Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Are you taking up quilting, P.J.?” Po asked, wondering when Kate had managed to send him an S.O.S. without Po seeing it.

  “Not today, Po.” P.J. walked over to her and bent low, his face not far from hers. “Heard you had a visitor last night.”

  “I guess I did, P.J.” Po said. “But he didn’t do any damage—”

  “He?” P.J. pulled up a chair and straddled it from behind.

  “He. She. I don’t know the sex, P.J., but whoever it was saw fit to leave without causing much damage.”

  “Except to your peace of mind,” Kate said from her place at the window.

  “Yes, that was shaken,” Po admitted.

  “Any idea who would have come in like that? Or what they wanted?” P.J. asked.

  Po had thought of that question since five that morning when she’d tugged on faded sweat pants and a hoodie, and run slowly through the neighborhood, circled around the campus, and finally run all the way down to the river park and back. Who, indeed? She almost wished a camera or computer was missing. That would make it simple. An honest-to-goodness robbery. But as far as she knew, nothing was missing. So it had to be something else. Someone who wanted something she had—and couldn’t find it.

  “Po?” P.J. said. “If all those thoughts rattling around in your head were spoken words, I think I’d be a giant step further in understanding what went on last night.”

  Po shook her head. “No, I don’t think you would be. It doesn’t make any sense at all.” But she knew deep down that it did make sense, it all made sense somehow—if only her mind could order it correctly. Was it someone she knew? That thought caused the deepest unrest. She could account for those she was with last night, but that was a short list of two. Her emotions fought any possible list she tried to put together. But the truth was, someone had entered house while she was gone. In those few hours, protected by her absence, someone had rifled through her things. Po rubbed her hands up and down her arms and sighed.

  Kate bit down on her bottom lip as she listened to the talk around her. She was as sure as she’d ever been of anything in her life that whatever happened at Po’s last night was connected to the murders. And that thought caused ripples of fear to travel up her spine.

  P.J. walked over and looped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “It’s okay, Katie,” he whispered into her hair. “We won’t let anything happen to Po. If someone had intended to do her harm, they would have come when she was home.” And then he looked around at the room filled with women who’d inched their way into his life—Eleanor and Selma with their plain wisdom and humor, the irrepressible Phoebe and quiet, talented Susan. Beautiful, earthy Leah, And down-to-earth Maggie, smart as a whip, with a heart as big as Kansas. He had only been drawn into this unlikely circle of friends because Po and Kate had put him there.

  They were strong, independent women, every single one of them. And that was exactly what pulled at his emotions and caused stabs of concern to settle uncomfortably inside him. There was nothing those ladies wouldn’t do for one another. Even if it meant putting themselves in the middle of a murder investigation. Even if it meant attacking danger head on and worrying about the consequences later.

  CHAPTER 26

  When Kate and Po walked out of Selma’s store several hours later, the wind was coming from the north, and Po shivered against the unexpected chill. “I’ll drive you home, Kate,” she said.

  Kate nodded. She was shivering, too. But whether from the crisp, sharp air or the recent conversation, she couldn’t be sure. P.J. had left earlier with worry in his eyes and his forehead pinched. “Kate,” he had started to say as she walked with him to the door, but Kate quieted him with two fingers pressed against his lips.

  “Shhh,” she had said, “We aren’t foolish, P.J.”

  But after P.J. had left the shop, the quilters’ conversation grew animated and emotional. “There is no way on God’s earth that a regular old thief would wander into Po’s home, then decide to leave without taking things. This is connected to Ollie and Joe’s murder, as sure as anything,” Eleanor declared.

  And Phoebe had stood up at the end of the table and declared that it was time to get serious.

  “And find out why someone would want both Ollie and Joe dead,” Eleanor had finished.

  “And if you want to know what I think,” Phoebe had concluded, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes clear and wide. “I don’t think it has a thing to do with building condominiums at 210 Kingfish Drive.”

  “Po, I think Phoebe is right,” Kate said now, climbing into Po’s CRV. She snapped her seatbelt in place. “These deaths aren’t about that house. Joe and Ollie knew something someone didn’t want them to know.”

  “I think so, too, Kate.”

  “So it’s more personal, more intimate.”

  Po nodded. She turned onto Kate’s street and pulled into the driveway of the small house that Kate’s parents had left to their only child. It was a cozy bungalow, and Kate’s parents had refinished it to its original shine, restoring the dark wood molding and filling it with Stickley furniture in the original arts and crafts style. Po had spent many hours on the wide front porch with Liz, Kate’s mom. Sitting, gossiping, comforting, enlightening. All the things best friends do. Sometimes they’d laugh about how safe their houses made them feel. And today, Po thought, this house felt far more safe than her own.

  “Are you listening to me, Po?” Kate asked, undoing her seat belt and shifting on the seat to stare at Po. “You’re not hearing me.”

  Po forced a smile. “Of course I am, Kate. I have a lot on my mind today, I guess.”

  “Po, P.J. will pass everything along to those working on the case.”

  “I know that, Kate.”

  “And they will find whoever did this.”

  Po reached over and gave Kate a hug. “Yes,” she said. And they’d find out that it might have been right in front of them all along. And that thought had tugged at her all morning, as pieces finally began to fall into place. One had to think outside the box, she thought. However disturbing and difficult that might be.

  From Kate’s, Po drove directly to Canterbury University, hoping that the library would be very quiet on a Saturday afternoon. It was not a trip she wanted to make, but she needed to talk with Halley. Her behavior at the bookstore had been strange. And where was Halley before that, when someone was wandering around Po’s house without an invitation?

  Po parked her car and walked up the stairs to the massive stone library, built many years ago by Eleanor’s grandfather. When she walked through the turnstyle, she spotted Halley immediately, standing behind the resource desk working on a computer. She looks sad, Po thought, as she made her way around a book display. The range of emotions the woman had displayed in just a few days was remarkable, Po thought. Joy, anger, jealousy, sadness. What would be next?

  “Halley?” Po said.

  Halley’s head jerked up. Her face was drawn, and she seemed, at first, to not recognize Po.

  Po stood there, silent, waiting for Halley to step in, to fill in some of the cavernous cracks.

  Finally, Halley collected herself. “I’m rather busy, if you’ve come to see me.” Her voice was formal and cool.

  “Is everything all right, Halley?”

  Halley managed a smile. “Of course.”

  “Did you get my message about the things I’d found at Joe’s?”

  Halley nodded. “Thank you. I came by last night— but you weren’t home.”

  “And did you find it?”

  Halley looked puzzled. “Find what?”

  “The things you were looking for at Joe’s apartment.”

  “Of course not,” Halley snapped. “Are you saying I went inside your house?”

  “Kate and the others sometimes just go right in and make themselves at home.”

  “Maybe they would. I wouldn’t do that.” Halley played with a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek, twisting it into a spiral. S
he stared at Po, challenging her, her chest moving in and out as she tried to control herself.

  “Did you tell anyone else about Joe’s things?”

  “Of course not. Why would anyone else care?”

  “No matter. I’m going to look through some of Joe’s things later today—and if you’d like, you’re welcome to see what’s there. There’s a photo of you and Ollie that you might like. Perhaps I’ll find some other things in the meantime.”

  Halley face was expressionless. She nodded.

  An awkward silence filled the space between them.

  “Well, then,” Po said, “Perhaps I’ll see you later.”

  Halley nodded and looked down. Her fingers began frantically punching keys on the computer, dismissing Po. Her face was grim.

  Po paused for a moment, then rummaged in her purse for her car keys. Her fingers touched the small book she had found at Joe’s and dropped in her purse. Impulsively, she pulled it out and set it on the library counter. “Here, Halley. Take this. It’s from Joe’s and perhaps belonged to Ollie.” Then she forced a smile to her face, turned and walked out of the library, feeling Halley’s eyes on her back as she walked through the wide front door.

  In the car Po tried to process Halley Peterson’s behavior. Had she totally misread this young woman? Though Po had seen Halley’s anger when she talked about Adele Harrington—and in Gus’s bookstore more recently—the frosty façade she presented to Po today was something new. But if Halley was trying to rebuff Po, she was choosing the wrong tactic. If nothing else, her behavior only added to Po’s resolve to talk with her.

  Po’s next stop was the Harrington mansion, and she found Adele walking in the back gardens, looking relaxed, in spite of the still-swollen ankle that kept her pace slow and measured.

  Adele smiled at Po as she approached. “What a nice surprise, Po. What brings you here today?”

  “I thought I’d give you a quilt update,” Po said. She fell in step beside her. “Susan and Leah have finished theirs, and the rest are nearly ready to go. I think you’re going to love them.”

  “I’ve no doubt, Po. I hired the best.”

  Po smiled. “I wanted you to know that I’m drying out some of Ollie’s things that I found at Joe’s. Some pictures. Some writings of his. He was quite good, people tell me.”

  “Oh, he was a lovely writer, even when he was young. I sent him a computer once—but he hated it. He said his fingers needed the feel of the pen in them, that his thoughts worked themselves down from his head, through his fingers and the pencil to paper. The computer messed up the route.”

  Po laughed. “I thought that way once, but forced myself to get used to it. And of course it became my good friend. But I understand what Ollie was saying. So he always wrote in longhand?”

  “Always.” Adele looked off toward the pond. “I found a bunch of yellow pads in his room, filled from top to bottom with his familiar scrawl. But I couldn’t quite get myself to read them. I found Joe up in his room shortly after Ollie died, going through them. He wanted them so badly, that I gave in.” She frowned. “It was odd, now that I think back. He was very peculiar that day, muttering that it would be better for me if he had them. But he was such a strange little man, that I guess I didn’t pay much attention.”

  Po listened carefully to Adele. “If find anything in the things I’ve taken home, I will save it for you. It would be good for you to have some of Ollie’s things.”

  “Yes. I’ve reached the point, I think, where I can talk to people who knew Ollie. For a while, it made me feel guilty, that people like Joe and Halley Peterson and Jed Fellers knew Ollie better than I did. Even Tom Adler spent more time with him in recent months. And Ollie liked them all. I’m not so fond of some of them, but I’ve decided that keeping them all at bay is rather foolish of me because they knew a part of Ollie I would like to know better. And so I shall not be so standoffish. In fact, for starters, I intended to talk with Jed Fellers about building a small observatory in Ollie’s honor. He seems to know a lot about that sort of thing and Ollie certainly loved it.”

  “That’s a lovely thought, Adele,” Po said. “I imagine Jed thought so too.”

  “Well, my discussion with him was interrupted,” Adele said. “We didn’t quite get around to it. Later, perhaps.”

  “That was your dinner at Picasso’s?” Halley Peterson’s jealousy was most definitely misplaced, Po thought.

  “Yes. There are no secrets in this town, are there? You heard about the episode, of course.”

  Po nodded. “Picasso told us. He was concerned. And I am, too. You need to be careful, Adele.” Careful and judicious, Po thought. Adele was so close to the dreadful things going on. Po wondered if she gave that fact proper attention. And she was wrong about one thing—there were plenty of secrets in this town. Perhaps dangerous ones.

  “Don’t worry Po,” Adele said, seeing the concern in Po’s eyes. “It will take more than a drunk to frighten me away. He has a demanding wife, that’s all.”

  “But when people drink too much, you don’t know what they are capable of.”

  “Some people are more dangerous when they are sober, Po. But don’t worry. If I am anything, I am cautious.”

  “Adele,” Po said suddenly, “Why did you leave Crestwood the way you did, and not return?”

  “I left for college,” Adele said. It was a pat, no nonsense answer, without the personal touch of their earlier conversation.

  “But after that, when Ollie came home. You didn’t seem to be around much. Perhaps I am treading on personal ground, and please tell me if I am. But did you not get along with your mother?”

  “Oh my, is that what people thought?” Adele sat down on a stone bench near a garden of mums and looked off over the yard. “I loved my mother, though we disagreed about a lot. Ollie, mainly. She babied him too much. Protected him so severely because of his learning disabilities that when she got sick, she made Joe Bates promise to stay here forever because Ollie had never lived alone.”

  “Why didn’t she want you to be that person?”

  For a long time Adele didn’t answer, but Po could see the years passing across her mind. Sadness and happiness, pain and joy flashed from her eyes as the memories rolled. Finally she answered the question Po had posed. “It was my father whom I disliked. Intensely. He was not a good man, at least not in all respects. His affairs during mother’s pregnancies—she lost three babies—were cruel, but when he bedded a friend of mine on a college break, then threatened me later if I said a word, it became too much. And my mother urged me to leave this town and make a life for myself away from it all. She used to come and see me every chance she got—she was a good person. But she needed the money Walter Harrington provided. She needed it for Ollie.

  “My father never cared for Ollie. Broken, was the word he used. I, the healthy twin, survived. Ollie was weakened. An accident, my father said, and he made it clear to me that I should have been the one. Not Ollie. Not the boy.

  “But Walter Harrington did genuinely worship my mother, in spite of all his transgressions. And when she laid down the rules, he complied, leaving her and Ollie to live their life as mother saw fit.” Adele rose from the bench and began walking back toward the house. Po fell in beside her.

  “We weren’t exactly the Cleaver family, were we? But we survived. And I think my mother did the best she could. But even knowing that, I resented what this town, this house, stood for, for a long time. But when Ollie died, I decided I’d at least give it a try—try to make peace with some of the demons.”

  “And I think you have,” Po said. “Or are on your way.”

  “Not yet. Not completely. As long as there are still people out there who think I murdered my brother, I can never really fit in here, can I?”

  The sad plea from the strong, implacable Adele Harrington touched Po in a way that made her shiver in the cool fall air. She pulled her wool sweater closed and buttoned it. “Adele,” she said, touching her arm lightly, “Hang
in a little bit longer. I think that will end soon.” And for better or worse, Po knew her words to be true.

  CHAPTER 27

  Po pulled out of Adele’s driveway and headed home. This time she wouldn’t be distracted. She would go through every single piece of paper, every picture she had taken from Joe Bates’ apartment. And she’d find the answers to all her questions, she was sure of it. At the least, she’d get closer to the ties that bound Ollie Harrington to the few people he allowed in his life each day.

  She thought back to her brief conversation with Adele. Why was Joe Bates so insistent that he get Ollie’s musings? What had Ollie written that was so important to someone like Joe Bates, someone who didn’t even like to read? Joe wasn’t sentimental, that much she knew about him. But he loved Ollie Harrington. And Ollie’s murder had turned him into a mumbling old man, a man determined, perhaps, to bring his murderer to light. That would have been Joe’s goal. Of course it would.

  And stuck in his desk and apartment were legal papers, notes from Ollie, and heaven knows what else. The gatherings of a man determined to right a terrible wrong.

  Po punched in Gus Schuette’s phone number on her cell. “Gus,” she said quickly, knowing he probably had a store full of Saturday shoppers. “Gus, you mentioned recently that Joe Bates had come into your store shortly before he was killed. Joe wasn’t much of a reader. What was he buying?”

  As busy as his store was, Gus liked to chat, and Po waited patiently while he confirmed that Joe didn’t seem to read much, but he sure loved Gus’s garden magazines when he used to come in the store more often. But that day—Gus remembered it clearly, he said, because it was shortly after Ollie’s murder, and Joe was a broken man. He’d shuffled into the store, made his purchase, and shuffled out, head down, face a mask of sad anger. He’d picked up a book Gus had ordered for him. Not a garden book at all.

  Gus didn’t need to finish.

  Po knew. It made sense now, what she should have figured out weeks ago. She drove into her driveway, scattering leaves in all directions. Around her, night began to settle in. Po turned off the ignition and slid quickly out of the car. The box with Ollie’s yellow pads was still in the back of her car, a safer spot than her house these days, she’d decided. She pulled it out and carried it through the back door, into the soft lights of her kitchen.