“Seriously, that would be great if you’d handle that.” Martha beamed at Cee Cee.
“No problem.”
It was amazing how my one simple idea had grown into such a grand event. There were so many things to think of. Ruth had a huge binder already, and Betty was writing nonstop.
I pushed my plate away, leaving half a sandwich. I had a notion in the back of my mind to ask Joe if he’d like to go to the Bridgewater Inn for a romantic dinner tonight. I knew he would be toiling away on the kitchen all day, and Sarah’s comment about me working too much still rankled.
Betty set her pen down and flexed her fingers. “I think I’m getting carpal tunnel. You know I’d love to help out with the flea market, but I donated a whole bunch of stuff to the church rummage sale at the beginning of June. It felt so good to clean out my closets.”
Among the answering murmurs of agreement, I heard that tiny bell again.
“What kind of stuff?” I demanded. “Any shoes? Boots?”
“Oh, I’m sure there were. But why on earth do you want to know, Daisy?”
“Just humor me. What kind of footwear?”
“Let’s see. Some sandals I didn’t like anymore, a pair of blue velvet shoes that were dyed to match a dress for a wedding that I’ll never wear again, and several pairs of Angus’s old boots. Although who would want those, I don’t know.”
A chill ran down my spine. What if the killer had bought some of Angus’s boots at the rummage sale? What if he wore them to walk around the barn and commit the murder, leaving the only footprints visible those of big-footed Angus?
“Did you see who bought them? Angus’s boots?”
“Why?”
“Because I think it’s possible that if someone got hold of a pair, they could have worn them to cover their tracks and put the blame squarely on Angus.”
Across the table I saw Eleanor watching me closely. Even though she was convinced, like everyone else, that Angus was guilty, I could tell she was intrigued by my reasoning.
“No, I didn’t even go to the rummage sale,” Betty said. “It was right before my hip surgery. I called the church and they sent someone round to pick up the boxes off the porch.”
“Who?”
She frowned, thinking back, while I held my breath.
“Little Frankie. Frank Ramsbottom’s kid.”
Chapter Sixteen
I had a sudden wild urge to talk to Cyril. He would understand the monumental importance of this discovery, whereas around me talk scattered in all directions like it does when a bunch of women get together. How much money the church raised at the sale, how hard it was to clean out a house when a parent died, how much clutter one could accumulate over the years.
No one else seemed to see the significance of this latest piece of information. I wasn’t sure what I could do with it either, apart from being absolutely sure that I wasn’t going to give the precious pen I’d found to Ramsbottom.
As the conversation veered toward the best method to make margaritas, I realized the meeting was about to turn into a full-fledged party.
I’d planned to leave here by early afternoon so I could get home in time to freshen up. After all this time spent with Angus and Ramsbottom and especially the Perkins boys, I suddenly craved a night alone with my husband.
Speaking of the aggrieved brothers, I did have one piece of unfinished business.
“Betty, are you ready to go?” I asked.
Her face fell. I could see she was intrigued by the thought of fruity frozen cocktails.
“Look, you can stay here for a few minutes longer if you like. I need to stop at the store and pick up something anyway before I bring you home.”
I left Betty being treated to her first ever strawberry daiquiri.
Outside Martha’s house, the Subaru turned over once and then faded. I tried a couple more times, praying I wasn’t flooding the engine, before it finally coughed into life. I gave it a good rev and took off.
When I got to the store, I headed straight up to the second floor. There were three bedrooms upstairs—two to hold sold items and new merchandise, and one room for cleaning supplies, repairs, and ironing.
I’d gone through my records of early purchases and knew exactly which auction item Tom Perkins had referred to. I’d never sold the quilt his grandmother made because I liked it so much, and appreciated how much hard work had gone into its creation. It was an extremely difficult, but beautiful Amish pattern called “Robbing Peter to Save Paul,” the irony of which was not lost on me.
I stood on a step stool and took it down off the wall, smoothing the soft fabric, and admiring the curved patterns of purple, pink, blue, and orange and the intricate interplay of light and dark for the last time.