Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream

by Bernadine Fagan

  Pete gave a snort that bordered on a laugh. “Yep. Sure did.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” he said in a way guaranteed to made me think there was something. I wondered what this guy had told the sheriff.

  He launched into a sale’s pitch about the Dodge, explaining all sorts of things I didn’t understand. I tuned him out and let him practice his spiel.

  Minutes later, Percy drove in. I watched him go inside, a newspaper tucked under his arm. Something about the paper niggled. Then it hit me. He had the paper home-delivered and he’d bought one at the Country Store? The only reason I knew this was that I’d almost smashed into the newspaper delivery truck when I blasted out of his driveway on Monday. It probably meant nothing. But I did pat myself on the back for noticing.

  “I need a drink of water,” I told Pete, holding my throat, going for a parched look. “I’ll be right back.”

  Pete followed. I turned and suggested, “Find me something smaller. This Ram is way too big. You saw me drive up in a PT Cruiser. Diminutive, Pete, that’s what I want. Skip the heavyweights and proceed to bantam.”

  When I reached the offices inside, I stuck my head in the one marked Percy Kendall. “Hello, Percy. You might not remember me. I met you at Hannah Lassiter’s on Saturday night?”

  He nodded in recognition. “Yes. Hannah’s niece. You in the market for a vehicle?”

  The newspaper was open in front of him on his desk.

  “I’m sorry about your partner. Terrible thing, his murder.”

  Without being invited, I stepped inside, looked around. Nubby gray carpeting, scraped metal furniture, faded geraniums that screamed plastic. Awful room. They should hang the decorator.

  I glanced down at his newspaper, then back at him quickly. A small square of paper had been attached to the top of one page. Even though I’m new to this detective business, it didn’t take a bona fide Sherlock to know that was odd. Without missing a beat, he removed the square of paper and slipped it into his middle drawer.

  I found myself staring at him, seeing him as the philanderer, hearing again the crack of the riding crop, the stomp of the boots, but most of all, wondering about the little piece of paper in his middle drawer. I sensed it was important and I wanted to see it.

  “Yes, terrible. Thank you for the condolences. Now, can I help you?”

  “I found the body.”

  “I heard. I’m sorry.” No sorrow in his voice. No emotion. And I knew Percy was a man who could muster a lot of emotion.

  Pete poked his head in the door. “I was showing Nora some pickups. I think I found one she’ll really like.”

  Looking relieved, Percy came from behind the desk. “Take good care of Ms. Lassiter. I know her family.”

  “A nice Ford pickup, Nora.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  I had to back up and step outside the door to make room for Percy to pass. Neat maneuver on his part. Get the nosy lady out of his office.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to take care of,” he said.

  I watched him head upstairs, probably to some other office, maybe just to the men’s room. That paper was so close, just a few steps away. It could be from the woman he spoke to in the library. Maybe she congratulated him on a job well done? I stopped myself in mid-thought. I didn’t know for a fact that he was the guy in the library. It was a guess. I was jumping ahead.

  “The pickup?” Pete prompted, his professional smile locked in place as he gestured toward the lot.

  “Find me something else,” I said. “I don’t want a Ford. It’s personal. My ex had a Ford.”

  My ex didn’t own a car, and if I stood in front of a dozen cars, I couldn’t tell the difference without checking the names on them.

  “Sh-ur. I understand. I have an ex, too.”

  “I didn’t get my drink yet, and I have to use the ladies’ room. Be out in a sec.” My smile was bright, my heart pounding, palms sweating.

  I went to the water cooler and filled a cup. I sipped slowly as I watched the eager beaver grab several keys and hurry outside again. My gaze shot to the stairs Percy had taken. I could only see one other person in the building, a chunky guy—a salesman?—sitting by the side door reading a Batman comic and eating a Twinkie.

  Knees knocking, I edged into Percy’s office, set my water down and yanked open the drawer. I grabbed the paper he’d hidden from me. It was a list of names with a series of numbers next to them. I had no idea what it meant, but I knew, really knew, it was critical.

  I wanted to stuff the paper in my purse. Study it later. In lieu of that stupidity, I glanced at the first name and number. I grabbed a pen from the desk and a piece of paper that said From the Desk of Percy Kendall, and began to copy the first name and the numbers that followed.

  I heard footsteps. My heartbeat rocketed. Off the charts, thumping, thumping, so intense I thought my chest would burst. He couldn’t be back this soon. My hand flew as I copied a second name and the set of numbers that followed it.

  Percy’s different from most folks around here. He’s … tougher. Can be ruthless.

  Panting with fear, I shoved the original paper back in the drawer. Grabbed my cup, knocked it over. Water splashed on the desk, drenching the newspaper.

  Gestapo bootsteps came closer. He was going to find me in his office at his wet desk. What could I say? Or do?

  Think. Think.

  I seemed to have shut down mentally. Brain freeze. I heard him pause outside the door and speak to the comic book kid, something about cleaning the cars.

  Think. A plan. A plan.

  FOURTEEN

  Shaking, as I listened to Percy chat outside the door, I snatched up his phone and punched in my home number in New York.

  “Well, I’m going to use the money whether you think it’s a good deal or not.” I shouted over the ringing at the other end of the line. “I need a truck. Something substantial. Winter’s coming. You think I can manage up here without a truck?”

  Percy stepped through the door, his eyes hard, assessing. I paused, held up my hand, giving him the universal wait-a-minute sign.

  I hoped he couldn’t hear the ringing. To cover the sound, I waved his wet newspaper as if I were trying to dry it. When my answering machine kicked in, I talked louder to cover the generic man’s voice. “We’re not available right now,” it informed me in a deep sonorous tone. “At the sound of the beep… .

  “I’ll have someone else check out the truck before I buy, but I do intend to buy,” I shouted. That said, I hung up with a dramatic flourish.

  “Sorry to use your phone without asking. My cell phone is dead. I forgot to charge it, and I just had to make a call. Right away. I’ll pay you the charges.” Opening my purse, I reached for my wallet.

  I could see his suspicions ebb, not entirely, but enough. “You needn’t bother,” he assured me in a cool voice, eyeing his newspaper.

  “I knocked my water over.” I did a meek Marla impersonation. “I’m so clumsy sometimes. I’ll get a paper towel and clean it up.”

  “Never mind.”

  Smiling Pete returned. “I think I found one with your name on it. Like to take her for a test drive? I have the key.” He held it up in case I needed proof. “Just let me put these others back.”

  Her? Take her for a test drive? If I wasn’t so glad to see him, I’d call him on that her business.

  Relieved that I’d managed to escape detection—I thought it went well, considering—I followed Pete, happy to put distance between myself and Gestapo man, who stood by his door like a sentinel, arms folded, watching our exit. I’d bet a winning lottery ticket that once we were outside, he’d check to see what number I’d called.

  Pete and I were close to the exit when the Toreador March blasted from my purse. Omigod. No and no. What timing. I didn’t look directly at Percy. Didn’t need to. My peripheral vision picked up his form. I saw his arms drop to his sides. Saw him take a step toward us. Th
en stop.

  To answer the phone, or not to answer? That was the question. Decisions, decisions.

  “Imagine that. It is charged,” I said as I grabbed the phone, turned to Percy with a helpless Who knew? kind of look, accompanied by appropriate gestures like shrugging and such. I was in a high school play once and my friends told me I should be an actress.

  I quickly answered, “Hello, Lori.”

  She started to discuss my résumé. I cut her off. “Can’t talk now. My phone is almost dead. I’ll call you back later.”

  I’m not sure Percy bought it. I wouldn’t have. With a sinking feeling, I made a quick exit.

  * * *

  I drove a Chevy S-10 around and liked it. It was small and had a nice stereo with a CD player. Of course, the engine could be ready to drop and I wouldn’t know it, but Pete looked trustworthy. Had I once thought that about Whatshisname? I gave a mental shake and tossed my ex from my thoughts. The bottom line was that I needed something to drive. Should I bother to have anyone check it out, like I said on the phone? I didn’t want to bother. I’d tell Percy that JT would check it over and charge him if anything needed fixing. I hoped he didn’t know that JT was missing. “Petey, let’s talk money. What are you asking?” I added quickly, “And don’t quote me that ridiculous price on the windshield. I’m from New York.”

  Percy would be less suspicious when I bought a truck from him. I was almost sure of it. Almost. Worrying about my phone ringing was getting me no place. I decided since I could do nothing to change the situation, I wouldn’t waste my time thinking about it.

  By late afternoon I had turned in the rented PT Cruiser, and was driving the neat silver Chevy S-10 pickup with only a few dings and dents. The purchase had sent my bank account into double digit country.

  I needed a real job. Pronto.

  I had a feeling of accomplishment as I tooled along in my very own truck. I felt Maine-ish, too. I tooted and waved as I passed another truck, just for the heck of it. I decided to name this truck. Let’s see. Chevy Charles? No. Chevy Bevy? Dumb. Chevy Charlene? That had a nice ring to it.

  “I christen thee Chevy Charlene,” I declared loudly. To make it official, I banged on the dashboard. The glove compartment popped open and the door fell on the floor.

  It was late afternoon, but I figured I had time to go to Aunt Ellie’s. See the house. Talk about Dad’s missing brother. Maybe there’d be some news about JT.

  When I pulled up to the front door, I sat for a moment, my thoughts heavy with memory. The house had changed, had been bricked and sided, an extension added. It looked good. Not just good. Spectacular. Maybe they’d won the lottery and no one had mentioned it to me.

  I got out and stood on the bottom step. The last time my feet rested here they were pointed in the other direction. I had been leaving Maine. I remembered thinking, with the optimism of childhood, that I’d be back soon. Good thing I didn’t know then that it would be twenty years before I returned.

  The southwest sky, awash in shades of purple, pink and indigo, was dotted with those puffy backlit clouds edged in silver. Exquisite. I was a sky person. If I were a painter, most of my work would have sky. As an amateur photographer, I included it as often as I could. I picked up my camera and snapped a few pictures.

  When I was a kid I used to stare at this same sky from my second-floor window. I looked up at my old room and saw white ruffled tie-backs and a shade pulled mid-way down. I wondered whose room it was now. And did she look out as I had? Strange, how this feeling of belonging and not belonging melded together.

  I knocked.

  * * *

  Ellie answered the door. “Come in, come in, Nora.”

  She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. Her eyes were red-rimmed. From crying or lack of sleep? Strain was evident. She wore a wrinkled blue warm-up suit and her makeup was spotty except for the blue eye shadow. Basically, she looked ten years older than she had Saturday night.

  Standing in the foyer, we made small talk. I couldn’t help noticing how different this house was from the other houses I’d visited up here. So different from the way it was when I was a child. Not Maine-like at all. More like designer showcase.

  Ellie said, “I’m sure you’d love to see the house. Come on. Take the ten-cent tour.”

  I glanced around. If the outside looked spectacular, the inside dazzled by comparison. I considered myself a connoisseur of sorts when it came to designer clothes, but I also knew a thing or two about furnishings. Granted, not as much as about clothes, but still enough to recognize the hand of an interior designer when I saw it. Or was Aunt Ellie this good?

  The living room’s antique sofa, upholstered in white leather, anchored the space set off by a red Persian carpet. Solid oak flooring had replaced my mother’s linoleum. Custom made cabinetry showcased what I thought might be a Dresden porcelain collection. I’d have to see it close up, of course, but my guess was Dresden. Expensive stuff.

  Dragging my attention from the house, I said, “I wanted to see you, too. I’m so sorry about JT. I wish I could help.”

  This was true. Even though Ellie hadn’t been that welcoming, I couldn’t abandon her. She was family.

  “Have you heard from him?” I asked.

  “No.” She hesitated and I thought it was anger I saw, not sadness behind the damp eyes. Then she said, “It’s no surprise. The man’s an ass.”

  Suddenly, she took a deep breath, looked so intense that I reached for her hand.

  “Aunt Ellie?”

  She pulled back before I could touch her and said, “Nick informed me that JT’s a suspect. I guess you probably knew that.”

  I expected her to cry, or at least get choked up. She didn’t. She told me about the patch the forensic team had found.

  “That doesn’t prove a thing,” I said. “The patch was on his property and could have been lost there at any time.”

  “Maybe. But it was brand new, not weathered. I remember when he brought it home. It was one of the new patches they had made up.”

  Then it hit me like a punch to the midsection: she thought he was guilty. I wondered if any other family members felt the same. Great-grandma Evie’s words about my father flashed through my mind.

  Maybe we should have come together more as a family and backed him.

  Was family history repeating itself? Was anyone backing JT, or did the family think he was guilty, too?

  “Has the family been around?” I asked.

  “I sent everyone home. Different ones have been here off and on since I told them he was missing. They’re wonderful … keeping me company and all. I appreciated it, but I wanted to be alone for a few hours so I sent them home. Come suppertime, a few will be back, I suppose.”

  “And now I come barging in on your private time. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I thought I could nap, but I can’t. Sit, please. I’ll make some tea. I need to be busy.”

  “I don’t drink tea, but if you have coffee?”

  “Done.” She opened the refrigerator and took out a bag a coffee beans with a Starbuck’s label. I actually got excited. I hadn’t had Starbuck’s in over a week. I mentioned it to her and we both smiled.

  “That patch. It was my fault it came off at all. When he got the damn thing he asked me to sew it on, and I refused. I was too mad at him to do anything for him, so he sewed it himself. He did a lousy job.”

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that JT wouldn’t have stopped and pulled it off the branch? He must have felt it tear. Why leave evidence like that?”

  “I mentioned that to Nick, and he said when people panic they’re not as aware as they would normally be. But JT never panicked easily. Believe me. My husband may be ten kinds of a fool, a drinker, he may have been unfaithful …” She paused. “But he’s not a panicky person.”

  Unfaithful? This was the first I’d heard about him being with another woman. “Are you sure he’s been unfaithful?” I blurted, my tact having been left at the door.

&
nbsp; Holding the refrigerator open, Ellie stared at me as if I had just dropped in from Mars. “Yes,” she said cooly.

  “It’s none of my business. Forget I asked.”

  My thoughts jumped to faithless Percy and I wondered if the same woman could be involved. How much bed-hopping took place in Silver Stream anyway? Or were most men bed-hoppers? Like Whatshisname.

  She put the milk in a delicate china pitcher and set it on the table. “Would you like to see the rest of the house while the coffee’s brewing?”

  “Sure.” Anything. Get me outta here.

  The house was elegant, a show place. In the den I noticed the gun cabinet. Empty.

  You ass. Better watch your step. I have a key to that rifle cabinet.

  I wondered what had happened to those guns. With JT missing and Collins murdered, Ellie’s angry threat to JT on Saturday night seemed ominous. Ellie could have murdered JT. Or Collins. The thought was barely formed when I sacked it. No. Not possible. She was my aunt, a Lassiter by marriage. We Lassiters didn’t murder people. We were the good guys. JT was a good guy.

  “Isn’t that a gun cabinet?”

  “Yes.”

  “No guns in the house?”

  “I removed them. For safe keeping.”

  I followed her upstairs, wondering where she had stashed the ordnance.

  She was talking to me. I hadn’t processed a word she’d said. Something about her daughter.

  “What?” I asked as I stepped into my old room.

  “My daughter’s an art teacher. She did that horse painting when she was twelve. Talented, isn’t she?”

  “Very.”

  I barely glanced at the painting, a white stallion poised on a ridge overlooking a lake. Woods all around. I had come home again. I went to the window, leaned my hands on the sill and gazed at the driveway, at the trees rising up on either side. I knew this sight. How many times had I closed my eyes and been right here? I opened the window and leaned as far as the screen would allow, and looked down at the front porch. I could see the steps and the last few feet of porch, could make out the edges of the green Adirondack chairs.