A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Kate and Po glanced into the window of the antiques store on the corner. A young couple from Kansas City had recently bought the old Windsor House Antiques after a scandal had sent the owner to jail. The formerly dark and elegant store had taken on a bright new look, with skylights and bright urns overflowing with flowers in every window. While it still held some priceless antiques, the store was more affordable now, and Po thought the change was a good one.

  Next door, Marla already had customers filling the front bay window of her bakery and café, and the smell of cinnamon drifted out the open door. Daisy Sample, owner of the Elderberry Road florist, Flowers by Daisy, was walking out of Marla’s with a huge muffin in her hand as she headed next door to open her own shop. “Morning ladies,” she called out and continued on her way.

  Brew and Brie, Po’s favorite shop for picking up Vermont white cheddar and a good Merlot, was closed up tighter than a drum. “Ambrose and Jesse are getting a late start, as usual,” Po said.

  They passed by Gus’s place and waved as he pulled up the blinds on the front window, readying himself for the Saturday crowd. Next to Gus’s, a small open space had been turned into a patio, separating the bookstore from the French restaurant. Gus and Picasso collaborated to add some benches and flower pots, and it became a perfect place to read books from the book store while waiting for a table at the French Quarter—a plus for both owners. At this hour on a Saturday morning, it was deserted, save for a collection of blue jays eating up last night’s crumbs.

  Po frowned as she looked through the slats of the blinds on Picasso’s windows and into the darkness beyond. “It’s one thing for Ambrose and Jesse to sleep in, but Picasso is always here at this hour.”

  “He probably had a late night last night.”

  “That doesn’t matter. He’s here every Saturday morning when I jog by. Always.” She frowned. “Kate, something’s wrong.” Po stood still, staring at the front door to the restaurant.

  Kate touched her arm. “Po, come on. Everyone deserves to sleep in now and then—even Picasso. I’m late all the time and you never worry. Let’s go.” She tugged playfully on the sleeve of Po’s jeans jacket.

  Reluctantly Po began to walk toward Selma’s. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was needed somewhere, and it wasn’t at the big oak table in the back of Selma’s quilt store.

  But before they could walk through the door to Selma’s shop, it swung open from the inside. Selma stood alone in the entry, her face as chalky white as the sidewalk, and Po knew without a smidgen of a doubt that she was right.

  “Picasso?” Po asked. Her heart was squeezed tightly against the wall of her chest.

  Selma shook her head no, then yes. And then she grabbed them each by the arm and drew a confused Po and Kate into the shop.

  “Laurel,” she said in the softest voice Po had ever heard Selma use. “Laurel St. Pierre is dead.”

  CHAPTER 6

  By the time the remaining Bees arrived at Selma’s, Kate had talked to P.J. He quickly confirmed the story already spreading across the small town as people turned on their radios and televisions for the early morning news.

  “Laurel St. Pierre,” Kate said, returning to the table with her cell phone in her hand. Her tone was hushed and disbelieving. “We were just talking about her yesterday, maybe at the very moment she was being hurled into that river.” Kate had told P.J. on the phone about seeing Laurel in the park with a stranger. Similar stories were coming in to the station, he told her. And they’d be checking them all out.

  “Like who would do such a thing?” Phoebe’s eyes filled her face. “And I’m bringing my babies up in this world? This is total craziness.” She fingered one of several earrings curling up the edge of her ear.

  “Poor Picasso,” Po said. “He adored Laurel. How difficult this must be for him.”

  “We saw him last night at the restaurant,” Selma said. “Susan and I stopped by after closing up the shop. We had had a busy night and thought a slight nip would help us sleep.”

  “Was Laurel there?” Kate asked.

  “No,” Susan said. “And it was crowded, being Friday night, so we were a little surprised. But Picasso said he had insisted she take the night off because she’d been working too hard.”

  “Does anyone know how they found her?” Maggie asked. “The news report I heard on the way over was a little sketchy.”

  Kate put her mug down. P.J.’s account was more complete than the news, although she knew that he only told her what would eventually be common knowledge, not the whole story. “P.J. said a couple of college kids found her. They were camping near that old quarry where the river starts to bend. P.J. said a large mound of boulders in the river’s bend stopped her body from heading toward the Gulf of Mexico. At first they thought she drowned—but there was evidence of a blow to her head, and now they think that was what killed her. They don’t know where she entered the river, but they know where she ended up.”

  “Oh, gross. I need coffee.” Phoebe walked over to the sideboard and brought the glass pot back to fill everyone’s mugs. Her size-two jeans hugged her body and a bright green t-shirt, stretched across her chest, proclaimed “I love my twins.” A platinum mop of hair, no longer than a finger, framed her pixie face, which today lacked its usual wide grin.

  At this time on a normal Saturday morning, the table was filled with a dozen pieces of fabric, the sewing machine was whirring at the side, and laughter and talk filled the sky-lit room. Today the mood was somber and disbelieving.

  “I liked Laurel,” Leah said. She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her long jeans skirt and absently cleaned her round rimless glasses. Shoulder-length brown hair framed Leah’s high cheekbones and, without her glasses, her brown eyes were even larger than usual. Today they were filled with sadness. “She took a women’s history class from me last semester. There was something mysterious about her, and I guess because we both came here from the east coast, we had an odd bond, and she would sometimes talk to me after class. Asked me what I knew about Crestwood. What it was like to live here.”

  “She didn’t really talk much to me,” Kate said.

  “But she watched you,” Maggie said. “I’d catch her staring at you in the French Quarter sometimes.”

  Kate looked over at Maggie. “That’s strange, Mags. I felt that sometimes, too—I was just telling Po about it yesterday.”

  “Oh, pooh, Kate,” Selma said. “You’re a good-looking gal. Everybody looks at you.” She took a sip of her coffee, then set the mug down and continued, “But, now that you mention it, Laurel did seem to people watch more than usual, I’ll grant you that. She kept a keen eye on everyone coming in and out of the French Quarter.”

  “She was a help to Picasso in the restaurant, that’s for sure,” Po said. “I wonder how he’s coping? We need to do something. I think his only family is in France.”

  “What about Laurel’s family?” Kate asked. “I wonder if they’ve been told.”

  “Laurel never mentioned family,” Susan said. “But I think she grew up near New York.”

  “I drove by Picasso’s house on the way over here,” Phoebe said. She settled down next to Kate. “There were police cars in the driveway.”

  “Maybe in the next couple days we could each take some food by to help with visitors,” Po said.

  “Cooking for Picasso is a little like singing for Pavarotti,” Eleanor said. “But I shall certainly take over a fine bottle of French wine. He’ll like that.”

  “And for today, maybe good therapy for all of us would be to work on Picasso’s quilt,” Selma said. “There’s not much else we can do right now.”

  The group nodded, and as if some unseen stage director had given a cue, soft cloth bags appeared from beneath the table, the sewing machine was brought to life, and Leah filled the table with brightly colored swatches of fabric.

  “Here’s what we’re doing,” she said. “Susan and I have worked it all out. This is not going to be one of our de
mocratic, do-whatever-moves-your-spirit kind of projects.” As the most gifted and artistic members of the group, Susan and Leah often led the way, and the rest of the group usually responded well, with only an occasional complaint.

  “I’ve expressed my views on this,” Maggie started in.

  “Yes, you have. And we don’t need to hear them again,” Leah said.

  “You’ll be doing sashes and borders, Maggie, or one of the blocks. Not a bit of appliqué,” Susan assured her.

  “Ah, there is a God,” Maggie said.

  “Just when I finally get my lines straight, you do this to us,” Eleanor said, looking down at the intricate pattern. “I don’t think there’s a straight line in the whole quilt.”

  Susan had used graph paper and colored pencils to sketch the drawing for the quilt. In the center, on the bottom half of the quilt, was a large pot, composed of different shapes of black and gray and silver patterns, pieced together in six small blocks. Above the pot were four large appliquéd fish, their bodies an intricate blend of wavy lines, with small yellow and black circles for eyes. Striped fins were flattened against the scaled bodies, and even the simple sketch was beautiful and intricate enough to draw “ahs” and “oohs” from the quilters. Susan and Leah would each create a fish, and these would be appliquéd on the pieced background.

  “This is amazing,” Po said. “Picasso will be so pleased.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Kate said. “I don’t know if I can do this justice.”

  “You’re getting better, Kate,” Susan said. “Don’t underrate yourself. Your photos inspired those fish.”

  The mood lightened slightly as the group leaned over the table, studying Susan and Leah’s design. Graceful lines of steam curled up from the pot, and the pieced background, composed of blocks of deep gold, daffodil, yellow, and soft tan, held the design in place. Tiny flecks of green and gold, which would be appliquéd on in the final stages, represented the bits of herbs and spices that made Picasso’s bouillabaisse unique.

  “I can almost smell that amazing soup,” Phoebe said.

  “Bouillabaisse, Phoebe,” Kate said, “Bool-a-baise.” Her feigned French accent, imitating Picasso, made them all smile.

  “Picasso will be so pleased.” Po said softly.

  “But only if it becomes a reality,” Leah said, determined not to let the sadness of the day overwhelm them. “So to work ladies. We’ve already cut up the pieces and made you each your own block patterns. I know Eleanor will only do her piecing by hand but you can decide for yourself. To work!”

  CHAPTER 7

  For more years than they cared to remember, Po and Leah Sarandon had met for breakfast at Marla’s bakery on Sunday mornings, a habit born of their husbands’ love for early-morning golf. While the two men enjoyed fresh breezes walking the greens just east of town, their wives, the twelve years’ difference in their ages dissolving instantly in the heat of their shared passion for quilting and books and women’s history, shared food. As they savored moist, cheesy eggs with wild mushrooms, or whatever other marvelous concoction Marla had put together for that day, their friendship grew. When Sam Paltrow died, the routine went unbroken, filling an even greater need in Po’s life as the power of friendship helped her heal.

  And in addition to Maria’s culinary talents, she never failed to season Po and Leah’s breakfast with a generous dose of gossip. Today the large bakery proprietor was like a cat with a whole nest of mice at the ready.

  “Ladies,” she gushed in an excited stage whisper, “have I got news for you.”

  Leah smiled at the familiar greeting, and Po suggested that a cup of coffee would better prepare them for the words fighting to get out of Marla’s mouth.

  Marla filled their mugs, her black eyes darting around the small bakery cafe, taking stock of empty plates, filled tables, and her young waitresses, making sure no diner went wanting for service. The room was nearly filled, and soon there would be a line out the door, with waiting customers sitting on outdoor benches reading the Sunday paper or chatting with friends. “Awful news about Picasso’s wife,” she began. “Just awful.” Marla set the coffee pot down on the table and wiped her plump hands on her apron. “I know a young girl like that dying is horrible and all, but you know, he may be better off without her.”

  “Marla! What an awful thing to say,” Po said. “Picasso was crazy about Laurel.”

  “Doesn’t mean she was good for him, Po. She could be nasty as all get out if she didn’t like you. Ask Max Elliott— she couldn’t stand that sweet man — I saw with my own eyes how she’d be rude to him. But that’s not the worst of it.

  Rumor has it that Mrs. St. Pierre had gentlemen friends who were most definitely not of the French persuasion.” Marla leaned over the table and looked back and forth between the two women. “Daisy Sample saw that woman talking to a man in the alley, very cozy like, not two weeks ago. It wasn’t Picasso or Jesse or anyone we know. And believe you me, they weren’t talking about the weather.”

  “Daisy should keep her gossip to herself,” Po said. “What in heaven’s name does talking to a man in an alley mean anyway? I wouldn’t call that incriminating. I’ve talked to men in that alley myself, Marla, and you never had me romantically linked.” Po’s words were far more forceful than she felt. Kate’s recent encounter over at the River Park had run through her dreams all night long. “We need to support Picasso,” she said aloud, “and we need to help him through the funeral, not make burying his wife more difficult for him than it already is.”

  “Won’t be a funeral,” Marla said smugly.

  Po and Leah looked up at her. Po’s brows lifted. “You know that?”

  “Heard it from Shelby Harrison. He comes in for a sack of cinnamon rolls every single Sunday morning before going over to his funeral home. Bill McKay and Max Elliott were in here talking business things. They do a lot of that lately. Anyhow, it seems Max handles Picasso’s legal things just like he does everyone else’s, and he was making sure Picasso’s wishes were followed. So Shelby told him that when the police released the body, he was going to quietly take care of things for Picasso at his funeral home. Quick cremation. No funeral. Exactly like Picasso wanted.”

  “Well, that’s how it will be then. Whatever is best for Picasso,” Po said. But the news didn’t settle easily in her mind, and she didn’t know why. Cremation wasn’t an uncomfortable thought to her, but eliminating any kind of funeral was a surprise. What about their family and friends? How would he find closure that way? She hoped for Picasso’s sake it was the right decision.

  “Well, ladies,” Marla said, straightening up and scanning the small room for customers needing coffee or checks, “I say stay tuned. There’s more to this story than meets the eye. Trust my words.” She spotted the Reverend Gottrey on the other side of the restaurant with his finger in the air, wanting attention, and scurried off, her wide backside miraculously weaving in and out among the tables without incident.

  A young waitress appeared almost instantly. “Marla says you need comfort food,” she said, and set down two plates heaped with blueberry pancakes and small jugs of Vermont maple syrup off to the side.

  Leah smiled. “Marla is absolutely right.” She stuck her napkin into the top of her blouse and slathered the top pancake with butter, then poured a thick stream of maple syrup across the top.

  “It’s far too early for Michigan blueberries,” Po observed, reaching for the butter.

  “She goes up every July, picks ‘em fresh, then freezes ‘em,” the waitress explained, then disappeared.

  Delighted, Kate and Po dug in, concentrating on the plump juicy blueberries that filled the pancakes. But the thoughts connecting the two friends across the blue-checkered tablecloth were not entirely of food or Michigan blueberries, but of a friend alone with his grief. And a beautiful young woman robbed of life far too early.

  ***

  Later that day, after Leah and Po had parted to go about their Sunday routines, Po sat at her kitchen ta
ble, staring at the scraps of material that would magically come together to resemble a cooking pot.

  The kitchen and family room in Po’s large, airy house was the hub of her life—and most of her friends’ lives as well—and though she had a sewing machine in her den, this was the area in which most things got worked out, whether it be problems, bills, or quilts. A large stone fireplace anchored one end of the room and was softened with overstuffed chairs and couches, begging for bodies to curl up and stay awhile. Hoover, Po’s ten-year-old Golden retriever, was doing exactly that, looking up now and then to let Po know that he was there if she needed him.

  But this afternoon what she needed was to get some things done. The Queen Bees had all taken pieces of Picasso’s quilt home to work on. And among the twenty things on her to-do list, that seemed to be the most appropriate task for the day, since thoughts of Picasso were not far beneath the surface anyway.

  Leah and Susan had outdone themselves on selecting the fabric, Po thought as she fingered the pieces of cotton. Susan had explained that they wanted the quilt to fit into the casual bistro look of Picasso’s restaurant, but they also wanted it to add color to the rough pale wall on which it would hang. They knew from the start that a quilt in a restaurant would get abuse from odors and light and the air, but Picasso wanted it there nevertheless, and said he was going to have an acrylic frame built to protect it.

  Po looked at the slender piece of cotton in her hand. The pattern was slight, a wavy line that added more texture than pattern to the piece. She was working on the pot at the bottom. Six pieced blocks would form the round image, its sides glistening with sweat from the broth inside. Leah and Susan were geniuses in picking fabrics that created texture and feeling—even emotion—and the nubby blacks and grays and shiny silver patterns added interest, depth, and dimension to her pot. Amazing, she thought. Amazing women.