Kate nodded. “He was supposed to meet me here. He’s late.”
“Nope. Beat you to it. He’s back in the history and mystery section, wouldn’t you know?”
Gus’s bookstore was one of Kate’s favorite hangouts in all of Crestwood. The maze of rooms, jam-packed with old and new books, the soft strains of Vivaldi in the background, and the smell of thick, dark coffee from the old percolator in the corner brought comfort to her soul. She smiled at Gus, gave him a quick tap on the shoulder, and walked toward the long wide room in the back of the store.
Kate scanned the room. Late-afternoon sunshine poured down on the old, pock-marked library table that centered the room. Reading chairs were tucked into corners between the tall bookshelves. An old man Kate recognized from her neighborhood snoozed in a corner chair, a cup of coffee on the floor at his side and a tattered Ed Bain mystery moving up and down on his chest as he slept.
Kate walked along the parallel stacks, looking down each row. At the end of the last aisle she spotted P.J., squatting on the floor with a stack of books in front of him. “Hi good lookin’,” she said, walking toward him.
P.J. uncurled his long frame and stood up. “Not mad at me anymore?” He smiled slightly.
“Not this instant. Give it awhile.”
P.J. put his books back on the shelf and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, guiding her back toward the table. “How did the ladies take the latest bombshell?”
“Not happily. We thought Sands was a likely suspect and would take some of the pressure off Picasso. Sands had motive, especially after Po spotted the pregnant wife outside his house.”
“Not a wife, apparently. Just another girlfriend. The guy was a regular lothario.”
“His only redeeming quality so far is Albert Einstein.”
P.J. nodded. “That’s about right. But it sure doesn’t help Picasso.”
“Po took him home. He was pretty shaken.”
“It doesn’t look good for him, Kate. Sands was meeting someone, apparently, when he was shot. Picasso’s number was recorded on his cell phone.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, P.J. Picasso did business with the guy. He could have called him about wine or something.”
“Or something,” P.J. repeated. “The girlfriend said Sands was real happy the past few days. Told her they might even get married and move to a bigger house somewhere. He was ‘in the money’ he told her.”
“But why would Picasso give money to a man he hated?”
“Maybe he knew something about Picasso. Maybe Laurel told him things.”
“Or maybe she told him things about someone else, P.J.” Kate pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and started walking toward the front of the store. “Laurel certainly holds all the answers right now. Whoever she is.”
“What does that mean?” P.J. walked quickly to catch up with her, watching her pluck three paperback mysteries off the shelves as she went.
“I think there’s plenty about her we don’t know, P.J.,” Kate said over her shoulder. “She’s been here a whole year and no one knows her. Even Janna Hathaway is making friends here—she’s only been around a short while and she’s as shy as a teenager on her first date. People don’t let people remain strangers in Crestwood. But Laurel did. Why?”
“She had Picasso and the restaurant. She was certainly no stranger to Jason Sands. And that young waiter at the restaurant is clearly smitten with her. Just because she didn’t have women friends doesn’t mean she was alone.”
Kate looked at him. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But what do we know about her? About where she came from? Why did she and Picasso move here, of all places? Didn’t she have any friends anywhere who can tell us about her? Relatives? Isn’t it a bit odd that she seems to have dropped out of nowhere?”
P.J. watched the animation travel through Kate’s body, painting her high cheekbones the color of dewy roses, spreading out into her arms until they moved from the sides of her body and swept the air in large curves. Her head moved with her words, and her spirit lit a small fire right in the pit of his stomach. She wore a long-sleeved blue sweater and a pair of gray pants, and, to P.J., she was nearly queenly in the simple outfit. “Good questions, Kate,” he managed to say in carefully modulated tones. “And believe it or not, we’re asking some of those questions ourselves down at the station.”
“Well, I should hope so.” Kate dropped her books on the front counter and smiled at Gus. “Could you please put them on my tab, Gus?”
Gus grumbled a response, feigning displeasure, and pulled out a scrap of paper for her to sign. He didn’t do it for just anyone. But long-time customers could still count on Gus to send them a bill. Hell, if he couldn’t trust Kate Simpson, who could he trust?
“Don’t trust her, Gus. She owes me a fiver.”
“He’s a liar, Gus,” Kate said.
And then Gus was treated to the laugh he’d missed with all the dire goings-on. It was well worth the cost of three used Dorothy Sayers mysteries.
Kate gathered up her books and turned to P.J. “Now feed me,” she said, “or I’ll have to find someone who will.”
***
Even in Crestwood, restaurants on Saturday nights usually had a wait. P.J. and Kate picked Picasso’s, partly because it was close, but mostly because they knew that, though he had faithful clientele, the numbers had fallen off this week, and he would welcome the business.
Kate and P.J. walked across the small patio separating Gus’s store from Picasso’s and looked through the open door. Several tables were filled, but there wasn’t the usual pile-up at the door with folks sitting on the benches waiting for their name to be called.
“Come in,” said Picasso, when he spotted them at the door. He moved quickly toward them and spread his arms wide, embracing Kate and P.J. in one giant hug.
Kate pulled back and looked closely at him. His smile seemed forced. “Picasso, has anything happened?”
Picasso pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh, my sweet Kate. Everything will be fine.”
A vibration from his cell phone caused P.J. to excuse himself. He stepped aside to take the call.
“You’re sure you don’t want to tell me?” Kate asked.
Picasso certainly had reason to be upset, but Kate knew him well enough now to know Picasso had an unusual knack for pouring himself into the present. And tonight, he was somewhere else.
P.J. walked back over and looked at Picasso. “Were you going to tell us, Picasso?”
Kate’s heart skipped a beat. “Tell us what?”
“It is nothing. Someone—maybe a vagrant—came into my house this morning while I am here at the restaurant, and—”
“What?” Kate stepped closer and tried to keep her voice down.
P.J. put a hand on her arm. “According to the guys who checked on it—and Picasso concurs—nothing was taken. Not a thing. The lock was broken, that’s about it.” He looked over at Picasso. “Have you considered an alarm system?”
“Non! We never had such things in my village. How would friends get in if you were not at home?”
“Or enemies,” P.J. muttered.
“It is all right. Nothing is gone. Nothing. We forget it now. You are here, and friendly faces are tonic for my soul.”
Picasso ushered them inside and brushed away any more mention of the break-in, forbidding them to discuss it.
“And see who else comes to my bistro for the very first time? Our future mayor.” Picasso linked his arm in Kate’s and let them over to a table by the bar where Bill McKay and Janna Hathaway sat with a bubbling hot plate of escargots between them.
“Hey, Kate and P.J,” Bill said, standing and greeting them. “How about joining us?”
“Ah, of course,” Picasso said. “Four lovely young people, enjoying my magnificent food. Sit, sit.” He pulled out a chair for Kate. “I finally got this young man to come into my restaurant.”
“You’re sure we’re not interrupting an intimate dinner for two?” Kate
asked.
“We love the company,” Janna said politely. “Would you like some wine?”
Andy Haynes appeared as if by magic and set two more places. Kate noticed the sadness on his face and realized how he must be missing Laurel, too. Picasso wasn’t the only one whose life she had touched—for good or for bad. After a brief consultation with Picasso, the diners all followed his recommendation and ordered the paper-wrapped Chilean sea bass, “light, subtle, and flavorful,” he said with great conviction, “with a perfectly seasoned medley of fresh vegetables.”
“So, Kate,” Bill said when wine was poured, a warm baquette brought to the table, and another platter of escargots passed around. “Looks like your fuzzy picture nailed the right guy.”
“Fuzzy my foot,” Kate said, pretending to be insulted.
“I concede,” Bill said, tipping his head slightly.
“So how are things with the case, P.J.?” Bill asked.
“Oh, so-so,” P.J. said.
“Right,” Kate broke in, “Two unsolved murders, frightened townsfolk, innocent suspects—just your usual day at the office.” She didn’t mention the break-in, honoring Picasso’s request. And perhaps he was right, it could have been a homeless person looking for some food. Picasso’s home would certainly be a good choice.
“Don’t mind Kate,” P.J. said. “She likes things done yesterday.”
“Do you have any leads?” Janna asked.
“We’re gathering information. Things are moving along.”
“I heard the wine distributor had lots of folks who might like to see him gone,” Bill offered. “A girl-in-every-port kind of guy.”
“I think the person we need to concentrate on is Laurel and who she was,” Kate said. She kept her voice low and looked over now and then to be sure they wouldn’t upset Picasso with their talk.
“What do you mean?” P.J. asked.
“No one seems to know anything about her, where she came from. Yet she had a quilt in her home that was made by someone right here in Crestwood.”
“Is that important?” Bill said. “Why couldn’t she have a quilt made by someone in Crestwood?”
“Well, she could. She did,” Kate said, impatient with his misunderstanding. “Laurel had a beautiful quilt that she cherished. She had it for years, long before she and Picasso moved here from the east coast—and it was made by a woman here in town.”
“Who?” Bill asked.
“Esther Woods,” Kate said. “Did you know the Woods? Your parents lived here forever,” Kate asked.
Bill took a drink of wine and considered the name, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s a common name, though. But about the quilt, aren’t they like other art pieces? They could certainly be purchased and moved around the country.”
“Bill’s right,” Janna said. “My mother’s decorator attends auctions all over the country.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened,” Kate said. She paused to mop up the buttery escargot sauce with a piece of bread. “There’s a connection here between that quilt, and Laurel, and, well, and something we haven’t figured out yet.” She looked longingly at her butter-sopped fingers, wondering if Janna’s fine breeding would think it awful if she licked them.
“And maybe Kate will actually let the police find out what the connection is, if there’s a connection.” P.J. took a drink of his wine, watching Kate over the top of the glass.
Kate ignored him and turned toward Janna. “I don’t know if you detected our sleuthing skills this morning, Janna, but the Queen Bees are pretty good at it.”
“Kate,” P.J. warned.
Kate held up her hands. “P.J., I know this is your job, not mine. And I know you’re better at it. But I also know that the longer this drags out, the more frightened people become.”
“And you also know it’s dangerous as hell to be stalking a murderer,” P.J. said, putting down his napkin.
Kate noticed the sharp tone to P.J.’s voice and realized that in her fervor she had pushed him an inch too far. She smiled sweetly into his frown, touched his shoulder affectionately, and said, “‘Nuf said, Flanigan. Consider me put in my place.”
“That’ll be the day,” P.J. said.
“How about some happy talk, like football?” Bill said, trying to salvage the peace.
“Football?” Kate grimaced.
“Gus Schuette showed me some old clippings today,” Janna explained. “And there was one of P.J.”
“P.J.?” Kate said.
“My senior year,” Bill said. “He saved the homecoming game with Lawrence. Intercepted a pass and carried it all the way down the field for a TD.”
P.J. laughed. “My moment of glory,” he said.
“I remember!” Kate said. “You were a hero.”
“Gus also told me Bill was captain,” Janna said proudly.
“Oh, he probably was,” Kate said, laughing. “And probably threw a zillion passes that day.”
“But credit where it’s due,” Bill said. “That was definitely P.J.’s game.”
P.J. was actually blushing, Kate thought. And how nice of Bill to bring up P.J.’s great game. Bill was usually the quarterback hero, she remembered, and it was nice of him to pass the glory around. She grinned at P.J. and rose to go to the ladies’ room, smiling a thank-you to Bill for salvaging P.J.’s mood and getting her out of a mess of trouble.
P.J. grabbed her fingers and whispered, “come back soon.” His tone was softer and Kate felt his smile on her back as she walked away from the table.
Kate walked down the narrow hallway to the restrooms and noticed Andy Haynes standing by the kitchen door. “Hi, Andy,” she said. “How’re you doing?”
“Not great, Kate.”
“You miss Laurel.”
“Yeah. Hey, I know she was playing with me, but there was something about her, something that just got to me, you know?”
“I think I do, Andy. I had that feeling about my high school math teacher. Then he gave me a C and it was all over.”
Andy managed a small smile.
“Did you and Laurel talk a lot?” Kate leaned up against the wall next to Andy.
“Yeah, we did. She really listened to me. And she told me things that bothered her, too.”
“Like what?”
“Like this town. She didn’t like it here much. She was going to leave.”
“Why?” Kate felt a twinge of guilt for pummeling Andy for information, especially after the uncomfortable moment with P.J., but talking to someone she used to baby-sit for surely couldn’t be dangerous.
“I dunno. She said the town was evil or something. Said bad things happened here. And as soon as she was done, she was leaving.”
“Done with what?”
Andy shrugged. “Laurel didn’t always make sense. Like sometimes she talked about really nice people—like Mr. Elliott for instance—like they were bad or something.”
“She didn’t like Max Elliott?
“Hated him. She wanted me to be mean to him, too. She hated him. But I liked him enough, I guess.”
Kate frowned. What an odd person to hate. Everyone liked Max.
“And she had bad headaches, Kate. Real bad. Sometimes when we were in the kitchen, she’d ask me to rub her shoulders—it helped make her feel better.”
“You were good to her, Andy.”
“But it wasn’t me she was leaving with. I would have though. I’d have taken her anywhere.”
“But she had Picasso.”
Andy shook his head. “No, that Sands guy. I told her he was no good. I’d see ‘em in the kitchen together, laughing. He’d touch her, you know. She thought he would take her away. He was a bad guy, Kate.”
Andy’s young face turned hard as stone and Kate reached out and touched his arm.
“But he didn’t deserve to die, Andy.”
Andy pulled away from her touch. “He was bad, Kate.” Kate watched the emotion sweep across his face. It was a very adult distress for such a young guy
. Poor kid, she thought. He had fallen hard. And it would be a long while before Laurel St. Pierre released her hold on him, even in death.
When Kate returned to the table, the restaurant was emptying out, and Picasso had pulled up a chair to their table and was talking intently to Bill, Janna, and P.J., his elbows pressed against the white tablecloth.
“She loved it like a child,” Kate heard him say, and she realized with a start he was talking about the quilt again, sharing it so intimately with almost strangers. He must have such a need to talk, she thought, and slipped quietly into her chair.
Bill was listening carefully to Picasso, his handsome face filled with compassion. “Blankets seem to hold an important place in people’s lives,” he offered quietly.
“Oh, mon ami, it was so much more. Laurel soothed it, rubbed it, pulled its little seams apart, slipped her lovely hands inside the quilt’s folds, then patted it so gently and sewed the seams back together again, like a mother bandaging her little one. I think it held the secrets to her life, that quilt.”
Kate watched the exchange and thought again what a good listener Bill was. Janna had shifted slightly in her chair and seemed to be more interested in watching the bus boys’ antics near the kitchen door, and P.J., while half-listening, was miles away, probably planning new ways to approach the mystery of Laurel St. Pierre.
And off in the corner she spotted Andy Haynes, his face masked in a terrible mixture of anger and grief. Kate felt tiny goosebumps lift on her arms. She stared at Andy’s eyes, and in that horrifying moment, she realized that the love Andy harbored for Laurel St. Pierre was beyond reason, beyond the norms of behavior. And for a brief moment, she wondered what such a love could cause a young man to do.
CHAPTER 17
Sometimes information came from odd places and arrived when you were least expecting it, Kate discovered. It was a chance encounter with her elderly neighbor two days later that sent her rushing off to Po’s early Monday morning.
Danny Halloran and his wife Ella had lived next door to the Simpson’s since long before Kate was born. They had been old since Kate could remember, but nothing about them ever seemed to change much, not the shuffle of old Danny’s walk, not the pudgy, ornery face of Ella, with her thin gray hair pulled back into a knot at the base of her wide neck. They’d lived in their house, Danny used to tell her, when all the land around was prairie, and you could see nearly all the way to Kansas City. Though Kate had learned early to only believe half of what Danny said, she loved his tales.
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