by Jean Flowers
And yes, I did love small towns. Just not today.
* * *
Jules Edwards ran his accounting business from an office suite above the hardware store on Main Street, in the thick of things, or as thick as they got in downtown North Ashcot. A separate entrance led to a small, well-maintained lobby and a flight of stairs to the second floor of the two-story building. Jules shared the floor with a counseling group on one end of the hallway and a family trust lawyer on the other. All offices were dark at the moment.
Though I was ten minutes early, Cliff was waiting, sitting outside Jules’s locked office. The nicely polished mahogany bench reminded me of the kind of furniture in Ashcot’s Attic, Quinn’s antiques shop. A few more hours, I told myself, and I’d see Quinn’s face, if only on my laptop screen. Cliff had offered to pick me up for this meeting, but I wanted the freedom having my own car would bring. Besides, I didn’t need another dozen or so of North Ashcot’s citizens taking notes as they saw Cliff and me riding around town together.
Cliff stood when he saw me, his arms full of folders. He extracted a fresh pad of yellow lined paper from the stack and handed it to me with “In case you need to take notes.” I thanked him, assured him I had a pen, and took a seat on the bench.
Cliff checked his watch. “It’s not quite six yet,” he said. “I thought he’d be here, though, you know, still putting in his day’s work.”
“Maybe he’s meeting with clients in the field,” I offered.
“True, he often came to the shop if Daisy couldn’t get away.” He shuffled through the folders on his lap. “I went to see Gordon at the Crier. He wouldn’t give me any clue about how Reggie responded to Daisy’s letter. The one I gave you a copy of.”
I nodded. I knew which letter he’d meant.
“I feel like going back and searching his office,” Cliff continued. “I’m sure he has a copy somewhere.”
I imagined Cliff putting on his uniform, muscling his way into the newspaper offices at night with a flashlight between his teeth, lock picks in his hands. He’d also probably be wearing a hoodie.
“Wait,” he said. “Here’s an idea.” I shuddered, but let him go on. “I’ll bet Sunni doesn’t know about either Daisy’s letter or Reggie’s response, since nothing came of either one as far as the public is concerned. We could show her Daisy’s letter. Then she could ask Reggie for his response and he’d have to produce it.”
“Don’t you think Reggie has destroyed that letter by now? I would have.”
“I suppose. But he’d have to admit he wrote a response. He couldn’t lie to a cop.” He lowered his voice. “Can’t you just give it a shot?”
“Me?” I asked, though I wasn’t exactly shocked.
“I could tell her, but she already doesn’t want to see me. You’re her friend,” he said.
For now, I thought.
* * *
About twenty minutes later, the three of us stood outside Jules’s office. He’d been a few minutes late, dressed in what passed as business attire in our town—newish jeans and a sport coat—rattling off apologies as he unlocked his door.
“I was actually with Molly Boyd, going over accounts for her salon,” he said. “She had some kind of setback with her foot and can’t get around very well.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. And what a freak accident,” I said, seizing the opportunity. “I heard she tripped over her cat during the storm?”
Jules shook his head, in the office now, headed for his desk, his phone in his hand. One-fingered texting? Jules fit right in with a generation at least one behind him. Cliff and I followed close behind him as he took a seat. “Molly’s cat . . .” He turned his sentence into a cough. “Right, excuse me. Yeah, she tripped over the cat. Bad news.”
Too late, I thought; that’s the peril of multitasking. I had no idea why Jules would cover for Molly, or why I continued to pursue the real cause of her injured ankle as if it mattered.
Jules took his seat behind an enormous, highly polished executive-style desk; we took chairs in front. I glanced at my reflection in the surface. Real cherrywood or a finish? Quinn would know, but I couldn’t tell. Before meeting Quinn, I wouldn’t even have thought of the question. I also wondered how they’d managed to get the desk up the narrow stairway and through the office door.
I marveled at how all of Jules’s accessories matched, with cherrywood (real or faux) bases for his stapler, clips, tape, pencils, organizer, and bookends. None of my homes or office spaces had ever been so coordinated. I relied on the “messy desk, clear mind” saying and what Linda called my dorm room décor.
Except for the cherrywood, the office was furnished with what looked like the latest in high-tech equipment. The side wall was lined with electronics. Printer, scanner, copier, fax machine, and one fancy piece of equipment, cubical in shape, that I didn’t recognize.
“That’s a three-D printer,” Jules said, following my gaze. “They’ll probably come down in price, but you know me, early adopter and all.”
“What’s it good for?” Cliff asked.
Jules laughed, as if he’d expected just such a question. He picked up two chess pieces, a blue pawn and a yellow rook. “Here are my latest creations. I hope to graduate to something more useful soon.”
Cliff shook his head, clearly not impressed.
“We should get started,” Jules said, pulling a file from a drawer. He opened it, ready to get down to the meeting agenda. “As I told you, Cliff, there’s no need for you to take on any additional burden for the financial workings of the shop. I’m assuming you’re planning to keep it going?”
“For now, yes,” Cliff said.
I hoped that Jules had already offered Cliff some measure of sympathy before this meeting, which was to be all business, apparently. He spread out an array of forms, facing us. “As you can see,” he said, “the last reporting was at the end of July.” He jabbed his finger at the bottom of each sheet. “And Daisy signed off. So we’re good to go until the end of this month. In fact, if you need to take a couple of months to get adjusted, don’t even worry about all this.”
Jules picked up his phone, which he’d kept at his fingertips, suggesting that he was finished with the meeting, that in his mind, he’d explained whatever needed explaining, and was ready for the next interaction, via smartphone. I surprised Cliff and even myself by prolonging things.
“Actually, we can’t see,” I said, with a chuckle. I pointed to the corner of the office where there was a small round conference table and chairs. “Can we sit over there so we can all get a good look? I’m not that used to spreadsheets.”
Jules looked at his watch, then his phone, and grimaced. “I suppose we can do that.”
A short while ago I hadn’t wanted anything to do with Jules Edwards or the finances of Daisy’s Fabrics. Now here I was, making sure we got what we needed from him. In for a penny, I guessed.
We headed for the corner where a large matted, framed print dominated the wall space over a low credenza. SUCCESS IS was in large type. I couldn’t read the tiny lettering that followed on the next line, which seemed to defeat the purpose of displaying the message, but perhaps the sepia image of a footbridge cutting through rather swampy land was meant to prevail over the words.
As I passed the two large windows, it occurred to me that this was the first time I’d been above the first floor of the town since I returned a year ago. I had everything I needed on the ground floor. I stopped for a moment to gaze across Main Street to Daisy’s Fabrics to the right, and to the police station a block down to the left. As far as I could tell, Cliff had walked right by the views, not looking over at what was now solely his shop.
I wondered if the chief knew where I was right now. I’d find out soon enough, I was sure.
Jules spread his files across the conference table. Though a trolley against the back wall had the makings of cof
fee or tea, Jules offered neither. “Now, what would you like to know?” he asked, almost as a dare.
I’d expected Cliff to be a master interrogator. Hadn’t he referred often to his training, so close to that of police officers? At the moment, faced with his accountant and a windstorm of financial data, he seemed dumbstruck, slunk low in his chair. Without his stiff uniform, in a loose cardigan (and no badge), he looked much older than his fifty-something years. No wonder he’d asked me to sit in. My only choice was to step up.
“I imagine Cliff would like to know the bottom line, first,” I said. “Is the shop doing well, as far as its financial health goes?”
Cliff gave a pitiful nod. Jules laughed, an intimidating chuckle, as if my question was silly. “Define ‘healthy,’” he said.
As luck would have it, I was in one of my rare moods of Don’t Tread on Me, from the days of the American Revolution. “I thought that would be your job,” I answered.
I felt Cliff’s nervousness in the seat next to me, whether for my well-being or Jules’s I couldn’t have said.
“I suppose it is my job,” Jules said. “Let’s just say that Daisy sometimes let her reach exceed her grasp and we have some debts to clear up.”
Cliff sat up straight. “Debts? What kind? To whom?”
A big, reassuring smile from Jules. “I told you, I’m taking care of everything, buddy. You have to give me a little time to sort things out.”
“But Daisy always assured me that we were doing well. We paid our bills and were mostly living off my salary. She was putting the profits from the shop into an account for our retirement.”
“Is that what she told you?”
Cliff shifted his body, nearly standing, then sitting down again. I thought he was going to speak, but he simply swallowed, cleared his throat, and glanced at me. A cue, I supposed.
“What are you telling us?” I asked.
Jules waved his hand at me, as if a gnat had spoken up midflight. He pulled on his long, thin chin and addressed Cliff. “Hey, I told you, don’t worry, buddy. I’m handling it.”
Why didn’t that ease my mind? I could tell by Cliff’s fidgeting and his murmured “We were looking at a condo in Miami near Daisy’s parents” that Jules’s hand-waving, both literal and figurative, didn’t help him much, either.
“You’ll tell me if we’re in trouble, right?” Cliff asked.
Jules reached across the table and patted Cliff’s arm with the hand that was not resting on his phone. “Of course, of course. Trust me—I’m on top of it.” He checked his watch. “Listen, I’m expected at a dinner meeting with a big South Ashcot client. But hey, don’t hesitate to give me a call if you have any further questions.”
Before we could respond, Jules was on his feet at the door. “You have my number, too, don’t you, Cassie?”
“I do, and I promise to use it soon,” I said, with a smile that wasn’t returned.
I nearly asked for the number of the nearest auditor.
* * *
Outside, Cliff blew out a big breath. He walked me to my car, in my usual downtown spot in the lot in front of the bank, which generously allowed public parking after hours, both in front and in its back lot. We stood talking, leaning on my fender. In the shadow of the police department.
“What do you think?” he asked me, jerking his head toward the second floor of the building we’d just exited.
“I think you need to get copies of everything and show them to another accountant.”
Another loud breath as Cliff’s eyes widened, making me wish I hadn’t been so blunt. “It’s always a good idea to have a second opinion,” I said. “Let’s sleep on it, okay? We can talk tomorrow.”
I couldn’t think of a nicer way to separate myself from Cliff. I’d planned to walk over to Sunni’s office, but I didn’t want Cliff to know that. I didn’t need any more prompting from him.
“You’re probably right,” he said. “I feel like my head is going to explode with all there is to do.”
I knew what he meant. As careful as Aunt Tess had been to set her affairs in order before she died, I was still left with mountains of paperwork, phone calls, sorting, and transfers of this and that to deal with. At the time, I told myself I wanted to simply hide and grieve without letting anyone know where I was, but, in reality, the chores were distractions that were probably good for my mental health.
“I thought everything would be easier since we’re going to have the service in Florida, but it’s almost worse,” Cliff continued. “People keep calling, wanting to send flowers, or attend a service here. I know I should be grateful.”
Cliff’s voice was choked and I felt another meltdown coming on.
“Why don’t we have a simple memorial for Daisy in a couple of weeks? I’ll take care of it, if you want. Just a gathering to honor what she meant to us and our town.”
“Would you do that?” he asked.
I nodded. “Now will you try to get some rest? I’ll check in with you soon,” I said. I took Cliff’s arm, nudged him toward his car, three or four down from where we stood.
“Thanks, Cassie. I’m so lucky to have you on my side.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but I smiled anyway and wondered if it was truly my voice I’d heard, offering to arrange a memorial service. It was something aboveboard, and well within my abilities, I told myself. I stayed by my car and watched as Cliff walked down the street to his black, official-looking SUV.
I needed some downtime before I was ready to face Sunni, so I walked across the street to Mahican’s. I placed my cappuccino order, took a seat, and called Sunni to say I’d be at the station in a half hour. For all I knew she’d been tracking me since I left work, but I couldn’t worry about that.
In fact, I was tired of sneaking around, always concerned about what she would think of what I was doing with respect to the investigation of Daisy’s murder, always questioning whether or not I should tell her about what might be a lead or a clue or who might be a suspect, or even strange things that had come my way this week. That wasn’t how friends should be with each other, I told myself.
It might have been the rich espresso and the frothy steamed-milk foam that gave me clarity. Or it might have been the sugary morning bun I couldn’t resist, though I couldn’t get the barista to tell me if it was this morning’s or tomorrow morning’s fare.
Then and there I came up with a proposal. I packed up my things and headed out the door. As I crossed the street to my car, I noticed the lights were out on the second floor. I thought of the arrogant moneyman who worked there. I hoped Cliff would take my advice and get a second opinion on his finances.
I put that aside and focused on how to present my proposal to the chief of police. Would she think it was crazy? Or that I was crazy?
It was time to find out.
11
In the bank’s parking lot once more, I heard a low-level commotion—an overlapping of adult voices. I stepped back to the sidewalk to check out the source of the noise.
Next door to the bank was Molly Boyd’s beauty salon, From Head to Toe. WE CAN DYE YOUR HAIR AND PAINT YOUR TOES AT THE SAME TIME, a sign in the window boasted. The door to the salon opened and I saw Molly greet a group of eight or nine people who’d been waiting on the sidewalk, chatting but somewhat subdued. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
I thought it strange that the salon would be reopening, then noticed that the salon’s front lights were out, but lights in the back were on. I recognized quilters Fran Rogers and Molly Boyd. Andrea Harris was there with her pro–farmers’ market husband, Reggie, in a baseball cap. Others who joined the group included several men I didn’t recognize and a few more I did: Andrea’s brother, Pete, whose hardware store was next to the salon; Jules (not surprising, holding a phone to his ear); and Fred Bateman, Quinn’s boss at the antiques store.
&nb
sp; The sight reminded me of brainteasers I’d seen: What do these people have in common? Or, who doesn’t belong in this picture?
“Hey, Cassie.” Fred had stepped out of the group and greeted me.
“Looks like a high-level meeting is about to start,” I said.
Fred, in his sixties, I guessed, and usually as laid-back as you would expect of someone for whom a hundred-year-old hutch was “nearly new,” glanced over his shoulder at a couple of new arrivals and let out a skittish laugh. “Nah, we’ll just be shooting the bull in the back room. Looks like your boyfriend is having quite a successful trip. I’m sure you’ve been in touch.”
Smooth transition, I thought, and played along, telling Fred that, yes, Quinn and I had Skyped often, and yes, I’d be glad when he was home.
More people straggled in, exiting cars in twos and threes; others came from both directions on Main Street. I saw Mike Forbes, who owned Mike’s Bike Shop, and Dan Fuller, another bank worker. Curious as I was, I didn’t know Fred well enough to make a point of querying him about the gathering. We said good-bye, the reason for the meeting in the salon having been buried under small talk.
I was left with my imagination, and came up with an illegal poker game on one end of the spectrum and a surprise party planning session for a milestone birthday on the other. It was a strange collection of townsfolk, including some quilters, excluding others. Maybe they were designing a memorial service for Daisy. I hoped not, not without Cliff. Or me. But I had enough to worry about and focused on meeting Sunni.
* * *
The police department building was a redbrick Colonial, similar to the post office, except that it was two stories high, with a basement, and the interior hadn’t been renovated for some time. The white trim on the exterior was badly in need of a touch-up also and the landscaping left much to be desired. I wondered if Sunni’s no-nonsense political style and lack of wiles had anything to do with her quarters being low priority for the town budget.