A Murder of Taste: A Queen Bees Quilt Mystery by Sally Goldenbaum Page B
Authors: Sally Goldenbaum
Ads: Link
quickly to his side, afraid he was going to topple over in front of them. She reached out and took his arm, steadying him. “Picasso, what is it?” She looked into his troubled eyes and detected a trace of fear.
“The police—they found Jason Sands.”
“That’s good, Picasso. Good news,” Po said. “Maybe Mr. Sands can shed some light on all this.”
Picasso shook his head. “No, Po. They found him in a quarry. Shot. Jason Sands is dead.”
CHAPTER 16
News of Jason Sands’ death spread through the small town like a Prairie dust storm. Although not many people knew the traveling wine distributor, his link to Laurel St. Pierre was delicious fodder for the Crestwood gossip mill. Kate walked into Gus’s bookstore later that day and knew without asking that the small group gathered around the check-out counter was dissecting the latest event.
“H’lo Kate.” Gus Schuette stepped away from the cluster of customers and greeted her. “What can I do you for?”
“Some good news, Gus. That’s what I’m looking for. Good news and something to make me laugh.”
“Ah, Katie, girl, it’ll work out. Don’t fret.” Gus Schuette had watched Kate Simpson grow from a mischievous rug rat curled up on his floor reading kids’ books to the tall beauty with the high cheekbones standing in front of him. The one thing about Kate that hadn’t changed a bit was her irreverent laughter and her broad smile. Today both were noticeably absent. “Looking for that long stalk of wheat?”
Kate nodded. “He was supposed to meet me here. He’s late.”
“Nope. Beat you to it. He’s back in the history and mystery section, wouldn’t you know?”
Gus’s bookstore was one of Kate’s favorite hangouts in all of Crestwood. The maze of rooms, jam-packed with old and new books, the soft strains of Vivaldi in the background, and the smell of thick, dark coffee from the old percolator in the corner brought comfort to her soul. She smiled at Gus, gave him a quick tap on the shoulder, and walked toward the long wide room in the back of the store.
Kate scanned the room. Late-afternoon sunshine poured down on the old, pock-marked library table that centered the room. Reading chairs were tucked into corners between the tall bookshelves. An old man Kate recognized from her neighborhood snoozed in a corner chair, a cup of coffee on the floor at his side and a tattered Ed Bain mystery moving up and down on his chest as he slept.
Kate walked along the parallel stacks, looking down each row. At the end of the last aisle she spotted P.J., squatting on the floor with a stack of books in front of him. “Hi good lookin’,” she said, walking toward him.
P.J. uncurled his long frame and stood up. “Not mad at me anymore?” He smiled slightly.
“Not this instant. Give it awhile.”
P.J. put his books back on the shelf and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, guiding her back toward the table. “How did the ladies take the latest bombshell?”
“Not happily. We thought Sands was a likely suspect and would take some of the pressure off Picasso. Sands had motive, especially after Po spotted the pregnant wife outside his house.”
“Not a wife, apparently. Just another girlfriend. The guy was a regular lothario.”
“His only redeeming quality so far is Albert Einstein.”
P.J. nodded. “That’s about right. But it sure doesn’t help Picasso.”
“Po took him home. He was pretty shaken.”
“It doesn’t look good for him, Kate. Sands was meeting someone, apparently, when he was shot. Picasso’s number was recorded on his cell phone.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, P.J. Picasso did business with the guy. He could have called him about wine or something.”
“Or something,” P.J. repeated. “The girlfriend said Sands was real happy the past few days. Told her they might even get married and move to a bigger house somewhere. He was ‘in the money’ he told her.”
“But why would Picasso give money to a man he
“The police—they found Jason Sands.”
“That’s good, Picasso. Good news,” Po said. “Maybe Mr. Sands can shed some light on all this.”
Picasso shook his head. “No, Po. They found him in a quarry. Shot. Jason Sands is dead.”
CHAPTER 16
News of Jason Sands’ death spread through the small town like a Prairie dust storm. Although not many people knew the traveling wine distributor, his link to Laurel St. Pierre was delicious fodder for the Crestwood gossip mill. Kate walked into Gus’s bookstore later that day and knew without asking that the small group gathered around the check-out counter was dissecting the latest event.
“H’lo Kate.” Gus Schuette stepped away from the cluster of customers and greeted her. “What can I do you for?”
“Some good news, Gus. That’s what I’m looking for. Good news and something to make me laugh.”
“Ah, Katie, girl, it’ll work out. Don’t fret.” Gus Schuette had watched Kate Simpson grow from a mischievous rug rat curled up on his floor reading kids’ books to the tall beauty with the high cheekbones standing in front of him. The one thing about Kate that hadn’t changed a bit was her irreverent laughter and her broad smile. Today both were noticeably absent. “Looking for that long stalk of wheat?”
Kate nodded. “He was supposed to meet me here. He’s late.”
“Nope. Beat you to it. He’s back in the history and mystery section, wouldn’t you know?”
Gus’s bookstore was one of Kate’s favorite hangouts in all of Crestwood. The maze of rooms, jam-packed with old and new books, the soft strains of Vivaldi in the background, and the smell of thick, dark coffee from the old percolator in the corner brought comfort to her soul. She smiled at Gus, gave him a quick tap on the shoulder, and walked toward the long wide room in the back of the store.
Kate scanned the room. Late-afternoon sunshine poured down on the old, pock-marked library table that centered the room. Reading chairs were tucked into corners between the tall bookshelves. An old man Kate recognized from her neighborhood snoozed in a corner chair, a cup of coffee on the floor at his side and a tattered Ed Bain mystery moving up and down on his chest as he slept.
Kate walked along the parallel stacks, looking down each row. At the end of the last aisle she spotted P.J., squatting on the floor with a stack of books in front of him. “Hi good lookin’,” she said, walking toward him.
P.J. uncurled his long frame and stood up. “Not mad at me anymore?” He smiled slightly.
“Not this instant. Give it awhile.”
P.J. put his books back on the shelf and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, guiding her back toward the table. “How did the ladies take the latest bombshell?”
“Not happily. We thought Sands was a likely suspect and would take some of the pressure off Picasso. Sands had motive, especially after Po spotted the pregnant wife outside his house.”
“Not a wife, apparently. Just another girlfriend. The guy was a regular lothario.”
“His only redeeming quality so far is Albert Einstein.”
P.J. nodded. “That’s about right. But it sure doesn’t help Picasso.”
“Po took him home. He was pretty shaken.”
“It doesn’t look good for him, Kate. Sands was meeting someone, apparently, when he was shot. Picasso’s number was recorded on his cell phone.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, P.J. Picasso did business with the guy. He could have called him about wine or something.”
“Or something,” P.J. repeated. “The girlfriend said Sands was real happy the past few days. Told her they might even get married and move to a bigger house somewhere. He was ‘in the money’ he told her.”
“But why would Picasso give money to a man he
Similar Books
