A Bias for Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Adele had seemed older than her years even then, but her enthusiasm for life and learning had been obvious. This austere facade she had adopted in her fifties didn’t seem a totally comfortable fit, and Po wondered if grief and loss had hardened her.

  Selma looked around the table, then asked again “You mentioned you need to talk with us about something. How can we help? Is it with a service, a memorial for Ollie?”

  “Of course not. I will handle anything that pertains to Ollie.” She sighed, as if her patience was being tried. She looked around the table, at each of the women, then the pieces of fabric in front of them.

  Confused, the women went back to work, their fingers the only movement in the room.

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

  Eight sets of fingers ceased movement.

  “Immediately,” Adele added.

  “What are you talking about?” Selma said. She put down her fabric and looked over the top of her glasses.

  “You heard me, Selma Parker. I want you to make eight quilts for me. I will pay you whatever you require, of course—I don’t ask for favors. 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 beautiful pieced quilt tops—I have already made arrangements to have them quilted as soon as you finish piecing them. I would like you to begin working on them right away.”

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

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

  “Use them for what?” Kate asked.

  “For 210 Kingfish Road—my elegant new bed and breakfast.”

  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 idea was foreign to residents—Crestwood was the perfect place for a cozy B&B. The town already boasted two small inns near the Emerald River. Parents of Canterbury students kept them full and profitable.

  It was other things, especially the fact that the Harrington property was probably the most valuable private home in the entire town, and many had an eye on it for far loftier enterprises than a cozy place for folks to spend the night and wake up to omelets and homemade cinnamon rolls.

  And then there were the neighborhood concerns. The well-heeled residents who coveted privacy and quiet. Po had already heard the concern in neighbors’ voices.

  “There’ll be traffic messes, ungodly noise—and they’ll probably start having weddings and God knows what over there,” a nearby neighbor had bellowed.

  But Po knew it was even more than that. It was the change in the quiet, tree-canopied Crestwood area that they feared. A B&B this year, and what would be next? It was the loss of control over what happened to their neighborhood and what might possibly precipitate a dip in property values. It was change, something longtime residents feared.

  And then there were those who missed Ollie Harrington. Who liked the middle-aged man who fed birds and looked at stars and never, ever called the police when neighborhood children climbed his trees or tried to fish in his pond. These were the people who couldn’t imagine a woman planning on disrupting her brother’s home before his body was even laid to rest. What kind of woman would do that?

  An awful one, they suspected.

  But the remaining Harrington heir had bested them all, making any protests irrelevant. She had instantly found loopholes in the zoning laws 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 furious that I’m almost ashamed we’re making these quilts for her,” Kate said as she and Po wandered about the city market late that morning. “On the other hand, it’s an interesting project.”

  Once Adele had left the shop, ideas for the Harrington quilts began bouncing off the walls. In the end, they’d decided to focus on traditional patterns for most of the inn’s rooms, using old patterns from the Kansas City Star newspaper collection. The familiar patterns would be perfect for Adele’s bed and breakfast, they’d all agreed. Picking eight from the thousands that had been published would be the hard part.

  “It’ll be a challenge. But I agree. It’ll be fun.” Po stopped at an apple booth and felt the Granny Smith apples, wondering aloud if they’d be good for a pie.

  Though summer squash had given way to pumpkins and apples, the market was still buzzing with activity. 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 several small restaurants on the edge of the downtown area. Run by farmers and residents 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 local musicians played in the small white gazebo while children danced on its steps and old folks filled the benches and clapped their hands to the music.

  Po picked up a jar of pesto and read the hand-lettered label. “But Adele’s decision is certainly causing a fuss,” she said, and filled Kate in on the neighborhood meeting. “A friend of mine in the neighborhood invited me along and it was clear that this isn’t making Adele any friends.”

  “Do you think Adele Harrington cares a whit about friends?” Kate asked.

  “Point well taken.” Po handed Kate an apple from her bag.

  “You don’t have to tell me what you’re talking about.” Leah walked over from a nearby pumpkin stand. Her denim skirt swept her ankles and a chunky necklace moved on her hand-screened T-shirt. She twisted a bead as she talked. “Did you read any news last night or today? Who would have thought one individual could create such a stir?”

  “I thought a lot about it last night and, well, really, there are a lot worse things that could be done with that property,” Po said. “There will be twelve bedrooms, that’s maybe a maximum of twenty-five people plus staff. Not exactly a traffic jam, especially with that long driveway and all the space beside the house and beyond. And there are enough trees shielding the estate that most neighbors won’t even notice.”

  “Maybe it’s the idea that Adele is going to be living there that’s infuriating people,” Kate said. “She isn’t exactly a warm and welcoming innkeeper type.”

  Po laughed. “Maybe. But frankly I think it’s the other disappointed parties that are causing the furor. The neighbors will adjust. Some of them simply want to hear their own voices. It’s the people who wanted the property for monetary interests who are encouraging the protests.”

  “I can vouch for the college’s disappointment, but it wasn’t because of money,” Leah said. “Canterbury was Ollie’s second home. He was there daily, even after he finally had a degree in his pocket. I think he came alive under Jed Feller’s tutelage. But anyway, Ollie had apparently told Chancellor Phillips that he’d will the house to Canterbury when he died. A place for the astronomy club to meet, he said.”

  “It’s too bad. Canterbury would have maintained the house’s integrity,” Kate said.

  “The university would have been a better choice than Tom Adler and his Prairie Development group,” Po said. “They’re saying Oliver also told them that they could have the house. They actually had a plan in place that they’d shown him. Tom promised he’d keep the lovely grounds as best he could, but the plan was to build four homes on the land—luxury homes for empty nesters.”

  “Ollie was so appreciative to people who were nice to him. I wonder if that’s why he may have
made promises like that,” Leah said.

  “Maybe,” Po said. “But Max Elliot has handled some of the Harrington personal affairs, and he said Ollie never put anything like that in writing. I think Ollie cared more about things like black holes and planets’ orbits than he did about wills. We used to laugh about that when I’d stop by and chat. He was pretty focused on the galaxy. He knew he stood apart from the college crowd but it didn’t bother him.”

  “Have you been inside the Harrington home recently?” Leah asked.

  “Maybe a few weeks ago? Well, not inside really. Most of the time the two of us would sit out on the back veranda and talk. The man could go on for hours about stars and gases and other-worldly bodies. I think he had read every book ever written on planet alignments. But he could talk about it in ways I completely understood. But as for the house, I haven’t seen the inside of it since the senior Harringtons died.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “To go inside?” Po asked. Although they usually took food to grieving families, the thought of taking a casserole to Adele Harrington brought a smile to both Po and Kate.

  Leah laughed, too. “No, no pies or casseroles. Adele asked me to come by the house today to look at colors with her so I could order the fabric for the quilts she wants us to make. Want to come?”

  “Of course,” Kate said immediately. “Wow, a preview. I’ve wanted to see the inside of that house since I was a kid.”

  “I need to run by the college library briefly, but other than that I’m free until that reception tonight at the college,” Po said. “Count me in.”

  “I nearly forgot about the reception,” Leah said. “Eleanor is such a sport to host it. But at least that means it’ll be less stuffy and more fun. I don’t know what the college would do without her.”

  “Or the use of her house.” The Canterbury family home had existed before Canterbury College itself, the school having grown up on the extensive acreage owned by the school’s founders.

  “I think the whole town must be invited,” Kate said. “Even P.J.”

  “Even P.J.?” Po’s voice was teasing. Kate’s current relationship with the police detective was a roller coaster, and she was never sure where on the ride the two young people were. Po had known P.J. nearly as long as she’d known Kate: a kinder, more trustworthy man couldn’t be found, but she tried very hard not to push it with Kate. Doing so would be a sure way of ruining it.

  “Well, sure, P.J. would be invited,” Leah said. “Eleanor figures her payback for hosting college affairs at her home is the license to invite all her friends. Besides, I think she has a crush on P.J.”

  They all laughed. “It may be vice versa,” Kate said. “Have you seen those two at your house, Po? They’re always cornering one another for some deep discussion about a political decision they both considered dumb or heinous, or a city council mess-up. Eleanor keeps P.J. current, too, making sure he knows about anything she thinks the police should be doing better. Not that he has anything to say about it.”

  “She told me she was inviting him to make sure the party was fun,” Leah said.

  Po laughed. “And he will. Those events can be mighty dull. I can’t even remember what this one is for. Probably to showcase something going on at the college and hope it lures some of the invitees to donate to it.”

  “It’s for a couple faculty members who have had things published recently. Jed Fellers, Ollie’s mentor, is one of them,” Leah said. “He’s the main reason I’m going. Jed is such a nice guy. He’s been working on getting a book published for the last couple years. There’s so much pressure on faculty now that Canterbury has university status—even though we all still call it a college—that we’re all overjoyed when someone makes it to print.”

  “Sounds kinda like The Hunger Games,” Kate said.

  “Sort of,” Leah said.

  “Well, good for Professor Fellers then. I took his intro to astronomy class just for the heck of it and it was great,” Kate said. “He’s a good teacher.”

  “Academia does have its pressure points. Bruce used to bemoan it all the time. He’d be happy for Jed. And happy that Eleanor is still throwing celebratory parties.”

  “Yep. Uncle Bruce would like this,” Kate said, refusing to give up what she had always called Po’s husband, even though no blood ties existed between the Paltrows and the Simpsons. What they had was stronger than blood ties, Kate’s mother had always said.

  “Well, no matter what the party’s for, it’ll get our minds off Adele Harrington for a while.”

  “Who seems to show up everywhere.” Leah nodded toward a booth across the crowded aisle. Loaves of fresh homemade povitica from Kansas City’s Strawberry Hill were piled on the table.

  Po and Kate looked over.

  Adele Harrington was talking to the young woman behind the table, all the while holding a loaf of the povitica in one hand. The girl’s mother stood beside her, clearly listening to the conversation while helping another customer.

  The younger woman was fidgeting, moving from one foot to another and casting sideways looks at her mother as if pleading for help. Finally, Adele shook her finger in the girl’s face, set the loaf back down and abruptly turned and walked away. The young woman looked after her with tears in her eyes.

  “Another fallen bird in Adele’s path,” Kate murmured. “Why does the woman treat people like that?” She wound her way across the crowded aisle and picked up the loaf of rich cream cheese bread. Adele’s fingerprints were visible on the wrapping where she had squeezed it. She smiled at the young girl. “This looks terrific. How much?”

  “Oh, wait, I’ll get you a fresh one from the truck. This one has been squeezed, I’m afraid.”

  “Squeezing’s fine. I’m okay with it. It’ll taste just as good, right?”

  The young girl smiled at Kate and fumbled in the large pocket of her apron for change. “So the lady—well, the one who squeezed it—she wants to give us some business, she said. She’ll buy our poviticas for a bed and breakfast or something.” She glanced at her mother. “So, well, I guess that’s a good thing.”

  Her mother stepped over and wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. She smiled at her, then looked at the women. “Something tells me we will earn every penny.”

  Kate laughed, and Po assured the baker that she definitely would do exactly that.

  From several stalls up the aisle, Adele Harrington turned suddenly and looked over the heads of the crowd. Her eyes settled on Po and she called out to her over the market din.

  Then, much to their relief, she followed it with a simple greeting, and turned in the opposite direction, walking away from the market, her head high.

  Po watched her disappear, wondering with some sadness what was going on inside Adele Harrington’s head. Kate’s question was a good one. Why did she treat people with such disregard? But a stronger voice suggested she might be better off not knowing. She gathered up her cloth bags, heavy now with fall’s bounty, and hurried after Kate and Leah.

  Chapter 4

  The Harrington mansion was noisy with activity when Po met Susan and Kate at the curb. The long winding drive that led up to the three-story stone house was lined with trucks, and men in overalls and jeans carried pails and heavy toolboxes. Fast-food wrappers and large drink cups cluttered the lawn.

  “Geesh. Adele doesn’t waste any time,” Kate said, dodging a ladder swinging from a short, no-nonsense man’s shoulder.

  “The place is certainly getting a top-notch manicure,” Po said.

  “Just look at this place. Up close it’s pure Gatsby,” Kate mused. “All I need is a martini and a convertible.”

  Tall pines lined the perimeter and towering oak trees shaded the yard, their gnarled branches angling out in all directions. The tips of maple trees were beginning to turn red, a harbinger of fall. And everywhere, freshly tilled patch
es of earth boasted dozens of brilliant mums.

  “You really don’t get a proper sense of this place from the road,” Leah said. “It’s magnificent. I can’t believe Ollie lived here all alone.”

  “I wonder if he was lonely,” Po said, looking around. “He didn’t seem to be, but I wonder…” She looked over at several men working in a shade garden along the side of the property near the garage, digging up the soil. Crates of flowers sat nearby. And just days ago she’d noticed volunteer trees, weeds, and overgrown bushes crowding the wrought iron fence. Today it was worked smooth, the rich soil holding hostas and red twig dogwoods and hydrangeas. It was like a movie set being constructed in a day. Unreal.

  She glanced up at the apartment above the four-car garage, wondering if Joe Bates was still living there. The long-time gardener had been on staff at the Harrington home as long as she could remember, but she didn’t see him in the group of young men working beneath the trees. Po liked Joe, a comfortable older man who had an amazing way with flowers. As unkempt as the property sometimes was in recent years, the small plots Joe got around to tending were always perfect. Sometimes, when she sat out back with Ollie, she’d see him puttering in his flowerbeds, one eye on the drive keeping watch for anyone who came near the house. Ollie’s watchman. Today he was nowhere in sight.

  “Looking for Miz Harrington?” a young painter called down to them as they approached the wide front porch. He was perched on a ladder, a paint can swinging precariously from a hook at the top.

  “Yes,” Leah answered. “Is she around?”

  The man took off his baseball hat and wiped perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. He pointed around the side of the house. “She’s out back. Follow the roar and you’ll find her easy enough. Not in the best of moods today, just a warning to y’all.” He grinned, then tugged his cap back on and returned to painting the top edge of the porch.