Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [47]
We dropped by the folk art museum first to check on things. Saturday was usually a big day for both tourists and the artists. Many of our co-op artists worked full-time at other jobs during the week and tried to catch up on their inventory over the weekend. True to form, the gravel parking lot was almost full, and I was forced to park in a space near the empty back field. Out front, D-Daddy, my loyal and very inexpensive assistant, was hosing out two oak half barrels once used to age wine, preparing them for plants. He was a seventy-five-year-old Cajun man who’d spent forty years captaining a fishing boat off the coast of Louisiana and was the most dependable assistant I’d ever hired. His daughter, Evangeline, was a member of our co-op.
“I been thinkin’ maybe some nice red geraniums,” he said, turning one barrel over to drain. “Maybe some impatiens. What do you say, boss lady?” He gifted me with one of his dazzling smiles. With a thick head of white hair he babied with every sort of potion you could imagine, a lean, fit body from years of hauling up fishnets, and the stamina to dance all night, he was, according to Dove, quite in demand down at the Senior Citizen Friday Night Dance Socials.
“Whatever you want, D-Daddy. I know who the real boss is around here.”
“The real boss is the boss who bosses the boss.”
“Ha, he doesn’t boss me. Only thinks he does.”
“I was talking about Dove,” he said with a cackle.
“Okay, you got me there. Are you going to the Zin and Zydeco event at the mission?”
“Wouldn’t miss it, chèr. Save me a dance.”
“You can have ’em all, D-Daddy. El patrón’s got two left feet.”
Inside, all three pottery wheels were churning away with clay artists waiting, a tan snowstorm of wood dust thickened the air in the woodworking room, and two quilts were set up in the large room, a double and a queen size. The double was a log cabin made with retro western prints from the thirties—little buckaroos lassoing cattle that reminded me of the pajamas I wore as a girl. The queen was another wine quilt—this one was an appliquéd silk and taffeta Dresden plate pattern featuring the signatures of local wine-makers. In the middle of each Dresden plate a cluster of grapes was embroidered. The colors were vibrant reds, greens, yellows, blues and burgundies, salmons and pinks. With a black background, the effect had the stark simplicity of an Amish quilt combined with the richness of a Victorian crazy quilt. I stood over the quilt admiring it, looking for names I recognized. I spotted Etta Brown’s neat, small signature in one circle. Two circles away, next to his father’s was Giles’s bold scrawl.
“Quite a tragedy out at Seven Sisters,” a quilter wearing trifocal glasses commented. “Heard you were there.” The women surrounding the quilt all looked at me expectantly.
“It is a tragedy,” I agreed, then turned and walked down the hall to my office, closing the door behind me. I sat down in my chair, resting my chin in my palm, wondering what was going to happen in the Brown family when one of them was charged with murder.
Though I hated admitting it, it appeared that Detective Hudson was right. One of the Brown family had probably killed Giles. And if that was true, there would be repercussions that would follow Sam and Bliss their whole lives. What a way to start a marriage . . . or a family.
A rap on my door interrupted my philosophical thoughts.
“Benni?” JJ’s voice called from the other side.
I jumped up and opened the door. “Come on in.”
She closed the door behind her and shoved an envelope at me. “Read this.” Her voice was high and agitated.
I opened the crumpled envelope and took out a sheet of thick ivory stationery with the Seven Sisters logo printed on top. It read:
I’ll use it if I have to. Tell Cappy.
“It’s Giles’s handwriting,” she said. “There’s more.”
I looked back inside the envelope and pulled out a sheet