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

by Bernadine Fagan

  “What does it say?”

  “Nothing too helpful. At least not yet. Common fiber. Half the people of Silver Stream probably have something to match it, including me. Green cotton thread.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Tell me about your day. I wondered off and on what you were up to.”

  “You did?” Now why that made me feel warm inside, just when I’d decided to keep him as a friend, I do not know.

  “My father was a cop,” I blurted to protect myself. “Did I tell you that?”

  “No, you only mentioned your brother.” He narrowed his eyes. “You trying to tell me something?”

  “Just that he did the same kind of work. His life revolved around the job.”

  He stared at me a moment. “Do you think I’m like your father or your brother?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He nodded, accepting that. “I don’t know either. But being sheriff is what I do. I like my work. When I’m working, I’m fully involved, but I try to put it aside when I leave here for the day. I keep my sanity that way.”

  I wanted to tell him about my prom, but I told him about my new truck instead, and about Percy being at the lot.

  “Percy again. You followed him, didn’t you?”

  “You are so suspicious.”

  “Just a guess.”

  When I said nothing, he asked, “Well, did you?”

  “I was going the same direction he was. Besides, I may have found out something.” I told him about the newspaper and the paper that was stapled inside. Naturally, I omitted my evasive tactics. No need to draw attention to the risk.

  “Follow me,” he said as he headed for his office.

  “Do you want to see the names or not?” I asked, reaching into my purse.

  “Yes.” He stepped to the side and held the door for me. “Let’s see.”

  I gave him the paper. “There were other names, maybe ten more, but I didn’t get them.”

  “Too dangerous?” He shook his head and exhaled a puff of breath. “Don’t answer that. How many times do I have to tell you the same thing about Percy? You won’t listen, will you?”

  He looked at what I’d written and his expression changed, became intent as he studied the paper.

  When he looked back up, his expression revealed nothing. “This could be completely innocent. Could be related to his business.”

  “You don’t really believe that. You know it’s nefarious.”

  “Nefarious? Who uses words like nefarious?” he asked, studying the numbers.

  “An educated detective,” I said.

  He sighed.

  I took the paper from his hand and placed it on his desk so we could both look at it.

  “8011a0920 and 401p0927. I think the a and the p refer to time.

  “Good guess,” he said. “Eleven in the morning. One in the afternoon.”

  We studied the numbers together. Went back and forth about their meaning.

  Nick said, “These last numbers could be dates. September twentieth. September twenty-seventh.”

  “Yes. Dates a week apart. They jump off the page. How come I didn’t see that?”

  He checked the calendar on his desk. “Both are Saturdays.”

  “If we knew what Percy was up to,” I said, “I bet we could figure this all out easily.”

  Nick copied the information and tacked the paper to a bulletin board near his desk. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Mary Fran and her case against Percy, does it?”

  “I’m not sure.” This was definitely true. “I think Percy is into something and I want to know what it is, not only for Mary Fran’s sake, but for JT’s. I have a strong feeling that Uncle JT’s disappearance is connected. Percy could be at the heart of it.” Puzzles on top of puzzles.

  “You’re probably right about Percy being involved in something he shouldn’t be,” Nick said. “That wouldn’t be a surprise. It might, or might not, be connected to JT’s disappearance. We’ll see.”

  He tapped the paper on his desk. “I’ll check out these names. I don’t recognize either, and I know just about everyone around here. Trimble can run them through the database.”

  “Good. Now come out and see my new truck.”

  He smiled. “I’ve been waiting for an invitation.”

  When we were outside, I said, “JT didn’t murder Collins, you know. You’re on the wrong track if you think so.”

  He lifted the silver hood and looked at the engine and whatever else was in there.

  “And you know this how?” he asked.

  I laid my hand over my heart. “I feel it. I know this sounds silly, but I think JT ran for another reason. I just don’t know what it was at the moment.”

  “Intuition, huh?”

  I pretended to consider this. “Is that the same as gut feeling? You know, the feeling cops get when they suspect something without hard evidence to go on.”

  He closed the hood, without commenting, and walked around the truck, inspecting stuff like the tires and the truck-bed. He checked to make sure there was a jack. I was tempted to tell him I didn’t know how to use a jack so it didn’t matter whether it was there or not, but I refrained. Men are funny about things like that.

  “I have your clothes at my place,” he said. “Want me to drop them off?”

  “Sure,” I said casually.

  “I’m not free till dinnertime. That okay?”

  What was he asking? Probably nothing. I was reading into it. I wondered whether hot Nick was back. I tested.

  “How will you eat dinner if you’re out delivering clothes to women?”

  “Maybe the woman, not women, could have dinner with me.”

  A date. Hot Nick returns.

  “That’s an idea,” I said pleasantly, calmly, as if I were considering it. “I eat every night.”

  “Something we have in common then.”

  “I haven’t noticed a plethora of restaurants around here.”

  “Plethora? Is that anything like nefarious?”

  “Very much,” I said.

  “I know a place that’s not bad. You like Italian?”

  “Some of my best friends are Italian.”

  “Good.”

  “This is like a date?” I said.

  “No. Just dinner. I don’t date.”

  “Whew. Thank goodness. Me neither.”

  “You have a few problems with your new truck.”

  “Oh?”

  “The back tires are bald and the radiator leaks. You’ll probably have to replace the tires yourself, but the radiator might be Percy’s responsibility. Granted, it’s a slow leak, but it will get bigger. Don’t let it go. Check out your warranty.”

  Had that salesman given me the warranty? Yes, he talked about it so I probably had it. I now had an excuse to go back there again, maybe discover something else. Perhaps get the rest of the names on the list. Or find the key to the list?

  “Good,” I said without thinking.

  “Good that things are wrong with your truck?” Nick asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “Good that there’s nothing else wrong with it,” I said, covering my mis-speak.

  “Can’t say that for certain. I just mentioned the obvious things that were wrong.”

  I hopped into the truck. “Maybe when we go on that non-date, you could do me the favor of driving Chevy Charlene and letting me know what else you think is wrong. That way I can have my list ready when I go in about the leak.”

  “Chevy Charlene?”

  “Ce-ce for short, if that’s easier. What have you named your truck?”

  Resting both hands on the window frame, he stared at me without speaking. I felt a little shiver. I suppressed a giggle, which was odd because I never giggle. I either laugh out loud in a bodacious manner, or I smile. Howie used to say I had a horse laugh. But giggle?

  Finally, he said, “I hope you’re not planning to nose around when you take Ce-ce—”I think he shuddered when he used the name—“back to the Auto Mart.”
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  Sometimes, I find it difficult to lie, like now, so I just rolled my eyes as if he were way off base. Even that made me feel guilty, but I think he bought it.

  Then again… .

  SEVENTEEN

  I phoned Lori. She’d received my résumé and put the changes in. My cover letter was waiting to be signed. I was ready for the job hunt. As usual, she asked when I planned to return to the City.

  “I still haven’t set a date,” I told her. “I’ll do that tomorrow and let you know. Good enough?”

  “You’re not planning to stay there, are you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I have a feeling you’re getting involved.”

  “Just tying up a few loose ends.”

  I told her that she’d faxed the résumé to the sheriff’s office, and she groaned and apologized for the photo. I told her it wasn’t so bad.

  Next, I checked in with Howie. Quickly told him what Aunt Ellie had said about the sexual harassment. He was astounded. He hadn’t spoken to Mom yet and was very busy working on a case so we couldn’t talk much. Before he hung up he asked what was in the mystery box that Great-grandma Evie buried, and I told him I hadn’t gone on the hunt yet.

  “I’m surprised you’re not curious. It could contain thousands. Or the family jewels. Or Pepsi stock bought when the company first went public.”

  He was laughing so hard I just hung up.

  But he was right. I had to locate the box. I was wasting precious time. What was I waiting for? A big thunderstorm? Snow? Today was a beautiful day for a treasure hunt. The box probably wasn’t far from the house. The letter said it was beyond the stream. It would be nice to have someone with me, but I could manage alone. Not that I was afraid of moose or anything like that, but company would be nice. I was used to having a lot of people around.

  I crawled around in the closet, pushing the dangling hair from my eyes, sighing, groaning. I needed some boots when I crossed the stream.

  Bingo. Found them.

  I sat on the floor and pulled on a pair of clunky boots at least two sizes too big. They probably belonged to the original Silver Stream Lassiter, Jeb. I hoped I didn’t catch a foot disease. Probably not with the thick socks. I tied the boots tightly and tested them, hoping the old shoelaces would hold. I grabbed the envelope with the map inside and lurched out to the shed.

  I selected a shovel from a buffet of five different shovels. Who needed so many different kinds of shovels? I probably wouldn’t need the shovel today, but optimism runs rampart in me sometimes. I planned to get as far as I could, mark the way like Hansel and Gretel, but not with bread crumbs, and then … Who knew? I smiled inwardly and clomped onward.

  When I arrived, I set the shovel down, whipped out the map and studied it. Confusing squiggly lines ran every which way. There were direction markings for north and south and such. I had no idea which direction was which. Go north at the red pine. Which way was north? Had the sun come through my window in the morning? That would be east. If I faced east, north would be … to my left. Piece of cake.

  Trees were penciled in with names on them. Names? She thought I could identify trees by name? I could recognize a total of three trees-–white birch, red Japanese maple, and blue spruce, the distinguishing element in all three being the obvious. None of Grandma Evie’s tree labels met my criteria, except for the red pine.

  Okay. A good place to start. Elementary, my dear Nora. Red pines must be red. I could find this one, but I figured all the rest were green. Most green trees were a mystery.

  Discouraged, but not enough to deter, I glanced around. The red must be up farther. I picked up my shovel and plodded along the stream, which was more like a little creek here, looking for a red tree, or even one close to red. Occasionally, I banged the shovel against a rock to let the animals know I was not unarmed and they’d better beware: moose and bears in particular, although I didn’t think there would be any this close to the house. You never know though. So far, it was an effective tactic. No animals dared to appear. I think I went about half a mile. It’s hard to gauge distance in the woods when you’re used to city blocks. Twenty blocks, one mile. At least that was the rumor.

  How many trees equal a mile? Had anyone figured that out yet? I think not.

  Nothing down this way. Not so much as a smear of red. I decided to retrace my steps and check out the opposite direction. The shovel was getting heavy and the shoes were rubbing against my heels, even through the thick socks. Great. A blister for sure. Maybe two blisters.

  I passed the spot where I’d started out, and continued for another ten minutes. Nothing. No red pine in this area. Nothing red.

  This wasn’t working. I needed a tree expert. I knew that the aunts and uncles were tree people but I couldn’t see them tramping through these woods.

  I’d prefer you keep it quiet, but the decision about telling is yours. My meddling days are over.

  That made me wonder about the contents again. Something sinister? Another secret? I hadn’t considered either before.

  I needed someone I could trust, someone who knew tree stuff. Nick? Mary Fran? Or maybe a book? I headed back to the house.

  An hour later I pulled into the library parking lot. Margaret looked nervous when I walked in. I made her nervous?

  “You here for anything in particular?”

  No friendly hello this time.

  “Books on trees,” I said. “I want to be able to identify trees.”

  She directed me, and then went back to the book she was reading, probably some dry classic. I almost asked, but she seemed so remote, that I kept my distance.

  I looked up red spruce first. Geez. It was green. Whoever named this tree should be shot. No. Tortured, then shot. How dare they deceive an unsuspecting public. I studied the picture and it looked like several trees I’d seen. Big help. I tried another book and found the pictures more annoying, many with a tree trunk, pine cones and a few pine needles. From these pictures I’d never be able to identify a thing. Who wrote these crappy books anyway? Bunch of jerks.

  Three women came in as I was putting the books back on the shelf. As I was heading out, Margaret got up and walked to the children’s section with them. I glanced at the book she’d turned face down on the desk and covered with her napkin.

  I flipped the napkin. Lascivious Lucinda. Erotica.

  Staid Margaret in the navy blue polyester reading a bodice-ripper. My thoughts scattered every which way. Of course, it probably didn’t mean anything.

  Quickly, I flipped the napkin back in place and left, my take on prissy Margaret upended once more.

  * * *

  This was a disaster. One of my own making. Just when I thought my days of being foolish about men had been consigned to the past, wham-bang, I stepped into it again. A date, for-god-sakes. I had to be out of my mind.

  I know a place that’s not bad. You like Italian?

  Some of my best friends are Italian.

  How cute was that? Coy and cute and let’s not forget stupid. Starting a relationship when you’re leaving the state? And with a cop no less. Stupid. Stupid.

  Wrapped in a towel, still shaking, fresh from that icy shower, I looked at the clothes spread out on my bed, my entire Maine wardrobe. Not much. A week’s worth of clothes for a woman planning to stay four days. I was into week two and down to my last pair of black slacks and one white silk blouse. I was in trouble. But thinking about clothes didn’t work right now. I was in deep doo-doo. I was not prepared for a date with Nick the cop and it had nothing to do with clothes. If I didn’t like him so much, wasn’t so attracted, this would be easier. I could have dinner, enjoy the conversation, the company, the food, say goodnight and leave without looking back. Simple.

  As I towel-dried my hair, the weight of the coming evening bore down on me. Feeling desperate, I dropped the towel, grabbed my pocketbook and found my appointment book. I could set a date to leave is what I could do. I’d promised myself I’d do that, and I would. Right no
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  Tomorrow was out. First the funeral, then the Percy-Marla photo shoot. Then I’d have to get the pictures run off and give them to Mary Fran. That would take me into Saturday. Hmm. On Saturday I could finish up everything, conference with the family about the land, finalize details, say my good-byes. I’d have to tell Vivian the Pomeranian lady to find someone else to investigate her dog poisoning. I hated to do that, go back on my word, but it couldn’t be helped. Self-preservation came first.

  By Sunday morning, the latest, I’d be ready to leave. I circled Sunday and wrote Back to NYC in block letters and added an exclamation point. I double underlined it and tossed the book on the table. I felt better already.

  Then I remembered the buried box, picked the book up and changed the date to the Monday.

  I slipped into my white underwear, extra lacy to make up for the fact that it was white. I’d have preferred the red bra and panties, but the bra would show through the blouse and I figured I had enough trouble ahead without that teaser. I pulled on the black slacks and white blouse. I’d wear the white blazer. Nights were chilly here.

  Cover up. Cover up, Nora.

  Too bad I hadn’t asked Margaret the Librarian for one of her navy suits. Ms. Erotica in a straight-laced suit. Who would have guessed?

  I smoothed down the collar of my blouse as I looked in the mirror. I wondered whether Nick would drive the sheriff’s car or his own. His own, definitely his own. I’d asked him to test drive my truck, but he might not need to take that very far.

  I was excited about seeing him. I couldn’t help it. Even though I knew I was flirting with disaster. Sometimes it’s fun to flirt with disaster.

  He was supposed to arrive around seven and I hoped Ida would be dozing by then. Less fuss. She often fell asleep in her chair while watching the news. I’d told her that Nick and I were going out to eat. Her grin was the broadest I’d seen since I’d arrived. I set her straight though. Told her it was strictly a platonic dinner. She mumbled something about those Renzos not knowing the meaning of the word. I could take that two ways. Either they suffered from limited vocabularies, or they were passionate men. I didn’t think I needed clarification.