Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (14 page)

Ambrose spotted a book on the shelf behind Po that interested him, and managed to pull it out of its tight space and wedge it beneath his arm. With a small wave, he strode off toward the front of the store.

“Curious fellow,” Gus said as Ambrose Sweet walked off. “But he and Jesse are running a mighty fine shop. Carry only the best liquors, wine, cheese, glassware. Great for the neighborhood.”

With that, Gus, too, strode off. Po watched the two men move toward the curved oak counter near the store’s entrance. Curious wasn’t the word Po would have picked for Ambrose, though he was a bit of that, she supposed. She admired his store, loved the wines and cheeses he carried, but she was never quite comfortable in his presence. His partner Jesse was much easier to be around — a sweet, handsome man with a wry wit, he was usually the one she turned to with advice on the wine and cheese baskets she sent off to her children for special occasions.

A small slip of paper caught her eye as she tried to shift her concentration back to suffragettes and quilts and the march of brave women through time. Holding her computer firm with one hand, she leaned over and picked it up. It must have dropped from one of Ambrose’s books, she thought. Probably a makeshift bookmark. Sometimes people used Gus’s store more like a library than a place to purchase books, and Po herself had found signs of others in books she’d purchased — a stray receipt, a grocery list on the back of an envelope. The words scribbled across the piece of notepaper in her hand were large and uneven, but the first one caught her eye: “Parker.”

And beneath it in a bulleted list were the others: “Sidewalk. New Tenants. Gallery. French restaurant. Out with the old, in with the new,” was scribbled across the bottom in smaller script.

Po scrunched up the note in her hand and shook her head. When would all this stop, she wondered, and quietly packed up her computer. Clearly she was to get no writing done this morning.

Although Thursday wasn’t a usual gathering night for the Queen Bees, Phoebe sent an e-mail to everyone Wednesday night. In it, she suggested they all gather the next night to put in extra work on Selma’s quilt. She had a surprise for everyone, she said, and if that wasn’t enough incentive, perhaps Kate’s shrimp and feta cheese dish would do it.

Thinking about Phoebe’s e-mail made Po smile. She had run into Phoebe at Dillon’s Market over on River Road after leaving the Elderberry Bookstore. Phoebe was maneuvering a clumsy grocery cart down the cereal aisle with Jude and Emma strapped into the cart’s safety seats. While Phoebe grabbed cereal and apples and bags of pasta from the shelves, the twins, their round faces bright, tossed whatever was within reach into the air and clapped happily when something landed on the floor.

Po scooped up Emma first and hugged her close, and then Jude, marveling over how big the twins had gotten. She drank in their unfettered smiles, their sweet giggles. And in between, she shared with Phoebe the dour talk around Elderberry Road, and especially about Selma’s shop.

Po knew the e-mail had been prompted more by that conversation than concern for the quilt’s progress. Phoebe thought it would cheer up Selma, bless her crazy little soul.

Po stopped at Jesse and Ambrose’s for a couple bottles of wine and arrived at Selma’s just as Kate brought her old green Jeep to a screeching halt outside the alley door. The evening had turned chilly and it was already dark. Po pulled up the collar of her fleece jacket and waited at the back door for Kate. “I can smell that casserole all the way out here,” she said as Kate opened the car door.

“And you’re just in time to carry one in.” Kate handed one glass dish to Po, then lifted the other and shut the door with her elbow. “Thanks, Po. How’s the book coming?”

“Slowly. Too many distractions. But being with the Queen Bees is always inspiring, so tomorrow I will write like a wild woman.”

Kate laughed. “You write so beautifully, Po. You could write about doing your laundry and I’d read it with great pleasure.”

“Spoken like a true goddaughter.” Po smiled, pleased. She wanted to ask Kate about P.J. but held her silence. She had called Kate the night before and hadn’t gotten an answer, but later Leah mentioned that she’d run into Kate and P.J. at a film festival on campus. “Looked chummy,” Leah had said.

“I’ve seen P.J. a couple of times this week, Po,” Kate said. “I like him — even more than I did in high school.”

Po’s look of surprise made Kate laugh. “Didn’t know I could read your mind, Po?” She balanced the casserole on her hip and planted a kiss on Po’s cheek. “There. That’s for loving me.”

Po fought off an irresistible urge to shed a tear — for Kate’s affection, for Selma’s troubles. For this circle of women who stopped their lives to come together over shrimp and feta cheese casserole to make a friend feel better.

“Stop it, you,” she said aloud, her husky voice a level lower than usual. “Let’s get this food inside before we drop it.”

“Which, as you well know, is a distinct possibility.” Kate grinned and moved toward the door.

A large, hefty figure emerged from the shadowy path between Selma’s store and the empty shop next door.

“Ladies, let me —” a thick, gravely voice said.

Kate jumped. The casserole slipped in her hands.

The unshaven security guard shuffled over to the door and held it open. Kate regained control of the glass dish and moved quickly inside, followed by Po. The man nodded his head at Po as she passed. The smell of liquor filled the air between them.

“Thank you,” Po said as she passed, then hurried after Kate. She turned to be sure he’d closed the door tightly and watched him walk away, swinging a flashlight and mumbling at the moon. Strange man, she thought to herself. And he certainly didn’t make her feel secure.

“He scares me,” Kate whispered. “He lurks,” she added.

Po nodded. “Selma says he’s harmless, but I wouldn’t turn my back on him …”

“… In a dark alley,” Kate added, glancing out the window.

“Hi there, ladies,” Maggie called out and Kate and Po turned their attention to the bustling, welcoming scene spread out in front of them.

Maggie had plugged in a hot tray to keep Kate’s casseroles warm and had wrapped a French baguette in a plaid towel. Eleanor was tossing a huge salad on a small round table on the far side of the room, while Leah arranged the napkins and plastic cups on the side shelf. And in the center of the sewing table, filled with cattails, partridge peas, and crimson and gold mums, was Maggie’s latest acquisition — a clay vase molded in the shape of a voluptuous woman with a secret smile on her face.

“She’s beautiful, Maggie,” Kate murmured. “What do you suppose she’s thinking?”

“Ah, that’s for her to know, for us to imagine,” Po said wisely. “But one can imagine …”

“One of my clients made her. I think I’ll soon have the finest collection of fat lady art in the world. Or at least in Kansas. I call her Anastasia.”

“I think this is my favorite so far,” Po said, sliding her fingers over the smooth curves of the lovely figure. “Though I love the painting of the ladies at the beach.”

“How nice that clients bring you gifts,” Kate said.

“We’ve been crazy busy at the clinic, and I’ve stayed late to accommodate some people. Sometimes they say thanks with a gift. It sure isn’t necessary — but I love this one.”

“Why so busy?” Kate asked. “Fleas should be behind us, right?” She picked a cucumber out of the salad and nibbled on it.

“This isn’t about fleas. People are bringing in new pets for their shots and checkups — a normal thing to do — but they’re coming in droves and they’re not bringing in puppies. It’s been a week of BIG dogs — Great Danes, Dobermans, German shepherds.”

“I know what triggered that — an article in that poor excuse Crestwood calls a paper,” Eleanor said. “It’s worse than the
National Enquirer
if you ask me. The foolish reporter suggested that with all the crime in Crestwood, people should think about ways to safeguard their homes. Burglar alarms, lights all over your house so you can’t sleep, and even hiring your own private security guard. Buying an enormous guard dog took up a whole column. They listed everything but duct tape.”

Leah laughed. “‘All the crime in Crestwood.’ That sounds like a murder a month here.”

“Sells papers, I guess,” said Maggie. “It may be silly, but people working at the animal shelter are happy. Lots of dogs that were considered tough placements — the ones that aren’t cute, fluffy puppies — have been adopted.”

Susan and Selma walked in from the front of the store. The shop was closed on Thursday nights and the two had just finished closing up the day’s business.

“I smell a feast,” Selma said. She pulled the foil from a corner of Kate’s casserole and closed her eyes, drinking in the mushroom and wine-scented steam. “This is just what I needed tonight. I have to leave for a bit but save me some, you hear?” She wagged a finger at Kate. “This stuff is sinful — and I need sin tonight.”

“Bad day, Selma?” Kate asked.

“Bad week. But it will get better.”

“What’s going on tonight, Selma?” Po asked. “I thought you were free.”

“Max Elliott came by a little bit ago and had his dander up about something. He’s insisting all the shop owners meet tonight.” She sighed.

“For what?” Po noticed that the lines in Selma’s face had deepened over the past few days. She looked smaller and weighted down, as if the force of gravity had suddenly increased.

Selma shrugged. “I think Max is trying to make sense of all the notes Owen left him about the corporation. Something about corporation books not balancing, needing audits, all that sort of mumble jumble. But he’s being so damn mysterious about it all. I say just out with it, whatever the heck it is, then fix it. And then move on. Anything but a meeting. But he insisted. Said it wouldn’t take long.”

“Where are you meeting?” Eleanor asked. “Do you need this room?”

“No. Mary volunteered Windsor House. Max had something to do first — something he couldn’t get out of, he said. He’ll be there at eight, though, and he practically ordered me not to be late.”

“Windsor House was dark when I walked by,” Leah said.

“But Mary will open up for the meeting. She has a nice back room, just like this. By the way …” Selma looked around the room and frowned. “It’s far too quiet in here. Where’s Phoebe?”

“Ta-da!” As if on cue, Phoebe swept through the back door of the store.

“Phoebe!” Seven voices rose like steam from hot coffee and collided directly over Phoebe Mellon’s newly shorn head.

“Like it?” Phoebe asked, pirouetting around the quilting table like a ballet dancer.

“It’s … short,” Leah said.

“Good gracious,” Eleanor said.

“Hair today, gone tomorrow,” Phoebe said, her eyes shining.

“Phoebe, you rascal,” Selma uttered, her fingers pressed to her lips.

Kate walked over to Phoebe and looked at the shining platinum globe from all angles. “Pheebs,” she declared, “I like it! It’s cool — very chic.”

Maggie started to laugh. “Phoebe, you’re the best. It’s great. You go, girl!”

Phoebe giggled. “Yeah, that’s what Jimmy said his parents would say — you go, girl.”

“However did you do that?” Eleanor said. She touched her own cap of gray hair as if to guard it.

“It’s the miracle of the Flow bee, Eleanor. It’s the greatest. I’m going to do Jimmy’s. And when you’re ready for a cut, I’m your person.” She turned toward Po. “Well, bee keeper — what do you think?”

“I think you’re handsome, Phoebe, and you’ll probably start a trend. But in the meantime, you might consider stocking up on wool caps for the winter. Perhaps El would knit you one.” Truth be known, she thought Phoebe looked beautiful. Her hair was a one-inch cap of sunshine.

“Well, I’d just had it with running out of the house with wet hair, never having time to dry it, and always fearful that the twins would grab the hairdryer. One night I couldn’t sleep so I turned on the TV and saw this amazing gadget advertised — you hook it up to your vacuum cleaner.”

“Phoebe!” Kate yelped. She touched her thick head of hair and imagined it being attached to a vacuum hose.

“No, Kate, it’s great. Honest. It sucks your hair up and you just slice it all off at whatever length you want.” She grinned, twirled around again and ran her fingers through her glimmering Joan of Arc do. “Now all the time I used to spend untangling my hair, I get to spend with my beautiful babies. How good is that? I love it.” She patted the side of her head softly. “And Jude and Emma love it, too.”

“And Jimmy?”

“Jimmy — hmmm, well, Jimmy will adjust. I think he’s a little nervous about the Harvest Ball at his folks’ club in a couple weeks — but it will be fine.”

“You look just like Mary Martin in that old Peter Pan production,” Eleanor said. “And if those Mellons say a single word, I’ll clobber them with my cane. Stuffy old busybodies.”

Phoebe beamed.

Selma glanced at her watch, then walked over and gave Phoebe a gruff hug. “Sweetie, you’re a crazy girl. Keep it that way — you bring sunshine into our lives.” She grabbed a thick gray sweater from the coat rack and shoved her arms into the sleeves. “I’m five minutes late — Max will be having a holy fit.” She took a deep breath and rested one hand on the door. “If I’m not back in half an hour, girls, send out the dogs.” Selma pushed open the back door and disappeared down the dark alley.