The Grub-And-Stakers Quilt a Bee by Charlotte MacLeod, Alisa Craig Page A

anybody, if it was a big enough markdown. Me, for instance. How do you think Sir Percy would look in a rich purple velvet suit and a turquoise satin waistcoat?”
    “And a chartreuse periwig? That’s a thought. Maybe the woman was really Andy McNasty in drag.”
    “What for, egad?”
    “Casing the joint in the interest of fell designs and evil machinations, one would naturally assume. We’ll find out sooner or later, no doubt.”
    “Zounds! You don’t think it was McNaster who heaved Mr. Fairfield off the roof?”
    “Pourquoi pas? Andy knows about roofs, or ought to. Furthermore, Frederick Churtle does his roofing work.”
    “Aha! The plot thickens. You baked these cookies a soupgon too long.”
    “Osbert likes them nice and crunchy.”
    “But then I still have my own teeth,” said Osbert. “What does Sergeant Mac Vicar intend to do about the woman with the dress?”
    “He was about to ask his wife if she knew who owned one like it.
    If she didn’t, which I find hard to believe, he was going to send a posse over to interrogate Petsy Poppy.”
    “He is? I could-“
    “Not on your life you couldn’t. You’re a married man now, in case the fact had momentarily escaped your memory.”
    “Darling, you can’t possibly imagine I have any fell designs on Petsy just because I once interviewed her in line of duty.”
    “Duty, forsooth!” His aunt emitted a particularly nasty snicker.
    Dittany gave her a look.
    “Lay off, Arethusa. Darn it, I wish you hadn’t roped me in for this tea party at Minerva’s. I keep having guilt pangs about not showing Mr. Fairfield those quilt pieces. If I hadn’t taken a notion to go up attic in the first place, the poor old coot would probably be alive now.”
    Osbert wasn’t having any of that. “Darling, if somebody was planning to murder Mr. Fairfield, whatever you did or didn’t do can’t have made a particle of difference one way or the other.”
    “It makes a difference to me,” snapped Arethusa. “Quit nattering and go fetch those pieces. Pronto, as this semiliterate lout would no doubt put it.”
    Dittany gave her another look and went to get the wooden box.
    Arethusa, who had due respect for fine handwork even if she had none for her otherwise celebrated nephew, washed her hands free of pickle juice before she started turning over the exquisite scraps of satin and velvet.
    “Lovely, lovely. Just look at this golden bumblebee. It reminds me of something, though I can’t think what.”
    “The birds and the flowers?” Osbert suggested.
    “Gadzooks, you randy rake, meseems I liked you better with inhibitions.”
    “Fiddle, Aunt Arethusa. You thought I was a wimp.”
    “If by wimp you mean milksop, cotquean, or whey-faced mollycoddle, you could be right, though the correct expression might be that I disliked you less. The point is moot, since I’m stuck with you regardless. Getting back to this bee, have you ever seen a more impressive bug?”
    “It’s got one black antenna and one yellow,” said Osbert. “I wonder why.”
    “Perhaps because whoever did it ran out of black or, as the case may have been, yellow thread and didn’t feel like running out to get some more,” Dittany suggested. “There’s a whole swarm of bees, it looks like. Mrs. Fairfield thought the bride, who evidently never got to be one, may have belonged to a sewing circle called the Busy Bees. Or else her name was Betsy or Beatrice.”
    “Or Bedelia, Belinda, Bertha, or Bathsheba,” Osbert added helpfully.
    “Berengaria, more likely,” said Arethusa. “Hola, here’s a brown baby bee. Or is it a wood louse?”
    “Nobody would embroider a wood louse on a bride’s quilt,”
    Dittany objected. “Except possibly her younger brother. I think that’s meant to be a worker bee. They’d want one to fix the queen’s tea, I expect. Speaking of which, hadn’t you better phone Minerva and let her know she’s giving a party?”
    “Gadzooks, yes. Better still, you call her. I have to