Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (2 page)

S
USAN
M
ILLER
,
Selma’s artistic assistant manager in the quilt shop. Recently returned to college to pursue a degree in fiber arts.

S
ELMA
P
ARKER
,
owner of Parker’s Dry Goods Store. Provides a weekly gathering place for the Queen Bees quilting group and generous doses of down-home wisdom.

M
AGGIE
H
ELMERS
,
Crestwood’s favorite veterinarian. Is an avid quilter and collector of fat lady art.

Portia Paltrow stood at her back door and looked out into the thin, early light. She was getting a late start this morning. A brilliant autumn sun was already climbing into the sky, and in the distance Po could hear the familiar sounds of a town just beginning to wake up — the bark of a dog, the chug of a car engine, the sharp slap of the morning paper against the steps.

Po — as everyone called her — had had a busy week — two writing deadlines and several talks over at the college — and that extra hour of sleep had felt very fine. She wouldn’t have the streets completely to herself at this later hour — there’d be plenty of co-eds jogging along the river, sleek and colorful in their bright Spandex, but Po could hold her own.

Turning sixty had found Po in better shape than she’d been twenty years earlier when children and PTAs and work had forced exercise and daily jogs onto the back burner. She smoothed a dab of sunscreen across her high cheekbones and down her nose, pressed a baseball cap onto her salt-and-pep-per hair, and grabbed a plastic water bottle from the counter.

Po closed the door softly behind her — a habit born of living with Sam Paltrow for all those years. Sam had been a light sleeper, waking at the brush of a branch against their window screen or the sound of distant thunder, and for thirty-plus years Po had tiptoed through her precious early morning hours while Sam slept away the sunrise in snoreful bliss.

Curling her fingers around the side porch post, Po stretched the sleep from her arms and legs while early-morning thoughts of her Sam brought a smile to her lips. It was a good way to begin her run — with those thoughts of Sam. He loved that she jogged, loved that she returned sweaty and flushed and planted wet wakeup kisses on his sleeping forehead. Sam had loved everything about her, and she him. Po straightened up, tucked her memories back into her heart, and headed down the brick driveway and into the day.

Po relished the solitude that her morning jog afforded her — that quiet as soft as a baby’s breath — which writing and three grandchildren often kept beyond her reach. She loved the smells, too, powerful in the early morning — sweet flowers in the spring, and the crisp, earthy aroma of fallen leaves and northern air in the fall. The quiet neighborhoods seemed to open up to her at this hour, and reminded her why she’d never leave this small college town, not after her Sam died and her sister tried to lure her to Florida; not now; and probably not ever, though Po was reluctant to think in finalities. And it wasn’t just that she and Sam had shared a full life here — Po raising their kids and writing her books, Sam, the highly respected president of Canterbury College. And even now, with Sam gone, she loved her life here.

Po picked up speed — but not too much — and headed east, following the sun as it crept above the aging elms that lined the horizon like morning sentinels.

A short mile into her run, Po slowed her pace slightly and headed down the gravel alley that ran behind the Elderberry shops, a collection of small neighborhood stores that lined the sides of Elderberry Road. Sam had often joked that someday, when their bones started to creak and they couldn’t drive anymore, they’d just hobble down to Elderberry for everything they needed — their books, their wine and cheese, and that extravagantly strong coffee that Marla had started making in her bakery café.

Sam always did have wonderful ideas. Maybe she’d just swing on back here on her way home — she’d buy a sack of Marla’s sinful cinnamon rolls for her Queen Bees quilting group. Sam would have approved, and the women would love it.

Much like the nearby Emerald River, the alley curved like a slithering snake, this way and that, as did most streets in Crestwood — no graph-paper-grid of streets found in most Midwest towns here. Po stayed close to the edge of the narrow gravel way. Sometimes there would be an early-morning delivery truck barreling through the narrow alley, scattering gravel every which way. They didn’t stop for love nor money — and especially not for a sixty-year-old woman whose jog was more of a lope, whose ponytail was streaked with gray.

But today there was none of that. Today the alley was as quiet as a tomb with only the occasional squirrel darting out in front of her, staring her down, then scampering away as if he’d won some game he was playing with her. The strip of tall evergreens and euonymus bushes on Po’s left hid the neighborhood houses and their large, toy-strewn yards. And to her right, the quiet bank of store backs, as familiar to her as her own name, was dark and still.

Po took note of the peeling paint beneath the eaves on Mary and Owen Hill’s red brick antiques shop, Windsor House. Good grief — how embarrassed they’d be. She made a mental note to mention it to Owen. How that man managed everything he did, was beyond Po. He was chair of the art history department at Canterbury College — one of the best damn department heads he had, Sam always said. Owen traveled, lecturing at prestigious universities, helped run this elegant antique store, and even managed to entertain at his pastoral farm west of town. He was also on the board of ESOC, the Elderberry Shop Owners’ Corporation, (not so affectionately referred to by the owners as the “sweat-sock.”) Peeling paint was probably the last thing he’d have time to notice, but he and Mary would appreciate the information, she was sure of that.

She jogged on past Marla’s Bakery and Cafe, dark and locked, and Flowers by Daisy — the florist shop — next door to that. She ran around the old metal dumpster parked at the corner of Daisy’s shop: an ugly beast with a heavy lid that could kill a person, Po thought. The one down at Selma’s end of the alley looked far more benign — perhaps she’d suggest they replace this eyesore.

Daisy’s shop was surprisingly quiet. Po glanced at the locked door as she went by. Strange. Usually Daisy Sample, the owner, was here by now — one of the few signs of life Po would encounter on her Saturday run. Her battered pick-up would be parked beside the back door, and Daisy herself would be hoisting baskets filled with fresh flowers and plants from the back and carrying them into the shop. Rising at dawn most Saturdays, Daisy was first in line at the Kansas City market to make sure she got the best of the pickings. Daisy Sample was a puzzle, Po thought; she found the most beautiful plants and cut flowers in a one hundred-mile radius and brought them back to Crestwood to sell in her store; she arranged them in buckets and vases that rivaled arrangements Po had seen in hotels and at elegant events. But beyond the flowers, Daisy’s shop was a lesson in bad taste, with rotting window boxes out front holding plastic flowers, and a clutter of objects that caused some of the shop owners to compare it to a miniature golf course. She had heard recently that Owen Hill and the two other directors of ESOC had come down hard on Daisy, telling her to shape up or face expulsion. In a rage, Daisy had thrown a pot of mums at Owen’s car. An anger management course was definitely in order, Po thought. She looked around to see if Daisy’s truck was parked further down the alley. It wasn’t in sight, and Po decided that Daisy must have gotten a late start this morning, too.

Po glanced to her right, cautiously eyeing the still-shadowed walkway that separated Marla’s and Daisy’s from the rest of the block, and jogged on past Brew and Brie, the gourmet liquor, wine and cheese shop; August Schuette’s Elderberry Bookstore, and an empty spot that she suspected would be rented soon. There was talk of an elegant small bistro. Elderberry Road was a choice location. Next was a small gallery and stationery shop that would be opening soon.

Po ran on, down toward the alley’s end where dear Selma’s shop anchored the block with its colorful fabrics and quilts. She scanned the back of the buildings as she jogged, a habit born of curiosity, and wondered how long Selma would keep the shop going. Business wasn’t great and she’d talked on and off of closing this year, a thought that saddened everyone who knew her, and especially Po and the other Queen Bee quilters who spent nearly every Saturday — and some week-nights as well — in the delightful sanctuary of Selma’s back room, working on some quilt project. The Queen Bees had designed and made baby quilts, small quilted wall hangings, and two quilts of Kansas flowers that were raffled for benefits. Sometimes they worked on their own projects, and other times they worked together, each making a special square that became a part of a whole, like the project they were planning now — an anniversary quilt in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of the quilt store. Selma Parker, and her mother before her, had owned Parker’s Dry Goods for almost fifty years. And more neighborhood kids than Po could count — including both of her own — had come home from the hospital wrapped in a flannel quilt that was created in Selma’s back room.

A shrill cat cry pierced through her thoughts and Po slowed down slightly, her eyes searching for the source of the plaintive sound. She jogged back a few steps, then forward again, sucking in a lung-full of air as her pace slowed. She wiped the stream of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand, then bent low at the waist and peered into the bushes near the edge of the alley. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she coaxed.

The cat answered almost immediately and Po spotted it then, not behind the bushes, but on the other side of the alley, sitting on the lid of a dumpster that was parked near the back of Selma’s shop. The cat was coal-black — long and slender with a tail that batted the air in rhythmic, deliberate swoops. It stared intently at Po.

“Looking for food, sweetheart?” Po asked. She jogged in place in front of the cat, but the animal didn’t move. “I’d head back to Marla’s if I were you. I suspect you’ll find much better pickings at her back door than you will here.”

Seeming to heed Po’s suggestion, the cat jumped off the dumpster. But instead of heading back down the alley, it ran directly to the back door of the quilt shop, pulling Po’s gaze along with it.

And then, in an instant, Po saw it. What that lovely black cat had wanted her to see all along, she suspected, and confided as much to her friends later. The back door of Selma Parker’s quilt shop, open — not all the way — but just enough for the cat to slip in and out. And holding it open, just as sure and steady as one of Daisy’s stone garden statues, was the still body — or more precisely, the right foot — of dear Owen Hill, the best damn department chair Canterbury College had ever had.