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

with at a time like this were gone. But I couldn’t wait.” She pulled onto Picasso’s street, drove halfway down the block and pulled into a wide brick driveway that curved in a half-circle in front of the stately Tudor home. The only other car in the drive was Picasso’s small BMW.
    Kate eyed the manicured front lawn, then the tall leaded windows defining the front of the house. “It looks deserted,” she said.
    “Well, we can always leave the basket on the front step if he’s resting. He’ll appreciate the thought, I’m sure. And if Laurel’s family is here, they can have it for breakfast.” Po and Kate got out of the car, and Po lifted the basket holding her blackberry tart out of the back seat.
    But before they reached the front door, it was pulled open from the inside and a bedraggled, unshaven Picasso stood in the doorframe, beckoning them in.
    “Mes amies,” Picasso cried, pulling both women together into a tight hug. He stood slightly apart then, kissing them on each cheek. Finally, without a word, he drew them through the open door, through an elaborate foyer, and into a dark living room.
    “How are you, dear,” Po asked. “We’ve all been concerned, but we didn’t want to intrude.”
    Picasso shook his head and gestured for them to sit on one of the brocade loveseats framing the hand-carved walnut fireplace.
    “First we need some light.” Po walked over to a wall of windows covered with heavy drapes and pulled them apart. “There. Sunshine can help the soul heal, Picasso.” She sat down beside Kate on one of the loveseats.
    Picasso sat opposite them, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. He wore an old pair of sweat pants that Po suspected hadn’t been taken off for a day or two. The rumpled figure seemed out of place in the expensively decorated room, a forlorn and lonely man, far older than his forty-nine years.
    “What has happened to my life?” he asked them simply. His large brown eyes were wet with sadness.
    “This is as bad as it can be, Picasso,” Po said. “But we are here, and we will help you through this.”
    “Have Laurel’s relatives left?” Kate asked. “Can we do anything for them?”
    Picasso shook his head. “There’s no one. No family.”
    “Laurel had no family?”
    “Oui,” Picasso said as he rose from the couch. “She was a lonely, lost soul when I met her.”
    “Well, she certainly blossomed under your love,” Po said. “Lauren was a beautiful woman.”
    “That was so important to her. To be beautiful. She had no money when we met. She was a frail, drab waitress working two shifts, but I made sure she had whatever she wanted to let that beautiful soul flourish—spas and hair treatments and a life that allowed her to shine. I didn’t even want her to work in the restaurant—but she wanted to come in once we moved here, just to get used to the town and meet the people, she said.”
    Kate listened carefully, looking now and then at the enormous painting of Laurel above the fireplace. Drab was a word that could never, even in her imagination, be applied to Laurel St. Pierre. “Was it hard for Laurel to move to Kansas from New York?”
    Picasso shook his head vehemently. “No, no. It was hard for me!” He punched his hand into his chest and forced out a small laugh. “I loved New York, I loved my restaurant. I made fistfuls of money, more than in my dreams. But when Laurel came into my life, she wanted a quiet life—she was brought up in a small town, like me. So we found this little place, this empty storefront in this sweet little town. And we’ve been happy here, mostly—” His voice dropped off and he closed his eyes, shaking his round head slowly.
    Po rose from the couch and walked over to where Picasso stood beside the fireplace. She hugged him briefly. “Do not pull away from those who care about you, Picasso.”
    “That is music to my ears, Po. The police, they ask so many questions. They wonder if Laurel had enemies.