“Miss Sissy, these are ...well, they’re very good. Thank you for bringing them.” The old woman inclined her head in response and Beatrice continued. “It seems to me that you must have enjoyed your photography. What made you stop?”

  Miss Sissy grunted. “Didn’t like the new cameras.”

  “What? You mean the digital ones?”

  The old woman nodded.

  “I can understand that they would be off-putting. In fact, I can really understand because I felt the same way when it was time for me to make the switch to digital for my work at the museum. I was very resentful about it, as a matter of fact. But then I realized that they had an upside, too. I could take as many pictures as I liked without wasting film.”

  Miss Sissy seemed to be absorbing this thoughtfully.

  Beatrice said, “At any rate, I’d like to scan some of your pictures to include them in the book. I’ll make sure you get full credit and that you get all the pictures back.”

  Miss Sissy’s eyes had gleamed at the idea of photo credits, but shrugged at the mention of getting the pictures back. Beatrice supposed that, since Miss Sissy had clearly crammed the photos nonchalantly in a bag, she wouldn’t exactly be missing them while they were at Beatrice’s house.

  Beatrice started trying to sort the pictures. She decided to put the ones with especially beautiful quilts or photographic composition in one pile, pictures of people she recognized in another. As she glanced through the photos, she stopped abruptly. It was a picture of Vivian.

  This picture seemed to be a candid shot because neither subject was looking at, or seemingly even aware of, the camera. Vivian and Huey were beaming at each other, love showing in their eyes. Beatrice studied the picture thoughtfully before carefully setting it to one side in a different pile.

  “Computer work,” said Miss Sissy impatiently.

  “Oh, so you do want to watch me set that stuff up? I wasn’t sure. All right, let’s put the computer on the kitchen table so that you can sit beside me. Even better, you can help me pick out some of your photos to use on the accounts. We can load pictures into the libraries of the sites to make the accounts more interesting,” said Beatrice.

  Miss Sissy raised a dubious eyebrow at this. “For the book.”

  “Oh, I know the photos are for the book. But they also might provide a real sense of continuity for people interested in quilting’s place in Dappled Hills.”

  Beatrice showed Miss Sissy how to set up social media accounts while the old woman looked on, yawning from time to time. But she did better picking out interesting pictures to scan and upload. Apparently, Miss Sissy still had a good eye.

  Surprisingly, the process seemed to go a lot faster with Miss Sissy there. Maybe that’s because her presence meant that Beatrice had to stay completely focused on the task at hand. There was no getting distracted by social media or realizing that the dishwasher had stopped and needed to be unloaded. There was only the somewhat tedious process of putting up backgrounds or covers on the accounts, uploading profile pictures, and setting up notifications.

  “Okay, so that’s all set. Let’s scan and upload the pictures you picked out,” said Beatrice as Miss Sissy pushed the pile of photos across the table to her. Again, the process seemed to go a lot faster without distractions and with Miss Sissy looking on.

  “There. That will have to do. I can always tweak it later. Of course, someone needs to post on the account, but no one said that I had to be the one to do that. They only said that they needed me to set it up,” said Beatrice. She noticed a slight defensive edge to her voice and pressed her lips tightly together.

  Miss Sissy just watched her, stony-faced.

  “Oh, I guess there’s one more thing I should do. Tag and friend some of the quilters online. That way they can share the accounts and lend them some visibility. Let’s see whom I can find online with just a casual search,” said Beatrice.

  Beatrice wasn’t especially surprised to see that some quilters didn’t appear to have much of a social media footprint at all. Others appeared to have quite a lot of accounts—Piper, for one. Beatrice tagged and friended Piper on behalf of the new accounts and crossed her fingers that her daughter had the time to notice and share them.

  Then she got to Gwen’s profile. Gwen was online, but she apparently didn’t pay much attention to what was happening on her profile. Maybe she had the same lackadaisical attitude toward her social media that she had with her volunteering. And Beatrice’s breath caught and she narrowed her eyes as she studied the profile. Surely Gwen would have untagged herself if she’d been online and seen this post. Because of one of Gwen’s friends had tagged her in a picture. It was, again, a candid shot. Gwen seemed oblivious to the camera and was walking with great determination in front of a large brick building. The person tagging her said, “A rare Gwen sighting in Lenoir!”

  The sign in front of the large brick building said Oak Haven Retirement Community. The date of the photo was a couple of weeks before Oscar Holland’s death. Could Gwen have been visiting Oscar’s dying mother?

  Chapter Sixteen

  July 20th

  I wrote last time that I wasn’t sure anyone in this town really liked me. Now I can emphatically say that that’s not the case. But is anything on earth ever really simple?

  Now I’ve got Huey—someone I really care for but have some concerns about—who is very interested in me. At the same time, I’ve got Jake. Jake is certain he’s fallen madly in love with me. All I can say is that it sure doesn’t take long for Jake to fall in love. But I know he’s telling the truth. I can see the way he looks at me. I have such a great time with Jake—as a friend. And I really need a friend in Dappled Hills. I need someone to go to the movies with or go swimming with or just to hang out with. But am I leading Jake on if I keep doing things with him?

  Miss Sissy left during a lull in the weather. Beatrice spent an hour looking through her photos and mulling over proof of Gwen in Lenoir. She didn’t want to overreact to it. It might mean nothing, after all. Perhaps Gwen had a friend at the same retirement home where Mrs. Holland had lived. After all, they were all at the age where friends or loved ones were living in assisted living. Still it was very coincidental. Most Dappled Hills residents chose to live in a more local facility, like Mountain Vistas, which was right outside of Dappled Hills and not on the other side of Lenoir, like Oak Haven.

  Besides, Gwen did look so resolute in the photo, so determined. Beatrice decided that the best way to handle it was to ask Gwen about it and see her reaction. She made a mental note to do that at the meeting that evening.

  She also wanted to ask Huey about that other photo—the one in the stack that Miss Sissy brought over. For someone who’d originally professed not to even remember Vivian, he certainly looked cozy with her in the picture. He’d said that he’d been too old for her. It hadn’t appeared in the picture that he’d felt that way at the time. And Vivian’s journal entry that she read right after Miss Sissy left made it sound as if he were especially keen on Vivian. Unless Vivian lied. But who lied to their diary?

  A peremptory rap at her door made her jump, and poor Noo-noo leap to her feet. Was this Grand Central Station? She peeked out the side window and saw a rather self-conscious looking Huey there, glancing around as if he might be seen visiting Beatrice’s cottage. Why? Because people would talk? Or because he wanted no witnesses? Was Huey dangerous? It seemed ridiculous to think so when he seemed so innocuous.

  Beatrice dropped back from the window, feeling oddly conflicted. Here she’d been, ruminating on how guilty Huey seemed and now he’d shown up at her house. She felt a little uneasy about letting him in, but felt silly about not answering the door. There was no hard evidence against him, after all.

  She decided to play it on the safe side. She quickly texted Meadow. FYI, letting Huey in my house for visit. Still a suspect, though. At least that way, if she somehow mysteriously disappeared, Meadow could give Ramsay a lead.

  Beatrice opened the door and Huey smiled at her. Now he looked a bit apologetic. “I’m sorry. Is it too early to visit?”

  “Not at all,” said Beatrice coolly. “I’ve been up for ages.” She opened the door wide.

  Huey shook off his large umbrella, carefully laying it down on Beatrice’s front porch before walking inside. He glanced around. “This is very nice. I’m not sure I’ve ever been in here.” He took in the overstuffed gingham armchairs, the cheery scattered rugs, and the comfy sofa. And the artwork. His eyes lingered long on the paintings Beatrice had hung, the glasswork in the built-in bookcase. The pottery.

  “You’ve got quite the eye for art. Or maybe your husband did?” asked Huey.

  Beatrice smiled at him. “Thanks. I was a curator at an art museum. In my spare time, which wasn’t much, I managed to find art at local craft fairs.”

  Huey settled into one of the armchairs. “Did you find anything yesterday?”

  Besides a body? Beatrice said, “I wasn’t really looking. Well, that is to say, I wasn’t looking for anything to buy. We get to the point, don’t we, when we simply don’t have the room for everything we like. I did pick up something for my daughter as a gift. I purposefully bought a cottage to limit my art acquisition.”

  “Very smart,” said Huey. His expression indicated that he was a little surprised at Beatrice’s expert background. Good. She liked keeping people guessing.

  “You’re not here to discuss art, though. At least, I’d be surprised if you were,” said Beatrice. She sat down in an armchair across from Huey.

  “That’s right.” Huey hesitated for a few moments as if trying to figure out how best to express his thoughts. “You see, when we were talking at the craft fair, I ... well, afterward, I started feeling concerned that perhaps you’d gotten the wrong impression of me.”

  Beatrice raised her eyebrows. “In what way?” she asked steadily.

  “I could tell you were skeptical of my story,” said Huey rather stiffly.

  “Your story?” asked Beatrice.

  “Yes.”

  “Which one? The one where you insisted you couldn’t remember Vivian and then said you were far too old for her? Or the one where you claimed not to know anything about Ida’s death, but realized she was found near the tennis courts?” asked Beatrice dryly.

  Huey opened his mouth and then shut it tight. His gaze drifted over to one of Beatrice’s favorite paintings—a rustic cabin in a wooded setting. It was done by an untaught, natural artist and the artist’s love of his world came through the canvas. It had the effect of relaxing Beatrice and it seemed to relax Huey, too.

  “You’re reading too much into both of those things,” he said. Beatrice noticed that one hand was gripping the armrest of his chair until his knuckles were white. Maybe he hadn’t gotten as relaxed by the picture as she thought.

  “I did know Vivian, as I’ve already mentioned. She was what I’d term a friend.” His delivery was as rigid as his posture in the soft chair. “Unfortunately, she appeared to have some sort of schoolgirl crush on me.” He waved his hand vaguely.

  “She wasn’t a schoolgirl,” said Beatrice. “She was a young woman, starting out in the world. With dreams of being an investigative journalist. Interested in quilting. Someone who knew what she wanted.” Her voice was brusque with irritation. The more time she spent with Huey, the less she liked him. She couldn’t help but wonder what the pretty, talented, young Vivian had seen in him.

  “All right, if you want to be exact about it. She wasn’t a schoolgirl. But she may as well have been one. She was naïve and inexperienced in the world. Maybe she thought she knew what she wanted, but she didn’t. Do any of us, when we’re very young? At any rate, she was infatuated with me. When she saw me out shopping downtown or out doing yardwork, or whatever I was doing, Vivian would always stop by to talk to me.” His face flushed with the memory. Whether it was an embarrassed flush or a pleased one, Beatrice couldn’t tell.

  “And that bothered you, clearly,” said Beatrice.

  “It certainly did,” said Huey sharply. “I was engaged at the time.”

  “Oh, so now it all comes out.” Beatrice surprised herself at her combative tone. Huey was definitely getting under her skin. “You were engaged. You were probably pleased by Vivian’s attention, but you couldn’t afford a scandal. You had aspirations, didn’t you? You later became a mayor and then a state representative. Small town gossip wouldn’t have fit into that plan, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” snapped Huey. “That’s why I told Vivian. I told her that she had to stop the nonsense. I was engaged and she was creating a problem for me. I didn’t want people to talk. That was it. I didn’t want them to talk and they always talk in Dappled Hills. Even though I was simply a meager bank manager at the time and not making any money ... I still didn’t need that kind of trouble.”

  Beatrice nodded thoughtfully as if seriously considering this information. “You’re saying that Vivian’s pursuit of you was unwanted and you rejected her.”

  “That’s correct,” said Huey, relaxing a little in relief. “Correct.”

  Beatrice smoothly stood up, walked the short distance to the kitchen table, picked up a photograph, and handed it to Huey before sitting down again.

  “Somehow,” she said softly, “it doesn’t appear to me that her romantic attraction was unwanted.”

  Huey stared silently at the photo. At the much younger version of himself with Vivian. Then he sighed. He put the picture carefully down on the table beside his chair. His gaze drifted away from Beatrice, resting lightly on the cabin painting before scanning again the other works of art that Beatrice had hanging. “All right,” he said. “I was attracted to her, too. Who wouldn’t be? She was lovely, smart, and outgoing. But I was a man of honor. I’d made a promise to my fiancée and I wasn’t going to jilt her.”

  “Is it jilting when you’re engaged? I thought jilting was only at the altar,” mused Beatrice.

  “At any rate, I wasn’t going to end my engagement to Francine. Period. And I did just what I said I did. I told Vivian that she had to stop trying to spend time with me—that tongues would wag, otherwise,” said Huey.

  Again, Beatrice wondered what the attraction could have been for Vivian. Huey sounded so self-righteous when he spoke about matters of honor. She said, “Vivian’s disappearance must have been very convenient for you. So convenient that you didn’t think to tell the police.”

  “Certainly not. I assumed her disappearance had something to do with my rejection of her,” said Huey.

  Huey seemed oblivious to the ego implicit in the words. “You didn’t ask the police whether there was any cause for concern when she disappeared?” she pressed. “But you were friends. More than that, she was someone who you felt some attraction for. And you didn’t report her disappearance as worrisome?”

  “As I just said, I thought she was just trying to save face—that she’d decided to leave town instead of risking further embarrassment,” said Huey with a shrug.

  “You thought Vivian would give up the relationships and the budding journalism opportunities and the new quilting craft she was learning to save face,” repeated Beatrice. It seemed unbelievable to her.

  Huey looked away again. “I only felt a sense of relief that an uncomfortable situation had been avoided.”

  His mention of an uncomfortable situation reminded Beatrice of Vivian’s journal. There was one question she needed to ask all the suspects. A question that had arisen from her reading Vivian’s journal. “When Vivian first met you, did she say you looked familiar? That she felt as if she’d known you before?”

  Huey’s eyes darted back to Beatrice and he tensed up again. “What do you mean? Why would I look familiar to Vivian? She was a stranger to Dappled Hills and I grew up here.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I only wondered if perhaps she’d mentioned something like that,” said Beatrice.

  Huey’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  Beatrice moved on. “Going back to Vivian’s disappearance. At some point after she left town, or had appeared to leave town, you got married. Is that right?”

  Beatrice’s cell phone chimed at her. Was it Meadow getting back to her? A quick glance at the phone told her it was Miss Sissy instead. “Vile!” Perhaps Miss Sissy was aware that Huey was her visitor.

  “I did get married to Francine, yes. We had many happy years together before her death some time ago from cancer.” His words weren’t infused with feeling at all. Beatrice wasn’t sure if that was because he genuinely felt nothing or he’d practiced his short speech about his wife’s death to keep from feeling an unwanted emotion.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Beatrice said softly. “I lost my husband years ago, too. It’s something you never really ever get over.”

  They sat for a moment in quiet reflection.

  Then Beatrice said, “What about the other bit? Ida? When you told me you didn’t realize she was dead and then you clearly knew where her body had been found?”

  Huey’s jaw was set firmly. “I told you the truth about my time at the craft fair. I was very busy helping with the set-up. I saw Gwen and Ida squabble, but didn’t think much about it.” He hesitated. “I did know that there was trouble near the tennis courts, but that was only because I’d started heading that way to make use of the ...um ...facilities. I stopped when I saw Ramsay heading toward a figure on the ground. I saw you and some others gathering around. I didn’t even know who it was so, yes, I was genuinely surprised to hear it was Ida. After all, I’d just seen her a little earlier.”

  “You didn’t try to see if you could help. You, with all your years of public service,” said Beatrice in a scoffing voice.

  Huey held his hands up, a flash of anger in his eyes. “What help could I provide? Ramsay was already on the way. I felt that surely, anyone in need of medical attention would get more assistance from the chief of police than from a retired mayor.”

 

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