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

bistro. “A small town restaurateur may have some connection to his wife’s murder,” the reporter on the Kansas City, Missouri, news channel had announced, and then went on to talk of possible marital discord that an unidentified source had passed the reporter’s way.
    “I don’t know how that story ever got on the news tonight. I guess it’s the weekend doldrums—there’s nothing else to talk about. But it was all some reporter’s conjectures, Kate. The police wouldn’t say anything like that at this point.”
    Kate handed P.J. a cup of wine sauce for the meat. “So the police are convinced Picasso is innocent?” Her unrestrained fists returned to her hips.
    “The police aren’t convinced you’re innocent, Kate. The guys assigned to the case are just beginning to look into it. Everyone has to be looked at. The guy in the park—whoever he is—the people in the restaurant. Friends of Laurel’s. It was a murder, Kate.”
    “Are you two almost ready with the steaks?” Po called through the screen door. She stepped into the doorway, looking refreshed in pale tan slacks and a black sweater.
    “Five minutes max, boss lady,” P.J. called back, then turned a row of large white mushrooms on the top burner and brushed them generously with garlic butter. He had become Po’s Sunday night barbecue doyen in recent months, a role that originated with Sam Paltrow. For years Sam had welcomed friends and neighbors to his Sunday night suppers, and the tradition continued after his death when force of habit and a yearning for Sam and Po’s hospitality brought people to Po’s doorstep with a bottle of wine in hand or a freshly baked pie nestled in a wicker basket. Sometimes there was a crowd, sometimes a small intimate group, and sometimes Po herself cancelled it because she had a book deadline or another engagement. But in recent months P.J. had been a regular, a fact Po attributed to Kate’s weekly presence. But whatever the reason he came, his barbecue skills were nearly as fine as her husband’s had been, and Po took full advantage of it.
    “Well, just for the record, P.J.,” Kate said, “Picasso is a good man. And I’m not so sure his wife was a perfect person. In fact, I suspect there were plenty of people who wouldn’t be terribly sad to have Laurel St. Pierre off their radar screen.”
    “That’s a little harsh, Kate.”
    Kate was silent. She had no basis for her strong words, but she felt them deep inside of her. Laurel had always made her uncomfortable, and instinct told her there were things about the woman that would surprise all of them, including Picasso.
    P.J. looked up from the grill and saw the mix of emotion cloud Kate’s face. “It’ll be okay, Katie,” he said. His voice was gentle now. “If there’s something we need to know about Laurel, we’ll find it out. Now help me with these steaks so we can fatten you up a bit.” He pierced the plump fillets with the fork and piled the meat on a platter, then handed it to Kate. As he piled the mushrooms into a bright blue ceramic bowl, he grinned and winked at Kate, trying hard to force a smile to her lips. “Ah, we make a grand culinary team, Kathleen Anne Mary Simpson. Let’s now go inside and accept the well-deserved praises of our hungry guests.”
    Kate looked at him hard and long, then shook her head and allowed the small smile he was waiting for. “You can be so absolutely irritating, P.J. Flanigan—always seeing all sides of everything. But you make it impossible for me to stay mad at you. And I hate that.” She turned and headed for the porch door with the bowl of mushrooms held between her hands. “Fatten me up, my foot,” she muttered, and walked into the kitchen.
    “Ah, perfectly done, P.J.,” Po greeted them, and relieved Kate of her bowl. “I think we’ll be a small group tonight.” She gestured to the family room where Phoebe sat curled up on the couch with Jimmy and the twins, reading to them about a little boy who