I put the window down a crack and left the motor running as I followed the woman, who was walking at a good clip. Not that I could blame her. Did I mention it was cold?
She ducked into a late-model white Beemer, one I’d seen around Bonaparte Bay, just as I caught up. She started when I knocked on the window, but rolled it down halfway.
“Georgie! You shouldn’t sneak up on people.” She relaxed and gave a little laugh.
“Hi, Lydia. I thought I recognized you. Doing some shopping, like everybody else in the North Country?” Lydia hadn’t been carrying any bags. In fact, I hadn’t even seen a purse. Well, maybe she was a minimalist and carried only a wallet and phone, which could be stowed in pockets. Good idea, frankly.
Her face darkened as her lips twisted down into a frown. “My new boss decided part of my job description was driving to Watertown to buy socks for his dead father. Apparently nothing he has—had—are good enough to be buried in.”
I knew I didn’t like that little brat, Ben MacNamara, and here was a concrete reason why. Lydia Ames had worked for his father for at least ten years, and instead of giving her the day off when the man died, he sent her on a ridiculous errand. I wondered what would happen to her, whether Junior would keep her on at the law firm, or if she’d even want to stay. It wasn’t necessarily easy to find a job in Northern New York, so people tended to stick around, even if they weren’t happy. I glanced down at the Beemer. She’d married well—and divorced well—a few years ago and she’d gotten a nice settlement, if rumors were true. Maybe she could leave if she wanted to.
“Did you find the socks?” I shivered and pressed my hands farther down in my pockets, hunching my shoulders against the wind, as if that would do any good. “You don’t have any bags.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Penney’s doesn’t carry the specific brand anymore, so now I have to go to the men’s store across town. At least I’m getting paid mileage in addition to my exorbitant salary.”
“Will the office be open again soon? I hate to ask, but I need a copy of the Bloodworth Trust file. It’s kind of important.” The sooner we knew for sure we’d identified all the potential heirs, the sooner I could breathe easier.
She tilted her chin down and looked up at me. “I can’t give it to you. You know that.”
I blew out a breath. “Yes, I know. It was worth a shot. As I said, it’s important to me. What do I have to do to get it?”
“Have Melanie and Liza sign an authorization saying you can pick up a copy of the file. I’m manning—womaning—the office and Junior will be in and out. It’ll take me a couple of days to copy everything—some of the original documents are probably old and fragile—and I’ll have to get it approved by him, of course. Even if you produce an authorization, I’m just an underling. It’s not my place to make decisions of any kind.” The frown returned to her face. She reached over and turned the heater on full blast. Her hair blew back over her shoulders. What I wouldn’t have given for a little of that heat right about then.
“Thanks. Should it say anything special, or just that they give you permission to release the file to me?”
She rattled off instructions, which seemed easy enough to remember.
“I suppose you all want to know how much money the trust is worth? You already know it will dissolve in February of next year.”
“Since the money isn’t mine, it doesn’t really matter how much there is, does it?” I laughed. My words belied the reality. I was dying to know. In fact, it was a little surprising that Melanie wasn’t curious enough to ask herself. But my mother was an oatmeal raisin on a tray of chocolate chip cookies. Odd. She hadn’t been back in my life long enough for me to know what she was made of. Or maybe she had asked, already knew, and just chose not to tell me.
“Well, I’m curious myself,” Lydia said, echoing my thoughts. “Jim MacNamara always kept the trust file in a locked cabinet in his office. Only he had the key, and he did his own filing on it.”
Interesting. Was there some kind of confidentiality requirement in the trust that would keep even longtime office personnel from accessing the records? It seemed like overkill, frankly, although of course, data security was a big deal these days. Not that it would have been when the trust was created. Just what was in the trust file? I was even more curious than I’d been before.
“The office is still open for now. It’ll be a couple days until the medical examiner releases the body and the arrangements are made. Junior’s been there dealing with the detectives and the crime scene techs. He’s frazzled. This is awful of me to say, but I don’t know if he’s upset about his father, or if he’s worried about actually having to work, now that the law firm is his.”
So as I’d assumed, Ben MacNamara would be taking over. “Were Ben and Jim close?” A wet drop, then another, landed on my cheek. Snow.
“Not especially. I think Ben was always closer to his mother. Not surprising, since she babied him, treated him like the Crown Prince of the Kingdom of MacNamara, and still does. But personality-wise, he and Jim were an awful lot alike.”
I blinked rapidly as a snowflake landed on my eyelashes. The sky was the dull gray of a Navy battleship, which signaled a storm coming in. Time to wrap this up and get home. Well, not home. Back to my room at the Camelot, at least for tonight. “Where is Ben’s mom these days? I never really knew her.”
“Rosemary? Last I heard, she was living in the Carolinas with her new husband. She calls Junior on the office phone all the time instead of just calling his cell. I think she gets a snooty thrill out of having her calls go through an underling, also known as me.”
“None of my business, but are you planning to stay on?” The snow was picking up. Last question. Even if I’d had more, I would have tabled them for now.
Lydia looked thoughtful. “Honestly, I’m not sure. My house and car are paid for, and I’ve got money left from my divorce settlement. But I’ll stay on for a few months at least. Not for Junior. Jim MacNamara was a player, but I respected him. And a lot of people in Bonaparte Bay were his clients. It’s going to take a while for Junior to get up to speed on all our files and he’s going to need my help. I can’t just walk away and leave everyone in the lurch.”
I nodded. Lydia had a work ethic I could relate to. “It’s been great talking to you. I’ll get you that authorization.”
“Drive safely,” she said as the window rolled up between us.
The snow was coming fast and furious by the time I got back to my car, which was still running. I shook the loose snow out of my hair and brushed off my coat, again wishing I was wearing one of the two pairs of gloves currently inside the vehicle. I opened the door and got in, instantly grateful for the warm air blasting out of the vents, which would dry me off in no time. I unzipped my coat so my arms were less constricted, buckled up, and reached into one of my shopping bags on the passenger seat for the bar of dark chocolate I knew was there.
Huh? The bag was empty. In fact, all the bags were in disarray, with the contents strewn on the seat, underneath a layer of plastic shopping bags, which was why I hadn’t immediately noticed. These bags had not just fallen over and the contents spilled. Somebody had been pawing through them. I checked the backseat. Empty, the same as I’d left it, but the floor mats were askew. I took a deep breath and engaged the lever to pop open the hatchback, bracing myself to go back out into the snow. Yup, the milk crate was overturned and one corner of the carpet covering the spare tire compartment was lifted up. In the ten minutes or so I’d been talking to Lydia just a few yards away, somebody had tossed my car.
SEVEN
Of course, it was my own fault. The car had been running and unlocked. When the weather got cold in the North Country, it was common to do just that. Theft was a risk we took in order to have a warm car to get into.
But I’d done a quick inventory as I surveyed the mess. Nothing appeared to be missing. My pu
rse had been looped over my shoulder as I talked to Lydia; I wasn’t quite that trusting to leave it in an unlocked vehicle. And other than emergency supplies, there was nothing of value in the car. I shrugged, righted the milk crate, and got back inside. It was probably just someone looking for money, which they weren’t going to find. Since there were no ashtrays in cars anymore, I didn’t even keep spare change around, preferring instead to just toss it into the bottom of my purse until it got too heavy to lug around.
Other than trespassing, no crime seemed to have been committed, and whoever had done it was either long gone or hidden among the cars in the full parking lot, so there was nothing for me to do except head back to the Bay.
And lock my doors next time.
By the time I reached Route 12, the snow was falling harder and faster and visibility was only a few yards filtered through a descending curtain of white flakes the size of quarters. This kind of wet, heavy snow piled up fast, but I was lucky to get behind a plow. It was slow going, but it was relatively safe, and I traveled along on the layer of chemical salts the plow was spitting out in front of me. The chemicals were tough on cars, causing them to rust out sometimes sooner than the loans were paid off. But replacing cars frequently was one of the costs of living here. We North Country residents complained, but we put up with it.
A set of headlights cut though the falling snow behind me. I couldn’t discern the make or model through the whiteness, but in the rearview mirror I could see the headlights gaining on me. “Back off,” I said out loud, though of course the driver couldn’t hear. The car was clearly traveling too fast, and definitely too close, for these conditions.
I concentrated on the plow and the road ahead. It was all I could do. I couldn’t control anyone else’s car but my own.
My shoulders tensed and my jaw clenched. As cold as I’d been when I was talking to Lydia, I was now sweating and wished I’d taken my coat off completely instead of just unzipping it. It was hot as the pizza ovens at Franco’s in here. I kept my eyes on the road ahead but risked taking one hand off the wheel to adjust the temperature. My face was damp but I didn’t dare wipe it.
The headlights in my rearview flashed bright, and I didn’t need to turn around to know that the vehicle was only a couple of yards behind my bumper. What the heck was the driver doing? This was insanity. One wrong move by either of us and we’d collide and be off the road.
There didn’t seem to be much choice but to keep going. It would be crazy to pull over or take a side road and lose the plow. I moved my jaw from side to side, trying to work the tension loose, leaving a dull ache in the joint in front of each ear. The car was still right on my tail, ironically too close for me to make out any details such as the color or size of the vehicle. And the driver’s face was an anonymous blur behind the veil of white. Was someone deliberately trying to rattle me? If so, it was working, but it wasn’t actually a great tactic. Messing around on slippery roads was just as dangerous for the mess-er as for the mess-ee, no matter how good a driver someone was.
And then there was the why? Jim MacNamara’s murder flashed through my mind. But it made no sense. Sure, he’d been found at my restaurant. But nobody could think I had anything to do with it. My alibi was airtight. The trust? I had no immediate financial interest in it, and it was pretty much common knowledge at this point, with Melanie in town, so if there was a connection, it escaped me.
The plow continued to spew out chemicals on the road in front of ahead and a wall of snow off to the shoulder. The car continued to bear down on me from behind. I concentrated on my driving.
A set of lights approached, opposite from me in the southbound lane. As it got closer, the black-and-white color scheme of a Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department SUV materialized. The driver behind me apparently saw the vehicle too, because the car dropped back, not to what I’d call a safe distance but certainly a more reasonable one. The cruiser passed us, but didn’t put on its lights. Up ahead, I could just make out the exit for the village of Theresa (which we pronounced with a soft consonant, like “three”). I was almost home.
My fingers, which had been close to creating dents in the steering wheel, finally relaxed. I stretched and wiggled them, feeling a rush of warmth as the blood returned. I glanced in the rearview again. The car turned off at the Theresa exit. I still couldn’t get a good look at it. Once a car is covered with a haze of New York State road salts, it can be tough to figure out even the color. I drew in a deep breath, then another, and returned my attention to the road ahead.
What had just happened? Normally I’d chalk it up to an operator who thought a little too highly of his or her winter driving skills—par for the course in this area. I’d been known to take a few chances myself when I’d been in a hurry. But I had to put it together with the fact that someone had been snooping through my car, and had apparently not found anything worth taking. It all seemed to add up to something, but I didn’t know what it was.
I finally arrived, somewhat worse for the wear, at the Camelot. I sorted through my bags, leaving the emergency supplies in the car. Honestly, if someone was in dire enough straits to need to steal an ice scraper and some cat litter, they could have the stuff. The other bags I looped over my arm, then grabbed my purse and braved the snow for the few yards it took me to reach the covered front portico from the parking lot.
Inside, a cheerful, crackly fire on the hearth greeted me. The air was warm and it felt wonderful to be out of the dampness. The clerk behind the counter nodded at me as I lugged my bags and my stress-weary body to my home away from home, Room 16.
I fitted my key into the lock—no magnetic-strip plastic key cards here—but to my surprise, the door snicked open. I immediately went back on high alert. It was possible I, or housekeeping, had not engaged the lock fully when one of us was last in here. But considering the last couple of hours, it paid to be cautious. I gave the door a tap and it swung slowly open, giving a tooth-buzzing creak. Someone was coming in my direction, probably a guest, so I stepped into the room. If something happened, at least the door would be open and the guy would hear me scream.
But everything appeared to be in order. I’d only bought the barest minimum of clothes and the toiletries from Kinney’s drugstore, so other than the room’s regular amenities, there wouldn’t have been much for a thief to go through. Housekeeping had come in and made the bed, but it was impossible to say if anything else had been touched. I checked the bathroom, the tiny closet, and under the beds. It seemed I was alone.
Room service. All I wanted was room service, a warm bed, and a novel. Romance, not mystery. I’d had enough mystery and intrigue lately to last me a lifetime.
Fifteen minutes later a knock sounded at the door. A waiter I didn’t recognize handed me a tray. I handed him a tip and shut the door. Even from under the metal cloche covering the plate, something smelled delicious. When I lifted the cover, my troubles evaporated on a whiff of my dinner, at least temporarily. Bacon, tomato, and three kinds of melted cheese on butter-grilled sourdough bread. A bottle of hard cider and a glass full of ice accompanied the sandwich. Come to Mommy.
* * *
It was eight a.m. when I finally rolled out of bed—practically midmorning. I pulled back the heavy drapes and looked outside. In one of those magical transformations that I’d seen a thousand times, but still marveled at, the sky was blue, and the sun made the surface of yesterday’s snowfall sparkle like an expanse of pavé diamonds. The contrast from yesterday’s leaden sky and dense atmosphere made the scene all the more remarkable.
I took a leisurely shower. Plenty of hot water and plenty of water pressure, unlike anything the antiquated plumbing at the Bonaparte House could offer. Maybe next winter I would spend some more of Sophie’s money by getting that updated.
An hour later my hotel bill was paid and my car was parked in the employee lot behind the big limestone octagon that was my home and my business. The crime sc
ene tape had been removed, and there was no sign of the techs, so I assumed it was safe to go in. I had to make a couple of trips with the bags from my shopping trip and the coffee and bagel with homemade honey-walnut-raisin cream cheese I’d picked up from the Express-o Bean. I set everything on the counter by the dishwashing station and hung up my coat.
There were a few things on my must-do list for today. It was too early to call Melanie about the authorization—no way would she be up at this time. Her glued-at-the-hip assistant, Caitlyn, probably would be, but I hadn’t talked to Melanie in a few days and I needed to bring her up to speed on my conversation with the genealogist. So I dialed Steve Murdoch instead.
“Murdoch Kustom Kontracting, Steve here.” Steve sounded tired. I couldn’t blame him. He had a lot going on.
“Steve, it’s Georgie.” I pulled the plastic lid off my caramel double-shot macchiato and slurped a little whipped cream off the top. Yum. No need to get a fancy coffee setup here while the Bean was around. In Bonaparte Bay, each business filled its own symbiotic niche, and for the most part we didn’t poach on each other’s territory.
“Morning,” he said. “You calling to tell me I can go back to work?”
“Looks like it.” I hesitated, not wanting to pry, but a little worried about him. “You okay?”
He gave a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sober, thanks to you, and no thanks to my wife.” A sigh came through the receiver. “Sorry. This can’t be about her. It’s all about me. My choices. But you don’t want to hear about this. I’m going to be shorthanded without Russ, so your restrooms might take me a little longer than we’d originally discussed.”
A Killer Kebab Page 6