Pattern of Betrayal (Vineyard Quilt Mysteries Book 2)

by Mae Fox

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Julie bristled at the detective’s accusatory tone. “Positive. He was with me the entire time.” She’d told Frost all of this the night before, and she’d had enough of the conversation. She felt like a dog chasing its tail. “You know what? I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Of course.”

  She sighed. “Why do you hate me?” She nearly slapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  Across the line, she could almost hear his grimacing smile. “And there’s where you’re wrong, Miss Ellis. I don’t hate you at all.”

  “We’re looking for Julie Ellis.” The young man read her name off the card he held in one hand. He stood just inside the door of the inn, looking sorely out of place in a pair of denim overalls and a sport coat. Two women flanked him, one on each side. They were dressed a little nicer, but something about them both screamed “country.” One wore slacks and a button-down shirt, the other a flower-print dress reminiscent of Alice Kramden, from the old TV show The Honeymooners, might wear.

  “I’m Julie,” she said, walking around the registration desk. “How can I help you?”

  The man’s blue eyes filled with tears, but he sniffed them back. There was something familiar about the way he held his chin and the downward turn to the corners of his mouth. “I’m Rusty Peyton. Alice is—was my mother.” He mopped his face with a handkerchief. The woman to his left stifled a sob, while the one on his right remained stoic and cool.

  “Mr. Peyton,” Julie said, taking his handkerchief-free hand into her own. She felt the card he read from earlier crease beneath her grasp. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

  He dropped his head and wiped at his face again. “Thank you. The police said we could come by here and pick up her things. We’re taking her home this afternoon.”

  The dark-haired woman on his left, the one wearing the dress, sobbed again, a choked and strangled sound.

  “This is my wife, Serena Peyton,” he said, indicating the bereft woman. “And this is my sister, Amelia Peyton.”

  Bleach-blond Amelia shot Julie a twist of her mouth that Julie could only assume was meant to be a smile of greeting. It was more on the side of a grimace.

  “Can we get on with this?” Amelia asked, eyeing her surroundings as if she had somehow found herself at the city dump. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  Julie blinked. Not exactly the response one would expect from a girl who had just lost her mother. “Of course.”

  Amelia turned to glare at Julie. “Your inn is clearly not a safe place to be. You failed to protect my mother.”

  Julie blinked again and then turned to the less hostile Rusty Peyton. “Nothing like this has ever happened here before.”

  “Like that helps anyone now,” Amelia said over Serena’s continued sobs. “Our mother is dead!”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Julie said again. It was all she could say, though she knew it was weak. What was the protocol for an inn manager who was faced with the family of a murdered guest? Someone should write an etiquette book on it—Avoiding Awkward Innkeeper Interactions. Maybe she would. “Let me get the key, and I’ll show you to her room.”

  A horrified look crossed Rusty’s face, and he shook his head. Like Alice, he had brown hair, though his wasn’t streaked with gray. “No ma’am,” he said. “I don’t think I can pick up her things like that.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, I’ll do it,” Amelia said, snatching the key out of Julie’s hand as she stood there, stunned. She knew grief could get angry, but it was still shocking to see.

  In one quick swipe, Rusty took the key from his sister and deposited it back in Julie’s hand. “Miss Ellis, would you do us the favor of gathering our mother’s things?”

  It was unorthodox, to be sure, but gathering Alice Peyton’s things might offer a clue or two about who killed her. The police had already searched her room the night of the murder, of course, gathering any clues that they could. But maybe they had missed one.

  Julie closed her fingers around the key and smiled reassuringly at Rusty. “Of course I will. In the meantime, why don’t you make yourselves comfortable in the tearoom?” She ushered them into Shirley’s place, which was nearly full.

  “Shirley, please give Alice Peyton’s family anything they want, on me.”

  “You got it.” Shirley was busy working behind the counter but paused to give the family a sympathetic look, which was met by a judgmental stare from Amelia. Julie guessed it was inspired by Shirley’s outfit, which made her look like a wayward gypsy—handmade handkerchief skirt, matching hat, and patchwork vest in bright shades of purple and red.

  As the Peytons settled in at the last available table, Julie joined Shirley at the counter to find out why the tearoom was so crowded.

  “It’s been like this since the mur—since I opened.” Shirley caught herself before she actually said the word. And for that, Julie was grateful. She didn’t think the sobbing Serena Peyton could stand to hear it.

  “I’ll be back down in a few minutes,” Julie said. “I can give you a hand if you need it.”

  Shirley smiled gratefully. “I’ll holler at Hannah if I get in over my head.”

  Julie nodded and turned back to the Peyton trio. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The bell over the door tinkled as Julie passed by on her way to Alice’s room, warning that another visitor had entered the inn. She smiled absently in the man’s direction and then did a double take. Tall and blond, there was something familiar about him. It was a subtle déjà vu, as if she’d seen him before but never actually met him.

  He smiled in return, but his eyes remained sad.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “No, thank you. Just meeting someone.” He headed in the direction of the tearoom.

  Julie cast him one last look before heading up to the second floor. Her stilettos clicked against the stairs as she climbed. Out of habit, she knocked on the door before shaking her head and letting herself in.

  She fully expected to walk into a room that looked like it had been rifled through by the police—drawers hanging open, possessions strewn about. But the room was immaculate. Everything looked neat as could be. All the drawers were in place, the closet door shut. The bed had been stripped and clean sheets were placed at the foot of the mattress, waiting for the next guest to arrive.

  Inga, housekeeper extraordinaire, strikes again.

  Julie spotted Alice’s suitcase and overnight bag sitting off to one side. Inga had even packed the woman’s bags, knowing eventually the family would come for them.

  Of course, the family didn’t know they were already packed.

  Julie quickly lifted the overnight case onto the bed and unzipped the top. Shampoo, deodorant, and toothpaste—nothing special there. Even Alice’s makeup bag was filled with ordinary, everyday cosmetics. Then again, what was Julie expecting to find? A note that said, “In case I’m murdered, know that so-and-so is responsible”?

  She sighed and closed the overnight bag. Then she lifted the suitcase to the bed and unhooked the latches. It was a hard-sided style from the eighties with fake satin interior and an elastic pocket sewn into the top.

  All of Alice’s clothes were stacked inside so neatly that Julie was almost loath to disturb them. Almost. She reached inside and ran her fingers over the material. Jeans, a sweater, slacks, shirts, one dress, and three pairs of shoes.

  How was she planning to survive the weekend with only three pairs of shoes?

  Other than the lack of footwear, she found nothing remarkable in the case. Julie ran her hands inside the elastic pouch and brought out a newspaper from the city of Little Rock, the Arkansas News Today. It wasn’t the entire paper. At least Julie didn’t think so. It was about the same thickness as the Straussberg paper, and her little Missouri town was much smaller than Little Rock, Arkansas. The portion of paper was folded in half and included the front page. There was an
article about a kids’ museum opening and the new tax initiative that had been passed. Nothing incredibly noteworthy. At least not from where Julie was standing. She unfolded it and glanced at the back. One headline in particular jumped out at her: “Rare Find in Missouri B&B.”

  It appeared to be the same article written about the Quilt Haus Inn that had run a few days earlier in the local Straussberg paper. This meant Alice had known about the journal before she came to Missouri.

  Yet, she’d seemed so disinterested when I brought out the journal for everyone to see.

  Julie thought for a moment. Maybe it was all a coincidence. After all, what would a nearly worthless Civil War journal have to do with Alice’s murder? It was possible that Alice hadn’t even noticed the article hidden on the back page.

  Julie tucked the newspaper back into its pocket and neatly repacked Alice’s suitcase. She latched the case, gathered both bags, and headed out of the room. She’d ponder the newspaper article discovery later. Right now, she had a grieving family to deal with.

  She carted the cases down the stairs and left them by the front desk.

  She heard Shirley telling a story to a group of guests as she walked into the tearoom. The amount of gossip that found its way into the woman’s “historical” talks was nothing short of a miracle.

  “I have your mother’s things at the front desk when you’re ready,” Julie said to the Peytons. “But there’s no rush. Take all the time you need.”

  Rusty stood, stretched his long legs, and gave her a grateful, watery smile. “Thank you, ma’am. We appreciate that, but it’s time for us to get her back home.”

  Julie followed them to the front of the inn.

  “Is this everything?” Rusty asked, gesturing toward the bags on the floor.

  Julie nodded. He picked up both bags; then, realizing that he didn’t have his hand free to shake hers, sat the large suitcase on the ground and clasped her hand in his large callused one. “Thank you for your help, Miss Ellis.”

  “You’re most welcome.” But somehow that didn’t seem to be quite enough. She needed to say something reassuring. “I’m sure your mother really appreciated you arranging this trip for her.”

  Serena sobbed, Amelia rolled her eyes, and Rusty looked confused.

  “We didn’t buy her this trip,” he said. Then his voice turned sour. “Her boyfriend did.”

  Julie frowned. “I thought she said that she was recently divorced, and her children paid for this trip as a present to her.”

  “Well, ma’am,” Rusty said, “I don’t know why she would say something like that. Or maybe you just misunderstood. Our father died when we were in elementary school. Mother never remarried. There was no divorce.”

  After the Peytons left, Julie went about her daily inn duties, still thinking about the bizarre circumstances surrounding Alice Peyton. She checked the account ledgers, paid a couple of bills, and unclogged a toilet on the second floor.

  Ah, the glamorous life of an innkeeper, she thought as she booted up her computer.

  “Julie!” Inga’s staunch accent stiffened Julie’s spine. Something in the woman’s tone told Julie that whatever she had to say was not going to be good. “Something must be done.”

  Julie pasted on a look of concern as Inga stormed toward the front desk. She closed her laptop and gave the housekeeper her full attention. “What’s wrong?”

  The housekeeper’s cheeks were stained with pink, and the normally starched perfection that defined Inga seemed less pronounced than usual. Her hands fluttered about in uncharacteristic agitation. “These gawkers! They come in, leave their trash, put fingerprints on everything, and then they leave. They’re running me in circles.”

  “Julie?” Shirley called out, marching toward the desk, an annoyed expression on her face. “You have got to do something.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Julie rubbed at her temples. “What’s wrong?” Her look of concern was already turning into one of irritation.

  “All of these people! They’re coming in and hovering around, but they’re not buying anything.” Shirley shook her head. “I’m not talking one or two. There are dozens of them. You saw how packed it was this morning.”

  “Not just this morning. All day it’s been like this.” Inga grimaced. “They want to see the police tape and the candlestick.”

  “I hope you told them the candlestick is in the police evidence room,” Julie said.

  Inga crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “I tell them nothing.”

  The bell above the door chimed as someone else entered the inn. It had been going off nonstop all day. But Straussberg was a tourist town; without the tourists there was no trade.

  “I know we need customers in the shop, but I don’t like the kind of people that have been coming in today,” Shirley said. “Something needs to be done. I can hardly take care of my real customers, thanks to all the others milling around just so they can claim they’ve been to a real murder scene.” She paused. “I suppose if they at least bought something that would be better.”

  “And make it even harder on the kitchen,” Inga replied sharply.

  Julie waved a hand to indicate the conversation was at its close. “I’m sorry, ladies. I know how difficult this is, but let’s be patient. We can’t afford to offend locals or tourists who might recommend the inn to a potential customer.”

  “For all the wrong reasons,” Shirley said under her breath.

  “This will die down soon. I’m betting by tomorrow.”

  Inga grunted her dissatisfaction. “At least put a sign on the door that says gawkers aren’t welcome. Or maybe a two-cookie maximum for the tearoom.”

  “I think you mean a two-cookie minimum,” Shirley said.

  Inga just glared at her.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” Julie said.

  Inga harrumphed again and left the room.

  “Do you really think this will die down soon?” Shirley asked as a family of four brushed past, the woman snapping pictures as she herded her children in front of her.

  Julie managed a smile. “I know so. Until then, just keep being your charming self. Things will smooth out in no time.”

  I hope.

  Shirley gave a quick nod. “You’re the boss.”

  Rusty Peyton’s comment had truly thrown Julie for a loop. The man had just lost his last remaining parent, and Julie wasn’t about to dispute his words about who’d paid for his mother’s trip. But why would Alice lie about herself—and did it have anything to do with her untimely demise?

  It occurred to Julie that if she wanted information about her guests, she was going to have to get it on her own. Detective Frost certainly wasn’t going to be any help, if her conversation with him earlier in the day was any indication.

  The guests were all out enjoying the town, so Julie chose the next best thing to direct questioning. She booted up her computer and punched in the first guest’s name.

  “Knock, knock.” Hannah was standing in the doorway with a plate of pastries.

  “Come in, especially if those treats are for me.” Julie leaned back in her chair and eyed the plate. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I thought you could use a little culinary pick-me-up.” Hannah shrugged, but Julie had a feeling her friend was near to bursting with pride. “Millie thought it would be good to play up the whole German town thing.”

  Julie forked off a piece of the flaky cinnamon strudel and didn’t even try to stifle her moan of pleasure as she took a bite.

  Hannah looked uncharacteristically pleased with herself.

  “This is almost as good as pickles and caramel,” Julie teased, knowing Hannah was repulsed by Julie’s comfort food of choice.

  Hannah scrunched her nose. “This is so much better.”

  “You’re right.” Julie said. “And if you keep this up, I’ll gain twenty pounds by fall.” She took another bite and sighed as the pastry melted in her mouth.

  Hannah settled into a nearby chair a
nd watched Julie eat.

  “You really missed your calling, you know that?” Julie said.

  “How so?”

  “You should have been cooking professionally long ago.”

  Hannah tucked her feet underneath her. “Maybe. I am really enjoying it.” She waited a heartbeat before continuing.

  “Is this going to mess everything up?”

  “This?”

  “The murder.”

  “Absolutely not.” Julie shook her head, though she wasn’t as certain as she pretended to be. Still she knew how badly her friend wanted to remain in Straussberg. Hannah had fully embraced life in small-town Missouri. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  Hannah grimaced. “You know what I mean. Do you think this was the work of the …? Well, you know. Do you think they mistook Alice for you?”

  Julie was a good three inches taller than Alice Peyton, and she hadn’t been in the room for most of the time the power was out. But she had been there when Alice was struck.

  “I don’t think I was the target, if that’s what you mean.” Even as Julie said the words, worry seeped into her thoughts. It had been dark in the dining room. Very dark.

  “Have you been investigating?” Hannah nodded toward the computer.

  “Just got started.”

  “Anything interesting come up?”

  “Not yet.” Julie took another bite of the pastry and then set the plate on her desk. A couple of clicks later the face of her first guest filled the screen. “Gregory Wilson was arrested,” Julie said with some alarm. “He took a rare baseball card from a store in Montana.”

  “Did he go to jail for it?”

  “Yeah, looks like he did. He was also accused of stealing a painting in California, but those charges were dropped.”

  “Well, theft and murder are worlds apart,” Hannah pointed out.

  Julie just raised an eyebrow at Hannah and typed in another name. “Sadie Davidson is a retired librarian. She never married and has three cats. She and Joyce have been friends since grade school. Joyce was recently widowed when her husband died of a heart attack.”

  “We knew all this already.”