A Murder of Taste
A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery
By Sally Goldenbaum
Editor: Doug Weaver
Designer: Vicky Frenkel
Cover illustration: Neil Nakahodo
Character illustrations: Lon Eric Craven
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2004 Sally Goldenbaum
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Published by Kansas City Star Books.
First edition, second printing
ISBN: 0-9754804-5-6
Printed in the United States of America by Walsworth Publishing Co., Marceline, Missouri
To order copies, call StarInfo at (816) 234-4636 and say “BOOKS.”
Order on-line at www.TheKansasCityStore.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
___________________
Portia (Po) Paltrow, founder and nurturer of the Queen Bees quilting Group. Anchors the women’s quilting group in life and in art.
Phoebe Mellon, wife to Jimmy, an up-and-coming lawyer, young mother to eleven-month-old twins, and a constant surprise to her quilting cohorts.
Kate Simpson, Po’s goddaughter and a graduate student at the college. The newest member of the Queen Bees.
Eleanor Canterbury, who lives on the edge of the college her great-grandfather founded. Is heir to the Canterbury family fortune.
Leah Sarandon, professor of women’s studies at Canterbury College. An artistic quilter.
Susan Miller, Selma’s artistic assistant manager in the quilt shop. Recently returned to college to pursue a degree in fiber arts.
Selma Parker, owner of Parker’s Dry Goods Store. Provides a weekly gathering place for the Queen Bees quilting group and generous doses of down-home wisdom.
Maggie Helmers, Crestwood’s favorite veterinarian. Is an avid quilter and collector of fat lady art.
Friday, April 30
Prologue
The thick tangle of branches made it hard to get down to the path from here, but it was a good choice for the meeting—well hidden from the bridge. Not many joggers picked this part of the path to run on, even though it was officially a part of Riverside Park. They more often chose the east side where manicured parkland offered more space and safety. Here the path was almost hidden in the curve of the land and the slight incline, covered with bushes and low hanging trees. But this was a much better choice for tonight, for meeting and settling life’s heartaches once and for all.
It had to be resolved, to stop before it started. Right now. Tonight. Or a whole, careful life would be ruined, snuffed out in a single second. Everything lost. And for what? A whim, a faulty anger. A foolish indiscretion?
A spring moon hung low in the sky, partially hidden by thin gauzy clouds that drifted slowly by. An eerie light fell on the bridge and through the railings down to the water’s edge—pale streaks that fell on the moving water. There was a wind tonight, and it whipped across the water, stirring it up into miniature waves that slapped rhythmically against the shore. From here, protected by the brambles and the bridge and on the less-traveled side of the park, the sounds of the city seemed far away and all that was real was the river and the sky, and the two figures about to meet on the path.
The crunch of gravel was startling at first, then a welcome sound. The aloneness had been oddly frightening. Even the presence of the enemy was welcome.
At last, in minutes, perhaps, the awful fear that had bubbled up and grown into an unbearable weight would go away. With one hand pressed against the beating of an anxious, hopeful heart, the lone figure stepped out of the shadows and smiled into a familiar face.
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday, April 28
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is,
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo.
—W. M. Thackeray
“Picasso, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Portia “Po” Paltrow dropped her white napkin beside the plate and looked up into the chef’s beaming face. His nose, slightly out of proportion to his face, seemed perilously close to her own. Po pushed back slightly in her chair.
“It is my Mama’s recipe,” the chef said proudly.
“I had fish tacos once, never fish soup. This is very cool. Like who would have thought?” Phoebe Mellon, a diminutive young mother of toddler twins, rose from her chair and planted a quick kiss on Picasso’s sweaty cheek.
“Bouillabaisse,” Picasso corrected, clearly pleased at the attention. His fingers squeezed together and pulled the words from his lips like a string of molasses. “Bool-eh-baze, mon amie.”
“Bouillabaisse,” Phoebe repeated. “Cool.” She headed off toward the ladies’ room and a quick cell phone call to check on husband Jimmy and the twins.
“It’s quite a feat to make good bouillabaisse in the heart of Kansas,” Eleanor Canterbury said, wiping a trace of soup from the corner of her mouth. “But you’ve done it, indeed, dear Picasso.” In her 82 years of living life to the fullest, Eleanor had traveled the world several times and eaten bouillabaisse in every coastal village in France. She declared Picasso’s among the best, the blend of saffron, orange zest, and crushed fennel seeds balanced perfectly. “Even Venus would be proud,” she said.
“Venus who? Venus the goddess?” Kate Simpson lifted her head from scooping up the last spoonful of soup from the wide blue bowl.
Eleanor nodded her gray head of hair, swept up today and held in place with a large, sparkly comb. “It’s said Venus served bouillabaisse to her husband Vulcan, to lull him to sleep while she consorted with Mars.” She smiled up at Picasso. “Your soup has a rich history, Picasso.”
For an instant, the proud smile slipped from Picasso’s face. His smooth pink brow pulled together in a grimace.
“Picasso, are you all right?” Po asked.
Picasso gripped the back of Phoebe’s empty chair and pulled his smile back into place. “I am excellent, mon amie,” he said. “And so is my soup—the fish is flown in fresh on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And those are the only days you will see bouillabaisse on my menu. Never,” he wagged his index fingers in the air, “never, ever a Tuesday or a Thursday. The fish need to jump from the packed ice right into my pot.”
Kate took a hunk of French bread from the basket and soaked up the last remnant of rich broth from the bottom of her bowl. A tiny strand of saffron clung to the bread. “How many pounds do you think we’ve collectively gained since Picasso came into our lives?” She looked around the table, her eyebrows arched high.
“Horrible thought,” Maggie Helmers groaned, pushing away her plate. “Picasso, you’re killing us with this fancy French food.” But the look of delight on Maggie’s face indicated she wasn’t about to stop any time soon.
Picasso beamed. The French Quarter, his tiny French bistro, had filled the once-empty storefront on Elderberry Road for a scant six months, but it was lively and thriving, a favorite neighborhood spot, and the Queen Bees quilters occupied the round white-clothed table in the back corner far more often than they cared to admit. They loved the small eatery with its tile floor, tightly packed tables, and yellowing framed photographs on the walls—and they were equally fond of the small round Frenchman who had become a part of their lives.
“We’re really here on business. Justification for our decadence,” Leah Sarandon said. A professor at nearby Canterbury College, Leah was a dedicated member
of the Queen Bees and together with Susan Miller, one of the creative forces in the group. “We’re here to talk about the quilt we’re making for you, sweet man. We picked Wednesday night because we thought the place would be empty, but look at it—” She gestured to a packed room. “Nearly every table filled.”
Picasso scanned the bistro. A thick oak bar curved along the east wall, separated from the dining room by a row of low ferns. His bistro had become a gathering place for drinks after work, a cozy alternative to the downtown bars. Small tables for two lined the row of ferns, and on most nights, like tonight, they were filled. The bar bustled with light chatter. He noticed the mayor at one of the small tables. And nearby, Max Elliott, his lawyer and friend, sat with the president of Canterbury College, sharing a plate of escargot. He was glad to see Max back in the restaurant. The last time he had come in for dinner, the young waiter, Andy Haynes, had dumped a plate of creamy wild mushroom fricassee directly onto his lap. Laurel had been standing directly behind Andy, and Picasso suspected her presence had unnerved the young man. But Max had been a good sport about it. “It’s good. It’s good,” Picasso said, mentally assessing the evening’s profits.
Po smiled. “It’s good for you, good for the Elderberry neighborhood, and certainly good for us.”
Phoebe returned to the table and flopped down in her chair. “My Jimmy is beginning to wonder if Picasso has some secret hold on me.”
Picasso threw up his chubby hands in mock horror. “Do not let me be the cause of marital discord, sweet Phoebe.”
“Marital discord?” Laurel St. Pierre walked over to Picasso’s side and rested one elegant hand on her husband’s round shoulder. Laurel was a perfect long-stemmed rose to her husband’s daisy. Silky red hair swept her slender shoulders, and her graceful body rose several inches above Picasso’s portly frame. Extravagantly high, narrow heels, accentuated her height.
“Well, certainly not yours, Laurel,” Po said. She smiled at the lovely hostess.
“Certainly not,” Laurel echoed. The smile that followed was distracted, Po thought, and she wondered briefly if Laurel was feeling all right. “Laurel,” she said aloud, “Would you like to sit with us for a moment?”
Laurel’s eyes scanned the small crowded restaurant, taking in the two couples next to the quilters, a family back in the corner, the small bar tables of business people relaxing with a Scotch and soda before heading home. She spotted Max Elliott, and just the sight of him caused her stomach to churn. Causing Andy to spill the food on Max was a terribly childish thing to do, she thought. But she hadn’t been able to control the impulse, seeing him there. It had made her furious. Max Elliott was an enemy, whether he knew it or not, and he deserved far worse than shrimp on his lap. Laurel focused back on Po and forced a smile in place.
“Thank you, Mrs. Paltrow. I’d love to sit with you, but as you can see, we’re very busy tonight. I wouldn’t want Picasso to fire me,” she teased.
Picasso shook his head. “I tell her not to work. But sometimes she doesn’t listen to me.”
Laurel smiled at her husband, every bit twenty years her senior, then turned away and stopped Andy to point out an empty glass. Andy looked at her adoringly, then hurried off to do her bidding, and Laurel walked back toward the hostess station.
“I think Andy Haynes has a crush on your wife,” Kate said, nodding toward the blond-headed waiter servicing the next table. “I used to baby sit for him. He’s a sweet boy, though very young and naive.”
“And he is a good worker. But you are right, Kate. He follows Laurel around like a pup. But then, should he not? She is a beautiful woman. All my helpers here, they think she is wonderful.”
Kate suspected it was mostly the male helpers, but she kept her words to herself and glanced over at Laurel. Andy had found his way back to the hostess’s side, and she noticed that Laurel touched his white jacket, straightening the lapel, and smiled up into his young face. She’s flirting with him, Kate thought. Poor kid—he will have some trouble digging out from under this crush.
“So, my lovelies,” Picasso said beside her. “Tell me about my quilt. How is it coming?”
Kate reached into her large purse and pulled out a stack of pictures. She scattered the pictures across an empty space in the middle of the table. “Okay, Picasso—here’s my contribution. Plump and perfect fish.”
Picasso leaned over and looked at the photos, then clapped his hands excitedly. “Kate, these are most certainly worthy of my bouillabaisse.” Kate’s studies at Canterbury College included a photography class, which she was enjoying with a relish she usually reserved for food and arguing with P.J., an old high school flame who had recently come back into her life with an unexpected vengeance.
“These are the fish that inspired the design,” Susan explained. At 39, Susan had gone back to school herself, and was refining her natural talent in pursuit of a degree in fiber arts. “The quilt will have an enormous pot at the bottom, and we’re recreating these lovely fish in beautiful colors. It will be wonderful in this room.”
“I still think doing an appliquéd quilt is going to drive me to drink,” Maggie Helmers declared. “I hate appliqué, friends. Those little tiny pieces will make me crazy.” Maggie found great solace in being a member of the Queen Bee Quilters. It was her therapy, she often said. A time away from her thriving veterinary clinic to refresh her spirit and send her back to caring for Crestwood’s pets with renewed love and vigor. But her quilting experience was limited to backing small shapes with freezer paper, then sewing them up on her mother’s old machine. But no matter what she did, her quilting friends helped her make it look beautiful. Appliqué, however, was a little too far out of her comfortable box.
“Mags,” Leah said, “I understand how you feel. But I promise, the pieced background demands your special touch. You won’t touch a piece of appliqué.”
Maggie sighed with relief and took a sip of the wine Picasso had graciously sent over to their table earlier.
“So, Picasso, what do you think?” Po asked.
The Queen Bees quilting group had created many quilts in its thirty-year history. Members moved away or died, and daughters or friends were added, but the love and passion for the art was a staple and was passed along seamlessly. When Picasso asked for a quilt to hang in his restaurant—a tribute to his mother—they had agreed instantly.
Picasso beamed in delight as he looked at the pictures.
“Les poisson will fly across the fabric beneath the magic of your lovely fingers!”
A short distance away, Laurel St. Pierre surveyed the room, her slate blue eyes glancing back into the kitchen through the round window in the door, then to the front door. She glanced at her watch. It was early. Laurel took a slow, deep breath and rotated her shoulders beneath the green silk jacket. She looked again at the group of women sitting across the room. They were gesturing excitedly, moving the photographs around, chatting.
Her eyes settled on Kate and she frowned. Kate Simpson. Memories crushed down on Laurel painfully, and she pressed her long fingers against her temple. The headaches were beginning again. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, focusing on anything to take away the pain.
Picasso was still at the table, wedged in between Kate and Portia Paltrow, leaning over the pictures with a look of utter delight on his plump face. His hair was thinning, she noticed, small wisps of brown scattered across the top. Foolish old man, she thought. Boring, silly Frenchman. Laurel brushed her hand across her forehead, staring intently at the hunched figure of her husband. She’d actually loved him once. Or had she? He’d certainly been good to her, scooping her up from a dreadful life—a horrible waitressing job in New York and that dreary fourth floor walk-up. He’d given her a home, more money than she had ever dreamed of, everything she needed to turn from a mouse into Laurel St. Pierre, an elegant, beautiful woman. He’d even moved to Crestwood when she wanted to get away from the city. He had been so useful. Necessary even. But that was about over now. T
he score was even, or almost so. And then she would move on and finally begin her life. Laurel looked again at Picasso and her lips tightened, her head throbbing.
Look at you standing there, your forehead sweaty, your tummy bulging beneath that awful apron. The words floated inside Laurel’s pained head, an uninvited, disturbing chant. Oh, Picasso, I wish you were dead.
CHAPTER 2
When Kate and Po left Picasso’s bistro a short while later, the sky had darkened and a soft breeze stirred the new buds on the trees lining Elderberry Road. Kate looped her arm through Po’s and the two walked slowly down the street toward Po’s car.
Although Po herself stood five feet seven in her bare feet, Kate was two inches taller. Her auburn hair, streaked with bronze, hung thick and shiny about her shoulders. Tonight she wore shiny champagne-colored slacks that hugged her hips, a simple black t-shirt, and had thrown a sweater carelessly across her shoulders, knotting the arms in front.
Po turned her head to look at Kate, and thought, as she often did, how proud Liz Simpson would be of her only child. She’s decent and kind, Po thought—if a bit unpredictable. And she’s totally oblivious of the fact that strangers sometimes stop on the street to look at her, wondering if they’ve seen her in some romantic comedy with Richard Gere or George Clooney.
“Why doesn’t everyone live in Kansas in the springtime?” Kate said, interrupting Po’s thoughts. She looked up at the clear spring sky. The big dipper hung low, nearly close enough to touch, Kate thought. Or to jump right in and take a ride.
Po laughed. “You escaped doing it for several years, if memory serves me right. And very happily so!”
Kate’s journey back to Kansas to care for her mother before she died was intended to be brief, but a year later she was still here, and “still visiting,” she insisted to Po when-ever the topic of bringing her furniture back from Boston came up.
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