Murder in Maine

by Danielle Collins

“Okay, bye.”

  He hung up and she wondered if it was possible her tickets had somehow been hidden? Because it seemed as if anyone could have followed her up to Maine, and yet Adam insisted on saying over there instead of up there. Did he really think that no one knew where she was? Then again, Dexter was a master at hacking.

  Leaving her phone on the bed, she went back over to Dexter’s.

  “How’s the Eastwood?”

  Margot looked at Dexter with a rueful grin. “He’s good, but I can tell he’s worried about you.”

  “I know.” Dexter leaned forward in the chair and laced his fingers together. “I hate not telling him stuff—though I’m sure he wouldn’t need to work very hard to find me. He’s really good and—” Dexter cut himself off and shook his head. “He’s good at his job.”

  It wasn’t the first time that Dexter had alluded to knowing about what Adam had done in the past before becoming the head detective in North Bank. It had been a source of tension between her and Adam in the past, and she was tempted to pressure Dexter to tell her something—anything—about her boyfriend’s past, but she held back. Now certainly wasn’t the time.

  “Dexter, what do you know about Detective Peter Graham?”

  “Uh, Pete?” Dexter shrugged. “I don’t know. He seems like a good guy. Isn’t originally from here—I’m sure you got that by the haircut and fancy duds.”

  “He would have been at home walking the streets of D.C.”

  Dexter nodded in agreement. “What are you thinking?”

  “I'm not sure.” She leaned forward and searched her memory of the night before. “That man’s death doesn't fit.”

  “Fit…what?”

  “He apparently broke in to, what? Rob the place?”

  “Or find a place to sleep. It was really cold last night.”

  “But he broke into the flour? Why? And wasn’t the backdoor unlocked?”

  Dexter’s eyebrows rose. “Wow, you’re observant.”

  “I just noticed it on my way down the stairs. But if he was truly desperate, I think he would have tried all the doors first before breaking the front one. And then there was the counter.”

  “The counter?”

  “Nothing was moved. Nothing at all. If he had slipped and fallen, like the detective guessed, then he would have reached out for something. There’s no way he’d have gone down so hard as to hit his head like he apparently did—slipping on the flour—without first grabbing or knocking something off of the counter. His arms were certainly long enough.”

  “So…what are you saying?”

  “I wonder if they did an autopsy.”

  “Again, what are you saying, Margot?”

  She met his gaze, her mouth going dry over what she was about to say.

  “I think that man was murdered.”

  A call to the coroner’s office earlier the next morning dredged up nothing. Though Margot had asked what felt like a million questions, it was as if the man hadn’t even existed outside of the name John Doe and the fact that he’d died. She’d even gone so far as to tell them she was going to check into all of this, her frustration at the young woman’s indifference getting the better of her. How it was possible to not know anything, Margot wasn't sure, but she had a feeling even this was strange for a small town.

  She was walking toward the police station now, having left Dexter and the two hired workers that he employed during the daytime to sell the baked goods they’d made fresh that morning, when she saw the reflection of a dark SUV in the plate glass window of the shop she was walking past.

  When she turned around, there was nothing there, just an alleyway that led to another street in the main area of town. Odd. An unsettled feeling washed over her as she walked past a coffee shop where the smells of roasted beans and sweetened lattes floated out in the crisp air.

  Most of the town’s windows were dressed up for Halloween with black cats, skeletons, and pumpkins—some carved with delightful smiles and others looking more ghoulish. Was it possible she had simply imagined seeing the reflection?

  She stopped at the corner, the police station JUST across the street. Then, after looking both ways, she clutched the strap of her purse and stepped out into the crosswalk. It was a quiet town without many stoplights and she strode purposefully toward the police station.

  A sight caught her attention when she was halfway across the street. Peter Graham had just walked out of the station and was coming down the steps. They were about to make eye contact when his eyes flew wide open. The motion was followed with a shout as everything fell into slow motion.

  Margot’s head swiveled to the right just in time to see a black SUV barreling down the road toward her. There was no one else on the road, or the sidewalks near her except for Peter, and his reaction tipped Margot off.

  With a burst of energy and the strength in her legs from her Krav Maga lessons, she propelled herself from the middle of the street and leaped toward the sidewalk. Tires squealed as the SUV fishtailed as if it might come at her, then she heard a shot. And then another.

  “Stop!” the voice rang out.

  More squealing tires and the scent of burning rubbed saluted Margot where she lay on the sidewalk. The sound of pounding footsteps barreled toward her and she looked up to see Peter skidding to a halt and towering over her.

  “Margot? Are you all right?” He kneeled next to her, his gun still held in his left hand and his eyes searching the area. He was on the lookout for another potential threat.

  “Yes,” she managed; finally regaining some of the breath she’d lost at the fall.

  Grimacing, she pushed up into a sitting position as Peter holstered his sidearm. Officers poured out from the building, no doubt called by the gunshots Peter had gotten off at the SUV. Her hands were scratched and she would certainly have a few bruises, but it could have been worse.

  “I’ll have them call and ambulance.”

  “No.” She held out a hand toward him. “I’m fine, really.”

  “I don’t know.” Peter frowned at her. “At least let me take you to Doc Benson. Your hands…”

  She looked down and saw the road rash covering her palms and likely skinning her knees as well. Margot was about to protest again, but she had a feeling that if Peter took her, she’d be able to question him on the way.

  “All right.”

  After filling his colleagues in on what had transpired, and with the promise of a lot of paperwork later, he helped Margot into his detective car and drove through town.

  “I’m so glad you came outside when you did,” she said, cradling her hands in her lap.

  “Yeah. Lucky.” Detective Graham didn’t sound like he was interested in elaborating but she pushed anyway.

  “Do you often have trouble like this in town?”

  “No. Not really.”

  She let the silence linger for a moment. “Did you happen to catch the license plate?”

  “Uh…” Peter executed a tight turn onto a narrow, tree-lined street and wiped a thumb across his nose. “Maybe.”

  That wasn’t conclusive at all. As much as she was thankful for his quick thinking and willingness to shoot in order to distract the driver from coming toward Margot, she wasn’t getting a great feeling from this man. As if he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  They finally pulled up to a small house with a shingle out front that read, Doc Benson.

  “This guy is great. I’ll get you inside then send someone to pick you up. I’ve got a few errands to run.” He ground out the last part and Margot had to wonder if it were possible he knew who had tried to run her over. Then again, that was jumping to conclusions. She had no real evidence against him, just questions.

  An older man with stark white tufts of hair met her at the door and looked between Margot and Peter before his gaze landed back on the detective. “Pete. What’s this?”

  “Miss Durand’s had a nasty fall.” He looked at her sideways as if hoping to convey an element of secrecy now would
be her best course of action. “Can you fix her up?”

  “Oh sure, sure.” He smiled at her. “Though I’m used to working on dead bodies these days.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Oh, you don’t—”

  Doc Benson laughed and waved a hand at her as he closed the door behind Peter. “I joke. I actually work for the department—coroner—and have a small medical practice. It’s just a joke I like to tell. Don’t you worry.” He winked at her. “I’m a fully certified physician.”

  She smiled weakly and was thankful that all he would have to do was bandage up a few scratches.

  Then it hit her—coroner?

  “Do you handle all of the cases in town?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Odd,” she said, tilting her head. “I called this morning and talked to a woman.”

  “You probably got my nurse and assistant Danika. She’s a real spitfire.”

  The description fell in line with the woman Margot had spoken with that morning. Was it possible that Doc Benson had gotten a better look at the body and could give her more information?

  “Doctor Benson,” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Just Doc. Folks around her have been calling me that for over thirty years. It’s not going to change now.”

  “Uh, right. Sorry, Doc.”

  “No harm done,” he said, leading her into a small but clean examination room. “Now which appendix are we taking out?” She blinked and he started laughing. “I joke.” He patted her gently on the arm. “Laughter is the best medicine, you know.”

  She gave him a tightlipped smile as he began to tend to her wounds with clean gauze and then applied ointment.

  “Did you know I’m working at the bakery? Well, I was working at the bakery,” she began, looking at her hands in realization.

  “I’d advise not touching flour for quite some time, young lady. You’ll need to let these wounds heal.”

  She pressed her lips together again. This wasn’t going like she’d hoped. Perhaps a more direct approach would be better suited.

  “Did you perform an autopsy on the John Doe found at the bakery the other night?”

  Doc looked up from her hands with wide eyes. “I looked into it, yes.”

  She wasn’t sure what that meant.

  “Nasty business. Getting hit on the head like that will certainly do damage.”

  Had he meant that someone hit him on the head? Or that he’d fallen and hit his head?

  “You mean he didn’t fall?”

  “I, oh, yes. He fell. That’s right.” Doc turned his back on Margot to prepare some bandages, but she was certain he’d looked worried.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Mister Mitchell definitely fell.”

  “Mitchell? So he’s no longer a John Doe?” Margot tried to mask her curiosity.

  “I, um. Yes. I think they said his name was Mitchell.” He forced a smile. “But maybe I'm getting him confused with another patient. Lots for an old brain to remember.” His laughter was forced as well.

  Margot had a gut feeling that the man was lying, but she wasn’t sure if she should press him. She had no proof. But she would file it away in her memory until she could tell Dexter. She had a feeling he would be able to find out more about Mr. Mitchell than this doctor would have, but she really needed a first name.

  “If his last name is Mitchell, do you know his first name?”

  Now Doc’s hands steadied and he stopped to look up at her. “May I inquire as to why you’d like to know? Danika was saying some busybody called this morning, but I didn’t believe her. Maybe I was wrong.” He didn’t look angry, but certainly curious if not a little cautious.

  “I…” She fought for a legitimate response. “I'm dating a detective.” She laughed nervously. “I think his inquisitive nature must have rubbed off on me.”

  She couldn’t read the doctor’s expression but she was afraid he wasn’t buying her story. Still, after another moment looking at her, he looked back at her hands to finish up the job.

  “It’s a police matter, I’m afraid.” He stepped back when his work was done. “As I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  She nodded. “Oh yes. And thank you for cleaning me up.”

  “Would you like me to call someone to drop you off?”

  “De—um, Hector VanNess, please.” She chided herself again for almost giving her friend’s real name. She had to be more careful, then again, she had almost been run over and her nervous system hadn’t quite recovered yet. Either way, she couldn’t afford to blow his cover yet—it was clear there was someone out not only for Danielle, but now Margot as well.

  Chapter 6

  A few minutes later, Dexter’s large truck pulled up.

  “Margot!” Dexter said, rushing up the steps of Doc’s practice and pulling her to him in a bear hug. “Ohmygosh. What happened? Scratch that—let’s get you home and then you can tell me. Thanks, Doc!” he called over his shoulder.

  She felt like she’d been taken up in hurricane Dexter, but she let him help her into the truck. She lifted a bandaged hand at the doctor, noting his curious look. She’d almost overstepped her bounds in the office, but without being able to explain, she would simply have to let it be for now. Hopefully there would be a way to gain back his trust in the future.

  “This is— Margot, what in the world— I mean…” Dexter shook his head as he turned onto a side street.

  By Margot’s estimation, they were only a few blocks from the bakery and she would have walked, had the image of the black SUV bearing down on her not been so fresh in her mind.

  “I mean…”

  “Dex,” she said, finding herself entirely too tired for his usual dramatics, “it was a frightening experience, but I’m okay. Aside from these.” She held up her hands.

  Dexter gave her a look that said, I’m sorry and she immediately felt bad for snapping at him.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “But I was the one who brought you up here.” He forced out a breath and hit the steering wheel.

  “You’re reminding me of Adam.”

  “Well, he practically raised me,” Dexter said with a laugh. “Oh man, he’s going to kill me.”

  “No, he won’t,” she said firmly. “Because he’s not going to find out. At least not yet.”

  “Oops.”

  “You didn’t, Dexter! Tell me you didn’t call him and tell him what happened?”

  “I sent an email.”

  “Even worse.” Margot lifted a bandaged palm to her forehead. “He’ll be on the next flight up.”

  “No, he won’t.” Dexter sent her a sideways glance. “ He knows he can’t come up here. He’d be tracked and lead them right to us.”

  “The FBI.”

  Margot leaned her head back against the truck’s headrest and let out a sigh. “And why are you running from the FBI again? I think that scare muddled up my brain.”

  Dexter forced a laugh but sent a sharp look her way, no doubt trying to see if she were kidding or not.

  “I really think The Queen has an inside man, Margot. Or woman. I don’t know, but something’s just not adding up.”

  “What about anonymously sending them the information you have?” She was trying to think clearly, but whatever Doc had given her for the pain was starting to take affect.

  “I…uh…well, you see…”

  They were now parked in the alley way behind the bakery and Margot was trying to find the strength to open the door and make it up the steps on her own.

  “You don't have anything. Do you?”

  He shrugged. “When Danielle disappeared, so did our evidence.”

  Now, more than ever, it was imperative that they find Dexter’s sister.

  The next morning dawned bright and sunny, a direct contrast to the dark dreams Margot had endured through the night. After conking out from the pain medication she’d gotten, she had awoken in time to have Dexter bring her dinner. They’d avoided all talk of his
sister and even her accident until the meal was done.

  When she did share the details of what had happened, she’d found the experience even more traumatic. Dexter, observant as always, had seen how it affected her and jokingly forbid her from saying anything else. Instead, he’d pulled out a romantic comedy that was his sister’s favorite and they’d watched that instead.

  She’d fallen asleep halfway through the movie, but around two in the morning, the pain from her hands and knees woke her up. The rest of the night had been uncomfortable and frustrating.

  But it was a new day, and she wasn’t going to let yesterday’s hurts and fears rule her today. She had to be stronger than that or whoever had tried to run her down would have won—in a sense.

  After a refreshing shower she tried—and failed—to reapply her bandages and ended up going downstairs to find Dexter. He was in the kitchen, directing one of the younger workers in the kitchen. She stood in the doorway and watched as he gave crisp, clear instructions to them in a way that would have made any teacher proud.

  When he looked up to see her, his smile appeared instantly until he saw her hands. Then he grimaced, coming toward her.

  “Afraid you are out of commission, boss.”

  She smiled at his reference to her as boss. “I realize that, but unfortunately, I need help bandaging up these hands.”

  “I can help,” a sweet voice said.

  They both turned around to see another one of the workers standing there. She was a young girl, likely in her early twenties, with long blonde hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She had just pulled off her hairnet and wore a big grin.

  “I’m studying to be a nurse,” she said by way of explanation. “Don’t get me wrong, baking is great, but this—” She indicated Margot’s hands. “—is more my territory.”

  “By all means, Shelly.” He smiled at Margot. “Looks like I get a pass on doctoring today.”

  Margot smiled at the young woman as they went to a small table across the hall. “Hi, Shelly, my name is Margot.”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” she said, accepting the supplies Doc had given Margot.

  “You do?”