A Patchwork of Clues

by Sally Goldenbaum

  At that moment, Po emerged from the store and scanned the crowd. She spotted the group of quilters and quickly crossed the street.

  “I have sad news,” she said quietly, before anyone had a chance to speak or to ask her what was going on inside.

  Kate’s heart rose to her throat. Phoebe’s eyes grew larger. Leah stared at her friend. “Out with it, Po,” Eleanor commanded.

  “Owen Hill has died.”

  Kate stared at Po. “What do you mean, died? That’s impossible. I just saw him yesterday afternoon on campus.”

  “Well, he wasn’t dead then, Kate,” Po said. “But he is now.”

  Leah blanched. She had known Owen Hill since coming to Canterbury College as a young professor fifteen years before. He had been a mentor and friend. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “What happened, Po?”

  “We don’t know yet. Heart attack, maybe. It looks like he fell hard and hit his head. They’ve just now taken him away.”

  “When did it happen?” Phoebe stuck her hands into the pockets of her jeans and lifted herself onto the toes of her tennis shoes, straining to see any new developments across the street.

  “Po, this is so awful! Poor Selma—a man dying in her store.”

  Maggie edged in between Kate and Phoebe. “Is Selma all right?”

  “She’ll be okay,” Po said. “She has her hands full right now. The police answer those emergency calls as well as the ambulance, so there are plenty of folks crawling around inside our quilt store.”

  Leah’s oval face was pale and her clear brown eyes registered distress. “Owen and I were on a committee together this semester. I saw him nearly every day. You don’t think about people like Owen Hill dying.”

  “Why was he at Selma’s?” Eleanor asked.

  Eleanor’s practical question released a stream of others: “Is Susan okay?”

  “Where was his wife?”

  “Where did he die?”

  “What can we do?”

  Questions flew like quilting needles, drowning Po’s voice.

  Finally she shushed the group with a fanning of her hands. “I think there actually is something we can do. We can gather our quilting supplies, head to my house, and get to work planning this anniversary quilt for Selma,” she said. “That’s what we can do.”

  * * * *

  The Paltrow home, where Po had lived for over thirty years, was a favorite place “to stop and flop,” as Kate put it. The rambling white frame house, surrounded by a thirty-foot-wide porch, was just a short mile from the Elderberry shops. It was in the heart of a gracious old neighborhood, filled with comfortable homes, giant elm trees, and old maples that turned the yards into fiery paintings each fall. Many professors from nearby Canterbury College had raised their families in the closely knit neighborhood. Po and Scott had raised their own children there, but often said it was the village of which Hillary Clinton spoke—and Scott had joked that it had taken every single one of those villagers to help them raise their rambunctious three.

  Phoebe, Kate, and Maggie squeezed together in Maggie’s truck, with Kate’s bike rattling around in the back, and were the first to reach Po’s. Turning into the drive, they slowed down past the bordering crabapple hedges and pulled to a stop in front of the three-car garage.

  “I love this house,” Kate murmured, looking up at the battered basketball hoop, the scene of many late-night games of H.O.R.S.E.

  “Me, too,” Maggie said. She tossed her keys into an enormous leather purse and followed Kate and Phoebe around to the back door. “It’s the kind of house that looks at you, opens its arms and says, ‘Hey, you, whoever you are—come on in. Be safe. Be comfortable. Be happy.”

  Kate smiled. Safe. Comfortable. Happy. She had been all of those things in this house at times. Her mother and Po never went more than a day or two without getting together, and when she was little, Kate was always in tow.

  “I think the first time I ever met you was right here on this lawn,” Kate said to Maggie. “You were with Po’s daughter, Sophie.”

  “And Po told Sophie and me that we had to watch her best friend’s little girl while they talked girl-talk in the sunroom. So there we were, stuck with this scrawny, gangly little kid,” she snorted, “with orders to treat little Katie Simpson like a gentle lamb. We didn’t like you much, you know.”

  “I knew, sure I did. And gentle lamb, my foot,” Kate laughed. She shook her finger at Maggie. “And I was never scrawny. You know that.”

  “Oh, shush, you’re gorgeous. Always were. Disgusting but true.”

  “And what did you do, Mags? Ditch her?” Phoebe asked. “That’s what my brothers always did with me.”

  Phoebe laughed and Kate pushed open the door. Like many of the neighbors, Po never locked her doors, a fact Kate took for granted growing up. But now, after living in California for a few years, it made her cringe.

  Maggie and Phoebe followed her into the sunny kitchen and family room that stretched across the back of the house. Hoover, Po’s contented Irish setter, was sprawled across the couch.

  “Hoover,” Kate called over to him. “Shame on you.”

  Hoover’s tail flopped joyfully on the pillows, inviting gentle ear scratching and accepting no blame for his indiscretion. Maggie walked over, sat down on the edge of the sofa, and happily complied.

  The sunny room was filled with years of memories for Kate. Beyond the wall of windows was a screened back porch, cluttered with comfortable wicker chairs and porch swings, huge wooden paddle fans, and a lush, rolling backyard that had once been woods. When the house was built, Po and Scott had insisted that as many trees be kept as possible. It was filled with river oak, fifty-foot pine trees, and a thick, brambly blackberry patch that yielded the fruit for Po’s famous berry cobblers, along with dozens of stained T-shirts.

  “This place was our playground,” Kate said, looking across the yard, then around the well-stocked kitchen. At the far end of the open area was a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace and the rest of it was filled with soft comfortable couches and chairs, a coffee table holding everything together. Scott Paltrow had made the coffee table himself—an enormous square chunk of oak, worn to a shine over the years and host to many Scrabble games. Overstuffed chairs were grouped in a pair near a thick bookcase on another wall. A third bookcase stood next to a sliding door leading out to the porch. She remembered Scott sitting with her on one of those porch chairs, comforting her when her own father had died.

  She had attached herself to Scott, adored him. More than Po, she thought now, looking through the door. Maybe it was because Po held such a special spot with her mother, the two expert at closing out the rest of the world when it suited them, sitting out in the yard on two old Adirondack chairs, their heads nearly touching as they shared whatever it was they shared. Jealous? Maybe she had been. She turned away from the old images and walked into the kitchen, pulling out coffee mugs.

  After years of hide-and-seek on all floors of the Paltrow home, Kate was as familiar with it as her own. She loved the wide polished hallways and the cozy den at the front of the house. It was paneled in thick walnut with built-in bookshelves that climbed all the way to the ceiling, and to this day, she still smelled Scott Paltrow when she walked into that room. There, while adults clinked glasses and chatted in front of the fireplace or out on the porch, a small body could make its way easily into the cabinets below the bookcases. And wedged in between stacks of musty-smelling volumes of National Geographic, poker chips, and jigsaw puzzles, Kate would shush herself into quiet while the older kids ran through the house looking for her.

  While Kate rummaged around in the refrigerator looking for Po’s coffee beans, Phoebe pulled her cell phone out of her backpack and called home, checking on Jude, Emma, and Jimmy. Kate suspected that as much as Phoebe savored her Saturday mornings with her friends, it wouldn’t be quite so lovely if her three lo
ves, as she called them, weren’t connected to her ever-ready and often used cellphone.

  “News travels fast,” said Phoebe, slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans. “Jimmy said three neighbors and a lawyer from his firm had already called to see if we’d heard the news about Owen’s death. One of the neighbors—kind of a busybody old guy—said that Selma had a lot of things going on in that back room, drugs maybe! And maybe that’s why Owen Hill had a heart attack.”

  Leah and Eleanor walked in just in time to hear Phoebe’s comment.

  “Phoebe!” Leah scolded. “What trash.” She set two white bakery boxes and satchels of quilting materials on the long wooden table.

  “Of course it is,” Phoebe said. She walked over and flopped down next to Hoover on one of the wide corduroy-covered couches. Her tiny body was nearly lost in its cushions. “It’s preposterous, is what it is, and that’s exactly what Jimmy told the guy. He also told him a little about slander suits and said that he was offering Selma a special on them if she was interested.”

  “That’s our Jimmy.” Leah smiled and began taking blueberry muffins and Marla’s cinnamon rolls from one of the boxes, placing them on a large platter. Maggie straddled a chair dining table and picked at the stray crumbs that fell onto the butcher-block top.

  Kate waited for the comforting gurgle of the coffeemaker, then sat down opposite Maggie and unzipped her backpack. “I’d almost forgotten how much people gossip in this town.”

  “People gossip, sure,” Leah said. “But people also care. Sometimes that’s at the root of it.”

  “But to imply that drugs were involved because a lovely man dies of a heart attack? That’s crazy. I like this little town, but that kind of thing reminds me of when I was a kid and my parents knew before I got home at night, whose car I’d been riding in,” Kate said. “Or if I’d sneaked a cigarette with a friend down by the river—nothing was secret. I wasn’t sad to leave those things behind when I left for college.”

  “There’s that side of it, sure. But I still think it usually comes down to concern, at least more often than not. I’ve lived on both coasts and had great friends there, but I love the caring of near strangers here.” Leah finished arranging the muffins and sat down on the couch next to Eleanor.

  “Not to perpetuate the gossip, you understand,” Phoebe said, “but what was Owen doing at Selma’s, anyway?” She began pulling small pieces of fabric from her quilting sack and lining them up on the large coffee table near the fireplace. Kate and Maggie abandoned the kitchen table and joined her.

  “Po said there’d been a meeting of that corporation the shop owners formed,” Leah said. “All the shop owners were there. I’m not sure if that has anything to do with it, but we’ll know more when she gets here.”

  “Where is she, anyway?” Kate asked. Although she could probably have answered her own question. Po wouldn’t have left Selma alone in the middle of a stressful mess. Finding a dead man in the doorway certainly qualified.

  “She was huddled with Selma and Susan and a couple of fellows from the medical emergency van. One of them was on the phone and the others were watching him carefully. Po told us to go on without her and she’d be here soon. She’d catch a ride with someone, she said.” Leah lifted her square, handmade quilting case onto her lap and unsnapped the strap that held it together.

  “I took an art history class from Dr. Hill last semester,” Kate said. “His lectures on “Art of the Ages” were standing room only. He brought art history to life.” She looked over at Maggie. “Maggie, you took care of the Hills’ dog, didn’t you?” Kate asked.

  Maggie nodded. “They had an amazing golden named Spencer. He was a beautiful, wonderful dog. But it was usually Mary Hill who came in with Spencer.” Maggie got up and filled a line of mugs with coffee, remembering. “Oh, except once,” she said. “It was Professor Hill who brought Spencer in the day we had to put him to sleep. He was old—his back legs had given out and he could barely get up anymore. Owen Hill was so kind, holding that big golden bundle in his arms the whole time, stroking his fur and whispering sweet words into his ear. He said Mary just couldn’t do it.”

  They looked toward the kitchen door as sounds of a car pulling into the drive, followed by a door slam, broke into the conversation.

  Po breezed in. “Hi, everyone,” she said, walking quickly across the kitchen and pouring her own cup of coffee. Hoover leapt off the couch and hurried to her side. “I’m glad you’re all here.”

  Kate was threading a needle for Eleanor so she could sew the ribbing on a pillow she was almost finished with. The long piece of cobalt blue thread dangled from her fingers. She looked up over the needle and met Po’s eyes. Po was standing still at the kitchen counter, and the face that Kate considered one of the calmest in her life was shadowed in worry.

  “Po?” she said. “Are you okay? Who brought you home?”

  At that, the others looked up, too.

  Po walked over, her eyes glancing out the back windows into the blanket of fall color. Finally, she looked back at the women. They were all looking at her expectantly.

  “You’re white as a ghost,” Leah said. “Please sit down.” She started to rise from the couch.

  Po stopped her with an outstretched hand. “I’m fine. But I have some bad news, as if we haven’t heard enough today. Owen Hill didn’t die of a heart attack.”

  “An aneurysm, I bet,” Phoebe said. “Jimmy’s Uncle Frederick had one burst right in the middle of a speech at the Kiwanis Club…”

  A gentle shake of Eleanor’s head shushed Phoebe. The only sound in the room was the nervous tap of Eleanor’s cane against the hardwood floor.

  “Owen Hill was murdered,” Po said.

  Chapter 4

  Hearts and Hands

  “Murdered!” Five voices collided in midair.

  Po sat down on a chair beside Maggie, her fingers wrapped around the mug of coffee. She filled them in quickly on the cat leading her to Owen’s body.

  “He had blood on the back of his head…” Po paused and squeezed her eyes shut for a minute. The image of Owen Hill was startlingly clear, a brutal snapshot imprinted across the front of her brain. Would it ever go away? She took a deep breath and began again. “But we thought—I thought—that it was because he fell and hit his head.”

  “And?” coaxed Phoebe. She was sitting on the edge of her chair as if watching a movie scene play out.

  “This is awful,” Leah murmured.

  “No, this is impossible,” Phoebe broke in. Her blonde head shook with the force of her words. “People kill each other in San Francisco…” she looked over at Kate as if she were personally responsible for that fact. “Not here in Crestwood. That’s why Jimmy and I stayed here. That’s why we’re having our babies here.”

  “Honey,” Eleanor said, leaning forward in her chair and tapping Phoebe’s knee with her cane, “unfortunately people can kill people anywhere they want. But this is still among the better places to have your babies, I suspect.”

  “Was it a burglar?” Maggie asked. She’d been concerned about break-ins at her veterinary clinic and had installed extra locks and alarms to make sure the pharmaceuticals were safe. Selma’s shop didn’t have drugs, for sure, but you never knew what people were looking for.

  “It might have been a burglar,” Po said. “They don’t know much yet.”

  Kate hadn’t said a word. She watched Po, her mind spinning. A heart attack was one thing; that sometimes happens to people and it’s sad and of course you miss the person terribly. But murder! Phoebe was right this time—murders happened in other places, lots of them. And in New York. Even in Kansas City. But not in Crestwood, Kansas.

  “Why would anyone break into Selma’s shop?” Maggie asked.

  “Good question, Maggie,” Phoebe said. “Good grief, what would they expect to find there? Is there a black market on quilts?”<
br />
  “Why not break into the fancy wine store down the block?” Leah said. “Or Mary and Owen’s own antique store? It would certainly have more valuables and more money than Selma’s.”

  “Maybe the burglar had the wrong store,” Phoebe suggested. “I’ll bet it’s hard to see in that alley at night.”

  Speculations were tossed out into the middle of the room as each woman fumbled around for the right patches of fabric in her bag, opened containers of straight pins, and set them on Scott Paltrow’s coffee table in front of them. It was finish-up-Saturday, as Phoebe called it. They were each completing their individual quilts or hangings or place mats so they could begin work in earnest on the important project facing them: a fiftieth anniversary quilt for the Parker Dry Goods Store, one Selma and her mother before her had built into a Crestwood landmark. It was a rare baby born in Crestwood who came home wrapped in anything but a quilt made in the shop.

  Phoebe went into Po’s laundry room and came back with an ironing board and iron. She plugged it in, waiting to feel heat against her fingers. “The most peculiar thing about this whole business is that Owen was there alone. Did Selma know, Po?”

  “Selma said they had had a shop owners’ meeting there last night. They were trying to get some things worked out and settle some arguments.”

  “What kind of arguments?” Phoebe began ironing the seams of the squares that made up a Thanksgiving table runner, pressing them away from the stitching, as Selma had taught her. She looked up from the ironing board.

  “Just normal business things. For one, they were trying to get Daisy to spruce up her place. Selma said Daisy left the meeting in a huff, outraged at Owen for telling her what to do with her shop. They also discussed things like replacing the sidewalk, normal things for a limited liability corporation. Owen had indicated they’d have to meet again soon. He wanted to call some audits, make sure all the contractors were legal, that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds boring,” Kate said.

  “It is.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “I like owning my own clinic and being my own boss, but the paperwork is horrendous. And I don’t have to bother with other owners the way those folks do.”