Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (3 page)

“But you can’t say it isn’t exciting, El,” Phoebe replied. “Even moms in my twins’ playgroup are gabbing about her. Word has it she eats three-year olds.” Phoebe dipped her blonde-white head and bit off a piece of thread.

Po Paltrow—Portia in more formal circles—laughed at Phoebe’s irreverent comment, the kind they’d come to expect from her. She looked down to the end of the table at Selma Parker. “Selma, what do you think is up with Adele? I remember her from the neighborhood when we were growing up. And she was in your class, right?”

“A few years behind me,” Selma said. She wet one finger, then touched the iron to be sure it was hot. The Saturday quilt group had met in the back of Parker’s fabric store for as long as anyone could remember—beginning back when Selma’s mother ran the shop. Members changed, of course, as life ran its course—daughters and granddaughters and sometimes friends of original members taking their place. And Selma loved it all—especially the present group of Queen Bees—an unlikely mixture of women with an age span of nearly sixty years, anchored on either end by Phoebe and Eleanor. Though the group had begun as quilting companions, their lives had become as intricately entwined as the strips of fabric they deftly fashioned into works of art.

Satisfied that the iron was hot and sewing machine was ready to go, Selma looked back at Po and nodded. “Adele didn’t stick around Crestwood long, as you remember, Po. She came back for a short while after graduating from Smith College. But she couldn’t settle down. I remembered her mother urging her to go back East. Encouraging her to leave. She told her that Crestwood wasn’t big enough for her. There seemed to be some tension in the family, but it was never talked about, of course. Walter Harrington was a pompous, arrogant, man—”

“Aha,” Maggie Helmers interrupted, “it’s in the genes, maybe.”

“I remember Adele not liking it here,” Po said, “And once she left, she rarely came back. I don’t think she liked Crestwood very much.”

“And apparently that hasn’t changed,” Kate Simpson said. She pushed her chair back from the table and took a sip of her coffee, careful not to spill it on the mounds of fat quarters piled on the table. “The neighborhood kids are already calling her the wicked witch of the north. But I feel kind of sorry for her. This can’t be easy for her, coming back to bury her twin brother. Maybe this is how she handles grief. She’s probably not so bad.” Kate had come back to Crestwood to bury her own mother several years before—and the memory was still fresh, though cushioned now as sweet memories filled in around her loss.

“Bad? Kate, she’s downright nasty,” Maggie said. “She brought her dog into my clinic yesterday. The waiting room was packed because Daisy Sample’s beagle was hit by a car. He’s fine now. But anyway, Adele elbowed her way to the counter and demanded that Emerson be seen immediately. She was so rude. And then—” Maggie’s hands gestured while she talked, and she waved several pieces of freezer paper onto the floor. “And then when Mandy—my new technician—tried to calm her down and explain why she’d have to wait, Adele told her she had bad breath and should see a dentist.”

Po shook her head. She picked up a finished block of her quilt hanging and held it up to the light to check the hand stitching she’d done on the abstract design. She was trying something new—piecing together bright oranges and yellows and minty green strips in wavy swooshes. She’d hang it in the upper hallway, she thought, where it would brighten up the interior space. “I agree with Kate,” she said. “Adele has had a rough couple weeks. Burying her brother and figuring out what to do with that enormous house and property can’t be easy.”

“People offered to help, Po,” Leah Sarandon said. Leah, one of the most popular professors at Canterbury University, taught women’s studies on the ivy-covered campus just a few blocks from the Harrington home in the oldest section of Crestwood. “Professor Fellers talked the college board into having a memorial service for Oliver. Jed Fellers was Ollie’s mentor and spent a lot of time with him. Ollie was such a sweet guy—a little different—but he loved the library and learning and the college. And the students kind of adopted him because he was around all the time. Anyway, Adele said no. And there wasn’t a funeral, either. As for selling the house, that won’t be a problem at all. The college has tried to wrest it from Ollie for years. They may finally get it now.”

“It’s a magnificent estate,” Po said. “I remember going to parties there when Adele and Oliver’s parents were alive. And I stopped by now and then when I saw Ollie around, just to say hello, to take him some cobbler or bread. He’d always been a bit of a loner.”

“The house is haunted,” Phoebe said. “That’s what Shelly Rampey in the kids’ playgroup says. But that can be, like, good, depending on the ghosts, I guess. Shelly said that her yoga teacher is wanting to buy the place for a retreat house for busy mothers—a place they can go to refresh their spirits. I said, ‘sign me up, sister.’“

“Phoebe, if your spirit were any more refreshed, we’d have to tie you down,” Po said.

Phoebe laughed.

“But I agree with Leah,” Po went on. “That property is priceless. Neighbors are concerned that it be sold to the right person.”

“What’s that mean?” Kate asked. She reached over to the table behind her for a pastry from Marla’s bakery, just a few stores down on Elderberry Road.

“Well, the neighbors don’t want anything that will bring traffic, that sort of thing. And there are so many beautiful old magnolias and oaks and pines on that property—the thought of a developer tearing it down and putting up huge new side-by-side houses is very sad. I think it’s one of the oldest houses in Crestwood. It needs to be taken care of properly.”

“Do you think Adele Harrington will care about any of that?” Eleanor asked.

“The house has been in the family for over 100 years,” Po said. “Adele will surely consider that and do the right thing.” But Po frowned as she spoke. The controversy surrounding the beautiful old home at 210 Kingfish Drive was heating up discussions in all pockets of life in sleepy Crestwood. And just this morning, as she ran past the Harrington home on her daily jog, she’d noticed that activity had picked up around the house—cars, and even a truck or two, driving in and out of the long, angular drive leading up to the stately home. Probably interested buyers coming to check it out, she had thought, though the hour was early and she wondered if the noise had awakened the neighbors. She’d noticed a truck with Tom Adler’s Prairie Development name on it. He was hungry for more land to build homes on, Po knew. 210 Kingfish Drive would be wonderful for his needs.

“I’m not sure I share your confidence in Adele’s sense of what’s right, Po,” Selma said. “She doesn’t live here, after all, and doesn’t give a hoot about the town.” Selma sat with her back to the archway leading into the main room of the store, one ear on the customers being helped by two college girls who helped out on Saturdays. “There’s so much money at stake. That’s what will decide what happens to that beautiful home—money. Mark my words. And let’s just hope it helps the town, not hurts it.”

“Why Selma Parker,” a new voice interjected itself into the mix. “Who would ever dream of hurting this little town?” Eight heads moved in unison and all eyes focused on the tall, commanding figure standing in the archway, directly behind Selma.

The woman smiled slightly, acknowledging them as a group. Then her gray eyes focused on Selma, and she took a step into the room. “Please, don’t let me interrupt, ladies. Go on with your chitchat. I find your foolish conversation quite amusing.”

Selma stood and wiped the palms of her sweaty hands down her rumpled tan slacks. Then she lifted one hand out in greeting and forced a smile to her face. “Hello, Adele,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

Adele Harrington placed her Ballenciaga bag on the table.

“Yes, it has been a long time, Selma.” Adele turned her long, angular face toward Po. “And Portia Paltrow,” she said, her eyes moving slowly up and down Po, then settling in on her face. “You’ve aged agreeably, I see.”

Po felt the tension in the room but forced a smile to her face. “We were all terribly sad to hear about Oliver, Adele.” Adele waved her long fingers through the air as if dismissing Po’s thought. “Death happens,” she said. “Perhaps Oliver would have lived longer if he hadn’t shut himself up in that house like a damn monk. He was a genius, you know.” Adele surveyed the group. She looked at Phoebe for a long time and then shook her head. “Did you cut your hair with a lawn clippers?” she asked finally.

Shortly after Jude and Emma were born, Phoebe had clipped her gold mane short all over her head. And she loved the freedom of the no-nonsense, one-inch style. Eleanor called her the Queen Bees’ platinum-haired pixie. It was a look that could look beautiful only on Phoebe Mellon.

Phoebe smiled sweetly at Adele and cocked her head to one side. “A FlowBee and scissors. Easy as pie. Want me to do yours?”

Adele’s hand shot up instinctively to her thick shoulder-length hair. It lacked the sprinkling of gray that most women in their fifties coped with, and this morning it floated loosely about her attractive face. “You’re married to that Mellon boy,” she said.

“Is there something you wanted, Adele?” Selma asked, dismissing the moment and hoping Phoebe wouldn’t run for her FlowBee. Phoebe didn’t allow herself to be pushed around readily. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Adele was silent a moment, as if considering the question, then looked over at Phoebe again. “I like her spunk,” she said to no one in particular. “Yes, Selma. Please bring me a cup of coffee.”

Po wondered if Adele had spent the years away from Crestwood managing a flock of servants. Nevertheless, Po, being closest to the side table holding the coffeepot and the usual stash of flaky pastries from Marla’s bakery, poured a cup for Adele. “Cream and sugar are on the table,” she said, handing the cup to Adele and nodding toward the sideboard.

“Black is fine,” Adele said and turned back to Selma. “Though you haven’t offered the usual amenity, Selma, I would like to sit down. May I? I want to talk with all of you.”

A questioning look passed between Selma and Po as they wondered in tandem what in the world Adele Harrington wanted with them.

Selma touched the iron to see if it was hot and then looked back at Adele. “This is the Queen Bees quilting group, Adele, and they meet here in my shop every Saturday morning. Certainly you may sit, but we’ll want to continue finishing up our—”

“I know what this is, Selma,” Adele cut in. “My mother was a Queen Bee, lest you forget.”

From her corner chair, Eleanor smiled, remembering. “Of course she was. She was an excellent quilter and a very lovely woman.”
And how in the world did she bear the likes of you
, Eleanor thought.

Adele looked over at Eleanor, noticing the elegant gray-haired woman for the first time. “Eleanor Canterbury?” she said. “My God, are you still alive?”

Eleanor’s delicious laughter floated above the cluttered table. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion, Adele. But yes, I believe I am. Would you like a pinch?” She held out her arm. Dangly gold bracelets chimed against one another.

Adele stared at Eleanor for a moment. “Amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “My mother liked you, if I remember correctly.”

“Your mother liked everyone, Adele,” Eleanor said.

“You’re wrong about that, Eleanor.” Adele smiled politely, pulled out a chair and sat down. “You may continue with your work, but I would like to tell you why I am here.”

“That would be nice,” Selma said, and she picked up an all-white, whole-cloth quilt hanging that she had made for a new stationery store opening up down the road. In the center of the piece, Selma had designed a delicate feather pen and scrolled piece of paper, intricately stitching the design and framing it with a cable pattern. The background was filled in with a grid pattern—millions of tiny stitches that resulted in a beautifully designed work of art.

“How cool, Selma!” Phoebe leaned over the shopowner’s shoulder and touched the stitching with the tip of her finger. “That’s perfect for the stationery store!” Though the Bees sometimes worked on a single project together, for the past few months they had worked on individual projects, guided by Leah and Susan, who were always there to help with design and color and fabric.

Adele cleared her throat, pulling the attention back to her.

“Adele, do you know the others?” Po asked.

Adele glanced around the table. “I know who most of you are. I’ve checked the group out, of course.”

Po frowned. Checked them out? What on earth was Adele Harrington thinking, coming in and confronting them this way?

“You’re Kate Simpson,” Adele said, looking at Kate. Her tone was accusatory.

Even in jeans and a t-shirt, her normal Saturday attire, Kate stood out in a crowd. She was the tallest Bee by several inches, as slender as Kansas wheat, and had thick, unruly auburn hair and arresting brown eyes that could stop traffic, even in sleepy Crestwood. And Kate backed down to few people.

She looked evenly at Adele. “I am,” she said simply. She decided not to remind Adele that they had met several times, and that she lived just a couple blocks from the Harrington mansion. It probably wouldn’t matter to her, Kate decided.