Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (4 page)

“I’ve seen you riding that fool bike past the house,” Adele said. Then, abruptly, she looked at Maggie and nodded, recognition softening the sculpted lines of her face. “I’ve met you, Dr. Helmers,” she said. “You were good to my Emerson.”

Maggie nodded. “Emerson is a wonderful dog.”

Adele nodded, and it was clear that Emerson held a special spot in her life. Maggie decided that though she didn’t much care for the woman, her affection for Emerson won her a couple of points. Maybe.

Leah Sarandon had been watching Adele carefully, wondering if she would recognize her. A few years before Leah had been on a committee that granted an award for writing to a college student. That year Ollie Harrington, an older student who had returned to college after years away, was the winner, chosen for an essay he’d written on the Milky Way. It was sparse and elegant, and did indeed appear to be the work of a genius, as Adele had stated earlier. Jed Fellers, an astronomy professor at Canterbury, had taken Ollie under his wing and nurtured the talent that was most deserving of the award. Adele Harrington had come to town, a rare occasion, to attend the banquet honoring her brother. Leah remembered her being rather aloof but seemingly proud of her brother.

“And you are?” Adele asked now. “You don’t appear to be a Crestwood native.”

She didn’t remember, Leah thought, which was fine. “I’m from the East Coast, Adele, but my husband and I have lived here for awhile. I teach at Canterbury and my husband is a pediatrician here in town.”

“And you do some of the design work with this group?”

“Some. I like to try new things with the group. They indulge me.”

“Good. And in answer to your unasked question—yes, I remember you from the banquet honoring my brother. I never forget a face, though your name escaped me.”

Adele’s piercing eyes studied Leah for a moment, then moved on to Susan Miller, Selma’s shop assistant. Susan, like Ollie Harrington, had returned to get a college degree later than most. In Susan’s case, it was Selma who convinced her helper that thirty-five was the perfect age, and someone with Susan’s talent for fiber design shouldn’t be hiding it in a small sewing store with a chubby proprietress. And so Susan had registered at Canterbury University, and her knowledge of fabric and shapes and colors was a gift the Queen Bees counted on in creating the most beautiful quilts in Kansas. “You put together that quilt display in the library,” Adele said finally.

“Leah and I put that together,” Susan said. The reading room in the college library often displayed the artwork of students, faculty, and sometimes residents. Recently they’d featured a variety of quilts honoring life on the Kansas prairie, all designed and quilted by Kansas women.

“It’s a lovely display,” Adele said. The sudden compliment caused Po to laugh lightly. Adele Harrington was a package of contradictions. “Adele Harrington, I believe you are all show,” she said. “Now, why are you here and what do you want? We’re always happy to have visitors, but we’re busy, as you can see. And I am sure you are busy, too, getting that huge house ready for an eager market.”

“An eager market?”

“I’d say that everyone from the college board of directors to the city council to outside investors would like nothing better than to be the proud owners of your beautiful ten acres and that amazing house.” Po took a sip of coffee.

“Is that what this silly town thinks?”

Po frowned, not understanding Adele’s comment, but not inclined to ask for an explanation. Instead, she continued in her own direction. “Those of us in the neighborhood are hoping you’ll be discriminating when you decide who will own it next. Large condos wouldn’t endear you to the neighbors.” Po chose her words carefully. She had no right to tell Adele what to do with her inheritance, but she hoped that she cherished her family’s house enough to be careful about what happened to it. And Po herself wasn’t sure what that would be. The days of single families living in mansions were pretty much over, and although she’d love for the house to be preserved, she wasn’t sure what the best choice would be. Perhaps a small museum to house local art? Something that wouldn’t cause traffic jams, something tasteful and discrete.

“And do you think I care about being liked by the neighbors, Po?” Adele asked.

“Yes,” Po said simply. And in that moment, Po believed her own words. There was something forced about Adele’s attitude. Po remembered Adele as a young woman, home from her first year at Smith. She had come over one day with her mother, shortly after newlyweds Po and Sam had moved into the home she still lived in. Po remembered with some clarity because Adele was excited about the things she was learning and the thrill of living near Boston and soaking up all it had to offer. Po wasn’t that far removed from her own experience at Radcliffe, and they had shared stories about football games and clubs and what once were the Seven Sister schools.

Adele had seemed older than her years even then, but her enthusiasm for life and learning had impressed Po. The austere façade she had adopted in her early fifties didn’t seem a totally comfortable fit, and Po wondered if this was the real Adele they were seeing or if grief and loss had hardened her.

“Po’s right, Adele,” Selma said. “Everyone is welcome here, but we’ve projects to finish. Is there something in particular we can help you with?”

“Of course there is. I don’t make a habit of wasting my Saturday mornings in the backrooms of small shops.” She paused and looked around the table, taking in each of the women and the fabric in front of them. Nearly finished table runners and small colorful quilts ready to hang on walls crowded the table.

The Queen Bees were all watching Adele, their fingers the only movement in the room.

Adele placed the palms of her hands on the table as if addressing a jury. “I’m here on business. I want you to make eight quilts for me.”

Eight sets of fingers ceased movement, as if hit by a bolt of lightning.

“Immediately,” Adele added.

“What?” Selma said.

“You heard me, Selma Parker. I want you to make eight quilts for me,” Adele repeated. “I will pay you plenty— you can donate it to that quilt museum I hear you want to start, or whatever.” Her long thin fingers waved the air. “I will even donate extra to the cause. I want fine pieced quilt tops—I have already made arrangements to have them quilted as soon as you are finished piecing them. And I want you to begin working on them now.”

“Why in heaven’s name do you want eight quilts?”

“I want twelve quilts. But my mother preserved some of her own, and I will use four of those.”

“For what?” Kate asked.

“For the bed and breakfast I will be opening in my family home.”

The news that Adele Harrington was turning the Harrington mansion into a B&B hit Crestwood with the force of a Kansas tornado.

The issue wasn’t that the bed and breakfast idea was foreign to residents — Crestwood was the perfect atmosphere for a cozy B&B, and the town already boasted two small inns near the Emerald River. Parents of Canterbury students kept them full and profitable. It was that the Harrington property was probably the most valuable private home in the entire town—and folks had an eye on it for far more lofty enterprises than a place for visitors to spend the night and wake up to omelets and home-made cinnamon rolls.

A special meeting was called to protest the conversion of the mansion into a business, and Po felt the venom in her neighbor’s speech.

“There’ll be traffic messes, ungodly noise—and they’ll probably start having weddings and God knows what over there,” Keith Harris had bellowed. But listening quietly in the corner of the Harris’s living room, Po knew it was more than that. It was the change in the quiet, tree-canopied neighborhoods that they all feared. A B&B this year, and what would be next? It was the fact that a park on that land would solidify the area near the college as a coveted place to live. It was the loss of control over what happened to their neighborhood and perhaps a dip in property values. And of course, it was money. If Adele held onto the property, others couldn’t make a tidy fortune of their own.

But Adele had bested them all, finding loopholes in the zoning law for a home that had graced the land before most of Crestwood even existed. It was going to be a bed and breakfast. And there was nothing anyone in all of Crestwood could do about it.

“People are so mad that I’m almost ashamed we’re helping her,” Kate said to Po as they wandered about the city market late Saturday morning. Kate swallowed a bite of apple. “On the other hand, it’s a fun project.”

Today’s quilt session had been an enthusiastic one, with ideas for the Harrington quilts bouncing off the walls. In the end, they’d decided to focus on traditional patterns for most of the B&B’s rooms, using old patterns stored away from the
Kansas City Star
newspaper collection. The familiar patterns would be perfect for a bed and breakfast, they’d all agreed. Picking eight from the thousand that had been published would be the hard part.

“It will be a challenge, Kate. But I agree—lots of fun.” Po stopped at an apple booth and felt the Jonathan apples. They’d be perfect for a pie, she thought.

Though summer squash had given way to pumpkins and homegrown apples, the market was still buzzing with activities. Situated on the banks of the Emerald River, the open-air market was part of a cleaned-up area that had given rise in recent years to a park and restaurants dotting the downtown area. Run by farmers and residents from around the area who brought in organic produce and herbs and flowers from May to late September, the market was a vibrant place for visitors and townsfolk to gather on sunny Saturday mornings. The smell of fritters and hot coffee filled the air, and on most Saturdays a local group of musicians played in the small white gazebo while children danced on its steps and old folks filled the benches and clapped their hands or nodded to the music.

Po picked up a jar of pesto sauce and read the hand-lettered label. “You’re right about this B&B causing a fuss,” she said, and told Kate about the neighborhood meeting. “It isn’t making Adele any friends, not that she seems to want them.”

It had been one week since Adele had dropped her bombshell to the Bees, and for seven days the
Crestwood Daily News
had been full of letters to the editor protesting the decision.

“You don’t have to tell me what you’re talking about.” Leah walked over to her two friends from a nearby pumpkin stand. “Who would have thought one woman could have created such a stir?” Leah’s denim skirt swept her ankles and a chunky necklace moved on her hand-screened tee shirt as she talked. Leah’s distinctive look of dress and jewelry was often imitated by students who fought tooth and nail to get into her classes.

“Frankly, Leah, I’ve decided a lot worse things could go in there than a B&B,” Po said. “There will be twelve bedrooms, that’s maybe 25 people at one time plus staff. Not exactly a traffic jam.”

“Maybe it’s the idea that she’s going to be living here that’s infuriating people,” Kate said. “She isn’t exactly a warm and welcoming inn keeper-type.”

“There’s some truth in that,” said Po. “But I think it’s the disappointed parties that are causing the furor. People who wanted the property for their own interests.”

“I can vouch for the college’s fury,” Leah said. “Canterbury U. was Ollie’s second home. He was there daily, even after he finally had a degree in his pocket. I think he came alive under Jed Feller’s tutelage. He was always so patient and encouraging of Ollie and let him sit in on his astronomy classes whenever he wanted. The kids teased Ollie sometimes—but they learned to like him, too. But anyway, Ollie had actually told Chancellor Phillips that he’d will the house to Canterbury when he died.”

“It appears he didn’t get around to doing that,” Po said. “Max Elliot has handled the Harrington affairs forever, and he said Ollie never put anything in writing. Ollie cared more about things like black holes and planets’ orbits than he did about wills.”

“It’s too bad. Canterbury would have maintained the house’s integrity,” Leah said. She waved at a group of college students walking by.

Po nodded. “They’d have been a better choice than Tom Adler and his Prairie Development group—I hear Oliver also told them that they could have the house. They actually had a plan in place that they’d shown Oliver. Tom promised he’d keep the lovely grounds as best he could, but the plan was five homes on the land—luxury homes for empty nesters, they described it. I suppose that means people like me.”

Kate laughed. She picked up a bunch of slender asparagus and a clump of arugula and handed some bills to the young girl behind the stand. “Po, you may think your nest is empty with the kids living on the West Coast, but it will never be true. Has there ever been even a week without a gathering at the Paltrow home? I doubt it.” Po’s home had been a second home to Kate nearly all her life, and especially since her mother’s death a couple of years earlier.

“I guess you’re right. It doesn’t feel empty, that I know for sure. And maybe that’s Adele’s dream—to fill the Harrington house with people. It’s been a shell for a long time. Oliver always liked it when I stopped by, and I know he had a few friends, but he wasn’t much of a party giver.”