“Kate,” she said abruptly, turning away from the mirror and grabbing a jeans jacket from the back of her chair, “Let me give you a ride home. I know you have things to do to get ready for the party and I’ve a slew of errands to run. Find something lovely to wear tonight, and how about if you and P.J. pick me up at 8?”
***
Po’s trip to the library was brief. Ten minutes with the newspaper obituary records told her all she needed to know about Esther and Al Woods’ tragic accident and the funeral. There was one child, the obit read, who now lived on the East Coast. Her name was not mentioned. The newspaper article relating the accident was a little more detailed, and chatty, as small town journalism sometimes is. It told how Al and Esther had attended a company picnic that afternoon, and Al had consumed a tremendous quantity of beer. His blood alcohol level, the article said, was four times the accepted limit. At the time of the accident, they were driving back to a large home that had recently been purchased on a hill just outside town. There was a question about the brakes on Al Woods’ new truck, but the weaving that had been viewed by several witnesses made that less important than the fact that Al was very drunk. And, Po thought, there was no family to force an investigation, so it was probably not even attended to. The funeral was private, the article read, as the couple had wished, and the bodies would be cremated. United Quarry had set up a memorial fund with the proceeds to go to Mothers Against Drunk Drivers.
Generous company, Po thought. When Sam died, the college had set up a scholarship fund in his name, and Po was touched by the gesture and knew it would have been just what he wanted. Each year a deserving student was able to attend Canterbury College—and Sam was thought of and honored as the generous, lovely man he was. The memorial fund for Al was another matter. But if it benefited a good cause, Po was for it. On a whim, she typed the words UNITED QUARRY into her search engine, and in an instant, the screen listed pages of newspaper articles detailing the successful company that had its beginnings in Crestwood and now did business in Florida as well. On the home page, Po read about the company’s magnanimous giving to charities and political campaigns. She clicked on the ABOUT US button and scanned the names listed on the page—the board of directors and founders and staff—looking for familiar names. Max Elliott was there, which was no surprise to her. Max was everywhere, a silent, respectable member of more boards and charities than Po could count. Po read on, and then stopped suddenly, her eyes settling on another familiar name.
“Of course,” she said out loud. “I should have remembered that.” She stopped reading the screen, and looked off into the events of the past few weeks, her heart pounding in her chest. Sam had delighted in her overactive imagination. A necessary tool for a writer, he had said. And maybe that’s exactly what she was doing now. Or were the jagged pieces of this puzzle starting to fit together in a way Po couldn’t have imagine just a short time ago?
She picked her purse up from the floor and walked slowly out of the library, thinking sadly about Ann Woods, and how her life might have been different.
CHAPTER 26
Po took a deep pink beaded sweater out of her closet and pulled it over her head, then stepped into a long black skirt and fastened it in the back. But clothes for a fancy event were the farthest thing from her mind. Thoughts of Picasso ran through her head—and of all the people who had rallied around them. She dug through her jewelry box and pulled out a chunky rose quartz necklace—a gift from Sam. One of those no-special-day gifts that he sometimes surprised her with. Why are you on my mind so much today, Sam, she wondered, looking up, as if Sam Paltrow would suddenly materialize and she could talk all this over with him, listen to his wise words. And, as he always said, ignore them … or not. She had no proof for her suspicions, just a bunch of isolated facts that seemed to converge uncomfortably on the same bumpy road.
Po looked in the mirror and fastened the necklace around her neck. She’d see Max tonight. Maybe he could help. The sound of P.J.’s car in the drive pushed the thoughts into a corner of her mind and she forced a smile in place. This was a special night. Picasso needed them all there as he gave his quilt away to a good cause. Po lifted a soft black shawl from the back of her bedroom chair and hurried downstairs to her waiting ride.
***
The Crestwood Country Club was south of town, built along the grassy banks of the Emerald River. A golf course wrapped around the property and touched close to the water in places, making it a challenging and energizing course. And down the carefully manicured drive from the main clubhouse, stables housed championship steeds, riding horses, and several show horses owned by members. Po, P.J., and Kate drove up the long drive to the clubhouse. It was lit all along the way with low gaslights flickering against the dark night.
The drive to the club had been a quiet one. Po sat in the back, alone with her thoughts. But she noticed the pensive look on both Kate and P.J.’s faces, and she wondered briefly if they were all, perhaps, thinking the same thoughts, each in their own way. Thoughts that would eventually emerge, see the light of day, and become real. There was something safe about keeping them inside your head. Just like writing a book, she thought, they could still be manipulated and changed.
But sadly, life wasn’t so neat or easily edited.
Po looked up at the well-lit clubhouse. It sparkled with life and gaiety. Tonight would be happy. Tonight they would put aside the worries and suspicions and uncomfortable thoughts and be there for Picasso. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
“Kate,” Po said aloud, “you look especially beautiful tonight.”
“I second that,” P.J. said, looking over at her.
“It’s the company,” Kate said. “How could someone not feel special with one of you on either side of me?” She tucked an arm in each of theirs as they walked toward the clubhouse. Kate’s long deep-blue dress was simple and elegant, very Kate, as Po told her. Tiny straps held up the simple silk dress that flowed like liquid silver over Kate’s slender hips, down to her ankles, showing off strappy sandals with heels that lifted Kate to nearly P.J.’s height. Her hair was pulled into a knot in the back, fastened with a band and a single daisy.
“My wonder woman,” P.J. said, looking into her eyes.
“One who makes you wonder?” was Kate’s playful retort.
And she did just that, P.J. thought. Made him wonder about all sorts of things. Good things, tantalizing things. But today she made him wonder how he could keep her safe.
Phoebe and Jimmy Mellon were at the door waiting for them when the threesome walked beneath the canopy and up the wide fan of steps.
“This is the happiest day of my life,” Phoebe declared, hugging them. “I get to sit with my best friends at this club that I usually dread going to more than my annual ob-gyn checkup.” She hugged Kate and Po, then gave P.J. a kiss on the cheek.
“One glass of wine and all Phoebe’s filters disappear,” Jimmy said, laughing as she hugged him, too. “Come on in, folks. I echo Phoebe’s sentiment, except for that bit about the ob-gyn.”
Inside, all was light and airy, and a festive mood drew the crowd through the wide hallways and into the rooms in the back. French doors opened to the terrace, and people spilled outside to look at the moon and enjoy the warm spring air. Waiters and waitresses, carrying trays of wine and champagne, tiny stuffed mushroom and plump oysters with lemon wove in and out between happy groups of people.
“Your mother-in-law puts on a fancy party, Phoebs,” P.J. observed.
“I know. Can you imagine when the twins turn sixteen?” Phoebe’s laughter circled the room and in minutes Eleanor, Maggie, Leah, and her husband Tim found the small group.
“Phoebe’s laugh is better than a whistle,” Leah said. “We just followed the ripples.”
“Are Selma and Susan coming?” Po asked.
“They’re sitting with the Elderberry merchants, but will join us later,” Leah said.
A waiter appeared and passed out tall champagne flutes. “Where is th
e quilt?” Eleanor asked. “The piece de resistance?”
“Just follow me, folks.” Phoebe spun around on her three-inch heels and led them through the crowd and an archway to the room beyond. There on the wall, with tiny lights reflecting off the gold thread that outlined Esther Woods’ bird, was Picasso’s donation to the evening.
“It looks even more beautiful than I remembered,” Kate said softly.
Po stood in front of it, staring up at the amazing design, the flowing curves quilted in pale yellows and golds. And the magnificent bird in the center. It looked so free, she thought, and wondered briefly if Esther’s daughter was finally free as well. Po’s eyes took in every detail, the border of deep gold fabric, quilted in swirls that mirrored the wings of the bird. Laurel had cared for the quilt like a child, Picasso had said. Mending torn threads, dusting it. Po looked at the border on the bottom and imagined Laurel mending it carefully. A labor of love, she thought. Perhaps to be closer to her mother, Po thought, because the quilt looked to be in excellent condition, without frays or loose threads. But maybe just touching it brought back the few good memories Laurel had when she was Ann Woods.
“It is beautiful, non?”
Po turned around and looked into the pensive face of Picasso. “It is beautiful.” Po hugged him and together they looked up at the quilt as if they were standing in the Louvre, looking up at the Mona Lisa.
“I think this is a kind, generous thing you are doing,” Po said.
Before Picasso could respond, Bill McKay came up beside them.
“Picasso,” Bill said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “What a generous gift.”
Po stepped back. Bill was dressed in a fine Italian black suit, looking every bit the wealthy real estate magnate and future politician. His shoulders were broad like a quarter-back’s, his stance confident and tall.
“You like it, Bill?” Picasso asked.
“It’s a wonderful gift. And I for one will make sure it brings in a pretty penny for the SafeHome we’re building.”
“The auction will be soon?”
“Janna tells me it’s after the buffet. After everyone has had a couple glasses of wine.” He smiled at Picasso. “That’s when everyone gets generous.”
***
The buffet was a glorious affair, and Po almost forgot the heaviness in her heart. After dinner, a dessert bar drew folks back to their feet and they mingled with plates of chocolate-covered strawberries and crème broule in their hands, while a harpist played in the background and waiters cleared the tables, preparing for the auction. A dozen or so other gifts—vacations in Colorado, gold chandelier earrings, paintings, memberships to a health club—would be auctioned first, and then Picasso’s quilt.
“You could almost forget we’re living under this pall of murder, couldn’t you?” Maggie said.
Po nodded. “It’s good to see Picasso smile. If not for that, I don’t think I could have come.”
Kate joined them, balancing three glasses of wine in her hands, and they walked onto the terrace together, away from the crowd surrounding Picasso’s quilt. In the distance, they could hear the river moving in the black night. “Laurel’s body was found just a little south of here,” Maggie said. Kate nodded. “I wonder when we’ll look at the river and not think of her, floating all the way from the bridge.”
Po put her hands on the stone railing, looking out into the darkness, half-listening to the conversation. She took a sip of wine, and then put it back down, her mind turning back to Kate’s comment. “Kate,” she said abruptly, “what did you say?”
“I said the river makes us think of Laurel.”
“No, about where she was thrown in the river.” Po’s heart skipped a beat.
“Oh, just that the spot is near the bridge where the incline is filled with brambles, and it’s so far from where she was found. I remember you and mom never wanted us to play over there. It was secluded, kind of scary. It must be a couple miles from where she was found, don’t you think?”
“How did you know where she was thrown into the river? Did P.J. tell you?”
“Did I tell her what?” P.J. walked up behind them.
“I wondered how Kate knew where Laurel was thrown into the river.” Po tried to keep her voice steady, but the events of the last few days were crowding down on her, squeezing the air out of her lungs.
P.J. frowned. “No. I didn’t tell Kate that. That information hasn’t been released.”
Kate looked from Po to P.J. She frowned. “But someone told me where she was thrown in the river.”
“Who told you, Kate?” Po asked. Her body tensed.
Kate set her wine glass on the terrace wall. She racked her brain. It shouldn’t be difficult to remember—she didn’t talk to many people about this. Finally she shook her head. “Sorry, Po, I can’t remember. But give me time.”
“It might be important, Kate,” P.J. said.
“I think it is important, P.J.,” Po said quietly. “You and I need to have a talk.”
The tingle of a bell announced the beginning of the auction and slowly the crowd began gathering in the auction salon, coffee cups and wine glasses in hand. P.J. looked over at Po as they started inside. He lifted his brows.
“It can wait, P.J.,” she said over the crowd. But not for long, she thought.
Janna and Bill stood in front of the room with Meredith Mellon, quieting the crowd and announcing the beginning of the auction. The roomful of people clapped hard in appreciation for the work of the chair people, and the auctioneer climbed up to a podium to begin the show.
Po stood in the back, looking across the crowd. Max Elliott caught her eye, and he lifted a hand in a wave, then wove his way to her side. “Po,” he whispered. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Po nodded, and they walked back to the terrace door. “We can see when the quilt auction begins from here,” she whispered, then turned her back to the room and looked at Max. “There’s something I want to talk to you about, too. Max, you’re on the board of United Quarry.”
He nodded. “You’re a step ahead, as always. I’ve toyed with breaching client confidentiality, but I ran into Kate today and she told me you were looking up old newspaper articles at the library. I knew you’d come across it.”
“Did you know the Woods, Max?”
Max paused for a long time, and Po wasn’t sure he was going to answer her. But it didn’t matter now. She knew the answer.
“I knew them in a way,” Max said finally. “Al worked for United Quarry. And the company helped him out when he had some personal problems and I handled the checks.”
“Helped him out how?”
“Gave them money. I didn’t know what it was for. That wasn’t my job. But he had problems, and for some reason, United Quarry was helping him out.”
“So they gave extra money to Al Woods? Why?”
Max shrugged. “I didn’t know then. Or maybe I didn’t want to know. I sent money where I was told to send it. For a long time I sent it to a place in New York, to a relative, to pay for things.”
“Ann’s aunt.”
Max nodded. “I suppose. One of my board functions was to handle special funds, and that’s where the money came from.”
“Generous company,” Po said.
Max heard the sharp edge to Po’s voice. He nodded. “More than that. Al got a big raise and a bonus so he could buy that big house. It was odd, made lots of people mad as hell. Al Woods was a drunken bum, and he was treated like a king. No one really mourned when his truck ran off the road that night. No one cared. The company buried them in fine manner and that was that, the end of a chapter.”
“Except for a teenage daughter left in New York.”
“Right. But she was better off, Po. You didn’t know the dad. He was a real mess. But I had trouble with the use of those discretionary funds, the movement of money between the companies owned by the same group, lots of things. So I quit the board and moved on. And I swear I didn’t know until
recent days what the connection was. But I sure as hell now know why Laurel St. Pierre hated me. She got those checks, saw my name. I was responsible—”
A movement from inside caught their attention and the lights dimmed briefly, announcing the auction of Picasso’s quilt.
“We need to be in there for this,” Po said. “But Max, I think I know why Laurel St. Pierre was murdered.”
Max stared at her, but before he could pursue her statement, Po had disappeared inside the room. She stood in the back row, watching the hands begin to rise as the auctioneer announced the minimum bid. Max stood in the shadows near the terrace, watching her.
“I have $800,” the auctioneer called out in his unique staccato beat.
The room was packed, and all eyes were on the auctioneer as two men stood slightly in front of him, noting the raised hands.
Po heard a familiar voice in front. Bill McKay was bidding on the quilt, keeping his promise to Picasso to raise the ante. Po could see him near the front, Janna pressed closely into his side. They were smiling broadly and Po noticed several flash bulbs go off.
Another bid came from the right, and a hand answered from a few rows behind. Po stared at the quilt, still lit with the tiny lights, showing the amazing craftsmanship of a woman who had so little in her life.
Again, the bid was countered, and Po watched in fascination as it bounced back and forth between an art dealer in the back of the room, and a stranger up in the front. Po didn’t recognize him, but Max whispered that he was with United Quarry, a board member that had been there when Max was on the board. Po stared at the man, and watched as the gallery owner responded. Po strained to see if the man in the front was bidding on his own. A turn of the man’s gray head, a nod in the direction of the audience, was all Po needed to see.
The click in Po’s head was so loud she was sure the whole room must have heard it. The care Laurel had given to the quilt. The break-in at Picasso’s lovely home, looking for something, something Laurel had left behind. The few missing pieces to the puzzle.
A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery Page 15
