A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery by Sally Goldenbaum

the coffee pot and a crumb cake from Marla’s bakery. The cake was still warm and tiny flakes fell from her fingers as she lifted it to her mouth.
    “P.J. said they were going to question him,” Po said.
    “I asked P.J. last night what the guy had to say for himself, and he said they haven’t been able to find him,” Kate said. “The police don’t seem too concerned. Picasso is still their main suspect.”
    “Oh, that’s great. I think sometimes the police can’t see the forest for the trees. No offense, Kate,” Maggie said.
    “No offense taken. You can lump P.J. right in the middle of that description. Why is it that men can’t acknowledge the power of emotion and intuition? We all know Picasso is innocent. Facts … that’s all they think about.”
    “So we’ll give them facts,” Leah said. She picked up a subtly patterned piece of fabric and held it up to the light. It was coral-colored, and would be blended with other warm colors—all the way to a velvety chocolate-brown—and used to form small pockets for the scales of her brilliant fish. “And I think the place we should start is with Laurel herself, not with Picasso.”
    “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Po said. “Laurel is a mystery, and I don’t think we’ll be able to budge on this until we figure out exactly who this woman was.”
    “That’s easy to say,” said Phoebe. “But she only lived here a year. She kept to herself. How do we even begin?”
    “Esther’s quilt,” Po, Leah, and Kate said in unison. The collision of their voices startled the others, and Po began to laugh. “I guess at least half of us agree on that point,” she said.
    Phoebe looked down at the pieces of fabric spread across the table. Picasso’s quilt was actually taking shape. Susan had finished pinning the four magnificent fish onto Eleanor’s background blocks to get a look at the blend of color and shape, and she moved Po’s blocks beneath it.
    “Okay, I give,” she said. “How in blazes is this quilt going to tell us a thing about Laurel St. Pierre? And who’s Esther?”
    “No, not that quilt, Phoebs, this one.” Kate pulled the pictures of Esther Wood’s quilt out of her backpack and lined them up on the table.
    Selma walked back in with Janna in tow and spotted the photographs. “Esther’s quilt,” she said, walking over to the table and nearly forgetting her quest.
    “Hi Janna,” Kate said. “I think you know everyone. Have a seat.” She patted the empty chair next to her. “We really do work on quilts back here, but at this moment we’re trying to figure out a puzzling thing—a quilt that was made here in Crestwood years ago, then ended up back here under mysterious circumstances.”
    As Po walked over to the coffee pot, she watched Janna try to make sense of Kate’s explanation. She was glad Selma brought Janna back to the workroom. The Queen Bees could certainly introduce her around and make her feel more at home in the town that would soon be her home. Po handed Janna a mug of coffee and a small plate of crumb cake. “Selma, tell the others what you know about the quilt,” Po urged. “It’s certainly an odd coincidence, finding it on Laurel’s wall.”
    When Selma finished her story, Phoebe planted her small fists into her hips and said, “Well that’s that, then. We start right here to find out about Laurel St. Pierre.” She thrust her finger down on one of the photos.
    “With a woman who’s been dead for fifteen years?” Susan asked.
    “Yes,” Po answered for Phoebe. “That’s exactly where we start. It’s the only thing we know about Laurel, other than she lived on the east coast and was poor and drab when she met Picasso. So let’s start with the quilt and try to figure out how Laurel got it. Picasso’s not much help. All we know from him is that the quilt was her most prized possession. She treated it like a child, taking it down from the wall, dusting it, repairing little loose ends.”
    “Maybe