Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case Page 5

  Another of those looks passed around the table, then Sherry sighed.

  “We can’t be sure Elsman is behind these incidents, but just Tuesday morning we found a dead bird on the porch steps. Its little neck was broken. Wednesday morning, we discovered a break-in at the barn.”

  “What was taken?” I asked, willing myself to remain calm even while remembering the tidy barn and art supplies.

  “The barn was a mess with things tossed all over, so it took a while to pin down that anything at all was missing. Eventually, I discovered some of my basket weaving supplies were gone. Some blue gingham fabric strips, some hemp rope, and my old white cotton gloves. Well, they weren’t white anymore. I use them when I crochet with jute twine, sometimes with hemp twine, too, so I don’t tear up my hands.”

  “And we wear cotton gloves after we treat our hands with lanolin,” Eleanor added. “Although I do believe I’ve come to like my gardening gloves more for whittling. The rubberized ones give me a better grip.”

  “We also discovered,” Dab said, “that a crow bar and an old hand drill were gone. A few other things, too. Nothing worth much, but the drill was my dad’s.”

  “That weren’t the worst mischief, though,” Fred growled. “Tell her, Sherry.”

  “Someone put a cherry bomb or some such thing in the mailbox. I found the damage Thursday morning.”

  “A bomb?” I said, managing not to screech.

  “Back panel landed in the front yard,” Fred said, “and the mailbox door blowed clean across the road. Dab and me put a new mailbox in right quick and fixed the enclosure. And we’re keepin’ the doors on the barn and t’other outbuildings padlocked.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  My hands clenched the chair arms while every muscle vibrated with anger. This went beyond bullying into terrorism. A deep breath then another four calmed me enough to speak again.

  “Does Shoar know about all these incidents? Surely he’s investigating the mailbox bomb.”

  “Naturally,” Sherry said. “Why, even Mayor Paulson and Chief Randall came by with our county deputy prosecuting attorney, Bryan Hardy. You met the mayor and Bryan today. They assured us they’d find the culprits.”

  “Does the detective have suspects?” I asked tightly.

  “He thinks it’s kids pulling pranks,” Dab said.

  Sherry nodded. “I’ve known Eric Shoar since he was a boy, and he’s been very attentive and helpful. He’s doing his best, what with our other detective out for surgery. I’m only surprised he didn’t tell you all this when he took you aside this morning.”

  “So am I,” I muttered with visions of retribution next time I had Shoar in my sights.

  “I ain’t surprised a’tall,” Fred grumped. “To tell it true, we think Shoar believes we’re losin’ it, and that’s why you showed up. Shoar wants you to take us in hand, get us to go to an old folks’ home.”

  I collapsed against the chair back on a whoosh of breath. No wonder they’d all been so leery of me at the festival. Why they were huddled together afterward. Why they kept exchanging speculative glances.

  Why Fred blew up at me.

  “You’re wrong,” I said firmly. “In the first place, I wouldn’t dream of making you move, even if I had that authority. Second, within the limits of his job, Detective Shoar has been protecting y’all. It’s true he gave me an ultimatum to come check on Aunt Sherry Mae, but he doesn’t want you in a seniors’ home.”

  “He told you that?” Sherry asked.

  “He told me Lilyvale takes care of their own, but the explosions—”

  “Booms,” Dab corrected.

  “—have to stop. No more smoke bombs either.”

  Dab heaved a defeated sigh. “I’ll dismantle the stills tomorrow. Now that the festival is over, Aster won’t need me to distill herbs for a month or so.”

  “Hotcakes on the griddle!” Fred crowed. “That’ll give Eleanor a chance to redesign the stills and me to build ’em.”

  “Eleanor designs stills?” I asked.

  “Not in the general way of things, but she is a mechanical engineer.”

  I said, “Oh,” but thought wow.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Dab sputtered. “I want to reassemble at least one of those stills in the barn.”

  “Why, Dab?” Eleanor asked.

  “Because I’m working on my own project and never you mind what it is. I just need one still to be operational.”

  I held up a hand. “Dab, as long as it’s legal, and there are no booms, and no fire dangers, have at it. That will take care of one issue, but, Sherry, you have to talk to your neighbors. You need to find out if Hellspawn is lying about those option contracts. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so most of them should be home by the afternoon, right?”

  Sherry’s worried expression transformed into a beaming smile. “Even better, Nixy. Most of them will be at services tomorrow morning.”

  “Not only that,” Aster broke in with a grin, “it’s also Break Bread Breakfast Sunday at nearly every church in town.”

  “It’s what?”

  “The church ladies of various denominations serve a buffet before the first service,” Eleanor said.

  “It’s designed to build community,” Aster added with a twinkle in her eyes, “but it’s also the best time to pick up gossip.”

  “Not that we gossip,” Eleanor said primly.

  Dab and Fred snorted a laugh.

  “Then are you in for some snooping?” I asked. “All of you?”

  Heads nodded, and Maise rapped the table with the heel of her knife. “It’s unanimous. At oh-eight-hundred tomorrow, we commence Operation Sink Hellspawn.”

  • • •

  LATER I PITCHED IN TO CLEAN THE DINNER DISHES—policing the kitchen, Maise called it— and listened to Sherry and crew strategize which of them would visit which churches the following morning. From their discussion, I learned none of them were strangers to any church in Lilyvale. That, Sherry said, should make asking questions less offensive. Maise declared they’d operate at maximum efficiency if she went to the Baptist breakfast, Eleanor and Aster hit the Methodist church, and Sherry, Dab, and I attended St. Mark’s Episcopal.

  Fred decided he’d stay home and on guard in case Elsman and her assistant tried to pull any shenanigans. When Maise pushed him, he promised he’d guard without shoving his prized Colt .45 in an overall pocket.

  I kept my mouth firmly shut during that exchange but shuddered at the image of Fred with a gun in hand. Or tucked into his walker tool belt.

  When Maise pronounced the kitchen shipshape, the Six gathered in the dining room again, this time to add up their festival receipts. Pointed looks from Eleanor and Aster made it clear they wanted privacy. Part of the don’t discuss finances rule, I supposed, so I said good night to a chorus of “Sleep tight,” and headed to Sherry’s bedroom to unpack my meager wardrobe and figure out what to wear to church.

  I hadn’t seen the need to bring a dress. Definitely not one of my gussy-up-for-the-gallery suits, and my work clothes from Friday wouldn’t do either. I had, however, packed a decent pair of navy slacks and black loafers. With a white, modestly scoop-necked T-shirt and my throw-it-over-anything navy jacket, I should pass even Maise’s inspection. I should be perfectly comfortable, too, because my weather app showed average highs in the midseventies all week, lows in the fifties. No rain predicted until Saturday, by which time I’d be home.

  Sherry’s claw-foot tub beckoned, so I hung my church outfit on the shower rod to steam out the minor wrinkles and ran a hot bath with a sprinkle of lavender bath salts carrying the Aster’s Aromatics label. Sinking into the fragrant heat relaxed my stiff muscles and general tension, but it didn’t ease all my concerns.

  I didn’t know quite what I’d expected to feel being with Sherry Mae again, but something was off. Though she’d been grieving
for my mom, too, the Sherry of eighteen months ago had been rock solid. She’d kept me organized and on task whether the job at hand was making lists for the mountain of thank-you notes to be written, or sorting items to keep or donate.

  In contrast, today’s Sherry acted unsure, tentative. More passive than assertive. The woman who’d helped me account for every dime of the funeral expenses had accepted Hellspawn’s claims without blinking.

  Then again, I didn’t want to question the obnoxious Hellspawn about the time of day either. I wanted her far away. Mars could be far enough.

  I just had to help Sherry get rid of her by Tuesday.

  As for determining if Sherry and her friends had money troubles, that was information I doubted I’d get at all.

  However, knowing the explosions and kitchen fires were only booms and smoke bombs was a huge relief. Once Dab dismantled the stills, no more booms, no more bombs, and the neighbors would have nothing to complain about. Detective Shoar would have nothing to investigate. Nothing to plague me about.

  I bit my lip as I drained the tub, toweled dry, and considered not Eric Shoar’s many manly attributes, but his manner.

  It bothered me that the Six assumed Shoar wanted them out of their home. They lived in this town and had done so most of their lives from what I gathered. They knew how things worked in Lilyvale. So what if I was wrong about the detective? What if Hellspawn was indeed greasing city official palms and he was a pawn to do their bidding? I didn’t for a second consider he’d be complicit with an underhanded scheme. Instinct told me he was too honest, too honorable. Besides, if he wanted the Six out of the farmhouse, he’d want me staying put in Houston, not visiting Lilyvale. Right?

  I plugged in my tablet and phone to charge them and thought about Fred’s outraged defense of Sherry. Of them all. I’d surmised from Sherry’s letters and cards and e-mails that she shared a close bond with her housemates, but I’d had no idea how strong their ties were. I couldn’t claim to be that close to my roommate, Vicki, although I counted her as a friend.

  Sadly, I had to admit she was one of my few friends. I had drinks with acquaintances now and then, and I used to date often, but I hadn’t met a man who really tripped my romantic trigger. Without fail, sometime between dates one and three, either I got fed up with a guy, or I became his pal instead of a potential partner. I learned a lot of interesting tidbits about a lot of subjects, from law to car maintenance to longhorn cattle ranching, but each relationship that lasted past three dates quickly became platonic. All fizzle, no sizzle.

  I snuggled down in Sherry’s bed with a promise to myself that I’d get a life when I got home.

  Sunday morning, I dressed for another beautiful Arkansas day. Makeup and hair done, I met the Six in the kitchen. Except for Fred, the seniors wore church clothes. Eleanor again looked elegant enough to belong in a fashion magazine.

  Maise handed me a list of people we should be able to corner at the breakfast. Each name was followed with a brief physical description and a notation about where they lived and how long they’d been in their homes. Also where some of them worked. I didn’t know the area, so the addresses didn’t mean a thing to me, but I did note some of these people had been Sherry’s neighbors for thirty years or more.

  “We thought this would help you keep everyone straight,” Sherry said.

  “Seein’ as how you haven’t been here before,” Fred added, his tone just shy of snide.

  Winning Fred over was going to be a challenge. Maybe when I came back for another visit, he’d forgive me for being a bad niece. Make that twenty or thirty visits.

  Riding in Dab’s prime-condition Cadillac soothed my nerves somewhat, although they jumped again when we entered the already crowded fellowship hall just after eight. Dab steered us to the buffet tables even as he pointed out some of the neighbors on the list. Sherry hovered over the dishes but didn’t help herself to much of anything. Dab insisted on scooping a serving of egg-and-bacon casserole onto her plate, then served himself.

  I had a half serving of the casserole, too, and then all but fell on the platter of biscuits. “Dough Belly,” my dad used to call me, and he was right. Sandwich bread didn’t tempt me, but corn bread, rolls, and biscuits were siren songs to my stomach. With butter and honey? Bliss on a paper plate. Good thing I burned off carbs with ease, though that supposedly changed after age thirty. Fair enough. I refused to worry about it until then.

  My guide-to-the-neighbors cheat sheet in my jacket pocket, I followed Dab and Sherry to the last three seats at the end of a table near a concrete block wall. Sherry introduced me to John and Jane Lambert, the couple who owned the house at the end of Sherry’s block. Both wore green—a green shirt and gray tie for him, a long-sleeved shirtwaist dress that looked vintage for her.

  Sherry didn’t have to question them, though. A couple of how-do-you-dos, and John lit into her.

  “Sherry Mae Cutler, you have some nerve showing up here. Your family must be rolling in that graveyard out back.”

  Chapter Six

  SHERRY GAPED, AND I WAS RIGHT THERE WITH HER.

  “What on earth are you talking about, John?” Dab snapped.

  “That developer woman told me you up and sold her the property option on your place. That place has been in your family since they founded Lilyvale. And after all the work you and Bill put into it over the years, too. It’s not right. Just not right.”

  Sherry sputtered before finding her voice. “I haven’t sold Jill Elsman a thing, John.”

  He lowered a forkful of hash browns. “You haven’t?”

  “No. She told me you had. That all my neighbors had sold to her.”

  “Why, that lying—”

  “Now, John,” Jane said, a hand on his coat sleeve. “We’re in church.”

  “We’re in the fellowship hall.”

  “God can still hear you.”

  I choked on a bite of biscuit, but Sherry kept her eyes on John.

  “Have you signed her contract yet?” Sherry asked John.

  “No, I have not. I told her I wouldn’t unless she showed me your contract, signed and sealed.”

  “I declare, John. Why would you tell her that?”

  “Because of your standing in this town. You were the mayor. I figured if you signed, the deal was legit.”

  “What are you talking about?” a big man in blue bellowed from the next table. “Is it that pesky Elsman woman?”

  “Sure is, Big George,” John called back.

  That name I remembered from the list. Big George Heath looked like a bear in a brown suit. He owned the hardware store.

  Heads lifted, chairs scraped on the dull linoleum, and suddenly people swarmed to the table, drawling their words double time. The Southern accents weren’t that different from the Texas drawl I’d grown up hearing—heck, the one I had myself—but the noise grew in volume and bounced around the room.

  A rare attack of crowd-induced claustrophobia gripped me, so when Sherry stood, I did, too. Shoulder to shoulder with her, I grabbed my cheat sheet from my pocket. Dab stood behind and between us.

  “She’s the rudest person!”

  “Marie Dunn,” Dab whispered as the neighbors voiced their agreement with Marie, a petite woman wearing a black pantsuit.

  “She acted like she was doing us such a big favor. Just because our home is small and more than seventy years old doesn’t make it worthless.”

  “Pauletta Williamson,” Dab provided even as I glanced at my list. Gray permed hair, denim dress, squash blossom necklace.

  “That fool woman sets a toe on my property again, and I’ll use Barker to comb her hair with buckshot.”

  “Now, Duke, don’t be saying things like that,” Sherry chided.

  Duke Richards, I remembered after a peek at my crib sheet. The suit-wearing man with collar-length hair. He owned the Dairy Queen.

&nb
sp; “You’ve been the mayor, Sherry. You should do something about that land shark.”

  “Bog Turner.” Dab identified the bald man who jerked at the knot of his black striped tie. Ironically, he owned the barber shop.

  Silence reigned for seconds. Then Sherry straightened her spine.

  “I can’t do anything about her by myself, Bog, but together we can. I’ll organize a meeting, so everyone write down your name and contact information, just in case I can’t find my church roster at home.”

  Scribbling quickly ensued, and Sherry turned to me. “You take notes on that list Dab gave you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said as she clapped for attention.

  “Friends, I need a show of hands. How many of you have signed contracts with Jill Elsman?”

  No hands went up. I dutifully recorded it.

  “How many of you were told that I had signed the contract?”

  Thirteen hands waved, and I marked the number, though I didn’t have time to mentally connect hands with people’s names.

  “Did Jill Elsman tell any of you what she planned to build?”

  No one answered, and I jumped in with a question.

  “Did she threaten any of you?”

  “Who’s asking?” Pauletta demanded.

  “I’m Nixy. Leslee Stanton Nix. Sherry Mae’s niece.”

  “Sue Anne’s girl? Oh, honey, we prayed for your mama.”

  The comment blindsided me. My throat clogged and tears threatened, but I swallowed hard and took a breath. “Thank you, Mrs. Williamson. Now, about the threats. Anyone?”

  “She didn’t threaten me, but I heard about the trouble at your aunt’s place,” Bog said. “You think this woman’s behind it all?”

  I shrugged. “Detective Shoar thinks kids are pulling the pranks. Back to what this project could be, what about contacts at city hall? Does anyone have an in with a secretary? A clerk?”

  “I play checkers with Scooter Morgan at the shop,” Bog admitted. “But he’s the janitor. I doubt he knows much.”