Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery Page 3

Maggie and Phoebe followed her into the sunny kitchen and family room combination that stretched across the entire back of the house. Hoover, Po’s contented Irish Setter, was sprawled across the couch.

  “Hoover,” Kate called over to him. “Shame on you.”

  Hoover’s tail flopped joyfully on the pillows, inviting gentle ear scratching and accepting no blame for his indiscretion. Maggie walked over, sat down on the edge of the sofa, and happily complied.

  The sunny room was filled with years of memories for Kate. Beyond the wall of windows was the wide back porch, cluttered with comfortable wicker chairs and porch swings, huge wooden paddle fans, and a lush, rolling backyard that had once been a woods. When the house was built, Po and Sam had insisted that as many trees be kept as possible, and it was filled with river oak, fifty-foot pine trees, and a thick, brambly blackberry patch that yielded the fruit for Po’s famous berry cobblers.

  “This place was our playground,” Kate said, looking across the yard, then around the well-stocked kitchen. At the far end of the open area was a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace and soft comfortable couches with a table between. Sam Paltrow had made the coffee table himself — an enormous square chunk of oak, worn to a shine over the years and host to many a Scrabble game. Overstuffed chairs were grouped in a pair near a thick bookcase on another wall, and a third sat close to the wide French doors that led out to the porch.

  After years of hide-and-seek on all floors of the Paltrow home, Kate was as familiar with it as her own. She loved the wide polished hallways and the cozy den at the front of the house. It was paneled in thick walnut with built-in bookshelves that climbed all the way to the ceiling, and to this day, it still smelled of Sam’s Swisher Sweets cherry-scented cigars. There, while adults clinked glasses and chatted in front of the fireplace or out on the porch, a small body could make its way easily into the cabinets below the bookcases. And wedged in between stacks of musty-smelling National Geographics, poker chips, and jigsaw puzzles, Kate would shush herself into quiet while the older kids ran through the house looking for her. She loved it here.

  While Kate rummaged around in the refrigerator looking for Po’s coffee beans, Phoebe pulled her cell phone out of her backpack and called home, checking on Jude, Emma, and Jimmy. Kate had long suspected that as much as Phoebe savored her Saturday mornings with the Queen Bees, it wouldn’t be quite so lovely if her three loves, as she called them, weren’t connected to her frequently used cell phone.

  “News travels fast,” said Phoebe, snapping down the lid of her phone and slipping it into the pocket of her jeans. “Jimmy said three neighbors and a lawyer from his firm had already called to see if we’d heard the news about Owen’s death. Peter Finch — he lives next door — said that Selma had a lot of things going on in that back room, drugs maybe! And maybe that’s why Owen Hill had a heart attack.”

  Just then, Leah and Eleanor arrived, balancing white bakery boxes and satchels of quilting materials. “Phoebe!” Leah scolded. “What trash.”

  “Of course it is,” Phoebe said. She walked over and flopped down on one of the wide corduroy-covered couches. Her tiny body was nearly lost in its cushions. “It’s preposterous, is what it is, and that’s exactly what Jimmy told Peter. He also told him a little about slander suits and said that he was offering Selma a special on them if she was interested.”

  “That’s our Jimmy.” Leah smiled and began taking blueberry muffins and Marla’s cinnamon rolls out of one of the boxes, placing them on a large platter. Maggie straddled a chair at the thick dining table and picked at the stray crumbs that fell onto the tabletop.

  Kate waited for the comforting gurgle of the coffeemaker, then sat down opposite Phoebe and unzipped her backpack. “I’d almost forgotten how much people gossip in this town.”

  “People gossip, sure,” Leah said. “But people also care. Sometimes that’s at the root of it.”

  “But to imply that drugs were involved because a lovely man dies of a heart attack? That’s just crazy. I love this little town, but that kind of thing reminds me of when I was a kid and my parents knew before I got home at night, whose car I’d been riding in,” Kate said. “Or if I’d sneaked a cigarette with a friend down by the river — nothing was secret.”

  “There’s that side of it. But I still think it usually comes down to concern, at least more often than not. I’ve lived on both coasts and had great friends there, but I love the caring of near-strangers here.” Leah finished arranging the muffins and sat down on the couch next to Eleanor.

  “Not to perpetuate the gossip, you understand,” Phoebe said, “but what was Owen doing at Selma’s, anyway?” She began pulling small pieces of fabric from her quilting sack and lining them up on the large coffee table between her and Kate.

  “Po said there’d been a meeting of that corporation the shop owners formed,” Leah said. “All the shop owners were there — we’ll have to wait for her to tell us more.”

  “Where is she, anyway?” Kate asked.

  “Selma and Susan called her back over to the store just as we were getting ready to leave. She told us to go on without her and she’d be here soon. She’d catch a ride with someone,” she said. Leah sat at the large trestle table, lifted her square, hand-made quilting case onto the table, and unsnapped the strap that held it together.

  “I took an art history class from Dr. Hill last semester,” Kate said. “And his lectures on ‘Art of the Ages’ were always standing-room only. He brought art history to life.” She looked over at Maggie. “Maggie, you took care of the Hill’s dog, didn’t you?” Kate asked.

  Maggie nodded. “They had an amazing golden named Spencer. He was a beautiful, wonderful dog. But it was usually Mary Hill, who came in with Spencer.” Maggie poured a cup of coffee, remembering. “Oh, except once,” she said. “It was Professor Hill who brought Spencer in the day we had to put him to sleep. He was old — his back legs had given out and he just couldn’t get up anymore. I remember how kind Owen Hill was, holding that big golden bundle in his arms the whole time, stroking his fur and whispering sweet words into his ear. He said Mary just couldn’t do it.”

  They looked up and listened as a car pulled into the drive, followed by a door slam, and the car rolling out again. In seconds, Po breezed through the door. “Hi, everyone,” she said, walking quickly across the kitchen and pouring a cup of coffee. Hoover leapt off the couch and hurried to her side. “I’m glad you’re all here.”

  Kate was threading a needle for Eleanor so she could sew the ribbing on a pillow she was almost finished with. The long piece of cobalt-blue thread dangled from her fingers. She looked up over the needle and met Po’s eyes. Po was standing still at the kitchen counter, and the face that Kate considered one of the loveliest in her life was pinched in worry.

  “Po?” she said. “Are you okay?”

  At that, the others looked up, too.

  Po walked toward them, her eyes glancing out the back windows into the blanket of fall color. Finally she looked back at her circle of friends. They were all looking at her expectantly.

  “Po, you’re white as a ghost,” Kate said. “Please sit down.” She started to rise from the couch.

  Po stopped her with an outstretched hand. “I’m fine, honey. But I have some bad news, as if we haven’t heard enough today. Owen Hill didn’t die of a heart attack.”

  “An aneurysm, I bet,” Phoebe said. “Jimmy’s Uncle Frederick had one burst right in the middle of a speech at the Kiwanis Club …”

  A gentle shake of Eleanor’s head shushed Phoebe. The only sound in the room was the nervous tap of Eleanor’s cane against the hardwood floor.

  “Owen Hill was murdered,” Po said.

  CHAPTER 4

  Hearts & Hands

  “Murdered!” Five voices collided in mid-air.

  Po sat down on a chair beside Maggie. “I was jogging behind the alley when I first saw Owen lying there in the doorway. He had blood on the back of his head …” Po paused and squeezed her eyes sh
ut for a minute. The image of Owen Hill was startlingly clear, a brutal snapshot imprinted across the front of her brain. Would it ever go away? She took a deep breath and began again. “But we thought — I thought — that it was because he fell and hit his head.”

  “And?” coaxed Phoebe. She was sitting on the edge of her chair.

  “This is awful, Po,” Leah murmured.

  “No, this is impossible,” Phoebe broke in. Her blonde head shook with the force of her words. “People kill each other in Boston …” she looked over at Kate as if she were personally responsible for that fact. “Not here in Crestwood. That’s why Jimmy and I stayed here. That’s why we’re having our babies here.”

  “Honey —,” Eleanor said, leaning forward in her chair and tapping Phoebe’s thigh with her cane, “unfortunately people can kill people anywhere they want. But this is still among the better places to have your babies, I suspect.”

  “Was it a burglar?” Maggie asked. She’d been concerned about break-ins at her veterinary clinic and had installed extra locks and alarms to make sure the pharmaceuticals were safe. Selma’s shop didn’t have drugs, for sure, but you never knew what people were looking for.

  “It might have been a burglar,” Po said. “They don’t know much yet.”

  Kate hadn’t said a word. She watched Po, her mind spinning. A heart attack was one thing — that sometimes happens to people and it’s sad and of course you miss the person terribly. But murder! Phoebe was right this time — murders happened in Boston — lots of them. And in New York. Even in Kansas City. But not in Crestwood, Kansas.

  “Why would anyone break into Selma’s shop,” Maggie asked.

  “Good question, Maggie,” Phoebe said. “Good grief — what would they expect to find there — is there a black market on quilts?”

  “Why not break into the fancy wine store down the block?” Leah said. “Or Mary and Owen’s own antique store? It would have more valuables and more money than Selma’s.”

  “Maybe the burglar had the wrong store,” Phoebe suggested. “I’ll bet it’s hard to see in that alley at night.”

  Speculations were tossed out into the middle of the room as each woman fumbled around for the right patches of fabric in her bag, opened containers of straight pins and set them on Po’s wide oak table or the coffee table in front of the couch. It was finish-up-Saturday, as Phoebe called it. They were each finishing up their individual quilts or hangings or place mats so they could begin work in earnest on an anniversary quilt for Selma.

  Phoebe went into the laundry room and came back with an ironing board and iron. She plugged it in, waiting to feel heat against her fingers. “The most peculiar thing about this whole business is that Owen was there alone. What was he doing there, Po?”

  “Selma said they had had a shop owner’s meeting last night. They were trying to get some things worked out and settle some arguments.”

  “What kind of arguments?” Phoebe began ironing the seams of the squares that made up a Thanksgiving table runner, pressing them away from the stitching, as Selma had taught her. She looked up from the ironing board.

  “Just normal business things. For one, they were trying to get Daisy to spruce up her place. Selma said Daisy left in a fury, outraged at Owen for being told what to do with her shop. And they were discussing replacing the sidewalk, things like that. Owen had indicated they’d have to meet again soon. He wanted to call some audits, make sure all the contractors were legal, that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds boring,” Phoebe said.

  “It is.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “I love owning my own clinic, but the paperwork is horrendous. And I don’t have to bother with other owners the way those folks do.”

  “Why did Owen stay later than the others?” Eleanor asked.

  “He and Max Elliott — he’s both lawyer and accountant for that group — stayed for a short while to figure out some problems with a lease for that new stationery store. Then Max left, and Owen stayed on to wrap things up. Max said it wasn’t unusual for him to do that. Selma gave him a key a long time ago since they met so often in her store and sometimes she didn’t come.” Po poured herself another cup of coffee and then walked around the room, refilling everyone’s cups.

  “Well, what can we do?” Leah asked. “I suppose casseroles for Mary.” Her long narrow fingers stitched the binding in place for a small pillow she was making for her grandmother. Her fingers moved rhythmically, with quiet assurance.

  “That’s a good idea,” Po said, “though Mary was very active in her church. They might be taking care of that. I’ll find out.” She walked over to a closet and took out a box holding the pieces of fabric she was using to make a quilted wall hanging for her daughter Sophie’s birthday. She’d taken photographs of Sophie and her baby, Jane, and transferred them to pieces of fabric. Susan and Leah had ingeniously come up with a quilting pattern that circled the photos and tied them into a wondrous whole. All that was left was the binding, which she was ready to stitch in place. It was a good day to work on something for loved ones, she decided — it shrunk the distance between Sophie’s home in Oregon and hers in Crestwood — and dimmed the morning’s horror.

  “Do you think Selma will be okay?” Kate asked. “Is Susan with her?”

  Po nodded. “I don’t know which of them is more shaken by this, Susan or Selma. Susan came in early this morning, so she was there when the police were photographing Owen’s body. Needless to say, it was difficult for her.”

  “Poor Susan. Sometimes she seems so vulnerable. I have a class with her this semester and she’s so quiet, but when she speaks, it’s always worth listening to.” Kate stood and headed for the kitchen table.

  “But she’s solid and strong when she needs to be, I suspect,” Po said. “I’ve seen her with some of Selma’s more difficult customers.”

  “And you, Po?” Kate said. “How are you doing with all this?” Kate helped herself to a cinnamon roll, then walked over to Po. Maggie began folding up the ironing board while the others picked up frayed bits of fabric from the floor and began tying off threads. Kate watched Po carefully.

  How was she? Po mulled the question around in her head. A friend was dead. Another in great distress over what had happened in her store. But the worst part of all was something Sam used to tease her about — that sixth sense, that kind of intuition that he said he could see in the pinch of her brow and set of her chin. And she felt it today. It settled over her like a heavy shroud — a deep, unsettling foreboding that this was only the beginning of their troubles. She looked up at Kate, standing still beside her.

  “All’s well that ends well, my Kate — let’s hope that’s what happens here.” But she didn’t for a minute believe a good end would come soon — and she knew that Kate didn’t believe it either.

  CHAPTER 5

  Twisted Ribbons

  Three days later, Po, Kate, and Maggie rode together to the Hill home. The three-story Tudor home stood at the crest of a hill, not far from Canterbury College. It looked over the whole town.

  “Nice place,” Maggie said, understating the elegance spread out before them.

  “A good match for the funeral,” Kate said. “That was quite an elaborate service.”

  “Owen and Mary have been very generous to that church,” Po said. Personally, she had thought the service a bit extravagant, not entirely to her taste. The altar flowers were so abundant that a steady chorus of sneezing accompanied the Reverend Gottrey’s long-winded eulogy. But each to his own, she thought. She certainly wouldn’t begrudge Mary Hill anything that might ease her grief.

  Kate maneuvered her Jeep into a tight space near the end of the long driveway. “The Reverend was certainly appreciative of the Hills. In fact, his invitation to come back to the house to pay our respects sounded a bit like an order.”

  “I thought so, too,” Maggie said. The dozens of cars packing the Hill circle drive indicated others had interpreted it the same way.

  Owen Hill, Po reminded
Kate, was almost solely responsible for Reverend Gottrey’s new roof.

  “A good turnout, in Reverend Gottrey’s view, would be a good thing,” Po said.

  “Yes, but for whom?” Kate asked as she squeezed between two shiny SUVs and trudged up the hill. “Mary Hill can’t be in much of a mood to entertain.”

  “She’s the consummate hostess,” Po said. “She’ll hide her grief, greet us all graciously, and deal with Owen’s death in the days to come.”

  Po looked back toward the street and noticed a policeman directing traffic. The quiet neighborhood of elegant homes had turned into a parking nightmare. She wondered how many of those making their way up the long walkway to Mary Hill’s door were curiosity seekers. The drama of Owen Hill’s death had taken over the town. It was talked about everywhere — from Dillon’s Supermarket to the new Starbucks out near the mall — and the Canterbury College gossip mill was running at full steam. Even an editor at the small publishing house in Kansas City that was publishing Po’s book on women and quilting called, asking all sorts of questions.

  “Look — Phoebe and Leah beat us,” Kate said as they walked through the front door and into a foyer that was far larger than Kate’s living room. Phoebe and Leah stood beside a marble-topped table that held a silver urn of peach-colored roses. “Welcome to our cottage,” Leah whispered.

  “I’ve always wanted to come inside this house,” Phoebe said, her face bright. A rosy-colored, wispy dress covered her small frame and several sets of gold earrings dangled from her ears. “Not like I wanted anyone to die to get me in, sure, but gads, just look at this place!”

  “Quite nice for a professor,” Kate admitted.

  “Family money,” sniffed a woman passing by.

  Po looked after her, amused. “No secrets in this town,” she said.

  “I knew the Hills were wealthy, but I guess I never thought much about where it came from,” Maggie said.

  “Owen’s father began a successful chain of hardware stores in Kansas City,” Po said. “Owen wasn’t interested in the business — art and teaching were his passions — so he sold everything when his father died, except the family farm. He was left with enough money to buy a small country.”