A Patchwork of Clues Read online

  “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. Like, it’s what you do.”

  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, for one, read the Times dutifully, a tie to her old life. But it wasn’t the first paper to disappear from Gus Schuette’s newsstand.

  “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 City 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, but 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 bookstore, even when we ate chocolate-covered peanuts in the kid’s room while devouring the latest Judy Bloom 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 store owners and took a glass of wine from a passing waitress. 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 a while.

  Po spotted some empty chairs shielded from the rest of the patio by several small, carefully trimmed 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 motioned to a waitress, who left three glasses of wine on a small table beside them.

  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 on her door. Fabric? Who steals fabric and thread?”

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

  Po looked over. Susan Miller was ordinarily an attractive woman, if not someone who stood out in a crowd. 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 and I work there now, 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,” Maggie said. “People really liked 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 with that box store out at the mall, 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.

  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.

  “And funerals,” Maggie added.

  “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 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, craned their necks to see who it was.

  “It’s Max,” Kate whispered.

  “Two nervous setters,” Maggie said, using her standard mode of canine identification. “Max is 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.”

  “He wa
s Owen’s best friend,” Po said. “He’s probably taking up Owen’s concerns.” She put her wine glass down and got up. “I think I’ve had enough. Any chance you’re leaving soon?” She looked at Kate.

  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 laughed. And before a maid could approach them again with more appetizers and wine, the three women, one dangling a pair of high heel shoes from two fingers, slipped through the house and away from Owen Hill’s wake.

  “This is a first for me,” 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.”

  And the last, Po prayed fervently.

  51

  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. No burglar in his right mind was 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 pure 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—jeans and an old Canterbury College sweatshirt of Scott’s. Her slightly curly hair was loose to her shoulders 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 they had spent hours working on and then 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 pulled up her document.

  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.

  Finally, she shook away the confusion and looked back at her computer.

  Her friends usually stayed away on Wednesdays, knowing that she was probably behind on her writing. She quickly checked her online 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 curves like honey. A blue cashmere sweater was wrapped 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 stepped aside, ushering 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,” Mary said.

  A slight smile softened Mary’s face and Po marveled at the composure 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 said. “That store is such a 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 might 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,” Scott had called it—and into the comfortable family room 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 space. 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, sometimes 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 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 coffee cake 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 any 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 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 Hou
se 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. I didn’t mean to say they weren’t. But we—well, 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 love 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, books, 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. 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, 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 coffee cake with undue seriousness. Finally she said, “Maybe, Po. But change is good.” She pushed back her chair and reached for her purse.

  “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.”