A Patchwork of Clues

by Sally Goldenbaum

  They were all silent. Happily married wives killing their terrific husbands was difficult for all of them to swallow.

  Dutifully, Phoebe wrote MARY on the chart.

  “She inherited a bunch of money,” Maggie said.

  “But I think Mary had her own money as well,” Po said.

  “Well, I saw her chew out Wesley in the alley yesterday,” Selma said. “She was clearly upset with him.”

  “Wesley may have stolen something from her store,” Po said. “That may have been why she was angry.”

  “What would Wesley want from an antique store?” Leah asked.

  “One of those beautiful glass paperweights that Mary has on display.”

  “Isn’t that what was thrown through Mary’s window?” Eleanor asked. “Someone said it was a glass ball.”

  Po nodded but didn’t elaborate about how she knew Wesley stole the glass paperweight. She didn’t want to get into Phoebe and Kate’s ill-thought-out adventure.

  But Kate had no such inhibitions. “Phoebe and I found a glass ball in Wesley’s truck Sunday night, the night before Mary’s shop was vandalized,” she said. “And I forgot to tell you, Po, but P.J. said they checked it out. It had a half-peeled sales sticker from Mary’s store on it. It wasn’t one of the expensive balls, but it was still quite beautiful, P.J. said.”

  Po’s mind was still on Mary. No one knew what went on between a husband and wife, but Po knew Mary cared deeply about Max. Just this afternoon she had met her coming out of his office. Mary explained she was taking some pictures up to the hospital, things that he might recognize, that might help reconnect him to the world if he came out of the coma. All this while still dealing with her own pain.

  There were simply too many pieces, she thought, trying to put the puzzle together. Why would Wesley steal a glass ball from Mary’s shop? And more puzzling, why would he vandalize it later? She rested her elbows on the tabletop and listened with half an ear to the gathering of suspicions and motives. It seemed the more information they pulled together, the less sense any of it made. But something was clearly missing. And they needed to discover it quickly before someone else was killed on Elderberry Road.

  “Where’s Susan?” Kate said suddenly.

  “She wasn’t feeling very good. I sent her home,” Selma explained. “She hasn’t been eating much, and I think she’s run down. She needs a good night’s sleep.”

  “Run down,” Phoebe repeated. “That brings us back to the truck piece of this puzzle. Daisy has a truck. But the others? I can’t quite imagine Mary Hill behind the wheel of an old beat-up pickup.”

  “Or the Reverend,” Eleanor said, reluctantly. “But it isn’t that hard to get your hands on a truck if that’s your pleasure.”

  Kate looked over at Maggie’s platter. The cookies were gone and her stomach was growling. “Phoebe, it might be time to call it a night. I’m brain-dead.”

  Phoebe looked at her watch in mock frustration. “Oh, I suppose.”

  But they had made some strides, they all agreed. And a night to sleep on it might be a good thing.

  “And we can continue to do some snooping on our own,” Maggie said.

  “Good idea, Mags,” Phoebe said, collapsing her easel and leaning it against the back wall. “I’ll leave this right here. We can email anything that comes up, but by Saturday we should have this solved. Right, guys?”

  They raised their hands in unison. “Right!” And so resolved, each one of the friends departed into their own lives, pretending for the sake of one another that safety and peace were just around the corner.

  Chapter 21

  Crossroads

  When Po got home a short while later, she sat at her kitchen table and listened to a litany of messages on the answering machine, along with reading a barrage of text messages.

  One message was from Peter, the thirteen-year-old boy who lived down the street and was still in a state of euphoria after getting his first cell phone.

  He didn’t have school tomorrow, his text began, followed by an emoji showing a smiley face. “So I’ll mow the lawn, like for probably the last time before winter.” And another smiley face at the end.

  Peter also left a voice message. Po smiled at the deep tone that had crept into little Peter’s voice when she wasn’t looking. The last message was from her editor saying the first few chapters were fine.

  Po finished, deleted, and then stared at her cellphone. An unexpected pang of disappointment passed through her, as if the message or text she was waiting for hadn’t come. But what was she expecting? Had she thought there might be a voicemail message announcing, “Your murderer is Colonel Mustard. He did it in the parlor with a candlestick?” Or P.J. calling with the news that they caught the guy at last—for real this time. A stranger passing through town. Everyone was safe now.

  Po checked her phone again. Just seven-thirty. Still early.

  Hoover was curled up in the corner of the kitchen on his flannel bed, content, safe. Po walked to the den, then back into the kitchen again. She wanted to grasp something tightly in her hands. Something that would make sense. And she felt so close to doing it. But when she reached for it, it slipped away.

  She opened the refrigerator and a thin yellow light fell out across the floor.

  Dinner. She hadn’t eaten any. Maybe that was the cause of this restless itch. This nagging in the pit of her stomach. Behind the milk and orange juice on the top shelf of the refrigerator, Po found a large container of homemade chicken soup that she had taken out to thaw a day or so ago, then completely forgotten about. She felt the sides of the Tupperware container. Almost thawed. Chicken soup, the perfect antidote for this uncomfortable gnawing inside her—and outside, too. “Chicken Soup for the Restless Soul.”

  She looked at the size of the container and wondered what she was thinking about when she’d stored it in a container holding enough for the whole neighborhood. This was soup to be shared. Sometimes she still did that—made enough of something for both herself and to satisfy Scott’s hearty appetite. She looked up, smiled into the air, and told him she’d share his portion. Besides, she’d like some company tonight.

  Po carried the soup to the sink and began to remove the lid, wondering who might be free. And then it came to her. Susan. She hadn’t been eating, Selma said, and Po’s chicken soup had never failed to coax the ill to eat. She’d pack up the soup and several packages of Rita’s tea, and maybe a pan of spicy cornbread that she had picked up earlier in the day at Marla’s. She owed Susan a favor, and this might be just the thing to hurry her on her way to feeling better.

  She thought about calling first, then decided Susan might be sleeping. She’d go over and leave the soup on the doorstep if that was the case.

  In minutes, Po had packed everything in a large wicker basket, adding a batch of brownies she always had on hand in the freezer, and she was ready to go. Although she’d never been to Susan’s house, the address Selma gave her was not far at all, just on the other side of the river. Ten minutes on quiet streets.

  Po pulled up to the small frame house in the modest neighborhood and smiled. It was exactly what she’d expect Susan’s house to look like. Though the yards and houses on the block were small—mostly one-story bungalows—Susan’s had that special artistic touch, a rose amidst wildflowers. Deep green shutters set off the small white house. A shiny brass lamplight at the door was on, spilling light over a little front porch. An old Chinese maple tree filled the front yard, and the small, neat sidewalk was bordered with low, groomed bushes. When she walked up the porch steps, Po noticed the porch swing and rocker, piled with quilted pillows.

  She knocked on the door softly. Susan answered the door in her robe. Her usually neat hair was slightly mussed. “Po,” she said, surprised.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call first, Susan, but Selma mentioned you were sick, and I had a sudden need to get out
of my house. So here I am. I make a mean chicken soup.” Po lifted the basket.

  “That’s so nice of you.” Susan hesitated for a moment, then held the door open. “Forgive my manners. Please come in, Po.”

  Po stepped into a small tasteful living room. Just what Po would have expected: the walls painted white, the furnishings comfortable with clean lines.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” Po said. But in truth, she wanted to do exactly that. She liked Susan Miller, but she knew so little about her, and she suspected that deep down, there was a hidden cache of riches there that she hadn’t begun to tap. Whether now was exactly the time for that was not clear to her. But “now” was what she had.

  “My mother’s asleep in the back, but it’s all right. Nothing wakes her.”

  Po looked around the neat, comfortable room, but almost immediately her eyes were drawn to a brilliant splash of color on the far wall. “How beautiful,” she said aloud.

  She set the basket of food on the counter separating the living room and kitchen, and walked over to the hanging. It was a quilt made of cotton, silk, and brocade fabrics. They were cut and stitched in hundreds of irregular shapes and pieced together to form an image of woods and fields. A house or cabin in the center was heavy with thousands of seed beads in an array of brilliant colors. The whole collage was beautiful and arresting, lifelike and abstract—a work of art that Po had never seen before. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. “Susan, this is amazing. It’s so…so filled with joy.”

  Susan stood back in the entry to the kitchen. She ran her fingers through her hair, coaxing order to it. Her cheeks flushed at Po’s words and her eyes were moist. “Yes,” Susan said softly. “It is happy.”

  Po squinted, and moved closer to the hanging, unable to turn away from the magnificent art on the wall. She saw comfort and harmony in it, but there was also something reckless—a reckless joy. Yes, she decided, that was what she saw.

  “I see where the beads idea for Selma’s anniversary quilt came from,” Po said. She turned around and looked at Susan. “I am in awe. This should be in a gallery.”

  “This one is just for me. But I have others,” she said. “I’m making a small one right now for Maggie. It’s for her fat lady collection. It’s a sweet round lady holding a black lab. I thought she could put it in the clinic.” She motioned for Po to follow her and led her into a small bedroom off the living room. She lifted up a square from the bed. It was the size of a small tabletop and had a whole different feeling from the one in the living room, but it was equally wonderful. The woman and dog beckoned the viewer directly into it, and Po knew Maggie would love it.

  Susan had used all cotton fabric for Maggie’s piece, but in different thicknesses and textures, some smooth and almost silky, some pebbled and grainy. The abstract lady was sitting on a park bench, her wide bosom and ample lap filled with a blue-black pup whose bright red tongue licked at her face.

  “I took some pictures for this one, then finally found just the right one and made a drawing from it. Then I cut different fabrics to fill in the woman’s features and the background. Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “No. She’ll be crazy about it. What talent you have, Susan Miller, and it’s hidden under a bushel basket. But I think that’s about to end.”

  “I think we need some tea,” Susan said, brushing off Po’s attention.

  “Tea, yes. A good idea.” Po followed Susan into the other room, settling down on a tall stool at the kitchen counter. Susan busied herself at the stove, turning up the flame beneath the teakettle.

  “How did you do the large quilt hanging?”

  Susan sat on the other side of the counter and looked at the quilt. “I took a lot of pictures for that one, too. I used them as guides, to plan and structure the piece,” she said. “Then I let my heart do the rest, I guess.”

  Po nodded. She had had her own share of projects of the heart—her books, special quilts she made for her children. They talked for a while about art and quilts, and Po watched the color creep back into Susan’s cheeks. “I think you’re on the mend,” she said.

  Susan nodded. “I’m sure I am. Your visit has been wonderful medicine. And I know the soup will be the final touch.”

  Po wanted to ask Susan a dozen questions—about their unfinished conversation in the shop, about the veil that she could feel dropping over Susan right now, the one that told Po they’d talked enough. I can’t get any closer, it said. Not right now.

  “Susan, it’s that time,” Po stood. “I’m going to leave you to a bowl of soup and a good night’s sleep. And I think I’ll help myself to the same.”

  Susan nodded. She was fading a little, she admitted, and she followed Po to the door. Po was nearly there when a collection of photographs on the wall just inside the door caught her eye. She stopped and looked closer at the simply framed black-and-white photos. “Are these yours, Susan?”

  Susan looked over at the wall and nodded. “Another passion of mine. Now you know everything there is to know about me, Po.”

  Po didn’t answer. She moved closer and looked at each one, wanting to know the Susan of the photographs. These were not snapshots, but wonderfully composed photographs. There was a long, winding country road. A rural crossroads with a field of cows looking curiously at the road signs. A still pond filled with lily pads and surrounded by waving grasses and cattails.

  The center photo was larger than the others, and Po saw immediately that it was the inspiration for the quilt she’d seen. The photo was taken at sundown, Po suspected, and amazingly captured the myriad of colors in the falling night sky, but through shades of grays and blacks and whites. It was a country scene like the others, a rustic house and a narrow path leading to a thick pinewoods. Further in the distance was a long gravel drive with a rambling barn, a truck filled with hay, and a horse standing stock-still, looking off in the distance. The composition was perfect. “This is lovely,” she said. But it didn’t come near to what she was feeling.

  She gave Susan a quick hug, and hurried out the door.

  * * * *

  Po settled down beneath a soft down comforter, her eyes on the dark sky outside the bedroom window. But sleep eluded her. Behind closed lids, she replayed her visit with Susan. There was something about the evening that tugged at her uncomfortably and pushed sleep away, far across the night. She wanted to get up out of bed and go back to Susan’s house and start the visit over, to see things she knew she was missing now in recollection. To attend to things just beneath the surface in the gentle artist who managed Selma’s shop.

  The quilts were startling. The photographs, too.

  But the most disconcerting, sleep-robbing thing of all was that there was something about Susan’s house that made Po think she had been there before, seen it before. There was something about it that was disturbingly familiar. And it stood just beyond the reaches of her memory in a spot she couldn’t quite see.

  Chapter 22

  Spinning Tops

  Wednesday morning Po slept in, a luxury she didn’t often afford herself but a necessity after a sleepless night. Finally, sometime after eight o’clock, she pulled herself from beneath the messy covers and walked slowly to the shower. She would have stayed in bed longer. Another hour or two—but not today. Today she needed to be up. She needed to clear her head.

  After feeding Hoover and opening the garage door so Peter could get the lawnmower out, Po called Kate. If Peter could cut the grass because he didn’t have school, maybe Kate was free, too.

  “Parent-teacher conferences,” Kate announced. “And the college is on midterm break. God’s in His heaven, all’s right in the world.”

  “Well, almost,” Po said. “I’m starving. Are you up for a plate of eggs at Marla’s?”

  “Have I ever said no to food?”

  In twenty minutes, Po was seated at the front table in the middle of the bay
window, her favorite spot on a sunny day. And today that warmth was especially welcome.

  While sunlight beat down on the table, she could sit back and see the whole block: Max’s empty office across the street; the parade of college kids biking and jogging and enjoying a week of freedom; shoppers moving in and out of the wine and cheese store, the bookstore. She saw Daisy standing in front of her store, staring at the window box as if her look would make the plastic flowers grow.

  Looking far to the right, she could just make out Selma’s fabric shop. She wondered if Susan was at work today. She awoke thinking about her. And as the spray of the shower brought her fully awake, she was certain that Susan had wanted to tell her something the night before. Maybe something that was difficult to put into words. She had kept their conversation on a safe plane, talking about art and tea and chicken soup. But beneath it, Po still couldn’t shake the discomforting feeling that either Susan or her house had a message for her. And it was having a hard time delivering it.

  Outside the bay window, gusty winds blew the few remaining leaves across the street and flattened them against the window just beyond Po’s reach. She hoped Peter wasn’t having trouble mowing the lawn in this wind.

  “There you are.” Kate hurried over, bringing the sweet scent of lavender with her. Po recognized the perfume. It was her friend Meg’s favorite scent. Kate’s mother’s scent.

  Kate kissed Po on the top of her head, an uncharacteristic gesture. Po smiled.

  Kate dropped her backpack on the floor and sat down. “I ran into Leah when I was parking my bike. She’s going to join us. I hope that’s okay.” She leaned her elbows on the table and looked at Po carefully. “Po, you’re not sleeping.”

  Po sat back in the chair. “Maybe not as much as I’d like. I think we are an inch away from putting all this tragedy behind us, and then that inch stretches out into a foot. Then a yard. And then I can’t get my arms around it anymore.”

  “I wonder if that’s what Wesley felt like when he was reaching for those bills,” Kate said. “Someone must have planted those there, knowing what a scavenger Wesley was, and that he couldn’t pass an open dumpster without a peek inside.”