A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (6 page)

But she needed to take her own advice, she decided. She had too many things on her own plate to get involved, uninvited, into someone’s personal problems. Po stared at the screen on her computer. What was her business was finishing this article.

But writing came in fits and starts, and when Po finally decided to go to bed a few hours later, she fixed herself some sleepy time tea first. Somehow she anticipated sleep would be as difficult as the writing had been. She couldn’t put her finger on the cause. Concern for Picasso? A writing deadline? Or was it just one of those anxious times in life when things aren’t as smooth and tranquil as they sometimes are? Her mother had always told her those were the fruitful, creative times, like a plant beneath the soil’s surface, just about to burst forth in brilliant colors. Restlessness could be a good thing, her mother had insisted.

But Po’s optimistic and wise mother never mentioned the other side of restlessness. The dark side that might be the harbinger of distressing events.

Ella Paltrow would never have imagined—not in a million years—that the nagging unrest that kept her daughter tossing beneath her fine cotton sheets that moonless night might have portended a murder.

CHAPTER 5

The next morning came far too early, but a brisk shower brought life back into Po’s body. That and the thought that it was Saturday morning and she’d be spending it, as usual, with the remarkable Queen Bees. She slipped into light slacks and a cotton blouse, brushed her hair and pulled it back into a knot at the base of her neck, then headed downstairs and out the back door.

Po took advantage of the gorgeous spring day and walked the few blocks from her home to the Elderberry shops. She hoped the crisp air would help her shake the uneasiness that interrupted her sleep. She loved her Saturday mornings and was determined not to let unknown anxiety interfere with her day. It had kept her from rising at five for her morning run, and that was the extent that she would allow it to ruin her day. Po moved aside while two college coeds whizzed by. Exams were not far off and tension was tossed to the wind as they ran down the flowering streets of Crestwood.

The Queen Bees met at Selma’s Quilt Shop at eight a.m. every Saturday for their weekly quilting gathering. Not everyone made it each Saturday, but they’d decided a long time ago that meeting monthly didn’t do the trick—so sometimes there would be three of them on the weekend morning, sometimes six or eight. Po herself sometimes missed if her daughter Sophie was in town with Po’s beloved grandchildren, or one of the boys managed a weekend away from their busy lives in California to visit. Or if she had a book deadline or lecture to prepare. But she found the gathering important to her well-being and was always there if her schedule permitted. She’d been a member of the Queen Bees from its beginning thirty years before, when she was a young bride having babies, teaching writing, and helping her husband Sam up the ladder of academia. Eventually, Sam climbed that ladder to the top—the youngest president in the history of Canterbury College. And the whole town had mourned when a sudden heart attack had taken Sam Paltrow from their lives far too early.

“Sam,” Po said softly as she circled a child’s scooter left out on the sidewalk, “You’d like this group. Maggie Helmers—she was in school with Sophie, you remember? And she’s now Crestwood’s busiest veterinarian. There’s a young mom—Phoebe—who is married to Jimmy Mellon. His parents were big benefactors at the college. A bit stuffy, though well intentioned, I suppose. And of course, dear Eleanor Canterbury is still there and never misses a session—unless she’s off on an African safari or visiting Egyptian pyramids. I swear, Sam, at 82 she has more wind in her sails than that boat you used to race on Lake Quivira.” Po stopped and leaned over a bed of daffodils bordering a thick green lawn. Lovely, she thought, then continued on her way. “And Leah Sarandon, of course. She still teaches at Canterbury, still giving the male faculty a hard time, and still remembers the day you promoted her to department head against the wishes of that stodgy board you had to deal with. Susan Miller is another Bee—you didn’t know Susan—she was involved in all that mess last year when Owen Hill was murdered, the poor girl. But she has bounced back beautifully and still helps Selma in the shop, even though she inherited a hunk of money from Owen. She’s an amazing, talented quilter.” “Hey, Po, who you talking to?” Kate rode up behind Po, braking her bike to a stop. “I called to you but you didn’t seem to hear—you were deep in conversation.”

Po laughed and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and looked at Kate. “Just talking with an old friend, that’s all.” Kate got off her bike and began walking next to Po. She looped one arm loosely around her shoulders. “I talk to mom, too. They’re still with us, for sure.”

Po smiled, waved at a woman across the street, and changed the subject. “You’re early for quilting, honey. That’s not like you at all.”

Kate’s throaty laugh, a bit too loud, filled the space between them. “Miracles happen. You’re a bit early yourself. Are you hoping Marla has the cinnamon rolls finished?”

“Maybe a cup of coffee. I didn’t sleep well.” She rotated her shoulders as if to shrug off the last remnants of discomfort that still lay just beyond conscious thought. “I thought maybe Selma might need some help readying the store. Since she started displaying quilts on Friday nights, she’s had a mess of people going through the store. Great for business but lots of work.”

“That’s a good idea to use that west wall of her store for displays. But what we really need is a quilting museum. When I lived on the east coast, we used to visit one in Lowell, a great little town not too far north of Boston. It’s an amazing museum, with terrific, passionate quilters, just like us. We could do that here.”

“Selma and Susan have similar ideas, I think. They have their eyes on that old brick building across the street.” Po and Kate rounded the corner onto Elderberry Road, and Po pointed to a large, three-story building that used to house a hardware store before Home Depot moved into the mall on the edge of town. Today a For Sale sign was posted in one of the windows.

Kate squinted to read the sign. “McKay Commercial Real Estate,” she read. “Billy’s everywhere.”

“He’s a go-getter, just like his father.”

“Well, he charmed the socks off every teacher in Crestwood High,” Kate said. “If he’s half as good with his clients, he’ll be very successful.”

“Eleanor told me yesterday that he may give the city a good deal on an old warehouse down near the river. They want to turn it into a half-way house.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. He was always the one to lead the food drives in high school. And though I don’t mean to take away from his generosity, Po, none of that will hurt his political career.”

“No, you’re right about that.” Po nodded to a neighbor walking by. “But if it helps the city in the process, more power to him.”

Kate nodded. She was actually proud of Billy, and had to admit she enjoyed the frequent encounters they’d had recently. Janna Hathaway was a very lucky woman, and Kate suspected from the tight grip she kept on Bill, that she was well aware of that fact.

Kate and Po glanced into the window of the antiques store on the corner. A young couple from Kansas City had recently bought the old Windsor House Antiques after a scandal had sent the owner to jail. The formerly dark and elegant store had taken on a bright new look, with skylights and bright urns overflowing with flowers in every window. While it still held some priceless antiques, the store was more affordable now, and Po thought the change was a good one.

Next door, Marla already had customers filling the front bay window of her bakery and café, and the smell of cinnamon drifted out the open door. Daisy Sample, owner of the Elderberry Road florist, Flowers by Daisy, was walking out of Marla’s with a huge muffin in her hand as she headed next door to open her own shop. “Morning ladies,” she called out and continued on her way.

Brew and Brie, Po’s favorite shop for picking up Vermont white cheddar and a good Merlot, was closed up tighter than a drum. “Ambrose and Jesse are getting a late start, as usual,” Po said.

They passed by Gus’s place and waved as he pulled up the blinds on the front window, readying himself for the Saturday crowd. Next to Gus’s, a small open space had been turned into a patio, separating the bookstore from the French restaurant. Gus and Picasso collaborated to add some benches and flower pots, and it became a perfect place to read books from the book store while waiting for a table at the French Quarter—a plus for both owners. At this hour on a Saturday morning, it was deserted, save for a collection of blue jays eating up last night’s crumbs.

Po frowned as she looked through the slats of the blinds on Picasso’s windows and into the darkness beyond. “It’s one thing for Ambrose and Jesse to sleep in, but Picasso is always here at this hour.”

“He probably had a late night last night.”

“That doesn’t matter. He’s here every Saturday morning when I jog by. Always.” She frowned. “Kate, something’s wrong.” Po stood still, staring at the front door to the restaurant.

Kate touched her arm. “Po, come on. Everyone deserves to sleep in now and then—even Picasso. I’m late all the time and you never worry. Let’s go.” She tugged playfully on the sleeve of Po’s jeans jacket.

Reluctantly Po began to walk toward Selma’s. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was needed somewhere, and it wasn’t at the big oak table in the back of Selma’s quilt store.

But before they could walk through the door to Selma’s shop, it swung open from the inside. Selma stood alone in the entry, her face as chalky white as the sidewalk, and Po knew without a smidgen of a doubt that she was right.

“Picasso?” Po asked. Her heart was squeezed tightly against the wall of her chest.

Selma shook her head no, then yes. And then she grabbed them each by the arm and drew a confused Po and Kate into the shop.

“Laurel,” she said in the softest voice Po had ever heard Selma use. “Laurel St. Pierre is dead.”

CHAPTER 6