Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (17 page)

It was Susan who answered her light tap at the door and slid the bolt to the side. “Po and Hoover,” she said, bending over and scratching the dog behind the ears. “What a nice surprise.”

“I thought Selma might still be here and I could pick up a rotary cutter blade.”

“No, she’s not here, but I’ll get you the blade. Eleanor dragged Selma off to the opera in Kansas City. Not exactly Selma’s cup of tea but Eleanor insisted she get out of town for a night. I think she’s right. And they were going to go to Arthur Bryant’s for barbecue before the performance.”

“That will do the trick, even if the opera doesn’t.”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here so late, Susan?”

“I thought I’d catch up on some things for Selma,” she said.

“Selma told me you often do that … stay late to help her.”

“Sometimes,” she said quickly. “Not so often really.”

“It’s nice of you. I’d think you’d have better things to do on a Saturday night.” Susan ignored Po’s comment. She found the blade on the supplies rack and took it to the counter.

“Shall I charge this?” she asked.

“That would be fine. Now that you mention it, I didn’t bring a purse.”

“Po,” Susan paused and looked at Po. Her eyes were moist. She took a deep breath of air.

“Yes, Susan?” Po noticed that the pen in her hand was shaking slightly.

“Po, I need to talk to you.” The words seemed to stick painfully in her throat.

Po waited, wanting to give her the time she needed. Whatever she wanted to say was difficult, Po could see that.

Suddenly Hoover, who had been lying behind the counter next to Susan, stood at attention, his tail straight and his ears back. His nose lifted into the air.

Susan dropped the pencil and Po looked around. Then they heard it, too. An insistent rattling at the back door, then the sound of door opening and slamming shut.

“Who’s there?” Susan called out. Po moved to grab Hoover’s leash.

The women heard him before they saw him. The hardwood floor creaked beneath the uneven, slow-moving gait of the large, bulbous body.

“What y’all doing here so late?” Wesley Peet stood in the archway, a crooked grin on his ruddy face.

“Wesley, you’re not supposed to come in here,” Susan said. Her voice was controlled and even, but her fear was visible in the tight hold of her head and her clenched fists.

“My job’s to check on you, pretty lady,” he slurred. His eyes were half-shut, his head held back as if to see Susan beneath the partially closed lids. Thin strands of greased hair were slicked back over the pink dome of his head. “Besides, who cares now?”

“As I understand it, your job is to check on the stores from the outside, Wesley,” Po said. “Unless there is some disturbance inside. Perhaps you should leave now.”

Wesley’s eyes stayed on Susan’s face. He moved a step closer. “Getting cold out there. You’d better bundle up, Susie-Q.” He put his round hands on the counter, his eyes traveling over Susan’s body. “You need someone to keep you warm now, don’t you, Miss Susan?”

Hoover growled and slunk down next to Po.

Po patted the dog’s head and looked hard at Wesley, trying to gauge the level of inebriation. Her eyes took in the dirt beneath his stubby, broken nails and a snake tattoo that curled in and out between his fingers. A dirty white T-shirt peaked out beneath the open front of his blue security uniform, and the stench of sweat, mixed with the sour odor of liquor and stale food, was sickening. “It’s good of you to check on us, but we’re fine.” Po stretched her five-foot-eight frame to capacity.

“I ain’t leaving yet,” he said. His lips curled.

“Do you want to get fired?” Susan asked, her voice lifting to an uncomfortable level. Hoover bared his teeth.

Sloppy, loud laughter filled the room. Wesley Peet shoved his hands into his pocket and swayed back and forth. “Fired? Now that’s a laugh. And who’s gonna fire me? Professor Hill? Lawyer Elliott?”

Po could feel his lurid, thick laughter in her bones. She took a step backward and shoved one hand into the pocket of her jeans. Her fingers curled around her cell phone. The movement drew Wesley’s stare her way.

“None of you can fire me, Ms. Portia. I know all about you sewing ladies, for sure I do. That’s my job. Wesley Peet’s protection agency. And Wesley hisself is the most protected of all. Sometimes it pays to be …”

He looked around the room as if he’d find the word he wanted lined up next to the bolts of cotton sheeting. Then he focused back on the two women, lifted a finger in the air as if testing the direction of the wind, and spit out his sentence: “… sometimes it pays to be curious!” Wesley began to laugh again, harder and harder, and leaned so far to one side that Po was sure he would topple over and become a giant unconscious puddle on the floor. But instead, he righted himself, pulling a hand out of his pocket and grasping a display rack for balance. Feeling secure, he took a step toward Susan and rubbed one grubby finger along her arm.

Susan recoiled, pulling her arm to her chest.

“That’s it … out of here!” Po grabbed a long pair of scissors from the desk and held it up in the air. “Out!” she yelled. “Now.” With that, Hoover leapt into action and rushed toward Wesley Peet, his tail swinging and his white teeth ready for flesh.

Wesley’s retreat took seconds. The slam of the back door and crunch of gravel as he ran down the alley assured Po and Susan that he wouldn’t be back.

“What an awful man,” Po said, sinking into a chair.

“A drunk, awful man.” Susan’s face was pale.

“There’s no question about keeping him on,” Po said. “You need to tell Selma tomorrow, and she needs to get him fired. And if you don’t, Susan, I will.”

Susan nodded, turning off the computer. “Po, I don’t want you walking home. I’m leaving now. I’ll drive you.”

“But I have Hoover …,” Po began. Hoover’s ears picked up. He was sitting next to Po, his head cocked with pride for his recent successful chase.

“Don’t be silly. Hoover’s welcome to ride in my car, if he can stand the back seat mess. Come on, I can finish this tomorrow.” She grabbed a ring of keys and her jacket, turned out the lights and locked the door, and they headed for her car.

“This is nice of you, Susan. I run in this neighborhood all the time, but walking home alone tonight may have been uncomfortable.” She settled into the front seat of Susan’s red Ford Escort while Hoover happily curled up with a stack of books in the back.

“Sometimes I think my whole life is in this car,” Susan said, glancing back at a pair of sneakers, piles of notebooks, papers, books and assorted bags. She patted Hoover’s head as he stuck his nose into an old grocery bag.

“You’ve a busy life,” Po said. “I remember when the kids were little, the car held clothes, food, homework, and many things I’d hate to mention.” They turned the corner at Windsor House and Po glanced down the alley and spotted Wesley getting into a truck parked beneath the lone alley lamppost. “Looks like Wesley got a new truck.” She pointed toward the shiny Dodge Ram.

Susan slowed down and looked. “He was driving a beat-up old Chevy last I noticed. Do you suppose he won the lottery?”

“I hope so. It may make up for the job he’s about to lose,” Po said. She rested her head back against the seat.

Susan pulled to a stop in Po’s driveway and Po slipped out of the car. She opened the back door for Hoover, who immediately ran around to the back yard. Po watched his tail disappear behind the house.

“Well, at least he waited until we got home to do his thing.” She leaned a little further into the car. “Susan, thank you. If I can ever do anything for you …” Her words hung in the air. “If you want to talk?” Susan hadn’t picked up on the conversation Wesley had interrupted. And during the drive home, Po could tell that she had moved beyond it and was unlikely to return, at least tonight.

“Thank you, Po,” was all she said.

“Well, I’m here.” Po watched with an unexplainable heavy heart as Susan drove off into the night, to what seemed to Po to be a burdened, lonely life.

Sam Paltrow had started the Sunday supper tradition before the ink was dry on their marriage certificate. Po loved being in the kitchen — so Sam decided he’d love it, too. While Po experimented with wine-flavored sauces and seafood pastas, Sam mastered mixing dry martinis and grilling slabs of ribs, trout, and steaks on the grill. Friends, family, neighbors — and sometimes near-strangers who needed a warm meal and spirited conversation — ended up at “Sam’s suppers,” as they came to be called. But no one entering the house at 22 Maple Lane ever stayed a stranger for long. Both Sam and Po made sure of that.

After Sam died, Po never for a minute thought about discontinuing the suppers. Oh, she missed a Sunday now and then because she was traveling or a book deadline loomed, but to stop the tradition wouldn’t have felt right, plain and simple

Po fussed around in the kitchen late Sunday afternoon, wondering who would show up tonight. She was sure of Kate, who rarely missed and usually managed to sneak out at the end of the evening with enough leftovers for a week’s worth of lunches. Tonight Kate arrived with P.J. in tow, which pleased Po greatly, though she’d never admit as much. He wore jeans and a crisp chambray shirt, rolled halfway up his forearms. His flop of thick brown hair was carefully brushed and slightly damp from a recent shower. Po put him to work immediately preparing the coals outside while she placed a huge piece of plump, fresh salmon in a dill wine marinade.

“So tell me, Kate,” Po said, washing her hands at the sink, “has P.J. Flanigan mellowed since his wild youth?”

“Like a fine French wine,” Kate said. She grabbed a cutting board and a handful of carrots from a strainer in the sink. “I’d say if he mellowed any more, he’d be asleep standing in those size 14 shoes.” She wrinkled her nose at Po and began chopping the carrots into tiny pieces.

“Watch your fingers, Kate.” Po turned the burner down beneath the lemon butter sauce for the asparagus. “Now what does that face mean?”

“It means that even without my mother beside you, you’re still a meddlin’ woman, Po Paltrow.”

Po’s husky laugh mingled with the faint strains of Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” coming from the stereo. “And I can see you haven’t forgotten how to put me in my place. Now, dear heart, back to P.J. What was that that Phoebe called him awhile back?”

“Man candy,” Eleanor called out, coming in from the hallway, her cane tip-tapping on the hardwood floor. “And you really ought to consider locking your front door.” She dropped her cane beside a dining chair and sat down.

“And why would I do that, Eleanor? Then people like you might not walk in.”

Eleanor was wearing her signature wide-legged pants. Tonight it was paired with a purple silk T-shirt and a silk scarf around her neck. She had added a jaunty hat that sat loosely on her cap of steel gray hair. “Here,” she said, placing a bottle of Chardonnay on the table.

“This is my contribution. Not all of us can quilt after drinking your martinis, Po, and I have some work to do on my star when I get home.”

“And some of us can’t quilt before drinking her martinis,” Kate groaned. “I worked on mine this morning and my corners look more like roundabouts!”

“You’ll get the hang of it, Kate,” Eleanor encouraged. “Take it from one who knows. It has taken me thirty years to get my corners square. I think I want that on my tombstone. “Here lies Eleanor. Her corners were square.”’ Eleanor’s contagious laughter was deep, throaty and filled with more than eight decades of an adventurous life.

“Well, I’m not quilting tonight, so I’ll have a martini,” Po said. “You two pick your poison and make sure P.J. has whatever his handsome heart desires.”

By the time the threesome had the vegetables cut, the orzo ready to boil in a peppery broth, and a batch of martinis chilling in the refrigerator, the doorbell was ringing. August Schuette and his wife Rita had arrived. Rita carried a platter of plump mushrooms filled with creamy crab. Leah came, too, along with her husband Tim.

Before long the kitchen area was filled with people, appetizers and animated talk. Phoebe and Jimmy came with the twins, who were immediately scooped up and passed around by eager arms anxious to hug the babies or to sit on the floor and catch them as they groped their way around the furniture.

Kate followed Po out to the patio. A snappy breeze whipped her hair around her high cheekbones. Like P.J., she wore jeans tonight, and a cobalt blue cashmere that Po had given her for Christmas. She wrapped her arms around her soft sweater and snuggled in its warmth.

P.J. stopped and watched the two women walk toward him. He welcomed them with outstretched arms and a smile. “How rich a man am I,” he said dramatically.

“The cornball kid,” Po said. “Some things don’t change no matter how much they mellow or age.”

Kate laughed and P.J. looked confused but brushed it off as a ladies’ private joke. “Fire’s ready, Po. Bring on the salmon. This man’s ready to grill.”

Po handed him the platter. “It’s all yours, P.J.” She set the sauce on the table next to the grill. “By the way, P.J., is there any update on the hit and run?”