by Harper Lin
We crossed the street into the park and headed into the enclosed fields. I made sure the gate was closed behind me then hurled the ball as far as I could across the grass. Latte took off like a shot, his little legs going so fast that it almost looked as though he were flying.
I chuckled as I thought about the night before when I’d warned Matt he would probably go flying if he tried to run across the grass to my house wearing his slippers. I could just see it—Matt running, his robe flapping in the air, his foot slipping, and him falling ungraciously into the bushes. In my scenario, he wouldn’t have any injuries beyond a few scratches from the holly bush and the more significant one to his pride. I actually giggled as I thought it over.
Latte brought the ball back and dropped it at my feet. I tried not to cringe when I picked it up and drool covered my hand. I threw the ball and wiped my hand off on my shirt even though I knew it would be wet again as soon as Latte brought the ball back. I couldn’t bring myself to just stand there with a drooly hand while I waited to throw the ball.
My thoughts were light for the rest of our playtime. We played chase a little bit. The game started out with Latte running behind me and ended up with him sprinting back and forth across the field as I trailed behind. From my understanding, the family Latte had lived with before I adopted him had kids, and I had a feeling his love of chase was from time spent running around with them. Those little legs of his could really go, and my sneakers kept slipping in the dew-covered grass. Matt really would have gone flying if he’d tried to run in his slippers.
When Latte finally lay down in the grass, panting heavily, I picked up his leash so we could walk back home. His fatigued pace kept me from moving too fast, even though my mind was back on Mary Ellen and the mystery of the body in the alley. I wondered if Mike felt this way when he was on a case, as if every mundane life task was spent preoccupied with pondering the questions of a murder—or suicide, as the case may be.
Latte and I got home, and I left him to drink his water and sprawl out on the cool tile floor while I went upstairs to shower and get dressed. I thought about making myself a quick brunch but decided I would just grab a sandwich at the café. I tried to get Latte to go outside. He stared up at me from the floor as if I had lost my mind, so I bent down and scratched him behind the ears.
“I’m going to work now, but I’ll be back to check on you in a little bit, okay? You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are! Yes, you are! Mommy loves you!” I’d had the dog barely a couple of months, and I was already baby-talking him. I would have been embarrassed, but I was devoted to him to the point that I didn’t care what anyone else thought. I kissed him on his little doggie nose and headed out.
It was a short walk to Mary Ellen’s, down the street and then up a few blocks. I arrived at the alley in a matter of minutes. All signs of the previous night’s events were gone. No police tape, evidence markers, or stains on the pavement. Nothing at all to indicate a man’s body had lain there twelve hours earlier. Not even a bouquet of flowers to memorialize him. To me, that was even more tragic—no one seemed to miss the man at all. Unless, of course, the people who would miss him didn't know about his death yet—or they were the ones who’d killed him.
I walked past the alley and paused in front of Mary Ellen’s. If I went into her store, I would be deliberately disregarding Mike’s direction to stay out of it. Did I want to do that? Did I really want to get involved?
“Curiosity killed the cat,” I heard my mother’s voice say in my head.
“But satisfaction brought it back,” I whispered in response. I pushed the door open, the bell overhead jingling to announce my presence. Mary Ellen, normally the type to greet a customer as soon as they walked in, didn’t appear. “Mary Ellen?” I called. “Mary Ellen?”
My overactive imagination ran away with me, and I started worrying that Mary Ellen had been felled by whatever villain had killed the man in the alley. I glanced around for a weapon.
“Hi! How can I help you?” Mary Ellen called, emerging from the back room. A smile spread across her face when she spotted me. “Oh, hello, Francesca.”
“Hi, Mary Ellen. How are you?”
“I’m well, and yourself?”
I waited a moment for her to register that I wasn’t just politely trying to exchange idle pleasantries. I had been there the night before and knew how upset she’d been.
She sighed when she finally realized. “I’ve been better.”
“I can imagine. Do you have a minute to talk?”
Mary Ellen motioned around the shop. “Saturday mornings aren’t a very busy time for me. Most people come get their souvenirs before roll-over day.” All the weekly vacation rentals rolled over on Saturdays. With the previous week’s renters going out and the following week’s renters coming in, it made sense that everyone would get their souvenirs before the day they were desperately trying to beat the traffic out of town.
“We usually get slammed for about two hours on Saturday mornings—everybody trying to get coffee before they hit the road. In fact, it’s probably pretty crazy over there right now.”
“Sammy holding down the fort?”
“Yup. Becky and Amanda were scheduled to work, too, so she’s got plenty of helping hands.”
“You can’t fit much more than three people behind the counter, can you?”
“Not if anyone wants to be able to move.”
Mary Ellen chuckled. “Ah, well, why don’t you come into the back with me, and we can chat?”
I followed her to the back and took the same chair I’d sat in the night before. The table was now covered in an assortment of knitted items. I picked up an impossibly soft scarf and ran my hands over it.
“Did you make this?” I asked, knowing she was an accomplished knitter.
“I did,” she said proudly. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful. Even nicer than some of the stuff I saw in Bergdorf’s back in New York City.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“No, really! I’d swear it was cashmere.”
“That’s probably because it is,” Mary Ellen said. “Would you like a cup of tea?” She poured tea from the kettle she had sitting on a hot plate into a mug decorated with a beach scene and “Cape Bay!” in a scrawling script.
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
She eased herself into a chair to my right from which she could see out into the shop in case anyone came in. “So what did you want to talk about? Is it safe to guess you have your investigator’s cap back on?”
Did everybody in town know about that? “Well, I wouldn’t go as far as that. It’s just been on my mind. It’s so mysterious. Who was he? What was he doing in Cape Bay? Why would he kill himself practically out in the open like that?” I stopped and shook my head. “I don’t know. It just bothers me.”
Mary Ellen nodded and shifted in her chair. “Death is upsetting,” she muttered as she raised her mug to her lips.
I studied her for a moment. I suspected her mid-length curly blond hair got both its color and texture from a bottle. She didn’t wear much makeup, just a little around her eyes and a touch of red on her lips. She’d aged well for the most part. Other than a few scattered wrinkles, she looked almost exactly as she had when she’d first arrived in town. But at that moment, there was something else in her eyes—a guardedness, perhaps? Sadness? Fear?
“Were you here when the man, uh, died?”
“I was,” she said simply.
I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. I’d hoped it would be easier to get her to volunteer information without much prompting, but our conversation didn’t seem to be going that way. “Did—did you hear it?” I asked, lowering my voice as though that would somehow make my question less horrifying.
She fixed her pale-blue eyes on me for a second, her mug held in both hands at her mouth, then shifted her gaze back to the door. Her head bobbed in the slightest nod.
“It was a gunshot?”
; She paused then flicked her eyes to me, a scant smile playing at her lips. “For someone who’s not investigating, you certainly have a lot of questions.”
I blushed and looked down at the scarf I was still absently petting. “Mike told me to stay out of it.”
“I haven’t stayed single for a quarter century by obediently doing whatever a man tells me to do. Now tell me what you really want to know.”
I looked at her, silently trying to judge whether she was really going to answer my questions just on the basis of female solidarity. Based on her expression and my previous experience, I decided she probably was, so I went straight to my real questions.
“When I—briefly—saw the body in the alley, I saw a bag on the ground next to it. A bag with a bunch of stuff in it that looked like it was from your store.”
Mary Ellen nodded.
“Did he come in here?”
She nodded again.
“Just before he died?”
A third nod.
“Tell me.”
She took a deep breath and a sip of her tea. “It was just before closing. He came in, looked around a while, gradually selected some items, paid, left, and died.”
Well, that was one way to say it. I tried to think like a cop. What would Mike ask? What had Mike probably already asked when he had surely interviewed Mary Ellen himself? “What did he buy?”
“Oh, a bunch of things. A couple of those little key chains we have—the cheap, plastic ones, not the nice metal ones—a pair of earrings, a little stuffed bear, some of the Mason jar soups Sue Hodges makes, some marzipan, and, uh, I think that’s it.”
My mouth started watering at the mention of soup and marzipan. Sue’s Mason jar soups were perfect single-size servings of a wide variety of classic soups—chicken, tomato, vegetable, and, of course, New England clam chowder—that she made at home, pressure canned, and sold in a few local shops. They were divine.
And the marzipan! Mary Ellen got it from a local pastry shop. It was sweet and almondy and came in the cutest shapes.
There were the plain square-shaped, chocolate-covered ones, of course, but there were also flowers, hearts, and every kind of animal I could imagine. The designs were only limited by the skill of the person molding the dough. My favorites were the fruit and vegetable shapes. Biting into something that looked exactly like a tiny banana, carrot, or lime but tasted like candy always made me happy.
The thought made me hungry. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, and it was creeping up on lunchtime. If I could have raided Mary Ellen’s display case right then, I could have put away ten or so of those little candies.
“Francesca?”
“Hmm?” I looked up to see Mary Ellen looking at me expectantly.
“Are you there?” She smiled. “You look like you’re a thousand miles away.”
“Oh, sorry. I got distracted by the marzipan. Skipped breakfast this morning.”
Mary Ellen chuckled and stood up. She walked to a shelf and pulled down a plastic container. She brought it over to me and opened it. Inside were about four dozen tiny marzipan figures, and most of them were the fruits and vegetables I adored.
“Oh, no, I’m fine. Really.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the perfectly crafted little apple at the top of the container. A little leaf with delicate veins etched into it sprouted from the stem.
“Take it!” Mary Ellen pushed the plastic box closer to me.
Reluctantly, I took a piece of candy and sank my teeth into it. It was every bit as good as I’d hoped.
“So was that all you wanted to know? What the gentleman bought?”
“No.” I swallowed. “Although I am impressed that you remembered all those things he bought.”
Mary Ellen shrugged her slender shoulders. “He turned out to be a rather memorable customer.”
“I can see how that would happen.” I certainly would remember every detail about an encounter with a customer who died moments after stepping outside of my café. “Was he here with anyone?”
Mary Ellen shook her head.
“Did you see anyone outside?”
She shook her head again.
“Did you hear anything before the gunshot?”
Mary Ellen paused and then nodded.
I took a deep breath. I was about to find out something very important or be very annoyed. “What did you hear?”
“I heard the man yelling. I couldn’t understand all of it, but he was saying ‘no’ to someone. I don’t know who. I didn’t see. There was more yelling and then the gunshot. I didn’t go out to look. I didn’t even go to the door to lock it. I just closed myself in the back room and called the police.”
I didn’t blame her. No wonder she’d looked so shaken. I picked up a tiny marzipan carrot, complete with leafy stems. “So there was definitely someone else out there? You heard them?”
“Yes. Well—”
“What is it?”
“Like I said, I never actually saw anyone. And I heard yelling, but I don’t know if it was one voice or two. I can’t be certain.”
“Is there anything else, Mary Ellen? Anything you saw or heard that might not have seemed significant at the time? Anything at all?”
She thought for a moment as I nibbled on my “carrot,” feeling a bit like Bugs Bunny. Finally, she shook her head. “No, that’s all.”
I was disappointed. I don’t know what I’d hoped—maybe for Mary Ellen to tell me exactly who the dead man was. Who killed him and why. But all I’d gotten was confirmation he’d been in her store and bought souvenirs right before he died.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, dear.”
“It’s fine, Mary Ellen.” I smiled. “I appreciate you talking to me. And the marzipan. I could eat this stuff all day.”
“Well then, why don’t you take some with you?”
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ve had plenty.”
“It’s on the house, Fran. I’m not going to charge you for a little box of marzipan.”
“I was actually thinking of buying a jar or two of soup anyway.”
“Just take them. Consider it a thank you for you girls coming to check on me last night. I do appreciate it.”
Mary Ellen put a small assortment of the marzipan figures into a box. She put the candy and the soups I’d picked out into a bag and handed it to me. I was halfway to the door when a thought crossed my mind.
“Mary Ellen, the souvenirs the man bought last night—how did he pay for them?”
“By credit card.”
My heart pounded. I took a breath. “A real credit card? Not a gift card? Did it have his name on it?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 8
I took a deep breath. Mary Ellen had the most important piece of information in the case so far, and she hadn’t volunteered it. Had she told the police? Had Mike known who the dead man was when I’d talked to him the night before? Was there a reason he was keeping that information to himself? Was there a reason Mary Ellen hadn’t told me?
“What was his name, Mary Ellen?”
“Abraham Casey.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! I’ll never forget that man’s name or his face.” She walked to the cash register and punched a few buttons to open it. She pulled out a receipt and handed it to me. “See? Abraham Casey.”
I took the receipt and studied it. Abraham Casey’s signature was a mess, the way a doctor’s looks on a prescription pad. He’d signed his name with an A, squiggles, a C, and more squiggles, including one that dropped below the signature line. I gave the receipt back to Mary Ellen but didn’t let go when she put her hand on it.
“Actually, do you mind if I take a picture of it?” I caught her curious gaze and shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems like it could be important.”
“Certainly.” She withdrew her hand, and I laid the receipt down on the counter. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and snapped a few pictures of the receipt, focusing on the signature at the bottom.
>
“Thank you,” I said, slipping my phone back into my pocket. I turned to go and then turned right back around to Mary Ellen. “What did he look like?”
“He was nice looking. A little older than you. A little taller than me.” She gestured a couple of inches above her head. She was tall, probably close to five foot ten, so I guessed the man was about six feet. “His hair was short. Dark. He had brown eyes and little wire-rim glasses.” She curled her hands around her eyes to mimic glasses. “A beard.” She rubbed her cheeks. “Just a short one. He wore a navy blue polo shirt and a pair of khakis. Very neat. Very well groomed. He seemed like a nice man.” She shook her head. “It’s a shame.”
I nodded in agreement. “Thank you, Mary Ellen. For everything.” I lifted the bag to indicate I meant both the food and the conversation.
“Come by any time. I enjoy your company.”
I turned to go again then thought of another question before I made it out the door. If I were a detective, I would either be exceptionally bad at my job because I would only think of the most critical questions after I left, or I would be incredibly good at it because I would wear the suspects down, and they would confess just to keep me from coming back repeatedly with more questions.
“Mary Ellen?”
“Yes?”
“One more thing—did you give the police the man’s name?”
Mary Ellen hesitated. “No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, they didn’t ask.”
I was surprised. I’d noticed Mary Ellen seemed reluctant to volunteer information to me, but I hadn’t thought she’d be the same with the police. I wondered if she was hiding something.
“I was so shaken up when they were here, I didn’t even think about the credit card receipt. I only thought of it late last night.”
Well, at least that explained why she didn’t tell the police—if she was telling the truth, that is.
“So, are you going to tell them?”
Mary Ellen smiled, apparently noticing my concern that she hadn’t shared all the information with the police. “I called the officer this morning and left a message.”