Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery Read online

  “And he settled for the life of a professor in Crestwood,” Kate said.

  “He loved this town — and he loved teaching,” Po said, guiding the group toward the back of the house to make room for new guests. “Owen’s farm is an amazing place, and he loved it with a special passion. It’s not far from here, actually.” She smiled to herself. “He called it a farm, but instead of cows and pigs, there are horses, acres of thick woods to hike in, and miles of rolling land that are perfect for cross-country skiing.”

  “How did he meet Mary?” Kate asked, following Po into a small vacant space beneath the winding staircase.

  “They met in Kansas City, but they’ve lived here forever.”

  “Well, Mary Hill has done quite nicely for herself, that much is for sure,” Phoebe whispered. “Just look at this place. And can you believe the size of that funeral? Makes me wonder who would come if I died. It would be so awful to have an empty church.”

  “I’ll come, Pheebs,” Kate assured her.

  “Me, too,” Maggie said. “I could bring a date. That’d be three.”

  “Thanks, guys. I know you’ll never let me down.” Her bubbly laughter caused several people to look at the group. Phoebe, as diminutive as an adolescent girl, still stood out in a crowd. Kate thought it was her amazing head of hair. Floozy hair, Phoebe’s in-laws called it. Angel hair, the Queen Bees said.

  Or it could have been the five tiny holes that dotted each ear. Phoebe explained to the Queen Bees once that each one represented a special memory — like her graduation, her wedding, the twins’ birth. Eleanor had wondered aloud how many children Phoebe planned on having.

  The tap of a cane on the highly polished floor announced Eleanor’s approach. “Have you seen Mary yet?” she asked.

  They shook their heads.

  “I think she’s out on the patio.” Leah nodded toward open French doors at the back of the foyer. “It’s probably much easier to breathe out there. I swear the entire town is here.”

  “I think the Reverend Gottrey imported people,” Maggie said. “Surely there aren’t this many people in all of Crestwood.”

  Leah laughed. “That man doesn’t miss a trick, does he? Passing out memorial pledge envelopes for the Owen Hill memorial something or other before the ground has even closed over his casket.”

  “He was cremated,” Phoebe said.

  “Now, Phoebe — how do you know that?” Leah asked.

  Phoebe looked around, then said in a whisper, “Well, he was. Janelle at Pierre’s Salon told me. Mary Hill gets her hair done there, too. And Mary picked one of the grandest urns that Windsor House Antiques had to keep him in until she can take him — wherever it is you take urns with people in them. I think he’s over there —” She inclined her head toward the open doors to a museum-like living room. A giant urn stood on the stone mantelpiece.

  “Oh, Phoebe,” Leah said, holding back a smile.

  “There’s Reverend Gottrey now,” Po said, nodding toward the hallway.

  The white-haired minister and his wife walked through the entryway, shaking every hand and thanking each person for coming. Po could hear him praising Owen Hill’s grand contributions to God’s work.

  Leah frowned. “It doesn’t seem to matter to the Reverend that Owen spent Sunday mornings on the golf course instead of at services.”

  “Mary came, though,” Po said. “Religiously.”

  “And Professor Hill’s money came, too,” Phoebe said.

  “And now there’s this new memorial?” Maggie said. “Not bad.”

  “If he had to die, it’s not a bad thing that someone benefits from it,” Leah said resolutely. “I’m just sad, I guess. I liked Owen Hill so much, and it seems too soon to be talking about building memorials and coming up with ways to benefit from his death.”

  Po nodded. “Things seem more sinister when you’re missing someone,” she said.

  “Or when that someone you’re missing was murdered,” Leah said sadly.

  “I say we try to find Mary, shall we?” Kate made a move toward the French patio doors.

  The group followed her out to the wide stone patio that wrapped around the back of Mary Hill’s home. In the distance was a large swimming pool, covered for the season with a thick canvas tarp. Small pools of water weighed the canvas down here and there, and leaves stripped from the huge elms and maples along the side yard floated on the muddy, grim surface.

  A maid stood at the door with a tray holding silver cups of spiced apple cider. Other staff moved about the quiet crowd, carrying trays of stuffed mushrooms and carpaccio on tiny toast points, mini cheese quiches, martinis and Manhattans. A small wine bar was set up near a fan of wide steps that led down to the swimming pool. “This is definitely like the most elegant funeral I’ve ever been too,” Phoebe whispered. “It’s more like a garden party.” She looked around, then pointed toward the far end of the patio. “There’s Mary Hill — ”

  Mary stood like a painting, flanked on either side by an ornate, potted fern. She was nearly still — a fragile, beautiful statue — greeting each guest with a slight, careful smile and a gentle lift of her brows, as if to apologize for bringing them to such a sad event. Her slate-black hair was wound tightly into a braided knot at the nape of her neck and her elegant silk suit fit her slender form perfectly.

  She looked regal, Kate thought. And so familiar, standing there in her beautiful black suit. Then her eyes lit up with a memory pulled from her past. “Halloween,” she said.

  “Yes!” Maggie said. “I remember!”

  “This was the ‘don’t miss’ house,” Kate explained to the others.

  “I’d almost forgotten that,” Po said. “You came back with marvelous things, not the small Hershey kisses and candied apples your mother and I handed out.”

  Kate laughed. “You and mom were definitely out of Mary’s league, Po. The Hills gave us hand-dipped chocolates, Royals pennants, those wild troll dolls with the neon hair — very cool things,” Kate said. “And remember, Mags, how Mary Hill used to dress up like a beautiful witch, dressed completely in black?”

  “We thought she was the most amazing creature we had ever seen.”

  “She’s definitely beautiful,” Leah said. “It’s funny, though — as many times as I’ve been in her company at university functions, I don’t feel I know Mary at all. Owen seemed to do all the talking. She was an elegant appendage.”

  “I think that’s because the university was Owen’s turf,” Po said. “But at church events — and the garden club and charity balls — Mary shined at those.”

  Po looked over and watched the circle of guests moving around Mary Hill. It was that sad, peculiar dance people did at wakes, and Po felt a sudden surge of empathy for the woman in the middle of it all.

  Mary Hill looked up and saw Po watching her. Before Po could avert her eyes, Mary smiled at her. Then she excused herself from the group standing around her and walked across the patio to where the Queen Bees gathered.

  “It was good of you all to come,” Mary said, looking at each of them in turn. “The Queen Bees. But where’s Selma?”

  Just then Selma Parker walked over from the other direction. “Present and accounted for,” she said, joining the group.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Mary said

  Selma frowned. “Well, now, where else would I be?”

  Mary Hill slipped her arm through Selma’s and drew her close to her side. The contrast between the two women — the tall, dark, elegant widow, and the round, flush-cheeked quilter with her thinning red hair slightly askew — would have been comical in any other setting.

  “Will you be all right?” Mary asked Selma.

  Selma straightened up in her unfamiliar heels. She looked intently at Mary. “Of course I’ll be all right. Why wouldn’t I be? I am not the one in need of concern.”

  “But it was your store —”

  Po felt Selma tense.

  “My store will be fine, Mary. I’ll be fine, too.”
Selma seemed uncomfortable with Mary’s arm in hers, but she didn’t move away. “This whole damn thing is awful, but the only real sorrow is your pain, Mary. That’s how I see it. That’s all.”

  Mary smiled gratefully. “And the others?”

  For a minute Po thought Mary meant them, the Queen Bees, but when she followed the nod of Mary’s head, she saw that she was looking at a small group of men and women standing near the wine bar on the edge of the patio. August Schuette from the bookstore stood with his back to them talking intently with Ambrose Sweet, co-owner with Jesse Farley of the Elderberry Road Brew and Brie. Daisy Sample and Max Elliott, the lawyer for the ESOC, were listening to the exchange.

  Selma looked at them, then back at Mary. “We may have our disagreements — the whole silly bunch of us — but when push comes to shove, we’ll never let one another down. Good grief, you know that, Mary. And Owen knew that, too. Sure, he made me mad sometimes, and others, too. But that means nothing. They’ll all be here for you. And for me, for any of us. No matter what.”

  Po watched Mary’s long fingers pinch and release the fabric of her black jacket.

  “Thank you, Selma,” Mary said finally. She smiled politely at the others in the group, then excused herself, and walked across the patio toward a new group of mourners waiting for her near the potted ferns. Kate noticed that she skirted the huddled storeowners and moved instead to a collection of university professors who stood near the patio steps.

  “Now what was that all about?” Phoebe asked, straining her neck to see where Mary was going.

  “Much ado about nothing,” Selma said. “Owen was a director of the corporation that we formed when we bought the land on Elderberry Road. There were some disagreements recently, but they all pale in the light of Mary’s loss. This isn’t the place nor the time to talk about such things.”

  “Well, if looks could kill, we’d have another dead body, right here on this patio,” Phoebe said. She nodded toward the group of shop owners.

  August and Daisy were staring at Mary as she walked across the patio. Gus’s glasses had slipped to the bulge near the end of his short fat nose and his thick brows were knit together in fierce concentration.

  Selma shrugged. “Gus Schuette is a teddy bear with an awful face, that’s all. I can’t imagine what the good Lord had in mind in piecing that face together the way He did, but it’s no fault of Gus’s. Don’t pay any attention to him. They’re upset because as quiet as Mary is, she’s no pushover. She’s stubborn as a mule when it comes to getting what’s best for her store.”

  “So why do the others care?” Phoebe asked. “I’d fight anyone tooth and nail to get what’s best for my babies.”

  Po held back a smile. She had a fleeting image of the staid Crestwood PTA once Phoebe Mellon joined their group. They wouldn’t know what hit them. “Mary’s been pushing for a whole new advertising campaign. She thinks it would be good to advertise in The New York Times.”

  “Why would she do that?” Leah asked.

  “She thinks it will bring her the right kind of clientele. But she wants the corporation maintenance funds to pay for it. So that means we’d all be paying for it. Can’t you see me luring folks from New York to my little quilt shop?” Selma shook her head. She laughed.

  “Did Owen want to do that?” Maggie asked.

  Selma shook her head. “Owen was sensible about it all. He was supporting the crazy brick sidewalk campaign that Mary and Ambrose started — but he knew it was foolish to advertise our little street back east.”

  Po watched as Gus turned back into his small group. The four shop owners looked like a mismatched sports team, huddled together on the football field. She and Gus were friends, and she knew all the others, too. They were all decent people, and just like everyone, they had their quirks and different views.

  “I like Gus Schuette,” Maggie said. “I always have. He never chased Kate and me out of his store, even when we ate chocolate covered peanuts in the kid’s room, while reading the latest Judy Blume book. His bookstore was our favorite library.”

  “I still use it that way,” Kate said. “I’ve written three papers curled up in one of those leather chairs.”

  “He’s a decent man.” Selma turned her back to the storeowners and took a glass of wine from a passing maid. Leah pointed out a mutual friend from the civic council and the two wandered off to say hello.

  Phoebe excused herself to use the bathroom, but Maggie and Kate both knew she had gone to snoop around the elaborate home. That meant she’d be gone quite awhile.

  Po spotted some empty chairs shielded from the rest of the patio by several small, carefully trimmed and potted bushes. “Does anyone else’s feet hurt as much as mine?” she asked.

  “Hurt? Mine are numb,” Maggie said. She and Kate followed Po over to the chairs. Maggie promptly kicked off both black heels and shoved them beneath the chair with her big toe. “Let me tell you right now, dear friends, none of this dress-up stuff for my wake. It’s jeans, pets, and country music — and if you don’t obey, I will come back and haunt you for the rest of your lives.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  Maggie stopped a passing maid and they each took a glass of wine from the silver tray.

  Kate stretched her long legs in front of her and sighed. “Poor Mary Hill. Poor Selma. What a mess this is. I hope they find the murderer soon so things can get back to normal.”

  “I agree. But the police don’t seem to have a clue. Julie Ames came in the clinic yesterday with Gwendolyn — her overweight basset. Julie works at the police station and she said it was probably a burglary, and they aren’t exactly overwhelmed with clues.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense, Maggie.” Kate took a sip of her wine. “Even Selma says no self-respecting crook would come knocking —.”

  “There’s Susan,” Maggie interrupted, pointing to a slender, pale woman standing near the door.

  Po looked over. Susan Miller was ordinarily a very attractive woman. Today she was three sheets to the wind. And it was clear that she wanted to be anywhere but where she was at that moment. Po waved until Susan spotted them. She hurried across the patio to join them.

  “Here, Suze — this chair’s for you.” Kate pointed to a small chair tucked behind the urn.

  “Thanks. You are lifesavers. I was about to turn around and leave. I only came because Selma asked me to. She thought since Mary’s store is a part of the Elderberry group, that I should make an appearance.” Susan’s soft voice dropped off, and she reached into her jacket for a tissue.

  Po handed her a glass of wine. “Here, Susan, have some wine. This may take the edge off. These gatherings are difficult.”

  Susan took a sip and managed a small smile in return. “It’s just that this seems so inappropriate.” She motioned toward the crowd. “All this lavishness, it’s almost a celebration.”

  “Maybe it’s just a different way to honor him, Susan,” Maggie said. “People really loved him.”

  Susan looked at Maggie intently. “Did they?”

  “Well, I think so, sure,” Maggie said. She looked at Kate and Po for help.

  “Well, maybe not everyone, but a lot of people,” Kate said. “You went to that women’s history lecture series he and Leah participated in last semester, Susan. You saw how everyone flocked to his talks. It was always packed to the rafters for his sessions. Owen and Leah were the draws, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe,” Susan said. But her voice choked. “This is such a terrible thing. For Selma. For her shop. We’re not doing very well anyway, and now this.”

  “But she has all of us to help her through it,” Kate said. “And especially you, Susan. I know she leans on you a lot.”

  Susan took a sip of her wine and looked off into the crowd of mourners. She seemed to have forgotten the others were there. “Well, I’d do anything for Selma,” she murmured. “Anything.”

  Kate and Po looked at each other.

  “Sure you would,” Maggie said.
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  Susan managed a wobbly smile and stood up. Then she lifted her wineglass and drank it down in one long swallow. “Would you all understand if I left? Please tell Selma that I was here. But I think I should go back to the store. I’m needed there more than I am here.” She looked at Mary Hill standing across the patio, searched the crowd unsuccessfully for Selma, and then picked up her purse and hurried back into the house.

  “Poor Susan — she certainly didn’t want to be here,” Maggie said, watching Susan hurry off.

  “I guess we all react to stress in different ways,” Po said.

  “Yes. Take that group for example,” Kate inclined her head toward the wine bar where some of the Elderberry shop owners were still gathered. Gus Schuette was frowning at something Daisy Sample was saying. As Kate watched, Daisy shook her head vehemently and pointed across the patio at a figure hurriedly walking toward the French doors.

  Kate and Maggie, feeling invisible behind the sprays of Areca palm that protruded from several pots in front of the bushes, craned their necks to see who it was.

  “It’s Max,” Kate whispered.

  “Two nervous setters,” Maggie said, using her standard mode of identification. “He’s a nice man.”

  “They don’t seem to think so,” Kate said, peering between two fronds at the scowling gaggle of shop owners “From the tense look on their faces, Max isn’t their favorite person.”

  “Max was Owen’s best friend,” Po said. “He’s probably taking up Owen’s concerns.” She got up and looked around the patio. “I think I’ve had enough.”

  Maggie and Kate shot up immediately. Maggie pulled her shoes from beneath the chair and sighed. “They will never fit back on these two sad feet. Not in a million years. Would you all understand?”

  Kate and Po’s smiles assured Maggie she was among friends. Before the maid could approach them again with more appetizers and wine, the three women, one dangling a pair of high heel shoes from her index finger, slipped through the house and away from Owen Hill’s wake. It was a first for her, Kate remarked as she steered her Jeep around the parked cars crowding the street. “The first time I’ve attended a wake for a murdered man.”