A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery (12 page)

Wednesdays were writing days for Po, but a restless night left her mind foggy. A run along the river would put her in a better frame of mind, she thought. Perhaps it would bring some writing inspiration and distance her a little from things she couldn’t do anything about.

Po was an eclectic writer, having several books of essays to her publishing credit, a book on women and quilting, and occasional articles in magazines. In addition to the article on crazy quilts, her current long-term project was a book of essays on notable Midwestern women, a topic of interest to her, but one clouded over by the week’s events.

The morning was brisk, and the air energized Po as she moved along the meandering paths, her slick red jogging pants making swishing noises as she ran. The riverfront park was nearly empty this morning, and Po enjoyed the solitude and time to sift through her tangled thoughts. Kate’s pictures of the quilt had unleashed something inside her—a nagging, uncomfortable feeling. And she suspected it would get worse before it got better. She needed to sort through this mess they were mired in, to bring peace back into their days. Esther Woods’ bird quilt weighed heavily on her mind. Such a lovely work of art, and sitting there in all its glory on Picasso’s wall. But how in heaven’s name did it get there? Po suspected Picasso wasn’t going to be much help. Only Laurel could tell them, and Laurel certainly wasn’t giving any answers.

The river was quiet today as Po ran along its edge. It had been swift, she remembered, the night Laurel had died. She looked across the narrow waterway as she ran, where the path continued but the land behind it was less developed, rugged and craggy with overgrown weeds and thorny bushes. She wondered where Laurel had met someone on that path—and why. The police hadn’t said exactly where Laurel had been thrown into the river, only where her body had been found. But it didn’t matter much, Po supposed. The path started in the downtown area, and ran all the way past the bridge and for a couple miles south, where a smaller bridge crossed the river and connected the walking path to the one Po ran on now. It could have been any where along the way, and ended in the same grisly way. She shivered as the grim thought of Laurel’s murder took hold, and rubbed her arms against the chill. Then she headed up one of the small paths away from the river bank, and back toward the Elderberry Road neighborhood and her own home. As she neared the shops, she slowed down slightly, turned in behind Selma’s shop, and began running down the deserted alley. The sight of Picasso’s van behind the French Quarter made her smile—any sign of normalcy coming from the grieving Frenchman was a good thing. She ran toward the restaurant, happy to see the kitchen windows open wide and sounds of life coming through the screens. Picasso working was a good thing. She’d have to come in later in the week for his steamed mussels swimming in garlic butter, just the way she loved them. And maybe a small bowl of French onion soup with Picasso’s home-baked croutons floating on the top. Now if only she could help dispel the ugly rumors that swirled about his little round head, life would be much better, indeed.

Po slowed to a stop behind the restaurant and breathed in deeply, stretching out one leg and leaning into it, her eyes lifted to the back of the restaurant and the high, kitchen windows on its west corner. Maybe this would be the perfect time to ask Picasso a few more questions about the quilt that hung so stately on his wall. And perhaps he’d offer her a glass of water as well.

As Po brought her body upright, she spotted Picasso’s blunt profile just inside the open kitchen window, but before she could call out her hello, he turned away from the window and his voice rose in startling anger. “Vicious man! Judas!” he called out. “You were my friend and you betrayed me!”

Another voice, unfamiliar to Po, murmured an answer. The man must have been standing across the room, and at first his words were indistinct. But before Po had a chance to move away, the man moved closer to the window and his voice rose through it in churlish tones. “I did you a favor, old man,” the voice said. “You’re better off now, believe it. She was a bitch.” The last word was punched out and flew through the window like a hit ball. Po stepped back as if it might hit her directly in her solar plexus.

“Out, get out of my sight!” Picasso yelled. “Don’t you ever come back into my restaurant.”

“Oh, I’m outta here, all right, and you can shove your business you know where. But it’s not over, Frenchy. There’s still more I can get out of that scheming wife of yours, and believe you me, I intend to get it!”

Before Po had a chance to move down the alleyway, away from listening in on a private conversation, a broad-shouldered man rushed through the back door, nearly knocking her down. He headed for a sports utility vehicle that had been hidden behind Picasso’s van and jumped inside. A shiny black Lab sat upright on the back seat, looking at Po with interest.

Po stared at the man as he jumped into the SUV and brought the engine to life. Only the dog seemed aware of her presence. The man had dark, thick hair, prominent cheekbones, and wide brows marking a strong face. He backed the car recklessly close to the edge of the alley, then lurched into drive and raced down the alley past Po, scattering gravel in all directions. The dog stuck his head out the back window of the car, still looking at Po.

But it was the man, not the dog, that Po recognized. Even in the rush of his departure, Po knew she had seen this person before. There was no doubt in her mind. He was the same man Kate had snapped a picture of—the man who had been standing on the hill kissing Laurel St. Pierre, blown up now into a real-life figure.

CHAPTER 13

Po hesitated only seconds before opening the back door to Picasso’s French Quarter restaurant and walking directly into his kitchen.

Picasso was standing at the stainless steel sink, his hands gripping the edge, his head bent low. His breath came in starts and stops.

“Picasso?” Po asked, her voice gentle at the sight of her disturbed friend. “Picasso, who was that man?”

Picasso spun around at the sound of her voice. Thin strands of hair hung limp over his broad forehead. He wore baggy jeans and a stained t-shirt, and his eyes were wild and unfocused.

“Po, what are you doing here?” he managed.

“I apologize for overhearing your conversation, Picasso. I was on my morning run, is all, and I thought I’d stop in for a glass of water. Then I heard voices.”

“Water? Yes, yes,” Picasso walked over to one of the enormous refrigerators and pulled out a chilled bottle of Evian. He thrust the bottle into Po’s hand. “Drink, Po. Sit.” He pulled a stool out from beneath the stainless steel island running down the center of the room.

Po thought Picasso was most definitely the one who needed to sit. She pulled out the stool next to hers and motioned toward it. “Let’s both sit for a moment. Tell me what is going on, Picasso.”

Picasso straddled the stool next to Po and took a deep, heaving breath. When he looked at Po again his eyes were more focused, his face incredibly sad. “Po, Laurel was confused. She was a mixed-up little girl, my Laurelee. People wouldn’t understand.”

“Laurel was seeing that man?”

He nodded. “His name is Jason Sands. He is my wine distributor. I thought he was a good man. He knows French wines. He travels to France. He loves my crispy frites, my ragout of duck.” Picasso clenched his jaw, the sadness that watered his eyes turning suddenly to anger. “But he betrayed me, Po. He used my sweet little wife. He …” His fist hit the steel table and the sound rattled through the kitchen.

Po flinched at the force of his movement. It was a side of Picasso she had never seen before, an awful, powerful anger. An anger that, for a brief moment, seemed capable of triggering disastrous actions. Po pushed aside the disturbing thought and focused on the present. “Picasso, listen to me. This is important. Do the police know about Jason Sands?”

Picasso shrugged.

“You must tell them.”

“I do not spread family affairs across the whole village, Po. This is a private family matter. What would they think of my Laurel?”

Po bit back a response. Her thoughts about his Laurel had changed considerably in the past few days. She had wounded this man immeasurably, and his love had totally blinded him to it. But Jason Sands was another matter. “Picasso, Jason Sands might be able to tell us something about Laurel’s murder. Don’t you see?”

“Non. I asked him. He said he didn’t do anything to her except tell her he was tired of her. Tired of her! She must have been under a spell. She was working too hard at the restaurant—working so hard and she would never take a penny for it! He took advantage of how tired she was, of her innocence. He used her, Po.”

Po took a drink of water and collected her thoughts. Jason Sands may have indeed used Laurel. But there was more to this than Picasso was seeing. Someone needed to talk with the wine distributor. Someone needed to look a lot more carefully into Laurel St. Pierre’s quiet life. She worked without pay? Laurel had never impressed Po as one who didn’t care about money.

“I know you mean to help me, Po,” Picasso said, “and I know people talk about me and make rumors, but I will be fine. You are not to worry.”

When Picasso stood and began pulling out knives and vegetables for his special of the day, Po knew it was time to take her leave. Picasso would be fine, she suspected. Eventually. But on her short run home, she determined that in the meantime, she’d do all she could to erase the cloud of suspicion that was surely making his life a living hell, no matter what he said.

***

A shower, fresh jeans, and a nubby red sweater helped Po feel able to face the day. The episode with Jason Sands had stuck to her thoughts like superglue, and she knew that her day was lost until something was done about it. She left a message for P.J., giving him the few scant details that she had, then loaded Hoover into her car for a drive over to Maggie’s clinic for a scheduled check-up. Maybe the mundane activity would untangle her thoughts, and she could make some sense out of the morning’s encounter.

Maggie’s veterinary hospital was in an old house that had been completely renovated into a clinic so friendly that Po never had a problem getting Hoover to his appointments. And the golden retriever loved Maggie Helmers.

“Hey, Hoover, my love, up here,” Maggie coaxed, patting the surface of the low examining table. Hoover promptly jumped up and licked her waiting hand while she stepped on a pedal and slowly raised the platform to an examining height.

“So Po, why the frown?” Maggie asked, as her hands deftly examined Hoover’s coat.

“Too much activity early in the morning,” Po said, and related the events at Picasso’s. “I know you’re as crazy about that little Frenchman as I am, Maggie. We need to help get rid of this dark aura about him and cast those dangerous rumors to the wind. It will begin to affect his business soon, I’m afraid.”

“Do you know any more about the wine distributor? He and Laurel must have been very discreet in meeting one another. This is the first I’ve heard about it. And believe me, lots of gossip hits these walls between rabies vaccinations and spays.”