Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (8 page)

“What do you think, Po?” Susan asked, her brow furrowed.

“I think this town doesn’t need another lingering crime on its hands. I think the police need to solve this immediately, if not sooner. And frankly, I agree completely with Selma. I can’t imagine that Adele Harrington had a thing to do with it.”

“The rumors certainly aren’t going to help her bed and breakfast business any.”

Po nodded. “No, they’re not. And that’s a shame, too. So let’s hope the crime is solved soon and we can all return to things as usual.”

Po left the shop and walked down Elderberry Road toward Marla’s bakery, thinking some sourdough rolls would be a nice complement to the cucumber and chicken soup she had planned for dinner. Perhaps Max would stop by, as he was prone to do lately, wandering in the back door and lifting the lid off the pot, wondering hungrily if there was enough for two. Of course he knew that Po never cooked for less than a family. It was her way, she always said. And somehow, miraculously, the food never went to waste.

A rapping on the window as she passed Picasso’s French Quarter drew her out of her culinary thoughts, and Po smiled into the pleasant face of Max himself, looking out at her from the paned windows. He motioned for her to join him, then held up a half-empty glass. Po glanced at her watch—it was after five. A pre-dinner martini might just hit the spot, she thought, and turned toward the wide glass doors of the restaurant.

Picasso’s bistro was a favorite gathering place for the entire neighborhood, and the Queen Bees quilters often stopped in for light lunches or dinner, especially when Picasso was serving his famous bouillabaisse. The food was a definite lure—fresh, flavorful fish and spices—but the round-faced chef was even more of a draw. Picasso St. Pierre had become a good and loyal friend.

The dining area of the bistro was separated from the bar by a row of plants and small cocktail tables. Today, at the table nearest the windows, P.J. and Jedson Fellers sat in spirited discussion while Max stood, a chair held back for Po.

“Good timing, Po,” Max said, and motioned to the bartender to fix Po a martini, the way she liked it—up with an olive.

“Well, how nice is this? A martini at Picasso’s and three handsome men. What more could a woman ask for?” Po set her purse on the floor and looked around the table. “What brings you three here. Have I interrupted something?” she asked.

“Nope,” P.J. answered. “We were thinking we needed a woman’s voice in this group, and who should walk by but yourself.”

“Fate,” Max said.

“Serendipity,” Jed added.

“And what’s the topic?” Po said, smiling at the young waiter who set her chilled martini glass down in front of her. She looked at P.J. and frowned. “You look serious, P.J. Has anything happened?”

“Nope.” P.J. took her hand and squeezed it. Po was like a mother to him. She’d been in his family’s life as long as he could remember. And now that he and Kate were an “item,” as Po and her friends called it, Po was even more vigilant, watching over him and Kate with great care. “A chunk of change was given to Canterbury University in memory of Ollie, and they’ve decided to establish a scholarship fund in his name. The chancellor has asked Jed here to get involved since it will be awarded to a student in astronomy.” P.J. nodded to Max. “And Max is the legal and numbers guy who’s setting it up.”

“And P.J., as a new board member over there, somehow got saddled with making it happen,” Max added.

“That’s a nice idea,” Po said. “And I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to Adele, especially with all this ugliness surrounding her life right now.”

“Ollie deserves this honor,” Jed said. “But I think Adele Harrington just wants all this put to rest. And I can understand that.”

Po rested one hand on Jed’s sleeve. If she was guessing correctly, this was almost as hard on Jed as it was on Adele. Even though Ollie was only a handful of years younger than Jed, Jed had been his mentor, a kind of father figure, and Po could see the grief in the professor’s kind eyes.

“Adele doesn’t believe Ollie was murdered,” P.J. said. “She isn’t being very cooperative in the investigation.”

Po sipped her martini and listened to the men talk about the scholarship details. She could understand Adele’s feelings. Murder was so ugly. Ollie was dead. There wasn’t anything anyone could do about that. So let him rest. But the facts were what they were. And someone, as outlandish as it was, had ended Oliver’s life far too early.

Po looked around the small, intimate bistro while the men continued to discuss the details of the scholarship fund. A crowd was gathering as folks stopped in after work for a drink and Picasso’s amazing truffles. The buttery aroma of escargot filled the air, and she watched Picasso place the platter in front of Tom Adler and his curvaceous new wife, Cindy. Picasso loved the drama of his food, and he set it down with a flourish, his red face beaming with delight over his prize appetizer.

He caught Po’s eye, winked, and soon edged his way over to her table, greeting customers on his way. “My magnificent Po,” he said, kissing her lightly on each cheek. Then straightening up and looking into her eyes. “Such talk, mon amie, all over my restaurant tonight. All about Ollie Harrington.”

“Has Tom Adler settled down any?” Po nodded toward the man now relishing the platter of snails.

“Non, no, no. He is so upset, Po. Says he wasn’t the one who killed Ollie, but just maybe he knows who did. And then he said some awful things about Ollie’s twin sister.”

P.J., Jed, and Max stopped talking and looked at Picasso.

“I know Adler is pretty crazed about all this,” P.J. said. “He’d been in the station a couple of times, begging the police to stop Adele’s renovations. He claims the land is his. Ollie promised him that when he died, he could have it, he says. And he says there’s a piece of paper somewhere in that house that confirms his claims. But Adele won’t let him past the front door, of course.”

Po took a sip of her martini and looked over at Tom over the rim. “I’d suggest he watch his rantings,” she said. “It seems to me that’s a likely murder motive.”

“His company isn’t doing too well,” Max said. “Developing the Harrington property would put him back on his feet. But I can’t imagine why Ollie would give it to him.”

Picasso nodded. He dropped his voice to avoid being heard beyond their table. “He pestered Oliver all the time, that much I saw myself. He even brought him in here once or twice and tried to get him drinking, but Ollie didn’t ever touch a drop. Not once. Oliver’s only libations were milk and tea. Tea and my escargot,” Picasso said, his eyes rolling and one hand slapping a round, red cheek. “My mama would turn over in her grave.”

Po had seen Ollie in Picasso’s once or twice—and a few other places on Elderberry Road—picking up cheese at Jess and Ambrose’s Brew and Brie—but most often at Gus Schuette’s bookstore where he’d sometimes come in with Jed and the two men would sit for hours over a round table in the back of the bookstore, discussing the galaxies and new stars. The thought of anyone wanting that quiet man dead was almost beyond comprehension. Unless, of course, someone had something very important to gain by his death.

Po looked over at Tom Adler while she sipped her drink. He was talking heatedly with someone from the city council, shaking his head, then waving his hands in the air. He’d had a few drinks, Po could tell, and it wasn’t helping his composure any. But she’d known Tom long enough to know his bark was stronger than his bite. Or so she’d always thought. Next to him, his wife looked bored and seemed to be entertaining herself by admiring the large diamonds decorating her fingers.

Catching Po’s look, Tom nodded at her, forcing a slight smile to his face. A few minutes later, he slapped down a few bills, and he and his bride left the bistro abruptly, brushing aside a young waiter as they hurried through the door.

Po watched him through the window. Tom and Cindy crossed Elderberry Road, barely noticing a car that nearly sideswiped them, then climbed into a big truck parked in front of Max’s law office. Gravel shot out from under the tires as he tore off down the street.

That anger can only come to no good, Po thought. It isn’t a healthy thing.

“Mon Dieu!” Picasso said beside her, and startled Po from her thoughts. But he wasn’t watching Tom’s hasty exit; he was staring at the front door.

Po followed his look. Adele Harrington stood just inside the door, her hair uncharacteristically mussed, her hands on her hips. Her face was a mixture of anger and determination, and her eyes immediately settled in on Po.

“Po Paltrow,” Adele called out across the crowded room, “I need to talk to you. Immediately, if you don’t mind.”

“Adele.” Po was out of her chair in seconds. She had recently helped pick Adele’s crumbled form up from a floor, and she didn’t want to risk that happening in Picasso’s crowded bistro. The disgrace would be too heavy for Adele to bear. “Are you all right?” Po asked, reaching her side.

Adele was dressed perfectly as always, in tailored slacks and a fine cashmere sweater. A red silk jacket warded off the fall chill. But her face lacked its characteristic composure. The mask that hid all emotion was gone and her eyes blazed. “No, Portia, I am not fine. Would you and P.J. please come with me.”

Po turned toward the table and gestured to P.J. to join her. The two looked apologetically at a confused Max and Jed and followed Adele outside.

Adele stood beneath Picasso’s blue awning and took in a deep, stabilizing breath. “Someone,” she said at last, “has been in my house.”

Po looked at Adele silently, wondering if she had been pushed, at last, to the edge.

P.J said, “Adele, there are dozens of people in your house every day.”

Adele cast him an annoyed look. “Someone,” she said, dismissing P.J.’s comment with a clipped tone, “broke into my house during the night. Paint was spilled, furniture was damaged. Someone evil is trying to prevent my bed and breakfast from opening on time.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a workman’s error?” Po asked. “Paint could easily have been spilled.”

“Please, spare me,” Adele said. “I said that someone is breaking the law. You are the law, are you not?” She glared at P.J.

“Have you called the police?” P.J. asked. “There are police assigned to this case, Adele, and they—”

Adele held out her hands to quiet him. “I wanted to talk with someone I know personally. Police can be so annoying. I called Kate Simpson, and she told me I would find you here. Now, what are we going to do about this?”

“Was anything taken?”

“Not that I could tell. But how would I know? The house is a mess. Things everywhere.”

“I’ll see that someone comes out to investigate the damage, Adele, and you’ll have to file a report,” P.J. said.

“No. What I want is for this to stop, P.J. Flanigan. I have felt for several days that things were not right in the house. Things were askew. Moved around. I have kept many family things intact all through the house to create ambiance. Things have been disturbed, I could feel it.”

“Were you in the house last night, Adele?” Po asked. “Did you hear anything?”

“I wasn’t there. The paint smell had been disturbing my sleep so I was staying at that Canterbury Inn on campus. But I won’t do that again. I would certainly have heard the vandals and put a stop to it.”

P.J. listened, his thoughts moving back to the night before. It had been one of those near-perfect, Indian summer nights, and he and Kate had taken a late-night walk beneath a deep canopy of stars. They’d stopped for sushi at a new little restaurant near the river, filled with college students taking a break from cramming for mid-terms—and then they had walked back through the Elderberry neighborhood and down Kingfish Drive. Adele’s home had been quiet, he remembered, because they had paused to admire the gardens freshly tilled along the drive. They were lit by a row of low lights that Adele had recently installed beneath the new plantings. The big stone house loomed large in the background, lit softly with security lights and the stars from above. The only inside lights they could see came from the back garage apartment that Joe Bates lived in. And while they stood at the end of the drive, those lights went out, too, and they saw Joe come out of the apartment and light up a cigar beside the garage. At risk of disturbing his privacy, they had walked on down the street.

“We walked by your house last night, Adele,” P.J. said aloud. “It was quiet.”

“I don’t care about quiet,” Adele snapped. “Sometime, somehow, someone did damage inside my house, and it must stop. You are the police, do something.”

“Joe Bates was there. He may have heard something. Have you talked with him?”

“Joe Bates is a fool. Always has been. And as soon as I can figure out a way to get rid of him, I will do so. My mother and then my brother took pity on him and gave him a home there—.”

“He’s a wonderful gardener, Adele,” Po said. Joe had done work for her over the years and everything the man touched turned to beauty. Po liked Joe, and wondered at Adele’s disdain for such a gentle, old man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“He’s another piece of Oliver’s life, which is now gone,” Adele said. “He doesn’t deserve to be here and have my brother be gone.” And then she spun around on heels Po wouldn’t dream of wearing, even to an elegant party, and she and P.J. watched in silence as Adele walked across the street to her Cadillac.