Claw Enforcement

by Sofie Ryan

  “That’s what you were doing at the library before we went to talk to Stella. You were looking for books about poison.”

  Rose smiled. “You’re never too old to learn.” One eyebrow went up. “And I now know sixty-seven ways to kill a person without getting caught.”

  Mr. P. leaned toward me. “Don’t get on her bad side,” he stage-whispered.

  I put a hand up to my mouth and leaned toward him. “I’m starting to think that could be a very bad idea.”

  He closed the laptop and put it back in his messenger bag just as two women came in the front door. “Bring Alfred up to date on what we learned from Nicolas,” Rose said. “I’ll take care of the customers.”

  “All right,” I said. “Call if you need me.”

  Mr. P. and I headed for the Angels’ office and I explained what Nick had told us about the possibility that the poison hadn’t been in something Christopher Healy drank.

  “That changes things,” Mr. P. said as he unpacked his messenger bag. “There are a lot more possibilities both for where the young man was poisoned and by whom.”

  “I had the same thought,” I said. “I think the only thing we can do for now is try to eliminate the suspects we have before we start looking for more.”

  Mr. P. nodded. “I agree. I’ll do a little more digging to see if I can find any indication that Robb Gorham has visited his sister recently.”

  I headed back to the shop to help Rose. It turned out the two women were looking for a linen tablecloth large enough to fit a seventy-two-inch round table. The daughter of one of the women was marrying the son of the other and together they were hosting a dinner for the wedding party.

  We didn’t have any plain white linen tablecloths of that size, so I brought out one with a gorgeous blue rose design and a border of pale blue crocheted lace. The two women looked at each other and smiled. “It’s beautiful,” the mother of the groom said. “We’ll take it,” the mother of the bride said. There was a brief disagreement at the cash register over who was paying but Rose quickly settled that by offering to take half the payment from each of them.

  “I think you were a diplomat in a past life,” I said once the customers had left.

  She patted my cheek. “I was a middle-school teacher, sweetie,” she said. “It’s the same thing, only with hormones.”

  I grinned at her. “Mr. P. is checking both of the Gorhams’ social media, looking for anything that can put Robb Gorham in Boston within the past month.”

  “We have to talk to him again in person,” she said. “But before we do that, I want to talk to Mr. Roswell.”

  “Have you figured out how to make that happen?” I asked.

  “I have,” she said with a smile that gave me a twinge of nervousness. “I’ve been getting the runaround from Mr. Roswell and I’ve had enough of this dancing-all-around-the-barn foolishness. I decided it was time to call in the big gun.”

  “The big gun?” I said.

  “Bang!” a voice said behind me.

  I turned around to find Liz standing there. The twinge of nervousness turned into a knot of anxiety. “You’re going to get an appointment to see Joe Roswell? I thought you were the one who said he’s spending all his time with his lawyers?”

  “What have I always told you?” Liz asked.

  I frowned and pulled on one earlobe. “I need to wear heels more often because they make my legs look longer. I should shave my legs more often to go with the high heels. And never say no to cake.”

  “All true,” Liz said. “And how about it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission?”

  “Ah, so you’re going to blindside the man?”

  She smoothed a wrinkle from her pumpkin-colored sweater. “That’s a rather harsh word. I prefer to say we’re going to stop by unannounced. And if the man had just made himself available to talk to us we wouldn’t be in this position.”

  “‘We’?” I said. The knot of anxiety had just twisted itself into a very bad feeling.

  “We,” she replied firmly, as though it was a done deal which, I realized, it was.

  I walked over to her and draped my arm around her shoulders. She smelled like lemons. “And when are we going to pay this visit to Mr. Roswell?”

  “The sooner the better. I was thinking this afternoon.”

  “And what if I can’t go?”

  Liz laughed. “What else would you be doing? You work and then you work.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, a little more indignantly than I’d intended. “It’s Thursday.”

  Liz waved away my words. “Yes and you’re going to Sam’s. With Jess and Nicolas. Big whoop. That’s not until tonight. One thirty. This afternoon. Be ready.”

  Big whoop? I struggled not to laugh at one of Avery’s expressions coming out of Liz’s mouth. “Fine. I’ll be ready.” I kissed her cheek and dropped my arm. “I’ll be up in my office.” I headed for the stairs.

  “There are cookies,” Rose called after me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “A little lipstick wouldn’t hurt,” Liz added.

  I smiled. “I love you,” I said over my shoulder. I knew what her reply would be.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Everybody does.”

  I was printing out the orders from the website with Elvis randomly poking a paw at the keyboard and generally getting in the way when someone knocked on my door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  I smiled when I saw Mac. “Hey, you’re not going to believe this. You know that ugly vase, the one with the big yellow birds?”

  “The one you said was so ugly no one would buy it?”

  I nodded. “That’s the one; it looks like I’m going to have to eat my words. It sold.”

  Mac smiled. “How about eating those words over a late lunch?”

  I groaned. “I can’t. Liz and I are going to talk to Joe Roswell. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “Some other day then.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “It’s just been so crazy lately.”

  “It really is okay, Sarah,” he said. He gestured at the computer. “I better let you get back to it.”

  He was gone before I could say anything else. I looked at the cat. “Maybe I should listen to Liz. Maybe I should just walk up to Mac and lay a big ol’ kiss on him.”

  Elvis gave an enthusiastic meow and lifted a paw in the air. It seemed everyone had an opinion on my love life.

  * * *

  * * *

  Liz picked me up right on time. I’d brushed my hair and my teeth, applied my favorite rose-colored lipgloss and removed the cat hair from my pants. Liz looked me over and nodded her approval. She tossed me her keys. “You can drive,” she said.

  I adjusted the seat and mirrors and we pulled out of the parking lot. “No jokes about Driving Miss Daisy?” she said.

  I shook my head. “I think we’re more like Smokey and the Bandit this time.”

  “So am I Burt Reynolds or Sally Field?” Liz asked.

  “Well, I am driving, so technically I should be the Bandit, but we both know in the movie that would be you. So I guess that makes me Sally Field.”

  “Frog,” she said.

  I glanced over at her. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re Frog. That was the name they gave Sally Field’s character in the movie. Burt Reynolds was Bandit. Sally was Frog.”

  “I want a better nickname next time,” I said.

  Liz laughed, then out of the corner of my eye I saw her expression grow serious. “I met him once, you know,” she said.

  “You met Burt Reynolds?” The car in front of me slowed down to make a left turn so I looked over at her again. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you just drop into conv
ersation. ‘Oh by the way, I met Burt Reynolds.’”

  “No. It’s exactly the kind of thing you drop into conversation. So where did you meet Burt?”

  “At a party in Atlanta. It was years ago, right after Jack died.” Jack Kiley, Liz’s first husband was a history professor. I knew that he had consulted on several movies. That was probably why Liz had ended up at a party where Burt Reynolds was in attendance. “Burt was very charming,” she continued.

  “This story doesn’t end the same way as Rose dancing with Steven Tyler did, does it?” I asked.

  “No, it does not,” she said firmly. “Although . . . I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

  “And luckily we’re here,” I said, pulling into a parking spot that was about as close as we were going to get to where the construction on the harbor front was being done. We got out of the car and I locked it, putting the keys in my bag. I gestured over my shoulder. “I think the fastest way to the offices would be that way.”

  “Oh we’re not going to the office,” Liz said. “We’re going to Sam’s.”

  “You think Joe Roswell will be at the pub?”

  She started down the sidewalk. “I have spies everywhere.”

  I scrambled after her. I let the spy remark slide; I had a feeling it might be true.

  The lunch rush was over so it was quiet at The Black Bear. Joe Roswell was seated at a table near the front windows. He wore brown canvas work pants and a denim work shirt over a gray long-sleeve T-shirt with the sleeves rolled back. I could see that my original guess that he was somewhere in his fifties was accurate. He got to his feet as we approached the table. “Mrs. French, hello,” he said.

  “Mr. Roswell.” Liz gave him a cool, professional smile as they shook hands.

  He turned to me then. “And you’re Liam’s sister, Sarah, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” I said. “Liam warned you we were coming.” How had he known?

  Joe smiled. “He mentioned you’d probably want to talk to me at some point, although he thought it wouldn’t be quite so soon.”

  Just a general warning, I realized.

  “May we join you for a minute?” Liz asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  Liz and I sat down and Joe took his seat again. I hadn’t noticed Sam when we walked in, but he was on his way over to the table with the coffeepot.

  “Liz, would you rather have tea?” he asked.

  “No, coffee is fine, Sam, thank you,” she said.

  He poured a cup for her and one for me. Then he topped off Joe’s cup. He had to have been curious about what we were doing at the table, but he didn’t let that show in his face, although his hand did rest on my shoulder for a moment before he left.

  Joe added a little cream to his coffee. The nail on the index finger of his right hand was bruised black. There were several half-healed scratches on his arm and what I was pretty sure were a couple of stitches on the back of his hand.

  “Broken light fixture,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling a little confused. “I’m not following you.”

  He held up his hand. “You noticed the stitches. A light fixture in one of the hotel’s meeting rooms slipped when it was being installed. I grabbed for it.” He shrugged. “Force of habit. Bruised a finger and got a piece of glass stuck in the back of my hand. Your brother took me to the ER.” He took a drink of his coffee, then set the mug down. “So what would you like to know?” he asked.

  “I’m assuming Liam told you we’re looking into Christopher Healy’s death,” Liz said without any preliminary small talk.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Joe said, leaning back in his chair. “I had no reason to want him dead.”

  “You thought he cheated you out of that piece of property at Gibson’s Point,” I said.

  “He did cheat me out of that land. So I sued him. That’s how the system works. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t need to. From the beginning my lawyer has been confident that a judge is going to rule in my favor.”

  Liz took a sip of her coffee. “The whole thing was costing you money and time.”

  Joe shrugged. “Time I have, and as for the money, you’ve probably heard the old saying, sometimes you have to spend money to make money.”

  “Margins are small sometimes in the building business,” Liz said.

  Joe smiled. “You heard about Portland. Okay, yeah, I got a bit overextended and yeah, things were tight for a while, but there’s an offer on the table for my stake in that project and I’m taking it. So I had no reason to kill Healy.” He leaned forward. “Bottom line, the guy was a minor annoyance, nothing more.”

  “Did you see Mr. Healy the day he died?” I asked.

  “You mean other than at the reception?” His eyebrows knit together and he stared past us for a moment. “That was a week ago Wednesday. Yes. Yes, I did see him.” He nodded at whatever he had remembered. “Healy came by the job site late in the afternoon. I’m not sure what time. He was angry because the judge had ruled that he couldn’t do any work on the land until the lawsuit was settled. It was the same old thing. I didn’t want to be bothered with him. A couple of my guys walked him out—nobody got hurt. That’s it.”

  Liz traced the rim of her cup with one finger. “You had no idea he was going to show up at the reception?”

  Joe shook his head. “If I had, I would have put someone at the door to head him off.”

  “So when he did show up, why didn’t you have him removed?”

  “Because I didn’t want a big scene, plain and simple. Healy had been drinking. I figured it was just easier to let him think he’d won some kind of victory by embarrassing me and then he’d go without any more trouble.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Mr. Healy dead?” I asked. I didn’t really expect him to name names. I was more interested in his reaction to the question.

  Joe reached for his coffee cup but didn’t actually take a drink from it. “I’ve been thinking about that and I can’t come up with anyone. Healy was a nuisance, like an itch in the middle of your back that you can’t reach. Nothing more. I can’t believe someone killed him. I keep thinking we’re going to find out that it was just an accident. I don’t see what anyone gains because the man is dead.”

  I didn’t have any more questions after that and neither, it seemed, did Liz. She got to her feet and I did the same.

  “Thank you for your time,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” Joe gestured at our cups. “Coffee’s on me.”

  I thanked him, waved good-bye to Sam on the other side of the room and we left.

  Liz was quiet on the way back to the car. I waited until I was in the driver’s seat before I spoke. “You picked up on something I didn’t. What was it?”

  She turned to look at me, one hand playing with a button on the front of her heavy sweater. “Those stitches on the back of his hand. How many do you think there were?”

  I tried to picture Joe’s hand again. “Two, maybe three. No more than that.”

  “Do you think his explanation about the light fixture makes sense?”

  It had actually not occurred to me that it didn’t. I thought for a moment before I answered. “I do,” I said. “A piece of broken glass could have stuck in the back of his hand and he could easily have jammed that bruised finger on some part of the light fixture. And he said Liam took him to the ER. That would be a stupid thing to lie about.” I frowned. “Why? Are you thinking he got into some kind of a fight with Christopher Healy instead?” I didn’t remember any cuts or abrasions on Healy’s hands or face other than the cut he’d obviously gotten shaving.

  Liz ignored my questions. “Did you pay much attention to the scratches on his right arm?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. If I hadn’t seen the stitches I probably would have just figured the scratches cam
e from a cat.”

  “Not a cat,” she said. “Not broken glass. Blackberry canes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said tartly. “A blackberry thorn is straight and sharp and it’ll draw blood, believe me. Those scratches look like they’re healing now, but they were infected, which happens a lot with those thorns.”

  I leaned my head against the headrest and closed my eyes for a moment. “You think Joe Roswell was in the woods.”

  “Probably sometime in the last two weeks.”

  “Blackberry season is over.”

  “Has been for close to a month now.”

  I could hear Tom Harris saying, all parts of the plant are poisonous. I didn’t want to have to tell Liam he was wrong about his friend. I opened my eyes, looked over at Liz and sighed softly.

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, Frog,” she said.

  * * *

  * * *

  We drove back to the shop. Rose was in the office. Liz stopped to bring her up to date while I headed inside to see if Avery and Charlotte needed any help. Charlotte was showing a young man with blue hair a small metal stool. Mac had made a new seat for it out of a Chinese checkers game board. Part of me hoped the man didn’t buy it because I was hoping to have it in my office for a while. Mr. P. was standing by the front door with Elliot Casey. He raised a hand in acknowledgment and I smiled hello at them.

  Avery had more than a dozen wineglasses arranged on the top of an overturned wooden soft drink crate. “What are you doing?” I asked as I joined her.

  “This guy came in and he wants four dozen wineglasses,” she said. “So far I have nineteen.”

  “Avery, we don’t have forty-eight wineglasses in the store,” I said.

  “Oh, they don’t have to match. I asked. He said they just all have to be about the same size.” She smiled and set another glass on the upside-down box.

  I took a deep breath and let it out. “We don’t have that many wineglasses at all. Period. There are maybe two dozen.”

  “Twenty-eight,” she replied. “I counted.”

  “Twenty-eight is not forty-eight,” I said.