Po glanced at her watch. “We’ve stayed longer than we intended.”
“Eleanor’s party,” Kate yelped.
“I’ve kept you from something?” Adele asked, her brow lifting.
“No,” Po assured her. “It’s not until this evening. But knowing Kate, she probably needs to find something to wear.”
“To wear to what?” Adele asked.
Po was uncomfortable talking about a social event to someone who wasn’t invited to it. And though Eleanor was always generous in her invitations, she doubted that she would have thought to invite Adele. Nor would she have been on the college list. “The college is having a small reception tonight at Eleanor Canterbury’s home. It’s done periodically to recognize faculty in one way or another.”
“Who is being recognized?”
“Tonight it’s faculty who have recently had something published,” Leah said. “Publishing is very important to Canterbury, now that the college is a university.”
“Publish or perish,” Adele said.
“Kind of,” Leah said. “And two or three of the faculty are being recognized tonight. It’s a subtle push for others to follow, I think.”
“The reception is something done periodically. It’s nothing, really,” Po said.
Adele listened to Po intently, a frown creasing her forehead. Then she shifted her attention, looking beyond the women, seemingly moving on to other things. She waved her hand in dismissal. “Please keep in touch with me about the quilts and your progress,” she said. “I will need you to check with me periodically, and—”
A noise down the driveway drew their attention to the garage. Joe Bates, his body hunched over, was pushing an old wheelbarrow filled with dirt across the walkway. Clumps of mud fell onto the brick pathway as he moved.
Adele’s fists dug into her hips and her voice grew hard. “He is an eyesore,” she said. And then, without another glance at her guests, she walked quickly down the driveway after Joe.
For a brief moment, Po felt the need to beat her to her prey and to scoop old Joe Bates up and out of the way of Adele’s seemingly ungrounded anger. Instead she watched as Adele approached the man, her hands flying through the air and her words burying him in a deluge of complaints.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kate said, heading down the driveway to their cars. “We might be Adele’s next target.”
CHAPTER 5
Po dropped Kate and Leah off and checked her watch. Nice timing. She could still get over to the library and look for that new book on the history of women in Kansas quilting circles. In recent years, Po’s writing career had grown from articles in magazines and essays in literary journals—most often on the history of women and the arts—to a short book here or there. And both Gus Schuette’s bookstore on Elderberry Road and Canterbury library were indispensable to her.
Po pulled into the faculty lot and parked her car—a luxury that being married to a past president afforded her—and climbed the wide fan of steps leading up to the front door. As she went to pull open the heavy glass door, Jed Fellers smiled out at her from the other side. He pushed open the door with one hand and held it for Po.
“Thanks, Jed,” Po said. Jedson Fellers had come to Canterbury late in Sam Paltrow’s tenure as president. She and Sam had both liked the man with the easy smile and had attended many of his eloquent lectures on everything from black holes to exploring the cosmic dark ages.
“What brings you to our halls of learning, Po?” Jed asked, shifting his arms to accommodate a heavy stack of books.
“I’m here to pick up a few books, Jed, just like yourself. I hear you have a book out. Is this for number two?” She nodded at the pile of books in his arms.
Jed laughed. “Maybe down the road. Definitely not now. I’m just trying to keep one step ahead of my students.”
“Leah says that Ollie Harrington was a friend of yours.”
Jed nodded. “Ollie was many things to me—an assistant, a student, mostly a friend, I guess,” Jed answered. “He was…he was a breath of fresh air in my classroom. Kids get tired of the same voice, the same manner. But Ollie brought a charisma to a class. He was so honest, and so fresh in his approach to the heavens.” Jed looked out over the green lawns, now colored with small piles of falling leaves. He forced a smile back to his face and focused again on Po. “I’ll miss him.”
Po watched the sadness play across Jed’s strong features and thought about how many people Ollie had touched—and probably never even knew it. He was the twin less noticed, the second born, the one who had to work harder to make his place in life, and what a fine job he had done. Po touched Jed’s arm lightly. “That always plays two ways, Jed. You nurtured Ollie, gave him a sense of purpose. Helped make his time here satisfying.”
Jed didn’t answer, but he leaned over and lightly kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Po,” he said softly, and slowly made his way down the steps.
Po turned and walked on into the main room. The library was busy for a Saturday, she thought, and then remembered that midterms were probably around the corner. Some of the reason for Jed’s burden of books, she realized. She walked quickly over to the reserve desk where Leah had promised her she’d leave the book Po was looking for.
A pleasant looking woman, dressed in slacks and a tee shirt, her brown hair pulled back and held in place with a bright blue elastic band, looked up and smiled as Po approached.
Immediately her smile faded, and she looked down at the desk, embarrassed.
“Hello again,” Po said. “I’m Po Paltrow.”
The woman nodded. “I’ve seen you in here—and saw you today with Professor Sarandon. I’m Halley Peterson.” Halley managed a small smile.
Po shook the woman’s hand. “That was unpleasant for you. I’m sorry.”
Halley pushed her glasses up into her hair. “I apologize for my behavior. Today hasn’t been one of my best days.”
“You were upset. There’s no need to apologize.”
“Ollie Harrington was a good friend of mine. He spent a lot of time here in the library. Did you know him?”
“Yes. We were neighbors. Ollie was a good man.”
Halley nodded. “And he would have loved a decent burial with his friends around him. But Adele Harrington—” Halley broke off mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, I barely know you. You may be a friend of hers and I’m totally out of line speaking like this, Mrs. Paltrow.”
“Please, Halley, call me Po. And I understand. Adele elicits strong responses in people,” Po said. “It’s clear you cared about her brother.”
Halley’s face seemed to be crumbling under Po’s concerned look. Slender fingers groped for a water bottle sitting on the counter beside a pad of paper.
“Maybe you should sit down, Halley,” Po said. She touched the woman’s arm.
Halley shook her head. “I’m fine,” she whispered. “But thank you.” Halley leaned forward, her waist pressing into the high counter, her level gaze holding Po’s attention. Her voice was low, but filled with an intensity that for a moment startled Po and seemed out of place in the mild-mannered woman.
“Someone needs to listen, Po,” Halley Peterson said. Her hands were shaking now, making small thumping noises on the library desk, her green eyes lit with fire. “I don’t think Ollie’s death was normal. It wasn’t right. I think…I think someone wanted Ollie Harrington to die.”
CHAPTER 6
Po had had no time to respond. A student needing Halley’s attention had cut short her conversation with the librarian, and she had checked out her books and left the library. Halley’s outburst was curious, and Po wondered what she had meant. Surely she didn’t mean those words literally. She was overwrought. A good friend had died. And she hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye. But she would have to talk with Halley about it later—there wasn’t time to process it now. Right now she needed get home and be ready when Max Elliot picked her up for Eleanor’s cocktail party.
Po raced home, and in short order, she had s
howered and slipped into a pair of silky black slacks and a bright blue wrap-around blouse that opened wide at the neck. Daily runs, though slower than a decade ago, kept Po’s body limber and lean—and a glance in the full-length closet mirror confirmed that her slacks fit nicely, despite too many dinners at Picasso’s French Quarter.
“Po, you up there?” Max Elliot stood at the foot of the staircase winding up to the second floor of Po’s airy home, his hand on the walnut post. “And what did I tell you about locking these doors?”
“Ready in a minute, Max,” Po called back, ignoring the gentle scolding, even though there was a reason for Max’s admonition. A year before she and Max had both been in danger when a young man had let himself into her home through the open front door. Though thwarted in his efforts, his intent had been to harm. But Po still couldn’t shake her belief that Crestwood was essentially a safe place to live, and unlocked doors had been the way she was raised.
Po stood in front of her dresser mirror and ran a brush through her salt and pepper hair. She’d thought about coloring it recently, but the extra time pulled from her busy days seemed not worth the while. Besides, Sam had always said he liked the white streaks highlighting her sable-colored hair.
“Nature’s highlights,” he’d called them.
Po quickly applied pale pink blush to her prominent cheekbones and applied a wisp of taupe shadow on her lids. A touch of lipstick and she was nearly set to go. Grabbing a black shawl from the back of a chair, she walked down the steps. “If I had locked the door, dear Max,” she said, a note of playfulness in her voice, “how could you possibly have gotten in?”
Max smiled and kissed Po on the cheek, the familiar answer lost in the pleasure of seeing her. “I would have broken it down to see you. You look lovely, Po.”
“Thank you, Max,” Po said, pleased with the compliment. She slipped her arm through his and nodded toward the door. “Ready to party, my friend?”
Max held the door for her, then followed her down the walkway to his small silver Honda. Max was Crestwood’s best-known lawyer and financial planner, having lived in the small Kansas town his whole life, with time away for college and law school at the University of Kansas, just a short drive from Crestwood. His parents and their parents before had lived in Crestwood, and Max not only knew nearly everyone in town, he knew their family secrets as well. A friend of Po and Sam Paltrow’s for as long as Po could remember, Max became a trusted confidant when Sam died, helping Po sort through the investments and trusts Sam had left, assuring Po of a comfortable life. In recent months the two had slipped into the habit of attending movies and lectures and social gatherings together, and Po admitted to Leah last Sunday at breakfast that the nice-looking widower with the quick wit and open smile had added a new, surprising dimension to her life. “The heart can still somersault a bit,” she had confessed.
Po and Max drove the short ride to Eleanor’s house in comfortable silence, speaking only when the lights from the large three-story house on the corner of the campus lit up the night.
“Looks like a full house,” Max observed as they drove up the long circle drive.
“You know Eleanor—no matter how small the occasion, she doesn’t want anyone to feel left out.” Although tonight’s event was officially a college function, Eleanor never hesitated to add her own guest list to the official one when she was opening the doors of Canterbury House for the event. And with one of the honorees this evening being Jedson Fellers the crowd was colorful, eclectic, and noisy. Max pulled his car into a small space near the curve of the driveway, and they followed the strains of a small jazz combo playing a medley of old Ray Charles tunes.
Max and Po walked through the open doorway and spotted Kate and P. J., standing in the spacious living room off the front hall, talking with Jed Fellers. Kate waved them over.
Her cheeks were bright and pink, and a pair of two-inch heels brought her nearly eye-to-eye with P.J. and Jed. A slight black dress of no discernible design floated over Kate’s body with style and grace and looked like something straight off a designer’s runway.
And she probably bought it at a thrift store for two dollars, Po thought, swallowing the pleasure that being Kate’s godmother brought her on a continuous basis. Po hugged the tall, lanky professor standing beside her, looking every bit the part in a corduroy jacket with leather patches on the sleeves. “Congratulations, Jed,” Po smiled. “What a treat, seeing you twice in one day.”
“Thanks for coming, Po. You, too, Max. It was nice of the college and Eleanor to do this—it’s great to see old friends.”
“Eleanor loves an excuse for a party. And this is a nice excuse,” Po said. “Sounds like the pressure is on at the university to publish. And you’ve survived the race, Jed.”
Jed’s book, entitled A Plain Man’s Guide to A Starry Night, had received critical acclaim.
Jed nodded. “It gets crazy, that’s for sure. It’s just a little book. The fuss is unmerited.”
“Well, big or little, it will be nice to have the university’s publishing pressure off your back for awhile.”
“Here, here,” said Jed, lifting his glass.
“Gus Schuette had a couple copies in his store,” P.J. said. He stood just behind Kate, one hand looped lightly around her shoulder. “It looked interesting. Astronomy has always been a secret passion of mine.”
“Oh?” Kate turned her head and looked up into P.J.’s face. Her brows lifted. “A passion?”
“Well, secondary passion,” P.J. said. He grinned at Kate. “You’ll always be the primary P, Katie.” P.J. tugged lightly on a loose strand of Kate’s hair.
“Ah, my friends are here,” Eleanor said, coming up behind the professor. “Good. Sometimes the university crew is a little boring.” She kissed Jed on the cheek. “You excluded, my dear.”
“I think that’s a compliment,” Jed said. “El, you’re nice to do this.”
“Pshaw with nice. I love it. It’s a chance to be merry. We needed a diversion, Jed, and you and your friends are it.”
“Diversion from what?” Jed asked.
“All this uproar over Adele Harrington and the house everyone and his brother seem to want.” Eleanor waved to an old friend walking in the door.
“That commotion over the Harrington house is a curious thing,” Max said. “Folks have disagreed with property sales and zoning laws before, but this is out of proportion. Sure, there’s a lot of money at stake—but the land belongs to Adele Harrington, clean and clear. Tom Adler over at Prairie Development had me check—he claims Oliver promised to sell the house to him for a development. Says he saw the paper himself.”
“Tom Adler?” Kate said. She accepted a piece of crisp, buttery toast topped with a sliver of rare tuna from a passing waiter.
“Adler claims Oliver wrote it out, like a will. Ollie didn’t want Adele to get the house, according to Tom, and they were going to sign an agreement that would allow Oliver to live in the house free and clear as long as he liked, then Tom would take it over. Tom claims someone should check more closely into how Oliver died.”
Po listened to the conversation around her silently. But her thoughts returned to Halley Peterson and the sentiment Po had dismissed as the voice of grief. Oliver didn’t die from a fall down the stairs, she had implied.
“That matches some calls we’ve gotten at the station,” P.J. was saying beside her. The tall, sandy-haired detective had returned to the group carrying a tray of champagne. “Anonymous callers have suggested there was foul play at the Harrington place. One caller went so far as to say the police must be on the take or they’d have looked into Oliver’s death.”
“That’s odd,” Eleanor said. “Didn’t the papers say it was a heart attack?”
“That’s the official word,” P.J. said. “And it will hold until there’s reason to think otherwise.” P.J. pulled his vibrating cell phone out of his pocket, glanced at the number on the small screen, and looked up. “Sorry folks, duty calls.” He moved ov
er into a quiet corner to take the call.
Another waiter passed by, carrying a platter of chicken satay with a crystal cup filled with gingery peanut sauce. Small plates were passed around, and the group quickly emptied the tray.
“Eleanor, you certainly know how to throw a party,” Kate said, balancing her plate in one hand and sipping her champagne. “This is terrific.”
“The house should be used this way. One old soul doesn’t do justice to this home,” Eleanor said. “It was what old grandpop Harrison intended.”
Eleanor’s grandfather, Harrison Canterbury, had built the home over a hundred years before when he had moved his family from the east to the small Kansas town. A much better place to raise kids, he had decided. And having inherited a fortune as a railroad baron’s son, he soon built Crestwood a bank, a department store, a church, and prettied up the city with several parks. But once his children started school, Harrison decided that what the town really needed was a college, and so he built one, right in the family’s wooded backyard. Though the home was Eleanor’s until she died, she was generous in opening it up for college events.
“Well, I’ll be,” Kate said, pausing between bites to stare at the front door. “Look who’s here.”
Po glanced over at the front door. The double doors were left open for the comings and goings of the guests. When an older professor whom Po had known for several decades walked with his wife out onto the portico, the view cleared.
Adele Harrington was alone, standing tall and elegant in a periwinkle silk dress. Her hair was down, falling loosely about her shoulders and held back from her face by an ebony comb. It was a transformation that drew unintentional sounds from Kate and Po. “Wow,” Kate whispered. “What happened to the wicked witch of the north?”
Though not beautiful in a traditional sense, Adele was striking, her imposing manner heightened by the careful make-up and clothing. She stood alone, like an actor on a stage looking out over her audience.
Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery Page 4
