Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Selma’s fine, Marla. I think that finding the body of a dear friend in one’s back door might put any of us in a twit.”

  “Friends? Selma and Owen weren’t friends, at least not lately. He was pushing to have a brick sidewalk put in all along this street. That would have been bad news — big time — for Selma.”

  “I understood it was Ambrose and Jesse who were pushing for that.”

  “Well, sure, them. They think they control taste in this neighborhood. The arbiters of taste, Daisy calls them. But I know for a fact that Mary Hill agreed with them and thought the brick sidewalk would look mighty good outside her fancy store. And she had Owen wrapped around her little finger when it came to that high-falootin’ store of theirs.”

  “I see,” Po said, not wishing to pursue the topic further. Marla had mastered the fine art of gossip as carefully as her recipe for cheese soufflé. She also had a reputation for confusing facts, which made her tongue dangerous.

  “So how’s that quilt coming along for Selma? That’s a nice thing you’re doing for her.”

  “It’s coming fine,” Kate said. “It’s a beautiful pattern, and we each get to add our own artistic bits to it. They’re even letting me, Marla, believe it or not.”

  “Well, you better hurry with it, Katie, or Selma may not have a store to hang it in. Business down at that end of the block is slow, I hear,” Marla said. “People are a little leery of shopping at a murder scene. And then there’s the ugly talk.”

  A young woman behind the counter called out for Marla to check the rye bread before it came out of the oven. Marla shook her round head in exasperation. “Can’t get anyone to do anything around here.” Then with a wiggly wave of her fingers, she lumbered back to the kitchen, her thick white soles making squishy sounds on the linoleum floor.

  Kate looked longingly at Po’s half-finished sandwich.

  Po pushed it across the table. “Help yourself, sweetie. Marla has a way of curbing my appetite.” Po pushed herself back from the table and crossed her legs. She brushed a crumb off her jeans and watched with pleasure as Kate finished off the rest of her sandwich. Flaky white sprouts escaped from between the slices of whole wheat bread and floated to the table. It amazed Po that any one person could eat as much as Kate did and still be as slender and agile as a young doe.

  “What was all that talk about Selma’s store?” Kate asked.

  “I don’t know. But it’s probably nothing. What could people possibly be saying about Selma? She’s one of the finest, most hardworking women I know. Raised two children all by herself, put them both through college, and she runs that store with a business brain that rivals Bill Gates.” Po glanced at her watch. “Katie, dear, if you’re about done, I think I need to move on into my day. My Saturday list is wearing a hole in my purse.”

  “I’m ready, Po.” Kate placed her napkin on the table and drained her teacup. She slipped her arms into a jeans jacket and walked across the room.

  They paid their bill and moved toward the front door, made almost invisible by the sunshine streaming through the glass. Just as Kate was about to push it open, a huge shadow filled the doorframe, blocking their exit. P.J. Flanigan stood on the other side. He slowly pulled the door open. The same wide grin that Kate remembered from her high school algebra class filled his face.

  “Katie Simpson. I knew I recognized that ornery stance back there in the quilt shop. Were you hiding from me behind those bolts of fabric? Why didn’t you announce yourself? Fess up and apologize!”

  “Apologize? And what would that be for, P.J.?” Kate asked. P.J. had been a year ahead of her in school, so he must be thirty, thirty-one now, Kate figured — and as she looked him up and down, she decided the years had settled on him very nicely. His strong-boned face had lost the roundness of a younger P.J., the wide set eyes had mellowed to a rich hazel, and that amazing smile that she remembered well had warmed over the years.

  “Well, for going off to Wellesley, for one thing — and then for not coming back — oh, yeah, and for breaking my heart.” He clutched his chest and swayed back and forth, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “You’re blocking traffic, P.J.,” Po said sternly. “Marla will have you stripped of that shiny badge if you turn a paying customer away.”

  P.J. took a step backward holding the door open for Kate and Po. He followed them to the sidewalk and planted a kiss on Po’s cheek. “And a hello to you, too, my lovely Po. I swear you get prettier every time I see you.”

  Po gave him a quick hug. “Useless mush, but I love it. And much as I’d like to stand here and soak up your foolish talk, I have things to do and people to see. So I’m off. Kate, toodles. As for you, P.J. Flanigan, keep the peace.”

  She left them standing there together, and wondered briefly when they’d discover that Po was P.J.’s god-mother, too. Surely less important connections had b-rought two young people together. She began to hum and looked up at the sky. It was a bright, sunshiny day.

  CHAPTER 9

  Monkey Wrench

  Po walked down the street at a steady clip. She paused to admire Ambrose and Jesse’s window display of wines and distilled spirits, their colorful, carefully designed labels presented like works of fine art. Mounds of imported cheeses on wooden platters, baskets of French bread and crackers, and a tasteful arrangement of Riedel wine glasses painted a portrait as pretty as any gallery. The owners had finally been licensed to open a small wine bar inside the shop, and Po could see several people sitting at round bistro tables, eating a wine and cheese lunch in the back of the store. Wine at noon would encourage a sound nap, she thought. A martini at sunset served her much better.

  She continued on, glancing at the lopsided window boxes outside Daisy’s flower shop. Several limp ferns surrounded a display of plastic roses. Oh dear. Daisy had beautiful fresh flowers inside but the outside display wouldn’t exactly entice customers. Perhaps she could subtly suggest that Daisy fix the rotted wood and then fill the boxes with those gorgeous bronze mums that sat in a row inside the shop.

  When Po reached Windsor House Antiques, she turned and looked back down Elderberry Road. Kate and P.J. were still standing beneath the black street lamp outside Marla’s shop. P.J.’s head was inclined slightly, leaning into Kate’s space. He was listening intently. Kate had a pleased look on her face and her hands were moving, punctuating her words.

  Filling in the years, Po supposed. They still made a handsome couple, even after all this time had passed. Lord, wouldn’t she and Meg have had a wonderful time mulling it all over, conjecturing, spinning dreams. A sudden pang of loneliness washed through Po as swiftly as a fast-moving stream. She straightened her shoulders and sighed, resigned to life’s unpredictable twists and turns, and walked on into Mary Hill’s antique store.

  A small group of women, dressed in tailored jackets and wool slacks, their arms heavy with Windsor House shopping bags and boxes tied with thick gold braid, made their way out of the store. Po smiled at the women as they exited, knowing that they were probably from Kansas City or Topeka, not natives, and were visiting Crestwood for the day. Or perhaps they were in town to take their college students to lunch after indulging in extravagant shopping at Windsor House. Mary was right — she was drawing people from all over to her small, tasteful shop.

  Po looked around, her eyes adjusting to the soft light cast by accent lamps and small spots aimed at ornately framed paintings. Mary Hill was sitting at a small curved desk on the far side of the shop, writing on a small pad of paper. She looked up and spotted Po at the same time Po saw her and smiled broadly. Po was relieved at the welcome smile. The uncomfortable conversation they’d had a few days ago must be forgotten.

  Mary stood and hurried over to Po. “Oh, Po, if you haven’t shown up at just the perfect time.”

  “So you’ve heard?” Po asked.

  Mary nodded. “That dear P.J. came by with the news.”

  “P.J. stopped in to tell Selma, too. I wanted to be sure you were all right,
Mary.”

  Mary took Po’s hand and clasped it tightly. “Po, I’m so relieved, so proud of our fine police force. So anxious to put this all behind me.”

  “And they told you they found Owen’s watch on the man?” Po searched Mary’s face. How difficult this whole ordeal must be for her. “It’s such an awful thought — that Owen lost his life for … for nothing. It’s certainly beyond reason.”

  “The watch was expensive,” Mary said. “An anniversary gift. Perhaps the man knew that. Knew that Owen would have money and valuables on him.”

  “Maybe he did,” Po said, nodding. “But a watch? A watch for the life of a wonderful man? It’s such a terrible waste.”

  “Yes.” Mary’s eyes filled, and Po pulled a clean tissue from the pocket of her suede jacket. “It will get easier, Mary, I promise you that.”

  Mary nodded and dabbed at her delicate nose. “I know it will, Po. Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done, too. Your friendship has meant a great deal to me during this difficult time.”

  Po smiled but held her silence. She and Mary were certainly very familiar with one another, having mingled at college functions when Sam was president and Owen a professor, and from the very fact of living in the same small town for many years. But she had never considered Mary a friend, really, and realized with some sadness that she didn’t even know who Mary’s friends were, or if she had any. Mary always stayed close to Owen at college functions, a beautiful shadow at his side, rarely joining the vivacious cluster of female faculty and spouses who seemed drawn to one another while the men retreated to smoke their cigars. That overt dependence must make Owen’s death doubly difficult for Mary, Po thought. She determined then and there to make more of an effort to include her in dinner parties and maybe even invite her to a play or concert this fall. Po seemed to have season tickets to more events than days in the year.

  “While I’m here, I wondered if you could help me with a gift, Mary. It’s a birthday gift for a favorite aunt of mine. I was thinking of a small picture frame or vase. Nothing elaborate.”

  “Of course.” Mary had resumed her composed, businesswoman persona and smiled at Po. “We will find the perfect thing.”

  Po looked around the store. Every inch was filled to overflowing with exquisite items — armoires, brocade-covered Queen Anne chairs, crystal chandeliers that had once adorned British manor houses, and handsome Baroque mirrors. The scent of lacquered wood, lemon and linseed oil, and the expensive perfume of customers hung heavy in the air. A tall glass display case near Mary’s work desk caught Po’s eye. “How absolutely beautiful,” she said, walking over to the lit case.

  Each thick glass shelf of the cabinet displayed several glass paperweights, their blown globes filled with complex designs — clusters of complex millefiori, tiny canes of exquisite color fused together in clear, perfect crystal balls.

  “This collection is my pride and joy,” Mary said. “Aren’t they beautiful? Owen and I look for them whenever we go abroad or to auctions.”

  Po started at the use of the present tense, but Mary went on, not catching herself.

  “We’ve been collecting them for awhile now, but the display case just came yesterday. See this?” She pointed to an antique Baccarat ball with a white carpet background of sparkling white stardust canes. The canes stood out like gems. “Each paperweight is so distinct, so beautiful in its own way. I could look at them for hours.”

  “These are amazing, Mary.” Po glanced at the $15,000 price tag. “But surely not something Aunt Peg needs for her night-stand!”

  Mary laughed. “The price range is vast. It depends on a lot of things — whether the piece is from the classic period, the clarity of glass, whether it’s signed. And there are forgeries, of course. But even the less expensive balls can be works of art. They’re like quilts, in a way.” Mary pointed to one in the middle of the shelf. Circular millefiori garlands floated in a green flash paperweight. In the center was a complex arrow cane, encircled by a ring of stardust canes, and surrounded by six spaced garlands, each with a complex cane center.

  Po leaned forward and examined the design carefully.

  “Yes, I can see that, Mary. There is great similarity in the joining together of tiny pieces to make a work of art. And even the designs are similar, the intricate pieces making up a whole flower.”

  “You should bring the Queen Bees in some day to see them. A field trip.”

  “I’ll do that. Or at least send them over on their own. And in the meantime, I think I shall have you wrap up that lovely brass picture frame for my favorite aunt and be about my day.” She pointed to a small, tasteful frame sitting on a tabletop.

  “That is a good choice, Po. We’ll save the paperweight for another day.”

  Po laughed heartily. “Like the day I win the lottery,” she said.

  Outside, the city of Crestwood was wide-awake and bathed in bright mid-day sunshine. P.J. and Kate were gone, but the sidewalk was filled with Saturday shoppers, moving in and out of the Elderberry shops. Recently the shop owners had added several benches to the area, positioning them up and down the block, fastened securely in concrete. They added a quaint touch, and Po wondered if this was the first step toward the brick sidewalk that Selma was dreading.

  A few storefronts down, Po spotted Ambrose Sweet, out side his shop. He was sitting on one of the benches talking with an enormous man in a dark blue jacket. The man looked familiar to Po, even though he was sitting sideways and she couldn’t see his face. The sheer bulk of his frame and the slouch of his massive shoulders made him stand out. As she neared the bench, she was amused at the contrast between the two men. Ambrose Sweet probably gardened in his carefully pressed wool slacks and cashmere sweater. Po couldn’t imagine him in any other attire.

  And the enormous, disheveled man sitting next to him, though wearing some sort of a uniform, looked like someone who had spent time “on the road,” as Sam used to say.

  “Good morning, Po,” Ambrose said as she approached the two men.

  Po smiled and waited for the other man to turn her way. He moved slowly because his heavy body didn’t pivot easily on the bench. When he turned toward her, Po took a step backwards, then stopped and regained her composure. She’d seen him from a distance plenty of times. But not up close like this, not nearly close enough to be assaulted by the stench of sweat and alcohol that radiated off his heavy blue security uniform. One front tooth was darkened with decay, the other slightly crooked. His lips puffed out and a small round chin seemed totally disproportionate to the massive face that housed it.

  Susan and Kate and the others were right.

  Wesley Peet was a frightening man.

  CHAPTER 10

  Falling Timbers

  This would probably be the last Sunday that she and Leah would be able to walk down to Elderberry Road without bundling up, Po guessed. Today she was comfortable in her yellow sweatshirt and soft pants, but in no time flat she’d be bundled up to her nose in heavy down. She walked at a steady clip, breathing in the solid earthy smell of autumn. Layers of leaves crunched beneath her running shoes and in the distance she smelled a hint of sage burning in a fireplace somewhere.

  Just ahead of her, at the junction of Elderberry and Oak, Po spotted Leah. She was sitting on a bench in a tiny triangle of green that marked the beginning of Elderberry Road.

  Leah stood and waved. She wore one of her signature earth-toned gauzy dresses that brushed her ankles as she walked. On Leah, it looked elegant and chic rather than a throwback to the ’70s, as did her leather sandals and long, beaded earrings. A bright multi-colored scarf tied loosely around her shoulders completed her look. Po suspected that Leah’s unique, arresting appearance caused many a coed to change their dress style, at least for those weeks that they sat mesmerized in Leah’s semester-long course.

  Po and Leah had begun their Sunday morning tradition over a decade ago when their husbands discovered they were great golf partners and that late Sunday morning was th
e perfect time to indulge their habit. Po and Sam met the younger couple at a fall faculty tea where new professors were introduced to the rest of the Canterbury College family. Leah was the new Yale PhD, recruited to put together a women’s studies program in a school that was still shaking off its all-male influence. Her husband was the town’s new pediatrician. Although Canterbury had been co-ed for at least a dozen years, change came slowly, and Po knew that the then thirty-year-old Leah Sarandon would have her hands full. Leah surprised everyone, though, including Po. Hidden beneath her gentle beauty and quiet way was a steely strength that came through at that very first tea when she challenged several tenured professors to an animated discussion on the role of women in settling the state. Po determined then and there that she and the young woman would be friends.

  The Paltrows invited Leah and Tim over soon after and almost immediately, despite the difference in ages, the four-some discovered shared passions that went beyond the game of golf: cross-country skiing, hiking in Colorado’s Gore Range, heated political and literary discussions, and — for Po and Leah — a love and appreciation for the fine art of quilting. Po brought Leah to a Queen Bees gathering shortly after and she’d been an integral part of the group ever since. Po met Leah at the corner with a quick hug and the two women crossed the street quickly, driven by growling stomachs and anticipation of Marla’s breakfasts.

  Po waved at an elderly couple who lived just down the street from her. Only Elderberry Books and Marla’s Bakery and Café were open for business on Sunday mornings, but in nice weather people gathered leisurely, not going anywhere, content to greet neighbors after church, catch up on their reading in one of the old leather chairs in Gus’s book store, or chat in small groups waiting for their name to be called for a table at Marla’s. Today a line of people crowded the sidewalk outside the café, waiting for an empty table.