Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (15 page)

“Selma looked worried to me,” Kate said.

“Maybe a little.” Maggie agreed.

Susan sat silently at the table, staring through the window at Selma’s retreating figure.

“Susan?” Kate asked.

“Susan — are you all right?” Po asked. She walked over and sat down beside her. Susan had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore little makeup. Dressed in jeans and a faded Canterbury College sweatshirt, she looked more like a teenager than a thirty-eight-year-old woman. There was a dramatic beauty about her made even more pronounced by the emotion in her eyes.

Susan offered a slight smile. “Late nights, that’s all. I have a couple papers due at school. Mid-term time …”

“I know that feeling, Susan,” Kate said, sitting down on her other side.

“Well, too much work isn’t good for anyone,” Po said. “We need to consider that February quilt retreat down in Florida that Selma told us about last month. Be good for all of us.” Po reached for her bag and pulled out her glasses and several strips of the deep rose fabric she had finally chosen for the center of her stars.

“That’s a terrific idea, Po. Maybe I’d finally learn how to stitch those blasted curves,” Eleanor said. “Besides, leaving Kansas in February is a good and wise thing to do. Count me in — and we can all stay in my home down there if you’d like.”

Phoebe walked over and planted a kiss on Eleanor’s cheek. “You are a cool lady, Eleanor. You scared me a little when I first joined this group, but you’ve grown on me like a nice cashmere sweater.”

Eleanor’s laughter was deep and loose — in the way of people who had seen a lot, lived fully, and chose freely what to let in or keep out of their lives. She tilted her head back and looked at Phoebe. “Well, missy, I wasn’t so sure of you, either — at least not for a minute or two. You were one sassy lass. But then you whipped out that needle of yours and stitched up those blocks for the Jacob’s Ladder quilt we made for the women’s shelter, and I thought, ‘now she can’t be all bad, and she’s kind of cute, with all those dangly little earrings hanging from her ears — reminds me a little of me at that age.’”

Phoebe pushed Eleanor’s hair away from her ear. “Eleanor Elizabeth Canterbury — oh my soul!”

Eleanor slapped Phoebe’s hand away and her soft gray hair fall back over her ear. “You mind your manners, Phoebe Mellon, or I’ll take you over my knee.”

Phoebe was undeterred. “Eleanor’s ear has three tiny holes in it — I saw it with my own eyes. Eleanor, you gypsy you.” Phoebe put her hands on her hips, threw back her head and laughed.

A sudden, insistent rattle pulled everyone’s attention to the back door.

“What’s all the racket?” a man’s voice asked. “I thought this was a serious group.”

“Hey, P.J.,” Phoebe said. “Come on in. You’re just in time.”

P.J. took one step inside the door and stopped. “Don’t want to intrude.”

“Well of course you do,” Po laughed. “Get yourself in here and talk to us.”

“I saw the lights, is all.” P.J.’s head nearly touched the top of the doorframe. He walked over to the table and looked around at the piles of fabric. “I wanted to be sure you ladies were okay.”

“P.J., you came in here because you smelled food, ’fess up,” Maggie said.

“Well —” He tried to look sheepish. “I did hear a rumor that there might be a feast back here. Heard some talk of a shrimp casserole. And I haven’t eaten for — well, days, I think.” He looked sideways at Kate.

Kate laughed. “Flanigan, you’re hopeless,” she said.

Po noticed the slight blush that colored Kate’s cheeks. It was very becoming on her.

P.J. walked across the room. “Hey, Phoebe Mellon,” he said, spotting the small figure sitting next to Eleanor. “Nice hair, munchkin.”

Phoebe touched it with the tips of her fingers. “I like it, too.”

“How’s Jimmy doing? Saw him over at the Court House the other day working his magic at a trial.”

“He’s doing fine. Working hard to sort out the bad apples from the good and protect the innocent,” Phoebe laughed. “Just like you, P.J.”

“We try, Phoebe.”

A series of gongs from the grandfather clock in the front of the store broke through the chatter and Po glanced down at her watch. “Selma should be here in a second, and we’ll dish it all up. Kate made enough for a marching band, P.J. You’re welcome to feed that fine frame of yours.”

“Well, now, Po, that’s mighty nice of you.” He tipped his head in her direction and a lock of brown hair fell across his forehead.

Po had forgotten just how engaging a grin P.J. Flanigan had — just like Pete Flanigan senior. It was as crooked as the streets in Crestwood — starting out in the right place and then spreading clear across that handsome face of his. She wondered if Kate noticed.

“There’s Selma now,” Kate said, pointing out the back window.

The back door flew open and Selma burst through, the edges of her long wooly sweater flapping against her hips. “Well, how’s that for a wasted hour!” She shrugged out of the sweater and hung it back on the hook. “I think I’m ready for that wine now, thank you very much.”

“What happened, Selma?” Po walked over to the sideboard and poured a glass of Ambrose’s special cabernet. She handed it to Selma. “You look angry. Or worried. I can’t tell which.”

“What’s the big dark secret Max had?” Phoebe asked.

Selma started to answer, then noticed P.J. standing behind Kate. Her face blanched. “P.J., what are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

“This is strictly social, Selma. I’m off duty.”

“Well, maybe you better get on duty — seems Max Elliott has disappeared into the night. Either that, or he stood us all up. One worries me, one makes me furious. Which should I be?”

“Max didn’t come?” Po’s elegant brows lifted.

“Never showed.” Selma took a sip of the wine and sighed. “And you could have cut the tension in that group with Susan’s cake knife over there …” She nodded toward the double chocolate mousse cake Susan had contributed to the supper. “Tempers were high, let me tell you.”

“Why’s that?” Maggie asked. “It was just a meeting.”

“No, no. Not just a meeting. Max had cloaked it in urgency and mystery. According to someone — maybe Daisy — Owen had instructed Max to clean things up, so to speak. Audit books. Check on our contractors — repairmen, roofers, maintenance folks. Thought there was some sneaky stuff going on. It all had some folks on edge.”

“I don’t get it,” said Maggie.

“I’m not sure I do, either, Maggie. Owen seemed to think that favors were being done, people being hired who shouldn’t have been. Who knows what he thought. I’m not sure I care.”

She sat down at the end of the table.

Po shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like Max Elliott not to show up, especially if he had things on his mind. Marla says she sets her clock by him coming in for coffee in the morning. Eight o’clock on the dot.”

Selma nodded. “You’re right. He’s irritatingly punctual. But we called his house and Ambrose even went over to his office to check.”

Kate spoke up. “Didn’t you say he had something earlier, Selma? Maybe it just went late.”

“We thought of that. But why didn’t he call? He never lets that cell phone out of his sight, far as I can tell.”

A soft ring broke into the conversation. P.J.’s hand went automatically to his shirt pocket. “Sorry, ladies,” he said apologetically. He slipped the phone out, flipped open the lid and read the number across the screen. “I better take this.”

P.J. moved into the front room to take his call.

Leah walked over to the sideboard and took the foil off Kate’s casserole. “Lately Max looked like he was carrying the world on those slight shoulders of his,” she said. “I saw him at a party the other night and he wasn’t himself. He asked me about the quilting group, who was in it, that sort of thing, which I thought was odd. Wanted to know what nights we were here.”

“I wonder if he just got sick of all these squabbles with the shop owners. Maybe he just threw in the towel and decided not to come,” Selma said. “We can be an ornery group.”

“You know he wouldn’t do that, Selma,” Susan said softly.

“Of course he wouldn’t. It’s just that mad is easier than worry these days. I don’t want one more thing to worry about.” She saw Kate look up and turned to follow her gaze.

P.J. stood in the archway, his phone still in his hand. His face was grave, the beguiling smile gone.

“P.J.,” Kate said, “What’s wrong?”

“Bad news, ladies,” he said softly. “Max Elliot is in the hospital.”

“What?” Selma’s hands rose to her face.

“But, why would they call you, P.J.?” Kate’s voice shook. She knew she wasn’t going to like his answer, nor were any of the women in the small, cozy quilting room.

“Someone ran him down in the street,” P.J. said simply. “And Max is hanging on by a thread.”

He looked longingly at the casserole, then gave Kate a quick, discrete hug, and disappeared out the back door.

Po slept fitfully that night. When the old mariner’s clock in the study chimed six times, she gave up the fight and slipped out of bed. A quick shower and several long stretches — her torso dipping until her hands were flat on the floor — started her blood moving through her veins. She bent at the waist again, reached low and slowly raised her body up. Yes, she could face the day. She slipped into jeans and a turtleneck and headed for the kitchen, forking her fingers through her hair to untangle the loose, damp waves around her face.

In the hallway, she stumbled over a sleeping Hoover. The floppy mutt lifted his red head and licked her leg, then settled back down.

“Some guard dog, you are,” Po grumbled affectionately. Hoover’s tail flapped slowly in acknowledgement.

The phone rang as Po was pouring water into the carafe.

Six o’clock phone calls were never happy ones. Po closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said hello.

“I’ll be by in ten minutes,” Kate said. “Is the coffee on?”

Po could hear echoing noises in the background and suspected Kate was on her cell phone. “Kate, where are you?”

“Running up from the river jogging path. I’m a few minutes from Elderberry Road. We’ll be there before the banana bread is thawed.” The phone went dead.

We? Po wondered, and took three mugs from the cupboard.

Ten minutes later, a sweaty, lanky Kate arrived at the back door. A well-worn Trolley Run tee shirt clung to her shoulders. Her high cheek bones and arms were glossy with moisture. Damp, auburn curls made paisley designs on her forehead.

“I couldn’t sleep, Po,” Kate said, heading for the refrigerator. “And if I couldn’t, I knew you couldn’t either.” She bent over and rummaged through the refrigerator, found a bottle of water, and closed the door.

“About this we …,” Po began, but before the words were out of her mouth, P.J. appeared at the door.

“She wouldn’t wait for me, Po, wouldn’t even pretend I was faster. What kind of woman is that?” P.J. stood in the back doorway with his hands on his hips, his chest moving in and out as he sucked in mouthfuls of air. His damp shorts clung to strong muscular legs, and Po wondered who was pretending for whom.

Po poured three mugs of coffee and set them on the long table. Early sunlight poured through the east windows, lighting the table and basking the kitchen in a deceptive calm.

“The news didn’t hit the morning paper,” P.J. began, settling into a kitchen chair. Po noticed that he spread a towel across the seat first to blot up his body’s damp heat.

“No, I imagined it would be too late for the
Crestwood Courier.
Have you heard anything more, P.J.?”

“A little. Max was hit on West 2nd Street, over near that strip of supply stores on the west side of town. There’s a little diner on the block, but not much else besides the warehouses. It’s right before you get to the highway, about fifteen minutes from here in light traffic.”

Po nodded. She knew the place. There was a garden supply store nearby that she often went to.

“Have they found out what he was doing there?” Kate asked. P.J. had called her late the night before, but with little information. He called, he said, to make sure all the Queen Bees got home okay. And to say goodnight. And he wondered if there was any shrimp casserole left.

P.J. shook his head in answer to her question. “Nope. It’s pretty deserted around there at that time of night, except for the diner. His car was across the street, and from where he was hit and the angle of his arms and legs, it looks like that’s where he was headed.”

“How awful that the person didn’t stop,” Po said. The ping of the oven timer announced that her banana bread was ready. She took it out and brought it back to the table with a bowl of sweet butter and strawberry jam.

“It’s awful, Po, sure. But definitely understandable.” P.J. helped himself to a thick slab of bread and slathered it with jam. “This is terrific, Po,” he mumbled between bites.

“It’s never understandable, or acceptable, P.J.,” Po said. She frowned at him. “Why would anyone run away from an accident in which someone was hurt?”

“Because they didn’t want to get caught, Po, that’s why. And it wasn’t an accident. Max Elliott was hit on purpose. Someone wanted to kill him, and damn near did.”