Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “My neighbor is a nurse at the hospital and said Mary calls hourly to see how Max is doing.” Kate added. “She’s sent enough flowers to fill a church. I don’t know if Mary can take losing someone else so close to her.”

  “P.J., has anyone talked to the security guard that works for the Elderberry shops?” Po felt guilty even saying the words. Accusing — or even suspecting — someone of murder was an outrageous thing to do. But Wesley Peet scared her and there was something not right about him. “It seems Owen was about to fire Wesley before he died,” she went on, “and Max was the self-appointed guardian of Owen’s unfinished tasks. Wesley is an unsavory fellow, P.J. He scared Susan and me last night, and I don’t scare easily.”

  “Kill two people for a menial job? That’s a weak motive, Po.”

  “I suspect people have killed for less, P.J. Besides, Wesley must have been well paid. Susan and I saw him drive off in a fancy new truck last night.”

  “What happened to his old truck?”

  Po shrugged.

  “We’ve started a list of folks with old trucks who knew Max. You’d be amazed. Everyone from a disgruntled client to Daisy Sample — who wasn’t too fond of Max or Owen — to big old Wesley, who may or may not still have his old truck. Even Maggie has an old truck. There’s a cast of thousands.”

  “Trucks are big here.”

  “I don’t have a truck,” Kate said.

  P.J. looped an arm across her shoulder. “Good to hear that, Katie. I guess I can cross you off my suspect list.”

  “Don’t be too hasty, P.J. Everyone is a suspect.” She dipped her finger in the remains of the basting sauce. “Po — that’s a great sauce.”

  Po smiled absently. She was still thinking about the trucks, and the connections between the two men, Owen and Wesley, and something that niggled at her mind like a fly in the bedroom at night, but she couldn’t quite figure what it was.

  Sam’s suppers brought out the best in folks, and conversations often ran rampant. But the most heated talk tonight was about Wesley Peet and the scare he had given Susan and Po. “Something has to be done about that man,” Rita Schuette said. Born in Columbia, Rita had beautiful olive skin, a flawless, youthful complexion, and a fiery disposition that some found daunting, but Po thought enchanting. Tonight her black eyes blazed.

  Gus agreed. “Ambrose seems to think he’s doing okay. And he’s cheap.”

  Cheap? Po thought. Well, cheap didn’t buy a brand new truck, but she held the thought to herself for now, not wanting to spread such talk until she had had time to think about it.

  “Po, where’s Kate?” P.J. asked. He was carrying a plate heaped high with apple pie and the homemade ice cream Po had made that afternoon.

  Po looked around. “I saw her awhile ago, talking to Phoebe on the patio. I think they were planning a lynching of Wesley Peet for scaring us.”

  Jimmy came up beside P.J., balancing Jude on one hip and cradling a sleeping Emma on his shoulder. “I can’t find Phoebe, either.”

  Po frowned. She didn’t trust those two. Especially not with Phoebe’s newfound zest for Mission Impossible schemes. At least she wasn’t wearing her cat outfit tonight. “Maybe they went down to pick up something at the store,” she said aloud.

  “Maybe,” Jimmy said. “But I can’t imagine what.”

  It was thirty minutes later, after Eleanor and most of the others had gone on home, when Phoebe and Kate wandered in. Their cheeks were flushed and Kate had that look in her eyes that Po remembered from years ago when she’d skipped class. Or sneaked out at night with a friend and climbed a roof to watch the stars. Her mother would call Po, worried sick, while Kate’s dad scoured the neighborhood. Hours later, Kate would wander in, innocent and yawning, and wondering what all the fuss was about.

  “Kate?” Po said. The single word demanded a response.

  Kate kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry, Po. Phoebe and I had something we had to take care of.”

  “Kate Simpson, where were you?” Po eyes never left Kate’s flushed face.

  Phoebe looked up. She had curled up in one of Po’s overstuffed chairs in front of the fire. Jude was on her lap, happily nursing his missed dinner. “Oh, Po, don’t fuss. We ran down to Elderberry Road to see a man about a horse.”

  “A man about a truck,” Kate corrected. “What we did was satisfy our curiosity. We went down to check out Wesley’s truck, to see if we could find anything inside that might let us know what he was up to. The way he acted with you and Susan was horrible. We thought maybe we’d find something incriminating.”

  “And what exactly would that be? That’s downright foolish, Kate,” P.J. said. “Wesley Peet could be dangerous. What’s more, it’s illegal. You don’t go breaking into people’s private property.”

  Jimmy was glaring at Phoebe from across the room. Jude sucked away happily.

  “We didn’t break in. It sounds more foolish that it was,” Kate said quietly. “Marla told us that Wesley always takes a break at nine. He walks over to that Seven Eleven on Pine Street and has a smoke because Mary Hill won’t let him smoke in the alley. So we checked his truck out while he was gone. It was locked but the back window wasn’t latched …”

  “So Phoebe crawled through,” Jimmy muttered.

  “Kate stayed at the end of the alley and watched in case he came back. It wasn’t dangerous. Just futile. There wasn’t much there.”

  Po sat down opposite Phoebe in a matching chair. This room always wrapped people in a warm, cozy feeling. Tonight it was as chilly as the first snow.

  CHAPTER 18

  Sawtooth Edge

  Before she went to bed, Po drank a cup of tea that Rita Schuette had brought to her that day. It was a special blend, Rita said, guaranteed to make you sleep. And whatever magic had been in the tea leaves, it worked. Somewhere, far off, she had heard sirens during the early morning hours. But they were hazy and far away — more dreamlike than real — and Po never rose above the sweet blanket of sleep. She woke up Monday morning more refreshed than she had been since all the Elderberry Road trouble began.

  Today she had a mission to carry out, and thanks to Rita’s tea, she was feeling up to it. After two cups of coffee and a productive hour at the computer working on her book, Po set out for Elderberry Road.

  The day was crisp and cold. Football weather, Gus had called it the night before. Po had pulled on a deep purple Guatemalan jacket that a friend had given her. She snuggled her cheek against the thick collar, welcoming its woolly warmth. Winter was a hair’s breadth away. Po walked quickly, breathing in the morning air, and mentally reviewing her case for the firing of Wesley Peet.

  Po wondered if Wesley was a police suspect. He had a motive for the killings, however weak P.J. might consider it. He was about to lose his job. And who else would hire such a burly, unsavory fellow? Po quickened her pace — she wanted to reach the shops before they opened for business. As she neared Mary Hill’s store, Po decided that she would approach Ambrose first. She’d pull him aside to tell him about her frightening encounter with Wesley Peet. And then they’d talk about what could be done.

  As she turned the corner onto Elderberry Road, Po stopped short and tried to make sense of the scene ahead. A small group of curious people were gathered on the curb in front of Windsor House Antiques: a mother with two small children, a scattering of students, several well-dressed people on their way to offices nearby.

  They were all staring at Mary Hill’s plate glass display window. At first Po thought maybe she had created a new display, perhaps brought the extraordinary collection of paperweights in front where passers-by could enjoy their beauty. But as Po got closer, she spotted the reason for the crowd’s curiosity. It wasn’t a dazzling display of art, but instead, a jagged hole, the size of a baseball, that marred the huge expanse of glass. Spiraling out in all directions were tiny star-like lines, etched in the broken glass and glistening in the morning sun. On the other side of the window, workmen moved lamps and chairs and picture fra
mes away from the window. Po spotted Gus Schuette walking toward her from his store down the street.

  “Gus, what happened here?”

  Gus’s face was pinched, his brows pulled together tightly, “Someone threw a glass ball through Mary’s window. Damn crazy fool. It sure isn’t what that lady needs in her life right now.”

  “It’s not what any of you need. This is awful, Gus. Where’s Mary?”

  “She’s inside. In denial, I think. She probably wouldn’t have even called the police if the alarm hadn’t gone off when the window was hit. The cops have come and gone. Said it was a drive-by prank, most likely. Kids out too late with nothing better to do.” Gus took Po by the elbow and led her around a gawking bystander, down the alley, and in the backdoor of the antique shop.

  “Mary?” Gus called out. “Where are you? It’s Gus and Po.” Mary emerged from a small office in the back of the store. She was dressed impeccably, as always, but her oval face was as white as the lace pillows on the antique bed beside the door. Her smile was forced. “Isn’t this a mess?” she asked with feigned brightness. Her hands spread out to take in the moved furniture, the tiny sparkles of glass on the floor. “Now why would anyone think this was fun?”

  “It’s not fun, it’s terrible, Mary. Do you think it was a prank?” Po asked. With the ominous cloud that hovered over Elderberry Road, Po’s thoughts were far more sinister.

  Mary’s shoulders shrugged in her silk taupe blouse. “What else?” She watched two workmen carefully remove the panel of glass. Cold air blew into the store and Mary shivered involuntarily. “The workmen will replace it immediately. Fortunately Owen put in the best protective glass money can buy. That’s why it’s only the single hole and not an entire smashed window. There’s really little mess.” Mary chattered on about the window and the film that protected it. The fact that someone had assaulted her store didn’t seem to have sunk in yet. Po hoped Mary would be all right when it did.

  “What did you say was thrown?” Po asked. She looked at Gus. “The hole looks like it might have been a rock or a baseball.”

  “Yes,” Mary said. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. I thank you both for coming by, but it will be fine. I would prefer we just get it cleaned up and move on.” She forced a smile. “Business as usual.”

  Po and Gus took their cue and left the store. They walked down the alley toward the bookstore. “Gus, this isn’t right,” she said. “I don’t think Mary gets it. Do you think it was just a prank?”

  “I think we need a cup of coffee.” He steered Po into the back door of Marla’s shop, through the tiny kitchen, heated with the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread, and into the dining area. “Marla, two coffees,” he called out as they settled down at a round table near the window. The shop was busy but not full, and Marla spotted them immediately. She swung her large body around the bakery case and made her way slowly to their table.

  “What’s next?” she asked, filling their cups. “Plagues? Locusts?”

  “It’s awful, Marla. What have you heard?”

  “I’ve heard that we all need bullet-proof glass. What’s this world coming to?” Her round cheeks were bright red and drops of perspiration beaded her wide brow. “Scares me, Gus,” she said, looking at the bookstore owner. “We need to do something.”

  “It seems you could improve on security, for one thing,” Po said. “Where was Wesley Peet when all this happened?”

  “He’s only here until one. The police said the alarm went off about one-thirty or two. But no matter, Mary Hill sure gave Wesley a piece of her mind this morning. She was chewing him out in the alley something fierce when I came in to turn on the ovens.” Marla set the pot down on the table and pulled out a chair, maneuvering her large body onto the cushion. “I didn’t think she had it in her, always so refined and quiet, that one. But she was as wound up as a Kansas tornado this morning.” She looked at Gus again. “Maybe we should have Wesley stay around all night?”

  “Maybe you should have someone who doesn’t drink his way through his shift,” Po suggested.

  “I heard about that little episode Saturday night,” Marla said. “You’re right, Po. He needs to stay off the booze. Don’t think he would hurt anyone, though, but maybe we should think about it,” she conceded. “Something sure has to be done to calm things down around here. I’m so jumpy I dropped a whole platter of cinnamon rolls on the floor this morning.” She pulled herself up from the table, took back her coffee pot, and walked off toward the kitchen, shaking her head and mumbling to herself.

  “Did you say it was a glass ball that caused the damage?”

  “That’s what one of the cops said. Looked like a paperweight, he said.”

  Po frowned. How odd. She thought of the extraordinary Perthshire glass balls that graced the display cabinet. But the ball came from the other side. Curious.

  Gus drained his coffee cup and put it back on the table. He shoved back his chair. “I’m off, Po. I have a new salesperson starting today and need to get myself organized.”

  “Business must be good?”

  “Pretty good. This nasty mess surrounding Owen still hovers over all of us. But otherwise it’s good. I don’t happen to agree with the police that the college kids are out pulling pranks, like smashing Mary’s window. Those kids are good to me. Studious, for the most part, and they sure buy a lot of books.”

  Po agreed. “There’s always a bad apple or two, but that’s true in any group. Even in this neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, for sure. Bad apples everywhere.” Gus waved and left the way he came, through the kitchen and out the back door. Po sat at the table for a while, barely noticing when the waitress refilled her mug and Marla plunked a thick slice of French toast in front of her. Her head was filled to overflowing with broken windows, lifeless bodies, and hit and runs. She thought about this latest twist of events, and about all the loose strings that were fluttering around as irritating as gnats. She wondered if they would ever come together.

  This latest threat — if that’s what it was — was one more wayward puzzle piece. Surely no one was out to get both the Hills. It didn’t make sense. But neither did Mary’s odd reaction to the window damage. She seemed eerily calm, not the Mary that Marla described, berating the security guard for his lapse of attention. Did Mary think her life was in danger? You wouldn’t have guessed that easily.

  Po sipped her coffee slowly and picked at the French toast. Somehow she didn’t have much of an appetite anymore. She was convinced there was a connection between Owen and Max’s misfortunes. And an uncomfortable, niggling feeling told her that the shattering of Mary’s window should not be discounted quite so quickly.

  Po glanced out the window and for a short moment, her breath caught tight in her chest.

  Wesley Peet sat on the wooden bench just outside Marla’s café. His huge, muscular body filled the seat and a look of fierce concentration filled his face. Enormous boots were planted firmly on the sidewalk, his elbows leaning so hard on his knees that Po thought they would surely cause dents. A small, crooked smile lifted the edges of his fat lips. His head was turned slightly, and from where Po sat, it looked like his beady, black eyes were staring down Windsor House Antiques.

  Po shivered. Then, as she watched, Wesley rose from the bench and lumbered across the street toward his shiny new truck.

  The truck Phoebe and Kate had foolishly entered the night before. Po sat still, staring after him, long after the truck had disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  Po looked up into Kate Simpson’s smile.

  Po smiled back. “Kate, you’re a welcome sight. Can you sit?”

  Kate pulled out a chair and sat down. She turned over her cup. “I’m playing hooky today. I told them I couldn’t sub, and instead I plan to curl up in one of Gus’s chairs with my trusty laptop and finish my midterm paper.”

  “Gus was just here, as a matter of fact.” Po pushed her uneaten t
oast in Kate’s direction. “He and I have had an interesting morning.”

  The waitress walked over, filled both mugs with coffee and disappeared.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” Kate said.

  Kate listened intently, devouring the French Toast, but leaving her large brown eyes fastened on Po’s face, as Po related her version of the morning’s events, from the smashing of the window to watching Wesley on the park bench. When she was finished, Kate sat back in the chair and wiped drops of syrup from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wide.

  “Well? What do you make of it all?” Po asked.

  Kate’s voice was edged with excitement. “Po, this is downright creepy. Remember Phoebe and my little sleuthing episode last night?”

  “Your illegal breaking and entering, you mean?”

  “Whatever. Well, we told you we didn’t find anything. And we didn’t think we did — but we did see something we both thought a bit odd.”

  “Well?”

  “Well …” Kate dragged out the single word, then continued. “On the back seat of his truck was a small box. Phoebe didn’t see it when she crawled through the window and she knocked it onto the floor. The lid fell off, and this thing rolled out.”

  Po didn’t like pursuing this because she thought Kate had done a terribly foolish thing breaking into that truck. Listening to her talk about it somehow spoke of approval. But curiosity — and the light in Kate’s eyes — got the best of her. “And what was the thing, Kate?”

  “It was a beautiful glass ball, about the size of a baseball.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Drunkard’s Path

  Wesley Peet shuffled down the dark alley, a flashlight in one hand and an amber pint bottle in the other. The beam of his flashlight traveled unevenly in and out of the narrow dark spaces between buildings. He paused near a dumpster and leaned against the metal side, his head pleasantly woozy.

  Couldn’t take these late nights much longer, he thought, wiping the dripping liquor from his wet mouth with the back of his hand. Hell, he wouldn’t have to take these late nights much longer. Life was lookin’ good for old Wesley for the first time in forty years. He lifted the pint of Chivas Regal to his lips and took a long swig, then stared at the bottle in the dim light. The Scotch itself was an omen that everything was finally turning around for old Wesley Peet. There it stood by its lonesome, just outside the pitch-black wine store, sitting on the step saying, “Wesley, take me. I’m yours.” His laughter gurgled up from deep in the back of his throat, and when it stopped, he took another long, slow draw from the bottle, savoring the taste.