Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “I’m not sure I share your confidence in Adele’s sense of what’s right, Po,” Selma said. “She doesn’t live here, after all, and doesn’t give a hoot about the town.” Selma sat with her back to the archway leading into the main room of the store, one ear on the customers being helped by two college girls who helped out on Saturdays. “There’s so much money at stake. That’s what will decide what happens to that beautiful home—money. Mark my words. And let’s just hope it helps the town, not hurts it.”

  “Why Selma Parker,” a new voice interjected itself into the mix. “Who would ever dream of hurting this little town?” Eight heads moved in unison and all eyes focused on the tall, commanding figure standing in the archway, directly behind Selma.

  The woman smiled slightly, acknowledging them as a group. Then her gray eyes focused on Selma, and she took a step into the room. “Please, don’t let me interrupt, ladies. Go on with your chitchat. I find your foolish conversation quite amusing.”

  Selma stood and wiped the palms of her sweaty hands down her rumpled tan slacks. Then she lifted one hand out in greeting and forced a smile to her face. “Hello, Adele,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Adele Harrington placed her Ballenciaga bag on the table.

  “Yes, it has been a long time, Selma.” Adele turned her long, angular face toward Po. “And Portia Paltrow,” she said, her eyes moving slowly up and down Po, then settling in on her face. “You’ve aged agreeably, I see.”

  Po felt the tension in the room but forced a smile to her face. “We were all terribly sad to hear about Oliver, Adele.” Adele waved her long fingers through the air as if dismissing Po’s thought. “Death happens,” she said. “Perhaps Oliver would have lived longer if he hadn’t shut himself up in that house like a damn monk. He was a genius, you know.” Adele surveyed the group. She looked at Phoebe for a long time and then shook her head. “Did you cut your hair with a lawn clippers?” she asked finally.

  Shortly after Jude and Emma were born, Phoebe had clipped her gold mane short all over her head. And she loved the freedom of the no-nonsense, one-inch style. Eleanor called her the Queen Bees’ platinum-haired pixie. It was a look that could look beautiful only on Phoebe Mellon.

  Phoebe smiled sweetly at Adele and cocked her head to one side. “A FlowBee and scissors. Easy as pie. Want me to do yours?”

  Adele’s hand shot up instinctively to her thick shoulder-length hair. It lacked the sprinkling of gray that most women in their fifties coped with, and this morning it floated loosely about her attractive face. “You’re married to that Mellon boy,” she said.

  “Is there something you wanted, Adele?” Selma asked, dismissing the moment and hoping Phoebe wouldn’t run for her FlowBee. Phoebe didn’t allow herself to be pushed around readily. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  Adele was silent a moment, as if considering the question, then looked over at Phoebe again. “I like her spunk,” she said to no one in particular. “Yes, Selma. Please bring me a cup of coffee.”

  Po wondered if Adele had spent the years away from Crestwood managing a flock of servants. Nevertheless, Po, being closest to the side table holding the coffeepot and the usual stash of flaky pastries from Marla’s bakery, poured a cup for Adele. “Cream and sugar are on the table,” she said, handing the cup to Adele and nodding toward the sideboard.

  “Black is fine,” Adele said and turned back to Selma. “Though you haven’t offered the usual amenity, Selma, I would like to sit down. May I? I want to talk with all of you.”

  A questioning look passed between Selma and Po as they wondered in tandem what in the world Adele Harrington wanted with them.

  Selma touched the iron to see if it was hot and then looked back at Adele. “This is the Queen Bees quilting group, Adele, and they meet here in my shop every Saturday morning. Certainly you may sit, but we’ll want to continue finishing up our—”

  “I know what this is, Selma,” Adele cut in. “My mother was a Queen Bee, lest you forget.”

  From her corner chair, Eleanor smiled, remembering. “Of course she was. She was an excellent quilter and a very lovely woman.” And how in the world did she bear the likes of you, Eleanor thought.

  Adele looked over at Eleanor, noticing the elegant gray-haired woman for the first time. “Eleanor Canterbury?” she said. “My God, are you still alive?”

  Eleanor’s delicious laughter floated above the cluttered table. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion, Adele. But yes, I believe I am. Would you like a pinch?” She held out her arm. Dangly gold bracelets chimed against one another.

  Adele stared at Eleanor for a moment. “Amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “My mother liked you, if I remember correctly.”

  “Your mother liked everyone, Adele,” Eleanor said.

  “You’re wrong about that, Eleanor.” Adele smiled politely, pulled out a chair and sat down. “You may continue with your work, but I would like to tell you why I am here.”

  “That would be nice,” Selma said, and she picked up an all-white, whole-cloth quilt hanging that she had made for a new stationery store opening up down the road. In the center of the piece, Selma had designed a delicate feather pen and scrolled piece of paper, intricately stitching the design and framing it with a cable pattern. The background was filled in with a grid pattern—millions of tiny stitches that resulted in a beautifully designed work of art.

  “How cool, Selma!” Phoebe leaned over the shopowner’s shoulder and touched the stitching with the tip of her finger. “That’s perfect for the stationery store!” Though the Bees sometimes worked on a single project together, for the past few months they had worked on individual projects, guided by Leah and Susan, who were always there to help with design and color and fabric.

  Adele cleared her throat, pulling the attention back to her.

  “Adele, do you know the others?” Po asked.

  Adele glanced around the table. “I know who most of you are. I’ve checked the group out, of course.”

  Po frowned. Checked them out? What on earth was Adele Harrington thinking, coming in and confronting them this way?

  “You’re Kate Simpson,” Adele said, looking at Kate. Her tone was accusatory.

  Even in jeans and a t-shirt, her normal Saturday attire, Kate stood out in a crowd. She was the tallest Bee by several inches, as slender as Kansas wheat, and had thick, unruly auburn hair and arresting brown eyes that could stop traffic, even in sleepy Crestwood. And Kate backed down to few people.

  She looked evenly at Adele. “I am,” she said simply. She decided not to remind Adele that they had met several times, and that she lived just a couple blocks from the Harrington mansion. It probably wouldn’t matter to her, Kate decided.

  “I’ve seen you riding that fool bike past the house,” Adele said. Then, abruptly, she looked at Maggie and nodded, recognition softening the sculpted lines of her face. “I’ve met you, Dr. Helmers,” she said. “You were good to my Emerson.”

  Maggie nodded. “Emerson is a wonderful dog.”

  Adele nodded, and it was clear that Emerson held a special spot in her life. Maggie decided that though she didn’t much care for the woman, her affection for Emerson won her a couple of points. Maybe.

  Leah Sarandon had been watching Adele carefully, wondering if she would recognize her. A few years before Leah had been on a committee that granted an award for writing to a college student. That year Ollie Harrington, an older student who had returned to college after years away, was the winner, chosen for an essay he’d written on the Milky Way. It was sparse and elegant, and did indeed appear to be the work of a genius, as Adele had stated earlier. Jed Fellers, an astronomy professor at Canterbury, had taken Ollie under his wing and nurtured the talent that was most deserving of the award. Adele Harrington had come to town, a rare occasion, to attend the banquet honoring her brother. Leah remembered her being rather aloof but seemingly proud of her brother.

  “And you are?
” Adele asked now. “You don’t appear to be a Crestwood native.”

  She didn’t remember, Leah thought, which was fine. “I’m from the East Coast, Adele, but my husband and I have lived here for awhile. I teach at Canterbury and my husband is a pediatrician here in town.”

  “And you do some of the design work with this group?”

  “Some. I like to try new things with the group. They indulge me.”

  “Good. And in answer to your unasked question—yes, I remember you from the banquet honoring my brother. I never forget a face, though your name escaped me.”

  Adele’s piercing eyes studied Leah for a moment, then moved on to Susan Miller, Selma’s shop assistant. Susan, like Ollie Harrington, had returned to get a college degree later than most. In Susan’s case, it was Selma who convinced her helper that thirty-five was the perfect age, and someone with Susan’s talent for fiber design shouldn’t be hiding it in a small sewing store with a chubby proprietress. And so Susan had registered at Canterbury University, and her knowledge of fabric and shapes and colors was a gift the Queen Bees counted on in creating the most beautiful quilts in Kansas. “You put together that quilt display in the library,” Adele said finally.

  “Leah and I put that together,” Susan said. The reading room in the college library often displayed the artwork of students, faculty, and sometimes residents. Recently they’d featured a variety of quilts honoring life on the Kansas prairie, all designed and quilted by Kansas women.

  “It’s a lovely display,” Adele said. The sudden compliment caused Po to laugh lightly. Adele Harrington was a package of contradictions. “Adele Harrington, I believe you are all show,” she said. “Now, why are you here and what do you want? We’re always happy to have visitors, but we’re busy, as you can see. And I am sure you are busy, too, getting that huge house ready for an eager market.”

  “An eager market?”

  “I’d say that everyone from the college board of directors to the city council to outside investors would like nothing better than to be the proud owners of your beautiful ten acres and that amazing house.” Po took a sip of coffee.

  “Is that what this silly town thinks?”

  Po frowned, not understanding Adele’s comment, but not inclined to ask for an explanation. Instead, she continued in her own direction. “Those of us in the neighborhood are hoping you’ll be discriminating when you decide who will own it next. Large condos wouldn’t endear you to the neighbors.” Po chose her words carefully. She had no right to tell Adele what to do with her inheritance, but she hoped that she cherished her family’s house enough to be careful about what happened to it. And Po herself wasn’t sure what that would be. The days of single families living in mansions were pretty much over, and although she’d love for the house to be preserved, she wasn’t sure what the best choice would be. Perhaps a small museum to house local art? Something that wouldn’t cause traffic jams, something tasteful and discrete.

  “And do you think I care about being liked by the neighbors, Po?” Adele asked.

  “Yes,” Po said simply. And in that moment, Po believed her own words. There was something forced about Adele’s attitude. Po remembered Adele as a young woman, home from her first year at Smith. She had come over one day with her mother, shortly after newlyweds Po and Sam had moved into the home she still lived in. Po remembered with some clarity because Adele was excited about the things she was learning and the thrill of living near Boston and soaking up all it had to offer. Po wasn’t that far removed from her own experience at Radcliffe, and they had shared stories about football games and clubs and what once were the Seven Sister schools.

  Adele had seemed older than her years even then, but her enthusiasm for life and learning had impressed Po. The austere façade she had adopted in her early fifties didn’t seem a totally comfortable fit, and Po wondered if this was the real Adele they were seeing or if grief and loss had hardened her.

  “Po’s right, Adele,” Selma said. “Everyone is welcome here, but we’ve projects to finish. Is there something in particular we can help you with?”

  “Of course there is. I don’t make a habit of wasting my Saturday mornings in the backrooms of small shops.” She paused and looked around the table, taking in each of the women and the fabric in front of them. Nearly finished table runners and small colorful quilts ready to hang on walls crowded the table.

  The Queen Bees were all watching Adele, their fingers the only movement in the room.

  Adele placed the palms of her hands on the table as if addressing a jury. “I’m here on business. I want you to make eight quilts for me.”

  Eight sets of fingers ceased movement, as if hit by a bolt of lightning.

  “Immediately,” Adele added.

  “What?” Selma said.

  “You heard me, Selma Parker. I want you to make eight quilts for me,” Adele repeated. “I will pay you plenty— you can donate it to that quilt museum I hear you want to start, or whatever.” Her long thin fingers waved the air. “I will even donate extra to the cause. I want fine pieced quilt tops—I have already made arrangements to have them quilted as soon as you are finished piecing them. And I want you to begin working on them now.”

  “Why in heaven’s name do you want eight quilts?”

  “I want twelve quilts. But my mother preserved some of her own, and I will use four of those.”

  “For what?” Kate asked.

  “For the bed and breakfast I will be opening in my family home.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The news that Adele Harrington was turning the Harrington mansion into a B&B hit Crestwood with the force of a Kansas tornado.

  The issue wasn’t that the bed and breakfast idea was foreign to residents — Crestwood was the perfect atmosphere for a cozy B&B, and the town already boasted two small inns near the Emerald River. Parents of Canterbury students kept them full and profitable. It was that the Harrington property was probably the most valuable private home in the entire town—and folks had an eye on it for far more lofty enterprises than a place for visitors to spend the night and wake up to omelets and home-made cinnamon rolls.

  A special meeting was called to protest the conversion of the mansion into a business, and Po felt the venom in her neighbor’s speech.

  “There’ll be traffic messes, ungodly noise—and they’ll probably start having weddings and God knows what over there,” Keith Harris had bellowed. But listening quietly in the corner of the Harris’s living room, Po knew it was more than that. It was the change in the quiet, tree-canopied neighborhoods that they all feared. A B&B this year, and what would be next? It was the fact that a park on that land would solidify the area near the college as a coveted place to live. It was the loss of control over what happened to their neighborhood and perhaps a dip in property values. And of course, it was money. If Adele held onto the property, others couldn’t make a tidy fortune of their own.

  But Adele had bested them all, finding loopholes in the zoning law for a home that had graced the land before most of Crestwood even existed. It was going to be a bed and breakfast. And there was nothing anyone in all of Crestwood could do about it.

  “People are so mad that I’m almost ashamed we’re helping her,” Kate said to Po as they wandered about the city market late Saturday morning. Kate swallowed a bite of apple. “On the other hand, it’s a fun project.”

  Today’s quilt session had been an enthusiastic one, with ideas for the Harrington quilts bouncing off the walls. In the end, they’d decided to focus on traditional patterns for most of the B&B’s rooms, using old patterns stored away from the Kansas City Star newspaper collection. The familiar patterns would be perfect for a bed and breakfast, they’d all agreed. Picking eight from the thousand that had been published would be the hard part.

  “It will be a challenge, Kate. But I agree—lots of fun.” Po stopped at an apple booth and felt the Jonathan apples. They’d be perfect for a pie, she thought.

  Though summer squash had given
way to pumpkins and homegrown apples, the market was still buzzing with activities. Situated on the banks of the Emerald River, the open-air market was part of a cleaned-up area that had given rise in recent years to a park and restaurants dotting the downtown area. Run by farmers and residents from around the area who brought in organic produce and herbs and flowers from May to late September, the market was a vibrant place for visitors and townsfolk to gather on sunny Saturday mornings. The smell of fritters and hot coffee filled the air, and on most Saturdays a local group of musicians played in the small white gazebo while children danced on its steps and old folks filled the benches and clapped their hands or nodded to the music.

  Po picked up a jar of pesto sauce and read the hand-lettered label. “You’re right about this B&B causing a fuss,” she said, and told Kate about the neighborhood meeting. “It isn’t making Adele any friends, not that she seems to want them.”

  It had been one week since Adele had dropped her bombshell to the Bees, and for seven days the Crestwood Daily News had been full of letters to the editor protesting the decision.

  “You don’t have to tell me what you’re talking about.” Leah walked over to her two friends from a nearby pumpkin stand. “Who would have thought one woman could have created such a stir?” Leah’s denim skirt swept her ankles and a chunky necklace moved on her hand-screened tee shirt as she talked. Leah’s distinctive look of dress and jewelry was often imitated by students who fought tooth and nail to get into her classes.