A Patchwork of Clues

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Heard what?” Po asked half-heartedly. She wouldn’t have asked, but that could have been worse. No one ever knew what would trip Marla’s tongue.

  “Reverend Gottrey announced at today’s service, directly from the pulpit, that Mary Hill was donating the Hill farm—all eleven hundred acres of it—to the Crestwood All Holy Saints Church.”

  Po sat back, surprised. “What a generous gift,” she said. She knew the land, a wooded haven hidden between well-tended farms and rolling wheat fields just a short drive from Crestwood. She and Scott had been guests at the farm a number of times. Owen had loved the place dearly. He told Po once that it was the one place he could putter and play and be completely at ease. He had a tool shed, an old truck, and lots of fences that always needed fixing. Sometimes he hosted faculty events in the sprawling rustic home on the property. And sometimes Owen had friends out just to enjoy the peace.

  Po remembered one day especially, a sunny, snowy day shortly before Scott died. Owen invited the two of them out to cross-country ski. She couldn’t remember now how it all came about, how Owen had discovered her love of skiing. But somehow he had, and for hours the three of them had skied across the expanse of rolling white fields, in and out of narrow snow-padded paths through the quiet woods. She remembered the still beauty that enveloped them. Po rubbed her arms as the force of memory wrapped around her and squeezed her heart. It had been a cherished day, finished in front of a fire with hot buttered rum, soft jazz playing in the background, Scott at her side—and Owen a humorous, delightful, comfortable host and friend. A special day.

  “Po?” Leah said.

  Po looked up. She blinked the present back into focus. “I’m sorry.” She wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug and let the warmth seep into her hands. “I was swept up by a host of lovely memories of that farm. Reverend Gottrey’s church is very fortunate.”

  “Fortunate and then some,” Marla said. “That place is a huge hunk of prime real estate. Worth a small fortune, according to the mayor. He was in here after church with the wife and those two pretty daughters of his, and he said that everyone in the whole church gasped right out loud when it was announced. The mayor said he sure wished he’d have gotten his wish list in before the Reverend did. City could have used all that land for a park or something.”

  Po and Leah settled back and sipped their coffee. Marla was on a roll. There was no telling when they’d get their eggs.

  “Mary Hill was at church, too. Gracious, the mayor said. Gorgeous, his wife said. She’s a pretty lady, that’s clear.

  “And here’s the clincher,” Marla continued. Her fingers pressed down on the tabletop, forming a fat pink tent. She took a deep breath, then said dramatically, “It’ll be called the Owen Hill Spiritual Retreat.” Marla stood straight and moved her hands to her heavy hips. She shook her head. Her chins moved back and forth in slow motion. “Owen’s Spiritual Ranch, now what do you think of that?”

  Po ignored the question. She wasn’t sure what Marla was getting at but suspected she was insinuating that Owen wasn’t a very religious person. But there was something more pressing than Marla’s innuendoes on her mind. “Did you say Reverend Gottrey announced it today, Marla?” she asked.

  “Yep. At the early service today.”

  “And Mary Hill was there?” What she and Leah had just seen didn’t mirror a joyful woman announcing a generous memorial gift. That should have been such a special time for Mary.

  “In the front pew in one of her expensive suits. The Reverend talked about how generous it all was. The mayor said it embarrassed her some, all that attention, but she was gracious afterwards when they all gathered on the steps outside and thanked her. And he said she looked better than she has since, well, since it all happened—not so pale and skinny, and she was smiling again.”

  Before Po or Leah could comment, a customer two tables over insisted he talk to Marla immediately. His wife’s eggs were gummy, he announced loudly, a comment Marla wasn’t about to take nicely. She lurched her huge body in his direction and prepared to challenge the complaint.

  Po looked at Leah across the steam of her coffee. “Well, something stole Mary’s smile between church and the Elderberry shop. Either that or she has a double.”

  “Maybe it was the memories it stirred up?” Leah suggested. “People probably besieged her with kind words and stories about Owen after the service.”

  “And sent her into a tailspin of grief. It doesn’t take much. That’s probably exactly what happened.”

  Stella appeared at the table, her thin arms and long skinny fingers balancing two heaping plates of the Sunday special. Stella was as taciturn as Marla was chatty. She placed the plates on the table and disappeared without a word on her tiny, cat-like feet.

  The sweet smell of fresh tarragon and butter rose up on the warm steam.

  Leah closed her eyes and leaned into the smell. “Delicious,” she whispered.

  Po took a forkful of eggs and confirmed it. Marla was an amazing cook. And she assumed that everyone’s appetite matched her own. In addition to the eggs, the plates were heaped with crisp strips of bacon, thick hunks of buttered whole-wheat toast, pan-fried potatoes, and a small mountain of fresh fruit topped with a dollop of yogurt. A basket of jams and jellies and goblets of freshly squeezed orange juice completed the feast.

  Po and Leah ate in comfortable silence. Outside the window, leaves danced across the street, chased by a brisk fall breeze, and groups of people strolled by—churchgoers, joggers, and neighbors—all soaking in the last remnants of Indian summer.

  Leah sat back in her chair and poured cream in her coffee. An amused smile played at the corners of her mouth. “About this land donation, Po—don’t you wonder what Owen is saying about it all, wherever he is?”

  “I suspect he’s doing a bit of groaning right now.”

  “I know the church is important to Mary, but I don’t think Owen ever set foot in that church, do you? As far as I know, he spent nearly every Sunday out on the golf course.”

  “He certainly wasn’t religious in the same way Mary is,” Po said. “Well, who knows. Maybe he’d consider this a good thing. He could contribute land, if not his presence, to the church.”

  “Po, you have this wonderful way of putting a good spin on everything. It’s one of the reasons I love you so. But you and I both know that Owen loved that farm passionately. I could imagine him someday turning it into a nature sanctuary or an arboretum—a place where people nurtured their souls privately, maybe…”

  “A nature sanctuary with a putting green tucked away somewhere.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But apparently the Reverend had other things in mind. And I don’t think Mary liked the farm particularly, so maybe this is the best thing to do. I’m sure it will be well used, whatever Reverend Gottrey does with it.”

  Po concentrated on the bits of egg left on her plate. The suggested uses of Owen’s beautiful land made her uncomfortable. The eggs were far more palatable. Flakes of tarragon fell from her fork. “Marla has outdone herself today,” she said, finally putting down her fork.

  “It’s a good thing we only do this once a week, Po,” Leah murmured. “It takes me a week of running to work it off.” She drained her orange juice, her eyes turning to the moving figures outside the window. Suddenly she stopped, her glass in midair. “Po, look.” She pointed out the window.

  Mary Hill walked slowly along the street, her eyes downcast and her face the chalky color of the sidewalk. As she neared the café window, they could see tears on her face, rolling down her cheeks and onto the collar of her suit. In her hand she clutched a piece of paper.

  Po’s heart lurched at the sight of the grieving widow. But before she could think of some way they might ease the look on her face, Mary hastened her step and in the next minute turned down the narrow patio between Daisy’s flower shop and the Brew and Brie
, and disappeared from sight. Po leaned over, straining to see down the street in the other direction, toward Mary’s store, half-expecting to see someone following her.

  The street was empty.

  Chapter 11

  Chain Links

  Monday night quilting at Selma’s shop was strictly a hit-or-miss gathering. Someone would drop by the store for needles or thread—or to ask Susan or Selma how to make the corners on a quilt binding come out square. And before long, there’d be three or four people sitting around the table drinking cups of Marla’s coffee or diet soda and pulling squares of fabric from their bags.

  Lately the group was gathering with increased frequency and it wasn’t unusual for the whole Saturday group to gather—unofficially—beneath the skylight in Selma’s back room. Usually they’d talk about books and movies and family news, new restaurants in town or who was running for the school board. And sometimes neighbors or customers hearing the chatter would join them.

  Tonight, however, those working on Selma’s anniversary quilt were the only people in the room—and their minds were on more than stars and points and bindings.

  Phoebe and Kate walked in together, right after Po. Eleanor and Leah were already ironing the seams on several squares of stitched fabric. Kate hung her jacket on a hook near the back door and sat down at the table, looking around as if waiting for the right moment to speak.

  “Well, Po,” she said finally, resting her elbows on the table, “It seems you were right.”

  Po looked up from the rich purple and gold print that would form the corners of her star. She pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose. “If only I had a tape recorder,” she said to Kate.

  “Okay, sometimes you’re not right about things and sometimes you are. This time, you truly are.” The tone in her voice was one of concern, though, rather than congratulations or the teasing she often employed with the older woman.

  Selma was standing at the end of the table. “Kate, spill the beans before a customer comes in and I have to leave.”

  “The murder suspect was released. He wasn’t the man who murdered Owen Hill. It was just like Po suspected.”

  Maggie and Susan came in from the front of the store. Susan was carrying a stack of calico-printed fabrics. “What did you say, Kate?”

  Kate repeated it, then added, “That truck driver from Oklahoma—he didn’t break into Selma’s shop, and he didn’t kill Owen Hill. For once, Marla had her facts straight.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Eleanor said, sitting back in her chair. The others were silent, absorbing the information. Susan sat down at the end of the table and fingered the stack of material, worry filling her face. She looked at Kate intently. “Are you sure? How do you know this?”

  “P.J. called me tonight, just as I was leaving to meet Phoebe for a beer,” Kate said. “He was going to stop by the store himself, but things were crazy at the station. He wanted us”—she looked over her shoulder at Selma—“especially you, Selma, to know what was going on.”

  Po was about to ask why the policeman hadn’t called Selma. Why he had called Kate instead? Kate was looking at her, as if anticipating the question, and stopped it by adding to the conversation she had had with P.J. “He will be by to see you later, Selma. But apparently the man was telling the truth—he found the watch and the wallet in a trash container at that truck plaza on the west side of town.”

  “How do they know he’s telling the truth?” Susan asked.

  “A couple of things—for one, he was nowhere near here the night Owen was killed. At first he didn’t reveal his alibi, P.J. said, but he finally admitted that he was at that huge Rip Griffith truck stop in Limon on the night Owen was killed, halfway or more to Denver. Seems he has a girlfriend there. And a wife in Tulsa. That’s why he was reluctant to mention it.”

  “But a murder charge trumped the wife finding out,” Eleanor said. She was sitting quietly at one end of the table, piecing the tiny nine patches she was making for the center of her squares.

  “Seems so. But there was more. A waitress at the truck plaza here in Crestwood saw the man going through the trash when she was out having a cigarette break. She remembered him because he was such a flirt. And right after he found the watch and wallet, he came into the restaurant, ordered a Kansas City Strip dinner, and left her a fifty-dollar tip.”

  “Paid for by Owen Hill’s credit card,” Phoebe said.

  “That’s right. Apparently, the police had their doubts all along. The whole thing didn’t quite connect. But, as P.J. said, the town wants closure on this. There’s an urgency to settle it. And there was circumstantial evidence—the watch and the credit card.”

  “What are the police going to do now?” Susan asked.

  Po noticed the pillows beneath Susan’s eyes and the fear in her voice. But who could blame her? A shadow of fear hovered over all the shop owners. Po wondered briefly if Susan herself could possibly be in any danger. Susan rarely talked about herself.

  Kate poured herself a cup of coffee. “P.J. said the police are still saying it could have been a random robbery, but by this time the person is probably hundreds of miles away. It was unfortunate they picked up the wrong man because timing is so important in cases like this.”

  “Is P.J. buying the robbery theory?” Po said.

  The way Po said “P.J.” made Kate’s cheeks turn pink. “I don’t know,” she answered quickly.

  “So that’s it?” Selma said.

  “I guess so. At least for now. It’s going to be hard on Mary to have this all talked about again, but P.J. said people just have to move on.”

  “Move on?” Susan said. Her face was pale. She rose from the table and carried the stack of fabric into the other room.

  “Is Susan all right?” Po asked.

  “She’s as concerned about me as anything,” Selma said. “We spent some time on the books this weekend, and things aren’t looking good. And having a man murdered on your doorstep doesn’t do a lot for business. People come and gawk, but they aren’t looking at fabric, I’m afraid.”

  Selma wrapped her fingers around the back of a chair. “I don’t know, Po. Sometimes I get so tired. Ever since Owen’s murder, there has been a lot of tension among the shop owners. People didn’t always like Owen because he took a hard stand on things, and his vote often determined what we did or didn’t do. But he also had a stabilizing influence. And now others are trying to step into his shoes.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, take Jesse and Ambrose, for example. They’re back on the brick sidewalk kick. It isn’t just the cost of the sidewalks, but people trip on bricks, so insurance goes up, and they’re harder to keep clear, so snow removal costs more. It’s all a vicious circle. But now they’re back at it again, campaigning among the other owners, having little private meetings.”

  “Won’t it be more expensive for them, too?” Phoebe asked.

  “Not so much. They have that narrow little store, so their fees aren’t what mine are.”

  “I love their little store,” Eleanor interjected as Maggie rethreaded the machine for her. “But those two young men are lovely, although I have noticed they’re a little persnickety about things.”

  “They are both very much into design, and would like all of us to share their fine taste. Or to help us achieve it, if need be. But I’m too old and too ordinary in my taste to even care about the things they are interested in. And though Jesse and Ambrose—and Mary, too—don’t actually say as much, I think a fabric shop is on the fringes of good taste, no matter what I do to spruce it up. And,” she looked around the room, smiling, “although I know it’ll be a huge revelation to all of you, but I’m simply not ‘arty’ enough.”

  Eleanor jumped on the obvious, her voice firm. “Ridiculous. If these amazing quilts aren’t works of art, nothing is.”

  “We may as well be weaving potholders,�
� Selma said. “They view us as ‘crafty,’ not ‘arty.’ They’d much rather have a fine china shop here, or yet another gallery of some sort. On some things, Owen was able to rein them in. Ambrose and Jesse were afraid of him, I think.” Her voice dropped off.

  “They’re just two people, Selma,” Maggie said quietly.

  “That’s right. That’s what I keep telling myself. Though one of them seems to have taken up permanent residence in Gus’s bookstore, always trying to get his ear. It’s just politics. It will be okay.. I’m going to see if Susan needs help up front.” She walked resolutely out of the room.

  “It’s awful that Selma has all this trouble on top of everything else,” Phoebe said.

  “I wonder how Mary feels about all this.”

  Po knew the answer to that. “Mary is ‘upscale.’ Mary wants the new sidewalk.”

  “Well, ladies, we need to put our heads together and help Selma,” Eleanor said.

  Phoebe lifted her fabric square into the air. “For starters, we can make this quilt an unquestionable work of art. People will come from near and far to see it.”

  “Even from New York!” Maggie said.

  For the next hour, Phoebe regaled them with stories of her energetic twins and the efficient way they had rearranged her house. “Nothing will ever be the same—and I love it!” She glanced at her watch. “Yikes, I promised to help Jimmy with the babies’ baths tonight. So long, lovelies.”

  Phoebe’s departure set the others in motion, sweeping up scraps and packing tote bags and satchels with fabric. Po packed up her bag and wandered into the front of the store. Kate had offered her a ride, but she wanted to check out some new fabrics Selma said had arrived that morning. She needed something subtle for the diamond she was piecing in the center of her star.

  She wandered slowly past rows and rows, crowded with bolts of fabric. Selma’s was like Gus’s bookstore. Po could wander for hours, looking, reading, smelling. In times of stress, she found the soft fabric and rainbow of colors comforting. She looked up when she heard Selma shutting down the computer.