A Patchwork of Clues

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Gus was just here, as a matter of fact.” Po pushed her uneaten toast in Kate’s direction. “He and I have had an interesting morning.”

  The waitress walked over, filled both mugs with coffee, and disappeared.

  Kate listened intently, devouring the French toast, as Po filled her in on the broken window and Wesley Peet’s departure in his truck. When she was finished, Kate sat back and wiped syrup from her lips. “Something wicked this way comes,” she quoted in a hushed voice. “I don’t remember things like this happening when I lived in Santa Cruz or Berkeley, no matter how dire a picture you and my mom had fixed in your minds.”

  Kate was right. Meg worried about Kate when she went off to find herself. But crime in a small town like Crestwood was magnified. “What do you make of it all?” Po asked.

  “Po, this is downright creepy. Remember our little sleuthing episode last night?”

  “Your illegal breaking and entering, you mean?”

  “Whatever. Well, Phoebe told you—or maybe it was me—that we didn’t find anything. And we didn’t think we did. But we did see something we both thought a bit odd.”

  “Well?”

  “Well…” Kate dragged out the single word, then continued. “On the back seat of his truck was a small box. Phoebe didn’t see it when she crawled through the window and she knocked it onto the floor. The lid fell off, and this thing rolled out.”

  Po was hesitant to pursue Kate’s story because she and Phoebe had done a terribly foolish thing breaking into that truck. Listening to her talk about it somehow spoke of approval. But the light in Kate’s eyes and the touch of excitement in her voice got the best of her. “What was the thing, Kate?”

  “It was a beautiful glass ball, about the size of a baseball.”

  Chapter 19

  Drunkard’s Path

  Wesley Peet shuffled down the dark alley, a flashlight in one hand and an amber pint bottle in the other. The beam of his flashlight traveled unevenly in and out of the narrow dark spaces between buildings. He paused near a dumpster and leaned against the metal side, his head pleasantly woozy.

  Can’t take these late nights much longer, he thought, wiping the dripping liquor from his large lips with the back of his hand.

  And that was one thing he was sure of. Life was lookin’ good for old Wesley for the first time in forty years. He lifted the pint of Chivas Regal to his lips and took a long swig, then stared at the bottle in the dim light. The Scotch itself was an omen that everything was finally turning around for him. There the bottle had stood by its lonesome, just outside the pitch-black wine store, sitting on the step saying, “Wesley, take me. I’m yours.” His laughter gurgled up from deep in the back of his throat, and when it stopped, he took another long, slow draw from the bottle, savoring the taste.

  Ambrose Sweet must have left the bottle there by accident, probably meant to take it home to that fancy house of his, but hell, he sure wouldn’t miss it, not with a store crammed with the stuff. Wesley had helped himself to a small bottle or two in the past, slipping it into his pants when he checked out the storage room. But he’d never have touched this pricey stuff, yet there it was, just waiting for him. It sure beat the rotten swill he usually drank. And from the bottle alone, he knew this hooch had to cost a pretty buck. Wesley smiled crookedly. Yeah, it was a good sign for Wesley Peet. Bright, sunshiny days ahead. And bucks to burn.

  He’d been smart for once in his useless life—done what was good for Wesley and the hell with the rest. What had the world ever done for him anyhow? He’d taken care of everything this time, showed ’em who was boss. Couldn’t pull the wool over old Wesley, not on your life. He sure proved that.

  Wesley stumbled down the empty alley, his head so full of thoughts that he didn’t see the old truck parked at the end of the alley, just across the street from the antique place. But if he had seen it, he wouldn’t have given it much thought. Just another truck parked at the curb, somebody visiting somebody. Lots of trucks in Crestwood.

  He checked the round watch face on his wrist and focused hard until the numbers stopped jumping around. Midnight. He’d just leave a little early tonight, take the rest of that bottle back to his place and have his own little celebration. Who cares? Who’d rob this place? This was a place to get murdered, not robbed. He giggled foolishly at his weak attempt at humor and snapped on his flashlight, pointing it at the back door of the quilt shop.

  Right there, he thought. His flashlight formed a perfect circle of light on the step, like a spotlight on a stage, waiting for someone to step into it. Or to fall dead in it.

  Maybe Owen Hill didn’t know it, Wesley thought, but there were worse things in life than getting wasted in a quilt shop. He could tell him a tale or two about growing up with a boozin’ father and no mother to speak of. Brawls, beatings. Owen Hill sure didn’t know about that. Bump on the head, go to sleep. Besides, he’d sure had his little pleasures, hadn’t he? A life full of ’em, Wesley suspected. And now it was Wesley’s turn. The new truck was already his, but that was just the beginning. Now that he’d proved that no one could fool old Wesley Peet… hah! Now the real payoffs would begin. Tomorrow. All arranged. All set. And Wesley’d be off into the sunset, a happy man at last. Mexico maybe? No Kansas winters there.

  He’d promised to do this one last shift. Then off he’d be. Forever.

  The moon was as big as a pumpkin and a crisp breeze tugged off the few remaining leaves on the elm trees. Wesley turned around and headed back down the alley, his boots scuttling gravel as he lumbered along. The round beam from his flashlight wobbled up and down the back of the brick building that housed the wine shop, up to the slanted roof, touched a star or two, then back down again. He stopped, took another long drink of Scotch, then moved on, nearly stumbling smack into the dumpster behind Daisy Bruin’s flower shop. The heavy metal lid was open, held up by the metal brace. Wesley stared up at the lid, curious why the flower lady’d done that, left it open like that. He hadn’t noticed it on his way down the alley earlier. Fighting hard against the fuzz in his head, he shined his flashlight up to the lid, then down, and looked into the deep belly of the trash bin. Almost empty, he thought. His flashlight traveled over a couple of cardboard boxes and packing foam. Then stopped short. There, near the bottom, scattered around on top of one of the boxes, were several bills.

  He peered closer. “Hundred smackers!” he said aloud. “Damn!” He looked around and spotted one of Daisy’s flower crates. He pulled it to the edge of the bin, then hoisted his huge body up onto it and leaned over the edge of the dumpster. The thrill of found money surged through him. He chuckled as his fat fingers reached out and fumbled for the bills, blood rushing to his head. He didn’t need the money now, but old habits die hard, as his old man used to say. Finally, two fingers touched the first one-hundred-dollar bill and pinched it tightly.

  At first, he didn’t hear the crunching gravel, blotted out by the excitement of the treasure he’d found, the blood rushing through him. He leaned a little further into the bin, its steel edge pressing into his belly. He wiggled his fingers, reaching toward the other bill.

  Finally! He wrapped his fingers around it and relished the feel.

  The sound in the silent alley grew louder, distinct now, closer. He struggled to pull his head up, to right his body, turning his head toward the sound.

  Their eyes met. A cold stare.

  Wesley was frozen in place, his mind already letting go of winter in Mexico, money in his pocket. Nada. He’d been duped. His old man had been right all along. Stupid kid. Worthless, shiftless excuse for a human being. Echoing in the distance, a more familiar sound filled his head—the incessant barking of that foolish mutt across the fence.

  And then everything turned black as the heavy metal lid of the dumpster came crashing down on Wesley Peet’s head.

  Chapter 20

  Barn Raising

  The dis
covery of Wesley Peet’s body was too late to make the Tuesday morning paper, but the local television station reported it hourly as “breaking news.”

  By noon, the town was alive with speculation. Po heard it through her headphones as she ran along the river, her phone tuned in to the local station. As the first report registered, she stopped dead in her tracks, stepping to the side as a group of more serious runners sailed by. She leaned forward from the waist, her hands on her hips. Perspiration dripped from her forehead.

  “Oh, my,” Po murmured. Her heart sank down into her running shoes. The investigative reporter continued her detailed account. A tragic accident behind the Elderberry Shops, but one that was soon upgraded by the police to something more sinister. A uniformed security guard examining an open dumpster was hit on the head by the heavy lid when a broken support latch collapsed. It crushed the man’s skull, causing immediate death.

  But after careful examination, the reporter announced, the police determined that it was not an accident: The man’s blood’s alcohol level was a whopping .13. He was scavenging for money in the metal garbage bin when the support hatch was pushed out of the way. From all reports, the death appeared to be a planned execution.

  Po slipped her headphones down to her neck. Execution. Good grief. She held one headphone back up to her ear and learned that a bottle of pricey Scotch whiskey was found nearby.

  A bit out of his league, Po thought.

  More details followed. Wesley Peet was the man’s name, and he had a ticket in his pocket for a flight to Mexico two days off. His untimely death occurred when he hoisted himself up, leaning over the edge of the bin to claim several one-hundred-dollar bills lying on the bottom of the dumpster. And that he had been an employee of the Elderberry Shops for several months.

  “Po, is that you?”

  Po looked up. A small silver Prius idled at the curb near the end of the running path.

  Leah leaned through the open window. “I can see by the look on your face that you’ve heard the news.”

  Po nodded and walked toward the car. “How much more can those poor folks take, Leah?”

  “I don’t know. Selma must be beside herself. I was going to go over there later. Would you want to join me?”

  Those were Po’s thoughts too. There was comfort in companionship, even when there was little any of them could do.

  * * * *

  Leah and Po hadn’t been the only ones with that thought. By the time the sky over Elderberry Road began to darken, Kate, Phoebe and Maggie joined Leah and Po in Selma’s workroom. Eleanor came in a few minutes later.

  “So, you ladies need some extra quilting time?” Selma asked, and then she allowed herself to be squeezed tight in Po’s embrace.

  “I’ve brought food,” Maggie said, putting a large, colorful platter in the middle of the table. The ceramic plate was glazed to a high sheen, but the real point of interest was its shape—a large, beautiful woman, lying on her back and floating serenely in some invisible sea. She wore a bright red bikini and sunglasses, and her wide, round arms, her shapely hands, and painted nails formed a rim around the edge of the platter. In the center, an ample pink belly held a platter full of Maggie’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. Two giant breasts, covered in a bikini top, watched guard over the cookies.

  Phoebe collapsed in laughter. The others gathered around the table, viewing the newest piece of Maggie’s art with great delight and welcoming the chance to laugh.

  “What’s her name?” Kate asked.

  “Madame Cookie, of course,” Maggie answered. “My sister found her at the Plaza Art Fair in Kansas City. Couldn’t resist buying her for me.”

  “Of course she couldn’t,” Selma said. “Who could?”

  “She’s worthy of carrying your chocolate chip cookies, Maggie, and I wouldn’t say that about just anyone.” Leah grabbed a warm cookie off the plate.

  Maggie blew her a kiss.

  “Well, I brought something, too,” said Phoebe. She walked over to the back door, opened it, and pulled inside an easel with a giant pad of white paper on it. It was taller than she was. “Jimmy bought this for the twins, but since it’ll be a couple years before they can use it, he loaned it to us.”

  Selma looked at her, her forehead creased. “A new way to play charades?”

  “No,” Phoebe said firmly. “It’s to figure out this damnable cloud of awfulness choking us. We’ve all been thinking about this nonstop. It’s time to put our thoughts to paper.”

  She stretched out the easel legs until the board was steady and pulled out a pack of marking pens. “Okay, so let’s start with you, Kate. What does P.J. say about this latest development? And don’t hold back. Nothing is off limits. Not even pillow talk.”

  “Phoebe!” Kate glowered at her friend, her face the color of the bikini on Maggie’s fat lady.

  In minutes they had all gathered around the table, munching on cookies and drinking the coffee Selma had put on when she saw them coming. Phoebe stood at the end, a line of bullets running down the edge of the paper and scribbling items after them.

  No matter what Phoebe thought, Kate said, P.J. didn’t share police talk, especially when it involved a murder. Maybe two. He’d share what reporters were writing up. Nothing more.

  But even that much gave Phoebe something to write down. There were no fingerprints on the dumpsters, except for Wesley’s. Whoever released the lid knew what he was doing. The only other thing they found was the bottle of Scotch. And it was covered with fingerprints. All Wesley’s.

  “That’s odd,” Po said. “Someone had to give him the bottle.”

  “Apparently a kid from the Elderberry neighborhood saw the bottle near the back steps of the wine shop when he rode his bike through the alley around eight o’clock.”

  “Odd place for a pint of Scotch. Someone must have put it there and wiped it clean,” Po said.

  “Someone like Ambrose or Jesse? They’re the only ones who sell good Scotch around here. And it was outside their door.” Selma walked around the table with her coffeepot. She was more at ease when moving, less anxious when there were tasks to be done.

  “But why would they leave it outside? Everyone knows Wesley is a rumpot.” Phoebe scratched her head.

  “Maybe that’s exactly why. Someone may have wanted him to have it. To get tipsy.” Maggie frowned, then decided she might have hit on something. “If he was tipsy, he couldn’t fight back—at least not easily. Wesley was a frightful brute and could have beaten most people off. I think it would have been a wise move to get him drunk, lure him to the dumpster, then bam! It’s all over.”

  Kate frowned. “But why would anyone want Wesley dead? He was an unfortunate lush who wasn’t very good at his terrible job, but that really doesn’t merit a terrible death like that. There must have been something else.”

  Po thought back to the night he frightened her and Susan in the shop. “He said some odd things that night he came into the shop. I thought he was speaking nonsense through the haze of the liquor, but he talked about knowing things, being curious. And how it all paid off. The way he talked about Owen being dead and Max nearly so, made me think he might have been involved in it. Maybe even did it himself. He was about to be fired, he hated Owen Hill—it all fit.”

  The others nodded.

  “But he also talked about being safe, protected,” Po continued. “Which means he knew something.”

  “So he was blackmailing someone,” Phoebe said, writing BLACKMAIL in huge letters on the white sheet of paper. “Okay, so who?”

  “The person who killed Owen and put Max into a coma,” Leah said, and Phoebe duly recorded it.

  “Daisy was ready to kill Owen,” Selma offered. “And Max was picking up the torch.”

  Phoebe wrote DAISY on the sheet.

  Selma looked up at the list. “You might as well put me up there, too, Phoebe
. I didn’t do it, but I had motive.”

  “No,” Phoebe said simply.

  “What about Ambrose and Jesse?” Maggie asked. “They could have put that bottle out to get Wesley snockered, then pushed the latch as he was hanging over the side trying to get the money. And they both knew Owen was at the shop late that night. They’d have much more control now that he’s not the corporation director.”

  “That’s true,” Selma admitted. “Owen squelched many of their uppity ideas.”

  Phoebe added AMBROSE and JESSE to the list.

  “I may be struck dead,” Eleanor said, “but I think we’ve forgotten someone important on this list.”

  “Who’s that?” Phoebe asked, her marker raised and ready to write.

  “The Reverend Gottrey. I don’t mean to speak ill of a man of the cloth. I happen to think our priest at St. Pat’s is amazing. He’s wonderful and talks spirituality better than Gandhi and Mother Theresa. But I think the Reverend Gottrey may have mighty powerful money motives.”

  “The Owen Hill Spiritual Retreat, the church roof—and those may just be the tip of the treasure,” Leah said. “I know he would never be getting that wonderful farm if Owen were alive.”

  Phoebe drew a steeple on the white sheet of paper. “I just don’t feel right printing his name out,” she explained.

  “I’m fond of Gus,” Po said. “But I guess if we’re doing this, we should do it right. He belongs up there with the rest of them. Max told me that Owen was calling for an audit of Gus’s books. He wanted to be sure he was contributing his fair share to the maintenance fund.”

  GUS was added to the list.

  “Who have we forgotten?” Kate asked.

  “Well, if we’re adding the whole block,” Phoebe said, “I suppose we have to add Mary Hill as well.”