A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (8 page)

“Won’t be a funeral,” Marla said smugly.

Po and Leah looked up at her. Po’s brows lifted. “You know that?”

“Heard it from Shelby Harrison. He comes in for a sack of cinnamon rolls every single Sunday morning before going over to his funeral home. Bill McKay and Max Elliott were in here talking business things. They do a lot of that lately. Anyhow, it seems Max handles Picasso’s legal things just like he does everyone else’s, and he was making sure Picasso’s wishes were followed. So Shelby told him that when the police released the body, he was going to quietly take care of things for Picasso at his funeral home. Quick cremation. No funeral. Exactly like Picasso wanted.”

“Well, that’s how it will be then. Whatever is best for Picasso,” Po said. But the news didn’t settle easily in her mind, and she didn’t know why. Cremation wasn’t an uncomfortable thought to her, but eliminating any kind of funeral was a surprise. What about their family and friends? How would he find closure that way? She hoped for Picasso’s sake it was the right decision.

“Well, ladies,” Marla said, straightening up and scanning the small room for customers needing coffee or checks, “I say stay tuned. There’s more to this story than meets the eye. Trust my words.” She spotted the Reverend Gottrey on the other side of the restaurant with his finger in the air, wanting attention, and scurried off, her wide backside miraculously weaving in and out among the tables without incident.

A young waitress appeared almost instantly. “Marla says you need comfort food,” she said, and set down two plates heaped with blueberry pancakes and small jugs of Vermont maple syrup off to the side.

Leah smiled. “Marla is absolutely right.” She stuck her napkin into the top of her blouse and slathered the top pancake with butter, then poured a thick stream of maple syrup across the top.

“It’s far too early for Michigan blueberries,” Po observed, reaching for the butter.

“She goes up every July, picks ‘em fresh, then freezes ‘em,” the waitress explained, then disappeared.

Delighted, Kate and Po dug in, concentrating on the plump juicy blueberries that filled the pancakes. But the thoughts connecting the two friends across the blue-checkered tablecloth were not entirely of food or Michigan blueberries, but of a friend alone with his grief. And a beautiful young woman robbed of life far too early.

***

Later that day, after Leah and Po had parted to go about their Sunday routines, Po sat at her kitchen table, staring at the scraps of material that would magically come together to resemble a cooking pot.

The kitchen and family room in Po’s large, airy house was the hub of her life—and most of her friends’ lives as well—and though she had a sewing machine in her den, this was the area in which most things got worked out, whether it be problems, bills, or quilts. A large stone fireplace anchored one end of the room and was softened with overstuffed chairs and couches, begging for bodies to curl up and stay awhile. Hoover, Po’s ten-year-old Golden retriever, was doing exactly that, looking up now and then to let Po know that he was there if she needed him.

But this afternoon what she needed was to get some things done. The Queen Bees had all taken pieces of Picasso’s quilt home to work on. And among the twenty things on her to-do list, that seemed to be the most appropriate task for the day, since thoughts of Picasso were not far beneath the surface anyway.

Leah and Susan had outdone themselves on selecting the fabric, Po thought as she fingered the pieces of cotton. Susan had explained that they wanted the quilt to fit into the casual bistro look of Picasso’s restaurant, but they also wanted it to add color to the rough pale wall on which it would hang. They knew from the start that a quilt in a restaurant would get abuse from odors and light and the air, but Picasso wanted it there nevertheless, and said he was going to have an acrylic frame built to protect it.

Po looked at the slender piece of cotton in her hand. The pattern was slight, a wavy line that added more texture than pattern to the piece. She was working on the pot at the bottom. Six pieced blocks would form the round image, its sides glistening with sweat from the broth inside. Leah and Susan were geniuses in picking fabrics that created texture and feeling—even emotion—and the nubby blacks and grays and shiny silver patterns added interest, depth, and dimension to her pot. Amazing, she thought. Amazing women.

But the usual joy she felt in creating art out of small pieces of fabric was missing today. And within an hour, Po had put all her supplies back into the closet and had pulled a frozen blackberry tart out of her freezer. Though she had told herself she would give Picasso a few days with family before stopping by to pay her respects, her resolve was lost in the need to give the small round man a hug and a homemade pastry. She ran a brush through her hair and in minutes was driving the short distance to his house.

As she rounded the corner two blocks from Picasso’s house, a tall, familiar figure, burnished auburn hair tossed to the wind, caught Po’s eye. She pulled over to the curb and rolled down the car window. “So, Kate, you couldn’t wait either?”

Kate stopped in her tracks and walked over to the car. She leaned into the open passenger window. “If you don’t mind my slightly sweaty body, I’ll ride the rest of the way. Couldn’t sleep much last night.” She opened the door without waiting for a response and slid onto the front seat. “Can’t get that little Frenchman off my mind. And nor can you, it looks like.”

Po nodded as she accelerated the car. “I wanted to wait until relatives or whomever Picasso would surround himself with at a time like this were gone. But I couldn’t wait.” She pulled onto Picasso’s street, drove halfway down the block and pulled into a wide brick driveway that curved in a half-circle in front of the stately Tudor home. The only other car in the drive was Picasso’s small BMW.

Kate eyed the manicured front lawn, then the tall leaded windows defining the front of the house. “It looks deserted,” she said.

“Well, we can always leave the basket on the front step if he’s resting. He’ll appreciate the thought, I’m sure. And if Laurel’s family is here, they can have it for breakfast.” Po and Kate got out of the car, and Po lifted the basket holding her blackberry tart out of the back seat.

But before they reached the front door, it was pulled open from the inside and a bedraggled, unshaven Picasso stood in the doorframe, beckoning them in.

“Mes amies,” Picasso cried, pulling both women together into a tight hug. He stood slightly apart then, kissing them on each cheek. Finally, without a word, he drew them through the open door, through an elaborate foyer, and into a dark living room.

“How are you, dear,” Po asked. “We’ve all been concerned, but we didn’t want to intrude.”

Picasso shook his head and gestured for them to sit on one of the brocade loveseats framing the hand-carved walnut fireplace.

“First we need some light.” Po walked over to a wall of windows covered with heavy drapes and pulled them apart. “There. Sunshine can help the soul heal, Picasso.” She sat down beside Kate on one of the loveseats.

Picasso sat opposite them, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. He wore an old pair of sweat pants that Po suspected hadn’t been taken off for a day or two. The rumpled figure seemed out of place in the expensively decorated room, a forlorn and lonely man, far older than his forty-nine years.

“What has happened to my life?” he asked them simply. His large brown eyes were wet with sadness.

“This is as bad as it can be, Picasso,” Po said. “But we are here, and we will help you through this.”

“Have Laurel’s relatives left?” Kate asked. “Can we do anything for them?”

Picasso shook his head. “There’s no one. No family.”

“Laurel had no family?”

“Oui,” Picasso said as he rose from the couch. “She was a lonely, lost soul when I met her.”

“Well, she certainly blossomed under your love,” Po said. “Lauren was a beautiful woman.”

“That was so important to her. To be beautiful. She had no money when we met. She was a frail, drab waitress working two shifts, but I made sure she had whatever she wanted to let that beautiful soul flourish—spas and hair treatments and a life that allowed her to shine. I didn’t even want her to work in the restaurant—but she wanted to come in once we moved here, just to get used to the town and meet the people, she said.”

Kate listened carefully, looking now and then at the enormous painting of Laurel above the fireplace. Drab was a word that could never, even in her imagination, be applied to Laurel St. Pierre. “Was it hard for Laurel to move to Kansas from New York?”

Picasso shook his head vehemently. “No, no. It was hard for me!” He punched his hand into his chest and forced out a small laugh. “I loved New York, I loved my restaurant. I made fistfuls of money, more than in my dreams. But when Laurel came into my life, she wanted a quiet life—she was brought up in a small town, like me. So we found this little place, this empty storefront in this sweet little town. And we’ve been happy here, mostly—” His voice dropped off and he closed his eyes, shaking his round head slowly.

Po rose from the couch and walked over to where Picasso stood beside the fireplace. She hugged him briefly. “Do not pull away from those who care about you, Picasso.”

“That is music to my ears, Po. The police, they ask so many questions. They wonder if Laurel had enemies. Laurel, with enemies? How foolish and silly. There was no one who would hurt her. No one. She was a beautiful flower.”

“Do you have any idea what happened, Picasso?”

“Certainment,” he said. The French word shot through the air like a bullet, and for the first time that day the spirit of the robust little Frenchman filled the room.

“Yes?” Po prompted.

“I know exactly what happened. It was a vicious robbery. Laurel always wanted much dollar bills in her purse. She then felt secure. So someone robbed her of her money and then the monster killed her.”

The words were said with the unflagging assurance that this was, indeed, the only possible scenario. The irrefutable truth.

“And the police, this is what they say?”

“They look for problems, they ask about boyfriends—what an awful thing to ask. They ask about trouble in our marriage. Trouble? I would have died for Laurel. I would have given my life for her.”

The quick look that passed between Po and Kate carried a single memory—that of P.J.’s recent news that Laurel St. Pierre had filed a complaint against her husband. And looking back into Picasso’s sorrowful eyes, Po heard a conviction as sure as anything she had ever heard that Picasso loved his wife without question.

“I know you loved her, Picasso,” Po said softly. “I can’t imagine what this must be like for you. But please know you have friends a minute away.” Po touched his arm, then joined Kate as they walked toward the door, not wanting to extend their uninvited visit too long.

Picasso switched on the light as they entered the darkened foyer and Kate and Po stopped in their tracks.

There on the wall, directly in front of them, hung a magnificent quilt. “Oh, Picasso—how absolutely gorgeous,” Kate said. She took a step closer. The quilt was a collection of brilliant blues and greens and yellows, swirling against a deep purple background, and in the center of the swirls, emerging from the folds of the cloth, was a beautiful bird.

Picasso stood beside the two women, looking up at the quilt.

“Where did you get this, Picasso?” Po asked. “It’s amazing.”

“It was Laurel’s,” he said quietly.

“Laurel made this?” Kate asked.

He shook his head no. “It was a gift, she told me,” Picasso said. “Laurel cherished it. Often she’d take it down and lay it across the bed, fingering it. I’d often find her there, the quilt across her knees. She fingered it as if it were the most valuable thing in her life. I’d find her fixing small threads that came loose, sewing the edges. She cared for it as gently as the child we could never have.

“I suggested to her once that we put it in the restaurant, but she was very distressed at the thought. She would not consider it. It could be only here, in our home, in this place of honor. And she was the only person who could touch it, she told me.”

Po looked at the quilt again, her eyes soaking in the fine detail, the lovely, perfect curves of the wings, the blend of appliqué and piecing, just like they were doing on the quilt for Picasso’s restaurant. She stared at the vines that wrapped around all sides of the quilt, twirling and curling like dancing nymphs.

“I am so pleased you like it,” Picasso said, watching Po’s eyes devour the quilt. “You ladies know so much about quilts. I said once we should invite you all over to see it, but—” Picasso’s sentence dropped off, and then he looked up and said, almost apologetically, “—but she said this was private. Not for other eyes.”

Po watched him look up again at the quilt. It was almost as if he were seeing images of Laurel in this piece of art that she had loved.

Picasso shook his head sadly from side to side, then walked to the door, holding it open for his guests. He forced a smile to his lips. “Thank you, Kate and Po. Your visit to me today means very much.”

Po looked back at the quilt, committing it to memory. Then she accepted Picasso’s kiss to each cheek and followed Kate through the front door and down the steps to the car.

“Po, what’s wrong?” Kate buckled her seatbelt, her eyes on Po as she sat unmoving behind the steering wheel of the car. Her eyes looked straight ahead, through the windshield, but what she saw seemed to Kate to be very far away. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Po glanced back at Picasso’s house, then strapped her own seatbelt in place and looked at Kate. “Maybe I have, Kate. It’s that quilt. I would swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ve seen it before, and it wasn’t hanging on Picasso’s wall.”