A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (13 page)

“Since he was in and out of the restaurant, they probably had plenty of time to plan meetings. And instinct tells me Laurel was a clever woman and could probably hide anything she wanted to from Picasso. Love can blind one very easily.”

“Do you think the guy had anything to do with her murder?”

“I think he certainly could be a suspect.”

“But why would he kill Laurel?” Maggie gently pressed Hoover’s ears wide and checked inside with a tiny light.

“I don’t know, Maggie. But Kate said the embrace Amber caught on her camera was followed by a fight of some sort. Perhaps Laurel was breaking up with him?”

“From what you overheard him saying to Picasso, he wouldn’t have cared.”

“A love scorned may say things like that to save face.”

“I suppose that’s true. What else do you know about the man?”

“Nothing, really. Except he had a beautiful black Labrador sitting in his back seat.”

Maggie perked up at the mention of one of her favorite breeds. Her tendency to identify people by their pets was well-known among her friends. “Black Lab? What did you say his name was?”

“Sands, I think. He had a Kansas license plate, so I guess he lives around here somewhere.”

“Sands …” Maggie pondered the name as she lowered the examining table and allowed Hoover off to sit on the floor next to Po. “Was he a big guy?”

“I’d say so. A little rough looking.”

Maggie turned toward her computer and tapped a few keys, then squinted and scrolled down through a list of names. “Sands … Albert Einstein. Five-year-old Labrador Retriever. Bingo, Po. They’re clients!”

CHAPTER 14

According to Maggie’s records, Jason Sands lived with his dog, Albert Einstein, just outside the city limits of Crestwood, not far from the wooded estate that Susan shared with her elderly mother. Which was the reason Po used to convince herself to drive out that way. She needed to pick up some books from Susan, and today was as good a time as any. With Hoover in the back seat, Po headed west.

Nothing in Crestwood was very far away from anything else, and it took Po less than fifteen minutes to spot the winding road that led to Jason Sands’ home. She had intended to drive on by, but curiosity forced the car right onto Hilltop Lane, and before she realized it, she was driving slowly down the street. Po had no idea what she’d do when she passed the house, but curiosity propelled her to at least see where this man—now a piece in the growing puzzle of Laurel’s murder—lived.

The country road was dotted with new, ranch-type homes. Several houses were under construction, indicating the area would soon be absorbed into the city, but for now, it still held the flavor of country. The same address that Maggie had scribbled on a piece of paper for Po was posted on the mailbox in front of one of the few older homes on the road. It was a small one-story house, bordered by a split-rail fence and with a large yard that stretched back to the woods behind it. A good place for Albert Einstein to play, Po thought. Not to mention that the remote area would have been a good place to shield an affair. The black SUV she had seen at Picasso’s earlier was nowhere to be seen. Po drove past the house and turned around at the end of the road, then headed back down the street toward the main road. She wasn’t sure, really, why she had even come. It would be foolish for her to stop and talk to this stranger. Maybe even dangerous. And what would she say, even if she did stop? But somehow she felt a need to situate Jason Sands somewhere, before she shared his relationship with Laurel with P.J. and the police. Maggie had only vague recollections about the man, except that he had flirted with her receptionist and had made an off-color remark when Albert was in for his rabies vaccination. She knew everything there was to know about Albert Einstein, though, and reported that he was well cared for and a lovely dog. “Albert is a regular here for wellness exams. He’s been a patient for a year or so,” she’d said.

As Po headed back past the house, she noticed Albert flying around the side of the house, chasing a yellow ball. As she slowed the car, a figure emerged from beyond the trees, calling to the dog. But it wasn’t Jason Sands. It was a young woman, dressed in jeans and a large sweatshirt.

Not wanting to be noticed, Po picked up speed and continued down the street, glancing in her rearview mirror as she neared the highway. The woman was leaning over, tugging the ball from the dog’s mouth. As she straightened up and her sweatshirt flattened out against her body, Po noticed something else—Albert Einstein’s playmate appeared to be at least six months pregnant.

***

“Po, you shouldn’t be getting involved in this. You and Kate are messing with serious stuff here,” said P.J. He and Po sat on her back porch, drinking ice tea, a ritual Po and Kate’s mother Liz had begun many years before when their kids were young and their days overflowed with kids’ activities with little time left for themselves.

“P.J., I’m not messing with anything. I am reporting this to you as any good citizen would.”

“And your goddaughter reported it, too, bursting in on a meeting I had last night. She had that blurry picture clutched in her hand as if the murderer was now signed, sealed, and delivered.”

“It wasn’t blurry. You could see the man’s face when she enlarged it. It was Jason Sands, P.J.”

“Okay, maybe it was. I was having a drink with Bill McKay and Max when Kate tracked me down. We all looked at the photo when Kate thrust it in our faces. Kate has decided to get the whole town involved in protecting her buddy.”

“Bill McKay and Max Elliott aren’t the whole town, P.J. But they both do know a lot of people—Billy with his campaigning and Max knows everyone. Did they know him?”

“Don’t think so. I thought at first Billy did, but when he looked closer, he said the picture was too fuzzy.” P.J. laughed. “Kate was very offended at that. I thought she was going to whack Billy with her backpack. She’s a wild woman, Po, when she sinks her teeth into something. Billy did pick up on Kate’s idea that Laurel was having an affair, though. Thought that was a distinct possibility.”

“Why? Did he know Laurel?”

“Nope. But when you’re in politics, I guess you get to know human nature, what makes people do what.”

“What did Max think?”

“Max didn’t offer any opinion. He clams up when the murder topic comes up. If I didn’t trust the guy with my life, I’d think he knew more than he was saying.” P.J. took a sip of his martini.

Po refrained from agreeing with him aloud, and instead, sipped her martini and watched the expression on P.J.’s face when he talked about Kate. She knew, too, that Kate could be exasperating—and she reacted to it exactly like P.J. did—with great affection.

“So what now?” Po asked.

“Well, believe it or not, Po, the guys working this case aren’t out to get Picasso without doing their homework. They already knew about the affair, you’ll be happy to know, though they didn’t know it was with Sands. You can be sure they’ll look into it and bring the guy in for questioning.”

“So they’ll let up on Picasso?”

P.J. paused for a moment and took a sip of his martini, then shook his head. “No, Po, they won’t let up on Picasso. He doesn’t have an alibi and there was documented evidence of problems in the marriage. They can’t dismiss that until something else shows up.”

“But, P.J., you know and I know that he is innocent.”

P.J. didn’t answer. He lifted his martini glass and drained the last drops of cocktail, then stared out into the evening darkness that was falling heavily onto Po’s wooded yard. The trees were ghostly shapes, the brick pathways lost in shadow. The only movement was the slow gait of Hoover as he padded around the yard, patrolling his empire.

Po didn’t look at P.J., but she felt a sadness spread across the porch. She sensed P.J.’s uncertainty, and she read in his silence what she already knew—that finding out more about Laurel and Picasso St. Pierre may not be all that it was cracked up to be. The answers they sought might be far from the ones they wanted to find.

CHAPTER 15

When the Queen Bees arrived at Selma’s Saturday morning to work on Picasso’s quilt, the air was filled with more than flying fingers and the whirr of the sewing machine. Picasso St. Pierre was on everyone’s mind.