Max looked up from the papers. For a minute he didn’t say anything, and when he finally spoke, his voice was stern and hard. “Laurel was a bad person, Po.”
Po looked at the quiet, gentle man who was trusted with more family secrets than anyone in the town. As long as she’d known him, she’d never heard Max Elliott say a mean word about anyone.
“I know she disliked me. I’m not really sure why,” he continued. “I guess it could have been for a couple of reasons. She was rude and impolite, but I tried to ignore it for Picasso’s sake.”
“Why do you think she was bad for Picasso?”
“Laurel wanted to leave Crestwood,” Max said. “Picasso and I had a meeting one day, shortly before she died. He was very upset. Laurel had told him that in a few weeks, she’d be ready to move on. Just as he was experiencing real success here with his restaurant. Just as his reputation was being cemented. But that lady didn’t give a tinker’s dam. Just wanted to move on, she told him.”
“To where? Was Picasso going with her?” Po scribbled her name on several forms and pushed them across the table to Max.
Max swallowed a swig of Scotch and shook his head. “I don’t know where she wanted to go, and I don’t think Picasso was invited. But that didn’t matter—he would have followed that woman to the ends of the earth. And she’d have destroyed him piece by piece along the way. That much I know for sure.”
Po sat still for a minute, unnerved by the force of Max’s anger. Then she rose and refilled each of their drinks. “We’re done with the paperwork, Max,” she said, changing the subject. “A short while on my back porch will be good tonic for both of us.”
But as they sat in companionable silence, Max’s harsh words about Laurel St. Pierre settled uncomfortably inside her head. And running through her thoughts was something Max had told her several months before. His love for French food had pushed him to do something he’d never done before, he’d told her. He’d gone and invested a goodly amount of his retirement in Picasso’s French Quarter restaurant.
And one thing Po was quite sure of—a French restaurant without its French cook was not a recipe for success—or for a successful retirement.
CHAPTER 21
The French Quarter wasn’t open for lunch on Fridays, so Kate and Po settled for a piece of Maria’s spinach quiche. Kate had called Po early that morning and announced that if she was ever going to get a good night’s sleep again, they had to meet and figure this Picasso mess out. There were far too many things happening, and all the threads were left dangling, like a very poorly constructed quilt.
Marla was in the kitchen when they arrived, so they were able to find an empty table near the back and place their order without having to hear a rambling dissertation on the day’s gossip.
“I see what Leah meant about this weekend being crowded,” Kate said, looking around at the small, packed bakery. Many middle-aged couples, some joined by college students, filled the tables and booths, and Kate could see a line forming outside. “We got here just in time.”
“Alumni weekend is always packed. Sam and I used to love it. We’d see old friends, and meet parents of students we had gotten to know. Kids were excited about summer being just around the bend, and it was always a happy, upbeat few days.”
“Well, at least Selma should have a good crowd tonight. And Picasso, too. Good.”
A waitress appeared with two platters of quiche, Marla’s homemade sourdough rolls, warm with a crisp crust and plenty of creamy butter to slather on them. Without asking the two frequent customers, the young waitress poured them each a tall glass of ice tea with a slice of lemon and sprig of mint.
“I talked to P.J. last night,” Kate began. “He said the police are checking into everything, trying to tie Ann Woods to something here. But he said from what’s been gathered so far, Ann never returned to this town until she reappeared as Laurel St. Pierre. Her parents’ accident was just a couple of months after she left.”
“So there was no need to come back,” Po said. “Poor girl—what an awful thing.”
“Don’t get emotional, Po. We’ve a murder to figure out,” Kate scolded, and pulled out a notepad from her purse.
“And besides, from all accounts, Laurel St. Pierre was not a nice girl.”
Po nibbled on a roll, listening to Kate and thinking about a fifteen-year-old losing both parents, living with relatives wherever it was she went off to, and the agony of it all. Laurel may not have been nice, but she had also missed growing up in a nurturing family like her own kids, and Kate, too, had.
Kate tapped her pencil on the pad. “Okay, here’re some of the things we know—and you jump in, too, Po.”
“Writing things down is a good idea, Kate. Sometimes it’s easier to see what’s missing from the puzzle when you lay the pieces out in front of you.”
“Okay,” Kate said, “Here’s what we have: Two people dead.”
Po picked up the conversation while Kate wrote. “Jason Sands, Laurel’s lover. According to your recollection, Kate, and the conversation I overheard with him and Picasso, Jason had had an affair with Laurel, but he was ready to end it right before she died.”
“Why did he want to end it?”
“Maybe Jason was simply tired of her. I think Laurel was just one of many in Jason’s long history of affairs. He was probably ready to move on.”
“But Laurel wasn’t.”
“Or would have liked to have moved on with him,” Po said.
“When it was just Laurel dead, Jason seemed a likely suspect,” Kate said.
“I agree. But with him dead, too, the most likely suspect on first glance is Picasso.”
“But he’s innocent,” Kate said, and wrote INNOCENT on the piece of paper after Picasso’s name. “So who had a motive?”
“There’s Andy Haynes—” Po began.
“No, not Andy!” Kate said.
“Kate,” Po said calmly, “We need to put everyone down, even people we know in our hearts are not guilty. So whether you want to or not, Andy needs to be on the list. He was crazy about Laurel, he wanted to protect her. He probably hated Jason Sands and may have even seen first-hand their flirtations with one another and Jason Sands using her. And Laurel confided in Andy, flirted with him, and egged him on in his young ardor for her. That can make a young man crazy.”
Kate nodded and reluctantly wrote Andy’s name down.
“Max Elliott had invested in Picasso’s restaurant. He knew Laurel wanted to leave Crestwood, and if Picasso had gone with her, it would probably have ruined his retirement savings. So he had motive.”
“Max Elliot?”
“I like Max very much, but Laurel, for some reason, hated him. We can’t ignore that, no matter how little we thought of her. And then on top of that, there was the restaurant connection,” Po warned.
Kate bowed her head and dutifully wrote Max’s name below Andy’s.
Po took a bite of her quiche, then continued. “We should probably add the woman Jason Sands got pregnant—she had reason to kill both of them. In fact, P.J. told me that Sands had her down as his beneficiary, though he didn’t have much other than the house.”
Kate added her name the list.
A shadow fell across the table and Kate and Po looked up into Marla’s smiling face. “Greetings, ladies,” she said. “Quiche good?” She lifted her heavy brows above large brown eyes, waiting for an answer.
“Of course, Marla. It’s always amazing,” Po said. “Looks like you’ve quite a crowd today that agrees with me.”
“Those alumni folks have been packing in here since seven o’clock this morning, along with my regulars. It’s great. I had a reporter in here, too, asking lots of questions about Picasso and that wife of his.”
Po frowned. “What kind of questions?”
“Wanted to know if I knew Picasso well. If they argued much. And she asked about other people, too. Wanted to know who didn’t like Laurel—or whatever her name was. I laughed at that one. ‘Who did?�
� I asked her back.”
“I didn’t know you didn’t like Laurel, Marla.”
“She was a pain in the behind, if you know what I mean. Pretty bossy, that one. Always watching people, snooping around. Nope, I didn’t like her one bit. None of the shop owners did. Well, except Jesse, maybe.”
“Jesse?” Kate looked at her strangely. They all knew that Jesse and his business partner Ambrose Sweet, co-owners of Brew and Brie, were also partners in real life. So it clearly couldn’t be a romantic thing with Jesse and Laurel. Odd, Kate thought. But she had seen them together. At the time she thought it was nice that Laurel was getting to know the other shop owners.
“Laurel was always leaving the restaurant and hanging out with Jess,” Marla went on. “Believe me, Ambrose didn’t like it one bit. And she didn’t like Ambrose, either. Cut him down in front of Jesse more than once.”
“Did Picasso know that Laurel and Jesse were friends?” Po asked.
Marla shrugged. “Beats me, but he had to have been blind not to have seen those two with their heads together, sitting out on the bench laughing like they were high school kids. I’d have thought Jesse was smitten with her, if I hadn’t known better.”
A waitress summoned her with a wave, and Marla waddled off to deal with the most recent kitchen crisis.
“I like Jesse,” Po said. “Always have. He’s a sensitive young man, and my guess is he was a good ear for Laurel. Nothing more or less.”
“I agree. But would Ambrose know that? He’s a jealous fella, Po. I’ve seen the look on his face sometimes. He doesn’t like it when Jesse talks to me.”
“Well, I guess we can add Ambrose to the list. And Marla, too, though I’ve heard her talking that way about lots of people, and I haven’t seen her pushing any of them into the river.”
“Portia Paltrow, what a pleasant surprise.” The familiar voice came from behind Po’s left shoulder, and she turned around, looking up into the face of Meredith Mellon, an elegant woman about Po’s age.
Po and Kate both greeted the tall, attractive woman. Meredith Mellon was Phoebe’s mother-in-law, but any similarity between the two women ended right there. Meredith was magazine perfect—a blonde-streaked chignon fastened perfectly at her neck, her tan skin flawless. She was active in many community affairs, and was featured so often in the society pages of the local paper that Po often wondered what Meredith and Phoebe would possibly have to talk about at family dinners.
It took a second for Po to notice Janna Hathaway standing in Meredith’s shadow.
“Janna, hello. I didn’t see you standing there. Do you know Meredith?”
Meredith answered for her. “We’re planning the charity event for the new SafeHome,” she said proudly. “I’m chairing the event, and Bill and Janna are our honorary chairs. You’re both coming, of course,” she said, taking in both Kate and Po. “Phoebe will certainly be there.”
Meredith Mellon spoke in declaratives. Phoebe would be coming to the country club event. The “or else” was silent, but was there as loud and clear as the spoken words. Po felt a rush of sympathy for her young blonde quilting friend. “I’m sorry to rush off,” Meredith continued. “Janna and I have finished our business, and I’ve another appointment. But don’t forget to save next Saturday evening for the social event of the season.” She turned toward Janna and pecked her on the cheek, then wove her way through the crowded restaurant toward the front door.
Janna watched her walk off, then turned back to Kate and Po. “I hope you both will come. It will be a terrific event—Meredith is amazing—and it’s for such a good cause.”
Po watched the plain young woman and wondered if she enjoyed the role of public wife. There was an oddness about her that made Po think she actually might like it. But whether to please someone else, or herself, was not entirely clear. “It sounds like a lovely party,” Po said.
“Was Meredith leaving us a choice?” Kate said.
Janna shrugged. “Meredith Mellon is much like my mother. So no, you probably have no choice.” She managed a small smile. “The event will be a good thing for Bill. The more visibility he gets, the better it will be for his political career.”
And that was probably the answer to her thoughts, right there, Po decided. Janna was doing this for Bill, and would probably do just about anything for her husband-to-be.
Meredith Mellon’s event was a stepping stone, nothing more. “Would you like to sit with us, Janna? We’re probably good for one more glass of tea,” Po said.
Janna shook her head. “Thank you, but I have to meet Bill and Max Elliot to sign some papers on the house, and also to talk about another project we’re considering out on the edge of town—a new, exclusive shopping center. My father is thinking of investing in it, too—he’s so proud of Bill.” Mention of her father and Bill in the same breath brought a radiant smile to Janna’s face, and for a second, Po thought she looked beautiful.
Janna turned to leave, then glanced down at the table and noticed the pad of paper beside Kate’s plate. INNOCENT popped off the white page. Janna looked at it curiously. “What’s this?” she asked.
It was a slightly nosy question, Kate thought. But she felt an undefined pity for Janna Hathaway, so she swallowed the quick retort that sprang to her lips and, instead, explained the frustration she and Po felt because of the unsolved murder.
“Bill said the police are making progress,” Janna said
“Maybe. But they still have Picasso in the lineup.”
“But along with others, right? Bill said he talked to the police chief and they are thinking that the murderer might even be from New York, someone Laurel maybe jilted—just like she was doing to Picasso. Someone who came back to get even and lured her out to the park that night. Then came out of the bushes by the bridge and pushed her off that rocky ledge into the river. It kind of makes sense. And Bill said they might never be able to find that person, since Laurel was so secretive about her life.”
“But Picasso will never be clear of the shadow of her death if the crime isn’t solved,” Kate explained. “Nor will the town be able to easily move on. Closure is important, Janna.”
Janna rubbed arms. “It’s just so … so awful to think about. Especially when there are so many good things going on.”
Janna looked at Kate and Po hopefully, as if happy thoughts would erase the horror of murder. “There’s the benefit coming up, for one thing,” she said. “And building the SafeHome, and planning for, well, for the wedding.” She looked down at the floor. “I know that sounds selfish, but I wish all these bad things would go away.”
“I understand, Janna,” Po said, turning back into the conversation. “You’re absolutely right—the benefit is a good, positive thing, and probably more people will go and contribute to the home because of these awful events. But we still need to exonerate Picasso from all blame.”
Janna listened, but both Po and Kate sensed her impatience. And it was understandable, Po thought. She didn’t know the people involved, and she had a wedding and new house to prepare. She didn’t want anything marring those important events in her life.
“We need to bring some closure to it for Picasso’s sake, if not our own,” Kate said, speaking slowly, as if to a child.
Janna’s distress over the murder’s effect on her important life events was childlike, innocent, and irritated Kate no end. “We think that exploring Ann Woods’ past a little, finding out who she really was and what happened to her in the years away from Crestwood, will help us.”
“Janna,” Po added, “you have plenty on your mind right now, with the charity event, your wedding and house. You worry about them, and Kate and I will take care of Picasso.” Janna stood beside the table, awkwardly fingering her Kate Spade bag.
Kate watched her shift from one foot to another, wanting to stay and wanting to go at the same time. Murder had probably never been this close to her carefully protected life. But Crestwood was a small town that took care of its own, and one person’s busi
ness, for better or worse, was everyone’s business.
And for right now, concern for Picasso topped even Janna Hathaway’s wedding, her house, or the Crestwood Country Club event.
CHAPTER 22
P.J. and Kate stopped by Po’s that night before heading for a movie in Kansas City. The Crestwood Cinema was sometimes a little behind in first run movies, but the nearby Missouri city easily filled in the gaps. Besides, an evening stroll on Kansas City’s Country Club Plaza, enjoying the crowds and music groups gathered around the fountains, would take them a world away from the rumors and worries of the Crestwood murders, something they both needed. Po was out on the porch with Maggie, sharing a pitcher of martinis and enjoying the warm southern breezes that portended a delightful May.
“Hey, you two,” Maggie called out in greeting. “Join us.”
“Where’s Leah?” Kate asked. “I thought she was joining you?”
“She’s being a good-hearted person and helping Selma out. Tonight is first Friday, and Selma was expecting quite a crowd.” Po handed P.J. and Kate each a glass. Kate looked beautiful tonight, Po thought. A black pair of stretch pants showcased her long legs, and a deep cobalt blue jacket fit snugly over her white t-shirt. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. Po looked at P.J. His eyes were on Kate, his tall body relaxed and comfortable in jeans and a light tan jacket. They look happy together, Po thought with a jolt. That’s what’s happening here. Happiness. It was more welcome to Po than the bright yellow daffodils popping up beneath the giant pines in her yard. A more powerful sign of good days to come than the bright spring moon.
“I stopped by to see Picasso this afternoon,” Kate was saying, oblivious to Po’s thoughts. “He’s hoping for a crowd tonight, too. And he plans on sending everyone over to Selma’s to see his quilt-in-progress.”
“Great,” Po said. “It’s good for people to know he has the neighborhood’s support.”
Kate sat down beside Maggie on the swing. “Picasso also told me he’s decided what to do with Laurel’s mother’s bird quilt—he’s offering it to the SafeHome, to auction at that charity event at the country club. It was Bill McKay’s idea, but Picasso loved it. Considering all that’s happened, he thought it was the right thing to do—and what Laurel would want him to do.”
A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery Page 12
