A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery by Sally Goldenbaum

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