A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  As Po headed back past the house, she noticed Albert flying around the side of the house, chasing a yellow ball. As she slowed the car, a figure emerged from beyond the trees, calling to the dog. But it wasn’t Jason Sands. It was a young woman, dressed in jeans and a large sweatshirt.

  Not wanting to be noticed, Po picked up speed and continued down the street, glancing in her rearview mirror as she neared the highway. The woman was leaning over, tugging the ball from the dog’s mouth. As she straightened up and her sweatshirt flattened out against her body, Po noticed something else—Albert Einstein’s playmate appeared to be at least six months pregnant.

  ***

  “Po, you shouldn’t be getting involved in this. You and Kate are messing with serious stuff here,” said P.J. He and Po sat on her back porch, drinking ice tea, a ritual Po and Kate’s mother Liz had begun many years before when their kids were young and their days overflowed with kids’ activities with little time left for themselves.

  “P.J., I’m not messing with anything. I am reporting this to you as any good citizen would.”

  “And your goddaughter reported it, too, bursting in on a meeting I had last night. She had that blurry picture clutched in her hand as if the murderer was now signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  “It wasn’t blurry. You could see the man’s face when she enlarged it. It was Jason Sands, P.J.”

  “Okay, maybe it was. I was having a drink with Bill McKay and Max when Kate tracked me down. We all looked at the photo when Kate thrust it in our faces. Kate has decided to get the whole town involved in protecting her buddy.”

  “Bill McKay and Max Elliott aren’t the whole town, P.J. But they both do know a lot of people—Billy with his campaigning and Max knows everyone. Did they know him?”

  “Don’t think so. I thought at first Billy did, but when he looked closer, he said the picture was too fuzzy.” P.J. laughed. “Kate was very offended at that. I thought she was going to whack Billy with her backpack. She’s a wild woman, Po, when she sinks her teeth into something. Billy did pick up on Kate’s idea that Laurel was having an affair, though. Thought that was a distinct possibility.”

  “Why? Did he know Laurel?”

  “Nope. But when you’re in politics, I guess you get to know human nature, what makes people do what.”

  “What did Max think?”

  “Max didn’t offer any opinion. He clams up when the murder topic comes up. If I didn’t trust the guy with my life, I’d think he knew more than he was saying.” P.J. took a sip of his martini.

  Po refrained from agreeing with him aloud, and instead, sipped her martini and watched the expression on P.J.’s face when he talked about Kate. She knew, too, that Kate could be exasperating—and she reacted to it exactly like P.J. did—with great affection.

  “So what now?” Po asked.

  “Well, believe it or not, Po, the guys working this case aren’t out to get Picasso without doing their homework. They already knew about the affair, you’ll be happy to know, though they didn’t know it was with Sands. You can be sure they’ll look into it and bring the guy in for questioning.”

  “So they’ll let up on Picasso?”

  P.J. paused for a moment and took a sip of his martini, then shook his head. “No, Po, they won’t let up on Picasso. He doesn’t have an alibi and there was documented evidence of problems in the marriage. They can’t dismiss that until something else shows up.”

  “But, P.J., you know and I know that he is innocent.”

  P.J. didn’t answer. He lifted his martini glass and drained the last drops of cocktail, then stared out into the evening darkness that was falling heavily onto Po’s wooded yard. The trees were ghostly shapes, the brick pathways lost in shadow. The only movement was the slow gait of Hoover as he padded around the yard, patrolling his empire.

  Po didn’t look at P.J., but she felt a sadness spread across the porch. She sensed P.J.’s uncertainty, and she read in his silence what she already knew—that finding out more about Laurel and Picasso St. Pierre may not be all that it was cracked up to be. The answers they sought might be far from the ones they wanted to find.

  CHAPTER 15

  When the Queen Bees arrived at Selma’s Saturday morning to work on Picasso’s quilt, the air was filled with more than flying fingers and the whirr of the sewing machine. Picasso St. Pierre was on everyone’s mind.

  “Okay, what can we do, ladies?” Phoebe asked. Her short golden mop was growing out slightly, and she looked more angelic, Eleanor told her, less of an imp. “But that only means you can’t judge a book by its cover,” Eleanor had added with a wink. As the oldest and the youngest members of the quilting group, Phoebe and Eleanor had forged an unusual bond, and their affection for one another was mirrored in gentle teasing.

  “Here’s what I say we do, Phoebe,” Eleanor answered her now. “We rally together, put our noses to the ground like bloodhounds, and don’t let one single rumor fly by us without tracking down its source. These tales are revolting, if I do say so myself. And the fact that Picasso is defending himself about as vigorously as a newborn is, quite frankly, damn stupid.”

  “At least newborns shriek,” Phoebe said, with the conviction of one-who-knows.

  “Picasso came to a meeting of the shop owners last night,” Selma said. “And that was a good thing, I think. He needs to be around people, needs people to see that he’s still the same Picasso, one who couldn’t harm a flea.” She glanced at the large round clock on the wall, then rose and walked toward the archway that separated the back workroom of her shop from the front of the store. “Back in a minute so don’t say anything of interest ‘til I come back. I promised Janna Hathaway I’d show her some designer fabrics for that new home she and Bill McKay are building.”

  “We’ll fill you in,” Po said. “And if Janna wants to see a quilt in progress, invite her back for coffee. I don’t think she knows many people in town yet.”

  As Selma disappeared into the front of the store, Eleanor pulled the conversation back to her concern about the restaurateur. “I could shake Picasso. He is so self-absorbed and determined to enshrine Laurel as a saint that he doesn’t give a hoot what’s happening around him.”

  “It’s only been a week,” Po said, pulling out several thin strands of gold fabric that she had cut out to represent the bouillabaisse’s saffron flavoring. Although she agreed entirely with everything Eleanor said, she knew first-hand the erratic pattern of grieving, and Picasso hadn’t even had a chance to start yet. She wondered if she would have had the strength—or even the desire—to protect herself if any ill talk had surrounded Sam’s death several years ago.

  “Po’s right,” Kate said. “We need to fill in and do what Picasso can’t do. And right now that means defending him. I don’t think the police are convinced at all that he’s innocent of Laurel’s death.”

  “That’s because they don’t have anyone else to blame, no other clues except for the wine guy,” Maggie said. She was sitting at the end of the table, her fabric for the background blocks laid out in front of her. “And speaking of the wine guy, there’s a suspect if ever I saw one. Don’t you think so, Po?”

  “I certainly think he deserves some attention.” She looked up from her sewing. “After we talked, Maggie, I drove by his house. I was probably being snoopy, but it was right on the way to Susan’s and somehow the car just turned that way.” She told the group about seeing the familiar black Lab—and then the pregnant woman who appeared in the yard.

  “This fellow lives near me?” Susan asked.

  “On the other side of the woods,” Po said. “A world away from your lovely home.”

  “So he has a pregnant wife,” Phoebe said. “And he was having an affair with Laurel, who was probably putting the screws to him. If that’s not motive, tell me what is?” Phoebe shoved back her chair and walked over to the long table running under the back windows. Today it held the coffee pot and a crumb cake from Marla’s bakery. The cake was still warm and ti
ny flakes fell from her fingers as she lifted it to her mouth.

  “P.J. said they were going to question him,” Po said.

  “I asked P.J. last night what the guy had to say for himself, and he said they haven’t been able to find him,” Kate said. “The police don’t seem too concerned. Picasso is still their main suspect.”

  “Oh, that’s great. I think sometimes the police can’t see the forest for the trees. No offense, Kate,” Maggie said.

  “No offense taken. You can lump P.J. right in the middle of that description. Why is it that men can’t acknowledge the power of emotion and intuition? We all know Picasso is innocent. Facts … that’s all they think about.”

  “So we’ll give them facts,” Leah said. She picked up a subtly patterned piece of fabric and held it up to the light. It was coral-colored, and would be blended with other warm colors—all the way to a velvety chocolate-brown—and used to form small pockets for the scales of her brilliant fish. “And I think the place we should start is with Laurel herself, not with Picasso.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Po said. “Laurel is a mystery, and I don’t think we’ll be able to budge on this until we figure out exactly who this woman was.”

  “That’s easy to say,” said Phoebe. “But she only lived here a year. She kept to herself. How do we even begin?”

  “Esther’s quilt,” Po, Leah, and Kate said in unison. The collision of their voices startled the others, and Po began to laugh. “I guess at least half of us agree on that point,” she said.

  Phoebe looked down at the pieces of fabric spread across the table. Picasso’s quilt was actually taking shape. Susan had finished pinning the four magnificent fish onto Eleanor’s background blocks to get a look at the blend of color and shape, and she moved Po’s blocks beneath it.

  “Okay, I give,” she said. “How in blazes is this quilt going to tell us a thing about Laurel St. Pierre? And who’s Esther?”

  “No, not that quilt, Phoebs, this one.” Kate pulled the pictures of Esther Wood’s quilt out of her backpack and lined them up on the table.

  Selma walked back in with Janna in tow and spotted the photographs. “Esther’s quilt,” she said, walking over to the table and nearly forgetting her quest.

  “Hi Janna,” Kate said. “I think you know everyone. Have a seat.” She patted the empty chair next to her. “We really do work on quilts back here, but at this moment we’re trying to figure out a puzzling thing—a quilt that was made here in Crestwood years ago, then ended up back here under mysterious circumstances.”

  As Po walked over to the coffee pot, she watched Janna try to make sense of Kate’s explanation. She was glad Selma brought Janna back to the workroom. The Queen Bees could certainly introduce her around and make her feel more at home in the town that would soon be her home. Po handed Janna a mug of coffee and a small plate of crumb cake. “Selma, tell the others what you know about the quilt,” Po urged. “It’s certainly an odd coincidence, finding it on Laurel’s wall.”

  When Selma finished her story, Phoebe planted her small fists into her hips and said, “Well that’s that, then. We start right here to find out about Laurel St. Pierre.” She thrust her finger down on one of the photos.

  “With a woman who’s been dead for fifteen years?” Susan asked.

  “Yes,” Po answered for Phoebe. “That’s exactly where we start. It’s the only thing we know about Laurel, other than she lived on the east coast and was poor and drab when she met Picasso. So let’s start with the quilt and try to figure out how Laurel got it. Picasso’s not much help. All we know from him is that the quilt was her most prized possession. She treated it like a child, taking it down from the wall, dusting it, repairing little loose ends.”

  “Maybe she just liked quilts and bought it somewhere?” Janna offered. Phoebe stopped talking, startled at the first words to come from their quiet guest’s mouth. They had almost forgotten she was there.

  “But how did she get it?” Kate asked. “That’s the real mystery here. How did Esther’s quilt get to the east coast?”

  “Maybe Laurel got it around here, at some auction or flea market. I’ve found some of my favorite fat lady art that way,” Maggie said. Maggie’s collection of fat lady art had grown over the past couple of years, and included more than twenty pieces. The Bees all added to it whenever they came across statues or postcards or paintings, and the beauty of the Rubenesque figures enchanted them all.

  “Or E-bay. There are hundreds of quilts on E-bay,” Eleanor said. “My cousin Madeline is addicted. Buys one a week.”

  “But Picasso says the quilt’s been with her since he’s known her,” Kate said. “That may pre-date E-bay’s popularity.”

  “I knew so little about Esther Woods,” Selma said, “other than her quilting talent. And that she was married to the poorest excuse for a man that I’ve ever seen.”

  While the gathering around the table continued to pick away at the mystery of Esther’s quilt, Susan and Leah carefully pinned some partially sewn sections of appliqué to a corkboard on the wall.

  Po watched them out of the corner of her eye while keeping one ear to the conversation swirling around the table. “It’s going to be beautiful!” she said, breaking away from the conversation. “Picasso will be so pleased.”

  Susan and Leah stepped back and looked at their handiwork. They had sewn the body of the two fish above Po’s blocks, which were taking shape in a design of subtly patterned fabric triangles in all different shades of black and silver and deep, shiny gray. The blend of colors and placement of the triangles made the pot appear round on the edges, a perfect boiling cauldron for the colorful fish.

  “The colors will go well with the rustic look of the bistro,” Eleanor said. “It’s quite perfect.”

  “How nice of all of you to do this for him,” Janna said.

  “He’s a friend,” Po answered simply. Janna seemed surprised at the friendship bonds, and Po was determined to see that she felt the strength of those bonds, too.

  “I’ve an idea I want to run by all of you,” Selma said, standing beside the quilt pieces pinned to the wall. “Next Friday I’m having a display of appliqué quilts for the first Friday event, and I thought I might use Picasso’s quilt to show a work in progress.”

  “Great idea!” Phoebe said, helping herself to the last piece of crumb cake. The others echoed her support, and Susan offered to figure out how to display it.

  During the school year, weekends brought many visitors to Crestwood for Canterbury College events, and the Elderberry shop owners had taken to scheduling special events each first Friday of the month. The stores offered special sales, displays, and sometimes lectures or demonstrations.

  Selma’s quilt displays were a big draw and brought many parents and alumni to the Elderberry shops. In nice weather, especially, the crowds were considerable and flowed onto the small patio areas beside the Brew and Brie and along the street.

  “This is good timing,” Po said. “First Fridays are festive, and Elderberry Road could use a little festivity right now.”

  “Agreed,” Maggie said, settling down next to the sewing machine at the end of the table. “And I for one, will have—”

  A rattle at the back door stopped Maggie’s words mid-sentence, and before anyone could get up to open it, Picasso burst into the room. The first thing Po noticed was that he was dressed much better today, his jeans freshly laundered and his apron clean. But the look on his face was anything but ordinary.

  “Picasso,” she said, “what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No, not a ghost, Po.”

  Kate moved quickly to his side, afraid he was going to topple over in front of them. She reached out and took his arm, steadying him. “Picasso, what is it?” She looked into his troubled eyes and detected a trace of fear.

  “The police—they found Jason Sands.”

  “That’s good, Picasso. Good news,” Po said. “Maybe Mr. Sands can shed some light
on all this.”

  Picasso shook his head. “No, Po. They found him in a quarry. Shot. Jason Sands is dead.”

  CHAPTER 16

  News of Jason Sands’ death spread through the small town like a Prairie dust storm. Although not many people knew the traveling wine distributor, his link to Laurel St. Pierre was delicious fodder for the Crestwood gossip mill. Kate walked into Gus’s bookstore later that day and knew without asking that the small group gathered around the check-out counter was dissecting the latest event.

  “H’lo Kate.” Gus Schuette stepped away from the cluster of customers and greeted her. “What can I do you for?”

  “Some good news, Gus. That’s what I’m looking for. Good news and something to make me laugh.”

  “Ah, Katie, girl, it’ll work out. Don’t fret.” Gus Schuette had watched Kate Simpson grow from a mischievous rug rat curled up on his floor reading kids’ books to the tall beauty with the high cheekbones standing in front of him. The one thing about Kate that hadn’t changed a bit was her irreverent laughter and her broad smile. Today both were noticeably absent. “Looking for that long stalk of wheat?”