A Bias for Murder Page 17

  She poured herself a glass of wine and carried it upstairs. She considered calling the police, but there didn’t seem to be anything missing. What could they do? Instead she picked up the new book Eleanor had bought for her and headed upstairs to bed.

  A soak in a hot bath, the glass of wine, and a few chapters of the book relaxed her weary body, and when Po turned out the light a short while later, sleep, though fitful, finally came.

  Chapter 25

  “Po, I can’t believe you didn’t call the police,” Selma said. Her eyes were blazing.

  Po had considered skipping the Saturday morning quilting session, but they were all nearly finished with their quilt tops for the bed and breakfast, and Po knew her absence would cause more fuss than sharing her news about last night’s break-in. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Calm down. Nothing was taken. Everything is fine.”

  “Fine, my foot.” Selma walked around the end of the table and plugged in the iron. Her brown clogs pounded on the hardwood floor.

  “Have you talked to P.J.?” Kate asked, her face troubled.

  Po saw the worry fill Kate’s enormous brown eyes. She reached over and patted her hand. “Kate, don’t worry about this. Please. I will be careful.”

  Kate didn’t answer. She slipped her hand away and walked over to the sideboard, pouring a cup of coffee and looking out into the morning, worry visible in the sloop of her shoulders.

  Eleanor lowered her cane to the floor and sat down next to Po. “Drink this,” she said, handing Po a cup of coffee.

  “Eleanor, I’m fine.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Eleanor said, “so humor me. If I had my flask, I’d spike it.”

  Phoebe echoed Eleanor’s concern. “Po, it’s like this time it wasn’t dangerous, but next time? We need to figure this out, stop all this nonsense. Why would anyone want to break into your house?”

  “That’s the first question that needs an answer. You said nothing was taken?” Selma said. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Nothing, except for a yellow pad,” Po said. “And most likely I misplaced that. I doubt if anyone would want my scribblings and grocery lists. There’s even a chance I have blown this out of proportion and it was Hoover who scattered the papers in the den. Maybe chasing a mouse.”

  But even Po wasn’t buying her own explanation.

  “So is that what was on the yellow pad?” Maggie asked. “Grocery lists?” Her Fox and Geese quilt top was almost finished and she was as proud of it as she was of her veterinary clinic. She’d pieced the simple design with bright red calico pieces and it would be perfect on the double bed in the corner room at 210 Kingfish Drive.

  “That and nonsense. Doodles, scribbles.”

  Leah and Susan walked in from the other room, carrying their already completed quilts. Leah had quilted her own, not trusting it to a second party. The spirit that comes with the presence of beautiful things filtered into the room, relieving the tension.

  “That’s gorgeous,” Maggie exclaimed as she spied the quilt in Leah’s arms. She got up and took one corner of the quilt from Leah. Together they held it high for the others to see.

  For the quilt top, Leah had created her own design, piecing together a bed of rolling hills—strips of bright greens and blues, shades of rust and goldenrod filled the quilt top in uneven waves. And on top of the design, in crimson and yellows and purples, she had appliquéd sunflowers and daisies and black cherry coleus. Brilliant zinnias, their heads full and flowering. Between the appliquéd prairie flowers, she’d woven strands of prairie grasses into the design. It was a contemporary prairie flowerbed, a work of art, and quilted in graceful waves that matched the field—intricate, perfect lines of stitching. For the binding that held the three layers of the quilt together, Leah had found a navy blue fabric, filled with tiny dots of color that matched the flowers.

  “Magnificent, Leah. You’ve outdone yourself,” Po said, grateful for the shift in conversation.

  “It’s going in that large bedroom with the sitting room off to the side,” Leah said.

  A rattling at the back door broke into the conversation, and Po stiffened, then looked over at P.J.’s lanky frame filling the doorway.

  “H’lo ladies,” he said with a lopsided grin, not totally comfortable in a roomful of needles and strange tools he didn’t understand. He walked over to the sideboard, helping himself to a cinnamon roll.

  “Are you taking up quilting?” Po asked, wondering when Kate had managed to send him an S.O.S. text without Po seeing it.

  “Not today, Po.” P.J. walked over to her and bent low, his face not far from hers. “Heard you had a visitor last night.”

  “I guess I did, P.J.” Po said. “But he didn’t do any damage—”

  “He?” P.J. pulled up a chair and straddled it from behind.

  “He. She. I don’t know the sex, P.J., but whoever it was saw fit to leave without saying hello. Nothing was taken.”

  “Except your peace of mind,” Kate said from the other side of the table.

  “Yes, that was shaken.”

  “Any idea who would have come in like that? Or what they wanted?” P.J. asked.

  Po had thought of that question since five that morning when she’d pulled on faded sweat pants and a hoodie, and run slowly through the neighborhood, circled around the campus, and finally walked briskly all the way down to the river park and back. Who, indeed? She almost wished a camera or computer was missing. That would make it simple. An honest-to-goodness robbery. But as far as she knew, nothing was missing. So it had to be something else. Someone who wanted something she had—and couldn’t find it.

  “Po?” P.J. said. “If all those thoughts rattling around in your head were said out loud, I’d be a giant step further in understanding what went on last night.”

  Po shook her head. “No, I don’t think you would be. It doesn’t make any sense at all.” But she knew deep down that it did make sense, it all made sense somehow—if only her mind could order it correctly. Was it someone she knew? That thought caused the deepest unrest. She could account for those she was with last night, but that was a short list of two. Her emotions fought any possible list she tried to put together. But the truth was, someone had entered house while she was gone. In those few hours, protected by her absence, someone had rifled through her things. Po rubbed her hands up and down her arms and sighed.

  Kate bit down on her bottom lip as she listened to the talk around her. Po glanced at the emotion clouding her face and could read her thoughts. She was as sure as Po herself was that whatever happened at Po’s last night was connected to the murders. And that thought caused ripples of fear to travel up both their spines.

  P.J. saw it too. He walked over and looped an arm around Kate’s shoulders, pulling her close. “It’s okay, Katie,” he whispered into her hair. “We won’t let anything happen to Po. If someone had intended to do her harm, they would have come when she was home.” And then he looked around at the room filled with women who’d inched their way into his life—Eleanor and Selma with their plain wisdom and humor, the irrepressible Phoebe and quiet, talented Susan. Beautiful, earthy Leah, And down-to-earth Maggie, smart as a whip, with a heart as big as Kansas.

  They were strong, independent women, every single one of them. And that was exactly what tugged at his emotions and caused stabs of concern to settle uncomfortably inside him. There was nothing those ladies wouldn’t do for one another. Even if it meant putting themselves in the middle of a murder investigation. Even if it meant attacking danger head on and worrying about the consequences later.

  Chapter 26

  P.J. left the shop with worry in his eyes and creases in his forehead. He started to say something to Kate when she walked him to the door, but she quickly silenced him with two fingers pressed to his lips.

  “We aren’t foolish, P.J.,” she said.

 
But when she returned to the workroom, the conversation had grown animated and emotional. Impatience caused voices to rise, and two hours later, when they had all gathered their supplies and readied to leave, a consensus was clear and voiced loudest by Eleanor, her cane rapping the floor:

  “There is no way on God’s earth that a regular old thief would wander into Po’s home, then decide to leave without taking things. This is connected to Ollie’s and Joe’s murders, as sure as anything,” Eleanor declared.

  “And it must stop,” Phoebe declared, punctuating the abrupt end of their morning session.

  * * * *

  Kate and Po walked out into a north wind that scuttled leaves across the road. Po shivered against the unexpected chill. “I’ll drive you home, Kate,” she said.

  Kate nodded. She was shivering, too. But whether from the crisp, sharp air or the recent conversation, she couldn’t be sure.

  “El is right. We’re all right. And surely Phoebe is right, too.” Kate climbed into Po’s CRV and snapped her seatbelt in place. “These deaths aren’t about that house. Joe and Ollie knew or saw something someone didn’t want them to know.”

  “I think so, too, Kate.”

  “So it’s more personal, more intimate.”

  Po nodded. She pulled into the driveway of the small house that Kate’s parents had left to their only child. It was a cozy bungalow, and Kate’s parents had refinished it to its original shine, restoring the dark wood molding and filling it with midcentury modern furniture, clean and uncluttered. Po had spent many hours on the wide front porch with Liz, Kate’s mom. Sitting, gossiping, comforting, enlightening. All the things best friends do. Sometimes they’d laugh about how safe their houses made them feel.

  Safe. That’s what homes should be.

  “Are you listening to me, Po?” Kate asked, undoing her seat belt and shifting on the seat to stare at Po. “You’re not hearing me.”

  Po forced a smile. “Of course I am. A little distracted I guess.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Kate paused, then said, “P.J. will pass everything along to those working on the case.”

  “I know that, Kate.”

  “And they will find whoever did this. Whoever did all of these awful things.”

  Po reached over and gave Kate a hug. “Yes,” she said.

  But neither spoke with conviction. The words were hollow. They both knew the police were working hard, and probably were uncovering things every day.

  But it wasn’t enough. Po felt more certain now than she ever had that there was something right in front of them, staring them in the face, that would put the pieces together.

  And that thought tugged at her as she drove away from Kate’s. One had to think outside the box, outside a house and a garage apartment. Outside a potential B&B.

  One had to think of Ollie.

  He’d been agitated that day. Upset about something. Halley had seen it. And Leah too.

  From Kate’s, Po drove directly to Canterbury University, hoping that the library would be very quiet on a Saturday afternoon. It was not a trip she wanted to make, but she needed to talk with Halley. Her behavior at the bookstore had been strange. And where was Halley before that, when someone was wandering around Po’s house without an invitation?

  Po parked her car and walked up the stairs to the massive stone library. When she walked through the turnstile, she decided that her luck was changing. Halley Peterson was standing behind the resource desk working on a computer.

  She looks sad, Po thought, as she made her way around a book display. The range of emotions the woman had displayed in just a few days was remarkable. Joy, anger, jealousy, sadness. What would be next?

  “Halley?” Po said.

  Halley’s head jerked up. Her face was drawn, and she seemed, at first, not to recognize Po.

  Po waited for Halley to step in, to fill in some of the cavernous cracks.

  Finally, Halley collected herself. “I’m rather busy, if you’ve come to see me.” Her voice was formal and cool.

  “We need to talk. Is everything all right, Halley?”

  Halley managed a smile. “Of course.”

  “Did you get my message about the things I’d found at Joe’s?”

  Halley nodded. “Thank you. I came by last night—but you weren’t home.”

  “And did you find it?”

  Halley looked puzzled. “Find what?”

  “The things you were looking for at Joe’s apartment. The things I brought home.”

  “Of course not,” Halley snapped. “Are you saying I went inside your house?”

  “Friends do that all the time. P.J.’s been known to go in and eat all my leftovers.” She smiled, trying to ease the tension between them.

  “Maybe others do that. I wouldn’t.” Halley played with a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek, twisting it into a spiral. She looked at Po, challenging her, her chest moving in and out as she tried to calm herself.

  “Did you tell anyone else about Joe’s things?” Po asked.

  “Of course not. Why would anyone else care?”

  “You’re probably right. I haven’t really gone through them. I’ve spread them out in my basement to dry and air out. But I’m going to look through them today—and you’re welcome to see what’s there. There’s a photo of you and Ollie that you might like. Perhaps some other things.”

  Halley face was expressionless. She nodded.

  An awkward silence fell into the space between them. “Well, then,” Po said, “Perhaps I’ll see you later.” Halley nodded and looked down. Her fingers began frantically punching keys on the computer, dismissing Po. Her face was grim.

  Po paused for a moment, then rummaged in her purse for her car keys. Her fingers touched the small book she had found at Joe’s and dropped in her purse. Impulsively, she pulled it out and set it on the library counter. “Here, Halley. Take this. It’s from Joe’s and perhaps belonged to Ollie.” Then she forced a smile to her face, turned and walked out of the library, feeling Halley’s eyes on her back as she walked through the wide front door.

  In the car Po tried to process Halley Peterson’s behavior. Had she totally misread this young woman? Though Po had seen Halley’s anger when she talked about Adele Harrington—and in Gus’s bookstore more recently—the frosty façade she presented to Po today was something new. But if Halley was trying to rebuff Po, she was choosing the wrong tactic. If nothing else, her behavior only added to Po’s resolve to talk with her.

  Po’s next stop was the Harrington mansion. She found Adele limping around in the back gardens, looking more relaxed, in spite of the still-swollen ankle that kept her pace slow and measured.

  Adele looked up as Po approached. “It’s nice to see you, Po. Is there something you need?”

  “I thought I’d give you a quilt update.” She fell in step beside her. “Susan and Leah have finished theirs, and the rest are nearly ready to go. I think you’re going to love them.”

  “I’ve no doubt I will. I hired the best.”

  Po smiled. “I wanted you to know that I’m drying out some of Ollie’s things that I found at Joe’s. Some pictures. Some writings of his. He was very good, people tell me.”

  “Oh, I think I told you that. He was a lovely writer from an early age. I sent him a computer once—but he hated it. He said his fingers needed the feel of the pen in them, that his thoughts worked themselves down from his head, through his fingers and the pencil to paper. The computer messed up the route and his thoughts got lost.” She spoke slowly, thoughtfully. Remembering.

  Po laughed. “I thought that way once. I had to force myself to make friends with a laptop. And of course it became my good friend. But I understand what Ollie was saying. So he always wrote in longhand?”

  “Always.” Adele looked off toward the pond. “I found a bunch of yellow pads in hi
s room, filled from top to bottom with his familiar scrawl. But I couldn’t quite get myself to read them. The day I returned, right after Ollie died, I walked upstairs and found Joe in Ollie’s room, sitting on his bed with the yellow pads on his lap, old glasses balanced on his nose. He’d been crying I could tell, but I was a mess, in shock, still trying to believe that my brother was gone. And this man I had never liked was in Ollie’s room. I yelled at him to get out, but he refused to leave without Ollie’s scribblings. Finally, I gave in. I didn’t want them, not really. I just wanted Ollie back.”

  “Did he leave?”

  Adele nodded. “It was odd, now that I think back. Joe was acting peculiar that day, muttering that it would be better for me if he had the yellow pads. But he was such a strange little man that I guess I didn’t pay much attention. And I knew that I probably wouldn’t understand Ollie’s writings anyway.”

  Po listened carefully. “If I find anything in the things I’ve taken home, I will save them for you.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’ve reached the point, I think, where I can talk to people who knew Ollie. For a while, it made me angry, that people like Joe and Halley Peterson and Jed Fellers knew Ollie better than I did. Even Tom Adler spent more time with him in recent months. And Ollie liked them all. I’m not so fond of some of them, but I’ve decided that keeping them at bay is foolish. I’m only hurting myself. They knew a part of Ollie I would like to know better. In fact, for starters, I want to build a small observatory here in Ollie’s honor. I thought Jed Fellers would be a good person to talk to about it.”

  “That’s a lovely idea, Adele. I imagine Jed thought so too.”

  “Well, my discussion with him was interrupted,” Adele said. “We’ll talk later, perhaps.”

  “That was your dinner at Jacques’s?” Halley Peterson’s jealousy was most definitely misplaced, Po thought.