Cancelled by Murder

by Jean Flowers

  Where had the clattering noise come from? Not from bolts of fabric. And not from the items on the wall of notions. I walked closer to the Peg-Board. I wasn’t able to identify everything in the fading light, but I made out cutting tools, bags of batting, totes, packaged costumes, old-fashioned fabric-covered sewing baskets. I wondered if Daisy kept a supply of Flat Rate envelopes on hand. Maybe the man I saw availed himself of one. To put what in it? And escape with what? The police had been through the shop, and had to have confiscated anything that would help in their murder investigation. What did I expect to find? I needed to go home.

  The area near the cash register was neat as always, with a few novelty items—pincushions shaped like fruit, cards with decorative buttons, small sewing kits for travel— and a large book for customers to sign up for an e-newsletter. A small bell was available to call a staff member if help was needed. I had a surreal moment where I hit the top of the call bell and Daisy appeared.

  One more aisle, I decided; then I’d leave the shop and put this upsetting day behind me. I turned a corner toward the racks of magazines I often looked through. Daisy carried a line of quilting and crafts magazines and how-to books that included instructions for knitting, crocheting, needlepoint, and other fabric arts as well as sewing.

  Paying too much attention to the array of covers promising quick results for holiday projects, I nearly tripped over an object in the aisle. I looked down. And saw a body.

  More exactly, half a body. A woman cut off at her waist, with wild, overly blond hair, dressed in a crisp white tunic. I gasped, too loudly for a stealth operation, and felt my heartbeat everywhere but in my chest.

  Just in time, before I collapsed in fright, I recognized one of Daisy’s mannequins. One of the plastic women that lined a shelf in this aisle, showing off samples made from the patterns on sale. You, too, could whip up a robe or a fancy shirt that would look like this. Clearly, Madam Tunic’s fall from the flat surface of the top of the magazine rack had been the source of the clattering noise I’d heard, and the reason her resin head was at an unnatural angle on her neck.

  Plastic or not, the partial body unnerved me, and I turned quickly to make my exit, bumping into a set of filing cabinets on the way. “Ouch!” I groaned out loud as my sweater caught on a rough metal edge and at the same time I nicked my arm and dropped my purse. Some sleuth. One incapable of stealth. I held my breath until I was sure no one would come running at my outburst. Through the front window I saw a group of youngsters walking by. I crouched down until they passed.

  As I rose from my squatting position, I saw a flash of light between the cabinets. Daisy had piggybacked a couple of white two-drawer cabinets, one on top of the other, to save space. She’d teased me that the main reason she accepted me into the quilting group was that I was the only one who could easily manipulate the files in the top drawer. It was hard to believe that she’d never tease me again about my height, how she could use a few of my extra inches.

  The flash I’d seen had come from a newly turned-on streetlamp striking something that was stuck between the surfaces of the two filing cabinets. The cabinets had shifted from their vertically aligned position when I bumped into them. I reached to examine the object, hoping it wouldn’t move on its own. In my mind, there was no end to the different kinds of insects that might live in stores at night. I pulled on the item and extracted a small notebook with a shiny magnetic closure.

  The notebook was about two inches by four inches, the handy size I had in my car and at various spots around my office and home. Mine were filled mostly with to-do lists that I never looked at. Apparently, I carried some strange gene that allowed me to remember things I wrote down whether or not I referred to them later.

  This notebook was Daisy’s, as attested to by the small return address label she’d stuck on the cover, partially obscuring van Gogh’s sunflowers. I wondered why the police hadn’t taken it. Probably because no cop had been clumsy enough to crash into the filing cabinets and fall.

  I flipped through the book and saw that it was partially full, though it was too dark to read the contents. I squinted at a page that had large letters, and thought I read JULES. It appeared to be a calendar page where JULES had been entered into several dates this month. Or some month, maybe even not this year. Who knew how long the book had been stuck between the cabinets? I flipped a few more pages, trying various angles to catch the dim light. A few more tries and I caught a couple of pages that were filled with short to-do lists, most of the items with check marks next to them. I deciphered phrases like return library bks, pick up (illegible), and take (illegible) to S.A., which I took to be South Ashcot. I saw parts of words that could be dentist and crafts fair. My eyes and knees hurt as I squatted in the dark shadows of Daisy’s Fabrics.

  With no warning a small pointed light came on and startled me so much that I dropped the notebook-cum-calendar and felt my heartbeat leave my chest once more. I looked around, expecting to see a flashlight in the hands of a hooded man. With a gun. Or a large tree branch. Instead, I saw that a night-light in the shape of a thimble had responded to the growing darkness and had come on automatically in a corner near me. I half laughed, half gasped. Without thinking it through, I tossed the notebook on top of a small table as I ran from the shop.

  * * *

  I got to my car, my breath coming in short spurts, every muscle tense. For no reason. The shop had been empty while I was in it, and stayed empty. The so-called intruder had walked away, barely noticing me (I hoped). And even if we had met outside, we might simply have exchanged a pleasant greeting. I had no reason to assume otherwise. I was unhurt. Then why was my heart still beating wildly?

  I wondered how Sunni and other law enforcers faced this kind of thing every day. Answering distress calls, walking into places where anything or anyone might be lurking, not shrinking at the sight of a retreating hoodie, rushing toward scenarios others were fleeing. Maybe it would be different with a badge and a gun?

  I thought of Cliff, a security guard. In theory, he was standing watch, making sure no one broke in to a building in his charge or vandalized it in any way. In practice, how did he react if he came upon a threatening situation? Still in my postal uniform, I was more grateful than ever for a job where the most difficult scenario involved nothing more than a cranky customer or one trying to sneak disallowed items into a media mail package.

  I was surprised to find my car door unlocked. Most of the time, I succumbed to OCD and hit the lock button twice, similar to the way I often worried about whether I’d closed my garage door, drove back, and found it closed. This time it hadn’t worked that way with my car, though I was sure I’d heard the short burst of horn when I hit the button on leaving it.

  Well, no problem. There were few safer places than Main Street, North Ashcot, to leave a car unlocked.

  Except not this time. My passenger seat was bare. Someone had taken my shrimp dinner and my files on Daisy Harmon’s murder case. A thief had broken into my car and stolen my property, within sight of the police department. He was either very dumb or very bold. Either way, I was distressed, unsure whether the violation was worth reporting. On any other summer evening, I might not have given it a second thought, but in the vicinity of a crime scene, where my friend had been murdered, it seemed a significant turn of events.

  I did a quick inspection of the doorframe and saw no scratches that appeared fresh. My car had been over some rough terrain a few times, and the scars on its exterior attested to its history. I’d have to wait until daylight tomorrow to get a closer look. The inside hadn’t been vandalized, as far as I could see. The upholstery was intact and any debris was mine. A few napkins from the coffee shop, crumbs on the floor from a quick snack in transit, an old blanket on the backseat for when I transported packages that might soil or tear up the seat covers. All mine.

  I decided to think more about my loss before telling anyone. I drove home with a quea
sy stomach, running through possible scenarios. Had the thief been a poor person who’d seen the cooler and assumed correctly that it contained food? He might have been hungry enough to break in, the files being an inadvertent add-on. In my year back in town, I hadn’t seen anyone who fit this profile, but it was a possibility.

  I hated the alternative—the thought that someone had been following me, seen Cliff give me the file, and then taken the opportunity to steal it when I left my car on the street. The shrimp dinner was then the add-on, an extra perk.

  By the time I reached my driveway, I’d almost settled on a prank theory. School wasn’t in session yet and a couple of bored teenagers decided to cruise Main Street in search of a little mischief. In this scenario, I’d forgotten to lock my car and the kids were happy for the easy pickings, until they opened the box and found gourmet shrimp instead of pepperoni pizza.

  Served them right.

  * * *

  I changed into jeans and a CAL BERKELEY T-shirt that Quinn had given me. Trying to balance all the UMass apparel I owned, he’d said. I wasn’t happy about being robbed of my dinner—a continuation of my bad food karma this week—but I decided it wasn’t worth reporting the petty theft. And though I didn’t look forward to it, I could text Cliff and ask for another copy of the file.

  I made the rounds of my house, checking windows and doors. Daisy’s murder had affected me in ways that I couldn’t explain.

  Relieved that I was alone and safe, I dropped a bagel into my toaster, disappointed that I had to be satisfied with the aroma of cinnamon and raisins instead of shrimp and lemon. While I was waiting for the meager meal to pop up, I scrolled through my smartphone for messages.

  How could the list be so long after only about an hour of neglect? Wasn’t it just a short time ago that I’d had to wait until I was in the physical presence of a landline answering machine for this information? Longer ago than it seemed, I realized. Aunt Tess had given me my first cell phone, a flip style, as a high school graduation present, making it nearly twenty years ago. If I wanted to feel anything but old, I was probably better off not checking the timeline of cell phone development and use.

  A text from Quinn said he’d be home Saturday or Sunday. Good news.

  Linda still planned to visit for the General Knox parade next weekend. More good news.

  Cliff wanted to hear my progress in the short time since I saw him. Not so good news. I had to gear up to telling him the file was gone, probably in some kid’s wastebasket by now, smelling of fish.

  Sunni called to cancel our plans to get together this evening. Good and bad news. Good, because she wouldn’t be able to query me on how I was keeping Cliff happy; bad, because I wouldn’t be able to query her on how her investigation was going.

  My inner circle was accounted for.

  Besides the real messages, I listened to offers for new carpeting and for cleaning my old ones; and to solicitations for community projects. A couple of hang-ups were also the norm, but one of those was different tonight, consisting in fifteen or twenty seconds of breathing. Or maybe I was hearing telephone noise on the line.

  I thought of the go home note I’d received. And of the burglarizing of my car. Were they all connected? Was I someone’s target? Overreacting, I decided, and proceeded to extract my bagel, smear it with a thick layer of cream cheese and a dab of grape jelly, and carry it and a mug of coffee to my rocker in the living room. Before settling in, I made another trip around my house, double-checking all windows and doors.

  Not that I was worried about anything. But when my cell phone rang, I jumped and spilled coffee onto the napkin on my lap. I blew out a deep breath when I saw the caller ID. Martindale Qui, which was as close as my cell phone could come to spelling out my long-named boyfriend.

  Before the first “Hey,” I decided not to let Quinn in on the mini attacks I’d been through today.

  “I’m doing fine,” I said. “So happy you’ll be home for the weekend.”

  “I can’t wait to show you all the treasures I picked up. Though some of them will be arriving by truck next week.”

  “No business for the USPS?” I teased.

  He laughed. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll find something mailable.”

  We made plans for dinner on Sunday evening, which was the latest he expected to arrive. I chose an Italian place, since I had an unexplained (to Quinn) craving for shrimp scampi.

  My phone alerted me to another call, from Cliff Harmon. I clicked over, happy for an excuse to tell Cliff I had to make it short.

  “I’m on another call right now,” I said, “but I wanted to let you know that I’m going to need another copy of the files.”

  “Why? What happened?” He sound flustered, as I expected.

  “That’s not important right now. Can you bring the copies by the post office tomorrow?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Thanks. Sorry to rush off. See you then.”

  I clicked back to Quinn. “Okay. Everything’s all set.”

  “Good,” he said, though I knew he had no idea what I meant.

  It was just as well. Soon enough, it would be almost impossible to keep a secret investigation secret from him also.

  8

  There was no use trying to sleep with my head swimming, full of confused thoughts. About Daisy, about tasks to keep Cliff happy without alerting Sunni, and about my own safety. Was that surly note addressed to “Postmaster” a one-off, or would there be more, sullying my mail? Was the looting of my car only a prank, as I wanted to portray it, or a warning message? If so, a message about what?

  As if all that mental commotion wasn’t enough, I missed Quinn and worried about my friendship with Sunni, given my near promise to play cop with Cliff. Not even a new thriller downloaded to my e-reader was enough to engage me tonight—a tall, handsome ex-SEAL (who graduated first in his class, of course) notwithstanding.

  The sooner Daisy’s murder case was solved, the better. I put aside complications with the chief of police and decided to proceed, working with what I had until I could obtain another copy of the file from Cliff.

  I thought about the small notebook I’d pulled from the back of the file cabinet in Daisy’s shop. Pillows propped behind me, I sat up in bed and tried to remember what I’d seen, berating myself for not taking it with me. At the time, I’d been startled by a night-light, of all silly things, and raced out of the shop. I’d flipped through the pages briefly and seen snippets of to-do lists and pages of a calendar, plus some sketches I took to be ideas for fabric patterns or quilts.

  Maybe Cliff could go back and retrieve the book. I certainly wasn’t about to. I made a note to ask him about it tomorrow.

  Or right now, I thought, as I heard my ring tone and saw his name on the screen of my smartphone.

  “Sorry if I’m waking you up, Cassie, but I got a little worried when you said you needed another copy of the file I gave you today.”

  What was I thinking? That I’d get away without an explanation? All I’d managed to do was put off the inevitable probing.

  I gave Cliff an edited version of my trip home from work, including my vehicle break-in, which I labeled a prank, and excluding my own break-in of what was now his shop. (Was it breaking in even if the door was unlocked? Probably.)

  “That’s awful, Cassie. What makes you think the killer himself didn’t take the file? He could have followed you and seen that I gave you stuff and—”

  Way to go, security guard. “You’re scaring me, Cliff,” I said, even though that very thought had occurred to me.

  “Sorry, sorry. Of course that’s very unlikely. I would have noticed if anyone were watching us.”

  I considered mentioning that at least one person had been watching us. The chief of police, in fact, and we hadn’t been aware of her, even though she was probably in a well-marked patrol car. I held back. No use stirring up
already troubled waters.

  “I have a question for you, Cliff.”

  “Shoot,” he said, seeming pleased that I was involved.

  “Did Daisy have regular meetings with Jules Edwards?”

  “Our accountant? Sure, they met every Friday. But, as I say, I never knew the details.”

  “They wouldn’t be likely to meet every day?”

  “No, no reason I can think of. They were both very efficient and kept up to date during those weekly meetings. Unless it was tax season, which it isn’t. He’s extremely busy then. He has a lot of other clients, in other towns as well as here. Is this important, Cassie?”

  I’d come to a point of reckoning. To tell Cliff about the multiple calendar entries in the notebook, I’d have to admit I’d found it while wandering around the shop, which would give rise to questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Some other time, I decided. “Nothing special. I’m just trying to get a picture of what her business life was like.”

  “She gave it her all. I’ll tell you that.” Cliff’s voice broke up and I could hear that, as clinical as he was trying to be about the investigation, and as eager as he was to find her killer, first and foremost, he loved and missed his wife.

  My heart went out to him. I did my best with soothing words, and suggested we both get some rest.

  Once we signed off, another reason for frequent meetings between Daisy and Jules popped into my head. What if they were having an affair? Wasn’t that the number-one motive for murder? Surely on the top ten list. I shoved the thought aside. Who writes down times and dates of secret trysts? I was glad it hadn’t come up when Cliff and I were talking. He had enough to worry about.

  Since I was still fully awake and reluctant to turn off my lights and toss around in the dark, I figured I might as well do something useful. I pulled a notepad onto my lap and began to compile my own list of people to contact. The quilting group was a good start. But it was after ten o’clock, past the time when I’d feel comfortable calling most people.