Bead onTrouble

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  It was a relief to note that around us the talk was about the appointments with the Tivolini buyer for the following day. Tivolini had upstaged murder.

  "Ten in the morning, and I not only have to rise, but shine, as well," a woman behind us was saying. I recognized her from the Austin Bead Society, but I couldn't recall her name. I seemed to remember a beautiful butterfly bracelet in shades of pink and orange that she'd shown at a recent meeting. When I turned to look, she was holding up the next day's schedule of events, which also had a copy of the appointments. There were still a few available slots to meet with the Tivolini buyer.

  "If anyone wants one of these, just let Cordy know," she was saying to some women in the dessert line. "I'll even give away my place!"

  "Don't need it," one of them said. "I don't have that kind of talent."

  "Sure you do," another added.

  "Let the beads shine for you," a woman advised.

  Beth leaned forward. "And I'm up first."

  "Why did you want to go first?" I asked, reaching for the schedule on our table.

  "First impression. I set the standard, and everyone else has to do better." Then Beth shook her head. "Or maybe it was 'first to get it over with.' "

  I was looking down the list, recognizing the names of the best artisans. Beth was listed first, then Donna Hawk.

  Tony Carnpanelli. Mary Newton, Valerie Felps, Barbara Formicelli, Wing Feather—

  Wing Feather? It wasn't May, she'd have put her name.

  And she'd been dead before the appointments had been set.

  "Maybe," Beth was saying, "I should give up my slot.

  I'm sure someone else could use it—"

  "Mom," Shannan said. "Why would you say a thing like that? You'll be the best."

  I looked up to see Shannan's concern and Beth's unhappy expression. Sandra and Angie had started their own side conversation and Jennifer, who was nodding along with Shannan, looked less than comfortable with Beth's insecurity. But then, the young think the world is all about them and the rest of us should just maintain holding positions.

  "You," I said, leaning closer to Beth. "do incredible work. In-frigging-credible?' I looked at Shannan. "And it's not about the best, either. It rarely is in this world. This is a particularly subjective submission. If the buyer is looking for work that can be replicated, if the buyer likes your style of work on that particular day, if the buyer—"

  Beth cut me off. "You're getting radical."

  It was our turn to get in line to scrape our plates. The others were up in a flash, Jennifer and Shannan first, then Angie and Sandra who were deep in a discussion of new types of paper. Beth and I were at the end of the line.

  "I don't mean to get pushy," I said, my voice pitched low, but still insistent. "It's just that I get frustrated. You just go out there and do your best."

  Beth stared at me for a minute before dumping the scraps from her plate. I noticed that she was doing so with a lot of vigor_ When our plates had been put in the bins and we were facing the dessert table, she picked up a beige plastic bowl of pudding and said, "The rest of the world is not like you, Kitz. A few too many kicks, and the rest of us wear the scars."

  "I wore the scars, too." Two tables away Jeb had his back to me. He had finished eating and was involved in a conversation with Nate. I nodded toward Jeb and said as quietly as I could, "I wore the scars from that experience for years."

  Beth glanced at Jeb, then back at me. "I know. I'm sorry," she said as I followed her back to the table.

  The girls had gone, leaving only Sandra and Angie a few chairs away. Beth sat down and said, "I'm being a wimp—ignore me. There's just so much riding on this."

  That's when I realized that Beth knew about Ron and May Feather, And we couldn't talk now because Nate was ringing the bell to signal the end of dinner. I wondered why Cordy wasn't doing it herself; it was her camp, and she always gave the announcements. I sensed someone behind me and turned to find Cordy.

  "Can you come with me for just a minute?" she asked.

  "Now?"

  "Right now. In the office. Hurry."

  I leaned over and whispered to Beth, "After chapel, we

  "And drink," she added.

  I took off after Cordy, but I didn't catch up to her until we'd run down the path and were at the office. She beat me inside and immediately started futzing with the computer.

  "What's up?" I asked.

  "I have to show you something—"

  The door opened, and Officer Peterson stepped in almost on my heels. 'Don't let me interrupt," he said, "Especially since you seem in such a hurry."

  "Oh. Hello," Cordy said. Her face went blank, as if his appearance froze her brain. I knew the feeling. Finally, she said, "Is there something I can do for you?"

  "No, no. I can take care of it myself. You go ahead with your business?'

  "Sure. Things are just running a little behind, and we're trying to catch up."

  Peterson went to the copy machine, but he didn't touch it. He just waited, watching us. Cordy nodded at him then reached into a desk drawer to pull out a jeweler's display box.

  "Kitzi, this is what I wanted to show you. It was donated for the Bead Tea. I thought we could hold a raffle to raise some additional money."

  I tried to look interested, but there was something odd going on here.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  Not that it mattered, if whatever she had would help out with the tea. Cordy and I had organized the charity event to raise money for ovarian cancer.

  We've put our hearts and souls into it because the cause is one that touches a lot of us, and there isn't a cure. Instead, there's chemotherapy to keep the cancer at bay with the hope that they'll hit the right combination to kill it.

  There doesn't even seem to be a lot of research on new drugs, either.

  Cordy and I have personal reasons to give our time and effort to ovarian cancer. We both have dear friends who have it—both going about their lives as if they had acne, not cancer. Two amazing women named Carol and Rebecca.

  Rebecca came up with the idea, and I approached the Travis County Bead Tamers to work with us on what is now going to be a huge three-day Bead Tea. There will be dozens of artisans selling their work, tea will be served in the conservatory of my home, and we'll also have demonstrations. I think it will be a great start on raising awareness, if we can find the hook to get enough media coverage.

  Cordy opened the jeweler's case and I gasped. Now she had my attention. Inside was a necklace like nothing I had ever seen before. In the center was a large, square-cut gem of a clear and rich teal. Teal is the color used for ovarian cancer awareness.

  The large central stone was held in place by delicate gold leaves, and the rest of the necklace was formed by three strands of delicate gold links, interspersed with smaller stones. They were like a rainbow of gems in pink, green, and teal, with just a few black.

  "That's stunning," I breathed.

  "Very nice," Peterson agreed. It seemed even he was impressed.

  "It was donated:' Cordy said. "And I think we can make some real money off it if we can promote the raffle right and sell tickets in advance"

  "Watermelon tourmaline," I said, finally placing the smaller stones. Tourmaline is rare and expensive. It's also beautiful. "But what's that middle piece?"

  "Tourmaline."

  "I don't believe it." I'd never seen a piece so large or so clear. "It must be worth a small fortune. Or is it a large one?"

  "Not as big as your trust fund, but I should have the appraisal by next week, and then we can publicize it."

  Peterson snorted as he reached into the copy machine and pulled out a piece of paper. He held it up toward us. "I thought maybe you'd found this. Lucky for you, you didn't."

  He smiled. "You ladies can go back to your jewelry; I have work to do." And with that, he left the office.

  Cordy dropped the necklace to her desk and let out a huge breath. "Thank God, he's gone. I thought I was goi
ng to have a heart attack when he walked in." She flopped into her desk chair. "And I'm sorry I made that crack about your trust fund; now he's got one more reason to dislike you."

  "I don't suppose it's a secret that I have one:' I said.

  Most people don't know that I only use it to maintain our family home. I support myself, and my mother, with the income from my training.

  Cordy put the jeweler's box with the necklace back in a drawer. "Okay, now you can forget you ever saw this."

  "What do you mean? Are you saying it isn't for the tea?"

  "The necklace isn't important." Cordy dismissed it with a wave as she continued to suck in gulps of air. "Peterson's what really matters?'

  "Forget it? Is it real? Where did it come from?"

  "It's real, and it was donated to us for the ovarian cancer tea, but I wasn't supposed to tell you about it until next week. Then we'll have the appraisal—"

  "Who donated it?" I had a suspicion that it was Jeb, and I didn't want charity from him even if it was for a great cause.

  "Look," she said, "I really wasn't supposed to say anything; I just pulled out the box when Peterson came in. I wanted to show you something else." She swung around to face the computer. "Keep an eye on the door in case he comes back."

  "Then will you tell me about the necklace?"

  "Next Wednesday—don't ask anymore questions." I would have argued, but she was hurriedly moving the mouse around the screen. She tapped a few keys and pretty soon she had a scribbled document on the screen. "Can you read this?"

  I leaned over her shoulder. It was handwritten, not typed like I would have expected, and the writing was atrocious, worse than my brother's. As I stared I could make out that it was a list of names. Including mine. "Sort of. What is it?"

  "A page of Peterson's notes from this afternoon." She glanced nervously at the door. "He came in here to make copies, and what he walked out with just now was the page he left in the machine earlier."

  "How'd you—"

  She pointed to the copier. "It's one of those all-purpose things. Copies, faxes, and scans. During dinner, I was going to make some more of the activity lists, and I found it. I thought about taking it, but I was pretty sure he'd come back. I didn't even want to get fingerprints on the paper, so I scanned it into the computer and pretended like I didn't know he'd forgotten it."

  My head was buzzing with all this as I stared in admira-tion. "Quick thinking; you're amazing!'

  "Yes, I am, but here's the bad part. From what I can figure out, these are the only people who can't be accounted for during the time that May was killed."

  "Oh." I looked again at the computer screen.

  There were only nine names on the list, and the first three were Beth Fairfield, Shannan Fairfield, and Katherine Camden.

  Eighteen

  "Oh, my Lord, Oh, my Lord

  I have placed my trust in thee

  Though you have so many children,

  You are always there for me.

  Now the day is almost over

  And the sun has gone to hide

  Keep us safe here at Green Clover

  Oh, my Lord, please be my guide."

  Green Clover good night song

  ou can take me to a funeral, but you can't make me listen.

  Y The first funeral I ever attended was when I was just eight, and it was for a friend who had died suddenly of spinal meningitis. The minister said that God must have wanted a beautiful little girl in heaven, and so He picked Charlotte.

  That made me think God was selfish and not to be trusted. Especially since He'd made so many people cry. It was lucky that after the funeral I went to my grandparents'

  house and had a talk with them about it. My grandmother explained that the minister might have misunderstood.

  Maybe it wasn't God's idea that Charlotte should die; instead, Charlotte might have prayed very hard, asking God to take her to heaven, and finally He agreed. Or maybe we didn't know the reason that Charlotte went to heaven when she did.

  I didn't much like that answer, but it was better than the one the minister had given. One of the things I took away from the talk was that God does answer prayers, which made me more careful what I prayed for. Also, I never said the "Now I lay me down to sleep . ." prayer again. I worried that the line "if I should die before I wake" might be misconstrued as a request.

  During the memorial service at Green Clover I tried not to think about what the minister was saying, which was fairly easy since that list Cordy had shown me was causing me considerable concern. I hadn't trusted my memory to recall the names, so I wrote the initials of everyone on a piece of paper; I used initials in case anyone else saw it.

  Beth Fairfield, Shannan Fairfield, and Katherine Camden were the first three he'd written, but I knew for a fact that none of us would kill anyone.

  CW was next. Cordelia Wright, and I put her in the same category as the first three. May's death was hurting Green Clover, which was like Cordy's baby. Besides, I'd known Cordy almost as long as I'd known Beth, and while she might get stressed, I'd never seen her get radical over things. Murdering someone was radical.

  AH. Angie Hogencamp didn't seem very likely as a murder suspect, either. Angie, my tetherball buddy, seemed way too smart to push someone over a cliff. Besides, she didn't live in the area, so I doubted she knew May all that well. She didn't have a husband that May could have stolen, and Angie wasn't even a beader. She was a vendor who came to sell us paper goods. I supposed a little research on her wouldn't hurt.

  Then there was JW. Jennifer Webster, May's assistant, who was too young for the role of murderer. Not that young people don't kill, but normally it's to get away from something, like an abusive parent, or to prove they aren't nerds. Or when they have something to gain. What would Jennifer gain? May's old trailer? Her leftover beads? And May's death meant Jennifer didn't have a job, and she wasn't likely to get severance pay, either.

  I looked down at the slip of paper in my hand to see the rest of the initials and lost my concentration. The words of the minister caught me.

  "May Feather was born in Oklahoma and grew up in Clovis, New Mexico before moving to Lubbock, Texas for her teenage years. There she excelled in art. In high school she was already working with the theatre group to create beautiful sets and costumes for the shows they put on. After high school she realized she wanted to be in a larger artistic community where her talents could flourish. That community was Austin, and she moved here just twelve short years ago."

  The minister was standing alone in the spotlights shining down on the wooden stage of the outdoor chapel. She was wearing khaki pants and over them a dark blue choir robe. She was doing an admirable job considering she hadn't known May.

  The women seated on the wooden benches were paying rapt attention and several were sniffing into tissues, while a few were openly crying. My heart hurt for them, but my feelings for May were convoluted. On the one hand, I hated that she had been murdered. I felt sorry for her and didn't want to think about what the last moments of her life might have been like. On the other hand, I had been royally pissed at the woman for taking what didn't belong to her.

  Beth's husband.

  I went back to my list. I could barely make out the letters in the dim light. TC. Tony Campanelli, a definite possibility. In fact, I could almost believe Tony would methodically kill off all his competition if it would move him closer to success, As for the method, pushing May over a cliff seemed in character. It was quick and it was neat, which appeared to be Tony's style. Although, until this weekend I'd always thought Tony was a pretty nice guy. Even this weekend, most of the time he was a nice guy.

  I glanced around and spotted him sitting up front with Cordy and Jennifer. As I watched he put his arm around Jennifer, which I assumed was for comfort. Or was it something more? Was she the intended recipient of the red rose and the condoms? Jennifer was a good fifteen years younger than Tony, and to my mind a romantic relationship between them didn't bear think
ing about. Still .

  Beth, who was sitting beside me twitched uncomfortably. I turned to glance at her, and she looked stiff as an old wooden Indian. I had no idea what she was going to do about Ron, but I knew I would help in any way I could.

  In my limited experience, long marriages, like the one my parents or grandparents had, can be rich and full of deep love that sometimes doesn't show to those on the outside. I didn't think Beth's was like that. I suspected that Beth was a convenience for Ron that allowed him to feel superior. He also got his meals cooked, his house cleaned, and his child cared for without any effort on his part. He certainly didn't display great passion toward Beth, nor had he ever.

  As for Beth's feelings—I could only hope she was ready to move on.

  I'd had one rat of a husband, and I suppose anyone who lives long enough is bound to date at least one of those, if not marry one, but Beth was just facing the realization of what Ron had been up to. That initial discovery can be devastating, and I figured things were going to get worse for her before they got better.

  Tomorrow, I would get some supplies from Angie and make a card with my favorite saying, "Everything turns out okay in the end. If it isn't okay, then it isn't the end." At least it would give her a quick, if temporary, smile.

  My eyes roamed over the backs of the women in front of me. Angie was slumped like this was one sad occasion, and I thought what a nice person she was, and I was actual y glad that someone felt that way. A row behind her was Sande Borders, who kept swallowing hard as she brushed her long auburn hair over her shoulders. I wondered if she knew May all that well, or was just feeling sorry that all of us have to die some day.

  Beside Sandra was her cousin Lynn. I saw her stifle a yawn and if I'd had popcorn or a pebble, I'd have pitched it at her I was betting that she'd had something to do with May's murder, more because I didn't like her than anything else, but it was a sufficient reason for me. She was on Peterson's list as Susan L. Donaldson. He'd put Lynn in parentheses. It had taken me a minute to figure out that she was now plain Lynn, our noir header.