A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (19 page)

News of Laurel St. Pierre’s real identity had stunned the town, and stories of Ann Woods were rampant.

“Now it’s clear why Laurel stared at Kate in the restaurant,” Maggie said, looping one leg over a chair. “She was in your class, Kate. She was probably waiting for you to recognize her. Don’t you remember ever meeting her?”

“Mags, there were over 300 kids in my class,” Kate reminded her.

“That’s right. And freshmen are such scared creatures,” Maggie said.

“I don’t remember ever seeing Ann around town,” Eleanor said. “But I did talk to Esther now and then when I took sewing to her.”

“The thing I can’t get off my mind is that her mother sent her away,” Phoebe said. “It sounds like all Esther Woods had of value was her daughter, and then for some reason the daughter disappears when she’s, like what, 15? Why would a mother do that?” Phoebe thought about her own precious twins, and deep, disapproving furrows wrinkled her brow. She brought her coffee cup over to the table and sat down.

“She sent her away to protect her from the father,” Eleanor reminded her. “That’s a heroic thing, though an awful situation. And how miserable that there wasn’t anything in place back then to protect Esther and get her help from that abusive man.”

“Bill McKay is trying to get some tax money to build a place for women just like Esther,” Phoebe said. “So things are changing, finally.”

“Good for Billy,” Eleanor said. “He seems very tuned in to what this town needs.” Eleanor sat at the end of the table, her cane at her side and a bright silk jacket keeping away the cool spring air.

“Yes, but unfortunately it’s too late to help Esther Woods,” Po said. She had racked her brain for two days, trying to dredge up any memories she might have had of the Woods family, but came up empty, except for one thing—the amazing quilt—the soaring bird and vital life that poured from the golden stitches that held it together. Esther Woods could certainly have used a friend. And usually Po and Liz Simpson happened upon people like Esther and would help out in some small way. But Esther Woods had slipped through the cracks of their lives.

Po pulled out the fabric blocks she was working on. They were already shaping up into a smooth black pot—formed from fabric with subtly patterned swirls of black and gray and navy.

“Po, your pot is looking good,” Leah said, looking over her shoulder. She pushed aside some scissors and pieces of fabric and placed her nearly completed fish on the table. “Let’s see how they look together.”

“Leah, that’s magnificent!” Maggie said, standing to get a better look at the large vibrant fish that Leah had created. It was now far more than the silhouette they had seen last Saturday. Today the fish was covered with scales made out of small pockets of fabric, filled with light batting. They overlapped artfully on the body of the fish, small patterned flaps of fire-brick red. Toward the head the fins moved into rosier tones—coral and salmon and a rust-colored pattern that would complement the rough-textured walls in Picasso’s restaurant. “Susan’s fish are similar,” Leah said, “but in a different color palette.”

Susan pulled her fabric out of a large sack and displayed her small cutout fins in shades of orchid and plum, and thistle, and cobalt blue. The tip of the tail, already completed with the neat rows of small fabric pockets, was fashioned of slippery fabric in shades of dark magenta and purple. “We’ll appliqué them onto the pieced background, then quilt around them so they’ll stand out.”

“Flying fish,” Po said.

“Just what Picasso wanted,” Kate added.

“We’re wonderful!” Phoebe said.

“And not only that, we’ve enough done now that people will get a really good look at the finished product when I display it tomorrow night. Maggie and Phoebe have some of the border done—and Eleanor, you’re background blocks look great. I’m going to lay it all out on that display bed I have out front.”

“Great idea, Selma,” Susan said as she lifted the pieces of her quilt from the table.

“This weekend is alumni weekend at Canterbury,” Leah added, “so you’ll have lots of people in, Selma. The timing is perfect.”

“I should have the pot completely finished, I think,” Po said. “At least I hope to.” She thought of the chaos of the last two weeks, and how regular routines and plans had been tossed to the wind. Laurel’s death had been like a Kansas tornado, ripping though the small town. Picasso’s quilt provided therapy for all of them, and she only hoped by the time it was finished, Laurel’s murderer would be found, and lives could return to normal.

***

Even Hoover sensed the restlessness in his owner, and he crawled up beside Po on the couch later that evening, spreading his golden body comfortably over the forest green upholstery and flopping his head on her lap, directly on top of the morning paper. Max Elliot was expected soon—Po’s lawyer and friend—who needed some routine papers signed and had offered to stop by with them on his way home. So reading seemed a better option than delving into the dozens of other things on her plate—like finishing the pot or working on an article that was almost finished. Dear Max, whose name was being tossed around with increased frequency in the muddy waters of this mystery.

“Hoover,” Po scolded. “You know better.” But her mood and the comfort of the golden retriever’s presence overshadowed the golden clumps of fur he’d leave on her couch, and she patted his head. Po was distracted anyway, her thoughts scattered, and the dog’s presence had a grounding effect. The fact that a killer was loose, maybe in their own town, was never far from Po’s mind these days, though neither she nor the other Queen Bees alluded to it much. She worried about Kate—and that impulsive streak that sometimes took her into dangerous spots. Po had celebrated P.J’s reentry into Kate’s life, not only because she liked him so much, but because he brought a more cautious element into her goddaughter’s life, a kind of protectiveness that Kate would absolutely deny, but that Po knew was real.

Po glanced down at the part not covered by Hoover’s head, and a headline loomed large: “Local woman lived in fear and shame.”

The reporters for the Crestwood Daily were more interested in pulling up tales of Al Woods’ many arrests and drunken brawls and the horrors for Ann and Esther Woods, forced to live in such an environment, than who had killed the young woman and her lover. They’d even gone so far as to badger Bill McKay for quotes, pushing him to speed up the development of the home for abused women, as if there were hundreds of other women in Crestwood needing a haven—and, Po thought, as if that would bring Esther Woods or her daughter back.

But Bill was taking it graciously, Po had to admit, and was promoting the country club fundraiser for the cause. He and Janna would be honorary co-chairs, the paper read. The event was being put together hastily, probably an effort on someone’s part to focus attention on a good thing, rather than the sordid goings-on regarding the murders.

A light knock and the opening of the front door announced Max Elliott’s arrival, and Po pushed Hoover to the floor and stood up. Since Sam’s death, she had been more than comfortable to have Max know all the intricacies of her financial and legal affairs. She felt safe, knowing his fine mind was watching over things for her. But when he’d called to bring the papers by today, she realized with a start, that for all her denial of Max Elliott having anything to do with the Laurel St. Pierre affair, she felt a slight twinge, a wondering, of how he could possibly fit into Laurel’s tangled life.

“Po, you really need to start locking your doors,” Max said, walking on into the family room. He pecked Po on the cheek, then bent to greet Hoover.

“Maybe you’re right. I’m certainly not afraid, but the atmosphere around town is a little anxious, I must admit.” She pushed up the sleeves of her long-sleeved yellow sweater that topped a pair of comfortable jeans. “And perhaps you’re just the tonic I need tonight, Max, with all these awful goings on.”

“Tonic, eh? I’ve been called a lot of things, but that’s a new one.” While Po fixed each of them a small glass of Scotch, Max took the papers out of his briefcase and set them on the coffee table. “You mean about Picasso’s wife and that wine fellow, I presume. Awful, awful stuff.”

“Yes, it is. And it’s even more awful that anyone could consider Picasso mixed up in it.”

“I agree. I respect Picasso. He’s a good man, a friend. Bad coincidences, is what it is. Damn bad.”

Po sat down, slipped her glasses on, and picked up a couple of the papers, scanning the numbers and reading the columns as Sam had taught her to do. “There are others who had motives,” Po said, her thoughts still with Picasso.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Max, Laurel let it be known to several people that she didn’t exactly like you.”

Max looked up from the papers. For a minute he didn’t say anything, and when he finally spoke, his voice was stern and hard. “Laurel was a bad person, Po.”

Po looked at the quiet, gentle man who was trusted with more family secrets than anyone in the town. As long as she’d known him, she’d never heard Max Elliott say a mean word about anyone.

“I know she disliked me. I’m not really sure why,” he continued. “I guess it could have been for a couple of reasons. She was rude and impolite, but I tried to ignore it for Picasso’s sake.”

“Why do you think she was bad for Picasso?”

“Laurel wanted to leave Crestwood,” Max said. “Picasso and I had a meeting one day, shortly before she died. He was very upset. Laurel had told him that in a few weeks, she’d be ready to move on. Just as he was experiencing real success here with his restaurant. Just as his reputation was being cemented. But that lady didn’t give a tinker’s dam. Just wanted to move on, she told him.”

“To where? Was Picasso going with her?” Po scribbled her name on several forms and pushed them across the table to Max.

Max swallowed a swig of Scotch and shook his head. “I don’t know where she wanted to go, and I don’t think Picasso was invited. But that didn’t matter—he would have followed that woman to the ends of the earth. And she’d have destroyed him piece by piece along the way. That much I know for sure.”

Po sat still for a minute, unnerved by the force of Max’s anger. Then she rose and refilled each of their drinks. “We’re done with the paperwork, Max,” she said, changing the subject. “A short while on my back porch will be good tonic for both of us.”

But as they sat in companionable silence, Max’s harsh words about Laurel St. Pierre settled uncomfortably inside her head. And running through her thoughts was something Max had told her several months before. His love for French food had pushed him to do something he’d never done before, he’d told her. He’d gone and invested a goodly amount of his retirement in Picasso’s French Quarter restaurant.

And one thing Po was quite sure of—a French restaurant without its French cook was not a recipe for success—or for a successful retirement.

CHAPTER 21

The French Quarter wasn’t open for lunch on Fridays, so Kate and Po settled for a piece of Maria’s spinach quiche. Kate had called Po early that morning and announced that if she was ever going to get a good night’s sleep again, they had to meet and figure this Picasso mess out. There were far too many things happening, and all the threads were left dangling, like a very poorly constructed quilt.