A Patchwork of Clues Read online

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

  “He and Max Elliott—Max is both the lawyer and accountant for that group—stayed for a short while to figure out some problems with a lease for a new stationery store. Selma was there, too, but after Max left, she did too. Owen stayed on to check his notes and make sure he’d recorded everything. Max said that it wasn’t unusual for him to do that. Selma had given him a key a long time ago since they met so often in her store and sometimes she wasn’t able to come.” Po poured herself another cup of coffee and then walked around the room, refilling 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 a quiet assurance that matched the calm demeanor that seemed to see Leah through even difficult times.

  “That’s a good idea,” Po said, “although 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 wall hanging for her daughter Sophie’s birthday. She’d taken photographs of Sophie and her baby, Janie, 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—it shrunk the distance between Sophie’s home in Oregon and hers in Crestwood—and it dimmed the morning’s horror.

  “Will Selma will be okay?” Kate asked. “Is Susan with her?”

  “I’d almost forgotten about Susan,” Leah said.

  Po nodded. “I don’t know which of them is more shaken by this, Susan or Selma. Susan came in before Selma this morning, so she was there with me when the police were photographing Owen’s body. She was visibly shaken. It was difficult for her.”

  “Poor Susan. Maybe it’s that she’s so quiet, but there’s something about her that exudes vulnerability,” Kate said.

  “I think that’s deceptive. She’s solid and strong when she needs to be,” Po said. “She’s made Selma’s life so much easier since she took over, helping her manage the shop. I think she’s added years to Selma’s life. I’ve seen her with some of Selma’s more difficult customers. Susan is not one to be pushed around.”

  Kate looked at Po. She noticed one hand shaking slightly. “How are you doing with all this? It couldn’t have been easy for you to find Owen Hill.” She passed around a plate of cinnamon rolls and box of wet wipes but her eyes remained on her mother’s best friend.

  Po’s head leaned to one side, seemingly in thought.

  Around her, Maggie began folding up the ironing board and the others were picking up frayed bits of fabric from the floor and tying off threads.

  How was she? A friend was dead. Another friend in great distress over what had happened in her store. But the worst part of it all was something Scott used to tease her about. It was that sixth sense, that kind of intuition that he said he could see in the pinch of her brow and the set of her narrow chin. And she felt it today. She felt it before she had started down that alley, and now it settled over her like a heavy shroud, a deep, unsettling feeling. Her eyes met Kate’s.

  “It’ll be okay. All’s well that ends well, Kate—and that’s what will happen here.”

  But she didn’t for a minute believe a good end would come soon, and she knew that Kate didn’t believe her either, nor any of the women in the room who considered Selma’s store a second home.

  A home in which a friend had lost his life.

  Chapter 5

  Twisted Ribbons

  Three days later, Po, Kate, and Maggie rode together to Owen and Mary Hill’s 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 longwinded 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 Hills’ 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 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 later.”

  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 her husband’s death had taken over the town, 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.

  “Looks like 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 as they walked up.

  “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.”

  “I knew the Hills were wealthy, but I guess I never thought much about where it came from,” Maggie said. “They always donate to my shelter fund.”

  “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.”

  “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—out near the lake.”

  She thought of the rolling acreage and the peace she always felt when she and Scott had been invited to events. “He called it a farm, but instead of cows and pigs, there are horses, acres of woods to hike or ride in, and miles of rolling land perfect for cross-country skiing.”

  “And people think Kansas is all flat,” Leah laughed, reflecting her own opinion of the state before being lured from the east to Canterbury College.

  “How did he meet
Mary?” Kate asked. She followed 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. “Gads. 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 quilters said.

  Or it could have been the five tiny holes that dotted each ear. And one on the side of her nose. Phoebe explained to the quilting group once that each one represented a special memory—like her graduation, her wedding, the twins’ birth.

  One Saturday morning Po had wondered aloud how many children Phoebe planned on having, creating an interesting image in each of the quilter’s minds.

  The tap of a cane on the highly polished floor announced Eleanor Canterbury’s approach. She leaned slightly toward the group, a giant red hat on her coiffed gray head. “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 settled 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. Jake 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—well, wherever it is you take urns with, well, with cremains 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. “I liked him so much. Somehow it seems too soon to be talking about building memorials and coming up with ways to benefit from his death, but it is a fine tribute.”

  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 huge elms and maples 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. Geesh, there’s even some violinists playing over near the door.” 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, one hand on the edge of one to steady herself. She was nearly still—a fragile, beautiful statue—greeting each guest with a 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 maturing 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 little Hershey kisses and candied apples your mother and I handed out.”

  Kate laughed. “You and mom were definitely out of Mary’s league. 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 a lovely appendage. I used to wonder if she felt overshadowed by him, but she handled it graciously.”

  “The university was definitely Owen’s turf,” Po said. “But at church events—and the garden club and charity balls—Mary shined at those.” She 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 quilters had gathered.

  “It was good of you all to come,” Mary said, looking at each of them in turn. “My favorite quilters. 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. She reached out and touched Selma’s arm.

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

  Mary Hill slipped her arm through Selma’s and drew her close to her side, as if steadying herself against the more robust woman. The contrast between the two women—the 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 unc
omfortable 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 other quilters. 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 Bruin and Max Elliott, the lawyer for the ESOC, were listening to the exchange. The Elderberry Road shop owners, stalwartly grouped together.

  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 some of the others, too. Owen had strong opinions about things. I did too. But that all means nothing. It’s business. And every one of us will be here for you. And here for one another. 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 store owners 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 or the time to talk about such things.”