A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (16 page)

“Not great, Kate.”

“You miss Laurel.”

“Yeah. Hey, I know she was playing with me, but there was something about her, something that just got to me, you know?”

“I think I do, Andy. I had that feeling about my high school math teacher. Then he gave me a C and it was all over.”

Andy managed a small smile.

“Did you and Laurel talk a lot?” Kate leaned up against the wall next to Andy.

“Yeah, we did. She really listened to me. And she told me things that bothered her, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like this town. She didn’t like it here much. She was going to leave.”

“Why?” Kate felt a twinge of guilt for pummeling Andy for information, especially after the uncomfortable moment with P.J., but talking to someone she used to baby-sit for surely couldn’t be dangerous.

“I dunno. She said the town was evil or something. Said bad things happened here. And as soon as she was done, she was leaving.”

“Done with what?”

Andy shrugged. “Laurel didn’t always make sense. Like sometimes she talked about really nice people—like Mr. Elliott for instance—like they were bad or something.”

“She didn’t like Max Elliott?

“Hated him. She wanted me to be mean to him, too. She hated him. But I liked him enough, I guess.”

Kate frowned. What an odd person to hate. Everyone liked Max.

“And she had bad headaches, Kate. Real bad. Sometimes when we were in the kitchen, she’d ask me to rub her shoulders—it helped make her feel better.”

“You were good to her, Andy.”

“But it wasn’t me she was leaving with. I would have though. I’d have taken her anywhere.”

“But she had Picasso.”

Andy shook his head. “No, that Sands guy. I told her he was no good. I’d see ‘em in the kitchen together, laughing. He’d touch her, you know. She thought he would take her away. He was a bad guy, Kate.”

Andy’s young face turned hard as stone and Kate reached out and touched his arm.

“But he didn’t deserve to die, Andy.”

Andy pulled away from her touch. “He was bad, Kate.” Kate watched the emotion sweep across his face. It was a very adult distress for such a young guy. Poor kid, she thought. He had fallen hard. And it would be a long while before Laurel St. Pierre released her hold on him, even in death.

When Kate returned to the table, the restaurant was emptying out, and Picasso had pulled up a chair to their table and was talking intently to Bill, Janna, and P.J., his elbows pressed against the white tablecloth.

“She loved it like a child,” Kate heard him say, and she realized with a start he was talking about the quilt again, sharing it so intimately with almost strangers. He must have such a need to talk, she thought, and slipped quietly into her chair.

Bill was listening carefully to Picasso, his handsome face filled with compassion. “Blankets seem to hold an important place in people’s lives,” he offered quietly.

“Oh, mon ami, it was so much more. Laurel soothed it, rubbed it, pulled its little seams apart, slipped her lovely hands inside the quilt’s folds, then patted it so gently and sewed the seams back together again, like a mother bandaging her little one. I think it held the secrets to her life, that quilt.”

Kate watched the exchange and thought again what a good listener Bill was. Janna had shifted slightly in her chair and seemed to be more interested in watching the bus boys’ antics near the kitchen door, and P.J., while half-listening, was miles away, probably planning new ways to approach the mystery of Laurel St. Pierre.

And off in the corner she spotted Andy Haynes, his face masked in a terrible mixture of anger and grief. Kate felt tiny goosebumps lift on her arms. She stared at Andy’s eyes, and in that horrifying moment, she realized that the love Andy harbored for Laurel St. Pierre was beyond reason, beyond the norms of behavior. And for a brief moment, she wondered what such a love could cause a young man to do.

CHAPTER 17

Sometimes information came from odd places and arrived when you were least expecting it, Kate discovered. It was a chance encounter with her elderly neighbor two days later that sent her rushing off to Po’s early Monday morning.

Danny Halloran and his wife Ella had lived next door to the Simpson’s since long before Kate was born. They had been old since Kate could remember, but nothing about them ever seemed to change much, not the shuffle of old Danny’s walk, not the pudgy, ornery face of Ella, with her thin gray hair pulled back into a knot at the base of her wide neck. They’d lived in their house, Danny used to tell her, when all the land around was prairie, and you could see nearly all the way to Kansas City. Though Kate had learned early to only believe half of what Danny said, she loved his tales.

Danny was a well-liked eccentric among the neighborhood kids, always wanting to know what they were doing and what was up in their world. Ella was not so friendly, her plump face pulled into a perpetual frown. But she had a good soul underneath, Kate’s mother repeatedly told her, ever fearful that Ella’s cranky disposition would make her the object of kids’ neighborhood pranks.

“So what’s up, Katie girl?” Danny asked as they met at the end of their driveways to pick up the Monday morning paper. “Anything new about that Frenchman’s wife?”

“Nope, Danny, no news.” Kate picked up Danny’s paper and handed it to him, then picked up her own. She had just jumped out of the shower and her thick, damp hair curled loosely around her cheeks. “But who knows, maybe there’ll be some tidbits in today’s paper.”

“I heard about the quilt that she had hanging on her wall, Esther Wood’s quilt. Ella heard it on the morning news today.”

Kate hid her surprise. How did that make the news so soon, she wondered? But probably the police had checked it out, took pictures, maybe, of Picasso’s house. “Yeah, go figure.”

“She was Ella’s friend, you know.”

“Esther Woods was Ella’s friend?” Kate stopped in her tracks and stared at Danny.

“Well, maybe not friend. Ella’s not big on friends, don’t you know, but Esther Woods used to make clothes for her a while back. That was when Ella got out more, you know, and before the Woods lady died.”

“So Ella went to her home?”

“Yep, now and again. I drove her over myself. Small little place, not far from the railroad tracks.”

“Did Ella know Esther’s husband?”

“Saw him once or twice, I think. Anyone who ever set foot in a Crestwood tavern knew Al Woods—he hit ‘em all. Awful man. Even my Ella thought it a crime for Esther to stay with him, and she used to tell her as much. But she had no place to go and needed a roof over her and the child’s head.”

“The Woods had a child?” Kate helped Danny up the steps to his house. It was getting more and more difficult for him to climb, and Kate suspected that he and Ella would have to find an assisted living place soon.

“Yep, they did. Poor kid. Always looked like someone had just stolen her puppy dog, if you know what I mean. It was a good thing when Esther finally sent her away. Got her out of the house, away from that man.”

“Esther Woods sent her daughter away?”

“Seems so. Can’t remember the details exactly.” He squinted, looking back into his mind for the facts. “Nope, it was a curious thing—she was there one day when I took Ella for her fitting, and then she was gone. Poof!” He snapped his fingers in the air, then grasped the side of the railing and sucked in a deep lungful of air. “Whew, these steps get higher every day, Katie.”

“You better go in and rest, Danny.” Kate’s mind was spinning, but she wanted Danny safe in a chair before she took off. “I’ll check on you later.”

Danny let the door slam shut behind him, and Katie watched through the screen while he settled into his worn recliner. Then she spun around on her clunky sandals, ran inside her house for the keys to her Jeep, and headed for Po’s.

As Kate drove down Elderberry Road, she noticed Po walking toward Selma’s.

Po saw Kate and waved, then frowned in exasperation as Kate made a quick U-turn in the middle of the road and pulled into a parking spot in front of Max Elliott’s law office. She jumped out of the car and ran across the street.

“Kate, that’s dangerous, as well as illegal.”

“But I needed to talk with you,” Kate said. She stopped short in front of Po and repeated the conversation she’d had with Danny Halloran.

“I didn’t remember Esther having a child,” Po said, “But no one really knew her, so I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. I do remember Ella Halloran having her clothes made by someone. The poor dear just couldn’t fit into ordinary sizes—not even the pluses.” Po thought about Esther Woods, trying to remember if she ever spoke with the woman. Even all these years later, she remembered her at that quilt display, standing shyly beside her masterpiece. But she honestly couldn’t remember ever talking with her, except for that night. “Maybe Selma knows something about Esther’s daughter. I’m headed in there anyway.”

They reached the door to Selma’s shop, and Kate followed Po inside. Her hair had dried completely and now poofed out from her head in a thick tangle of waves. She pulled a bright green scrunchie out of her jeans pocket, grabbed a fistful of hair, and pulled it tight, away from her face.

Selma opened early on Mondays for decorators, letting them wander freely with their clients before Selma got busy with regular customers. Several people were already there, walking the aisles of colorful silks and cotton blends and a host of upholstery fabrics that Selma had added in recent months.

In the imported fabric section, Po and Kate spotted Janna Hathaway. She was following a tall, thin woman carrying a notebook.

“Janna must be planning colors for her new house,” Po said.

“Or perhaps watching her decorator plan colors for her new house. She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it much.” Kate watched as Janna’s decorator checked tags, compared one bolt to another, and held colors up to the light. Absent was any consulting with Janna, who followed several feet behind her.

“What are you two doing here at this hour?” Selma asked, coming up behind them.

“I need some thread for the Picasso quilt,” Po said. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I snuck in with the decorators.”

“And I’m here to probe the recesses of your memory,” Kate said.

“Probe away, Kate, but know that I lose a memory cell every two minutes.”

Kate laughed, then repeated once again the conversation with Danny Halloran.

“A daughter,” Selma repeated out loud, thinking back to her brief encounters with Esther Woods. “Of course that’s possible, but—” She straightened a bolt of fabric, then nodded as her memory cleared. “Yes, Kate. I think I remember now. She came in once to buy some things for Esther. Po, it was when your Sophie was working in here part-time after school. She knew her, or I guess didn’t really know her. But knew she was in school with her. She was an odd duck, if I remember correctly.”

“Do you remember her name?” Kate asked.

“Now you are pushing the memory limits, Kate,” Selma said. “But she was probably about the same age as all you kids. And I don’t think she stayed at Crestwood High long, though. Don’t know if she went off to a private school or what, though it’s hard to think Esther could have afforded that. I think there was some kind of trouble, but I can’t remember exactly what.”