A Patchwork of Clues

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Selma, am I keeping you from closing?”

  “Nope. Take your time. Max is coming over to talk to me about something. Something about the corporation, he says.”

  “That’s ominous.”

  “No. Max is a worrywart. And with Owen gone, he’s taken on all these group disagreements himself. As our lawyer, he’s determined to make the group work better together. Told me he wants to make sure Owen’s work doesn’t go unfinished, whatever the heck that means.”

  “Hmmm.” Po picked up a crisp deep purple print. The pinpoints of pattern were barely visible, giving the fabric texture without being busy. “Well, it’s good you have someone like Max. He’s sensible.”

  But Selma had gone into the backroom to lock the door and windows, and Po decided it was time to leave. She’d come back for the fabric tomorrow.

  Max Elliot met her at the door.

  “Good evening, Max,” Po said pleasantly. She had known Max for years. They’d been on a half dozen boards together and always enjoyed one another’s company. Though they had different friends, they had skied together at Owen’s farm several times.

  Po liked the pleasant-faced lawyer, and admired the fact that he had resisted the lure of corporate law to keep his small office on Elderberry Road. Max handled everything from neighborhood feuds to estate planning to divorce, and always with a fair, kind hand. He had also been Owen Hill’s closest friend, a fact Po could see etched into the deepening lines on his face.

  “Hi, Po.” Max held the door open for her. “Is Selma still around?”

  Po nodded. “Yes. She’s expecting you.” She started to walk on, then stopped briefly.

  Max waited, one gray brow lifted.

  “I never got a chance to tell you, but please know how sorry I am about Owen. I know his death is an enormous loss to you.”

  Max offered a slight, sad smile. “Owen was the best sort of friend,” he said quietly. “And I’ll be relieved when this whole mess is settled and we can mourn him in peace.”

  “I guess you’ve heard that the wrong person was arrested.”

  For a few seconds Max stood silent, looking at Po, but without seeing her. Po thought he was seeing something else, perhaps far away. Finally, he said, “Yes, I heard that.”

  “The police seem stymied.” Po felt like she was rattling on, but Max seemed to have drifted off into a totally other place, and she wasn’t sure how to end the conversation comfortably. “I guess what we need to do now is to somehow put this behind us.” Po knew the words sounded hollow. But for once in her life she was at a loss for words. “We may never have a satisfying conclusion.”

  Max’s eyes shifted, then came back to settle on Po. He was back from wherever he’d been, Po thought, but had brought something horrible with him.

  “Po,” he said forcefully—the power in his voice capturing Po’s full attention. Max fixed her with a stare that made Po wish she had slipped out the back door and scooted on home, as had been her original plan.

  Without averting his gaze for a second, Max reached out and touched her arm. “Po, you are wrong about that. We are a long, long way from putting this behind us.”

  His fingers had tightened on her arm, and when he lifted his hand, small white ovals remained on Po’s skin.

  The usually mild-mannered man took a step back then, as if startled by his own intensity. His lips lifted in an attempt to smile but all Po saw was an enormous sadness. “I’m sorry, Po. It’s a difficult time, is all.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his gray slacks, shook his head in apology. “And you’re probably right that this won’t be brought to a satisfying conclusion. Such ugly things never are. But it will be brought to some conclusion, with as few casualties as possible, one can hope.”

  Had he been born in an earlier time, Po thought, he would have tipped his hat at that moment and bowed slightly, then gallantly disappeared. Instead he simply nodded sadly and pushed his way through the heavy door of the quilt store.

  Po watched him through the window until he disappeared behind a row of fabric bolts. She wanted to follow him and make him explain himself.

  Instead, she turned and walked toward the crescent moon that nearly touched the roofs of the Elderberry shops, her heart burdened by that awful sixth sense—that horrible, inexplicable foreboding.

  11

  Chapter 12

  Storm at Sea

  Po showered and slipped into a pair of jeans, pulled on her tennis shoes and a bright yellow sweatshirt, and headed for the kitchen and a cup of wake-up coffee. Hoover lumbered along behind her. After neglecting her book for over a week, she was determined to make some progress this morning.

  She loved writing about these amazing women. With reluctance, she had finally finished the section on the Civil War and closed the Chapter on the Underground Railroad and brave young women like Elizabeth Keckley, a slave who had bought her freedom and become an amazing quilter. She took her young son and went to quilt for Mary Todd Lincoln, consoling the widow after her husband’s tragic murder.

  Po poured cold water into the coffee carafe and thought about the irony. While she was writing about one Mary coping with a murdered husband, another Mary, so close to Po’s own life, was suffering too.

  Today she would move on to the suffrage movement and Abigail Dunaway, who migrated with her family to a new life in Oregon. Abigail began to quilt out of necessity—to provide warmth along the cold journey. And when forced to support her family, she did it the only way she knew how, by quilting.

  Po opened the refrigerator and rummaged around for a bag of coffee beans. She thought about the impact the suffrage movement had on women. The leaders cried out for women to cast aside their sewing—a sign of subservience, some thought—and join the marches. And Abigail Dunaway did, marching and speaking and organizing masses of women to fight for their rights.

  The attitude reminded Po briefly of the perception of some of the shop owners who thought a quilt shop unworthy of their block.

  Po found it fascinating that something so intricate and amazing as the creation of a quilt could have been considered a lowly task and frowned upon so fiercely by women seeking rights to a bigger, more equal world. Of all the women she knew in the small town of Crestwood, those in the little quilting group were among the most informed, self-contained, and most comfortable in their own boots. And as for art—goodness, who could hold a candle to Susan’s fine eye for color or Leah’s amazing sense of space and shape?

  What would she have done, living a century and a half ago? Po wondered. She put down her notes and set her glasses on the desktop. Probably what Abigail Dunaway did—yes, she might abandon her craft to speak her beliefs, to effect change. But wasn’t it a good turn of history that crafts and art and liberated women could all live in the same room? And quilts were now displayed in the Smithsonian and in art galleries everywhere. It was a shame, she thought, closing the refrigerator door, that the Elderberry shop owners weren’t so enlightened. Perhaps the quilters could teach them a thing or two.

  Po checked the cupboard shelf and sighed. No coffee anywhere. Beside the back door, Hoover greedily wolfed down his breakfast. He looked up at her, and she laughed. “No sweet pup, I won’t eat yours.”

  But writing without coffee and something in her stomach besides vitamins wasn’t going to happen, even about something as intriguing as the suffragettes. She’d go to plan B.

  In short order Po had filled her worn backpack with pencils, a pad of paper, and her laptop computer. She would head for Elderberry Road, grab a cup of coffee at Marla’s, and settle into a quiet corner in the Elderberry Bookstore.

  No beep of a phone, no unexpected visitors, and the short walk would wake her up.

  Gus’s bookstore was never empty—even on a lazy weekday morning. There were the regulars—self-employed writers like herself, retired folks, and moms with small children who neve
r missed story hour. And students liked to slip into cozy corners to study or write papers. Gus accommodated his clientele well, placing stuffed chairs and small tables throughout the well-stocked store—crammed on the first floor with new books, and on the lower level with thousands of used volumes. Po loved the comfortable old smells and streaks of dusty sunlight that slipped through the racks. So far Gus’s store had held its own against the big chains and she suspected it would continue. They were a loyal crowd.

  “Po Paltrow,” Gus Schuette bellowed as she walked through the door. “You’re a welcome sight for these tired eyes. And just the person I need to see.”

  “And why’s that, Gus?” Po continued toward the back of the store and her favorite niche, smack dab between the reference books and mysteries. She liked Gus, but knew firsthand how long conversations with him could be if there was something on his mind—and sometimes even if there wasn’t. She settled into a red velvet chair and pulled her laptop out of the bag, positioning it on her knees.

  Gus grabbed a straight-backed chair from a nearby table, dragged it over in front of Po and straddled it from behind, his arms dangling over the back of the chair. “It’s this damn murder business, Po,” he said. “How’s Selma doing?”

  “Selma?” Po pulled her glasses from her pocket and put them on. “Why do you ask?”

  “You know—the talk. That she and Owen had an argument that night—a real doozy.”

  “From what I hear, you shop owners have perfected the fine art of arguing.”

  “Come on, Po, you know what I mean. Jesse and Ambrose said they left the two of them going at it like a couple of mean roosters that night.” Gus scratched the stubble of beard on his chin and pulled his thick brows together.

  “Gus, what are you saying?”

  “Oh, heck, Po, I don’t know. But all this gossip, folks wondering why someone would come into a quilt store if he was looking for something to steal. Seems to be a lot more questions than answers, and it’s not like it used to be around here. I wish they’d catch the guy.”

  “That may not happen.”

  Gus continued as if Po hadn’t spoken. “Or maybe Jesse and Ambrose are right—maybe it’s time for Selma to close that store. We could put in another gallery or something and start clean.”

  Po lifted her glasses to the top of her head and stared at him. She leaned forward in the chair. “Gus Schuette, what are you talking about? Start clean? And what makes a gallery cleaner than a quilt shop—or a bookstore, for that matter?”

  “Oh, don’t get your undies bunched, Po. It just feels tainted, that’s all. That’s what people are saying. There’s this ugly shadow over the neighborhood. Maybe if someone took over that corner property, renovated it, fixed it up nice, we could forget about it and move on.”

  “I’m ashamed to hear you talk like that. You’ve known Selma all your life. How can you be so disloyal?”

  Gus chewed on her words for a minute before answering. Then he lifted one leg across the chair and stood. “I guess maybe it does sound disloyal. But I know that my after-dark business isn’t what it used to be. And Ambrose and Jesse said their wine bar clientele is dropping off, too. People are nervous.”

  Po’s heart sank. This kind of sentiment was bound to hurt Selma.

  Gus looked over to the main desk near the door. He frowned. “There’s Max Elliot, probably wanting to have another meeting with the owners. He’s become a pain in the you-know-what.”

  Po looked across the store and saw Max talking to a customer. He had seemed so worried the day before. She’d asked Selma about his visit later, but Selma had shrugged it off. Said Max was a decent man, was all. He wanted to help everyone—her, Mary, Ambrose. Most of all he wanted things done right and fairly.

  “Max Elliot is mad as a wet hen at all of us,” Gus said. “He wants to check this, check that, make sure everyone’s audits are done. Heck, we don’t have time for all that. He and Owen had taken on some kind of a crusade around here. But who knows—maybe Max will move on now. He was only around because he was Owen’s best friend—we could use some fresh lawyer blood.”

  At that moment, Ambrose Sweet appeared around the edge of the bookshelf carrying several books. “Well, hello, you two. Having a little tête-à-tête back here in the thick of the mysteries? And talking about blood? Oh, my.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook one long finger at them from beneath the pile of books.

  “Hi Ambrose,” Gus said as he swung the chair back into place. “Looks like you’re set for some heavy reading.”

  Po noticed the titles of the top two books: Legal Loopholes for the Small Shop Owner, Tax Breaks Beyond the Norm.

  Ambrose followed her gaze. “Owning a store is more than knowing where to get the finest cabernet at the best price,” he said. Then he winked at Po as if the two of them shared a profound secret.

  Po found the gesture irritating. “Doesn’t Max handle that sort of thing for you?” she asked.

  “Oh, Max? Yes, Max is involved in everything, thanks to Sir Owen Hill.” Ambrose rolled his eyes, then leaned forward from his slender waist and said in a hushed tone, “God helps those who help themselves, Po.”

  Ambrose spotted a book on the shelf behind Po that interested him, and managed to pull it out of its tight space with his free hand and pile it with the others. With a nod of his head, he strode off toward the front of the store, the pants of his skinny jeans tucked neatly into shiny leather boots.

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

  With that, Gus, too, walked 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 for advice on the wine and cheese baskets she sent off to her children for special occasions. She had vowed to get to know Ambrose better; if Jesse was fond of him, it would be worth the effort.

  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 out from one of Ambrose’s books. A makeshift bookmark? Sometimes people used Gus’s store more like a library than a place to purchase books. Po had often 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, followed by a smiley emoticon.

  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.

  Chapter 13

  Light and Dark

  Although Thursday wasn’t a usual gathering night for the Crestwood quilters, Phoebe had sent out a text to everyone Wednesday night, suggesting they all meet 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 text made Po smile. She had run into her at Dillon’s Market over on River Road after leaving the Elderberry Bookstore that day. Phoebe was maneuvering a clumsy grocery cart down the cereal aisle with Jude and Emma strapped into the cart’s safety seats. W
hile 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 suspected Phoebe’s text 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 her car door and jumped out.

  “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. So how’s the book coming?”

  “Slowly.”

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

  Po smiled, pleased. She wanted to ask Kate about P.J. but decided it was a bit too intrusive. And probably silly. Kate wasn’t sixteen and what she did with her private life was none of Po’s business. Unless Kate wanted it to be.

  They started toward the back door of the shop and Kate paused, just before walking in. “I’ve seen Pete—P.J., I guess you all call him—a couple of times this week,” she said. “I appreciate that you haven’t asked, but there it is. Out there now.”

  Po listened, quiet.

  “It’s been nice to catch up on the years. Nice to have someone to get a burger with. Anyway, I know you like him, so thought I’d mention it.”