Free Quilt or Innocence by Elizabeth Craig

filled with ice. She lay down gently in the hammock, put on a pair of reading glasses and happily opened her book,
Whispers of Summer
. Noo-noo lay on the ground next to her, making little snorting snores. The yard was dappled with sunlight, and a soft breeze wafted through the air.
This
had been her vision of retirement. She gave a sigh of satisfaction.
    After only ten minutes of reading, though, she felt restless. Shouldn’t she be doing something? Emptying the dishwasher? Mailing bill payments? She probably should have gone by the store to pick up something for supper. She wasn’t
used
to relaxing, she told herself. It was probably something she’d have to work up to.
    Her mind kept drifting away from her book and back to Judith’s death. In an ordinary day at the museum, she’d always been engaged in
some
kind of mental exercise—researching a new exhibit or studying various aspects of the folk art she was appraising. Every bit of art in the museum told a story, and she’d felt like a detective investigating the story behind each piece of art. There must be a story behind Judith’s death, too. She hoped Piper’s best friend wouldn’t be at the heart of the story. Piper had seemed very concerned about Amber when they’d talked yesterday. The police were sure to be interested in talking with Amber, especially after they learned about her heated argument with Judith over the quilt last night. Could the girl really be a cold-blooded killer, though? It was hard to picture. Maybe, if she poked around a little, she could find a way to clear Amber’s name.
    Beatrice shifted in the hammock. Too bad the quilting hadn’t been quite the relaxing activity that Piper and Meadow had assured her it would be. Meadow, true to her word, had made an exacting list of supplies for Beatrice, and Posy, despite her anxiety, had gently and skillfully found some fabrics that she thought Beatrice would enjoy working with. It all seemed effortless for Posy, as if she automatically knew beautiful color and texture combinations. Beatrice felt like she had to turn her creativity on and off like a faucet. Back at home, she’d watched a short beginner-quilter video on her computer, but the forty-five minutes she’d used to apply the techniques to her own quilt had been disastrous.
    Piper thought quilting would prove a great way to get Beatrice’s mind off discovering Judith’s body. And it had done that—only because the experience had been so frustrating. It had taken ten minutes just to thread the needle. Then she’d tried some basic hand-piecing—sewing a couple of scraps together by hand. It should have been simple to sew a triangle of light fabric to a triangle of dark fabric, but the back of it was a catastrophe and the front hadn’t been much better. She knew that quilting was a big way to connect to the other women in the community, but she was becoming more convinced that her role should be that of an adviser or organizer or even designer rather than a hands-on creator.
    Beatrice jumped, heart pounding, as Noo-noo exploded into barking and bolted toward the back door, looking back at Beatrice as if telling her she needed to follow. But by the time Beatrice had extricated herself from the hammock and found a spot to put down her book, Posy was already unhitching the back gate.
    “Beatrice, I’m so sorry! You’re trying to relax and you certainly need to after such an unsettling morning.”
    “No, actually, I was thinking how horrible I am at relaxing. And this refreshing lemonade isn’t nearly as refreshing as the mint julep I keep thinking about. Especially after this extraordinarily long day. How about if I make us both one?”
    Posy took her up on her offer, and in a few minutes Beatrice was back outside with a small tray of drinks and napkins.
    “I think,” said Posy thoughtfully, “that relaxation is a acquired skill. It must be really difficult for you to make the adjustment from being a busy curator to being a