by Anna Gerard
I tore my gaze from the empty slot to stare back at Mason. The same possibility obviously occurred to him, because his eyes widened and the black caterpillar brows shot skyward.
“I’d better call the sheriff.”
“You’d better call the sheriff,” I echoed almost simultaneously. Then, getting a grip, I added, “Wait, before we go off half-cocked, let’s talk this through. The murder happened Monday, and you’re just now noticing the knife is missing?”
“Well, I’ve been distracted,” he shot back, tone defensive. “It could have been gone as early as Monday. With all the hoopla, I’ve not been keeping up with things in the shop like I should have been.”
I gave him a sympathetic nod. “I can certainly understand that, especially since the murder happened in the alley behind you. But are you sure someone actually took the knife? Maybe they picked it up for a closer look and walked around a minute, then set it down somewhere else. People do that at the grocery store all the time.”
Mason took a steadying breath and nodded back. “You’re right, Nina. It’s probably on a shelf somewhere.”
We spent a few minutes searching up and down the aisles. For a combination antiques-and-collectibles shop, Mason’s place was surprisingly well organized and uncluttered, unlike the standard frumpy chaos of a thrift store. Anything out of place, particularly a knife, would be obvious.
But our scouring of the shelfs produced no AWOL knife. Either it was well hidden … or it had been taken. The question was, when? And the next question was, why?
“This isn’t good, Nina,” the man said, wringing his handkerchief between his hands. “If nothing else, it’s a liability. But if it’s been gone since before noon on Monday … well, that could be really bad. I mean, what if it turned out to be the knife?”
He trailed off, while I pictured some as-yet-unknown person slipping into the store and absconding with a vintage but quite serviceable blade. If it was the knife, as Mason had put it, how better to make sure the murder weapon couldn’t be traced back to the killer? Something stolen out of here wouldn’t have any handy purchase history from Amazon or a big-box store attached to it.
I took a steadying breath of my own.
“I think we were on the right track a minute ago,” I told him. “You should notify the sheriff’s department. It would take probably two seconds for them to determine if this set matches the knife the killer used. And then you’d know for sure whether the person with sticky fingers is a premeditated killer or just a run-of-the-mill shoplifter.”
Mason’s brows danced about in an even more alarming manner. “Premeditated?” he repeated, voice squeaking on that word. “I’m calling right now.”
He rushed past me back in the direction of the counter. By the time I rejoined him, he was already speaking to the sheriff’s office dispatch.
“Yes, I just discovered it was missing. Right, it was part of a set. Yes, we already looked, and it’s not anywhere else. Yes, I’ll be waiting right here.”
He hung up and shot me a nervous look. “They’re sending a deputy over. The dispatcher agreed it was a long shot but said they’d want to follow up anyhow.”
He paused, head drooping. “If it really was my knife that killed Greg, I-I don’t think I could forgive myself.”
I frowned a little at this last. Was this just Mason being his usual overly dramatic self, or was he deliberately laying it on thick? Even though his name was on the shorter column of my list, I hadn’t totally eliminated him as a suspect. Assuming the murder weapon did turn out to be his, how better to deflect suspicion than to have a witness present when he presumably discovered the missing knife?
Aloud, I merely said, “Mason, no one would blame you. Now, do you want me to stay with you until the deputy shows up?”
Not that I had any intention of leaving until I knew whether or not the murder weapon had come from the flatware set. I just didn’t want to be obvious about it. To my relief, he nodded.
“I’d be most grateful. Now, let’s put that horrible painting of yours back into its lovely frame while we wait.”
Barely had he completed the minor restoration when the electronic door buzzer sounded. Deputy Mullins, aka Horatio Caine’s younger brother, stepped in.
He whipped off his omnipresent CSI: Miami–style sunglasses and hung them off his shirt pocket while we went through the formalities. At the dispatcher’s earlier direction, Mason had left the box untouched on its shelf. The intros made, the shop owner walked the deputy to the back aisle and showed him the flatware box.
I, of course, trailed after them.
While Mason explained why he’d just noticed the loss, Mullins took photos of the box in situ, and then several close-ups of the various utensils. Finishing a final shot, the deputy stuck the camera back into his pocket and returned his attention to us.
“I think you’re in the clear here, sir. The murder weapon is a standard kitchen-style instrument. I’m assuming your missing knife matches the rest of these utensils, which are lots more ornate. So I’d say unofficially that your stolen property wasn’t involved in Mr. Bainbridge’s murder.”
“That’s good news,” Mason replied, dabbing his forehead with the hankie again. “Do you want to take the box with you anyhow?”
“Not necessary, sir … although I would ask that you remove it from the shelf and hold it somewhere safe for a couple of days, just in case. But I’m sure Sheriff Lamb will agree with my conclusion once she reviews these pictures and compares them with the actual knife.”
With those words, Mullins put back on his shades. We headed back to the counter, where I waited while Mason escorted him the rest of the way. Only when the door had closed after the deputy did I allow myself a small sigh.
I could likely take Mason off my list now. His distressed reaction to the whole knife thing had seemed legitimate. And if he ever did murder someone, I suspected his next act would be to confess to the first person he saw.
I was putting my restored painting back into the pillowcase when a subdued Mason rejoined me.
“I may have to go home and lie down a while after this,” he said with a groan, still dabbing with the hankie. “Though I guess I should move that box back into the storeroom first. Darn it all, I’ll have to piece out the utensils to sell them, since I don’t have a full set anymore.”
“What about video?” I suggested, and glanced toward the ceiling. “With all this expensive merchandise, don’t you have cameras all around the shop? Maybe you could review the tapes and see if you caught the shoplifter.”
He gave the handkerchief a careless wave.
“I used to have a system set up through my computer, but something got messed up with the software and it was too hard to fix. Besides, I don’t want my customers thinking I’m spying on them.”
“Well, you don’t want your customers pilfering antiques from your shelves, either,” I pointed out, though I understood where he was coming from. Small-town shopping equaled small-town friendliness, and security cameras kind of spoiled the effect.
Tempering that last small criticism with a smile, I said, “Thanks again for taking a look at my painting. Do I owe you anything for the appraisal?”
“Always on the house,” he replied, sounding more positive as he returned his hankie to his pocket with a flourish. “You find anything else you think qualifies for the Antiques Roadshow, bring it on by.”
A few moments later I was back outside. Painting tucked under my arm, I surveyed the square before me, squinting against the sun. At a little past ten thirty AM, the temperature was well on its way toward the usual summer highs; still, activity had picked up while I was in Mason’s shop. At least half of the angle-in parking spaces were full now, while a few tourists were making their rounds. The boiled-peanut guy was on his usual corner, getting his cart set up for the day.
A logoed television station truck that I didn’t recognize was slowly making its way down the street. So maybe the Penguin Suit Murder is still new
s, after all. I could see that someone in the passenger seat had stuck a handheld video camera out the open window and was panning the square. The vehicle slowed a little as it drew closer to me … looking for possible interview subjects?
Just in case that was their plan, I made a strategic retreat into the next door over, which of course happened to be the Taste-Tee-Freeze. Which happened to belong to another of the people on my list, namely, Jack Hill.
I’d added Jack’s name partly because of his outright enmity toward Bainbridge and partly because of the handyman thing. If I was going to hire him to build an arbor or do any other improvements, I needed to know he didn’t have some hidden agenda. Earlier, I hadn’t been quite sure how to go about that. But now it occurred to me that I had the ideal opportunity to put him to the test, courtesy of the nuns. I just needed to bait the trap.
Inside the Taste-Tee-Freeze it was darker and much cooler than the square. I waited for my eyes to adjust, and then saw Jack behind the counter. Best I could tell, it was just the two of us. No other customers yet, though given the relatively early hour, that was hardly surprising. Where Jill was, I wasn’t certain. Maybe in the storeroom?
No matter. If I was going to do this, I needed to do it while she wasn’t around.
Jack, meanwhile, had looked up from whatever he was doing. “Hi there, Nina. Out shopping?”
Smiling, I walked up to the counter. “I had to stop by and visit with Mason for a few minutes so he could appraise something for me. Then one of those TV news trucks came by, and I kind of ducked in here to hide.”
Which probably wasn’t the best opening line. But Jack didn’t seem to take offense. Instead, he shook his head. “Yeah, it’s like a plague. I hope the sheriff makes an arrest pretty quick. This whole murder thing hanging over the square isn’t doing much for business.”
It hadn’t done much for Greg, either, I was tempted to point out. Instead, curious to get Jack’s reaction, I replied, “That was pretty unexpected, the sheriff arresting Harry Westcott and then cutting him loose. I wonder why she decided he was a suspect.”
He gave me a sharp look. “I’m sure she had her reasons. He’s an actor, and they’re all a bit off, know what I mean? Jill wanted me to fire the guy the day he started, but he worked cheap and brought in the customers, so I kept him on.”
I frowned. This wasn’t quite the story Harry had told me. In his version, Jack was the one who’d wanted him gone.
Striving for a casual tone, I shrugged and replied, “Well, there were enough people around when it happened, so there’s a good chance someone saw something. The sheriff’s office probably has all sorts of tips being called in that we don’t know anything about.”
“Maybe. So, can I get you anything while you’re hiding out?”
“Sure.”
I could take a hint—besides which, he’d be more likely to agree to my request if I were a paying customer. And while I didn’t usually have ice cream for my midmorning snack, I was willing to make the sacrifice. I did, however, try for something somewhat healthy.
“A scoop of French vanilla with chopped pecans and cherries topped with praline sauce in a waffle bowl, please.”
Okay, maybe not that healthy.
“You got it.”
I watched with awe as he scooped out the vanilla, added my toppings, and then wielded knife and spatula like a Japanese steakhouse chef to fulfill my order in under thirty seconds. My ice cream customized, he scraped the chilly confection into its edible container, drizzled the praline syrup, and stuck in one of those flat wooden spoons.
Plopping everything onto a layer of napkins, he slid my order across the glass countertop toward me and asked, “Anything else, Nina?”
“Actually, yes.”
Feeling a bit nervous now, I glanced over to see if Jill had slipped into the shop during all the rolling and chopping. Even though she hadn’t, I leaned in a bit closer.
“You mentioned the other day about quoting me on some repairs,” I reminded him. “I’d really like to get that done, and I’ve got a perfect window of time when there won’t be any guests. The nuns who are staying with me have to go back to their old convent for a few hours tomorrow, so I was hoping you’d drop by in between your busy times. Maybe around two?”
Jack glanced around, as if also looking for Jill. Then he nodded. “Yeah, I think I can break free around then. It shouldn’t take too long to check out things, especially since I already know what to look for. And then I can email you a quote.”
“That would be great.”
I hesitated, like a thought had just occurred to me … which it had, since I’d forgotten I needed an excuse not to be there. I added, “I almost forgot; I have to take my Australian shepherd to the groomer tomorrow. How about I leave a spare key behind the front-door screen? That way, if I’m not back by the time you get there, you can go on in without me.”
He nodded again. “Sure. I know the place, so I don’t need you to show me around. And, no offense, but I can get things done a lot faster without anyone looking over my shoulder.”
Which was exactly what I had in mind.
“Perfect,” I told him. “Here’s my number”—I paused and scribbled my cell number on a napkin—“in case there’s any change of plan. Just lock up when you leave and put the key back in the same spot. And then you can let me know what you think needs fixing.”
I handed him my money and took my change; then, juggling both the painting and my bowl of ice cream, I headed out as a cluster of noisy preteens were making their way in.
It wasn’t easy to eat while simultaneously hauling a bad Picasso knockoff, but I managed to do it. By the time I reached the house, I was down to the final bite of waffle bowl and definitely feeling the calorie rush. I put the painting back in the closet and then found the sisters in the parlor, knitting and reading.
“I’m back,” I announced unnecessarily, bending to give Mattie a pat when she trotted over to greet me. She accepted the tribute, but a scratch behind the ears wasn’t what she was looking for. Instead, blue and brown gaze fixed expectantly on me, she sat and raised a paw.
I smiled. “And here I thought my pupper loved me for me.”
I unwrapped the bite of waffle bowl I’d been saving and tossed it her direction. She caught it in midair with a neat snap of her jaws and swallowed the piece whole.
Sister Mary Christopher had been reading when I walked in. Now she dropped the slim volume into her lap and gave Mattie an enthusiastic little clap.
“Such a clever dog. Do you know, Nina, that I’ve taught her how to pray? Watch.”
So saying, she put aside her book and stood.
“Mattie, up. Now, be a good girl and say your prayers,” she told the dog, and demonstrated by bringing her hands, palms together, to her lips.
The Aussie promptly stretched forward with her front paws, rump tilting up, and then dropped her fuzzy muzzle onto her extended legs.
I gave a delighted laugh as Mattie sat back up again, looking pleased with her doggy self.
“How clever … both of you,” I told the nun. “I’ll be sure to add that to her repertoire.”
Then, changing topics, I asked, “Will Sister Mary Paul be making lunch for you again? If so, I’ll set up the dining room … or will you be going out?”
“Don’t worry, Nina,” Mother Superior spoke up, setting aside her knitting. “The nice young man from the Piggly Wiggly stopped by a few minutes ago. We called up and ordered … what do they call those, Mary George?”
“Hoagies,” the younger nun said with a smile. “As you can see, Nina, we’re broadening our food horizons while we’re here. Mr. Westcott told us that the supermarket deli makes an excellent sandwich, so we decided to give them a try.”
“That’s right,” Sister Mary Julian bellowed. “And tonight, we’re going to order in Chinese from a place called the Dancing Tiger!”
“Sounds great,” I assured her. “Since you have everything under control, I’ll stay o
ut of your hair.”
Leaving Mattie to hang with her nun friends, I headed upstairs. Time to let Harry earn his ridiculously cheap keep around here.
The hidden door was propped open, the better to get a little AC up into the tower until we found another solution. I called up the ladder/stairway, “Harry, are you there? I need to talk to you.”
I heard a muffled response but couldn’t make out the words. “Harry,” I called again, “I’m coming up there. If you’re not decent, you’ve got about ten seconds to rectify the situation.”
I heard another semi-inaudible response, this time making out the words talk to you. Taking that as permission, I climbed up to the tower room landing.
Harry was on his hands and knees, halfway in—or maybe halfway out of?—the room’s small closet, no doubt the reason his voice had been muffled. He scooched out the rest of the way and walked over to join me, swiping at the dust and cobwebs that clung to him.
“I thought you already cleaned everything,” I told him, surprised at his condition. Forging on, I asked, “You wanted to talk about something?”
He hesitated, glancing about him as if he was afraid someone had crept up the ladder after me. My curiosity kicked up a notch. But all he did was shrug.
“You first. What did you want to ask me?”
“I need you to do something tomorrow … something that will require all your acting skills.”
He cocked his head, reminding me of Mattie in her quizzical mode. Tone cautious, he said, “Go on.”
“While I was out on the square earlier, I had a chat with Jack Hill. I’m still not convinced he doesn’t know something about Bainbridge’s murder. Plus there’s the whole thing about this supposed repair quote he did for your aunt, but nothing he quoted needs fixing. I want to get to the bottom of this, for no other reason than I need to hire a handyman, and Mason recommended him.”
“So what’s that got to do with me?”