A Patchwork of Clues

by Sally Goldenbaum

  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 Elliott 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 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 whispered something discretely to Kate and disappeared out the back door.

  13

  Chapter 14

  Flock of Birds

  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.

  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 acknowledgment, then flapped more vigorously as Po’s cell phone began to ring.

  Six am phone calls were never happy ones. Po walked into the kitchen and grabbed her phone from the counter. She 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 wasn’t at home. “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 took three mugs from the cupboard.

  Ten minutes later, a sweaty, lanky Kate arrived at the back door. A well-worn Trolley Run T-shirt clung to her shoulders. Her cheekbones 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 back door.

  “She wouldn’t wait for me, Po,” he said, the words coming on labored breaths. “She wouldn’t even pretend I was faster. What kind of woman does that?” P.J.’s hands were on his hips, his chest moving in and out as he sucked in mouthfuls of air. His damp shorts clung to his muscular legs, and Po wondered who was pretending for whom.

  She filled the three mugs with coffee and set them on the long table. Early sunlight poured through the east windows, bathing the kitchen in a deceptive calm.

  “The news about Max 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.

  “I figured it would be too late for the Crestwood Courier. How is Max doing? Have you heard anything more?”

  P.J. didn’t answer immediately. And when he did, his voice was hesitant. “We know a little more. Max was over on West 2nd Street, 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 warehouses and a bar. 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.

  “What was he doing over there?” Kate asked.

  “Especially at that time of night,” Po added.

  P.J. shook his head in answer to the questions. “We don’t know. It’s pretty deserted around there, 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, sure. But it’s understandable. One of the streetlights was out, it was a cloudy night. And Max had a dark jacket on.” P.J. helped himself to a thick slab of bread and slathered it with jam. “This is terrific, Po,” he mumbled between bites.

  “Why would anyone run away from an accident in which someone was hurt?” Po asked. “That’s not understandable. Not by any stretch.”

  “No, of course not. But here’s the part that’s a major concern.” P.J. paused and wiped his mouth, then finally said, “It wasn’t an accident. Max Elliott was hit on purpose. Someone wanted to kill him, and damn near did.”

  Chapter 15

  Snail’s Tail

  By Saturday, everyone in Crestwood, Kansas, knew about the hit-and-run attempt to kill Max Elliott. And according to the Saturday paper, it could become a case of murder. Max Elliott was in a coma and his condition grave.

  The mood in the back of Selma’s store was somber.

  “It was an old pickup truck,” Maggie said.

  “And how many thousands of those will you find around here?” Eleanor asked.

  “I’ve got one,” Maggie raised her hand.

  “Exactly,” Kate said. “There are zillions. P.J. said it’s going to take a stroke of luck to move this forward.”

  “But isn’t there a witness?” Maggie asked.

  “Yes, but he was loaded,” Kate said. “An older man who had just come out of a bar around the corner and probably wouldn’t have seen anything except the pickup came out of nowhere and nearly ran him down. The guy fell back on the curb and sat up just in time to see the truck clip Max and send him flying. At first the guy thought the truck was stopping, an honest accident, but then it sped off.”

  Susan walked in while they were talking and shivered as she heard the description. She ran her hands up and down her bare arms. “Max wouldn’t hurt a flea. This is so awful.”

  Po watched the lines of worry and fear mix together across Susan’s face. For a minute, it looked like Susan was going to say something, but then her eyes blinked and she looked away.

  “We need action.” Phoebe had come in the front door and stood in the archway, hands on her hips. Her newly clipped hairdo, not yet used to its length, poked out in various directions.

  “Phoebe, where are you going—a Harley rally?” Maggie asked.

  Phoebe was dressed completely in black—tight jeans and turtleneck, a black cap in her hand, and high-top tennis shoes.

  “You look like that black cat that hangs out in the alley,” Maggie said.

  Phoebe ignored them all. “I think it’s time we got organized,” she said. “This is too close to home. Too close to my babies. Do you know I couldn’t get a babysitter last night? And Jimmy pays them wildly. Their moms and dads are scared. We need to get the person who did this and put an end to it all, once and for all. And if you believe there isn’t a connection between what happened last night to Max and Owen Hill’s murder, then you don’t watch enough Law and Order reruns.”

  “They’re looking for a connection between the two; Phoebe’s right,” Kate said.

  “I can’t imagine anyone in this whole world who would want to kill either of those men,” Leah said. She’d already pieced all her stars and was cutting the pieces for the backing—one huge star that matched the smaller ones on the front.

>   “Poor Mary,” Maggie said. “First her husband, then his best friend. I wonder how she’s holding up.”

  “She looks frail,” Eleanor said. “Instead of getting stronger, she’s wilting like a pansy in July.”

  “I saw her and Max together Thursday,” Kate said. “They were outside Daisy’s shop. I started to say hello, but Mary was very upset. Dear sweet Max had his arm around her, comforting her.”

  “I think her church has rallied around her, too,” Po said. “I invited her to a couple of things, but the Reverend and his wife beat me to it. They’ve booked most of her evenings.”

  “Hah!” Eleanor snorted. “Of course they have. With Owen gone, they have direct access to the Hill fortune.”

  “Eleanor, that’s harsh,” Po said. “Mary is a businesswoman. She’s not about to give all her money away indiscriminately. Even to the Church.”

  “Po, sometimes you’re too blasted diplomatic for your own good. Face it, without Owen to temper the gifts to the church, Reverend Gottrey will take off like a racehorse, wooing Mary for all she’s worth.” Eleanor stood firm, a million fine lines circling out from her eyes. Although her lips were always tilted in a half smile, her tone of voice and eyes indicated she didn’t trust the church leader, no matter what his position was in the small town.

  “Which is a lot of money,” Po conceded. “But no matter what we think, it’s Mary’s money to do with as she wishes.”

  “Reverend Gottrey made Mary an elder of the church last week. And the Hill name will be on so many plaques that they’ll be able to build a barn out of them,” Eleanor said.

  Phoebe sided with the eighty-year-old. “Eleanor, not only are you getting very good at sewing corners that meet in the right place, you don’t get mired in niceties. You may be on to something.”

  “You’re saying I’m a cranky old lady?”

  They all laughed. There was something about the elegance of Eleanor Canterbury that defied anyone to call her old. The cranky description was slightly more apt.

  “Sometimes, yes,” Phoebe said. “But here’s the thing. It seems this investigation is moving at a snail’s pace—they should have this guy in jail by now, before someone else gets killed. And it affects all of us. It happened right over there. I mean, this is like our second home. We know more about what goes on around here than anybody does. And as cute as P.J. Flanigan and some of his crew are, we’re smarter. Women smart.”

  They all laughed, slightly uncomfortable, but it only made Phoebe more serious. “You all agree with me. I can see it on your faces.”

  “Well, sure,” Maggie said. “We’d all do anything to help Selma, and even though this is scaring the bejesus out of the whole town, it affects her hugely. I’ve been known to snoop around a bit, discover secrets. I have a divorce to prove it. You can count me in, but I refuse to wear a black cat suit.”

  “But Mags, you’d look so cute,” Kate said.

  Maggie laughed and got up to press out her seams before sewing on the next piece.

  The room was quiet, but beneath the quiet ran a peculiar energy. Phoebe’s words were still there, hanging in the air, and being closely attended to.

  Po watched the faces around the table as a dozen fingers pinned star points together, pressed seams, and carefully lined up fabric on green cutting mats. Lips were pursed, eyes focused, and throughout it all, thoughts were colliding silently in the air.

  Phoebe’s words hadn’t surprised anyone. Similar thoughts had spun around inside Po’s head in the early hours of the morning when sleep had totally abandoned her. And she could see the others were thinking the same thing.

  Who did this awful thing? And were they all in danger now—the quilters, the shopkeepers, neighbors? Their safe, small world had been disrupted. It was etched in the deep lines in Selma’s face, the fear that Susan carried on her sleeve, the sleeplessness and suspicions. She could even detect it in the loose chatter of Maggie and Kate, who tried to be affirming and positive.

  “We all need to be careful, that much is for sure,” Po said, more to herself than to the group. If they could string some thoughts together that made sense and speed things up, what harm would be done? She walked over to the sideboard and poured herself a cup of coffee, her gaze shifting from the quilters to the alley outside the window. It was difficult to believe that it was two weeks ago today that she had stumbled upon Owen’s body in that alley. Did someone surprise him? Was it someone he knew?

  Po turned away from the window. “For being such a pipsqueak, Phoebe is a force worth listening to.”

  Phoebe offered a dimpled smile.

  “I think we need to approach this like a new quilt,” Po went on. “But we need to think outside the single squares and think about the bigger pattern.”

  Phoebe looked up, her eyes lit with excitement. “And just like we do with our pieces of fabric: We take the whole big piece and cut it into little pieces, then put it back together in lots of different ways.”

  “Okay, ladies,” Eleanor said, her rotary cutter held high in the air, “what the hell, let’s cut!”

  “—to the chase,” Phoebe added.

  In short order, the quilters had gone over everything they knew, beginning with the night of Owen’s murder and ending with Max’s hit-and-run. How such momentous events—the shifting and changing forever of lives—could be packed into a brief summary was a bit overwhelming to all of them.

  “All right,” Po said. “So where do we go from here? Any suggestions?”

  “I think we should have little assignments,” Phoebe said.

  “We could do it loosely, maybe,” Maggie said. “I’ll sure listen carefully to what my clients say.” She looked around, then added, “Dogs and people.”

  “And I can keep track of the college gossip,” Leah added.

  “I seem to spend a great deal of time in these shops. I’ll talk to Gus and Ambrose,” Po said.

  “And Daisy?” Leah asked, knowing that approaching Daisy could be dangerous to your health, if not done with great delicacy.

  Po laughed. “Daisy doesn’t scare me. In fact, there’s a lot more to her than she lets us see, I suspect.”

  “And Kate, you keep close track of P.J.,” Maggie said with a suggestive smile. “That way we get news from the horse’s mouth.”

  Kate shrugged. “If I see him, I’ll ask. He seems to run about the same time I do.”

  They all looked at her. Maggie’s thick brows lifted.

  “Well, he does,” Kate said, and changed the subject. “Selma and Susan are here in the middle of the tempest, so they can gather on-the-spot news.”

  “We keep our ears open, our eyes focused,” Leah said, summing it up.

  “Yes, that’s it in a nutshell. Go ladies,” Phoebe said, rising from her chair and punching the air with one fist. “Let’s sleuth!”

  Chapter 16

  The Spider and the Fly

  Po sat at her computer in the late-Saturday light, the stories of strong women parading across her mind like frames of a movie. She had run a half-dozen quick errands after leaving the quilting group, keeping her ears and eyes open as instructed, then headed home for a couple of hours at the computer, moving her book along to the next moment in history. She was going from one group of strong women to another, she thought, replaying the morning’s quilting session in her mind. Each of them wanted so desperately to help bring order and peace back to Selma’s life. The sleuthing might not amount to anything, but at least it made them all feel useful. And Phoebe definitely had a point: women sometimes saw things differently than men when it came to gathering facts, weighing emotions, gauging relationships.

  Po focused on the screen and began to read what she’d most recently written. The writing had flowed and the stories seemed to pour out on top of one another. Tied into the story of each of these brave women was their passion for quilting and the
fierce bonds they forged as they sat in soft, comfortable silence, creating designs that would be passed down for generations.

  The stories were vital to Po—whether or not they were myths, as some thought—and she cherished the idea of women hanging Jacob’s Ladder quilts on clotheslines as a message to runaway slaves. The black square in the center said, “You’re safe here—come in.” She thought of women in wartime, left at home to work in factories, keeping their families safe and fed. They gathered scraps of firecracker red, strips of white and blue, and wove them into patriotic quilts that they raffled off to collect money for the war effort.

  Po wrote for a while, until her shoulders began to sag and the small space in her lower back cried for movement. Hoover cried for movement, too, his patience as frayed as his floppy tail.

  “Okay, pal,” Po said. “It’s almost dark, but let’s go for a romp.”

  Wrapped in a fuzzy red jacket and pulling a cap over her ears, Po set out for the Elderberry shops. As long as she was out, she’d pick up some bread for tomorrow’s supper, too. The stores closed at six on Saturday nights, but the closing time wasn’t written in stone. The hours became as unpredictable as the owners and she suspected she’d find something still open, even though the hour hand on the mantel clock had edged past six.

  The decorative gaslights that lit Elderberry Road were already on by the time Hoover and Po turned onto the street. The sky ahead of her still held a trace of sunlight, but behind it was the darkening path of night. Though the air was still tinged with autumn, the winter smells were there, too. Po could feel them. And in her mind’s eye she saw the diamond flakes drifting down silently around the gaslights, white piles forming on the heavy black bases. A scene straight out of Currier and Ives.

  Just as she reached Marla’s, the lights inside flickered, then went out. A faceless hand flipped the window sign to “Closed,” and behind the thin curtain, Po could see Marla shuffling off toward the back of the bakery. No matter. She could pick up the bread tomorrow when she and Leah met for breakfast.