When Po reached Windsor House Antiques, she turned and looked back down Elderberry Road. Kate and P.J. were still standing beneath the black street lamp outside Marla’s shop. P.J.’s head was inclined slightly, leaning into Kate’s space. He was listening intently. Kate had a pleased look on her face and her hands were moving, punctuating her words.
Filling in the years, Po supposed. P.J.’s drama earlier had colored the high cheekbones on Kate’s face, even though all of them knew it was nothing more than that—made-up drama. Kate hadn’t broken Pete’s heart. They hadn’t dated. And Kate had been honest with Phoebe. She and the policeman ran in very different circles.
But Lord, wouldn’t she and Meg have had a wonderful time mulling it all over, conjecturing, spinning dreams at this meeting a dozen years later? A sudden pang of loneliness washed through Po as swiftly as a fast-moving stream. She straightened her shoulders and sighed, resigned to life’s unpredictable twists and turns, and walked on into Mary Hill’s antique store.
A small group of women, dressed in tailored jackets and wool slacks, their arms heavy with Windsor House shopping bags and boxes tied with thick gold braid, made their way out of the store. Po smiled at the women as they exited, knowing that they were probably from Kansas City or Topeka, not natives, and were visiting Crestwood for the day.
Or perhaps they were in town to take their college students to lunch after indulging in extravagant shopping at Windsor House. Mary was right—she was drawing people from all over to her small, tasteful shop.
Po looked around, her eyes adjusting to the soft light cast by accent lamps and small spots aimed at ornately framed paintings. Mary Hill was sitting at a small curved desk on the far side of the shop, writing on a small pad of paper. She looked up and spotted Po at the same time Po saw her and smiled warmly.
Po was relieved at the welcome smile. The uncomfortable conversation they’d had a few days earlier must have been forgotten.
Mary stood and hurried over to Po. “Oh, Po, if you haven’t shown up at just the perfect time.”
“So you’ve heard?” Po asked.
Mary nodded. “That dear P.J. came by with the news.” Mary took Po’s hand and clasped it tightly. “Po, I’m so relieved, so proud of our fine police force. So anxious to put this all behind me. It’s almost as if I can finally grieve Owen without the spectacle of all this somehow blurring it.”
“They told you they found Owen’s watch on the man?” Po searched Mary’s face. How difficult this whole ordeal must be for her. “It’s such an awful thought—that Owen lost his life for…for nothing. It’s certainly beyond reason.”
“The watch was expensive,” Mary said. “An anniversary gift. Perhaps the man knew that. Knew that Owen would have money and valuables on him.”
“Maybe he did,” Po said, nodding. “But a watch? A watch for the life of a wonderful man? It’s a terrible waste.”
“Yes.” Mary’s eyes filled, and Po pulled a clean tissue from the pocket of her suede jacket. “It will get easier, Mary, I promise you that.”
Mary nodded and dabbed at her delicate nose. “I know it will. Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done, too. Your friendship has meant a great deal to me during this difficult time.”
Po smiled but held her silence. She and Mary were familiar with each other, having mingled at college functions when Scott was president and Owen a professor. And from the very fact of living in the same small town for many years. But she had never considered Mary a friend, and realized with some sadness that she didn’t even know who Mary’s friends were, or if she had any.
Mary always stayed close to Owen at college functions. That overt dependence must make Owen’s death doubly difficult for her, Po thought. She determined then and there to make more of an effort to include her in dinner parties and perhaps invite her to a play or concert this fall.
“While I’m here, I wondered if you could help me with a gift, Mary. It’s a birthday gift for a favorite aunt of mine. I was thinking of a small picture frame or vase. Nothing elaborate.”
“Of course.” Mary had resumed her composed, businesswoman persona and smiled at Po. “We will find the perfect thing.”
Po looked around the store. Every inch was filled to overflowing with exquisite items—armoires, brocade-covered Queen Anne chairs, crystal chandeliers that had once adorned British manor houses, and handsome baroque mirrors. The scent of lacquered wood, lemon and linseed oil, and the expensive perfume of customers hung heavy in the air. A tall glass display case near Mary’s work desk caught Po’s eye. “How absolutely beautiful,” she said, walking over to the lit case.
Each thick glass shelf of the cabinet displayed several glass paperweights, their blown globes filled with complex designs—clusters of complex millefiori, tiny canes of exquisite color fused together in clear, perfect crystal balls.
“This collection is my pride and joy,” Mary said. “Aren’t they beautiful? Owen and I look for them whenever we go abroad or to auctions.”
Po noticed the use of the present tense, but Mary went on, not catching herself.
“We’ve been collecting them for a while now, but the display case just came yesterday. See this?” She pointed to an antique Baccarat ball with a white carpet background of sparkling white stardust canes. The canes stood out like gems. “Each paperweight is so distinct, so beautiful in its own way. I could look at them for hours.”
“These are amazing, Mary.” Po glanced at the $15,000 price tag. “But surely not something Aunt Peg needs for her night stand!”
Mary laughed. “The price range is vast. It depends on a lot of things—whether the piece is from the classic period, the clarity of glass, whether it’s signed. And there are forgeries, of course. But even the less expensive balls can be works of art. They’re like quilts, in a way.” Mary pointed to one in the middle of the shelf. Circular millefiori garlands floated in a green flash paperweight. In the center was an intricate arrow cane, encircled by a ring of stardust canes, and surrounded by six spaced garlands, each with a complex cane center.
Po leaned forward and examined the design carefully.
“Yes, I can see that. There is great similarity in the joining together of tiny pieces to make a work of art. And even the designs are similar, the intricate pieces making up a whole flower.”
“You should bring the whole group in some day to see them. A field trip.”
“I’ll do that. Or at least send them over on their own. And in the meantime, I think I shall have you wrap up that lovely brass picture frame for my aunt and be about my day.” She pointed to a small, tasteful frame sitting on a tabletop.
“A good choice. We’ll save the paperweight for another day.”
Po laughed. “Like the day I win the lottery,” she said.
Outside, the city of Crestwood was wide awake and bathed in bright midday sunshine. P.J. and Kate were gone, but the sidewalk was filled with Saturday shoppers, moving in and out of the Elderberry shops. Recently the shop owners had added several benches to the area, positioning them up and down the block, fastened securely in concrete. They added a quaint touch, and Po wondered if this was the first step toward the brick sidewalk that Selma was dreading.
A few storefronts down, Po spotted Ambrose Sweet, standing outside his shop. He was sitting on one of the benches talking with an enormous man in a dark blue jacket. The man looked familiar to Po, even though he was sitting sideways and she couldn’t see his face. The sheer bulk of his frame and the slouch of his massive shoulders made him stand out. As she neared the bench, she was amused at the contrast between the two men. Ambrose Sweet probably gardened in his carefully pressed wool slacks and cashmere sweater. Po couldn’t imagine him in any other attire.
And the enormous, disheveled man sitting next to him, though wearing some sort of a uniform, looked like someone who had spent time “on the road,” as Scott used to say.
“Good morning, Po,” Ambrose said as she approached the two men.
Po smiled and waited for the other man to turn her way. He moved slowly because his heavy body didn’t pivot easily on the bench. When he turned toward her, Po took a step backward, then stopped and regained her composure. She’d seen him from a distance plenty of times. But not up close like this, not nearly close enough to be assaulted by the stench of sweat and alcohol that radiated off his heavy blue security uniform. One front tooth was darkened with decay, the other slightly crooked. His lips puffed out and a small round chin seemed totally disproportionate to the massive face that housed it.
Susan and Kate and the others were right. Wesley Peet was a frightening man.
Chapter 10
Falling Timbers
This would probably be the last Sunday that she and Leah would be able to walk down to Elderberry Road without bundling up. But today Po was comfortable in her yellow sweatshirt and jeans. She walked at a steady clip, breathing in the solid earthy smell of autumn. Layers of leaves crunched beneath her running shoes and in the distance she smelled a hint of sage burning in a fireplace somewhere.
Just ahead of her, at the junction of Elderberry and Oak, Po spotted Leah. She was sitting on a bench in a tiny triangle of green that marked the beginning of Elderberry Road.
Leah stood and waved. She wore one of her signature earth-toned gauzy dresses that brushed her ankles as she walked. On Leah, it looked elegant and chic rather than a throwback to the ’70s, as did her leather sandals and long, beaded earrings. A bright multicolored scarf tied loosely around her shoulders completed her look. Po suspected that Leah’s unique, arresting appearance caused many a coed to change their dress style, at least for those weeks that they sat mesmerized in Leah’s semester-long course.
Po and Leah had begun their Sunday morning tradition over a decade ago when their husbands discovered they were great golf partners and that late Sunday morning was the perfect time to indulge their habit. Po and Scott met the younger couple at a fall faculty tea where new professors were introduced to the rest of the Canterbury College family. Leah was the new Yale PhD, recruited to put together a women’s studies program in a school that was still shaking off its all-male influence. Her husband was the town’s new pediatrician. Although Canterbury had been coed for at least a dozen years, change came slowly, and Po knew that the then thirty-year-old Leah Sarandon would have her hands full. Leah surprised everyone, though, including Po. Hidden beneath her gentle beauty and quiet way was a steely strength that came through at that very first tea when she challenged several tenured professors to an animated discussion on the role of women in settling the state. Po determined then and there that she and the young woman would be friends.
The Paltrows invited Leah and Tim over soon after and almost immediately, despite the difference in ages, the foursome discovered shared passions that went beyond the game of golf: cross-country skiing, hiking in Colorado’s Gore Range, heated political and literary discussions, and—for Po and Leah—a love and appreciation for the fine art of quilting. Po brought Leah to a Saturday morning gathering shortly after and she’d been an integral part of the group ever since. Po met Leah at the corner with a quick hug and the two women crossed the street swiftly, driven by growling stomachs and anticipation of Marla’s breakfasts.
Po waved at an elderly couple who lived just down the street from her. Only Elderberry Books and Marla’s Bakery and Café were open for business on Sunday mornings, but in nice weather people gathered leisurely, not going anywhere, content to greet neighbors after church, catch up on their reading in one of the old leather chairs in Gus’s book store, or chat in small groups waiting for their name to be called for a table at Marla’s. Today a line of people crowded the sidewalk outside the café, waiting for an empty table.
“A half-hour wait,” someone called out as Po and Leah approached.
“Perfect timing,” Po said. “Mary Hill has the most remarkable paperweight display in her shop. Maybe we can catch a peek through the window while we wait.”
The two strolled down the street, walking in and out of patches of bright sunshine and savoring the crisp fall air.
They moaned in unison as they passed Daisy’s plastic flowers display. “I swear they’re growing,” Leah murmured.
Po laughed. “Owen was assigned the task of telling Daisy to shape this up, I hear. She was fit to be tied.”
“Daisy’s wrath is scary,” Leah said. She looked up ahead at the brick front of Windsor House Antiques. Small green awnings shielded the windows from the bright sunshine.
“I hear Mary is back at work.”
“It’s the best thing for her, I think.” Po stepped close to the plate glass window and looked in at the display of vases and desk lamps. Beyond the window the shop was nearly dark except for several small security lights. Po pointed toward the new cabinet by Mary’s desk. “The paperweight display is over there.”
Leah cupped her hands around her eyes and peered into the store. “Oh, my—even from here, I can see how beautiful they are,” she said. “Tim bought me a Perthshire weight when I graduated. It’s one of the loveliest things I own. I’ll definitely be back to see Mary’s collection when the store is open.”
Leah turned to go, but Po stepped back to the window, wrinkled her forehead, and looked intently through the smudged window glass. “I saw movement,” she said, and motioned for Leah to look. A sliver of unexpected fear circled Po.
Leah peered through the glass. “It’s just Mary. I guess we are all primed to check for burglars around every corner.”
As Po’s eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the store, she could make out Mary, standing at the opposite side of the store, nearly hidden from view by a large armoire and a hanging tapestry. Po frowned. “I think there’s someone with her.”
A man stepped out of the shadow of the armoire and moved slowly toward Mary. He was medium height, not much taller than Mary, but his face was hidden from view.
Po raised her hand, ready to knock on the window and scare him away. But before she could move, the man handed Mary something. It looked from the window to be a handful of papers. Mary took them and looked down at the white sheets. The man stood by quietly while Mary flipped through the papers. Even from a distance, Po could see the vacant, sad look on her face.
Before the two women could pull themselves away, Mary’s narrow shoulders slumped and her small body seemed to collapse in on itself. The papers fell from her fingers and floated to the floor.
“Po, does she need our help?” Leah whispered. “What’s going on in there? Who is that man?”
“I can’t tell, but he doesn’t seem threatening.”
Then the man bent over and gathered the papers scattered on the floor. He stood and slipped the papers into a briefcase.
Mary’s eyes were lowered and her face seemed shadowed in grief. The man set the briefcase on the floor and took her in his arms in a gentle embrace. Mary didn’t respond, and the man stepped back, his head lowered. He looked like he was trying to console her or help her with her sadness. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Mary.
“Can you see him now?” Leah whispered.
“There’s something familiar about him. The way he stands, maybe?”
“Whoever he is, she seems okay with him being there I guess.”
Po pulled back from the window and pushed a handful of hair behind her ear. “Yes. And I’m beginning to feel guilty, standing here like this. Poor Mary. She was probably down here to deal with her grief in private, and here she is, on a stage instead.”
“I agree. And my stomach can’t hold out much longer. Let’s eat.”
They glanced through the window once more to assure themselves that everything was all right. Mary was sitting in a chair now, and the person with her was leaning over her, talking quietly. She seemed
more composed and was looking intently at the man.
“She seems to be in good hands, whoever he is,” Po said. They turned and headed down the street. “It’s good to know Mary has people to help her through this. Sometimes she seems so alone.”
“It couldn’t have been easy for her being married to Owen. He was involved in a million things at the college, and I don’t think they interested Mary very much.”
“But she certainly stood at his side at all those faculty events. And if you’ll pardon me for saying so, Leah, those things could be dryer than your martinis.”
“And they still are.” Leah laughed. “You adapt.”
The crowd had thinned in front of the cafe, and Marla waved them in.
“Where’ve you two been?” she scolded and ushered them to a table near the window. “I spotted you down the street and put your name in. Then wondered if you were standing me up.” Marla started to move across the room, talking over her shoulder. “I might have sent the National Guard after you. It wouldn’t be Sunday if you two ladies didn’t show up.”
“We’ll never stand you up,” Leah said.
“Okay, then. Sit down here and I’ll have Stella pour you some coffee. Eggs’ll be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” She looked across the crowded room. “It’s been busier than a Macy’s sale in here this morning.”
“Mostly the church crowd?” Leah asked.
“Maybe. And quite the happy crowd today, at least the ones from Reverend Gottrey’s church. Too bad I don’t have a liquor license—there’d have been many Bloody Mary takers.”
“Why’s that, Marla?” Po smiled her thanks to Stella and welcomed the two mugs filled with Marla’s special blend. She handed one to Leah.
“You haven’t heard?” Marla’s face lit up like the sky on the Fourth of July.
Leah and Po glanced quickly at each other. Nothing brightened Marla’s disposition faster than the chance to pass along juicy news or gossip.
A Patchwork of Clues Page 8
