Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (9 page)

Adele paused beside the car and looked back at Po and P.J. “I’m not a fool, Po Paltrow,” she called across the street. “I am very aware that there are people in this town who, No. 1, want me out of here, and No. 2, want my property. But neither of those things are going to happen. And I will prosecute anyone who stands in my way.” She slipped behind the wheel, and in the next minute, she was gone, driving far too fast for a quiet evening.

Po shook her head. “Poor Adele. There’s something very sad about that woman.”

“Nasty, is more like it,” P.J. said. He shoved his hands in his jeans’ pockets and looked up at the sky. “I think I need something really nice to get rid of the taste.”

“Like Kate?” Po asked, eyebrows lifting playfully.

P.J. laughed. “Now you’re a mind reader, Po. Scary.”

“Will you follow-up on Adele’s claims?”

He nodded. “I’ll make a call to the station and have someone go out to the house. And then I think I’ll see if Katie has any of her grilled salmon and orzo salad lying around looking for someone to eat it.”

Po laughed and looked up into P.J.’s clear blue eyes. They were quite bright these days, she thought. Happy eyes. And that made Po happy, too. And Po’s best friend Liz would be delighted—delighted and pleased that her spirited daughter—who didn’t always follow the rules— had found someone as wonderful as P.J. Flanigan.

“Think you can handle the men in there by yourself?” P.J. nodded toward the bistro window where Max now stood, peering out, a puzzled look on his face.

“Of course I can, P.J.” Po said. “Give Kate my love, and I’ll talk with you tomorrow. I’d like to know if there is any truth to Adele’s story.” She waved him off and slipped back into the bistro, wondering if Jed Fellers had somewhere he had to be. Two could play at P.J.’s game—a nice homemade pasta with Max, a martini on the deck, and a chance to talk with a close friend might fill the evening’s bill nicely.

And it might also ease the nagging feeling she had that things were truly not right at 210 Kingfish Drive— and that they’d be hearing more, not less, of Adele’s bed and breakfast in the days to come.

“What do you think, ladies?” Phoebe held up a finished block for her quilt.

“Phoebe, that’s wonderful!” Kate set her coffee cup down and leaned across the table to see the colorful green and pink flowered block. Phoebe was using the butterfly pattern from one of the
Kansas City Star’s
quilt books. She’d chosen playful calico prints in pink, bright reds, greens and yellows.

“I think it’s pretty cool myself,” Phoebe said.

“Adele wanted at least one crib quilt. That was thoughtful of her, don’t you think?” Selma said. “And Phoebe is the perfect person to make it.”

“Perfect, hah. Jimmy is getting worried. We’re about to move Jude and Emma into youth beds, and Jimmy knows it’s painful for me to have an empty crib in the house. When he saw me working on this block he like freaked. He turned as white as Eleanor’s hair.”

Eleanor laughed and patted Phoebe’s hand. “You are a good mom, Phoebe dear. You should have twenty little ones.”

“Twenty little what?” Susan asked, coming through the archway into the back room of Selma’s store.

“Phoebe’s deciding her future,” Po said. “And while she does, let’s see your quilt, Susan. It’s for that gigantic king-sized bed in the tower suite, right?”

Susan opened a cabinet and pulled out a stack of finished blocks. The pile of colors—yellow gold, greens, silvery blues and grays, and deep pinks—was remarkable, even without being set in a design. “Adele wanted something different in that room—something contemporary— so I didn’t use a traditional pattern.”

“Susan, you could scatter those colors on a bed just like they are and you’d create a beautiful tapestry,” Po said, admiring the kaleidoscope of color.

Susan smoothed out one of the blocks. “Adele—believe it or not—had a trunk filled with gorgeous silk fabrics. She’d collected them from her travels all over the world. We went through it together and I pulled these out for the quilt.”

Selma stood next to Susan and looked closely at the design sketched on the piece of paper. “I think people will pay to stay in this room for the quilt alone. It’s gorgeous, honey.”

The border would be strips of gray and blue pieced together, and in the center was a vibrant swirl of pink, spiraling out into yellows and golds. It was all movement and color. “I went over to check the paint color and figure out the border last night. The house is really coming along,” Susan said. “Kate went to keep me company.”

“To nose around is more like it,” Kate said. “The Harrington house fascinates me. It always did, even when I was little, though it frightened me back then. The Harringtons were so private. And after his parents died, Ollie sometimes let the house go, with weeds all over. It reminded me of Boo Radley’s house in
To Kill a Mockingbird
—frightening and mysterious—but holding something decent. And now the house is beautiful, but that something decent is missing. And no one seems to know why. It’s sad. And unnerving, and until the murderer is caught, the real beauty of that house can’t come through. It just can’t.”

“Kate,” Po said. The single word was a warning, and everyone in the room could hear it in Po’s soft tone.

“There’s no danger, Po,” Susan said.

“Someone has been murdered, Susan. We can’t take that lightly.”

“But don’t you suspect it’s someone far removed from us—and probably not from Crestwood?” Susan said. “And whoever did it is a world away by now. The life Ollie lived here was such an ordinary one. It had to be someone distant, maybe someone from another part of the Harringtons’ life—”

“Susan, you’re dreaming,” Eleanor said. “There are a half dozen people within a mile of here who might have killed Ollie—and in his or her own twisted mind, had reason to do it.”

“And it’s usually the guy next door. The one you least expect,” Phoebe added enthusiastically. “Gus Schuette gave me a book to read on murder motives, and it’s not complicated at all. It’s pretty much for love or lust or money.”

Kate laughed. “Phoebe, what are you reading books on murder motives for?”

“Someone has to solve this crime,” Phoebe replied. “No offense against P.J. and his buds, Kate, but I don’t see anyone being arrested. And if we don’t clear this all up before Adele’s grand opening next month, there will be no one making reservations in that bed and breakfast. And that means no one will see these works of art we’re rushing to the finish line.”

“The crime will be solved,” Po said confidently. “And by the police, not us, not Kate or Phoebe rushing in to do heaven knows what.” But deep down Po didn’t feel confident at all. Adele Harrington lived just a few blocks from her home, and the same distance from Kate’s. Phoebe’s apprehension was credible. Even when the trouble wasn’t being talked about, it was there in the background of their lives—the awful fact that there might be someone in their midst who was capable of killing a kind, gentle man. And until that someone was found, the restlessness would remain.

“On a brighter spot, where’s our Maggie?” Eleanor asked.

“Funny, I talked with her last night. She was definitely going to be here to show off the progress on her quilt,” Kate said.

Po frowned. “I hope that rattletrap truck of hers didn’t break down on the way over.”

Kate laughed. “I think Mags keeps that truck as a sign of her independence.” A few years before, Maggie’s then-husband had almost bankrupted her clinic, whittling away at her money on weekend junkets to Las Vegas. The truck was one of the few things Maggie didn’t lose. But through hard work and with the help of good friends, she now had one of the most successful veterinary clinics in Kansas.

The sound of wheels on gravel in the alley running behind the Elderberry shops broke into the conversation, and in the next minute, Maggie’s truck pulled up to the back door, and she burst into the room. In place of her usual smile was a worried, disturbed look.

“Maggie, what’s wrong?” Po asked.

Maggie sat down and rested her elbows on her knees. “It’s Emerson,” she said.

“The poet?” Eleanor asked, handing Maggie a cup of coffee.

“Adele’s dog,” Po said, suddenly understanding Maggie’s lateness. An emergency. “Is Emerson all right?”

“Someone tried to poison him,” Maggie said.

The quilting group disbanded shortly after hearing Maggie’s news. But Po had not been able to concentrate on much of anything for the rest of the day. Her books lay stacked on the desk, unopened. Her computer silent. And the diminishing daylight cast a chill that even a hot cup of tea couldn’t dispel.

A quick phone call to Max convinced him he needed to spend time on Po’s deck that evening.

“First Oliver’s death. And now a dog being poisoned. Max, what is going on here?” Po handed Max an icy martini, then wrapped a thick wool sweater around her shoulders and sat down next to him on her back deck settee. She had related the terrible story of Emerson’s poisoning in full detail, down to the good news, that Emerson would be able to come home that same day, relieving Adele of the worry of being without him for even a night.

Max looked off into the deepening night. The flicker of small spotlights beneath the towering trees cast shadows across the deep backyard. Max stretched his legs out and sipped the martini. “It’s not good, Po, that’s for sure. I dropped some estate papers off for her this afternoon so she didn’t have to come down to the office. Emerson is sleepy, but otherwise he’ll be fine.”

Po nodded. It was kind of Max to stop by. Maggie said Emerson was weak from the effects of the poison. And Adele would want to be there with him and not visiting a lawyer’s office. Absently, as if directed by thoughts of a dog, Po reached down and scratched Hoover’s ears. Her ancient Irish Setter thumped his tail in thanks.

“How was Adele?” Po asked.

“She was pure Adele. Always wanting to appear in command. But she loves that dog—and she’s convinced it’s evil doing, as she put it. She tosses out names of possible culprits without a second thought. It’s a long list, let me tell you. Everyone from Tom Adler, to neighbors, to the president of the college board. People who want to scare her into leaving town.”

“That’s so awful. I know she’s suspicious of Joe Bates, too, but that’s probably just an excuse to urge him to find another place to live.”

“Well, she can’t force Joe out. It’s in Oliver’s will that Joe has a place there as long as he wants it. It was Adele’s mother’s wish as well.”

“I’m sure that irritates Adele. She doesn’t much like being told what she can and can’t do.”

Max laughed. “That’s putting it mildly, Po. She’s got quite a temper, that one.”

Po took another sip of her martini and thought about Adele’s life—or the little she knew of it. She’d gone back east to college, then traveled all over the world as a representative of a pharmaceutical company. She made plenty of money, from all accounts. Selma heard that she might have been married briefly, but no one knew for sure. And now here she was, back in Crestwood, Kansas, opening up a bed and breakfast. And turning neighbors and others against her with dizzying speed. “Sometimes I think Adele is all sound and fury,” Po said.

“Signifying nothing?”

“No. Maybe something. Perhaps a vulnerability—a fear of being hurt. If you push everyone away, no one is likely to hurt you.”

“Well, it isn’t working,” Max said. “I think this thing with Emerson is hurting her.”

Po nodded. Of course Adele was hurting, Max was right. “And surely she suffers greatly from the loss of her only sibling, though she manages to keep her feelings under lock and key.” A breeze rustled through the branches and Po looked up beyond the trees, into a glorious fall sky. The stars were abundant tonight, filling the black vastness with a brightness that belied the cloud hanging over Crestwood. She reached for Max’s hand and felt his fingers comfortably wind through her own. Her own hand was icy from the martini glass, but Max’s was warm. Warm and comforting.

Max looked over at her and smiled. “Po, this mess will be solved, you know. And soon, I think. Peace will return.”

Po rested her head on his shoulder. Yes, it would pass and the cloud would lift. The Harrington House at 210 Kingfish Drive would open to fine reviews. But between now and then, Po suspected life wouldn’t be the same at all. And she wondered to herself how many lives would be touched in that interlude.