Read Online A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery by Sally Goldenbaum - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sally Goldenbaum
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demanded, pouring the last of the coffee from the pot into her mug.
Po wondered if it was good for Eleanor to have all that caffeine so close to bedtime, but she held her silence, knowing Eleanor would do what she pleased, no matter what anyone said.
“It’s Picasso isn’t it?” Eleanor said abruptly. “It’s awful that he’s going through all this.”
Po nodded. It was awful, and confusing, and affecting people she cared about. But she knew instinctively that whatever was bothering Max tonight was something she didn’t have any right to talk about with others, But the quilt was another matter.
“Eleanor,” she said, “something happened today that is plaguing me. I saw a quilt hanging on the wall of Picasso’s home.” The image of the beautiful bird had remained with Po all evening. She described it to Eleanor in detail, the artful swirl of the fabric pieces, the brilliant colors that made the bird stand out in bold relief. “But the thing that is bothering me, El, the thing that I can’t shake, is the almost certain thought that I’ve seen it before.”
“You probably did,” Eleanor said, sitting down at Po’s wide table, now empty of the platters it held earlier. “Many people make the same quilt, Po, you know that. And from your description, it sounds lovely. Other people have probably used the same pattern.”
“It wasn’t that kind of quilt, El. It was intricate, unique. I don’t think the pattern would have been easily duplicated, and even if it had been, it was the kind of art work that you wouldn’t want to pass on to others. But for the life of me, I can’t remember where I’ve seen it.”
“Maybe someone did an article on it. Or you saw it at a quilt show. Houston, perhaps? We’ve certainly been to plenty of shows, and it would explain how you’d seen one from the east coast.”
“That’s a possibility, Eleanor.” Po considered the ideas as she poured herself a cup of tea. She sat down across from Eleanor. “Picasso said he wanted to bring all of us in to see the quilt, but Laurel refused.”
“Laurel wasn’t the most sociable person in the world, Po. She probably didn’t want a bunch of us tramping through her personal space.”
“Probably. But it’s a shame. Things that beautiful should be shared. But I do wish I could remember exactly where I’ve seen it before. It will plague me in an awful way.”
“It will come to you when you stop thinking about it,” Eleanor said philosophically. “Believe me, I’m the expert on memory lapses. And things usually float back. Or not.” Tiny lines around her clear blue eyes moved upward as she laughed. “But I will stop by Picasso’s house to pay my respects and see it for myself. Now you have me curious, Po Paltrow.”
“Good. Maybe between the two of us, we will have a whole memory.”
“Or not,” Eleanor said, and headed for the door, her cane tapping on the floor as she went.
CHAPTER 10
By Tuesday, Po’s thoughts of the bird quilt were buried beneath a cloud of more ugly matters: rumors.
“They’re so huge, they could choke a horse,” Selma told Po as they scurried across the campus of Canterbury College to attend Leah’s evening lecture on women in the 1960s. A brisk breeze had caused the two women to hug their jackets tight to their bodies and keep their step lively. “It seems everyone and her brother has a story to tell about Laurel St. Pierre,” Selma muttered, shoving her hands into the pockets of her sweater.
“Kate stopped by this morning on her way to that photography class she’s taking. She can barely speak to P.J., she said. She wants him to publicly declare Picasso innocent.”
“Maybe he should,” Selma said. “Ridiculous thought that such a sweet man would do such a thing.”
“Of course it’s ridiculous. But with all these rumors spreading, the police need to look at everything.”
“That gossipy column in the Gazette claims there’s a whole army of men that know Laurel,
Po wondered if it was good for Eleanor to have all that caffeine so close to bedtime, but she held her silence, knowing Eleanor would do what she pleased, no matter what anyone said.
“It’s Picasso isn’t it?” Eleanor said abruptly. “It’s awful that he’s going through all this.”
Po nodded. It was awful, and confusing, and affecting people she cared about. But she knew instinctively that whatever was bothering Max tonight was something she didn’t have any right to talk about with others, But the quilt was another matter.
“Eleanor,” she said, “something happened today that is plaguing me. I saw a quilt hanging on the wall of Picasso’s home.” The image of the beautiful bird had remained with Po all evening. She described it to Eleanor in detail, the artful swirl of the fabric pieces, the brilliant colors that made the bird stand out in bold relief. “But the thing that is bothering me, El, the thing that I can’t shake, is the almost certain thought that I’ve seen it before.”
“You probably did,” Eleanor said, sitting down at Po’s wide table, now empty of the platters it held earlier. “Many people make the same quilt, Po, you know that. And from your description, it sounds lovely. Other people have probably used the same pattern.”
“It wasn’t that kind of quilt, El. It was intricate, unique. I don’t think the pattern would have been easily duplicated, and even if it had been, it was the kind of art work that you wouldn’t want to pass on to others. But for the life of me, I can’t remember where I’ve seen it.”
“Maybe someone did an article on it. Or you saw it at a quilt show. Houston, perhaps? We’ve certainly been to plenty of shows, and it would explain how you’d seen one from the east coast.”
“That’s a possibility, Eleanor.” Po considered the ideas as she poured herself a cup of tea. She sat down across from Eleanor. “Picasso said he wanted to bring all of us in to see the quilt, but Laurel refused.”
“Laurel wasn’t the most sociable person in the world, Po. She probably didn’t want a bunch of us tramping through her personal space.”
“Probably. But it’s a shame. Things that beautiful should be shared. But I do wish I could remember exactly where I’ve seen it before. It will plague me in an awful way.”
“It will come to you when you stop thinking about it,” Eleanor said philosophically. “Believe me, I’m the expert on memory lapses. And things usually float back. Or not.” Tiny lines around her clear blue eyes moved upward as she laughed. “But I will stop by Picasso’s house to pay my respects and see it for myself. Now you have me curious, Po Paltrow.”
“Good. Maybe between the two of us, we will have a whole memory.”
“Or not,” Eleanor said, and headed for the door, her cane tapping on the floor as she went.
CHAPTER 10
By Tuesday, Po’s thoughts of the bird quilt were buried beneath a cloud of more ugly matters: rumors.
“They’re so huge, they could choke a horse,” Selma told Po as they scurried across the campus of Canterbury College to attend Leah’s evening lecture on women in the 1960s. A brisk breeze had caused the two women to hug their jackets tight to their bodies and keep their step lively. “It seems everyone and her brother has a story to tell about Laurel St. Pierre,” Selma muttered, shoving her hands into the pockets of her sweater.
“Kate stopped by this morning on her way to that photography class she’s taking. She can barely speak to P.J., she said. She wants him to publicly declare Picasso innocent.”
“Maybe he should,” Selma said. “Ridiculous thought that such a sweet man would do such a thing.”
“Of course it’s ridiculous. But with all these rumors spreading, the police need to look at everything.”
“That gossipy column in the Gazette claims there’s a whole army of men that know Laurel,
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