Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “I don’t think she was on the list, but it’s certainly fine,” Eleanor said. “Everyone is welcome to these things.”

  At that moment, Adele spotted the group, nodded in their direction, and walked into the living room. “Hello, everyone,” she said. “Po, Kate, Max. And you, too, Eleanor, what a lovely party.”

  “Good evening, Adele,” Eleanor said, and she looked toward Jed. “Do you know Professor Jed Fellers?” Jed shook Adele’s hand and bowed slightly.

  Adele scrutinized him carefully, then said, “We met once.”

  “When Ollie won the award for his essay,” Jed said. “I remember. What I remember especially is how happy he was that you came.”

  Adele was silent, but Po watched from the side as the words registered in Adele’s mind and were stored away. Anything she had done to make Ollie happy was important to her. Jed had said the right thing.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Adele,” Jed continued. “I’ll miss your brother. He was a student of mine, but really more than that. Ollie was an inspiration to my students. He added much to my class.” Jed paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was husky. “Ollie was my friend.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Adele said. Her voice softened slightly. And then she turned back toward Eleanor. “My invitation must have been lost in the mail, Eleanor, being new in town and all. But I decided to come and see what all the fuss was about.” She smiled carefully. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not, Adele,” Eleanor said, and stopped a passing couple to introduce them to the newly arrived guest.

  “Where’s P.J?” Kate whispered to Po.

  Po shrugged, but at that moment, P.J. wove his way through the crowded room and came up behind them. He rested one hand on Kate’s shoulder, kneading it lightly.

  Kate’s smile faded when she looked into the concern clouding his face. “P.J., what’s wrong?”

  “I’ve bad news,” he said softly. “The rumor mill seems to be right this time. Ollie Harrington didn’t die from a fall. He was poisoned. It was in some tea he drank, apparently.”

  Just behind P.J., Adele Harrington stiffened at the sound of her brother’s name. And then, in a fraction of a second, her strong shoulders sagged, and her carefully held body seemed to cave in on itself as she sank dramatically and directly, folding up like a rag doll in the center of Eleanor’s thick crimson Gabbeh rug.

  CHAPTER 7

  The gossip surrounding Adele Harrington’s new bed and breakfast paled in the wake of the news that Oliver Harrington was murdered.

  “Poor Adele,” Selma Parker said, smoothing out a stretch of fabric on her cutting table. It was Tuesday afternoon and a welcome quiet settled down on the rows of colorful fabric in her fabric store. “Much as she annoys me, this must be a blow to her.”

  Po watched Selma cut into the deep blue fabric. She’d chosen Ollie’s room as her project, and was honoring Adele’s request that the quilt be filled with stars. She had found a wonderful pattern in the Kansas City Star collection—one that combined a multitude of stars of every shape and form.

  It was perfect, she decided, to honor the memory of a man who knew all kinds of stars—and who knew them intimately. She’d picked small patterns in blues and golds, rusts and deep, rich greens to make the quilt come to life in the small clean room that had been Ollie’s.

  “Po, these fabrics are going to look great.” Selma folded the fabric pieces into a neat pile and slipped them into a sack. “How do you think Adele is doing?”

  Po handed Selma her credit card. “All right, I think. Max and I took her home after she fainted the other night. By the time we got her inside and gave her a shot of brandy, she was clear-thinking and suggested strongly that we leave. I think she’s denying this last bit of horrible news. She joked about crashing a party—then having it crash her. Something like that.”

  “Gutsy gal,” Selma said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be concerned about her.”

  “Well, she appears strong on the surface anyway.”

  Susan walked over to the checkout counter. “Have the police learned anything more? Rumors are rampant. I stopped at Marla’s bakery this morning for a muffin and the buzz was as thick as that syrup she puts on her blueberry pancakes.”

  Po shook her head. “Marla thrives on all that. I’m sure she has the crime solved and wrapped up in a blue ribbon. I don’t think the official news is quite so clear-cut.”

  “Has P.J. said anything?” Susan asked.

  “He was over for Sunday supper last night with Kate. It’s kind of a mess, he said. All the work being done on the house has made it impossible to get any kind of prints— though the police have been questioning neighbors and others who had access to Ollie’s house. There wasn’t heavy traffic in that house, but repair men came and went, and old Joe Bates worked out there in the garden every day of Ollie’s life, I think. He will certainly be questioned.”

  “Joe was devoted to Ollie. Maybe he’ll shed some light on all this, though he doesn’t hear so well anymore.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt that sweet man,” Susan said. “I used to talk to him sometimes in between my weaving classes at the college. If he wasn’t sitting in on a class, he was almost always in the library or in the commons, writing on his yellow pads.”

  “What did he write about?” Po asked.

  “I don’t know—things he learned in class, I guess. He hung on every word that came out of Professor Fellers’ mouth. He was a true mentor to Ollie, and encouraged his love for learning new things. Ollie loved those classes. And if you ask me, he loved that librarian, too.”

  Po’s head jerked up. “Halley Peterson?”

  “Yes, that’s her name—Halley. Nice person. She’s worked in the library for a while now. Takes some classes, too. And she and Ollie were friends.”

  “I met her,” Po said, and repeated the brief conversation she’d had with Halley. “At the time, I thought she was working through the natural emotions when someone dies— reaching out for answers and trying to make sense of such a sad happening. I thought lashing out at Adele was maybe her way of dealing with things.”

  The bell at Selma’s front door jingled as several customers walked in. Selma looked over at them, then handed back Po’s credit card. “We need to talk about this more,” she said. “As I said, Adele Harrington isn’t my favorite person, but I can’t imagine she had anything to do with Ollie’s death. She didn’t show her face around here until his body was already in the morgue. And besides that, he was her twin brother, for heaven’s sake. But I’ve already heard rumors of her wanting to get her hands on the house.” Selma shook her head and walked off to help a young woman find some Irish lace.

  “What do you think, Po?” Susan asked, her brow furrowed.

  “I think this town doesn’t need another lingering crime on its hands. I think the police need to solve this immediately, if not sooner. And frankly, I agree completely with Selma. I can’t imagine that Adele Harrington had a thing to do with it.”

  “The rumors certainly aren’t going to help her bed and breakfast business any.”

  Po nodded. “No, they’re not. And that’s a shame, too. So let’s hope the crime is solved soon and we can all return to things as usual.”

  Po left the shop and walked down Elderberry Road toward Marla’s bakery, thinking some sourdough rolls would be a nice complement to the cucumber and chicken soup she had planned for dinner. Perhaps Max would stop by, as he was prone to do lately, wandering in the back door and lifting the lid off the pot, wondering hungrily if there was enough for two. Of course he knew that Po never cooked for less than a family. It was her way, she always said. And somehow, miraculously, the food never went to waste.

  A rapping on the window as she passed Picasso’s French Quarter drew her out of her culinary thoughts, and Po smiled into the pleasant face of Max himself, looking out at her from the paned windows. He motioned for her to join him, then held up a half-empty glass. Po glan
ced at her watch—it was after five. A pre-dinner martini might just hit the spot, she thought, and turned toward the wide glass doors of the restaurant.

  Picasso’s bistro was a favorite gathering place for the entire neighborhood, and the Queen Bees quilters often stopped in for light lunches or dinner, especially when Picasso was serving his famous bouillabaisse. The food was a definite lure—fresh, flavorful fish and spices—but the round-faced chef was even more of a draw. Picasso St. Pierre had become a good and loyal friend.

  The dining area of the bistro was separated from the bar by a row of plants and small cocktail tables. Today, at the table nearest the windows, P.J. and Jedson Fellers sat in spirited discussion while Max stood, a chair held back for Po.

  “Good timing, Po,” Max said, and motioned to the bartender to fix Po a martini, the way she liked it—up with an olive.

  “Well, how nice is this? A martini at Picasso’s and three handsome men. What more could a woman ask for?” Po set her purse on the floor and looked around the table. “What brings you three here. Have I interrupted something?” she asked.

  “Nope,” P.J. answered. “We were thinking we needed a woman’s voice in this group, and who should walk by but yourself.”

  “Fate,” Max said.

  “Serendipity,” Jed added.

  “And what’s the topic?” Po said, smiling at the young waiter who set her chilled martini glass down in front of her. She looked at P.J. and frowned. “You look serious, P.J. Has anything happened?”

  “Nope.” P.J. took her hand and squeezed it. Po was like a mother to him. She’d been in his family’s life as long as he could remember. And now that he and Kate were an “item,” as Po and her friends called it, Po was even more vigilant, watching over him and Kate with great care. “A chunk of change was given to Canterbury University in memory of Ollie, and they’ve decided to establish a scholarship fund in his name. The chancellor has asked Jed here to get involved since it will be awarded to a student in astronomy.” P.J. nodded to Max. “And Max is the legal and numbers guy who’s setting it up.”

  “And P.J., as a new board member over there, somehow got saddled with making it happen,” Max added.

  “That’s a nice idea,” Po said. “And I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to Adele, especially with all this ugliness surrounding her life right now.”

  “Ollie deserves this honor,” Jed said. “But I think Adele Harrington just wants all this put to rest. And I can understand that.”

  Po rested one hand on Jed’s sleeve. If she was guessing correctly, this was almost as hard on Jed as it was on Adele. Even though Ollie was only a handful of years younger than Jed, Jed had been his mentor, a kind of father figure, and Po could see the grief in the professor’s kind eyes.

  “Adele doesn’t believe Ollie was murdered,” P.J. said. “She isn’t being very cooperative in the investigation.”

  Po sipped her martini and listened to the men talk about the scholarship details. She could understand Adele’s feelings. Murder was so ugly. Ollie was dead. There wasn’t anything anyone could do about that. So let him rest. But the facts were what they were. And someone, as outlandish as it was, had ended Oliver’s life far too early.

  Po looked around the small, intimate bistro while the men continued to discuss the details of the scholarship fund. A crowd was gathering as folks stopped in after work for a drink and Picasso’s amazing truffles. The buttery aroma of escargot filled the air, and she watched Picasso place the platter in front of Tom Adler and his curvaceous new wife, Cindy. Picasso loved the drama of his food, and he set it down with a flourish, his red face beaming with delight over his prize appetizer.

  He caught Po’s eye, winked, and soon edged his way over to her table, greeting customers on his way. “My magnificent Po,” he said, kissing her lightly on each cheek. Then straightening up and looking into her eyes. “Such talk, mon amie, all over my restaurant tonight. All about Ollie Harrington.”

  “Has Tom Adler settled down any?” Po nodded toward the man now relishing the platter of snails.

  “Non, no, no. He is so upset, Po. Says he wasn’t the one who killed Ollie, but just maybe he knows who did. And then he said some awful things about Ollie’s twin sister.”

  P.J., Jed, and Max stopped talking and looked at Picasso.

  “I know Adler is pretty crazed about all this,” P.J. said. “He’d been in the station a couple of times, begging the police to stop Adele’s renovations. He claims the land is his. Ollie promised him that when he died, he could have it, he says. And he says there’s a piece of paper somewhere in that house that confirms his claims. But Adele won’t let him past the front door, of course.”

  Po took a sip of her martini and looked over at Tom over the rim. “I’d suggest he watch his rantings,” she said. “It seems to me that’s a likely murder motive.”

  “His company isn’t doing too well,” Max said. “Developing the Harrington property would put him back on his feet. But I can’t imagine why Ollie would give it to him.”

  Picasso nodded. He dropped his voice to avoid being heard beyond their table. “He pestered Oliver all the time, that much I saw myself. He even brought him in here once or twice and tried to get him drinking, but Ollie didn’t ever touch a drop. Not once. Oliver’s only libations were milk and tea. Tea and my escargot,” Picasso said, his eyes rolling and one hand slapping a round, red cheek. “My mama would turn over in her grave.”

  Po had seen Ollie in Picasso’s once or twice—and a few other places on Elderberry Road—picking up cheese at Jess and Ambrose’s Brew and Brie—but most often at Gus Schuette’s bookstore where he’d sometimes come in with Jed and the two men would sit for hours over a round table in the back of the bookstore, discussing the galaxies and new stars. The thought of anyone wanting that quiet man dead was almost beyond comprehension. Unless, of course, someone had something very important to gain by his death.

  Po looked over at Tom Adler while she sipped her drink. He was talking heatedly with someone from the city council, shaking his head, then waving his hands in the air. He’d had a few drinks, Po could tell, and it wasn’t helping his composure any. But she’d known Tom long enough to know his bark was stronger than his bite. Or so she’d always thought. Next to him, his wife looked bored and seemed to be entertaining herself by admiring the large diamonds decorating her fingers.

  Catching Po’s look, Tom nodded at her, forcing a slight smile to his face. A few minutes later, he slapped down a few bills, and he and his bride left the bistro abruptly, brushing aside a young waiter as they hurried through the door.

  Po watched him through the window. Tom and Cindy crossed Elderberry Road, barely noticing a car that nearly sideswiped them, then climbed into a big truck parked in front of Max’s law office. Gravel shot out from under the tires as he tore off down the street.

  That anger can only come to no good, Po thought. It isn’t a healthy thing.

  “Mon Dieu!” Picasso said beside her, and startled Po from her thoughts. But he wasn’t watching Tom’s hasty exit; he was staring at the front door.

  Po followed his look. Adele Harrington stood just inside the door, her hair uncharacteristically mussed, her hands on her hips. Her face was a mixture of anger and determination, and her eyes immediately settled in on Po.

  “Po Paltrow,” Adele called out across the crowded room, “I need to talk to you. Immediately, if you don’t mind.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Adele.” Po was out of her chair in seconds. She had recently helped pick Adele’s crumbled form up from a floor, and she didn’t want to risk that happening in Picasso’s crowded bistro. The disgrace would be too heavy for Adele to bear. “Are you all right?” Po asked, reaching her side.

  Adele was dressed perfectly as always, in tailored slacks and a fine cashmere sweater. A red silk jacket warded off the fall chill. But her face lacked its characteristic composure. The mask that hid all emotion was gone and her eyes blazed. “No, Portia, I am not fine. Would y
ou and P.J. please come with me.”

  Po turned toward the table and gestured to P.J. to join her. The two looked apologetically at a confused Max and Jed and followed Adele outside.

  Adele stood beneath Picasso’s blue awning and took in a deep, stabilizing breath. “Someone,” she said at last, “has been in my house.”

  Po looked at Adele silently, wondering if she had been pushed, at last, to the edge.

  P.J said, “Adele, there are dozens of people in your house every day.”

  Adele cast him an annoyed look. “Someone,” she said, dismissing P.J.’s comment with a clipped tone, “broke into my house during the night. Paint was spilled, furniture was damaged. Someone evil is trying to prevent my bed and breakfast from opening on time.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a workman’s error?” Po asked. “Paint could easily have been spilled.”

  “Please, spare me,” Adele said. “I said that someone is breaking the law. You are the law, are you not?” She glared at P.J.

  “Have you called the police?” P.J. asked. “There are police assigned to this case, Adele, and they—”

  Adele held out her hands to quiet him. “I wanted to talk with someone I know personally. Police can be so annoying. I called Kate Simpson, and she told me I would find you here. Now, what are we going to do about this?”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “Not that I could tell. But how would I know? The house is a mess. Things everywhere.”

  “I’ll see that someone comes out to investigate the damage, Adele, and you’ll have to file a report,” P.J. said.

  “No. What I want is for this to stop, P.J. Flanigan. I have felt for several days that things were not right in the house. Things were askew. Moved around. I have kept many family things intact all through the house to create ambiance. Things have been disturbed, I could feel it.”

  “Were you in the house last night, Adele?” Po asked. “Did you hear anything?”

  “I wasn’t there. The paint smell had been disturbing my sleep so I was staying at that Canterbury Inn on campus. But I won’t do that again. I would certainly have heard the vandals and put a stop to it.”