A Patchwork of Clues

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “That’s logical. Everything that happened that night makes sense. Wesley blackmailing someone. Someone smarter than him.”

  “Someone who did him in,” Kate finished.

  Leah, carrying familiar-looking shopping bags, wound her way to their table and sat down, putting her bags gently on the floor. “I love midterm break.”

  “So you’re treating yourself?” Po eyed the packages.

  “I went back to Mary Hill’s to look at those paperweights. They’re beautiful.”

  “You bought one?” Po lifted her eyebrows.

  “No,” Leah laughed. “But I did get one of the less expensive versions that Mary carries in the small gift boutique. And a couple of other things. Early Christmas gifts.”

  They paused while the waitress took their order, then Leah continued.

  “Even the more inexpensive paperweights are quite beautiful. It’s hard to tell the difference, in fact, unless you line them up side by side. Why Wesley Peet picked one of those to fling through Mary’s window is a mystery. Wouldn’t a rock have done the same job?”

  “Or a baseball.”

  “Hmm, good point,” Po said, pondering the thought.

  “I stopped in Ambrose and Jesse’s for some cheese and to do a little snooping,” Leah went on. “They have a big display of Chivas on that round rack in the middle of the store. Ambrose was adamant that he hadn’t left a bottle outside the door that night. Said it was the craziest thing he’d ever heard. Why use a Cadillac when a Chevy would do the job? he said.”

  Why indeed, Po thought. Except the Rolls Royce would be irresistible. Fail-safe. If someone was determined to get Wesley drunk, that was the way to go. And it had been a pint bottle, enough to make him sloppy and weak, but not fall-down drunk so he wouldn’t even see the dumpster or try to get the money. Whoever planned Wesley’s murder was careful, exact. And capable of buying expensive whiskey and littering one-hundred-dollar bills on the floor of the dumpster.

  “Did Ambrose say he’d sold any of that Scotch in the last couple days?” Po asked.

  “Yes, of course he did, he said. It was the world’s most popular Scotch, or something to that effect.”

  “The police checked on that,” Kate said. “I guess it’s popular—for those who can afford it.”

  Leah concurred. “Ambrose isn’t quite as forthcoming, but Jesse mentioned his customers who love that brand. One name surprised me.”

  “Who?” Kate held a forkful of eggs in mid-air.

  “Reverend Gottrey’s wife ordered a bunch of liquor recently. And Chivas was on the list. They had a reception for the new church elders.”

  “And served liquor?” Po asked.

  Kate nodded. “It was a fancy affair, I think, not at the church but at their home. They had elected three new elders—Mary Hill was one—and invited important people to greet the elders at an early evening reception. Ambrose and Jesse provided all the liquor and cheeses.”

  “Brew and Brie does a good business,” Po said. “These murders don’t seem to have harmed Jesse and Ambrose at all.”

  “Jesse seemed a little nervous, though,” Leah said. “Edgy, as if he was afraid something was going to come back and bite him.”

  “I think everyone is nervous.” Kate motioned to the young waitress for more coffee.

  Outside the window, leaves continued to dance against the windowpane as the wind picked up, grabbing loose pieces of paper and chasing them across the street and into the curbs. Turmoil, Po thought. But surely it would die down soon. All they needed was a first frost.

  She listened to Kate and Leah’s chatter with half an ear, her eyes watching the easy flow of people, back and forth along the sidewalks, stopping now and then to greet a friend or neighbor. Daisy was still outside her store. She stood in front of the boxes now with a small shovel in her hand, loosening the dirt. Po held back a smile, wondering what color of plastic tulip would be carefully patted into that rich, nourishing soil.

  She looked across the street. Max’s office looked forlorn. Someone had mowed the small patch of grass in front. But the curtains were drawn and the steps leading up to the door were littered with leaves. People walked by and looked up, wondering if he’d come back. And probably wondering, too, how such a nice man had gotten mixed up in such a sordid mess as the Elderberry murders. Murders. Because that’s what it was now.

  As Po watched, the door to Max’s office opened, and for a second, Po expected Max himself to hurry down the steps, his ever-present briefcase tucked under his arm. She squinted against the morning sun to see who’d be coming out of the small law office. A cleaning person, perhaps? But the man walking down the steps would never stoop to cleaning someone’s office, at least not in his carefully pressed pants.

  Looking to his left and then to his right, then scurrying down the steps—like the inept burglar in a Peter Sellers movie—was Ambrose Sweet, a thick pile of papers tucked beneath his arm.

  Chapter 23

  End of the Day

  After Leah and Kate left the cafe, Po walked over to Ambrose’s store. She would confront him outright about what she’d seen, a decidedly foolish thing to have done, she thought later. Something Kate and Phoebe might have done. But very unlike Po.

  But Ambrose had been cool and discreet. And polite, which perhaps surprised Po most of all.

  Yes, he’d been over at Max’s, he said. “Max was a friend, our attorney, and who in heaven’s name do you think was mowing Max’s lawn for him and picking up his newspapers while he has been so indisposed?”

  Ambrose was so quick and articulate in his explanation that Po was held to uncharacteristic silence. She didn’t for a minute believe him. But at a loss for words, she bought a bottle of chardonnay and a hunk of Vermont white cheddar, and then hurried out of the store.

  She walked slowly toward her car, her head full of unconnected facts and her heart heavy. There was a pall over the Elderberry shops, an invisible gray cloud. It was surely time to blow it all away. She put her packages in the back seat of her Honda. Then, without conscious plan or careful thought, she drove away from the Elderberry shops and across the river, through the west side of town, and out to the highway, where a lonely strip of warehouses stood along a wide street. Nearby was the garden supply store she went to every spring, and next to that, a tiny diner that had somehow lured Max Elliott into tragic danger.

  She parked her car in the sparsely occupied parking lot and walked inside. A small woman, perhaps seventy or so, stood behind a spotless Formica counter. A few customers in jeans and plaid shirts, probably taking an early lunch, sat in a booth near the door, smoking cigarettes and talking.

  “I told the police everything I know,” the woman said, rubbing her hands on her apron nervously. “Mr. Max came in here every single Thursday for twenty years. He never missed. If you know Mr. Max, you know he comes to Hedda’s on Thursday. It’s what he does. He’s a dear man.”

  Po looked around the restaurant. It was clean and simple. And, she suspected from the smells coming out of the kitchen, the food was probably wonderful. “He was your friend?” Po asked.

  The woman nodded. “I had some legal problems a thousand years ago and went to one of them groups that helps you out. Max volunteered there, and he helped me. Then helped me get this restaurant. He never took a dime from me, so I insisted I feed him. And he came every Thursday without fail. Chicken fried steak was his favorite.”

  She smiled sadly and put her hands on the counter, looking off toward an empty booth that Po suspected would always be Max’s.

  “He loved my meatloaf, too,” Hedda added.

  Po left Hedda’s, then drove out of town, skirting the highway and turning onto a road that headed west, as far as the eye could see. Her head was swimming with thoughts of a kind man who put a standing engagement with a lonely lady ahead of everything, even a meeting of Elderberry shop owne
rs.

  The town of Crestwood fell behind and in minutes Po was in the country, driving through farmland and wheat fields on a flat country road that stretched across the state like a long thin line. If you followed it far enough, you’d find yourself in the middle of the Kansas flint hills and rolling ranch lands. But Po didn’t have to go that far to find what she needed to see.

  * * * *

  Peter had just finished mowing the lawn and was putting the mower back in the garage when Po finally drove back into her driveway. The temperature had dropped to an uncomfortable chill.

  “The yard looks great, Peter,” Po called to him. “I think you just made it before the first snow.”

  2 “My mom would be happy to hear that,” Peter said. “She says I’m not ahead of anything.”

  “Well, you are in my book. We still have a deal for shoveling snow, ok?”

  “Awesome.” Peter started to walk down the driveway, then stopped suddenly and turned around, walking back toward Po. “I almost forgot. I found something weird in your backyard.”

  He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a medallion with a dirty red ribbon dangling from it. He handed it to Po. “Weird, huh?”

  Po looked at it curiously. At first she didn’t recognize the flat, dirty piece of metal. It nearly filled her palm. “Where did you find this?”

  “Behind that oak tree in the back of the yard. Back where Hoover buries his bones. Wasn’t there last time I mowed, that I know for sure because I raked that whole area. Besides, it’s big. I couldn’t have missed it, and it’s not dirty enough to have been there long.”

  “Well, thanks, Pete,” she said absently, staring at it, her fingers rubbing off flakes of dry dirt and recognition inching its way into her protesting mind. She turned and walked through the back door, her heart lodged tightly against her ribs. She knew exactly what this was. Scott had started the tradition, and after he died, the new president continued it—giving honorary medallions to professors who had done exemplary jobs. They handed them out at commencement, one award each year. Po walked over to the sink and held it under running water, washing off the loose dirt.

  She sat down at the table and rubbed it lightly with a soft rag, then slowly turned it over. A poem or saying was engraved on the back of each large medallion to make it personal and unique. Po pulled her glasses from her pocket and put them on. She recognized the poem. It was by Sam Walter Foss, and was one of Scott’s favorites:

  The woods were made for the hunters of dreams,

  The brooks for the fishers of songs;

  To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game,

  The streams and the woods belong.

  And she knew before she looked what initials she would find engraved beneath the poem—the initials of last June’s faculty honoree: O.P.H.—Owen Patterson Hill.

  Po looked down at Hoover. Her chest was tight. Sadness fell on her like a heavy wool cloak.

  “Hoover,” she said softly, “you shouldn’t take things that don’t belong to you.”

  And as the pieces of the puzzle finally began to fall into place, Po grabbed her jacket, put the medallion in her pocket, and walked out the back door and into the early darkness.

  * * * *

  Susan was home and waiting for her when she pulled into the drive. “Selma called to see how I was and told me you called to see if I was in the store today,” she said quietly. “I figured you’d come back. Come in, Po.”

  Po followed her into the living room. A small light cast warm, yellow shadows about the room.

  “My mom’s in bed,” Susan said. “It’s okay to talk. You recognized the quilt, didn’t you?”

  Po nodded. “Not for a while, though. I went for a ride in the country today. I headed out that way without real thought. Then there it was.”

  Susan smiled softly. “Probably the only place in my life where I’ve been completely happy,” she said.

  “And then there was this.” She handed Susan the medallion.

  Susan gasped. “How did you get this?”

  “I think Hoover stole it from your backseat that night that you gave me a ride home. When I read the poem on the back, I remembered Owen’s great love for his farm, and it all came into focus: the quilt, the black-and-white photographs. When I drove out there today, it all began to fit together.”

  Susan looked up. “I loved him, Po. More than anything in this world.”

  “I saw that, Susan. It’s there in the quilt.”

  “That was our amazing, magical place.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I took a class from Owen right before starting work at Selma’s. It was complicated, Po. But not sordid, and believe it or not, his wife didn’t care.”

  “No one knows what goes on between two people,” Po said.

  “But I know.” Susan looked up. “Owen and Mary’s marriage had been dead for a long time, as self-serving and trite as that sounds. Mary would probably tell you that herself if you asked her. She and Owen had separated in spirit years before. Mary had her church, which she dearly loved, and Owen had his work. They hadn’t shared their life in any meaningful way for a long time. Mary didn’t want a divorce because of the way it would look, and Owen respected that—because that’s who he is. Who…he was. So they just went their own ways.

  “Then we met, and it changed things.” Susan looked at the quilt again and the tears that had collected in her eyes began to fall.

  “But I was ready to walk away from it, afraid it would become a scandal and hurt someone, until…” Susan stopped for a minute and gathered her emotions.

  “It was Max,” she said finally, looking back at Po. “Dear Max. He convinced me not to leave Owen. He said Mary and Owen were deadening each other’s life, and they’d both be happier apart. He was loyal to them both, you see. But he thought Mary was slipping into an unreal world and needed to face her life. She wasn’t speaking to Owen any longer, and was spending increasing amounts of time at the church, seeking their recognition and approval. She began to dislike Owen. She only wanted his name and her good standing. It was so hard for him.” The tears ran down her cheeks. Susan walked over to a rolltop desk.

  She pulled out a document and handed it to Po. “Max gave me this the day after Owen died.”

  Po read the legal document. It was the deed to Owen’s farm. Ownership had been transferred to Susan Miller. “The farm is yours, Susan?”

  “We were so happy there. We spent hours in the woods, hiking, riding horses.”

  “What have you done about this?” Po held up the deed. “Mary has given this property away.”

  “I haven’t done anything. I don’t want to cause any trouble, Po. I’ve lost Owen. I just want to know who did this horrible thing. Mary can give the land to the church if she wants.” Susan managed a small smile, then added, “Although Owen must be hollering in his grave over that. He was ready to cut off all donations to the church. He thought they’d given them plenty of money, and he had found other charities that were doing wonderful things for the homeless and children. Kids with no place to go after school. Minorities who weren’t getting what they deserved. He wanted to help those groups for a while, he said.”

  “And Mary?”

  “And Mary, what?”

  Susan and Po jerked around. Mary Hill stood in the front door, her lovely suit smooth and perfect, her hair pulled tightly back. She stood still and calm, a small antique pistol in her gloved hand.

  “Please,” she said, “finish your conversation. I’ve only heard a little, but I’m terribly interested. I came here to settle a few things with Susan, but I got double my money’s worth, Po. That’s just fine.”

  Po didn’t move. Her heart hammered inside her chest as she looked into the cold, glinting eyes of a woman who was suddenly a stranger to her.

  “Mary…” Susan started to move toward her.

  “Sit,”
Mary said calmly. She looked around the room, the gun held steady. “Owen didn’t put much money into this place, I see.” Then she turned her attention to Po. “You probably didn’t know he had a girlfriend, did you, Po? I encouraged it. It suited us nicely for a while. As long as no one knew. No one could ever know.”

  Her voice turned icy, and she turned and glared at Susan. “But you got uppity, didn’t you? You were going to leave him. You awful woman, you!”

  Po leaned forward. “Mary, you’re not making sense.”

  The gun swung in her direction. “That’s all you know, Po Paltrow. You and your Scott and your books and your friends. People think you’re something. Well, I’m an elder at my church now. Did you know that? People look up to me. They respect me. They love me.” She smiled, the same smile she had put in place to thank the Reverend Gottrey for making her an elder of the church, for the mayor when he gave her the citizen’s award. It was a smile on a billboard—careful, perfect, empty.

  “Of course they do, Mary.” Po tried to rise in her chair but Mary pushed her back with a swing of her pearl-handled gun.

  “But what do you think they would do if they knew my husband was going to cut off the funds to the church and divorce me? How would that look, Po? They don’t make elders out of divorced women, ones whose husbands run off with cheap women.” She stood very erect and pulled her thin brows together. “They’d be feeling sorry for me. I’d be the one they prayed for on Sundays. I’d be that sinful divorced Mary Hill. People would come in my store and point at me. How would that look, Po?”

  Mary’s voice had risen so high that Po wouldn’t have recognized it if Mary hadn’t been standing in front of her, brandishing a gun.

  “Mary, you have friends, no matter what. There’s Max…”

  “Max Elliott is a fool,” she said sharply. “He agreed with Owen. Always, always. And he had the nerve to come to me at the store and show me her name on that deed.” Mary pointed at Susan, the tip of the gun inches from her face.