A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (2 page)

Maggie Helmers, Crestwood’s favorite veterinarian. Is an avid quilter and collector of fat lady art.

Friday, April 30

The thick tangle of branches made it hard to get down to the path from here, but it was a good choice for the meeting—well hidden from the bridge. Not many joggers picked this part of the path to run on, even though it was officially a part of Riverside Park. They more often chose the east side where manicured parkland offered more space and safety. Here the path was almost hidden in the curve of the land and the slight incline, covered with bushes and low hanging trees. But this was a much better choice for tonight, for meeting and settling life’s heartaches once and for all.

It had to be resolved, to stop before it started. Right now. Tonight. Or a whole, careful life would be ruined, snuffed out in a single second. Everything lost. And for what? A whim, a faulty anger. A foolish indiscretion?

A spring moon hung low in the sky, partially hidden by thin gauzy clouds that drifted slowly by. An eerie light fell on the bridge and through the railings down to the water’s edge—pale streaks that fell on the moving water. There was a wind tonight, and it whipped across the water, stirring it up into miniature waves that slapped rhythmically against the shore. From here, protected by the brambles and the bridge and on the less-traveled side of the park, the sounds of the city seemed far away and all that was real was the river and the sky, and the two figures about to meet on the path.

The crunch of gravel was startling at first, then a welcome sound. The aloneness had been oddly frightening. Even the presence of the enemy was welcome.

At last, in minutes, perhaps, the awful fear that had bubbled up and grown into an unbearable weight would go away. With one hand pressed against the beating of an anxious, hopeful heart, the lone figure stepped out of the shadows and smiled into a familiar face.

CHAPTER 1

“Picasso, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Portia “Po” Paltrow dropped her white napkin beside the plate and looked up into the chef’s beaming face. His nose, slightly out of proportion to his face, seemed perilously close to her own. Po pushed back slightly in her chair.

“It is my Mama’s recipe,” the chef said proudly.

“I had fish tacos once, never fish soup. This is very cool. Like who would have thought?” Phoebe Mellon, a diminutive young mother of toddler twins, rose from her chair and planted a quick kiss on Picasso’s sweaty cheek.

“Bouillabaisse,” Picasso corrected, clearly pleased at the attention. His fingers squeezed together and pulled the words from his lips like a string of molasses. “Bool-eh-baze, mon amie.”

“Bouillabaisse,” Phoebe repeated. “Cool.” She headed off toward the ladies’ room and a quick cell phone call to check on husband Jimmy and the twins.

“It’s quite a feat to make good bouillabaisse in the heart of Kansas,” Eleanor Canterbury said, wiping a trace of soup from the corner of her mouth. “But you’ve done it, indeed, dear Picasso.” In her 82 years of living life to the fullest, Eleanor had traveled the world several times and eaten bouillabaisse in every coastal village in France. She declared Picasso’s among the best, the blend of saffron, orange zest, and crushed fennel seeds balanced perfectly. “Even Venus would be proud,” she said.

“Venus who? Venus the goddess?” Kate Simpson lifted her head from scooping up the last spoonful of soup from the wide blue bowl.

Eleanor nodded her gray head of hair, swept up today and held in place with a large, sparkly comb. “It’s said Venus served bouillabaisse to her husband Vulcan, to lull him to sleep while she consorted with Mars.” She smiled up at Picasso. “Your soup has a rich history, Picasso.”

For an instant, the proud smile slipped from Picasso’s face. His smooth pink brow pulled together in a grimace.

“Picasso, are you all right?” Po asked.

Picasso gripped the back of Phoebe’s empty chair and pulled his smile back into place. “I am excellent, mon amie,” he said. “And so is my soup—the fish is flown in fresh on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And those are the only days you will see bouillabaisse on my menu. Never,” he wagged his index fingers in the air, “never, ever a Tuesday or a Thursday. The fish need to jump from the packed ice right into my pot.”

Kate took a hunk of French bread from the basket and soaked up the last remnant of rich broth from the bottom of her bowl. A tiny strand of saffron clung to the bread. “How many pounds do you think we’ve collectively gained since Picasso came into our lives?” She looked around the table, her eyebrows arched high.

“Horrible thought,” Maggie Helmers groaned, pushing away her plate. “Picasso, you’re killing us with this fancy French food.” But the look of delight on Maggie’s face indicated she wasn’t about to stop any time soon.

Picasso beamed. The French Quarter, his tiny French bistro, had filled the once-empty storefront on Elderberry Road for a scant six months, but it was lively and thriving, a favorite neighborhood spot, and the Queen Bees quilters occupied the round white-clothed table in the back corner far more often than they cared to admit. They loved the small eatery with its tile floor, tightly packed tables, and yellowing framed photographs on the walls—and they were equally fond of the small round Frenchman who had become a part of their lives.

“We’re really here on business. Justification for our decadence,” Leah Sarandon said. A professor at nearby Canterbury College, Leah was a dedicated member of the Queen Bees and together with Susan Miller, one of the creative forces in the group. “We’re here to talk about the quilt we’re making for you, sweet man. We picked Wednesday night because we thought the place would be empty, but look at it—” She gestured to a packed room. “Nearly every table filled.”

Picasso scanned the bistro. A thick oak bar curved along the east wall, separated from the dining room by a row of low ferns. His bistro had become a gathering place for drinks after work, a cozy alternative to the downtown bars. Small tables for two lined the row of ferns, and on most nights, like tonight, they were filled. The bar bustled with light chatter. He noticed the mayor at one of the small tables. And nearby, Max Elliott, his lawyer and friend, sat with the president of Canterbury College, sharing a plate of escargot. He was glad to see Max back in the restaurant. The last time he had come in for dinner, the young waiter, Andy Haynes, had dumped a plate of creamy wild mushroom fricassee directly onto his lap. Laurel had been standing directly behind Andy, and Picasso suspected her presence had unnerved the young man. But Max had been a good sport about it. “It’s good. It’s good,” Picasso said, mentally assessing the evening’s profits.

Po smiled. “It’s good for you, good for the Elderberry neighborhood, and certainly good for us.”

Phoebe returned to the table and flopped down in her chair. “My Jimmy is beginning to wonder if Picasso has some secret hold on me.”

Picasso threw up his chubby hands in mock horror. “Do not let me be the cause of marital discord, sweet Phoebe.”

“Marital discord?” Laurel St. Pierre walked over to Picasso’s side and rested one elegant hand on her husband’s round shoulder. Laurel was a perfect long-stemmed rose to her husband’s daisy. Silky red hair swept her slender shoulders, and her graceful body rose several inches above Picasso’s portly frame. Extravagantly high, narrow heels, accentuated her height.

“Well, certainly not yours, Laurel,” Po said. She smiled at the lovely hostess.

“Certainly not,” Laurel echoed. The smile that followed was distracted, Po thought, and she wondered briefly if Laurel was feeling all right. “Laurel,” she said aloud, “Would you like to sit with us for a moment?”

Laurel’s eyes scanned the small crowded restaurant, taking in the two couples next to the quilters, a family back in the corner, the small bar tables of business people relaxing with a Scotch and soda before heading home. She spotted Max Elliott, and just the sight of him caused her stomach to churn. Causing Andy to spill the food on Max was a terribly childish thing to do, she thought. But she hadn’t been able to control the impulse, seeing him there. It had made her furious. Max Elliott was an enemy, whether he knew it or not, and he deserved far worse than shrimp on his lap. Laurel focused back on Po and forced a smile in place.

“Thank you, Mrs. Paltrow. I’d love to sit with you, but as you can see, we’re very busy tonight. I wouldn’t want Picasso to fire me,” she teased.

Picasso shook his head. “I tell her not to work. But sometimes she doesn’t listen to me.”

Laurel smiled at her husband, every bit twenty years her senior, then turned away and stopped Andy to point out an empty glass. Andy looked at her adoringly, then hurried off to do her bidding, and Laurel walked back toward the hostess station.

“I think Andy Haynes has a crush on your wife,” Kate said, nodding toward the blond-headed waiter servicing the next table. “I used to baby sit for him. He’s a sweet boy, though very young and naive.”

“And he is a good worker. But you are right, Kate. He follows Laurel around like a pup. But then, should he not? She is a beautiful woman. All my helpers here, they think she is wonderful.”

Kate suspected it was mostly the male helpers, but she kept her words to herself and glanced over at Laurel. Andy had found his way back to the hostess’s side, and she noticed that Laurel touched his white jacket, straightening the lapel, and smiled up into his young face. She’s flirting with him, Kate thought. Poor kid—he will have some trouble digging out from under this crush.

“So, my lovelies,” Picasso said beside her. “Tell me about my quilt. How is it coming?”

Kate reached into her large purse and pulled out a stack of pictures. She scattered the pictures across an empty space in the middle of the table. “Okay, Picasso—here’s my contribution. Plump and perfect fish.”

Picasso leaned over and looked at the photos, then clapped his hands excitedly. “Kate, these are most certainly worthy of my bouillabaisse.” Kate’s studies at Canterbury College included a photography class, which she was enjoying with a relish she usually reserved for food and arguing with P.J., an old high school flame who had recently come back into her life with an unexpected vengeance.