A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (7 page)

By the time the remaining Bees arrived at Selma’s, Kate had talked to P.J. He quickly confirmed the story already spreading across the small town as people turned on their radios and televisions for the early morning news.

“Laurel St. Pierre,” Kate said, returning to the table with her cell phone in her hand. Her tone was hushed and disbelieving. “We were just talking about her yesterday, maybe at the very moment she was being hurled into that river.” Kate had told P.J. on the phone about seeing Laurel in the park with a stranger. Similar stories were coming in to the station, he told her. And they’d be checking them all out.

“Like who would do such a thing?” Phoebe’s eyes filled her face. “And I’m bringing my babies up in this world? This is total craziness.” She fingered one of several earrings curling up the edge of her ear.

“Poor Picasso,” Po said. “He adored Laurel. How difficult this must be for him.”

“We saw him last night at the restaurant,” Selma said. “Susan and I stopped by after closing up the shop. We had had a busy night and thought a slight nip would help us sleep.”

“Was Laurel there?” Kate asked.

“No,” Susan said. “And it was crowded, being Friday night, so we were a little surprised. But Picasso said he had insisted she take the night off because she’d been working too hard.”

“Does anyone know how they found her?” Maggie asked. “The news report I heard on the way over was a little sketchy.”

Kate put her mug down. P.J.’s account was more complete than the news, although she knew that he only told her what would eventually be common knowledge, not the whole story. “P.J. said a couple of college kids found her. They were camping near that old quarry where the river starts to bend. P.J. said a large mound of boulders in the river’s bend stopped her body from heading toward the Gulf of Mexico. At first they thought she drowned—but there was evidence of a blow to her head, and now they think that was what killed her. They don’t know where she entered the river, but they know where she ended up.”

“Oh, gross. I need coffee.” Phoebe walked over to the sideboard and brought the glass pot back to fill everyone’s mugs. Her size-two jeans hugged her body and a bright green t-shirt, stretched across her chest, proclaimed “I love my twins.” A platinum mop of hair, no longer than a finger, framed her pixie face, which today lacked its usual wide grin.

At this time on a normal Saturday morning, the table was filled with a dozen pieces of fabric, the sewing machine was whirring at the side, and laughter and talk filled the sky-lit room. Today the mood was somber and disbelieving.

“I liked Laurel,” Leah said. She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her long jeans skirt and absently cleaned her round rimless glasses. Shoulder-length brown hair framed Leah’s high cheekbones and, without her glasses, her brown eyes were even larger than usual. Today they were filled with sadness. “She took a women’s history class from me last semester. There was something mysterious about her, and I guess because we both came here from the east coast, we had an odd bond, and she would sometimes talk to me after class. Asked me what I knew about Crestwood. What it was like to live here.”

“She didn’t really talk much to me,” Kate said.

“But she watched you,” Maggie said. “I’d catch her staring at you in the French Quarter sometimes.”

Kate looked over at Maggie. “That’s strange, Mags. I felt that sometimes, too—I was just telling Po about it yesterday.”

“Oh, pooh, Kate,” Selma said. “You’re a good-looking gal. Everybody looks at you.” She took a sip of her coffee, then set the mug down and continued, “But, now that you mention it, Laurel did seem to people watch more than usual, I’ll grant you that. She kept a keen eye on everyone coming in and out of the French Quarter.”

“She was a help to Picasso in the restaurant, that’s for sure,” Po said. “I wonder how he’s coping? We need to do something. I think his only family is in France.”

“What about Laurel’s family?” Kate asked. “I wonder if they’ve been told.”

“Laurel never mentioned family,” Susan said. “But I think she grew up near New York.”

“I drove by Picasso’s house on the way over here,” Phoebe said. She settled down next to Kate. “There were police cars in the driveway.”

“Maybe in the next couple days we could each take some food by to help with visitors,” Po said.

“Cooking for Picasso is a little like singing for Pavarotti,” Eleanor said. “But I shall certainly take over a fine bottle of French wine. He’ll like that.”

“And for today, maybe good therapy for all of us would be to work on Picasso’s quilt,” Selma said. “There’s not much else we can do right now.”

The group nodded, and as if some unseen stage director had given a cue, soft cloth bags appeared from beneath the table, the sewing machine was brought to life, and Leah filled the table with brightly colored swatches of fabric.

“Here’s what we’re doing,” she said. “Susan and I have worked it all out. This is not going to be one of our democratic, do-whatever-moves-your-spirit kind of projects.” As the most gifted and artistic members of the group, Susan and Leah often led the way, and the rest of the group usually responded well, with only an occasional complaint.

“I’ve expressed my views on this,” Maggie started in.

“Yes, you have. And we don’t need to hear them again,” Leah said.

“You’ll be doing sashes and borders, Maggie, or one of the blocks. Not a bit of appliqué,” Susan assured her.

“Ah, there is a God,” Maggie said.

“Just when I finally get my lines straight, you do this to us,” Eleanor said, looking down at the intricate pattern. “I don’t think there’s a straight line in the whole quilt.”

Susan had used graph paper and colored pencils to sketch the drawing for the quilt. In the center, on the bottom half of the quilt, was a large pot, composed of different shapes of black and gray and silver patterns, pieced together in six small blocks. Above the pot were four large appliquéd fish, their bodies an intricate blend of wavy lines, with small yellow and black circles for eyes. Striped fins were flattened against the scaled bodies, and even the simple sketch was beautiful and intricate enough to draw “ahs” and “oohs” from the quilters. Susan and Leah would each create a fish, and these would be appliquéd on the pieced background.

“This is amazing,” Po said. “Picasso will be so pleased.”

“It’s beautiful,” Kate said. “I don’t know if I can do this justice.”

“You’re getting better, Kate,” Susan said. “Don’t underrate yourself. Your photos inspired those fish.”

The mood lightened slightly as the group leaned over the table, studying Susan and Leah’s design. Graceful lines of steam curled up from the pot, and the pieced background, composed of blocks of deep gold, daffodil, yellow, and soft tan, held the design in place. Tiny flecks of green and gold, which would be appliquéd on in the final stages, represented the bits of herbs and spices that made Picasso’s bouillabaisse unique.

“I can almost smell that amazing soup,” Phoebe said.

“Bouillabaisse, Phoebe,” Kate said, “Bool-a-baise.” Her feigned French accent, imitating Picasso, made them all smile.

“Picasso will be so pleased.” Po said softly.

“But only if it becomes a reality,” Leah said, determined not to let the sadness of the day overwhelm them. “So to work ladies. We’ve already cut up the pieces and made you each your own block patterns. I know Eleanor will only do her piecing by hand but you can decide for yourself. To work!”

CHAPTER 7

For more years than they cared to remember, Po and Leah Sarandon had met for breakfast at Marla’s bakery on Sunday mornings, a habit born of their husbands’ love for early-morning golf. While the two men enjoyed fresh breezes walking the greens just east of town, their wives, the twelve years’ difference in their ages dissolving instantly in the heat of their shared passion for quilting and books and women’s history, shared food. As they savored moist, cheesy eggs with wild mushrooms, or whatever other marvelous concoction Marla had put together for that day, their friendship grew. When Sam Paltrow died, the routine went unbroken, filling an even greater need in Po’s life as the power of friendship helped her heal.

And in addition to Maria’s culinary talents, she never failed to season Po and Leah’s breakfast with a generous dose of gossip. Today the large bakery proprietor was like a cat with a whole nest of mice at the ready.

“Ladies,” she gushed in an excited stage whisper, “have I got news for you.”

Leah smiled at the familiar greeting, and Po suggested that a cup of coffee would better prepare them for the words fighting to get out of Marla’s mouth.

Marla filled their mugs, her black eyes darting around the small bakery cafe, taking stock of empty plates, filled tables, and her young waitresses, making sure no diner went wanting for service. The room was nearly filled, and soon there would be a line out the door, with waiting customers sitting on outdoor benches reading the Sunday paper or chatting with friends. “Awful news about Picasso’s wife,” she began. “Just awful.” Marla set the coffee pot down on the table and wiped her plump hands on her apron. “I know a young girl like that dying is horrible and all, but you know, he may be better off without her.”

“Marla! What an awful thing to say,” Po said. “Picasso was crazy about Laurel.”

“Doesn’t mean she was good for him, Po. She could be nasty as all get out if she didn’t like you. Ask Max Elliott— she couldn’t stand that sweet man — I saw with my own eyes how she’d be rude to him. But that’s not the worst of it.

Rumor has it that Mrs. St. Pierre had gentlemen friends who were most definitely not of the French persuasion.” Marla leaned over the table and looked back and forth between the two women. “Daisy Sample saw that woman talking to a man in the alley, very cozy like, not two weeks ago. It wasn’t Picasso or Jesse or anyone we know. And believe you me, they weren’t talking about the weather.”

“Daisy should keep her gossip to herself,” Po said. “What in heaven’s name does talking to a man in an alley mean anyway? I wouldn’t call that incriminating. I’ve talked to men in that alley myself, Marla, and you never had me romantically linked.” Po’s words were far more forceful than she felt. Kate’s recent encounter over at the River Park had run through her dreams all night long. “We need to support Picasso,” she said aloud, “and we need to help him through the funeral, not make burying his wife more difficult for him than it already is.”