by Susie Gayle
“Mr. Sullivan? Your order is ready.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I take the brown paper bag and head back out to the car. Just as I’m about to get in, something catches my eye and I pause. A sign, about a half a block away.
I wander down the street a short distance, and sure enough, near the corner is a small office building with a sign out front that reads RACHEL STEIN, C.P.A.
So that’s where I’ve heard the name before. I may not have ever met the woman that serves as the fifth (now third) council member, but I’ve driven by her office literally hundreds, maybe thousands, of times.
Seaview Rock is a small town, to be sure, but that doesn’t mean I personally know or have met every person who lives here. Heck, there were a solid four years of my life that I tried my very best not to even leave the house—and wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for Sammy.
So this Rachel Stein is an accountant. Good to know. I stow that information away, shelving it for future use, and head back to the shop to bounce some ideas off of my smarter half.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
“So, what do you think?” I ask Sarah as we munch on Chinese food in our tiny back office. Basket the shop-cat sits nestled in the front pocket of her apron, while Rowdy lies at my feet.
“I think I prefer Wok N’ Roll. Their sauce is better, and this place doesn’t even give you chopsticks—”
“Sarah!”
“Sorry. I think better on a full stomach.” She takes a plastic forkful of sesame chicken and pops it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Okay, first off, I think it had to be someone that Mario trusted. He followed them into the manor at night after closing hours.” She frowns. “But that doesn’t help much. Not only could that be his brother or Birnbaum, but Mario was a respected developer and a town councilman. That’s too wide of a net to throw.”
“Whoever it was had to have access to the museum, right?” I suggest. “The doors were locked when the fire department arrived, so they must have gone in, killed Mario, started the fire, and locked up behind themselves when they left.” It’s not lost on me that, once again, that could be his brother or Ezekiel Birnbaum.
“Right, but Dalton Manor is a historic site, so the township would likely have access, too.” Sarah waves the fork, a piece of chicken speared on the end of it, as she speaks. “Which means that if Mario really wanted to get in there, he probably could—with anyone.”
“Okay, but what about the security system? Patty said it was pretty hi-tech. Would Mario have known how to disable it?”
“That I don’t know.”
“I bet Ezekiel Birnbaum would,” I venture. “If it’s his alarm system, he would know who he’s given access to.”
“I think the easiest place to start would be to find out who Mario Estes was last seen with and where,” Sarah adds.
“It’s a good idea, but the police would’ve thought of that already. According to Allison, Leo Estes was with their father. Apparently the guy isn’t doing so hot.”
Sarah nods. “What about surveillance tapes? If the security system is so advanced, there are probably cameras.”
“Patty definitely would have thought of that,” I say glumly. “We have to assume that they were tampered with or damaged by the fire.”
Sarah scrunches up her nose, which I’ve come to learn means she’s turning something over in her head. “What if... what if that was the purpose of the fire? What if it wasn’t to make Mario’s death look like an accident, but to destroy any evidence, including the surveillance system?”
I nod slowly. “The killer had to figure that the police would know right away that fires don’t break necks…”
“But if there were cameras, they were probably closed-circuit, and the easiest way to destroy them would be to just burn the place down and get out of there,” Sarah finishes my line of thinking.
“And outside of the cops, there’s one person that would know for sure if that happened or not—”
“Birnbaum.”
I jump up and grab my half-eaten carton of chicken lo mein. “I’m taking this with me.” Rowdy scrambles to his feet at my sudden movement. “You want to go for a ride, pal? Alright, come on.”
As we head for the door, Sarah calls out after me. “Will?” I pause and turn. She lowers her gaze to the floor and asks, “There’s an angle on this you’re not telling me about, isn’t there?”
“Yes. There is. I’m sorry.” I head out the door.
I let Rowdy into the backseat of my car, and then I start to climb into the driver’s seat when I notice a small piece of pink paper fluttering in the breeze under my windshield wiper. I tug it out. It’s a sticky note, folded in on itself. I peel it open and a shiver runs down my spine.
The note is just four little words, scrawled in a neat hand.
I know you know.
I look all around me, but there’s no one else here. I know you know. There’s only one thing that it could possibly refer to—which means there’s another player in the game that I don’t know about.
***
Thanks to the Seaview Rock website, I at least have a phone number for Ezekiel Birnbaum, but unfortunately when I call it no one answers. I think for a moment, and then plug the phone number into a search engine. The result comes up as Dalton Manor.
Makes sense; they wouldn’t list his home number on a township web page.
As I drive toward the coast, I talk aloud to Rowdy behind me. “It seems that there’s someone else involved beyond just Sammy and Tom Savage. Neither of them would have written me that note. So, what do they know I know? Do they know that I know about the blackmail scheme? Or do they know that I think the murder has something to do with the council?”
Rowdy grunts a little, but otherwise offers no assistance. Figures.
“One thing’s for sure: I’m not doing this to solve Mario Estes’ murder. I’m doing this to make sure that Sammy isn’t involved. That’s it. As far as the police are concerned, this is a murder, and they’ll do what they have to do.” The fact that we have two other possible suspects gives me a bit of hope that this isn’t about what I think it’s about, as odd as that sounds.
In my rearview mirror, Rowdy puts a paw over his eyes and whines a little, which I take to mean, whatever helps you sleep at night, man.
When we get to Dalton Manor, there’s only one other car in the lengthy driveway—a two-door silver sports car with a black soft-top. Who drives a convertible in coastal Maine? You could only use it for like four months out of the year.
But I think I know who it belongs to.
Rowdy follows me up the walkway to the porch, which is cordoned off with caution tape. He has no problem walking under it, so I shrug and do the same. Together we approach the tall, arching entrance. The wrought iron outer door squeaks terribly as I pull it open.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Either me and Sarah are right, and nothing will happen when I open this door, or else an alarm will start screeching and the cops will show up.”
I push the door open.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
Nothing happens. Well, I mean, the door opens, but nothing else happens.
I’ve only been inside Dalton Manor a handful of times, but all the same I’m shocked by how different it looks. The once magnificent foyer is dark, the walls stained by smoke, beautiful paintings sullied by the aftermath of the fire. I pause in front of one in particular, one that always stood out to me each time I came here—a painting of Seaview Rock from the vantage of the top of the Goose Point lighthouse.
“This was always my favorite,” I tell Rowdy. “Now look at it.”
“That was Mario’s favorite too,” says a male voice behind me.
I jump about two feet in the air before spinning to see a tall young man standing in the entranceway to the tea room with his hands in his pockets. I peg him to be in his early thirties, with a thin blond beard and long hair pulled up into a man-bun on the top of his he
ad (a fashion trend that, no matter how popular it gets, I simply don’t understand).
“Jeez, you scared me half to death,” I tell the stranger, though I’m fairly certain I know who he is.
He shrugs. “Well, I’m not the one snooping around where I’m not supposed to be.”
I frown. “Actually, you are. This is a crime scene.”
“Fair point.”
“So… you’re Leo Estes, aren’t you?” I can see a slight resemblance between him and Sharon, the only other Estes I knew personally.
He nods. “And you are?”
“My name is Will Sullivan. I own the pet shop downtown. I came looking for Ezekiel.”
“He’s around here somewhere. He wanted to see the damage.” Then he adds quickly, “He didn’t make me come. I wanted to see… for myself. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry about Mario,” I say awkwardly. I’ve never been terribly good at small talk.
Leo glances upward as if he’s inspecting the ceiling. “Yeah, well, the police won’t tell me anything other than that they reason to believe it was arson.” He shakes his head. “They made me give an alibi before they even told me that Mario was gone. They even questioned my dad. Unbelievable.”
“I, uh, heard about him, too. Sorry,” I say again.
“He’s been sick for months. I asked the police not to mention Mario to him, and I haven’t had the heart to tell him yet,” Leo admits. “First the thing with Sharon, and now this… the doctors say Dad’s on borrowed time anyway.” He forces a laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m prattling on to a total stranger.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
“Can I ask you something, Will? Would I be a bad person if I never told my dad about Mario?” Leo looks at me in the eye for just a split second, and I can see he’s fighting tears. “If I just let him go and he didn’t know about it… Would that be so bad?”
Jeez. What do I say to something like that?
“I don’t know, Leo,” I tell him. “I’m not really good with stuff like that.” Truth be told, I can’t honestly say I would tell my dad if I was in Leo’s shoes.
He smiles halfheartedly. “Yeah. Let me go find Ezekiel for you—”
“Wait. Before you do, let me ask you something. See, I’m, uh, with the fire department, too. Just to help us out on this, can you tell me if anyone else besides Ezekiel has the code to disarm the alarm system?”
He smirks a little. “You understand what this place is, right? It’s a museum, a tea room, an art gallery, and a gift shop. We have nine employees. They all have the code to get in and out.” His smirk vanishes. “Mario did, too. He could have gotten in anytime he wanted.”
“And I’m guessing that whoever did it made sure the surveillance tapes were destroyed?”
He nods, looking away again. “The fire was set in the art gallery… only a few feet from the equipment room, where the tapes and monitors were kept.” With a hopeful lilt in his voice, Leo asks, “Why do you ask? Do you know something about what happened here?”
I shake my head. “Not yet, but—”
“Excuse me,” Ezekiel Birnbaum interjects as he steps into the foyer from the corridor that leads to the gift shop. He eyes me, and then Rowdy, disdainfully. “Not only do you have no business being here, but we most certainly do not allow dogs in here.”
“No problem, I was just leaving,” I tell him. “But before I go, I was just hoping you’d be able to tell me where you were last night when the fire broke out. You seemed to have gotten here awfully fast.”
Birnbaum’s forehead creases as his eyebrows knit together angrily. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern. I’ve already spoken with the police, and told them that I was driving when the alarm company called me—”
“You told me you were at home,” Leo cuts in quizzically. “But you live clear across town.”
Birnbaum’s expression slackens. “Did I? Well, I must have been mistaken. I was definitely in the car. In fact, I was so close because I was heading to the Runside.” He folds his arms across his chest, almost defensively. “Now if you would, please leave.”
Leo and I exchange a glance.
“Alright. Thanks for your time,” I say to Leo, “and again, sorry for your loss.” I turn to leave and catch sight of that bird’s-eye-view painting again, my former favorite, now tarnished forever. “You said it was Mario’s favorite too, huh?”
“Yeah.”
I inspect it a little closer and see the signature scrawled in the lower-left corner. I turn to Leo, surprised. “You painted this?”
He nods. “It’s the only one of mine to survive the fire.”
“Well, you’re very talented.” I nod to him, shoot a quick scowl at Birnbaum, and Rowdy and I leave the manor.
As we’re heading back to my SUV, I hear the sound of feet hitting the asphalt. I turn to see Leo trot over to us. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, back at the manor, and then slips me a business card.
“Something’s fishy,” he says quietly. “If you find out what, give me a call?” Without waiting for an answer, he hurries back inside.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
Back in the car, I call Sarah to update her.
“So you were right about the murderer intentionally destroying the tapes. And that’s not all. Patty already confirmed Leo’s alibi; she even interviewed the father, who’s got one foot in the grave.”
“That poor family,” she says. “I can’t imagine what they’re going through… though I guess soon he’ll be the only one left.”
“Yeah. He’s thinking that maybe he shouldn’t even tell the father about Mario’s death.” Clearly I can’t tell Sarah everything—I can tell her about the odd inconsistency in Birnbaum’s story, but that might lead to her questioning what motive he’d have. And I can’t tell her that I suspect it might be a ploy to cut out opposition within the town council.
“Hey, by the way,” I tell her, trying to change the subject before she asks more questions, “you know that painting I really like, the one of the town from the lighthouse? Turns out that Leo Estes did that.”
“No kidding.”
“Anyway,” I tell her, “I’ve got one more pit stop to make, and then I’ll be back to the store.”
I pull into the parking lot of the bank and head inside. I know which office is Karen’s, so I skirt around tellers helping customers and peer inside. Karen sits behind her desk, tapping away at a keyboard computer, so I slink in and sit in one of the two guest chairs opposite her.
Instead of being surprised to see me, she holds up one finger in a motion that says, one moment. She taps away for nearly a full minute before she turns to me.
“Hi, Will. What can I do for you this fine day?”
A little over four years ago, Karen Bear was known to the world at large as Karen Sullivan. Then I discovered that she was having an affair, a product of (according to her) me spending too much time with “those animals,” when really I was just trying to grow my blossoming business. A short while later, she became my ex-wife.
She moved back to town about a year ago, and even more recently than that, she and Sarah became friends, frequently hanging out and doing whatever it is that women do when they say they’re “going out with the girls.”
I’ll admit I had—maybe still have—some trepidation about Karen being back in my life, even if just on the fringe of it, but I have to say that it does seem like Karen is a different person than she was back then. If I’m to ever believe that people really can change, I suppose that belief would start with Karen.
“I’m looking for some information,” I tell her. “About a woman named Rachel Stein.” Someone wise once said, “know your enemy,” and she’s the only one on the council I don’t know.
“You’re talking about Rachel Stein, the accountant, right?”
“Yes.”
Karen rolls her eyes. “What, you think just because we both wo
rk in finance that we automatically know each other? Like we have meetings or something?”
Now that she’s said it like that, I feel kind of dumb. Karen is a loan officer with the bank; I guess it doesn’t mean that she knows everyone who deals with money.
“Well, no,” I mutter. “I just thought that maybe…”
“Relax, Will. I’m messing with you. Yeah, I know Rachel. She handles a lot of Seaview Rock small businesses, and a lot of those businesses have come here for loans.” Karen leans back and smirks. “What do you want to know?”
“I guess, for starters, what kind of person is she?”
Karen shrugs with one shoulder. “I’ve only ever dealt with her professionally, but I would say she’s very… practical. She’s a by-the-book type. Thorough, too—almost annoyingly so.”
“Hm. Do you know if she’s ever been caught up in anything?”
“‘Caught up’? Like what, a scandal?” Karen snorts. “No, not likely. In fact, she used to be Seaview Rock’s treasurer, before she became a councilwoman—that was while we were still married. If I remember correctly, she was the one who discovered that the former mayor was skimming funds to build an addition on his house.”
Well, that’s a big ol’ dead end. “Alright. Thanks Karen.”
“What’s this all about, Will?”
“Oh, uh… I’m thinking about changing accountants. I wanted to make sure she’s legit.” I rise from the chair and start to leave. “Thanks again.”
Before I’m out the door, Karen says, “Are you sure this doesn’t have anything to do with your friend, Sammy?”
I freeze in my tracks. “What did you say?”
“Close the door, Will.”
My blood runs cold. How in the world would she know about that? I figure I have two options here. One is to pretend her comment means nothing to me and just leave. The other is to close the door and find out what she knows—which might as well be an admission of Sammy’s guilt, but might be the only way to find out what Karen may or may not know about it.