A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (21 page)

CHAPTER 22

P.J. and Kate stopped by Po’s that night before heading for a movie in Kansas City. The Crestwood Cinema was sometimes a little behind in first run movies, but the nearby Missouri city easily filled in the gaps. Besides, an evening stroll on Kansas City’s Country Club Plaza, enjoying the crowds and music groups gathered around the fountains, would take them a world away from the rumors and worries of the Crestwood murders, something they both needed. Po was out on the porch with Maggie, sharing a pitcher of martinis and enjoying the warm southern breezes that portended a delightful May.

“Hey, you two,” Maggie called out in greeting. “Join us.”

“Where’s Leah?” Kate asked. “I thought she was joining you?”

“She’s being a good-hearted person and helping Selma out. Tonight is first Friday, and Selma was expecting quite a crowd.” Po handed P.J. and Kate each a glass. Kate looked beautiful tonight, Po thought. A black pair of stretch pants showcased her long legs, and a deep cobalt blue jacket fit snugly over her white t-shirt. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. Po looked at P.J. His eyes were on Kate, his tall body relaxed and comfortable in jeans and a light tan jacket. They look happy together, Po thought with a jolt. That’s what’s happening here. Happiness. It was more welcome to Po than the bright yellow daffodils popping up beneath the giant pines in her yard. A more powerful sign of good days to come than the bright spring moon.

“I stopped by to see Picasso this afternoon,” Kate was saying, oblivious to Po’s thoughts. “He’s hoping for a crowd tonight, too. And he plans on sending everyone over to Selma’s to see his quilt-in-progress.”

“Great,” Po said. “It’s good for people to know he has the neighborhood’s support.”

Kate sat down beside Maggie on the swing. “Picasso also told me he’s decided what to do with Laurel’s mother’s bird quilt—he’s offering it to the SafeHome, to auction at that charity event at the country club. It was Bill McKay’s idea, but Picasso loved it. Considering all that’s happened, he thought it was the right thing to do—and what Laurel would want him to do.”

“I’m not so sure about the latter,” Po said. “Who knows what Laurel—or Ann—would have wanted? She’s such a mystery woman, even in death. But it’s certainly a good and generous thing for Picasso to do.”

“We’ve been looking into Ann Woods’ past, Po,” P.J. said. He leaned against the railing, his back to the yard. “We’ve confirmed that when she left here those years ago, she went to upstate New York, so she was honest with Picasso about that. She lived in a small town with a maiden aunt, I think, and finished high school. When the aunt passed away—Ann must have been 17 or 18—she seems to have disappeared, swallowed up in the bowels of New York City. Or at least that’s the best we can figure, since that’s where she lived when she met Picasso. And Picasso was pretty sure she’d lived there for several years.”

Kate repeated Janna Hathaway’s conjecture that it could have been someone from that part of Laurel’s life who killed her.

“Could be,” P.J. said. “And if that’s true, we may never find him or her. But I don’t think it was.”

“Why?” Po asked, though she completely agreed with P.J. and had her own set of reasons. If someone from Laurel’s past had wanted to kill her, New York would have been a much better place to do it, not a small town where everyone knew each other and strangers were as noticeable as blue men from Mars. Besides, Laurel’s presence and her behavior in Crestwood seemed to be calculated. Po was convinced Laurel had come back for a reason, some sort of revenge. And that reason was right there in their little town. They simply couldn’t see it. At least not yet.

P.J. shifted on the porch railing. He seemed reluctant to say why he thought the way he did, but he finally offered, “The dual murders, for one reason. Sands had no ties to the East Coast. He’d never been outside the Midwest and never planned to go. Furthermore, who but a resident would know about those quarries where Sands’ body was found? Some people who live here couldn’t even find their way down those narrow roads. And Sands had told Picasso he was going to benefit from something Laurel told him. He knew something, and thought that knowledge was worth something.”

Po watched P.J.’s angular face as he talked. It was partially lit by the full moon, and the strong lines of his jaw were outlined prominently. P.J. Flanigan is a thoughtful man, she thought. And a kind man. And if Liz Simpson were alive and sitting there with a martini in hand, she’d thoroughly approve of the direction this relationship was heading. And between P.J. and me, we will keep her safe, Liz, Po promised, suddenly missing her best friend fiercely.

***

Po wasn’t sure that Kate would make it to the Queen Bees Saturday session, knowing she was out late the night before. But sure enough, as Po walked out of Maria’s with a grand latte in hand, she spotted Kate rounding the corner in her familiar green Jeep.

Po waved and waited while Kate parked the car and ran across the street.

Kate pecked her on the cheek. “Okay, yes, Po, we had a great time,” she said before Po could ask for a report. “He drives me crazy sometimes—but other times?” Kate lifted her brows and rolled her eyes mischievously.

Po laughed, then looped her arm through Kate’s and together they headed for Selma’s. The alumni crowd was even more plentiful today, lining up at Marla’s to savor her eggs and coffee. “Too bad Picasso doesn’t serve breakfast,” Po mused. “He’d make a fortune today.”

They looked beyond Picasso’s to Selma’s store. The door was already open and blinds lifted. As they neared the doorway, Selma stepped out onto the sidewalk and started toward them. Her face was tight, and damp, flyaway gray tendrils curled against her forehead. Bright spots lit her cheeks, the only signs of emotion as she waved them close. “Not a good day, ladies,” she said crisply. “I’m glad you’re here early.”

Po and Kate looked at each other, then followed Selma into the half-lit store. Susan stood behind the counter, a strange, sad look on her face.

Selma gestured toward the west side of the store and Kate and Po looked toward the wall, a freshly-painted white surface ten feet high that was covered with this month’s first Friday display—bright, magnificent works of quilting art. Then just as quickly, their eyes lowered to the bed display holding their own creation—Picasso’s quilt with the brilliant fish flying into Po’s pieced black pot.

Po’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Selma—” she moaned. The fish were still in flight, their bodies placed on the unfinished pieced background. And running along the right side of the quilt, slashing through Leah’s fish and dissecting the black pot like a sword, was a thin, wavy river of destruction—a pale yellow-white swoosh that robbed the art of its brilliant crimsons and purples and silvers.

“It’s bleach,” Selma said quietly.

Susan’s eyes filled with tears. “I should have been watching the crowd more closely.”

“Nonsense,” Selma said. “Who provides surveillance for quilt lovers?

“What kind of monster would do this?” Kate asked.

“What’s done is done,” Selma said. She looked at Kate. “Come on sweetie, help me with this.”

Together Selma and Kate lifted the whole sheet beneath the quilt and carried it into the back room. Selma motioned toward the work table and they laid it there, on the long oak table where various Queen Bees had found friendship for nearly thirty years as they pieced bits of fabric together into quilts.

“I don’t want customers to see this,” Selma said, her eyes running up and down the bleached-out river. Her hands were knotted into tight fists and she pushed them into her hips, staring at the damage. “I should never have suggested we use it last night. I’m so sorry to all of you. Leah will be appalled.”

At the mention of her name, Leah, followed by Maggie and Phoebe, walked in the back door. Wordlessly they surveyed the damage. And then as if on cue, the air was filled with crashing exclamations, outrage, and questions.

“When did you discover this?” Po asked Selma, managing to squeeze her question into a short-lived lull.

“Not until this morning. It was so packed in here last night you could barely move. Picasso’s had a line all the way down the block, and the overflow wandered around in here, waiting for their tables. Also, a Canterbury professor’s quilts were on display, and students and parents who knew her came in to see it.” Selma unpinned Leah’s fish from the background fabric and absently, as if telling it that it’d be okay, pressed the fabric to her cheek.

“People were still here at closing,” Susan said. “Leah and I turned the spotlights out over the quilts to get people to leave, so it was dark on that side of the room, and we didn’t see the streak.”

“Well, I have many of my little fins left over—I wasn’t sure what colors would fit in best so I made a ton. I can redo my fish without too much difficulty,” Leah said.

“And my cauldron just may end up with some vegetables floating around it. There’s always a way,” Po said.

“But why in heaven’s name would anyone have bleach in here? It makes no sense whatsoever!” Phoebe leaned over the damaged quilt, her palms flat on the table.

The room grew quiet as they tried to make sense of the damage. Finally Po asked, “Selma, were you the last to leave?”

“Yes. I sent Susan on her way—she has that drive all the way out to her farm. So I took care of the cash register, straightened a few fabric bolts, and went on home. The cleaning crew arrived when I was leaving.”

“Have you talked to them? Could they have spilled something on the quilt?” Po asked.

“I called Jake Hansen this morning as soon as I discovered it. He’s the head man, honest as the day is long. He saw it as soon as they started sweeping, he said. Jake doesn’t know diddlysquat about quilts—he thought maybe I had tried some new technique on it, kind of like tie-dye, he said.” Selma’s laugh was hollow.

“So we know for sure it happened during the show,” Po said.

“Is that possible?” Kate asked. “Wouldn’t you have smelled the bleach?”

“Not in a room filled with fifty kinds of fancy perfumes and waves of Picasso’s garlic shrimp wafting in from down the street,” Leah said.

“And it was so crowded that someone with a small spray bottle could easily have gone unnoticed,” Susan added. “Besides, the fabric wouldn’t have faded immediately, so no one would have noticed it ‘til later.”

Po ran her fingers along the colorless fabric. She shook her head. “Random acts of violence. It’s so difficult to understand.”

“Maybe not so random,” Selma said.

All the Queen Bees stared at her.

“What do you mean, Selma? If not random, it was aimed at you, or at all of us—it’s our quilt. That’s ridiculous,” Po said.

Eleanor had slipped in the back door and heard the last few minutes of conversation. She walked over and looked at the quilt, shaking her head in dismay.

Selma turned away from the quilt and looked at Po. Her face was composed and thoughtful. “I think it’s unlikely someone would walk into a quilt store on a crowded night and risk getting caught in such a foolish act unless there was a deliberate reason for doing it.”

“Oh, Selma, I don’t think so,” Po said. But her words were soft and lacked conviction. Selma’s reasoning was far too close to her own to offer vacuous reassurances.

“But why would anyone want to damage our quilt?” Phoebe asked. “If they wanted to do real damage they could have trashed the store or stolen Selma’s receipts, or slashed our tires, or—”

“Exactly my point,” Selma interrupted. “This was done by someone who knows the effort we put into this quilt, someone who knows how much it means to us. And it was someone who knew that damaging the quilt would get our attention.”

Eleanor stood over the quilt, its garish stain running down the side. Her glasses slid down her nose and the sleeve of her elegant silk blouse brushed across the fabric as veined hands touched it reverently. “Damn,” was all she said. Her gray head slowly moved from side to side.

“And I double that thought, Eleanor.” P.J. strode into the room from the archway, his eyes searching for the quilt. A few scattered hellos greeted him, but the others turned to look at Kate.