A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (4 page)

Bill laughed. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Every time.” And it had, Kate remembered. Bill McKay managed to win every class election, every award, and every girl’s heart. She remembered his parents at the honor assemblies, nodding approval in a way that said this was expected of their only son, and nothing less. And when he was accepted at Yale, there was a front-page story in the town newspaper citing his accomplishments. Kate smiled again at Janna, feeling the woman’s gaze on her.

“Bill and I were about to get dinner,” Janna said, looking up at Bill.

“Oh, you have to go to Picasso’s,” Kate said, the memory of Picasso’s bouillabaisse lifting her voice. She could still taste it on the tip of her tongue. “It’s absolutely the best restaurant in Crestwood, bar none.”

Janna looked up at Bill. “See? I told you people say it’s good.” She looked back at Po and Kate. “Bill never eats in a restaurant until it’s been operating for one year. A McKay rule, he tells me.” Janna laughed lightly.

“Well, then he’s foolish and will miss out on something special,” Kate said. She grinned at Bill.

Bill looked at Janna and smiled in a way Kate remembered well. “I had my heart set on Mexican tonight,” he said.

“That sounds good to me, too,” Janna said immediately.

“And I’ll take you to France on your honeymoon,” Bill added. “Will that make up for it?”

Janna giggled like a schoolgirl, though Kate suspected she was older than Billy. On the one hand she seemed to melt in the presence of her fiancé. On the other, she seemed to have some kind of a hold on the relationship. But then, Kate thought, what relationship didn’t reveal some inconsistencies, once you peeled off a layer or two?

“Guess I’d better go feed my bride-to-be,” Bill said. “But it sure is good to see you two.” He smiled at each of them, then nodded at Gus’s poster and shrugged. “And hey, your votes would be welcome, you two.”

“And knowing you, Bill, you’ll charm me into my vote once again,” Kate said.

Bill’s face turned serious. “Thanks, Kate. But I’ve grown up a little bit—or at least I hope I have. I still want your vote, but hope you’ll give it to me because I want to do good things for Crestwood.” He smiled again, then nodded to each of them, and walked on down the street.

“He’s gonna get it, too,” Gus Schuette said, coming out and standing on the step outside his door. He watched Bill and Janna disappear around the corner.

“Think so?” Po asked.

“No question in my mind. He’s a good man.”

“I think you may be right, Gus,” Po said. “Billy has turned out well, and maybe in spite of those ambitious parents of his.”

“I’ve volunteered to help him out some. Arrange some gatherings, that sort of thing. And you’d think I’d have lassoed the moon for him, all the thanks he’s pouring on me.”

“That’s sure nice of you, Gus,” Kate said. Gus Schuette was a good man to have on your side, she thought. He knew everyone in town, and beneath his sometimes grumpy exterior, he was a fine man and well respected. “I’ve always liked Billy, but if push comes to shove, I think you’d make a mighty fine mayor, Gus Schuette.” Kate poked him gently in the rips.

Po laughed as Kate blew Gus a kiss, and the two women bid him good-night and walked on down the street.

Gus stood on the step in the moonlight, scratching his chin.
Hmmm
, he thought, turning to inspect his reflection in the glass.
Mayor, eh
?

CHAPTER 3

“Po, I’m addicted.” Kate dropped her backpack on a chair in Po’s kitchen and walked toward the refrigerator. She opened the stainless steel door and peered inside. “All I want to do is take pictures. Heck with grading papers, writing papers, going to school.” She pulled out a bottle of water and looked over her shoulder at her godmother.

Po was sitting at the wide wooden table paying bills, comfortable in a pair of jeans and light blue turtleneck sweater. Spring sunlight poured through the back windows and across the spacious kitchen and family room. It had been warm enough today to open the windows a crack, letting crisp breezes clean out the staid winter air. Po looked over the top of her glasses at Kate. “You’re very good at it, you know. Your mother would be so proud of you, Kate.”

Kate laughed and walked across the kitchen. She pulled out a chair across from Po and sat down, propping her elbows on the thick table. “You say that about everything I do, you sweet thing you.”

“Not about your quilting. You’re not very good at that.” Po patted Kate’s arm.

“But—” Kate lifted one brow and waited. Her enormous brown eyes focused intently on Po, tugging out a compliment.

“But you’re trying,” Po said. “And you’re getting a little better.”

“Now don’t get carried away.” Kate’s throaty laughter warmed the large comfortable kitchen. It had been a second home to her since she was born. And after her mother died, it became even more of a haven, a place to be with her mother’s best friend, a place to be safe, a place to be Kate.

“You know, Po, I think I’ll actually be more successful with this new kind of quilt we’re doing for Picasso.”

“Because it involves food?” Now Po laughed.

“Well, that, too,” Kate admitted. At nearly five foot ten, Kate’s long slender body handled food nicely, distributing it on her lanky frame without ever turning to fat. “I like the appliqué idea, Po. No matter what Maggie says. I think I’ll be better at that than trying to line up points.”

“Some quilters like it, some don’t. We’ll see. It isn’t easy, Kate.”

Kate took an apple from the large wooden bowl on the table. She rubbed it absentmindedly. “Picasso seems thrilled with the whole idea. But did you notice Laurel last night?”

“I did. She seemed worried.”

“Or angry. I caught her looking at all of us once, and there was fire in those gorgeous eyes.”

Po nodded. “I saw something there, too. Perhaps she thinks we’re bad for business, taking up that big round table so frequently.” Po closed her checkbook and set down her pen.

“Po, there’s something about Laurel that throws me off kilter. You know that feeling of déjà vu you sometimes get? I swear I’ve met Laurel St. Pierre before.”

“In Boston, maybe? Picasso said they met on the east coast. New York, I think.”

“No, I asked her. She’s never been to Boston, and she seemed insulted when I said I thought I knew her. She’s strange, Po. I think—”

The rattle of the back door stopped Kate’s words mid sentence.

“Hi, beautiful ladies.” P.J. Flanigan walked through the kitchen door and across the room. He leaned over Po and planted a kiss on her cheek. A hunk of brown hair fell across his forehead. Then he rounded the table and stood behind Kate. Bending at the waist, he whispered into her ear from behind, his nose tickling her cheek. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

“Just here. Waiting. Waiting for Flanigan,” Kate answered, twisting her body to look up into his face.

“Hmm, catchy title. Think I’ll write a play about that. Waiting for Flanigan.” P.J. straightened up and headed for Po’s collection of bright thick coffee mugs displayed behind a glass cupboard door. “As lovely as you two are,” he said over his shoulder, “I’m really here on business.” PJ filled his mug with coffee. “We had a strange thing happen last night at the department. I thought maybe you could shed some light on it.”

“What’s that?” Kate took a bite of her apple and watched P.J. as he helped himself to a muffin from Po’s bread container. P.J. was as comfortable in Po’s kitchen as she was. He had known the Paltrows all his life. And Kate knew that the young lawyer-turned-policeman loved Po—a fact that fueled all sorts of other feelings that were beginning to play around inside her whenever P.J. came into a room.

“A domestic violence call,” P.J. said, scattering Kate’s thoughts. “And it was from Laurel St. Pierre.”

“No!” Kate and Po’s voices collided in the kitchen’s coffee-scented air.

“Yep. About 1 a.m. I wasn’t there, but Frank Stangel—a buddy—said it was very strange. He got the call, and when he and his partner got to the St. Pierres’, they found Mrs. St. Pierre sitting on the front step of the house, their big place over on Willow Street. Laurel was crying her eyes out. No bruises, but she was very distraught.”

“And Picasso?” Kate asked.

“Nowhere to be found.”

“That doesn’t make sense, P.J.,” Po said. “Picasso is a fine man. And gentle as a lamb. What’s more, he adores Laurel.” Worry creased her forehead.

“I guess we don’t know what goes on behind closed doors, do we?”

“We saw them both last night at the restaurant,” Po said.

“Kate mentioned you were going to the French Quarter last night.” P.J. took a bite of the blueberry muffin and washed it down with a swig of coffee. He looked from one woman to the other. “Did you notice anything different in the restaurant?”

Kate and Po were silent for a moment, thinking back over their delicious dinner of bouillabaisse and crusty French bread. Both seemed reluctant to repeat their recent conversation about Laurel. It was one thing to gossip among friends, another to lay it all out for a policeman’s eyes to dissect. Even if that policeman was P.J.

“Laurel …” Kate began cautiously.

“Seemed distracted,” Po finished. “But Picasso was his usual happy self, and affectionate toward Laurel the way he always is. No, this doesn’t make sense. Did you ever find Picasso?”

“Yep. Cruiser spotted him walking along the river path about dawn. Had his apron on and all. Said he’d been at the restaurant—”

“In the middle of the night?”

“He said he sometimes does that. He seemed shocked that Laurel had called the police. They’d had an argument, he said, that’s all. And he’d gone back to the restaurant to ‘cook it off,’ as he put it. Then decided to take the long way home to relax himself.”

“And?”

“That’s it. But Laurel claimed more than an argument, though no one saw signs to validate it. Said she was afraid of him and couldn’t we do something?”

“Afraid of Picasso? That is absolutely ridiculous!” Po shook her head and pushed her glasses up into her gray-streaked hair. At sixty-one, Po knew everyone in town, and her opinions of Crestwood’s residents were reliable and thoughtful. “He hasn’t lived here that long, true, but I know an honest, kind man when I see one. Picasso is a friend.”

“It’s odd. For sure,” P.J. said. “I always thought he was a nice guy, too. Don’t care for that fancy French food much, but he’s always happy to make me a steak.”

“Such plebian taste,” Kate said, resting one hand on P.J.’s muscular arm. “What do Po and I see in you?”

P.J. pushed his chair closer. “Boyish charm, I suspect.” He grinned over his coffee mug.

Po watched the two and her chest constricted slightly. She couldn’t have instigated this evolving relationship better herself, though she surely would have tried if it didn’t seem to be happening on its own. Kate was resisting, she knew, not sure she was ready to plant any roots down in Crestwood, Kansas. But Po had known both P.J. and Kate since they were babies, and she thought Crestwood roots were just fine.

Kate stood. “This mess with Picasso upsets me,” she said. “There has to be another side to the story.” She pushed a handful of hair behind her ear and walked over to the sink. “There usually is.” P.J. took a long swallow of coffee. “Great brew, Po.”