Murders on Elderberry Road: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Well, now, Po, that’s mighty nice of you.” He tipped his head in her direction and a lock of brown hair fell across his forehead.

  Po had forgotten just how engaging a grin P.J. Flanigan had — just like Pete Flanigan senior. It was as crooked as the streets in Crestwood — starting out in the right place and then spreading clear across that handsome face of his. She wondered if Kate noticed.

  “There’s Selma now,” Kate said, pointing out the back window.

  The back door flew open and Selma burst through, the edges of her long wooly sweater flapping against her hips. “Well, how’s that for a wasted hour!” She shrugged out of the sweater and hung it back on the hook. “I think I’m ready for that wine now, thank you very much.”

  “What happened, Selma?” Po walked over to the sideboard and poured a glass of Ambrose’s special cabernet. She handed it to Selma. “You look angry. Or worried. I can’t tell which.”

  “What’s the big dark secret Max had?” Phoebe asked.

  Selma started to answer, then noticed P.J. standing behind Kate. Her face blanched. “P.J., what are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

  “This is strictly social, Selma. I’m off duty.”

  “Well, maybe you better get on duty — seems Max Elliott has disappeared into the night. Either that, or he stood us all up. One worries me, one makes me furious. Which should I be?”

  “Max didn’t come?” Po’s elegant brows lifted.

  “Never showed.” Selma took a sip of the wine and sighed. “And you could have cut the tension in that group with Susan’s cake knife over there …” She nodded toward the double chocolate mousse cake Susan had contributed to the supper. “Tempers were high, let me tell you.”

  “Why’s that?” Maggie asked. “It was just a meeting.”

  “No, no. Not just a meeting. Max had cloaked it in urgency and mystery. According to someone — maybe Daisy — Owen had instructed Max to clean things up, so to speak. Audit books. Check on our contractors — repairmen, roofers, maintenance folks. Thought there was some sneaky stuff going on. It all had some folks on edge.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Maggie.

  “I’m not sure I do, either, Maggie. Owen seemed to think that favors were being done, people being hired who shouldn’t have been. Who knows what he thought. I’m not sure I care.”

  She sat down at the end of the table.

  Po shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like Max Elliott not to show up, especially if he had things on his mind. Marla says she sets her clock by him coming in for coffee in the morning. Eight o’clock on the dot.”

  Selma nodded. “You’re right. He’s irritatingly punctual. But we called his house and Ambrose even went over to his office to check.”

  Kate spoke up. “Didn’t you say he had something earlier, Selma? Maybe it just went late.”

  “We thought of that. But why didn’t he call? He never lets that cell phone out of his sight, far as I can tell.”

  A soft ring broke into the conversation. P.J.’s hand went automatically to his shirt pocket. “Sorry, ladies,” he said apologetically. He slipped the phone out, flipped open the lid and read the number across the screen. “I better take this.”

  P.J. moved into the front room to take his call.

  Leah walked over to the sideboard and took the foil off Kate’s casserole. “Lately Max looked like he was carrying the world on those slight shoulders of his,” she said. “I saw him at a party the other night and he wasn’t himself. He asked me about the quilting group, who was in it, that sort of thing, which I thought was odd. Wanted to know what nights we were here.”

  “I wonder if he just got sick of all these squabbles with the shop owners. Maybe he just threw in the towel and decided not to come,” Selma said. “We can be an ornery group.”

  “You know he wouldn’t do that, Selma,” Susan said softly.

  “Of course he wouldn’t. It’s just that mad is easier than worry these days. I don’t want one more thing to worry about.” She saw Kate look up and turned to follow her gaze.

  P.J. stood in the archway, his phone still in his hand. His face was grave, the beguiling smile gone.

  “P.J.,” Kate said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Bad news, ladies,” he said softly. “Max Elliot is in the hospital.”

  “What?” Selma’s hands rose to her face.

  “But, why would they call you, P.J.?” Kate’s voice shook. She knew she wasn’t going to like his answer, nor were any of the women in the small, cozy quilting room.

  “Someone ran him down in the street,” P.J. said simply. “And Max is hanging on by a thread.”

  He looked longingly at the casserole, then gave Kate a quick, discrete hug, and disappeared out the back door.

  CHAPTER 14

  Flock of Birds

  Po slept fitfully that night. When the old mariner’s clock in the study chimed six times, she gave up the fight and slipped out of bed. A quick shower and several long stretches — her torso dipping until her hands were flat on the floor — started her blood moving through her veins. She bent at the waist again, reached low and slowly raised her body up. Yes, she could face the day. She slipped into jeans and a turtleneck and headed for the kitchen, forking her fingers through her hair to untangle the loose, damp waves around her face.

  In the hallway, she stumbled over a sleeping Hoover. The floppy mutt lifted his red head and licked her leg, then settled back down.

  “Some guard dog, you are,” Po grumbled affectionately. Hoover’s tail flapped slowly in acknowledgement.

  The phone rang as Po was pouring water into the carafe.

  Six o’clock phone calls were never happy ones. Po closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said hello.

  “I’ll be by in ten minutes,” Kate said. “Is the coffee on?”

  Po could hear echoing noises in the background and suspected Kate was on her cell phone. “Kate, where are you?”

  “Running up from the river jogging path. I’m a few minutes from Elderberry Road. We’ll be there before the banana bread is thawed.” The phone went dead.

  We? Po wondered, and took three mugs from the cupboard.

  Ten minutes later, a sweaty, lanky Kate arrived at the back door. A well-worn Trolley Run tee shirt clung to her shoulders. Her high cheek bones and arms were glossy with moisture. Damp, auburn curls made paisley designs on her forehead.

  “I couldn’t sleep, Po,” Kate said, heading for the refrigerator. “And if I couldn’t, I knew you couldn’t either.” She bent over and rummaged through the refrigerator, found a bottle of water, and closed the door.

  “About this we …,” Po began, but before the words were out of her mouth, P.J. appeared at the door.

  “She wouldn’t wait for me, Po, wouldn’t even pretend I was faster. What kind of woman is that?” P.J. stood in the back doorway with his hands on his hips, his chest moving in and out as he sucked in mouthfuls of air. His damp shorts clung to strong muscular legs, and Po wondered who was pretending for whom.

  Po poured three mugs of coffee and set them on the long table. Early sunlight poured through the east windows, lighting the table and basking the kitchen in a deceptive calm.

  “The news didn’t hit the morning paper,” P.J. began, settling into a kitchen chair. Po noticed that he spread a towel across the seat first to blot up his body’s damp heat.

  “No, I imagined it would be too late for the Crestwood Courier. Have you heard anything more, P.J.?”

  “A little. Max was hit on West 2nd Street, over near that strip of supply stores on the west side of town. There’s a little diner on the block, but not much else besides the warehouses. It’s right before you get to the highway, about fifteen minutes from here in light traffic.”

  Po nodded. She knew the place. There was a garden supply store nearby that she often went to.

  “Have they found out what he was doing there?” Kate asked. P.J. had called her late the night before, but with little info
rmation. He called, he said, to make sure all the Queen Bees got home okay. And to say goodnight. And he wondered if there was any shrimp casserole left.

  P.J. shook his head in answer to her question. “Nope. It’s pretty deserted around there at that time of night, except for the diner. His car was across the street, and from where he was hit and the angle of his arms and legs, it looks like that’s where he was headed.”

  “How awful that the person didn’t stop,” Po said. The ping of the oven timer announced that her banana bread was ready. She took it out and brought it back to the table with a bowl of sweet butter and strawberry jam.

  “It’s awful, Po, sure. But definitely understandable.” P.J. helped himself to a thick slab of bread and slathered it with jam. “This is terrific, Po,” he mumbled between bites.

  “It’s never understandable, or acceptable, P.J.,” Po said. She frowned at him. “Why would anyone run away from an accident in which someone was hurt?”

  “Because they didn’t want to get caught, Po, that’s why. And it wasn’t an accident. Max Elliott was hit on purpose. Someone wanted to kill him, and damn near did.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Snail’s Trail

  By Saturday, everyone in Crestwood, Kansas, knew about the hit-and-run attempt to kill Max Elliott. And according to the Saturday paper, it could still be a case of murder. Max Elliott was in a coma and his condition grave. The mood in the back of Selma’s store when the Queen Bees began to gather was somber.

  “It was an old pickup truck,” Maggie said.

  “And how many thousands of those will you find around here?” Eleanor asked.

  “I’ve got one,” Maggie raised her hand.

  “Exactly,” Kate said. “There are zillions. P.J. said it’s going to take a stroke of luck to move this forward.

  “But isn’t there a witness?” Maggie asked.

  “Yes, but he was loaded,” Kate said. “An older man who had just come out of a bar around the corner and probably wouldn’t have seen anything except the pick-up came out of nowhere and nearly ran him down. The guy fell back on the curb and sat up just in time to see the truck slam into Max. At first the guy thought the truck was stopping, an honest accident, but then it sped off.”

  Susan had walked in while they were talking and shivered as she heard the description. She ran her hands up and down her bare arms. “Max wouldn’t hurt a flea. This is so awful.”

  Po watched the lines of worry and fear flit across Susan’s face. For a minute, it looked like Susan was going to say something, but then her eyes blinked and she looked away.

  “We need action.” Phoebe had come in the front door and stood in the archway, hands on her hips.

  “Phoebe, where are you going — a Harley rally?” Maggie asked.

  Phoebe was dressed completely in black — tight jeans and turtleneck, a black cap that nearly covered her shorn hair, and high top tennis shoes. Po thought she looked like a little black cat.

  “I think it’s time we got organized,” Phoebe said. “This is definitely too close to home. We need to get the person who did this and put an end to it all, once and for all. And if you believe there isn’t a connection between what happened last night and Owen Hill’s murder, then you don’t watch enough ‘Law and Order’ reruns.”

  Kate nodded. “They’re looking for a connection between the two; Phoebe’s right.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone in this whole world who would want to kill Owen and Max,” Leah said. She’d already pieced all her stars and was cutting the pieces for the backing — one huge star that matched the smaller ones on the front.

  “Poor Mary,” Maggie said. “First her husband, then his best friend. I wonder how she’s holding up.”

  “She looks frail,” Eleanor said. “Instead of getting stronger, she’s wilting like a pansy in July.”

  “I saw her and Max Thursday,” Kate said. “They were outside Daisy’s shop. I started to say hello, but Mary was very upset. Dear sweet Max had his arm around her, comforting her.”

  “I think her church has rallied around her, too,” Po said. “I invited her to a couple of upcoming events, but the Reverend and his wife beat me to it. They’ve booked most of her evenings.”

  “Hah!” Eleanor snorted. “Of course they have. With Owen gone, they have direct access to the Hill fortune.”

  “Eleanor, that’s harsh,” Po said. “And Mary is a business woman. She’s not about to give all her money away indiscriminately.”

  “Po, sometimes you’re too blasted diplomatic for your own good. Face it, without Owen to temper the gifts to the church, Reverend Gottrey will take off like a racehorse, wooing Mary for all she’s worth.”

  “Which is a lot,” Po conceded. “But the donations are for a good cause, and it’s Mary’s money now to do with as she wishes.”

  “Reverend Gottrey made Mary an elder of the church last week. And the Hill name will be on so many plaques that they’ll be able to build a barn out of them,” Eleanor said.

  Phoebe sided with her. “Eleanor, not only are you getting very good at sewing corners that meet in the right place, you’re sensible. You may be on to something. It seems to me this investigation is moving at a snail’s pace — they should have this man in jail by now, before someone else gets killed. Maybe we can help speed it up.”

  “I for one will do anything I can to help Selma,” Maggie said. “If that means snooping around or gathering information, I’m in, but I refuse to wear a black cat suit.”

  “But Mags, you’d look so cute,” Kate teased.

  Maggie laughed and got up to press out her seams before sewing on the next piece.

  Po stood at the end of the table and watched a dozen fingers pinning bright star points together, pressing seams, carefully lining up fabric on green cutting mats. Lips were pursed, eyes focused, and throughout it all, bits of conversation were woven into the process effortlessly.

  She thought about what Phoebe said. Similar thoughts had spun around inside her head in the early hours of the morning when sleep had totally abandoned her. Who did this awful thing? And were they all in danger now — the quilters, the shopkeepers, neighbors? Their safe, small world had been disrupted. It was etched in the deep lines in Selma’s face, the fear that Susan carried on her sleeve, the sleeplessness and suspicions. She could even detect it in the loose chatter of Maggie and Kate, who tried to be affirming and positive.

  “We all need to be careful, that much is for sure,” Po said, more to herself than to the group. If they could string some thoughts together that made sense and speed things up, what harm would be done? She walked over to the sideboard and poured herself a cup of coffee, her gaze shifting from the quilters to the alley outside the window. It was difficult to believe that it was two weeks ago today that she had stumbled upon Owen’s body in that alley. Did someone surprise him? Or was it someone he knew?

  Po turned away from the window. “I think we need to approach this like a new quilt,” she said. “But we need to think outside the single squares and think about the bigger pattern.”

  Phoebe looked up, her eyes lit with excitement. “And just like we do with our pieces of fabric: We take the whole big piece and cut it into little pieces, then put it back together in lots of different ways.”

  “Okay, ladies,” Eleanor said, her rotary cutter held high in the air, “let’s cut!”

  “—to the chase,” Phoebe added.

  In short order, the Queen Bees had gone over everything they knew, beginning with the night of Owen’s murder and ending with Max’s hit-and-run. How such momentous events — the shifting and changing forever of lives — could be packed into a brief summary was thought provoking to Po. She wanted to gather her three children close and embrace them tightly.

  “All right,” she said. “Where do we go from here? Any suggestions?”

  “I think we should have little assignments,” Phoebe said.

  “We could do it loosely, maybe,” Maggie said. “I’ll listen
carefully to what my clients say.”

  “And I can keep track of the college talk,” Leah added.

  “I seem to spend a great deal of time in these shops. I’ll talk to Gus and Ambrose,” Po said.

  “And Daisy?” Leah asked, knowing approaching Daisy Sample could be dangerous to your health, if not done with great delicacy.

  Po laughed. “Daisy doesn’t frighten me. In fact, I kind of like her. She has chutzpah.”

  “And Kate, you keep close track of P.J.,” Maggie said with a suggestive smile. “That way we get news from the horse’s mouth.”

  “And Selma and Susan are here in the middle of the tempest,” Kate said, ignoring Maggie’s innuendoes. “So they can gather on-the-spot news.”

  “We keep our ears open, our eyes focused,” Leah said, summing it up.

  “Yes, that’s it in a nutshell. So Bees,” Phoebe said, rising from her chair and punching the air with her fists. “Let’s sleuth!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Spider & the Fly

  Po sat at her computer in the late-Saturday afternoon light, the stories of strong women parading across her mind like frames of a movie. She had run a half-dozen quick errands after leaving the quilting group, keeping her ears and eyes open as instructed, then headed home to get in a couple of hours at the computer, moving her book along to the next moment in history. She was going from one group of strong women to another, she thought, replaying the morning’s quilting session in her mind. Each of the Queen Bees wanted so desperately to help bring order and peace back to Selma’s life. The sleuthing may not amount to anything, but at least it made them all feel useful.

  Po focused on the screen and began to read what she’d most recently written. Strong women everywhere, she thought. The writing had flowed and the stories seemed to pour out on top of one another. And tied into the story of each of these brave women was their passion for quilting and the fierce bonds they forged as they sat in soft, comfortable silence, creating designs that would be passed down for generations.