A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery Read online

  “I’m not so sure about the latter,” Po said. “Who knows what Laurel—or Ann—would have wanted? She’s such a mystery woman, even in death. But it’s certainly a good and generous thing for Picasso to do.”

  “We’ve been looking into Ann Woods’ past, Po,” P.J. said. He leaned against the railing, his back to the yard. “We’ve confirmed that when she left here those years ago, she went to upstate New York, so she was honest with Picasso about that. She lived in a small town with a maiden aunt, I think, and finished high school. When the aunt passed away—Ann must have been 17 or 18—she seems to have disappeared, swallowed up in the bowels of New York City. Or at least that’s the best we can figure, since that’s where she lived when she met Picasso. And Picasso was pretty sure she’d lived there for several years.”

  Kate repeated Janna Hathaway’s conjecture that it could have been someone from that part of Laurel’s life who killed her.

  “Could be,” P.J. said. “And if that’s true, we may never find him or her. But I don’t think it was.”

  “Why?” Po asked, though she completely agreed with P.J. and had her own set of reasons. If someone from Laurel’s past had wanted to kill her, New York would have been a much better place to do it, not a small town where everyone knew each other and strangers were as noticeable as blue men from Mars. Besides, Laurel’s presence and her behavior in Crestwood seemed to be calculated. Po was convinced Laurel had come back for a reason, some sort of revenge. And that reason was right there in their little town. They simply couldn’t see it. At least not yet.

  P.J. shifted on the porch railing. He seemed reluctant to say why he thought the way he did, but he finally offered, “The dual murders, for one reason. Sands had no ties to the East Coast. He’d never been outside the Midwest and never planned to go. Furthermore, who but a resident would know about those quarries where Sands’ body was found? Some people who live here couldn’t even find their way down those narrow roads. And Sands had told Picasso he was going to benefit from something Laurel told him. He knew something, and thought that knowledge was worth something.”

  Po watched P.J.’s angular face as he talked. It was partially lit by the full moon, and the strong lines of his jaw were outlined prominently. P.J. Flanigan is a thoughtful man, she thought. And a kind man. And if Liz Simpson were alive and sitting there with a martini in hand, she’d thoroughly approve of the direction this relationship was heading. And between P.J. and me, we will keep her safe, Liz, Po promised, suddenly missing her best friend fiercely.

  ***

  Po wasn’t sure that Kate would make it to the Queen Bees Saturday session, knowing she was out late the night before. But sure enough, as Po walked out of Maria’s with a grand latte in hand, she spotted Kate rounding the corner in her familiar green Jeep.

  Po waved and waited while Kate parked the car and ran across the street.

  Kate pecked her on the cheek. “Okay, yes, Po, we had a great time,” she said before Po could ask for a report. “He drives me crazy sometimes—but other times?” Kate lifted her brows and rolled her eyes mischievously.

  Po laughed, then looped her arm through Kate’s and together they headed for Selma’s. The alumni crowd was even more plentiful today, lining up at Marla’s to savor her eggs and coffee. “Too bad Picasso doesn’t serve breakfast,” Po mused. “He’d make a fortune today.”

  They looked beyond Picasso’s to Selma’s store. The door was already open and blinds lifted. As they neared the doorway, Selma stepped out onto the sidewalk and started toward them. Her face was tight, and damp, flyaway gray tendrils curled against her forehead. Bright spots lit her cheeks, the only signs of emotion as she waved them close. “Not a good day, ladies,” she said crisply. “I’m glad you’re here early.”

  Po and Kate looked at each other, then followed Selma into the half-lit store. Susan stood behind the counter, a strange, sad look on her face.

  Selma gestured toward the west side of the store and Kate and Po looked toward the wall, a freshly-painted white surface ten feet high that was covered with this month’s first Friday display—bright, magnificent works of quilting art. Then just as quickly, their eyes lowered to the bed display holding their own creation—Picasso’s quilt with the brilliant fish flying into Po’s pieced black pot.

  Po’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Selma—” she moaned. The fish were still in flight, their bodies placed on the unfinished pieced background. And running along the right side of the quilt, slashing through Leah’s fish and dissecting the black pot like a sword, was a thin, wavy river of destruction—a pale yellow-white swoosh that robbed the art of its brilliant crimsons and purples and silvers.

  “It’s bleach,” Selma said quietly.

  Susan’s eyes filled with tears. “I should have been watching the crowd more closely.”

  “Nonsense,” Selma said. “Who provides surveillance for quilt lovers?

  “What kind of monster would do this?” Kate asked.

  “What’s done is done,” Selma said. She looked at Kate. “Come on sweetie, help me with this.”

  Together Selma and Kate lifted the whole sheet beneath the quilt and carried it into the back room. Selma motioned toward the work table and they laid it there, on the long oak table where various Queen Bees had found friendship for nearly thirty years as they pieced bits of fabric together into quilts.

  “I don’t want customers to see this,” Selma said, her eyes running up and down the bleached-out river. Her hands were knotted into tight fists and she pushed them into her hips, staring at the damage. “I should never have suggested we use it last night. I’m so sorry to all of you. Leah will be appalled.”

  At the mention of her name, Leah, followed by Maggie and Phoebe, walked in the back door. Wordlessly they surveyed the damage. And then as if on cue, the air was filled with crashing exclamations, outrage, and questions.

  “When did you discover this?” Po asked Selma, managing to squeeze her question into a short-lived lull.

  “Not until this morning. It was so packed in here last night you could barely move. Picasso’s had a line all the way down the block, and the overflow wandered around in here, waiting for their tables. Also, a Canterbury professor’s quilts were on display, and students and parents who knew her came in to see it.” Selma unpinned Leah’s fish from the background fabric and absently, as if telling it that it’d be okay, pressed the fabric to her cheek.

  “People were still here at closing,” Susan said. “Leah and I turned the spotlights out over the quilts to get people to leave, so it was dark on that side of the room, and we didn’t see the streak.”

  “Well, I have many of my little fins left over—I wasn’t sure what colors would fit in best so I made a ton. I can redo my fish without too much difficulty,” Leah said.

  “And my cauldron just may end up with some vegetables floating around it. There’s always a way,” Po said.

  “But why in heaven’s name would anyone have bleach in here? It makes no sense whatsoever!” Phoebe leaned over the damaged quilt, her palms flat on the table.

  The room grew quiet as they tried to make sense of the damage. Finally Po asked, “Selma, were you the last to leave?”

  “Yes. I sent Susan on her way—she has that drive all the way out to her farm. So I took care of the cash register, straightened a few fabric bolts, and went on home. The cleaning crew arrived when I was leaving.”

  “Have you talked to them? Could they have spilled something on the quilt?” Po asked.

  “I called Jake Hansen this morning as soon as I discovered it. He’s the head man, honest as the day is long. He saw it as soon as they started sweeping, he said. Jake doesn’t know diddlysquat about quilts—he thought maybe I had tried some new technique on it, kind of like tie-dye, he said.” Selma’s laugh was hollow.

  “So we know for sure it happened during the show,” Po said.

  “Is that possible?” Kate asked. “Wouldn’t you have smelled the bleach?”

 
; “Not in a room filled with fifty kinds of fancy perfumes and waves of Picasso’s garlic shrimp wafting in from down the street,” Leah said.

  “And it was so crowded that someone with a small spray bottle could easily have gone unnoticed,” Susan added. “Besides, the fabric wouldn’t have faded immediately, so no one would have noticed it ‘til later.”

  Po ran her fingers along the colorless fabric. She shook her head. “Random acts of violence. It’s so difficult to understand.”

  “Maybe not so random,” Selma said.

  All the Queen Bees stared at her.

  “What do you mean, Selma? If not random, it was aimed at you, or at all of us—it’s our quilt. That’s ridiculous,” Po said.

  Eleanor had slipped in the back door and heard the last few minutes of conversation. She walked over and looked at the quilt, shaking her head in dismay.

  Selma turned away from the quilt and looked at Po. Her face was composed and thoughtful. “I think it’s unlikely someone would walk into a quilt store on a crowded night and risk getting caught in such a foolish act unless there was a deliberate reason for doing it.”

  “Oh, Selma, I don’t think so,” Po said. But her words were soft and lacked conviction. Selma’s reasoning was far too close to her own to offer vacuous reassurances.

  “But why would anyone want to damage our quilt?” Phoebe asked. “If they wanted to do real damage they could have trashed the store or stolen Selma’s receipts, or slashed our tires, or—”

  “Exactly my point,” Selma interrupted. “This was done by someone who knows the effort we put into this quilt, someone who knows how much it means to us. And it was someone who knew that damaging the quilt would get our attention.”

  Eleanor stood over the quilt, its garish stain running down the side. Her glasses slid down her nose and the sleeve of her elegant silk blouse brushed across the fabric as veined hands touched it reverently. “Damn,” was all she said. Her gray head slowly moved from side to side.

  “And I double that thought, Eleanor.” P.J. strode into the room from the archway, his eyes searching for the quilt. A few scattered hellos greeted him, but the others turned to look at Kate.

  She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Okay, I called him,” she said. “This freaks me out. I think someone is sending us a message—”

  “—to mind your own business,” P.J. finished. “May I look?”

  Po nodded and stepped aside so P.J. could have a good view of the bleach-damaged fabric. He looked at it from afar, then leaned close, squinting at the circuitous design. “There, see that?” His fingers traced the trail of bleach.

  The Queen Bees followed the line of his finger. The path of the bleach was messy, difficult to discern, like a child’s first attempt at writing. And some would have disputed it, saying P.J. was reading into it, like a Rorschach Test.

  But the Queen Bees could see it, as clear and crisp as a finely pieced and quilted star.

  MYOB, it warned.

  CHAPTER 23

  “We need to talk about this.” P.J. walked over and helped himself to a cup of coffee. The women remained at the table, staring at the cryptic message. It jumped out of the quilt now, as clear as any writing they’d ever seen, and each Bee wondered how she could have missed it.

  P.J. walked back to the table. “The whole lot of you has been asking questions all over town. Someone is telling you very clearly to back off.”

  “But …” Phoebe said.

  “No ‘buts,’ Phoebe. This is serious. It makes sense you’d be warned this way. The quilt is for Picasso. And you’re all making it. It’s a perfect vehicle for a warning.”

  They stood in silence for a minute, the impact of the quilt damage settling down on them like a thick fog. Kate shivered and pulled her sweater close. Po walked over to the window and stared out into the spring day. It had suddenly turned cold and gray. Fear does that, she thought, robs a life of color.

  Back at the table, P.J. spoke into the silence. “How many people know about this quilt?” he asked.

  “I told my kids’ play group,” Phoebe said, “and all the moms that hang out in the park. Not to mention Jimmy’s law firm. And his mother knows, which is like telling the whole town. Everyone knows, P.J. You know us.”

  “I ate at the French Quarter last night and Picasso was telling everyone who came in to come over and look at it,” Eleanor said.

  “So hundreds, P.J., to answer your question,” Kate said.

  “Well, I think this act was planned,” he said. “Maybe not for days, but longer than the time it takes to get from Picasso’s restaurant to here.” He turned to Selma. “Do you remember who was in here last night?”

  Selma shook her head. “P.J., there was an army of people in here. Many I knew, sure—neighbors and friends and regular customers. And I’m sure there were plenty of those I didn’t even see. Leah and Susan and I mingled in different parts of the store at different times. On an ordinary day I could tell you exactly who came in, but last night was not ordinary. And in addition to faces I recognized, there were all the college visitors, most of them strangers.” She shuddered, suddenly. The thought of the murderer being in her store, maybe inches away from her, caused goosebumps to rise on her thick arms. She rubbed them vigorously. “We could look at receipts, P.J., but I don’t think that would tell us much. We sold plenty, but the majority of people came to look at the display. And a goodly percentage of them were from out of town.”

  P.J. nodded. Selma was right. It would be hard after-the-fact to put faces to the event. A needle in a haystack, or, more accurately, in a sewing store.

  He thought of Kate, and her obsession with this murder case. It was all she talked about last night on their drive to Kansas City. She was putting herself in danger, along with all the other nice, bright women standing around this room. “The person who killed Ann Woods and Sands would probably kill again if there was a need to do it,” he said slowly. “For whatever reason Laurel—Ann—was killed, anyone who gets too close to the truth puts herself or himself in danger. That may have been what happened to Sands. Laurel may have told him something. Maybe he said something to someone. Threatened the murderer. Tried blackmail. And now all of you are putting yourselves out on the line in your efforts to protect Picasso.” He looked around the room, then settled his gaze on Kate’s lovely face. “Please, back off, all of you. And leave this to the investigators working the case. Please.”

  ***

  When Leah and Po met the next morning for Maria’s Sunday special, their appetites weren’t up to crispy French toast, stuffed today with fresh mangoes and topped off with a dusting of powdered sugar and river of almond syrup. But they picked away at it, talking quietly about Saturday’s quilt episode.

  After P.J. called the police in and pictures had been taken of the quilt, the Queen Bees realized it wasn’t going to be as easy to repair it as they thought. The police walked off with the section of the quilt that had been damaged, marking it as evidence. Selma immediately went out to the front of the store and found new fabric to replace the missing sections, and by the end of the morning, all the pieces for the body of the appliquéd fish and black pot had been cut and were ready for Leah and Po to work on. It was as if the assault on their quilt propelled the Bees, and what would have taken many hours, was produced out of their anger and frustration in the small space of a morning.

  “P.J. seemed worried,” Leah said. “That’s not like him.”

  “He’d be concerned anyway, but with Kate involved—and being as impetuous as she can be—he’s especially so.”

  Leah nodded. “Well, he’s right. This isn’t a game of Clue anymore. It’s a murder investigation, after all.”

  “Yes,” was all Po said, and she pushed her plate away, aware of the danger and concerns that shadowed them all. The bakery seemed especially noisy today, and Po looked around at the crowd. Some of her neighbors sat in the front window, and she spotted Jesse and Ambrose at the table next to them. Their h
eads were bent in conversation and as Po watched, Ambrose threw down his napkin, pushed out his chair, and abruptly stomped out of the restaurant. Before she could look away, Jesse looked up and saw Po watching him. He smiled slightly, picked up the check, and walked over to their table.

  Po looked up into his youthful face. Jesse was in his midthirties, but with blonde, floppy hair, slender physique, and a shy, sweet smile that made him look much younger. She and Jesse had had many fascinating conversations over the Brew and Brie’s fine cheeses and imported fruits and candies about his travels and love of art. She liked this young man exceedingly. “Jesse, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping,” she said.

  Jesse brushed away her apology with a wave of her hand. “It’s okay, Po. No matter. Ambrose hasn’t been himself lately.”

  Jesse stood at the side of their table as if he wanted to say something more, but wasn’t sure what.

  “Would you like to have a cup of coffee with us?” Leah asked.

  Jess seemed relieved at the invitation and pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’m worried about all this Picasso mess,” he began, “and I don’t have anyone to talk with about it. Ambrose blows up when I mention it. But I need to talk—” He looked at Po, then Leah, his brown eyes sad.

  A waitress appeared with a cup of coffee and set it in front of Jesse. “We heard today about your quilt,” he said, as the young girl walked away. “Another awful piece to this puzzle.”

  “You heard about the damage?” Po said. She was surprised and not surprised. The Elderberry neighborhood was tight, and the news of something happening in Selma’s shop was bound to leak out.

  Jesse nodded. “Marla told us. Ambrose and I were talking with Billy McKay and his fiancé—” he nodded to a table on the other side of the room where Bill and Janna were having breakfast and chatting with the Reverend Gottrey and his wife.