A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Bill laughed along with the others, and made the rounds of hellos. He picked up Phoebe’s Emma and lifted her to his shoulders, caring the delighted toddler around the room. Janna followed close behind him, carefully greeting everyone. She wore a blue silk jacket and slacks, perfectly tailored and slightly out of place with the casually dressed crowd. Janna seemed slightly ill at ease, Po thought, but that was certainly understandable—she was the new person in a roomful of people who had lived in this small town nearly all their lives. “Janna, come meet the other best two two-year-old in the room.” She took Janna’s hand and led her over to the couch where Phoebe urged her to sit next to her. In minutes Phoebe had plopped one twin on her lap, along with the moose book, and suggested Janna finish it for Jude, who eagerly cuddled up to his new reader.

  Janna was a good sport, Po thought. She had clearly been brought up right—gracious, polite, and looked you in the eye when she talked. But beneath it Po sensed that the young, well-bred woman had found out early that her family’s wealth couldn’t buy everything. She was still puzzled at the match-up between her and Bill, but could see in the way Janna’s eyes sought him out that she clearly adored him.

  Across the room Gus Schuette was patting Bill on the back, applauding his decision to run for mayor. “You can do it, Billy boy. Bring some new blood to this town.”

  “The town needs more than blood,” Rita cut in. “What do you intend to do for Crestwood, Bill? Give me the facts, not political jibber jabber.”

  Bill laughed at Rita’s forthrightness and answered earnestly. “Well, for starters, I love this town. And I hope to use my father’s company as a vehicle for doing some good things. I’m looking into fixing up some old buildings for the town, using some to fill social service needs. I guess that’s really why I want to be mayor—so I can give a little back to this town.”

  “Spoken like a true gentleman. You may have to toughen up a little, Bill, if you want to be a politician,” Rita said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Bill said. “Maybe Crestwood politics is different and there’s room for the likes of me.”

  Po watched his lopsided smile, his gentle manner, and decided that Bill McKay just might be right. “I remember your father saying you’d be a politician someday,” Po said. “He must be proud of this turn in your career,” Po said.

  “We’re all proud of Bill,” Janna said, looking up from her book. She smiled over at Bill. “Both sets of parents know Bill has nowhere to go but up.”

  Po watched affection color Janna’s face. Bill responded with a nod in her direction and a smile that Po couldn’t quite read. She suspected that the attention was making him slightly uncomfortable.

  But Bill was good-natured about it. He simply shrugged, offered a half-smile, and joked, “She has me in the White House in five years.”

  Max Elliott raised a wine glass. “Here, here, to Mayor McKay.”

  A noisy toast followed, along with well wishes for Bill’s campaign and plans. “And now,” Po said, “before we propel Billy directly into the White House, I suggest we eat. Pick up a plate from the sideboard before P.J.’s fine steak turns cold.” Friendly laughter nudged the crowd around the table and in minutes plates were heaped full of hot rolls and sweet butter, mounds of basil and corn pasta, and P.J.’s juicy fillets and béarnaise sauce.

  Po didn’t have a chance to talk to Max Elliott alone until the meal was almost over and empty plates began to stack up on the dining room table. Po walked toward the opposite end of the long room and opened the refrigerator. As she lifted the pies from the freezer, Max appeared at her side.

  “Need help, Po?” He set his wine glass on the counter and took the pies from her hands.

  “Thanks, Max. Just set those down on the counter.” Po pulled a stack of small plates from the counter. “It was nice of you to bring Billy and Janna, Max. I don’t think Janna knows many people.”

  Max nodded. “And doesn’t make friends easily, as far as I can tell,” he said. “I was meeting with Bill about some company matters, and knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought them along.”

  “Are you helping Bill with his political plans?” Po asked.

  “Not so far. Though I’ll help him if I can. But I did legal and financial work for the realty company years ago, and Bill has asked me to help him out with a few things to get the company back on track.” Max picked up the knife and began slicing through layers of coffee ice cream, thick hot fudge, and a thin, crusty layer of crushed pralines. “Sinful, Po,” he moaned, lifting a wide slice and sliding it onto a plate.

  “But good for the spirit every once in a while,” Po said. She placed a fork on each plate. “Max, I’ve been wanting to ask you about Picasso—have you spoken to him?”

  Max took a drink of his wine, then shook his head.

  Po saw the furrows on his brow deepen. He seemed to want to say something to her, but instead, he lifted his wine glass again and drained it.

  “Max, what is it?”

  Max picked up the tray of pie plates and looked at Po. “The truth is, I wanted to go over to Picasso’s as soon as I heard the news. I like Picasso very much. But frankly, Po, I’m not the right person to be with him right now. Make of that what you will.”

  Before Po could question him further, he walked back to the other end of the room to a chorus of voices welcoming the ice cream pies. Po watched him as he handed out the plates of dessert, wondering what in the world could cause such uncharacteristic behavior in this gentle man she had come to respect and like very much. It wasn’t like Max at all. And she wondered briefly how many other relationships would become awkward because of the murder of a young woman none of them knew.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sunday night suppers usually ended early so everyone could get home in time to get ready for another week, and tonight’s was no exception. Max was the first to go, and Po regretted saying anything to him about Picasso. He seemed troubled when he left, and after a quick kiss on the cheek and thank you, was out the door without another word. The others followed soon after, though Eleanor lingered behind, helping Po put away the last of the dishes.

  “Po, you’ve been distracted tonight. Out with it,” Eleanor demanded, pouring the last of the coffee from the pot into her mug.

  Po wondered if it was good for Eleanor to have all that caffeine so close to bedtime, but she held her silence, knowing Eleanor would do what she pleased, no matter what anyone said.

  “It’s Picasso isn’t it?” Eleanor said abruptly. “It’s awful that he’s going through all this.”

  Po nodded. It was awful, and confusing, and affecting people she cared about. But she knew instinctively that whatever was bothering Max tonight was something she didn’t have any right to talk about with others, But the quilt was another matter.

  “Eleanor,” she said, “something happened today that is plaguing me. I saw a quilt hanging on the wall of Picasso’s home.” The image of the beautiful bird had remained with Po all evening. She described it to Eleanor in detail, the artful swirl of the fabric pieces, the brilliant colors that made the bird stand out in bold relief. “But the thing that is bothering me, El, the thing that I can’t shake, is the almost certain thought that I’ve seen it before.”

  “You probably did,” Eleanor said, sitting down at Po’s wide table, now empty of the platters it held earlier. “Many people make the same quilt, Po, you know that. And from your description, it sounds lovely. Other people have probably used the same pattern.”

  “It wasn’t that kind of quilt, El. It was intricate, unique. I don’t think the pattern would have been easily duplicated, and even if it had been, it was the kind of art work that you wouldn’t want to pass on to others. But for the life of me, I can’t remember where I’ve seen it.”

  “Maybe someone did an article on it. Or you saw it at a quilt show. Houston, perhaps? We’ve certainly been to plenty of shows, and it would explain how you’d seen one from the east coast.”

  “That’s a possibility,
Eleanor.” Po considered the ideas as she poured herself a cup of tea. She sat down across from Eleanor. “Picasso said he wanted to bring all of us in to see the quilt, but Laurel refused.”

  “Laurel wasn’t the most sociable person in the world, Po. She probably didn’t want a bunch of us tramping through her personal space.”

  “Probably. But it’s a shame. Things that beautiful should be shared. But I do wish I could remember exactly where I’ve seen it before. It will plague me in an awful way.”

  “It will come to you when you stop thinking about it,” Eleanor said philosophically. “Believe me, I’m the expert on memory lapses. And things usually float back. Or not.” Tiny lines around her clear blue eyes moved upward as she laughed. “But I will stop by Picasso’s house to pay my respects and see it for myself. Now you have me curious, Po Paltrow.”

  “Good. Maybe between the two of us, we will have a whole memory.”

  “Or not,” Eleanor said, and headed for the door, her cane tapping on the floor as she went.

  CHAPTER 10

  By Tuesday, Po’s thoughts of the bird quilt were buried beneath a cloud of more ugly matters: rumors.

  “They’re so huge, they could choke a horse,” Selma told Po as they scurried across the campus of Canterbury College to attend Leah’s evening lecture on women in the 1960s. A brisk breeze had caused the two women to hug their jackets tight to their bodies and keep their step lively. “It seems everyone and her brother has a story to tell about Laurel St. Pierre,” Selma muttered, shoving her hands into the pockets of her sweater.

  “Kate stopped by this morning on her way to that photography class she’s taking. She can barely speak to P.J., she said. She wants him to publicly declare Picasso innocent.”

  “Maybe he should,” Selma said. “Ridiculous thought that such a sweet man would do such a thing.”

  “Of course it’s ridiculous. But with all these rumors spreading, the police need to look at everything.”

  “That gossipy column in the Gazette claims there’s a whole army of men that know Laurel, and not in the way any husband would approve.”

  “That same column declared improprieties about Eleanor when she hosted a political dinner the columnist didn’t approve of,” Po reminded her, nodding toward Eleanor’s three-story mansion on the corner of the campus.

  Selma laughed. “I remember. Eleanor loved it.”

  “But you’ve a point, Selma. Even though the rumors may be nonsense, the fact of the matter is that there’s a smidgen of truth mixed in. Laurel did place a domestic violence call just days before she was killed. And when there’s a bit of truth involved, rumor and truth become mixed until you can’t tell one from the other.”

  Truth be told, Po was worried sick over Picasso and all the gossip spinning around him. And she knew that the phone call Laurel made to the police wasn’t good. It indicated marital trouble, even though Picasso denied it. And he had told Po earlier that day that he was going to reopen the restaurant, just to have something to do. Would people interpret it as a lack of grieving? Po wondered, and thought she might have to talk to Picasso about it, even though she knew that for some, grieving had to be woven into a productive life or it became suffocating and unbearable. But she would tell Picasso to go slow, to take time for himself, too.

  Selma held open the door to the Canterbury College auditorium, and the two women walked into the lobby. “Looks like a good crowd,” Selma observed. Leah’s lectures were popular, and in addition to students and faculty, townspeople often came as well.

  “There’s Janna Hathaway,” Po said, noticing the young woman standing near the window.

  Po caught her attention and waved her over. “I’m happy to see you here, Janna—we share an interest in women’s history, I guess.”

  Janna smiled and explained to Po that Bill had a meeting with Max and some others that evening about business matters, and had suggested she come. “He thought it’d be good for me to be aware of things going on in the college community.”

  Po was disappointed, hoping Janna’s motives were personally, rather than politically, motivated, but she quickly swallowed the unkind interpretation of Janna’s motives and introduced her to Selma. “Selma has the most amazing fabric in her store that you’ll find anywhere, Janna.”

  “Bill and I will be having some things made for the wedding, Selma. I’ll bring my mother’s decorator by some day.”

  “When is the wedding?” Po asked.

  “Not for nearly a year. My mother said it will take that long to get everything prepared, though I’d prefer to run off and get married tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you?” Selma asked. “One of my daughters did that. I was briefly disappointed, I must admit, but she was shy and didn’t want all the hoopla. We had a great picnic celebration a few weeks later and everyone was happy.”

  Janna didn’t smile. “That’s not the way it works in my family,” she said. “One doesn’t cross Charles Hathaway.”

  Janna said her father’s name in the way one talked about a foreign dignitary—with distant respect and no warmth—and Po felt an instant of pity for her.

  “Come sit with us, Janna,” she said, wanting the moment to pass. “Kate may be along as well.”

  But it wasn’t until the question and answer period, following the intriguing lecture on women leaders during the ‘60’s Civil Rights movement, that Kate slid into the seat next to Po. “Sorry, Po,” she whispered. “I got caught up in cropping some shots I took today. But there’s some I especially want you to have so I brought them along. How about we go for coffee after?”

  Coffee ended up being decaf lattes at the college coffee shop. Janna excused herself right after the lecture, but Selma, Kate, Leah, and Po gathered around a corner table and curled their fingers around warm mugs of strong coffee. Kate pulled a handful of photos out and spread them across the tabletop. “Okay folks, look what I did today.”

  Po looked at the photos, then quickly picked one up.

  “It’s the quilt. Where did you get these, Kate?”

  “I went over to Picasso’s and offered to take some shots of it because it’s so beautiful. He was pleased, so I enlarged a couple.” She looked at Selma and Leah. “I thought Po would like having it because she’s trying to remember where she’s seen it.”

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” Leah said, holding one of the photos up to the light.

  Selma slipped her glasses on, leaned toward Leah, and looked at the photo. “Oh my Lord,” she exclaimed, grabbing the photo directly out of Leah’s hands and staring at it in disbelief. She looked at Po.

  “I know exactly where you’ve seen this quilt before, Po Paltrow. You’ve seen it in my shop—a whole lot of years ago. And I’ll tell you this much—it wasn’t made by Laurel St. Pierre.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Po stared at Selma. Then she took the photo from her and looked at it again. When she finally looked up, her eyes were wide in disbelief. “Esther Woods,” she said softly.

  “Exactly. I’d know that quilt anywhere. In fact, I talked Esther into letting me display it in the shop during an October quilt competition years ago. That’s probably where you saw it, Po.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?” Kate asked.

  “I’m in the dark, too,” Leah said. “I never heard of Esther Woods.”

  “Esther lived in Crestwood before you moved here, Leah,” Po said. “And Kate, you probably would never have met her. She lived north of your neighborhood, near the highway, but kept to herself.”

  “Lived?” Leah asked.

  “Esther died years ago,” Po said.

  “Of a broken heart, if you ask me,” Selma said.

  “Maybe. But the actual cause was an auto accident. Her husband was driving—”

  “Driving drunk, Po. He was drunk as a skunk,” Selma said. She took her glasses off and set them on the table.

  Po nodded. “Al Woods was a nasty man.”

  “He drove Esther and himself d
irectly off the bridge just west of town,” Selma finished.

  “What an awful story,” Kate said. She picked up one of the photos and looked again at the beautiful bird caught up in the still-vivid colors of the pieced background design. “But I still don’t understand how the quilt got on Picasso’s wall. He was quite clear that it belonged to Laurel.”

  Po shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Unless Eleanor was right and there are copies of this quilt. If Laurel’s quilt was the original, maybe Esther had a copy of the pattern and made hers from that.”

  “No, absolutely not,” Selma said. She drained her coffee cup and set it down on the table. Deep wrinkles creased her forehead. “Esther Woods had little in her life that she was proud of. The bird quilt was one of those few things. She designed it, pieced and appliquéd it, and quilted every single stitch herself. I guarantee it.”

  “So maybe she passed the pattern on to others,” Leah said.

  Selma shook her head. “No. I don’t think she’d have done that. I didn’t know Esther well—no one did because Al Woods was so possessive she rarely ventured out. She was a seamstress—worked her little fingers to the bone, so she sometimes came in for thread and other sewing supplies, but not often. But I did know her feelings for her bird quilt, as she called it. She was so proud of it, and when I asked her if I could display it, you’d have thought she’d won the lottery. I think the quilt represented that part of her that was good and whole and happy, and she would never have allowed others to copy it, at least not knowingly. I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Some people can look at a quilt and figure out the pattern—Susan does that sometimes,” Leah said.

  “That’s true,” Selma admitted.

  “But look closely at this quilt,” Po said, holding a close-up photo of the bird up to the light. “It’s so intricate. It’s all coming back now. I don’t think it could be a copy. I remember the blue and green thread circling around the gold streaks in the bird’s wings. And the tiny gold French knots at the tips of the wings.”