A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery by Sally Goldenbaum Page A
Authors: Sally Goldenbaum
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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.”
CHAPTER 8
The need to buy groceries and clean her family room before friends arrived for supper kept Po from dwelling on the familiar quilt, though images of the bird were in her mind’s eye as she prepared the béarnaise sauce for tonight’s fillets and piled buffet dishes on the end of the table for dinner. When P.J. and Kate arrived a short while later, Po sent them out back to manage the grill while she went upstairs to take a quick shower and try to wash away the disturbing thoughts.
“Kate and P.J., you’re in charge,” she had said to them. “Make sure it’s wonderful.”
P.J. feigned a bow. “You’ve any doubts, madame?” He grinned at Po to pull her out of her thoughts, then held the porch door open for Kate and followed her outside while Po retreated upstairs.
“She’s just worried about Picasso, P.J.,” Kate said, placing the platter of steaks beside the grill.
“Well, she may have something to worry about.” He opened the heavy cast iron lid and poked the coals to life that Po had lit earlier. Crimson embers lit up the night. Kate handed P.J. a long fork and he speared each thick steak and placed it on the grill. “What do you mean, P.J.?”
“I think this doesn’t look good for Picasso right now, is all I mean.”
“P.J., you’re crazy,” Kate said. Her fists dug into the sides of her waist to keep her from shoving P.J. right off the edge of Po’s porch. The evening air was brisk, and small gaslights dotted the wooded area beyond the deck, casting shadows across the spring lawn.
“Calm down, Kate,” P.J. said. His brow was furrowed, and the look of levity that usually lit his face had disappeared. He brushed the top of each steak with a thin layer of butter and olive oil. For a moment the sizzle of fat dripping on the coals was the only noise in Po’s backyard. P.J. concentrated on the grill, his eyes not meeting Kate’s.
When Kate spoke again, her voice was softer, but still edged with anger. “It’s just that Picasso is such a kind, good man,” she said. “And if you could have heard him earlier today, you’d never in a million years doubt his love for his wife. And what about the guy I saw in the park with Laurel, P.J.? Why isn’t he on the top of your list?”
“We’re looking into that, Kate. But we’ve nothing more than what you’ve told us. And that’s not much. Your description includes half of the county. And others have come forward telling of seeing Laurel with different men—even that little waiter at the restaurant spent time with her. But Picasso is the one she was calling abusive.”
“But he loved her more than you can imagine, P.J. I am sure of that.”
“I’m not doubting the man’s love, Kate. But people sometimes do bad things to people they love. Take you—” He tried to joke her out of the moment. “Look how nasty you’re being to me—and God knows you’re crazy about me.”
But Kate would have none of it. “I think that’s one of the things that’s desperately wrong with our legal system, P.J. We say people are innocent until proven guilty, but then the news gets out there—and the whole world treats you like you’re guilty without any proof whatsoever.”
The late afternoon news had startled not only Kate, but anyone who knew Picasso and had ever felt his gracious hospitality in the French Quarter
“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.”
CHAPTER 8
The need to buy groceries and clean her family room before friends arrived for supper kept Po from dwelling on the familiar quilt, though images of the bird were in her mind’s eye as she prepared the béarnaise sauce for tonight’s fillets and piled buffet dishes on the end of the table for dinner. When P.J. and Kate arrived a short while later, Po sent them out back to manage the grill while she went upstairs to take a quick shower and try to wash away the disturbing thoughts.
“Kate and P.J., you’re in charge,” she had said to them. “Make sure it’s wonderful.”
P.J. feigned a bow. “You’ve any doubts, madame?” He grinned at Po to pull her out of her thoughts, then held the porch door open for Kate and followed her outside while Po retreated upstairs.
“She’s just worried about Picasso, P.J.,” Kate said, placing the platter of steaks beside the grill.
“Well, she may have something to worry about.” He opened the heavy cast iron lid and poked the coals to life that Po had lit earlier. Crimson embers lit up the night. Kate handed P.J. a long fork and he speared each thick steak and placed it on the grill. “What do you mean, P.J.?”
“I think this doesn’t look good for Picasso right now, is all I mean.”
“P.J., you’re crazy,” Kate said. Her fists dug into the sides of her waist to keep her from shoving P.J. right off the edge of Po’s porch. The evening air was brisk, and small gaslights dotted the wooded area beyond the deck, casting shadows across the spring lawn.
“Calm down, Kate,” P.J. said. His brow was furrowed, and the look of levity that usually lit his face had disappeared. He brushed the top of each steak with a thin layer of butter and olive oil. For a moment the sizzle of fat dripping on the coals was the only noise in Po’s backyard. P.J. concentrated on the grill, his eyes not meeting Kate’s.
When Kate spoke again, her voice was softer, but still edged with anger. “It’s just that Picasso is such a kind, good man,” she said. “And if you could have heard him earlier today, you’d never in a million years doubt his love for his wife. And what about the guy I saw in the park with Laurel, P.J.? Why isn’t he on the top of your list?”
“We’re looking into that, Kate. But we’ve nothing more than what you’ve told us. And that’s not much. Your description includes half of the county. And others have come forward telling of seeing Laurel with different men—even that little waiter at the restaurant spent time with her. But Picasso is the one she was calling abusive.”
“But he loved her more than you can imagine, P.J. I am sure of that.”
“I’m not doubting the man’s love, Kate. But people sometimes do bad things to people they love. Take you—” He tried to joke her out of the moment. “Look how nasty you’re being to me—and God knows you’re crazy about me.”
But Kate would have none of it. “I think that’s one of the things that’s desperately wrong with our legal system, P.J. We say people are innocent until proven guilty, but then the news gets out there—and the whole world treats you like you’re guilty without any proof whatsoever.”
The late afternoon news had startled not only Kate, but anyone who knew Picasso and had ever felt his gracious hospitality in the French Quarter
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