A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery by Sally Goldenbaum Read Free Book Online

got news for you.”
    Leah smiled at the familiar greeting, and Po suggested that a cup of coffee would better prepare them for the words fighting to get out of Marla’s mouth.
    Marla filled their mugs, her black eyes darting around the small bakery cafe, taking stock of empty plates, filled tables, and her young waitresses, making sure no diner went wanting for service. The room was nearly filled, and soon there would be a line out the door, with waiting customers sitting on outdoor benches reading the Sunday paper or chatting with friends. “Awful news about Picasso’s wife,” she began. “Just awful.” Marla set the coffee pot down on the table and wiped her plump hands on her apron. “I know a young girl like that dying is horrible and all, but you know, he may be better off without her.”
    “Marla! What an awful thing to say,” Po said. “Picasso was crazy about Laurel.”
    “Doesn’t mean she was good for him, Po. She could be nasty as all get out if she didn’t like you. Ask Max Elliott— she couldn’t stand that sweet man — I saw with my own eyes how she’d be rude to him. But that’s not the worst of it.
    Rumor has it that Mrs. St. Pierre had gentlemen friends who were most definitely not of the French persuasion.” Marla leaned over the table and looked back and forth between the two women. “Daisy Sample saw that woman talking to a man in the alley, very cozy like, not two weeks ago. It wasn’t Picasso or Jesse or anyone we know. And believe you me, they weren’t talking about the weather.”
    “Daisy should keep her gossip to herself,” Po said. “What in heaven’s name does talking to a man in an alley mean anyway? I wouldn’t call that incriminating. I’ve talked to men in that alley myself, Marla, and you never had me romantically linked.” Po’s words were far more forceful than she felt. Kate’s recent encounter over at the River Park had run through her dreams all night long. “We need to support Picasso,” she said aloud, “and we need to help him through the funeral, not make burying his wife more difficult for him than it already is.”
    “Won’t be a funeral,” Marla said smugly.
    Po and Leah looked up at her. Po’s brows lifted. “You know that?”
    “Heard it from Shelby Harrison. He comes in for a sack of cinnamon rolls every single Sunday morning before going over to his funeral home. Bill McKay and Max Elliott were in here talking business things. They do a lot of that lately. Anyhow, it seems Max handles Picasso’s legal things just like he does everyone else’s, and he was making sure Picasso’s wishes were followed. So Shelby told him that when the police released the body, he was going to quietly take care of things for Picasso at his funeral home. Quick cremation. No funeral. Exactly like Picasso wanted.”
    “Well, that’s how it will be then. Whatever is best for Picasso,” Po said. But the news didn’t settle easily in her mind, and she didn’t know why. Cremation wasn’t an uncomfortable thought to her, but eliminating any kind of funeral was a surprise. What about their family and friends? How would he find closure that way? She hoped for Picasso’s sake it was the right decision.
    “Well, ladies,” Marla said, straightening up and scanning the small room for customers needing coffee or checks, “I say stay tuned. There’s more to this story than meets the eye. Trust my words.” She spotted the Reverend Gottrey on the other side of the restaurant with his finger in the air, wanting attention, and scurried off, her wide backside miraculously weaving in and out among the tables without incident.
    A young waitress appeared almost instantly. “Marla says you need comfort food,” she said, and set down two plates heaped with blueberry pancakes and small jugs of Vermont maple syrup off to the side.
    Leah smiled. “Marla is absolutely right.” She stuck her napkin into the top of her blouse and slathered the top pancake with butter, then