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

poured a thick stream of maple syrup across the top.
    “It’s far too early for Michigan blueberries,” Po observed, reaching for the butter.
    “She goes up every July, picks ‘em fresh, then freezes ‘em,” the waitress explained, then disappeared.
    Delighted, Kate and Po dug in, concentrating on the plump juicy blueberries that filled the pancakes. But the thoughts connecting the two friends across the blue-checkered tablecloth were not entirely of food or Michigan blueberries, but of a friend alone with his grief. And a beautiful young woman robbed of life far too early.
    ***
    Later that day, after Leah and Po had parted to go about their Sunday routines, Po sat at her kitchen table, staring at the scraps of material that would magically come together to resemble a cooking pot.
    The kitchen and family room in Po’s large, airy house was the hub of her life—and most of her friends’ lives as well—and though she had a sewing machine in her den, this was the area in which most things got worked out, whether it be problems, bills, or quilts. A large stone fireplace anchored one end of the room and was softened with overstuffed chairs and couches, begging for bodies to curl up and stay awhile. Hoover, Po’s ten-year-old Golden retriever, was doing exactly that, looking up now and then to let Po know that he was there if she needed him.
    But this afternoon what she needed was to get some things done. The Queen Bees had all taken pieces of Picasso’s quilt home to work on. And among the twenty things on her to-do list, that seemed to be the most appropriate task for the day, since thoughts of Picasso were not far beneath the surface anyway.
    Leah and Susan had outdone themselves on selecting the fabric, Po thought as she fingered the pieces of cotton. Susan had explained that they wanted the quilt to fit into the casual bistro look of Picasso’s restaurant, but they also wanted it to add color to the rough pale wall on which it would hang. They knew from the start that a quilt in a restaurant would get abuse from odors and light and the air, but Picasso wanted it there nevertheless, and said he was going to have an acrylic frame built to protect it.
    Po looked at the slender piece of cotton in her hand. The pattern was slight, a wavy line that added more texture than pattern to the piece. She was working on the pot at the bottom. Six pieced blocks would form the round image, its sides glistening with sweat from the broth inside. Leah and Susan were geniuses in picking fabrics that created texture and feeling—even emotion—and the nubby blacks and grays and shiny silver patterns added interest, depth, and dimension to her pot. Amazing, she thought. Amazing women.
    But the usual joy she felt in creating art out of small pieces of fabric was missing today. And within an hour, Po had put all her supplies back into the closet and had pulled a frozen blackberry tart out of her freezer. Though she had told herself she would give Picasso a few days with family before stopping by to pay her respects, her resolve was lost in the need to give the small round man a hug and a homemade pastry. She ran a brush through her hair and in minutes was driving the short distance to his house.
    As she rounded the corner two blocks from Picasso’s house, a tall, familiar figure, burnished auburn hair tossed to the wind, caught Po’s eye. She pulled over to the curb and rolled down the car window. “So, Kate, you couldn’t wait either?”
    Kate stopped in her tracks and walked over to the car. She leaned into the open passenger window. “If you don’t mind my slightly sweaty body, I’ll ride the rest of the way. Couldn’t sleep much last night.” She opened the door without waiting for a response and slid onto the front seat. “Can’t get that little Frenchman off my mind. And nor can you, it looks like.”
    Po nodded as she accelerated the car. “I wanted to wait until relatives or whomever Picasso would surround himself