the explosions.”

  “That’s my fault,” Dab said, “but it’s a boom, not an explosion. I distill Aster’s herbs in the basement, you see, and every time the old furnace down there rumbles, the vibration messes with the pressure valves on my stills.”

  “When we have, uh, a boom,” Aster added, “we have a system. Maise sets off a smoke bomb in the kitchen window, and I crank up the garden fans to blow away the smoke.”

  Eleanor sniffed. “And blow off whatever that noxious smell coming from the basement is.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Dab. “Why don’t you tell Detective Shoar the truth?”

  “’Cause Dab thinks Shoar will arrest him for moonshinin’,” Fred grumped. “Old Dab’s family was bootleggers back in the day, and he stores some of the old hooch down there.”

  “It’s just some jugs of vintage home brew his family made,” Sherry added. “It’s not much different from having a wine cellar.”

  “I see. Are you making anything illegal, Dab?”

  He puffed up. “Now listen here, I am a chemical engineer with years of experience. I would move out before I’d put any of us at risk.”

  “Okay, then let’s talk about Hellspawn. From what I heard, she wants an option on your land, Sherry. Is that like an oil lease?” Yes, my Texas roots showed, plus I’d dated a geologist who worked for an oil and gas company.

  Sherry folded her hands on the table, and I saw they trembled slightly. “No, child, she wants an option to purchase the entire property. We looked up the term on the Internet. Eleanor, you explain it.”

  Eleanor folded her hands in her lap. “A developer draws up a contract to buy your house or land. You agree on a set purchase price, and the developer then pays the landowner a fee for signing the contract.”

  “How much of a fee?”

  “According to the article we read, it’s five to ten percent of the purchase price. There’s a time limit in the contract, but the selling price remains the same, even if property values go up.”

  “Ms. Elsman told us most of our neighbors have signed her contract,” Sherry added.

  “Bullies lie, Aunt
Sherry. Have you talked to the neighbors to check out her story?”

  Sherry looked shocked. “Heavens, no. One doesn’t talk about religion, politics, or money with people one doesn’t know extremely well, Nixy.”

  “Perhaps not even then,” Maise said. “We’re not nosy parkers.”

  “I know your mother taught you the same rules,” Sherry added.

  “She did, but, Sherry, you’re being threatened. If asking questions gives you facts, it’s time to be a little nosy.” I paused and glanced around the table. “Does anyone know what she’s planning to build?”

  “No,” Dab chimed in, “but Eleanor tried looking her up on the Net. Nothing came up except an Elsman obituary. Oliver James Elsman owned OJE Development Company out of Little Rock.”

  “Is that a land development company?” I asked, and Eleanor nodded. “Then unless there are a lot of Elsmans in Arkansas, I’ll bet the company and Hellspawn are connected. Did she leave you a business card?”

  “Yes, but it only lists her name and phone number,” Eleanor said.

  “Then maybe she’s not legit. Have you called the OJE office to ask if they’ve heard of her?”

  Sherry looked sheepish. “We haven’t had time, what with getting ready for the festival.”

  I nodded and put calling OJE on my to-do list.

  “I heard Hellspawn say you’d be sorry for not selling to her, but has she made specific threats?”

  “She has. She’s visited for thirteen days now, and every time she made threats. At first they were verbal, like telling the city powers that be that I’m unlawfully running a boardinghouse.”

  “At first?” I echoed, feeling the okra suddenly churn in my gut.