A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (10 page)

Max nodded. “And doesn’t make friends easily, as far as I can tell,” he said. “I was meeting with Bill about some company matters, and knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought them along.”

“Are you helping Bill with his political plans?” Po asked.

“Not so far. Though I’ll help him if I can. But I did legal and financial work for the realty company years ago, and Bill has asked me to help him out with a few things to get the company back on track.” Max picked up the knife and began slicing through layers of coffee ice cream, thick hot fudge, and a thin, crusty layer of crushed pralines. “Sinful, Po,” he moaned, lifting a wide slice and sliding it onto a plate.

“But good for the spirit every once in a while,” Po said. She placed a fork on each plate. “Max, I’ve been wanting to ask you about Picasso—have you spoken to him?”

Max took a drink of his wine, then shook his head.

Po saw the furrows on his brow deepen. He seemed to want to say something to her, but instead, he lifted his wine glass again and drained it.

“Max, what is it?”

Max picked up the tray of pie plates and looked at Po. “The truth is, I wanted to go over to Picasso’s as soon as I heard the news. I like Picasso very much. But frankly, Po, I’m not the right person to be with him right now. Make of that what you will.”

Before Po could question him further, he walked back to the other end of the room to a chorus of voices welcoming the ice cream pies. Po watched him as he handed out the plates of dessert, wondering what in the world could cause such uncharacteristic behavior in this gentle man she had come to respect and like very much. It wasn’t like Max at all. And she wondered briefly how many other relationships would become awkward because of the murder of a young woman none of them knew.

CHAPTER 9

Sunday night suppers usually ended early so everyone could get home in time to get ready for another week, and tonight’s was no exception. Max was the first to go, and Po regretted saying anything to him about Picasso. He seemed troubled when he left, and after a quick kiss on the cheek and thank you, was out the door without another word. The others followed soon after, though Eleanor lingered behind, helping Po put away the last of the dishes.

“Po, you’ve been distracted tonight. Out with it,” Eleanor demanded, pouring the last of the coffee from the pot into her mug.

Po wondered if it was good for Eleanor to have all that caffeine so close to bedtime, but she held her silence, knowing Eleanor would do what she pleased, no matter what anyone said.

“It’s Picasso isn’t it?” Eleanor said abruptly. “It’s awful that he’s going through all this.”

Po nodded. It was awful, and confusing, and affecting people she cared about. But she knew instinctively that whatever was bothering Max tonight was something she didn’t have any right to talk about with others, But the quilt was another matter.

“Eleanor,” she said, “something happened today that is plaguing me. I saw a quilt hanging on the wall of Picasso’s home.” The image of the beautiful bird had remained with Po all evening. She described it to Eleanor in detail, the artful swirl of the fabric pieces, the brilliant colors that made the bird stand out in bold relief. “But the thing that is bothering me, El, the thing that I can’t shake, is the almost certain thought that I’ve seen it before.”

“You probably did,” Eleanor said, sitting down at Po’s wide table, now empty of the platters it held earlier. “Many people make the same quilt, Po, you know that. And from your description, it sounds lovely. Other people have probably used the same pattern.”

“It wasn’t that kind of quilt, El. It was intricate, unique. I don’t think the pattern would have been easily duplicated, and even if it had been, it was the kind of art work that you wouldn’t want to pass on to others. But for the life of me, I can’t remember where I’ve seen it.”

“Maybe someone did an article on it. Or you saw it at a quilt show. Houston, perhaps? We’ve certainly been to plenty of shows, and it would explain how you’d seen one from the east coast.”

“That’s a possibility, Eleanor.” Po considered the ideas as she poured herself a cup of tea. She sat down across from Eleanor. “Picasso said he wanted to bring all of us in to see the quilt, but Laurel refused.”

“Laurel wasn’t the most sociable person in the world, Po. She probably didn’t want a bunch of us tramping through her personal space.”

“Probably. But it’s a shame. Things that beautiful should be shared. But I do wish I could remember exactly where I’ve seen it before. It will plague me in an awful way.”

“It will come to you when you stop thinking about it,” Eleanor said philosophically. “Believe me, I’m the expert on memory lapses. And things usually float back. Or not.” Tiny lines around her clear blue eyes moved upward as she laughed. “But I will stop by Picasso’s house to pay my respects and see it for myself. Now you have me curious, Po Paltrow.”

“Good. Maybe between the two of us, we will have a whole memory.”

“Or not,” Eleanor said, and headed for the door, her cane tapping on the floor as she went.

CHAPTER 10

By Tuesday, Po’s thoughts of the bird quilt were buried beneath a cloud of more ugly matters: rumors.

“They’re so huge, they could choke a horse,” Selma told Po as they scurried across the campus of Canterbury College to attend Leah’s evening lecture on women in the 1960s. A brisk breeze had caused the two women to hug their jackets tight to their bodies and keep their step lively. “It seems everyone and her brother has a story to tell about Laurel St. Pierre,” Selma muttered, shoving her hands into the pockets of her sweater.

“Kate stopped by this morning on her way to that photography class she’s taking. She can barely speak to P.J., she said. She wants him to publicly declare Picasso innocent.”

“Maybe he should,” Selma said. “Ridiculous thought that such a sweet man would do such a thing.”

“Of course it’s ridiculous. But with all these rumors spreading, the police need to look at everything.”

“That gossipy column in the Gazette claims there’s a whole army of men that know Laurel, and not in the way any husband would approve.”

“That same column declared improprieties about Eleanor when she hosted a political dinner the columnist didn’t approve of,” Po reminded her, nodding toward Eleanor’s three-story mansion on the corner of the campus.

Selma laughed. “I remember. Eleanor loved it.”

“But you’ve a point, Selma. Even though the rumors may be nonsense, the fact of the matter is that there’s a smidgen of truth mixed in. Laurel did place a domestic violence call just days before she was killed. And when there’s a bit of truth involved, rumor and truth become mixed until you can’t tell one from the other.”

Truth be told, Po was worried sick over Picasso and all the gossip spinning around him. And she knew that the phone call Laurel made to the police wasn’t good. It indicated marital trouble, even though Picasso denied it. And he had told Po earlier that day that he was going to reopen the restaurant, just to have something to do. Would people interpret it as a lack of grieving? Po wondered, and thought she might have to talk to Picasso about it, even though she knew that for some, grieving had to be woven into a productive life or it became suffocating and unbearable. But she would tell Picasso to go slow, to take time for himself, too.

Selma held open the door to the Canterbury College auditorium, and the two women walked into the lobby. “Looks like a good crowd,” Selma observed. Leah’s lectures were popular, and in addition to students and faculty, townspeople often came as well.

“There’s Janna Hathaway,” Po said, noticing the young woman standing near the window.

Po caught her attention and waved her over. “I’m happy to see you here, Janna—we share an interest in women’s history, I guess.”

Janna smiled and explained to Po that Bill had a meeting with Max and some others that evening about business matters, and had suggested she come. “He thought it’d be good for me to be aware of things going on in the college community.”

Po was disappointed, hoping Janna’s motives were personally, rather than politically, motivated, but she quickly swallowed the unkind interpretation of Janna’s motives and introduced her to Selma. “Selma has the most amazing fabric in her store that you’ll find anywhere, Janna.”