How did she know? “Ohio originally. But I’ve lived in Maine for more than twenty years.”
“And your husband buys you teapots,” Irene said, taking one of the mugs. “Lucky you. By the time you’re my age, you’ll have a real collection.”
I nodded and took a sip of tea. I didn’t like discussing Michael with strangers, but I also didn’t like pretending he was still alive, which Irene clearly thought he was. “He died ten months ago.”
The mug halfway to her lips, Irene froze for a fraction of a second. “My large mouth,” she said. “I place my foot in it on a regular basis.”
“No, not at all,” I said. “How were you to know?”
“But you’re so young,” Norma said.
“Am I?”
“What happened to him?” Irene said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
I had the feeling Irene asked what she wanted to, when she wanted to. She was a bit of a bulldozer. “He died of cancer.”
“That’s a bad one. That took my Jack.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been seven years. But how about you? Ten months isn’t long.”
I nodded, a little embarrassed that the conversation had so rapidly turned to me and Michael. “I’ll be fine. What I want to do right now is find out what happened to Ray.”
“I’d like to find that out myself,” Irene said. “That’s why I wanted you out here, sight unseen. That man had ten more years in him, if you ask me.”
“But who would want to hurt him?” Norma said, wearing a puzzled expression as she cradled her mug.
I answered quickly, as if I had no doubt. “The same person who murdered Alana Williams six years ago.”
Norma and Irene stopped drinking their tea and stared, waiting for me to explain myself.
I was taking a risk, telling strangers about Ray’s memoirs and his concerns about Alana’s murder, but I spent the next few minutes filling Irene and Norma in on what I knew, leaving out my visit to his house and my conviction that it had been searched. “It’s clear to me that Alana’s killer believed Ray was getting close to something that would solve the case,” I went on. I hastily added, “Though I haven’t a clue what that might be.”
“Irene here was questioned by the police,” Norma said in a goading tone.
“I have a feeling our visitor knows that,” Irene said. “Correct, Kate?”
“May I ask why they questioned you?” I said.
“I offered my services.”
“They didn’t haul her in,” Norma added.
Irene cleared her throat. “I let them know Alana was having an affair with Nick Foley, the owner of Foley’s Nursery.”
I think my eyes bugged out.
“It wasn’t an affair in the truest sense,” Irene went on, “since neither of them were married. Nick still isn’t. They weren’t cheating on their spouses, but oddly enough, they behaved as though they were.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I saw them in Foley’s Nursery more than once,” Norma said. “All I’ll say is that it was more than obvious what was going on. I couldn’t bear the idea of going down to the station, so Irene spoke up for me and left my name out of it. I think the nursery was where they went for their”—she wiggled her fingers and looked to Irene for help—“what do you call it? Assignments?”
“Assignations. And they likely went any number of places, Norma. You just happened to see them there. They were trying to keep their relationship secret, though why is anyone’s guess.”
“Did you talk to Detective Rancourt?” I asked Irene.
“Only a few minutes. He wasn’t terribly interested in what I had to offer. I think I was just a nosy old lady confirming what the police already knew.”
“What did you think of him as a detective?”
“I wasn’t impressed.” She trained her eyes on me, locking them in place.
“He didn’t take you seriously.”
“I don’t think he took the case seriously.”
I took a long sip of tea and then kept my mouth firmly shut. I knew nothing about these ladies, so it wasn’t wise to share all my fledging theories with them. I suspected Rancourt. Simple fact. Who was in a better position to get away with murder than the detective investigating it? When I set down my mug after the longest sip in the world, Irene was still watching me. Like a hawk.
I leaned back in my chair, affecting an ease I didn’t feel. It was time to switch subjects. “Irene, the cashier at Foley’s told me you were with Ray when he looked at an orchid. A Paph, she called it.”
“So?” she replied. “What of it?”
Was Irene refreshingly candid or just rude? The more we talked, the more my opinion seesawed between the two. Or maybe, approaching seventy-five or eighty, she simply didn’t care to waste time.
Norma pushed a strand of wispy gray hair behind one ear. “Did you buy an orchid? For a woman who won’t buy a new teapot, you’re throwing away a lot of money on plants.”
“I’ve never bought an orchid,” Irene said. “But they’re fascinating plants. Of course I’m interested in them. And as you well know, almost all my plants come from cuttings and my own seeds.”
I decided to go for it. Irene, growing testier by the minute, could throw me out of her house, but she’d probably thrown most of the people she knew out of her house at one time or another. “Ray owned your booklet on fairy lore in Smithwell, and I noticed that one of the plants you wrote about is the Paph orchid.”
“Yes?”
She was a tough nut to crack. “I think Ray believed in fairies, and that’s why he wanted the orchid.”
Irene gave a humorless snort. “Oh, God rest his soul, but it’s ridiculous. There are no such things.”
“But you wrote a pamphlet about fairies,” I said.
“Fairy lore, Kate.” Irene stood and gathered our mugs, taking Norma’s right out of her hands. “Ray liked to believe in many things,” she said, setting the mugs in her sink. “I believe in what I can see. No more, no less.”
“But what if that isn’t all there is?” I asked.
Irene spun back. “Of course that’s all there is. That’s why we have eyes in our heads and a head on our shoulders.”
CHAPTER 11
“Irene, what’s got into you?” Norma said. “You’re not rude like this. You’re a little rude, but not like this.”
Irene shot Norma a quick, pinched-lip smile before turning her eyes to me. “The subject bothers me. Ray . . .” She looked down at her fingers, examined her nails, and shrugged. “I worried about him. And not because I thought he’d pick the wrong mushrooms or end up murdered.”
“Then why were you worried?” I asked.
When she sat again at the table, her words came tumbling out. “I worried about him living alone. Yes, I know, I live alone, but I wasn’t seeing things, was I? And Ray was. He was becoming like a child—like a child having hallucinations, I should say. I imagined him wandering off on his own, getting lost—all sorts of things. Finally, I had to stop thinking about him or I couldn’t sleep at night. He’d never bought orchids before, and all of a sudden he talked about buying an orchid he couldn’t afford, and all because of my pamphlet. I’ll tell you something else, and it breaks my heart to say.” She rapped the table with her fist. “If he saw things that weren’t there, I’m not sure his memory of Alana’s murder scene can be trusted.”
Intrigued, Norma leaned in. “What did he see that wasn’t there?”
“He never told you?” Irene said. “He never talked about fairies?”
“Sure he did,” Norma said with a grin, “but he never told me he saw them.”
“Well, he told me,” Irene said.
You could have heard a pin drop. Or a fairy’s wings flutter.
“What? When?” Norma said. “Really? He was joking with you. He must have been. Ray did have a sense of humor. You’re joking, aren’t you?”
Irene lowered her head and stared at Norma o
ver the top of her glasses. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Where did he see these fairies?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Irene said. “The woods, I suppose. That’s where he was most of the time. He never said exactly where. Does it matter?”
“No, I guess not.” I was oddly cheered by the fact that Ray hadn’t told Irene he’d seen these fairies in his own house or garden, and that he obviously hadn’t mentioned Minette by name. A woman as no-nonsense as Irene might swing a shovel at one of the little creatures, thinking it was a flying mouse or giant bee. “He said fairies, plural?”
“He very distinctly used the plural,” Irene said. “Why? What’s got your curiosity piqued?”
“I wish I would have talked to him more, that’s all.”
“He didn’t tell you he saw fairies?” Irene asked.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“When I was young, I heard the Smithwell woods were full of fairies,” Norma said, smiling at the memory. “My grandmother used to tell me tales she heard from her grandmother. She told us about pixies too, who aren’t as nice as fairies and prefer spruce trees to maple, birch, and cedar trees.”
“Stories like that go a long way back,” Irene said. “Hence my booklet on the subject. Ray said fairies loved this time of year. The autumn leaves, the nuts and berries and moss. Hiding in jack-o-lanterns.”
“That’s so sweet,” Norma said.
“That’s crazy,” Irene countered.
“I lean more toward Norma’s assessment,” I said. It was time for me to leave. Strangely, I was enjoying Irene’s company, but I wasn’t interested in hearing more about Ray’s delusions. “Thanks very much, ladies. I’d better get going.”
Irene stood at the same time I did. “You’re upset. I’m sorry I told you about Ray and fairies. Forget about all that. He was a good man, one of the best, and we’ll miss him.”
“No worries,” I said. “I’m not shocked.”
“I never could’ve imagined he saw fairies,” Norma said. “But you know, sometimes I think . . .” Her words trailed off, and I sensed that she wasn’t quite as convinced as Irene was that Ray was seeing things, though she wasn’t willing to contradict her friend.
Not wanting to press Norma on the point, I said my goodbyes and headed out to my Jeep. I rolled down the driver-side window to let in the fresh air, maneuvered around, and drove back down the driveway for Whitcomb Hill Road. My orchid looked none the worse for wear, having sat in my car for the past two hours, but according to the plant’s tag, this was a temperate orchid, not a hothouse one, and it didn’t like the heat.
In assessing Ray’s critical faculties, Irene had lacked one crucial piece of information: Ray had indeed seen fairies. Or at least one fairy. And so her argument that Ray was losing it, that he saw things that weren’t there and so had probably misremembered Alana’s murder scene, didn’t hold water.
The late afternoon sun flickered through the trees along the road, striking autumn leaves and setting them aglow. Mid-October was one of my favorite times of year, a balancing act between early October’s leaf-peeping season and the end of all that lushness, signaled by November’s arrival. By the middle of October, almost half the leaves had fallen in my part of Maine, but when it rained, as it often did, the trees’ wet, black bark shone like slate, underscoring autumn’s beauty.
The sight was intoxicating, but I didn’t drive slowly, as I usually did. Irene was wrong about Ray’s memory, and I didn’t have a lot of time to prove it. Ray had told me that his father once said murder cases started to go cold in just twenty-four hours. In forty-eight hours, the likelihood of catching your killer plummeted like a boulder off a cliff.
“It’s not going to happen, Ray,” I said out loud. “Detective Rancourt or not. Emily and I are on this, and we’re not giving up.”
I drove for downtown Smithwell—my intention was to visit Town Manager Welch—wondering if I should also visit the police station. The police were public servants, and as such, they wouldn’t mind me asking them about the death of my neighbor. So I told myself. And if I had enough gumption, I’d ask Detective Rancourt what he and Ray had disagreed about in Hannaford’s. But at that moment, Welch was a less daunting figure than Rancourt, so it was Welch first.
I made a right onto Falmouth Street, Smithwell’s main road. Downtown was a cluster of brick buildings end on end, occasionally a clapboard house-turned-office building in between, centered on Falmouth and the corners of four cross-streets: Essex, Front, Water, and Pleasant. Driving north, a magnificent brick church came into view, its tall, white steeple and clock tower looming over the lesser buildings of downtown. My own church was in a much less impressive structure, but the sight of this brick behemoth never failed to cheer me.
As I parked on Essex, just off the corner of Falmouth, a fine, hard rain began to fall. I rolled up my window and dashed down the sidewalk for the Town Office on the corner of Falmouth and Water. It was another imposing building, in a sense out of proportion for our small town: a three-story brick Colonial Revival structure with two Doric columns flanking the entrance. By the time I made it up the building’s short flight of steps, I was soaking wet.
I jammed my fingers in my hair, shook out the rain, and then studied the directory sign in the lobby. In our town, it wasn’t out of the question to pop in on the town manager, but my business with him was, well, none of my business. Unless I made it my business, which I resolved to do. I steeled myself, headed down the hall, and rapped on his open door.
Conner Welch looked up from his desk. “Yes?” he said in a gruff voice.
“Have you got a moment?” I stepped hesitantly into his office.
“Um . . .” He glanced at his watch, furrowed his brow, and sighed, letting me know what a busy man he was and how gracious he was about to be, letting me enter his hallowed office. “A couple minutes, that’s all.”
I didn’t like the man. I had never liked the man. He’d risen from selectman at thirty-eight to town manager at forty-two in last year’s election. I hadn’t voted for him, and I never would. But I smiled, pretended gratitude, gave him my name, and asked if I could sit.
“Go ahead. Just a couple minutes is all I’ve got.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his wide and slightly plump body.
With that time limit pressing on me, I dove in. “Ray Landry was a good friend of mine. I’m sure you’ve heard about his death.”
“Yes. It’s very tragic.”
“The police ruled his death a homicide.”
“I heard. What can I do for you?”
“Ray told me he ran into you and Martin Rancourt at the Hannaford the day before he died.”
“I remember.”
“He was concerned about something—enough so that he spoke to me about it the next day.”
“Is that right?
“He was surprised to hear you talking about the murder of Alana Williams with Detective Rancourt.”
“Why was he surprised? It was a remarkable event in Smithwell. Another tragedy.” He dropped his arms and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, but I must be missing your point. What’s the question?”
I could play it safe and get zip in return or I could risk telling Welch, who might have killed Alana and Ray, what I knew and possibly reap a dividend. I chose the risk. “Ray said that he and Rancourt had a disagreement over the case.”
“What was that?”
He was going to play it dumb. “That’s what I’m here to ask you. Ray said you were there when it happened.”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember. You can ask Detective Rancourt. The police station is right next door.”
“The police questioned you and your sister, Sheila Abbottson, about the case.”
“This was a long time ago.”
Until that moment, I’d only guessed that the police had questioned Welch as well as his sister Sheila.
“Your sister was seen arguing with Alana.”
Welch g
lanced out his office window, back to me, and then at the clock above his door. As he turned his head side to side, I noticed his almost nonexistent sideburns, freshly shaved to the top of his ears in an out-of-date style that I had never liked on anyone and liked even less on him. It was all there in his haircut. He was a boy, a brat. If we were lucky in Smithwell, he’d move on to state politics, loaded with little boys, and leave us alone.
“I just want to know what Ray heard Rancourt say that worried him.”
“You’ll have to ask him, Mrs. Brewer.”
Admittedly, he had a fair point, but I’d hoped to avoid asking Rancourt that question. I stood, thanked him, and started for the door.
“And leave my sister out of whatever fascination you have with the Williams murder,” he added.
I kept walking.
CHAPTER 12
The rain had slowed by the time I left the town manager’s office, but I still hurried to the police station next door, worried that Rancourt was about to clock out for the day. Before I reached the station’s front desk, I saw the detective talking with Marie St. Peter, waving a folder about, looking as pressed for time as Welch had been. Suddenly I felt queasy, a sensation I put down to nerves and an empty stomach.
The moment St. Peter walked off, I steamed toward Rancourt. No time like the present. I caught up with him at his office door.
“Detective Rancourt?”
He wheeled back. “Yes?”
“My name is Kate Brewer. You talked to my neighbor, Emily MacKenzie, this morning about Ray Landry.”
He answered me with a grunt and a chin nod.
“Can we talk a minute?” I asked.
Rancourt squinted, deepening the furrows in his crow’s feet. “About?”
“About Ray Landry.”
He eyed his desk, made a petulant sound—rather like air escaping a balloon—and gestured for me to enter. His office was small but bright, thanks to a window on the outside wall, a large glass pane between his office and the rest of the station, and an ugly brass light fixture in the middle of his ceiling.
“Mrs. Brewer, you were interviewed by Officer Bouchard?” he asked.
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