Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (6 page)

Adele looked around the room, taking in the neatly made bed, the bookcases, the straight-backed chair. She looked at Po with an unexpected softness in her eyes. “Whatever the design of the quilt you make for this room, it must have stars on it,” she said softly, then straightened her shoulders and walked briskly out of the room, followed by Kate and Leah, and on down the hall.

Po stood just outside the room for a minute, glancing at the landing of a narrow set of steps just outside Ollie’s door.
Were these the steps that led to the kitchen?
she wondered.
The steps that led to Oliver’s death?

“Portia, are you coming?” Adele stood in the middle of the hallway, looking back at Po.

Po looked away from the stairs and smiled at Adele. “I was thinking about Oliver,” she said simply.

“And what were you thinking about him?”

“I was thinking that falling down the stairs was a tragic way for him to die.”

“But maybe fitting. An accident. Oliver’s life, in a way, was an accident.”

Po was startled by the unexpected anguish in Adele’s voice. “Adele, Ollie was a good man. He didn’t see his life that way,” Po said.

“No, not at all,” Leah said. “Ollie had a purpose to his life, especially these past years. He spent time writing, and he had interesting conversations with students and faculty. He had a good life, Adele.”

Adele focused her attention on a Thomas Hart Benton painting hanging on the wall. Finally she pulled her eyes away from it and looked at the three women standing behind her. “I hope so,” was all she said, and then, as if she hadn’t spoken at all, ushered them down the main staircase, through a hallway, and out onto the stone patio that wrapped across the side and back of the house. “Breakfast will be served out here in nice weather,” she said brightly. “Would you like to have a cup of tea?”

Po glanced at her watch. “We’ve stayed longer than we intended.”

“Eleanor’s party,” Kate yelped.

“I’ve kept you from something?” Adele asked, her brow lifting.

“No,” Po assured her. “It’s not until this evening. But knowing Kate, she probably needs to find something to wear.”

“To wear to what?” Adele asked.

Po was uncomfortable talking about a social event to someone who wasn’t invited to it. And though Eleanor was always generous in her invitations, she doubted that she would have thought to invite Adele. Nor would she have been on the college list. “The college is having a small reception tonight at Eleanor Canterbury’s home. It’s done periodically to recognize faculty in one way or another.”

“Who is being recognized?”

“Tonight it’s faculty who have recently had something published,” Leah said. “Publishing is very important to Canterbury, now that the college is a university.”

“Publish or perish,” Adele said.

“Kind of,” Leah said. “And two or three of the faculty are being recognized tonight. It’s a subtle push for others to follow, I think.”

“The reception is something done periodically. It’s nothing, really,” Po said.

Adele listened to Po intently, a frown creasing her forehead. Then she shifted her attention, looking beyond the women, seemingly moving on to other things. She waved her hand in dismissal. “Please keep in touch with me about the quilts and your progress,” she said. “I will need you to check with me periodically, and—”

A noise down the driveway drew their attention to the garage. Joe Bates, his body hunched over, was pushing an old wheelbarrow filled with dirt across the walkway. Clumps of mud fell onto the brick pathway as he moved.

Adele’s fists dug into her hips and her voice grew hard. “He is an eyesore,” she said. And then, without another glance at her guests, she walked quickly down the driveway after Joe.

For a brief moment, Po felt the need to beat her to her prey and to scoop old Joe Bates up and out of the way of Adele’s seemingly ungrounded anger. Instead she watched as Adele approached the man, her hands flying through the air and her words burying him in a deluge of complaints.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kate said, heading down the driveway to their cars. “We might be Adele’s next target.”

Po dropped Kate and Leah off and checked her watch. Nice timing. She could still get over to the library and look for that new book on the history of women in Kansas quilting circles. In recent years, Po’s writing career had grown from articles in magazines and essays in literary journals—most often on the history of women and the arts—to a short book here or there. And both Gus Schuette’s bookstore on Elderberry Road and Canterbury library were indispensable to her.

Po pulled into the faculty lot and parked her car—a luxury that being married to a past president afforded her—and climbed the wide fan of steps leading up to the front door. As she went to pull open the heavy glass door, Jed Fellers smiled out at her from the other side. He pushed open the door with one hand and held it for Po.

“Thanks, Jed,” Po said. Jedson Fellers had come to Canterbury late in Sam Paltrow’s tenure as president. She and Sam had both liked the man with the easy smile and had attended many of his eloquent lectures on everything from black holes to exploring the cosmic dark ages.

“What brings you to our halls of learning, Po?” Jed asked, shifting his arms to accommodate a heavy stack of books.

“I’m here to pick up a few books, Jed, just like yourself. I hear you have a book out. Is this for number two?” She nodded at the pile of books in his arms.

Jed laughed. “Maybe down the road. Definitely not now. I’m just trying to keep one step ahead of my students.”

“Leah says that Ollie Harrington was a friend of yours.”

Jed nodded. “Ollie was many things to me—an assistant, a student, mostly a friend, I guess,” Jed answered. “He was…he was a breath of fresh air in my classroom. Kids get tired of the same voice, the same manner. But Ollie brought a charisma to a class. He was so honest, and so fresh in his approach to the heavens.” Jed looked out over the green lawns, now colored with small piles of falling leaves. He forced a smile back to his face and focused again on Po. “I’ll miss him.”

Po watched the sadness play across Jed’s strong features and thought about how many people Ollie had touched—and probably never even knew it. He was the twin less noticed, the second born, the one who had to work harder to make his place in life, and what a fine job he had done. Po touched Jed’s arm lightly. “That always plays two ways, Jed. You nurtured Ollie, gave him a sense of purpose. Helped make his time here satisfying.”

Jed didn’t answer, but he leaned over and lightly kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Po,” he said softly, and slowly made his way down the steps.

Po turned and walked on into the main room. The library was busy for a Saturday, she thought, and then remembered that midterms were probably around the corner. Some of the reason for Jed’s burden of books, she realized. She walked quickly over to the reserve desk where Leah had promised her she’d leave the book Po was looking for.

A pleasant looking woman, dressed in slacks and a tee shirt, her brown hair pulled back and held in place with a bright blue elastic band, looked up and smiled as Po approached.

Immediately her smile faded, and she looked down at the desk, embarrassed.

“Hello again,” Po said. “I’m Po Paltrow.”

The woman nodded. “I’ve seen you in here—and saw you today with Professor Sarandon. I’m Halley Peterson.” Halley managed a small smile.

Po shook the woman’s hand. “That was unpleasant for you. I’m sorry.”

Halley pushed her glasses up into her hair. “I apologize for my behavior. Today hasn’t been one of my best days.”

“You were upset. There’s no need to apologize.”

“Ollie Harrington was a good friend of mine. He spent a lot of time here in the library. Did you know him?”

“Yes. We were neighbors. Ollie was a good man.”

Halley nodded. “And he would have loved a decent burial with his friends around him. But Adele Harrington—” Halley broke off mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, I barely know you. You may be a friend of hers and I’m totally out of line speaking like this, Mrs. Paltrow.”

“Please, Halley, call me Po. And I understand. Adele elicits strong responses in people,” Po said. “It’s clear you cared about her brother.”

Halley’s face seemed to be crumbling under Po’s concerned look. Slender fingers groped for a water bottle sitting on the counter beside a pad of paper.

“Maybe you should sit down, Halley,” Po said. She touched the woman’s arm.

Halley shook her head. “I’m fine,” she whispered. “But thank you.” Halley leaned forward, her waist pressing into the high counter, her level gaze holding Po’s attention. Her voice was low, but filled with an intensity that for a moment startled Po and seemed out of place in the mild-mannered woman.

“Someone needs to listen, Po,” Halley Peterson said. Her hands were shaking now, making small thumping noises on the library desk, her green eyes lit with fire. “I don’t think Ollie’s death was normal. It wasn’t right. I think…I think someone wanted Ollie Harrington to die.”

Po had had no time to respond. A student needing Halley’s attention had cut short her conversation with the librarian, and she had checked out her books and left the library. Halley’s outburst was curious, and Po wondered what she had meant. Surely she didn’t mean those words literally. She was overwrought. A good friend had died. And she hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye. But she would have to talk with Halley about it later—there wasn’t time to process it now. Right now she needed get home and be ready when Max Elliot picked her up for Eleanor’s cocktail party.

Po raced home, and in short order, she had showered and slipped into a pair of silky black slacks and a bright blue wrap-around blouse that opened wide at the neck. Daily runs, though slower than a decade ago, kept Po’s body limber and lean—and a glance in the full-length closet mirror confirmed that her slacks fit nicely, despite too many dinners at Picasso’s French Quarter.

“Po, you up there?” Max Elliot stood at the foot of the staircase winding up to the second floor of Po’s airy home, his hand on the walnut post. “And what did I tell you about locking these doors?”

“Ready in a minute, Max,” Po called back, ignoring the gentle scolding, even though there was a reason for Max’s admonition. A year before she and Max had both been in danger when a young man had let himself into her home through the open front door. Though thwarted in his efforts, his intent had been to harm. But Po still couldn’t shake her belief that Crestwood was essentially a safe place to live, and unlocked doors had been the way she was raised.

Po stood in front of her dresser mirror and ran a brush through her salt and pepper hair. She’d thought about coloring it recently, but the extra time pulled from her busy days seemed not worth the while. Besides, Sam had always said he liked the white streaks highlighting her sable-colored hair.

“Nature’s highlights,” he’d called them.

Po quickly applied pale pink blush to her prominent cheekbones and applied a wisp of taupe shadow on her lids. A touch of lipstick and she was nearly set to go. Grabbing a black shawl from the back of a chair, she walked down the steps. “If I had locked the door, dear Max,” she said, a note of playfulness in her voice, “how could you possibly have gotten in?”

Max smiled and kissed Po on the cheek, the familiar answer lost in the pleasure of seeing her. “I would have broken it down to see you. You look lovely, Po.”

“Thank you, Max,” Po said, pleased with the compliment. She slipped her arm through his and nodded toward the door. “Ready to party, my friend?”

Max held the door for her, then followed her down the walkway to his small silver Honda. Max was Crestwood’s best-known lawyer and financial planner, having lived in the small Kansas town his whole life, with time away for college and law school at the University of Kansas, just a short drive from Crestwood. His parents and their parents before had lived in Crestwood, and Max not only knew nearly everyone in town, he knew their family secrets as well. A friend of Po and Sam Paltrow’s for as long as Po could remember, Max became a trusted confidant when Sam died, helping Po sort through the investments and trusts Sam had left, assuring Po of a comfortable life. In recent months the two had slipped into the habit of attending movies and lectures and social gatherings together, and Po admitted to Leah last Sunday at breakfast that the nice-looking widower with the quick wit and open smile had added a new, surprising dimension to her life. “The heart can still somersault a bit,” she had confessed.