A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (24 page)

Kate tried to get her arms around this news about Ann. Pregnant. But what could have happened to the child? She’d be twelve now. Did Picasso know?

“I watched her that week, coming to school each day, with a certain glow about her. But each day she seemed a little less sure of herself, more cautious. And then, like I said before, she came in one morning looking like her life was about to end, and the next day she was gone.”

“So she was sent away because she was pregnant, not because her mother was trying to get her away from her father, which was what we all thought.”

Betsy nodded. “The poor girl didn’t have much of a chance. Her mother loved her, but she was no match for Al Woods.”

“Meeting Picasso was the best thing that every happened to Laurel,” Kate said. “That was a chance.”

Betsy agreed, but added wisely, “A lot had happened to Ann before she met Picasso. And those things surely shaped the woman she had become. So what she brought to their relationship, why she married him, all of those things were affected by what happened to her right here at Crestwood High.”

Kate got up and put her bottle in the recycling bin.

“Betsy,” she said, slowly turning back to her mentor-turned-friend. “Do you know who the father was?”

Betsy put her book into her purse and rose from the couch. “No, I never knew. There was talk in the teachers’ lounge and around school after she left, some rumblings about the crushes she had on older boys. And how they’d lead her on. But Laurel wasn’t the kind of girl the kids cared about much—you probably don’t even remember when she disappeared from your class.”

Kate nodded slowly. That was absolutely right. She didn’t notice her absence, except for maybe a fleeting awareness. And she hadn’t noticed her presence much, either. Carrie, as the older kids called her, the girl with the weird hair and clothes, was all that rang in her head, and the thought made Kate immeasurably sad.

***

Since the Bees had met during the week and most of them would be going to the party that night at the country club, the Saturday quilting session at Selma’s was cancelled for the day. Kate jogged over to Po’s and the two sat together at the kitchen table, drinking cups of strong coffee. They sat in silence, absorbing the sadness that was Ann Woods’ life, and feeling like they needed to grieve for Laurel St. Pierre a second time.

“Po, it’s beginning to make a frightening kind of sense,”

Kate said, her eyes following a robin as it lighted on a branch, then flew off to its nest.

After leaving school the day before, Kate bought an apple pie at Marla’s and took it over to the Hallorans. Ella Halloran’s memory was a peculiar thing—some days she barely knew who Kate was, but could tell her what she ate for dinner on her and Danny’s wedding day fifty years earlier. Friday was one of those days. She remembered Esther Woods as clear as a Kansas sky.

In starts and stops, Ella told Kate about Ann Woods leaving town. She remembered it, because Esther and that no-good husband of hers up and moved to a bigger house right after the girl left. Seemed so odd, Ella said, that they’d wait until there were only two of them, then move to a big, fancy house. And shortly after that, right after Esther finished sewing a pink brocade suit for Ella to wear to the garden club’s spring luncheon, Esther stopped sewing. Didn’t need the money, Ella supposed. And not a month or so after that was that car wreck.

“I’m almost sure Picasso never knew about the baby,” Po said softly. Kate’s news had jarred her. She had built up many scenarios in her mind, but this hadn’t been one of them. She knew Laurel had been hurt, she knew she wanted revenge. But the thought of a baby in the middle of it had not occurred to her. “Picasso told me once that Laurel couldn’t have children. It was one of the great sadnesses of their life, he said.”

“What do you think happened to the baby? I wonder if the father raised it?”

Though she had no reason to conjecture, Po didn’t think that was the case. More likely the boy who got her pregnant was the one on the phone that night, telling Ann to get lost, get out of his life. They were just kids. The pieces were slowly coming together and Po almost wished she could stop it. It was a giant ball rolling down the hill, and Po was afraid of what would happen when it crashed at the bottom and all the secrets fell out. “Kate,” she asked suddenly, lifting her head as an idea made its way into her head, “did Ella Halloran ever mention where Al Woods worked?”

“She mentioned that he did construction work. It irritated Ella terribly—as if it were any of her business. But she said he’d come into the house while she was there for fittings and he wouldn’t have showered. He tracked mud all over the small house and smelled awful, she said. And then he’d sit at the kitchen table and drink beer in his soiled t-shirt. Made her sick, she said.”

Po stood and walked over to a small mirror in the kitchen. She ran a brush through her hair, then slid a light lipstick across her lips and swept blush across her cheekbones, avoiding the woman looking back at her from the mirror, that wise part of her soul who would have told her to mind her own business.

“Kate,” she said abruptly, turning away from the mirror and grabbing a jeans jacket from the back of her chair, “Let me give you a ride home. I know you have things to do to get ready for the party and I’ve a slew of errands to run. Find something lovely to wear tonight, and how about if you and P.J. pick me up at 8?”

***

Po’s trip to the library was brief. Ten minutes with the newspaper obituary records told her all she needed to know about Esther and Al Woods’ tragic accident and the funeral. There was one child, the obit read, who now lived on the East Coast. Her name was not mentioned. The newspaper article relating the accident was a little more detailed, and chatty, as small town journalism sometimes is. It told how Al and Esther had attended a company picnic that afternoon, and Al had consumed a tremendous quantity of beer. His blood alcohol level, the article said, was four times the accepted limit. At the time of the accident, they were driving back to a large home that had recently been purchased on a hill just outside town. There was a question about the brakes on Al Woods’ new truck, but the weaving that had been viewed by several witnesses made that less important than the fact that Al was very drunk. And, Po thought, there was no family to force an investigation, so it was probably not even attended to. The funeral was private, the article read, as the couple had wished, and the bodies would be cremated. United Quarry had set up a memorial fund with the proceeds to go to Mothers Against Drunk Drivers.

Generous company, Po thought. When Sam died, the college had set up a scholarship fund in his name, and Po was touched by the gesture and knew it would have been just what he wanted. Each year a deserving student was able to attend Canterbury College—and Sam was thought of and honored as the generous, lovely man he was. The memorial fund for Al was another matter. But if it benefited a good cause, Po was for it. On a whim, she typed the words UNITED QUARRY into her search engine, and in an instant, the screen listed pages of newspaper articles detailing the successful company that had its beginnings in Crestwood and now did business in Florida as well. On the home page, Po read about the company’s magnanimous giving to charities and political campaigns. She clicked on the ABOUT US button and scanned the names listed on the page—the board of directors and founders and staff—looking for familiar names. Max Elliott was there, which was no surprise to her. Max was everywhere, a silent, respectable member of more boards and charities than Po could count. Po read on, and then stopped suddenly, her eyes settling on another familiar name.

“Of course,” she said out loud. “I should have remembered that.” She stopped reading the screen, and looked off into the events of the past few weeks, her heart pounding in her chest. Sam had delighted in her overactive imagination. A necessary tool for a writer, he had said. And maybe that’s exactly what she was doing now. Or were the jagged pieces of this puzzle starting to fit together in a way Po couldn’t have imagine just a short time ago?

She picked her purse up from the floor and walked slowly out of the library, thinking sadly about Ann Woods, and how her life might have been different.

CHAPTER 26

Po took a deep pink beaded sweater out of her closet and pulled it over her head, then stepped into a long black skirt and fastened it in the back. But clothes for a fancy event were the farthest thing from her mind. Thoughts of Picasso ran through her head—and of all the people who had rallied around them. She dug through her jewelry box and pulled out a chunky rose quartz necklace—a gift from Sam. One of those no-special-day gifts that he sometimes surprised her with. Why are you on my mind so much today, Sam, she wondered, looking up, as if Sam Paltrow would suddenly materialize and she could talk all this over with him, listen to his wise words. And, as he always said, ignore them … or not. She had no proof for her suspicions, just a bunch of isolated facts that seemed to converge uncomfortably on the same bumpy road.

Po looked in the mirror and fastened the necklace around her neck. She’d see Max tonight. Maybe he could help. The sound of P.J.’s car in the drive pushed the thoughts into a corner of her mind and she forced a smile in place. This was a special night. Picasso needed them all there as he gave his quilt away to a good cause. Po lifted a soft black shawl from the back of her bedroom chair and hurried downstairs to her waiting ride.

***

The Crestwood Country Club was south of town, built along the grassy banks of the Emerald River. A golf course wrapped around the property and touched close to the water in places, making it a challenging and energizing course. And down the carefully manicured drive from the main clubhouse, stables housed championship steeds, riding horses, and several show horses owned by members. Po, P.J., and Kate drove up the long drive to the clubhouse. It was lit all along the way with low gaslights flickering against the dark night.

The drive to the club had been a quiet one. Po sat in the back, alone with her thoughts. But she noticed the pensive look on both Kate and P.J.’s faces, and she wondered briefly if they were all, perhaps, thinking the same thoughts, each in their own way. Thoughts that would eventually emerge, see the light of day, and become real. There was something safe about keeping them inside your head. Just like writing a book, she thought, they could still be manipulated and changed.

But sadly, life wasn’t so neat or easily edited.

Po looked up at the well-lit clubhouse. It sparkled with life and gaiety. Tonight would be happy. Tonight they would put aside the worries and suspicions and uncomfortable thoughts and be there for Picasso. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

“Kate,” Po said aloud, “you look especially beautiful tonight.”

“I second that,” P.J. said, looking over at her.

“It’s the company,” Kate said. “How could someone not feel special with one of you on either side of me?” She tucked an arm in each of theirs as they walked toward the clubhouse. Kate’s long deep-blue dress was simple and elegant, very Kate, as Po told her. Tiny straps held up the simple silk dress that flowed like liquid silver over Kate’s slender hips, down to her ankles, showing off strappy sandals with heels that lifted Kate to nearly P.J.’s height. Her hair was pulled into a knot in the back, fastened with a band and a single daisy.