Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery Page 5

  And the last, Po hoped fervently.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tea Leaf

  Po needed to get back into her routine. One could think of murder for just so long before it weighed the spirit down lower than a sunken ship. Come on, girl! Po thought to herself. Crestwood had a fine police force and they were fully capable of finding the burglar who killed Owen Hill. Or not, as Lucy, her five-year-old granddaughter, would say.

  The night before, she had tossed and turned while the wind beat willow branches against her window, trying to figure out this whole mess that was turning Elderberry Road into a sideshow. Any burglar in his right mind was not going to be hanging around Crestwood waiting to be picked up and accused of murdering a prominent, popular man. Would they ever find him and have closure to this? But no matter what the answer was to that question, Po knew one thing for sure: they all had to move on or they’d be reduced to nervous twits. And the best way to do that, in Po’s opinion, was to get back to the old routines, for better or for worse.

  Po’s routine today meant working on her neglected book, a project born of her love for quilting, her passionate belief in the strength of women, and her gift for words. She’d written other books — a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt and a series of young adult books that had received several awards. But this one about women and quilting was special to Po, and writing it was a pleasure, though she sometimes found it difficult to find the time. Steve Jenkins, her editor and friend, would have her head if she didn’t get the first draft to him on time. Po pushed the power button on her laptop computer and settled into the leather desk chair while the soft hum of the start-up program filled her cozy den. She dressed for comfort when writing — today in a pair of slim jeans and an old Canterbury College sweatshirt of Sam’s. Her hair was loose and smelled slightly of eucalyptus shampoo.

  Outside the window a covey of blue jays fought for branch space in the old oak tree. They reminded Po of the brilliant Birds in Flight quilt the Queen Bees had auctioned off last year for the library benefit. Except the birds outside her window weren’t flying, poor dears. They didn’t know whether to head south for the winter or stay for a while. The warm autumn days had them all confused, but Po for one wasn’t complaining. Winter would be here soon enough. And being able to go out for her morning run without piling on several layers was a gift Po wouldn’t turn away from.

  The familiar clutter of icons filled the computer screen and Po straightened her back, took a drink of coffee, and began to type.

  The book came alive beneath her fingers, and when the doorbell sent Hoover flying down the front hall, Po sat still for a moment, her train of thought disappearing into the sound.

  How odd, Po thought. Her friends usually stayed away on Wednesdays, knowing that she was probably behind on her writing. With a click of a key, she quickly checked her computer calendar just to make sure she hadn’t forgotten a meeting. Those memory lapses seemed to come with increasing frequency these days! Reassured that there wouldn’t be a committee of women standing on her steps, Po left her computer and headed for the front door.

  Mary Hill stood on the brick steps, holding an empty casserole dish in her hands. She wore a sweater dress the color of liquid gold that flowed over her slender curves like honey. A blue cashmere sweater was wrapped elegantly around her narrow shoulders.

  “Hello, Mary,” Po said. “What an unexpected pleasure. Come in.”

  “I’m on my way to Windsor House, Po, but I wanted to drop off your dish and thank you for the shrimp casserole. It was delicious.”

  Po took the glass dish and ushered Mary through the door. “Well, you can surely spare two minutes from that store, Mary. We’ll have a cup of coffee and you can tell me how you are doing.”

  “I’m fine, Po,” Mary said.

  A slight smile softened Mary’s face and Po marveled at the beauty that could ride on the heels of terrible grief. Mary Hill was pale, and her sad eyes filled her narrow face. But despite the tragedy of the past week, she was striking to look at.

  “Bless Owen for buying Windsor House,” Mary continued. “The store is such consolation. His presence is everywhere in it.” Her eyes lowered and her voice dropped off. She fingered the knot of her sweater. For a moment, Po thought Mary may have forgotten where she was. Then the moment passed and Mary looked up and smiled again at Po.

  It was an odd smile, Po thought. Forced, perhaps, or maybe just a worn-out smile that had seen too much duty in recent days.

  “And I have my church, Po. I’d never have been able to get through this without Reverend Gottrey and his wife. Everyone there has been kind and caring beyond belief.”

  “Mary, you and Owen have been more than generous to that church. We all know that there’d be no roof over their heads — literally — if Owen hadn’t stepped in with his gracious giving.”

  Po led Mary through the wide hallway, its walls filled with framed family pictures — “Po’s gallery,” Sam had called it — and into the comfortable kitchen at the back of the house.

  “Please Mary, have a seat.” Po pointed to a chair on the other side of the large trestle table that anchored the center of the long kitchen and family room. For nearly thirty years, the heavy oak table had centered the life of the Paltrow family, bearing the weight of dinners and discussions, of tears and homework and sometimes heated, often humorous debate. “If this table had ears,” Po’s daughter Sophie often said. And the understated truth in the trailing sentence always made the family laugh.

  “This is a wonderful table,” Mary said, as if reading Po’s thoughts. “With a little refinishing, it could be worth a considerable amount of money. If you ever want to sell it …” She took the coffee mug that Po handed her and left the sentence dangling in the coffee-scented air.

  Po laughed, though the thought of anyone refinishing her table sliced painfully into her heart. Every pencil mark and wine stain, every dent and rough edge, held a story laced with affection. She wouldn’t refinish the table on her life. “This table is like a member of the family,” she said out loud, and slid a generous piece of lemon coffeecake onto one of her green depression ware plates. She set it in front of Mary, then served one up for herself and sat down across from her guest.

  “Speaking of vintage things,” Po said, “How is Windsor House doing? Will you be all right, Mary?”

  “All right?” Mary’s carefully fashioned eyebrows lifted as one.

  “Well, I know from Selma that it’s an enormous job owning a shop, especially one as elegant as yours,” Po said. “And now that you’re the sole owner …”

  “Owen had his academic career,” Mary said simply. “The store was my responsibility. It won’t really be that different.” She picked at the lemon cake with the tip of her fork.

  “And I have Andy Pearson, you know,” Mary continued. “He’s helped us for a while now and loves being at the store. Owen kept the books, and he was very involved in our trips to seek new merchandise, so I’ll need to think about that. But it will work out, I’m sure of that. Owen loved Windsor House dearly, and if for no other reason, I will make sure it continues to succeed.”

  “I’m sure you will, Mary. And I didn’t mean to indicate otherwise. You’ve done an amazing job at Windsor House. There isn’t another store like it in the whole state.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Mary said. “People come from all over, and with some work, I think we can make the rest of the block a draw as well.”

  Po cradled her coffee mug in her hands and leaned back in the chair. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Mary. The Elderberry shops are wonderful. How can you make them more so?”

  Mary laughed uncomfortably. “Of course they are all wonderful, Po. I didn’t mean to say they weren’t. But we — all the shop owners — we have a vision, you see. We share a common goal — to grow our block into a distinguished shopping area, one with a lovely, gracious ambience. An art center …”

  Now Po was the one to laugh, “Oh, Mary,” she said. “We l
ove it the way it is. Please don’t change a single, solitary thing. The Elderberry shops meet all our needs — lovely antiques and gifts, wine, cheese, and our very own quilting center.”

  Mary’s face showed little emotion. She spoke carefully. “I understand what you’re saying, Po. And I didn’t mean to suggest that the present shops are not respectable. It’s just that, well, you can always make things better, you know.”

  “Oh, I certainly know that, Mary. Heavens, it’s the story of my life. I am on a continual quest to be better.” She took another drink of coffee and looked Mary in the eye. “But tell me, Mary Hill, do you really think the neighbors want a block of high-priced stores on Elderberry Road? They can get their fill of that in Kansas City. But the delightful mixture we have here in the neighborhood seems just right. There’s something for everyone.”

  Mary was silent. She seemed to be examining her coffeecake with undo seriousness. Finally she said, “Maybe, Po. But change is good.” She pushed back her chair and reached for her purse.

  “Mary, you have a lot to deal with right now, with Owen’s death and all the changes forced upon you. Changes to your business should be the last thing on your mind.”

  “As I said, Po, change is good.” Mary’s voice was steely.

  “Mary, if I have offended you, I’m so sorry.”

  “Of course you haven’t offended me, Po. But taking care of our house, our properties and charities, our store — well, that’s my life now. And I will do the best I can to make Owen proud.” Mary turned and walked out the front door. Po stood at the door and watched Mary walk down the porch steps and along the brick sidewalk to the street. Her sleek, elegant car was waiting at the curb. Po watched her slide behind the wheel, then drive slowly off to Windsor House and a day of selling extravagantly priced artifacts to people who didn’t need them.

  Po frowned. She brushed her hair back behind one ear, her hands on her hips, and shook her head. “Lord,” she wondered aloud, “what in heaven’s name was that all about?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Tumbling Blocks

  Early the next Saturday, Selma unlocked the door to her quilt shop and ushered the Queen Bees into the back room. A collective sigh of relief hung heavy on the early morning air.

  “A giant dose of normal — that’s what we need,” Phoebe said. She walked over to the far end of the eight-foot table, the spot where she always sat, and dropped her bag to the floor.

  “I don’t know if we’ve actually reached normal yet,” Selma said. “But by gum we’ll be there soon.”

  “Of course we will,” Po said, and settled down at the end of the table. “So let’s talk anniversary quilt. This is the day we start in earnest.”

  “I think Susan and I have it figured out,” Leah said. “Tell me what you think.” She walked over to the table and held up a diagram — a large page filled with tiny squares.

  “This is our version of an old pattern called the Crystal Star. Perfect for Selma, don’t you think?” She looked over at Selma.

  They all agreed that a star would be good. Even Kate, who expressed great fear that she’d have to master points, thought it was a great idea. “A star for our star,” she said, and smiled at Selma.

  “The Crystal Star pattern,” Susan went on, “was printed in The Kansas City Star in the 1930s. It was part of the series they did for all those years, reprinting quilt patterns that people sent in from Nebraska and Kansas and Oklahoma — from the whole center of the country.”

  “My mother collected every one of those,” Eleanor said. “They were a history book in the making.”

  Po nodded. Her mother collected them, too, then passed them down to Po. She looked over at the diagram. “How will we divide this up?” she asked.

  “The quilt will be five blocks square, with several blocks reserved for a special center star, so we’ll each have to make at least two. Then the fastest among us can do the remaining ones. We’ll set the center star on point and give it its own frame. It will be special, a focal point. If you look at this diagram you can see that it becomes a star within a star, and will take up five blocks. Maybe Susan and I can work on the center while the rest of you do the border stars.”

  “Will all our stars be the same?” Phoebe asked. Phoebe loved experimenting, no matter what the outcome.

  “You can make it as special as you want by changing the center of your star. For example, the middle could be a checkerboard pattern, a diamond, or plain. A small pinwheel would work, too. Live dangerously, Pheebs.”

  “I have some fabric we can start with,” Susan said. “Leah and I picked out these three fabrics for the common colors, based on the color scheme we all agreed on last month. We’ll each use these three in our stars in some way. Then everyone can pick coordinating fabrics and work those into their own design.” She picked up a purple cotton print. “This will be the common background for all the stars. What do you think?”

  “This will be beautiful, Leah,” Kate said. “Even with me working on it!”

  Selma had gone to the front of the store to wait on a customer. “Frankly, I can’t imagine a better time to do this, nor a better person to do it for,” Kate said.

  The others joined in, excited to get started and eager to honor Selma and Parker’s Dry Goods’ fiftieth anniversary in this way.

  Susan passed out copies of the pattern and piled the table with bolts of fabric in deep shades of blue and purple, pale-yellow prints, blue-black stripes, and lavender and gold. Maggie fingered a deep purple fabric with stripes of black and yellow swirling through it. “It will be a magnificent quilt,” she pronounced, and the anniversary project began.

  “What’s the latest news, Selma?” Kate asked as Selma came back into the room. She reached for a mat and rotary cutter.

  Selma rolled her sewing table up to the edge of the work-table and flicked the on switch. The gentle hum of the machine filled the room. “Well, the police have stopped hanging out in my store, which is a good thing. It’s not exactly a welcoming, come-hither sight for my customers, what with P.J. in his crisp blue uniform standing guard at the front door.”

  “P.J. Flanigan?” Kate asked.

  “The one and only,” Maggie said, and winked at Kate.

  “I went to high school with him,” Kate explained to the others. “I thought P.J. went into law.”

  “He did,” Phoebe spoke up. “He was in law school with Jimmy. Everyone knew P.J. He’s one tall piece of man candy!” Her laughter spun up to the skylight.

  “Well, I won’t argue with that,” Kate grinned mischievously.

  “P.J Flanigan is a great guy,” Po said. “His parents are dear friends of mine. After law school, P.J. switched to police work, following in his father’s footsteps. I suspect he’ll go back to law some day.” She looked over at Kate. “And if I remember correctly, Kate Margaret Simpson, high school wasn’t the only place you went with P.J.”

  Kate snorted. “A lifetime ago, Po. But P.J. and I had a lot of fun, I must admit.”

  “He brings his two Aussies to me. And you can tell a master by his dogs, you know,” Maggie said. “Kanga and Mocha are the sweetest girls in town.”

  Po grinned and said, “Kate, you know your mother and I used to place bets on the comings and goings of P.J. Flanigan — when you two would break up and when you’d make-up. We’d sit on my back porch sipping very dry martinis, always with a thin slice of apple floating on top, and wait for the next soap opera chapter to play itself out.”

  “Kate — a side of you I didn’t know!” Phoebe lifted her eyebrows. “P.J. Flanigan, not bad. Were you part of the in crowd, Katie? I imagine P.J. was quite the hot shot.”

  Kate made a face and Po laughed, remembering the Kate of a dozen or more years ago. Kate had been her own person even back then, and she wasn’t in the popular group — not by a long shot — though she had had plenty of friends. She’d been a wild, beautiful filly, a thorn in her mother’s side much of the time, opinionated, stubborn, but underneath it
all, a courageous, sweet soul. Po and Meg were almost always proud of Kate, even while they worried about her and wondered what she’d do next to disrupt their peaceful lives.

  “P.J. was a hot shot, I guess,” Kate admitted. “He played every sport known to man. Me? Well, my best friend Honora liked me. And P.J. did, too. But sorry to disappoint you, Pheebs. You won’t find me on the Prom Queen page in the Crestwood High yearbook.”

  “Speaking of P.J.,” Eleanor said, “what does he think about this awful murder business, Selma?”

  Selma shook her head. “He said they’re still thinking it was a burglary. The ‘perp,’ as P.J. calls the scum bum who did this, assumed the store would be empty that late at night.”

  “So what did this guy steal — a bolt of fabric?” Phoebe asked. “That’ll provide a great Sun City retirement.”

  “Now that’s a good question, Phoebe,” Selma said. “Whoever this person was, he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. He took my locked box from under the counter up front. And walked off with a sum total of half a dozen hand-written store charges, some change, and a stack of order sheets I had planned to finish that day. And Owen’s wallet and watch, I believe I heard P.J. say.”

  “Owen died for loose change,” Leah said. There was an edge to her usually soft voice. She lined up her cut strips of fabric on the table and smoothed them out with her fingers. “Owen was a good man, a decent man. This whole thing just doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t make any sense at all. And I think P.J. Flanigan, as intelligent as he is, is dead wrong,” Po said. She blurted the words out with more force than she had intended and was slightly embarrassed when all eyes in the room turned toward her.