A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (9 page)

CHAPTER 8

The need to buy groceries and clean her family room before friends arrived for supper kept Po from dwelling on the familiar quilt, though images of the bird were in her mind’s eye as she prepared the béarnaise sauce for tonight’s fillets and piled buffet dishes on the end of the table for dinner. When P.J. and Kate arrived a short while later, Po sent them out back to manage the grill while she went upstairs to take a quick shower and try to wash away the disturbing thoughts.

“Kate and P.J., you’re in charge,” she had said to them. “Make sure it’s wonderful.”

P.J. feigned a bow. “You’ve any doubts, madame?” He grinned at Po to pull her out of her thoughts, then held the porch door open for Kate and followed her outside while Po retreated upstairs.

“She’s just worried about Picasso, P.J.,” Kate said, placing the platter of steaks beside the grill.

“Well, she may have something to worry about.” He opened the heavy cast iron lid and poked the coals to life that Po had lit earlier. Crimson embers lit up the night. Kate handed P.J. a long fork and he speared each thick steak and placed it on the grill. “What do you mean, P.J.?”

“I think this doesn’t look good for Picasso right now, is all I mean.”

“P.J., you’re crazy,” Kate said. Her fists dug into the sides of her waist to keep her from shoving P.J. right off the edge of Po’s porch. The evening air was brisk, and small gaslights dotted the wooded area beyond the deck, casting shadows across the spring lawn.

“Calm down, Kate,” P.J. said. His brow was furrowed, and the look of levity that usually lit his face had disappeared. He brushed the top of each steak with a thin layer of butter and olive oil. For a moment the sizzle of fat dripping on the coals was the only noise in Po’s backyard. P.J. concentrated on the grill, his eyes not meeting Kate’s.

When Kate spoke again, her voice was softer, but still edged with anger. “It’s just that Picasso is such a kind, good man,” she said. “And if you could have heard him earlier today, you’d never in a million years doubt his love for his wife. And what about the guy I saw in the park with Laurel, P.J.? Why isn’t he on the top of your list?”

“We’re looking into that, Kate. But we’ve nothing more than what you’ve told us. And that’s not much. Your description includes half of the county. And others have come forward telling of seeing Laurel with different men—even that little waiter at the restaurant spent time with her. But Picasso is the one she was calling abusive.”

“But he loved her more than you can imagine, P.J. I am sure of that.”

“I’m not doubting the man’s love, Kate. But people sometimes do bad things to people they love. Take you—” He tried to joke her out of the moment. “Look how nasty you’re being to me—and God knows you’re crazy about me.”

But Kate would have none of it. “I think that’s one of the things that’s desperately wrong with our legal system, P.J. We say people are innocent until proven guilty, but then the news gets out there—and the whole world treats you like you’re guilty without any proof whatsoever.”

The late afternoon news had startled not only Kate, but anyone who knew Picasso and had ever felt his gracious hospitality in the French Quarter bistro. “A small town restaurateur may have some connection to his wife’s murder,” the reporter on the Kansas City, Missouri, news channel had announced, and then went on to talk of possible marital discord that an unidentified source had passed the reporter’s way.

“I don’t know how that story ever got on the news tonight. I guess it’s the weekend doldrums—there’s nothing else to talk about. But it was all some reporter’s conjectures, Kate. The police wouldn’t say anything like that at this point.”

Kate handed P.J. a cup of wine sauce for the meat. “So the police are convinced Picasso is innocent?” Her unrestrained fists returned to her hips.

“The police aren’t convinced you’re innocent, Kate. The guys assigned to the case are just beginning to look into it. Everyone has to be looked at. The guy in the park—whoever he is—the people in the restaurant. Friends of Laurel’s. It was a murder, Kate.”

“Are you two almost ready with the steaks?” Po called through the screen door. She stepped into the doorway, looking refreshed in pale tan slacks and a black sweater.

“Five minutes max, boss lady,” P.J. called back, then turned a row of large white mushrooms on the top burner and brushed them generously with garlic butter. He had become Po’s Sunday night barbecue doyen in recent months, a role that originated with Sam Paltrow. For years Sam had welcomed friends and neighbors to his Sunday night suppers, and the tradition continued after his death when force of habit and a yearning for Sam and Po’s hospitality brought people to Po’s doorstep with a bottle of wine in hand or a freshly baked pie nestled in a wicker basket. Sometimes there was a crowd, sometimes a small intimate group, and sometimes Po herself cancelled it because she had a book deadline or another engagement. But in recent months P.J. had been a regular, a fact Po attributed to Kate’s weekly presence. But whatever the reason he came, his barbecue skills were nearly as fine as her husband’s had been, and Po took full advantage of it.

“Well, just for the record, P.J.,” Kate said, “Picasso is a good man. And I’m not so sure his wife was a perfect person. In fact, I suspect there were plenty of people who wouldn’t be terribly sad to have Laurel St. Pierre off their radar screen.”

“That’s a little harsh, Kate.”

Kate was silent. She had no basis for her strong words, but she felt them deep inside of her. Laurel had always made her uncomfortable, and instinct told her there were things about the woman that would surprise all of them, including Picasso.

P.J. looked up from the grill and saw the mix of emotion cloud Kate’s face. “It’ll be okay, Katie,” he said. His voice was gentle now. “If there’s something we need to know about Laurel, we’ll find it out. Now help me with these steaks so we can fatten you up a bit.” He pierced the plump fillets with the fork and piled the meat on a platter, then handed it to Kate. As he piled the mushrooms into a bright blue ceramic bowl, he grinned and winked at Kate, trying hard to force a smile to her lips. “Ah, we make a grand culinary team, Kathleen Anne Mary Simpson. Let’s now go inside and accept the well-deserved praises of our hungry guests.”

Kate looked at him hard and long, then shook her head and allowed the small smile he was waiting for. “You can be so absolutely irritating, P.J. Flanigan—always seeing all sides of everything. But you make it impossible for me to stay mad at you. And I hate that.” She turned and headed for the porch door with the bowl of mushrooms held between her hands. “Fatten me up, my foot,” she muttered, and walked into the kitchen.

“Ah, perfectly done, P.J.,” Po greeted them, and relieved Kate of her bowl. “I think we’ll be a small group tonight.” She gestured to the family room where Phoebe sat curled up on the couch with Jimmy and the twins, reading to them about a little boy who gave a moose a muffin. Gus Schuette and his wife Rita sat with Eleanor, debating the merits of martinis. Rita was a definite asset to any gathering, her keen wit and outspoken opinions fodder for lively conversation. “Max Elliott said he’d be by, too, so let’s wait a couple more minutes,” Po said. She’d been happy when Max called, and hoped there’d be a moment or two to ask him subtly about Laurel St. Pierre. She was surprised at Marla’s gossip—she hadn’t known Max even knew Laurel. Besides, the thought of anyone not liking Max Elliott was difficult to imagine.

As if on cue, a knock at the front door announced Max’s presence. “I’ve brought a couple more friends,” he called from the door, then walked on in. “Knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not, Max, now get on in here where I can see that handsome face of yours,” called Po.

Max entered the family room, assisted by a short cane that was the only sign of a serious car injury the year before. “Folks, you all know Bill McKay—and his lovely fiancé, Janna.” Max bowed toward the woman standing beside the imposing Bill McKay.

“Of course we do. Welcome,” Po said warmly, wiping her hands on a dishtowel and hurrying across the room to greet the new arrivals. “We’re happy you’re here. You probably know everyone—and if not, they know you, Billy, from seeing your face all over town. I swear I’ve seen more of you in the last six months on posters and the like than since you moved back after college.”

Bill laughed along with the others, and made the rounds of hellos. He picked up Phoebe’s Emma and lifted her to his shoulders, caring the delighted toddler around the room. Janna followed close behind him, carefully greeting everyone. She wore a blue silk jacket and slacks, perfectly tailored and slightly out of place with the casually dressed crowd. Janna seemed slightly ill at ease, Po thought, but that was certainly understandable—she was the new person in a roomful of people who had lived in this small town nearly all their lives. “Janna, come meet the other best two two-year-old in the room.” She took Janna’s hand and led her over to the couch where Phoebe urged her to sit next to her. In minutes Phoebe had plopped one twin on her lap, along with the moose book, and suggested Janna finish it for Jude, who eagerly cuddled up to his new reader.

Janna was a good sport, Po thought. She had clearly been brought up right—gracious, polite, and looked you in the eye when she talked. But beneath it Po sensed that the young, well-bred woman had found out early that her family’s wealth couldn’t buy everything. She was still puzzled at the match-up between her and Bill, but could see in the way Janna’s eyes sought him out that she clearly adored him.

Across the room Gus Schuette was patting Bill on the back, applauding his decision to run for mayor. “You can do it, Billy boy. Bring some new blood to this town.”

“The town needs more than blood,” Rita cut in. “What do you intend to do for Crestwood, Bill? Give me the facts, not political jibber jabber.”

Bill laughed at Rita’s forthrightness and answered earnestly. “Well, for starters, I love this town. And I hope to use my father’s company as a vehicle for doing some good things. I’m looking into fixing up some old buildings for the town, using some to fill social service needs. I guess that’s really why I want to be mayor—so I can give a little back to this town.”

“Spoken like a true gentleman. You may have to toughen up a little, Bill, if you want to be a politician,” Rita said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bill said. “Maybe Crestwood politics is different and there’s room for the likes of me.”

Po watched his lopsided smile, his gentle manner, and decided that Bill McKay just might be right. “I remember your father saying you’d be a politician someday,” Po said. “He must be proud of this turn in your career,” Po said.

“We’re all proud of Bill,” Janna said, looking up from her book. She smiled over at Bill. “Both sets of parents know Bill has nowhere to go but up.”

Po watched affection color Janna’s face. Bill responded with a nod in her direction and a smile that Po couldn’t quite read. She suspected that the attention was making him slightly uncomfortable.

But Bill was good-natured about it. He simply shrugged, offered a half-smile, and joked, “She has me in the White House in five years.”

Max Elliott raised a wine glass. “Here, here, to Mayor McKay.”

A noisy toast followed, along with well wishes for Bill’s campaign and plans. “And now,” Po said, “before we propel Billy directly into the White House, I suggest we eat. Pick up a plate from the sideboard before P.J.’s fine steak turns cold.” Friendly laughter nudged the crowd around the table and in minutes plates were heaped full of hot rolls and sweet butter, mounds of basil and corn pasta, and P.J.’s juicy fillets and béarnaise sauce.

Po didn’t have a chance to talk to Max Elliott alone until the meal was almost over and empty plates began to stack up on the dining room table. Po walked toward the opposite end of the long room and opened the refrigerator. As she lifted the pies from the freezer, Max appeared at her side.

“Need help, Po?” He set his wine glass on the counter and took the pies from her hands.

“Thanks, Max. Just set those down on the counter.” Po pulled a stack of small plates from the counter. “It was nice of you to bring Billy and Janna, Max. I don’t think Janna knows many people.”