Read Online Murder on a Starry Night: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery by Sally Goldenbaum - Free Book Online

Dieu!” Picasso said beside her, and startled Po from her thoughts. But he wasn’t watching Tom’s hasty exit; he was staring at the front door.
    Po followed his look. Adele Harrington stood just inside the door, her hair uncharacteristically mussed, her hands on her hips. Her face was a mixture of anger and determination, and her eyes immediately settled in on Po.
    “Po Paltrow,” Adele called out across the crowded room, “I need to talk to you. Immediately, if you don’t mind.”

CHAPTER 8
    “Adele.” Po was out of her chair in seconds. She had recently helped pick Adele’s crumbled form up from a floor, and she didn’t want to risk that happening in Picasso’s crowded bistro. The disgrace would be too heavy for Adele to bear. “Are you all right?” Po asked, reaching her side.
    Adele was dressed perfectly as always, in tailored slacks and a fine cashmere sweater. A red silk jacket warded off the fall chill. But her face lacked its characteristic composure. The mask that hid all emotion was gone and her eyes blazed. “No, Portia, I am not fine. Would you and P.J. please come with me.”
    Po turned toward the table and gestured to P.J. to join her. The two looked apologetically at a confused Max and Jed and followed Adele outside.
    Adele stood beneath Picasso’s blue awning and took in a deep, stabilizing breath. “Someone,” she said at last, “has been in my house.”
    Po looked at Adele silently, wondering if she had been pushed, at last, to the edge.
    P.J said, “Adele, there are dozens of people in your house every day.”
    Adele cast him an annoyed look. “Someone,” she said, dismissing P.J.’s comment with a clipped tone, “broke into my house during the night. Paint was spilled, furniture was damaged. Someone evil is trying to prevent my bed and breakfast from opening on time.”
    “Are you sure it wasn’t a workman’s error?” Po asked. “Paint could easily have been spilled.”
    “Please, spare me,” Adele said. “I said that someone is breaking the law. You are the law, are you not?” She glared at P.J.
    “Have you called the police?” P.J. asked. “There are police assigned to this case, Adele, and they—”
    Adele held out her hands to quiet him. “I wanted to talk with someone I know personally. Police can be so annoying. I called Kate Simpson, and she told me I would find you here. Now, what are we going to do about this?”
    “Was anything taken?”
    “Not that I could tell. But how would I know? The house is a mess. Things everywhere.”
    “I’ll see that someone comes out to investigate the damage, Adele, and you’ll have to file a report,” P.J. said.
    “No. What I want is for this to stop, P.J. Flanigan. I have felt for several days that things were not right in the house. Things were askew. Moved around. I have kept many family things intact all through the house to create ambiance. Things have been disturbed, I could feel it.”
    “Were you in the house last night, Adele?” Po asked. “Did you hear anything?”
    “I wasn’t there. The paint smell had been disturbing my sleep so I was staying at that Canterbury Inn on campus. But I won’t do that again. I would certainly have heard the vandals and put a stop to it.”
    P.J. listened, his thoughts moving back to the night before. It had been one of those near-perfect, Indian summer nights, and he and Kate had taken a late-night walk beneath a deep canopy of stars. They’d stopped for sushi at a new little restaurant near the river, filled with college students taking a break from cramming for mid-terms—and then they had walked back through the Elderberry neighborhood and down Kingfish Drive. Adele’s home had been quiet, he remembered, because they had paused to admire the gardens freshly tilled along the drive. They were lit by a row of low lights that Adele had recently installed beneath the new plantings. The big stone house loomed large in the background, lit softly with security lights and the