Good Bones: A Taylor Quinn Quilt Shop Mystery (The Taylor Quinn Quilt Shop Mysteries Book 7)

by Tess Rothery

“Roxy's fine. I talk to her every day, just like usual, but it’s not the same.”

  “No,” Taylor agreed. “This is a long time to be a long-distance relationship, especially when you live less than two miles apart.”

  “I think she wants to break up with me.” Clay sounded glum. “I really love her, you know?”

  “I know. I can see it in your eyes.” Taylor believed that Clay thought he loved her, but she also knew that Clay had been Roxy's good-enough-for-now boyfriend. Perhaps, even though they seemed to truly like each other, Roxy was ready to move on. “Clay. Here’s the thing. I need your help.”

  “Those are the most beautiful words a man could ever hear in all of his life,” Clay said. “Lay it on me.”

  Taylor explained the situation as best as she could, trying to make it sound serious, but not dangerous.

  “I'm confused. Are you saying there's a dangerous psycho at the house with you or not?"

  “No, definitely not. Just someone with a grudge."

  “But Maddie’s going to come stay at your house, so she’ll be fine, right?"

  "That's my plan, anyway. But I was hoping you could help me figure out if the message in the cookie could have been an accident.”

  “I could go to the coffee shop and ask,” he said. “But I'll be honest with you, Dahlia kind of scares me.”

  Taylor laughed. “I had a different idea. Could you run every single test and report on our cash register and see if anything comes up with a string of numbers like this?” She read the string of six-six-sixes.

  “Only when the devil’s been shopping,” Clay snickered.

  “You laugh, but that’s why we’re worried. It's a bit threatening, don't you think? The register at the café is a lot like ours. Old. We haven’t upgraded our system in eons, and they probably got theirs as a donation. If we can make a string of numbers similar to this one come up naturally, then maybe it’s no big deal, but if we can’t, then maybe someone over there had to make it on purpose.”

  “I’ve already shipped out today’s orders. Might as well try.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic. “I’ve heard Dahlia is in charge of their bakery. She’s the one with the bagel and paczki recipes, anyway. I find it impossible to believe that she'd let litter fall in her cookie dough."

  “Same,” Taylor agreed. “But I also find it hard to believe she’d do it on purpose."

  "It seems like you've forgotten how much she hates you," Clay said. “She still considers Asha some kind of soiled goods after her abduction."

  "It's frustrating because Asha doesn't consider herself spoiled goods,” Taylor said. “She thinks it was a big adventure.”

  “Ever think that's the problem?" Clay asked. "Asha was Dahlia’s good, innocent girl, but now she's got a taste for adventure. It doesn't have to be that she thinks Asha was actually violated. Now her daughter wants to do something more exciting with her life than marry a nice Polish boy and bake for the church."

  "There's nothing wrong with being a domestic person." Taylor often hated the dismissive attitude people had towards domesticity. If one wanted a domestic life, it was just as good as any other.

  "We don't have to argue that point. All I'm saying is if Dahlia knew you were staff this weekend, who knows what she might have done."

  “Just test it will you? And then call me back or text me. Let me know if you can make the cash register create that without having to type it out on purpose. Even if she made a point of stuffing it in a cookie, don't you think there's a difference between the kind of person who creates that message on purpose and the kind of person who sees that message lying around and takes advantage of it?"

  “Nope. Anyone who would ruin a cookie is a sicko.”

  “All right, all right. Just text me if you have any luck.” Taylor grimaced at her phone.

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Taylor was sorry that Clay’s happy romance was on the rocks, but she couldn't blame Roxy, and she often wondered how the two of them had ever hit it off.

  She sent Maddie another quick text. Just a, hey how are you.

  Maddie replied with a photo of a flower out in the field. Maybe she was fine and enjoying the forced nature walk.

  Taylor was glad. She might never be Maddie's close friend again, but her life had been fine without Maddie these last few years. She closed her eyes and pictured those years: a string of murders and unsatisfying relationships with handsome men.

  So maybe her life hadn’t been fine, but it wasn't the lack of Maddie that made it unpleasant.

  But no matter. Maddie was doing okay, and Taylor was doing her bit to help.

  Chapter Eight

  June days on the West Coast were long, and this one had been particularly hot and crowded with the kind of emotional baggage that made you feel as though your soul was full of rocks. It was an effort just to carry yourself around.

  Belle had originally wanted to decorate the back patio with the kind of wood-framed canvas sling chairs that might have been available in 1904 or wrought iron ice-cream parlor style outdoor seating, but Jonah, in his youthful wisdom, had demanded comfortable options.

  Jeanne and Courtney had settled into an indoor-outdoor fabric upholstered loveseat that looked like it would've been just as much at home inside a house as out, but the deep line between Courtney’s eyes hinted that the weekend was a burden.

  Pyper and Tansy had roosted on bright red foldable camp chairs that reclined and had footrests. Pyper adjusted and readjusted her seat as though more than her body wasn’t at ease.

  Lorraine stood to one side, gazing at the fire, lost in thought. She had wrapped herself in a filmy cream-colored shawl whose tasseled edge fluttered in the light evening breeze. This breeze was the cool breath of relief they all needed, but the interplay of the sparks from the fire and those soft wick-like tassels made Taylor’s skin crawl.

  Sissy stopped at the fire for a moment to poke it with a marshmallow roasting stick.

  Which one of these women was carrying the biggest burden tonight?

  One of them had been weeping in the afternoon.

  And one of them had been on a campaign to bully Maddie.

  The answer to the question would have been simple if Maddie had come to the fire pit. But she had clearly taken Taylor's offer and was either settling into the little house on Love Street right now, or perhaps in her room gearing up to leave.

  Then again, the answer could have been herself. Her long association with murder and so many weeks of pandemic had created an inner monster whose name was Fear. She had been fighting this anxiety response for years. Being afraid felt like a failure. But her counselor had assured her not twenty minutes ago via text that nothing could be more normal during this exposure and quarantine than fear.

  But knowing it was normal didn’t make it better.

  She was terrified in that overwhelming way when it's not just that anything could go wrong, but everything already has.

  A firm hand rested on her shoulder and she jumped, stepping forward and turning quickly.

  “Calm down,” the motherly voice of Sissy Dorney soothed. “It's up to us to set the atmosphere.” With that same firm hand, she gently directed Taylor to an umbrella chair. “Sit down and let Lorraine entertain you. Aviva and Belle will be here in a moment with carafes of cocoa.”

  You can't sit on the edge of your seat when your seat is a waterproof canvas umbrella chair, so Taylor was forced to almost relax. It was only a pity that posture wasn't affecting her feelings the way it ought to have.

  Sissy sat down in the umbrella chair next to Taylor. She didn't try to whisper, and her warm voice carried across the room, despite the rather confidential nature of her words. "It was generous of Belle to invite Lorraine to tell a story tonight. If anyone has a good story for a campfire, it’s her."

  “I'm still hoping we can hear the stories of our quilts," Jeanne said. “I just know there must be something to them. After all, the quilt at the museum is such a beautiful, romantic piece."
>
  "Not every quilt has a story as remarkable as the pearly buttons quilt," Lorraine corrected, “but I'm sure Taylor can tell you a little something about the pieces in each of your rooms. Before that, I'd like to tell you a little bit about this house that was built by my great, great, great uncle."

  "I hope it's a ghost story." Pyper reclined her chair, again, and looked up at the sky. It wasn't late enough for stars, but it was darkening, and the moon hung in the blue above them.

  "I cannot speak of ghosts or ghouls, but I can tell a tale of murder.” Lorraine’s pale face glowed in the flickering light of the fire. The distant forest covered mountains provided an ominous backdrop. “This home was built by an Oregon pioneer who went by the name Ratliff Squire Boone.” She laid his name out like an accusation and waited for a response. Met only with silence, she continued. “Those well-read in frontier history will recognize that as a name especially rich in the lore of the family of Daniel Boone. The great explorer and his wife had ten children. However, no record exists with all of their name. Ratty, the gentleman who built this house, would introduce himself by claiming to be one of Daniel Boone’s grandsons. We know that relations of Daniel Boone did travel to Oregon on the wagon trains. For example, the grandchildren of his cousin Ratliff Boone. And our Ratty was the correct age to be who he claimed.”

  A murmur of understanding passed over the ladies.

  “Ratty created this home as the crowning glory of his long life’s achievements. Every penny of his life’s earnings had been invested in its creation and furnishing. When he passed, his heirs would fight tooth and nail for it.”

  Pyper dropped her footrest and leaned forward. "But what about his wife?"

  "Ratty lived to his one-hundred-and-second birthday, but his wife had passed decades earlier. To put this into context for you, he was a boy of three years old when Sense and Sensibility was written.” Lorraine tilted her head and nodded as you do when making sure a child understands.

  Pyper blushed as though loving Jane Austen novels was something to be embarrassed of. It wasn’t. Taylor loved them, and a twinge of defensiveness hit her. Who was Lorraine to imply with a glance that classic literature was…

  What had that glance implied? Perhaps Taylor was reading too much into a look.

  “Ratty had outlived his only son by fifteen years, but he’d had five daughters and between them, he had a baker’s dozen of grandsons. The four men who lived near enough to Comfort to know their grandfather all had their eyes on his mansion.”

  Sissy clucked, clearly seeing the trouble ahead.

  “One of Ratty’s daughters had married into a prominent Comfort family. A family you all know, still.” Lorraine looked beyond the women to the back door of the house. Aviva and Belle were just rolling the cart with thermoses and mugs of hot cocoa out to the guests.

  It had grown chilly as the sun set, and Taylor shivered. She wished that in addition to hot cocoa the girls had brought sweaters and quilts. Lacking that, she pulled her chair a little nearer to the fire. Lorraine’s slow, careful telling of the story and her low, thrumming voice had mesmerized Taylor. The sudden break was a jolt, and her mind begged for answers. Whose name would they recognize?

  “Aviva,” Lorraine said warmly, “did you know that your Reuben family also has history in this house?"

  The little tea cart bumped along the cobblestone pavers. Aviva pulled up next to Lorraine and smiled brightly. “It would be a rare landmark in Comfort that the Reuben family didn't have some kind of tie to."

  Lorraine smiled that condescending smile again. “I suspect you are correct. The four grandsons who lived near the property were willing to fight for it. One, called Thomas Williams, filed in court for the right of ownership, claiming it as the eldest of the grandchildren. Another, only known as G. Fyfe, also filed with the courts claiming that his mother had been the eldest of Boone’s children, so he deserved it.”

  "Hold on, Mom,” Tansy interrupted. "Are you saying this Ratty guy didn't leave a will?”

  Lorraine’s pale face pinked up. “Goodness. It is clear that I have not been a lecturing professor in years. I left out that key detail. It is true: Mr. Rattliff Squire Boone died intestate.”

  Pyper snorted a little laugh.

  Lorraine turned a disapproving eye, made more intimidating by the dark shadows cast from the angle of the fire. "Intestate means dying without a will. Boone’s third grandson, Sam Bowerman, did not sue. Quite cleverly, he wrote a check to the estate to purchase the home. It was an incredible sum for the time; one no executor would turn away.”

  "How did he have an executor if he didn’t have a will?" Tansy pressed.

  "His longtime lawyer had been appointed by the courts after his death.” Lorraine pulled her shawl straight. "This lawyer was inclined to be favorable to Bowerman. Selling the home simplified things for everyone involved. Splitting the value of the estate amongst the grandsons was fair and easier if the value could be realized in cash."

  “Hold on, again.” Tansy was likely the only woman brave enough to interrupt her mother. “If you don't mind my interrupting."

  Lorraine cleared her throat. “Actually…"

  "Sorry, Mom. I won't do this again. Just one more quick question. What about the granddaughters? Or the other—nine was it? —grandsons? Why would only the four grandsons who were in the area get money?"

  “I have spent time researching this story. What I have determined is that the executor was one of the many men who arrived in Oregon with a new identity and career. This is to say, there is no evidence he ever went to law school or passed the bar," Lorraine explained. “We could assume he might not have been fully aware of his obligations and responsibilities. Or he might not have cared.”

  Courtney leaned into Jeanne. “He was a cheat, you mean?”

  Lorraine waved it away. “It was a different era with different values. This executor might have felt selling it was fair, but there was one other cousin in this story. While the other men were filing claims or writing checks, Abraham Reuben moved into the house.”

  “Smart man,” Sissy murmured to Taylor.

  "When Reuben moved in, he came prepared to fight. You'll notice in the windows of your rooms a shallow indentation in the wooden sill. This is not the result of regular use. Abraham had hand-carved rests in those windowsills so he could leave his rifles propped. He was ready and willing to shoot anyone who came near his property.”

  Taylor sucked in a breath. This wasn’t going to go well.

  “Some days later Sam Bowerman showed up. He drove his wagon around back, unhitched his horses, and led them to the barn which had a trough full of rainwater and plentiful hay. He took the back way into the house, which must be the reason Abraham didn’t shoot him in the yard. In fact, Sam Bowerman made it all the way inside and to the grand staircase before he was spotted.” She paused now and looked at the fire. It sparked and crackled.

  “Abraham Reuben hadn't expected his cousin, and he hadn’t expected his cousin to be carrying a pistol. Abraham had only just raised his rifle to his shoulder when Sam shot him. The first shot hit Abraham in the side, but it didn't knock him out, so Abraham pulled his trigger too. This was a direct blow to Bowerman's middle abdomen. The shot perforated many of his organs, and Sam must have known it was the end. But as he fell, he took a parting shot. When the bodies of the two men were discovered, it was found that the second bullet had gone straight through Abraham's heart.”

  Taylor shivered. Was every family in the world riddled with murder and violence? Had every old house been the scene of bloodshed?

  “Abraham Reuban had never married. Nobody knows what he had planned to do with a mansion like this, but the widowed Bowerman had a family. His daughter arrived at the house two days later to help her father settle in. Instead, she found the dead men in the front parlor and in a terrible state. Houses at that time were not generally as closed to rodents as they are now.” Lorraine stepped away from the fire and folded her hands in front of he
r.

  “But you can’t leave it there. What about the horses? What about the other cousins?” Tansy pressed.

  “The horses were fine,” Lorraine assured them. “As for the cousins, while it would be delightful to say that neither of them wanted the house that had caused the death of their family members, it is not so. They sought the lawyer, each defending their case, only to hear that the house had been sold again. They accepted the money, splitting it between themselves. I suspect when the lawyer, married Sam Bowerman’s daughter and took possession of the property, they knew they’d been cheated.”

  “I’ll say,” Sissy whispered to Taylor. “I wonder if he waited for the dirt to fall on top of the casket before he married the girl and took the house.”

  “Now tell us the moral of this story,” Courtney asked. “You can't just tell us a story of greed and murder and malcontent without some kind of moral to redeem it."

  "Not all stories have morals.” Sissy sounded worn out. “Some are just tragedies.”

  "Moralizing history is anathema to the work of a historian,” Lorraine stated. “We merely find and preserve the stories of the past.”

  “Well, I’m a homeschool-mom, and we’re good at finding the moral.” Courtney sat up and cleared her throat. “In this one, I say don’t want something that’s not yours so badly you’d kill for it. That’s two broken commandments in one.”

  “That lawyer was shifty AF.” Pyper stood and stretched. “I bet he orchestrated it all to get the house and the girl.”

  “Never,” Aviva countered. “How could he have convinced the two men to shoot each other?”

  “You’re the expert. How could he have arranged it?” Pyper asked Lorraine.

  Lorraine shook her head. “There is no record of him having spoken to Abraham. Only Sam. It is possible he could have encouraged Sam to arrive with his pistol loaded, but that is merely supposition.”

  “Do you think he did it for love? Like because he wanted the girl?” Pyper asked.

  “Unless some trunk in some attic contains a lost diary, we will never know.” Lorraine shrugged away the question.