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

by Bernadine Fagan

  “You have that jumping-to-conclusions gene, Howie.”

  “You’re playing detective, trying to prove JT is innocent, aren’t you, Nora?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Stay out of it. Leave it to the professionals.”

  “Oh, right. They do such a stellar job. Like catch the guy who murdered old Percy a couple of decades ago.”

  “What makes you think it was a guy?”

  What indeed?

  “I don’t know. Too vicious for a woman?”

  “Not if she were protecting herself and a bat was all she had handy.”

  Food for thought. See, that’s why it’s good to run this stuff by Howie. He comes up with these angles I never consider. “Never thought of that,” I said.

  “What are you going to do with the money and the property?” Howie asked.

  “Me? You mean us. I’m up here facilitating the whole thing, but Evie left the money and the land to us, not me. Oh, and she wanted me to bring the family together again. What are you doing on your vacation this year?”

  Silence.

  “Come-on, Howie. I have an assignment from our great-grandmother. Her dying wish.”

  More silence.

  I said impatiently, “You’re rolling your eyes and making a face, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely not,” he replied.

  “Your pants are on fire, liar. At least tell me what we should do about our money and our property? I’m asking for help here, and getting a big fat zero.”

  “I’ll go along with whatever you want, Nora. The decision is in your capable hands.”

  “Convenient. Okay, here’s my decision. I think I’ll keep everything myself.”

  I hung up before he finished laughing.

  My next call was to Lori. After asking if she’d seen any listings for computer analysts in the Times, and hearing the negative answer I expected, I filled her in on my expedition into the woods with the aunts, then let her vent about her breakup with her boyfriend. She went on for fifteen minutes. I listened for fifteen minutes. Sometimes, I am a saint.

  When I got off the phone, I thought about Whatshisname and our breakup. It seemed like a long time ago. I realized that it had been days since I’d pictured him showering with that woman. Progress.

  * * *

  I needed to look at my digital funeral shots on a large computer screen. When I flipped through them on the tiny camera screen, certain figures were indistinct. Since I intended to show any incriminating results to Nick, it made sense to use a computer in the sheriff’s office. Besides, I wanted to find out if he’d learned anything new.

  I felt a heaviness when I thought about my father, so I pushed him from my thoughts and read the note Ida’d left on the fridge. She’d gone to another church meeting with Hannah and Agnes about the upcoming bean-hole supper. Having grown used to her breakfasts, I was a little disappointed. To make it up to me, she’d set out freshly baked blueberry muffins. Oh, it was going to be hard to leave Maine.

  As a kid one of my favorite books was Blueberries for Sal, the attraction being the berries that were plinked into Sal’s pail. I loved berry picking as a kid. This was the first batch of blueberry muffins Ida’d made. She told me she had frozen the berries she’d picked out back this summer. Good woman, Ida Lassiter.

  I ate one muffin. The warm butter dribbled down my hand. I wrapped two muffins to go. Pretty soon I wouldn’t be able to zip my jeans. Instead of making coffee, I’d stop at the Country Store and pick up a container before dropping into the sheriff’s office. Nick only worked half a day today so I wanted to get there early. Aside from using his computer, I needed to ask him about Pom Mom Vivian and her neighbor. I also wanted to know more about the gruesome murder of Percy Kendall, senior.

  Amy gave me a cheerful hello when I walked into the Country Store. She was refilling salt shakers. The place was empty.

  “Taken any good pictures lately?” she asked as I slipped onto a stool at the counter.

  For a moment I was taken aback, thinking she was referring to the funeral. An instant later I realized she remembered the disks and batteries I’d bought here.

  “A few. But I haven’t run anything off yet. I will when I get home.”

  I looked at Amy with different eyes today, wondering if she could be Marla. I had looked at Margaret and Vivian the same way, regardless of what Mister-Head-Honcho wanted. One of these women was likely the mystery woman, the “tramp,” and the key to the Collins murder.

  “I’ll just take a coffee. Regular.”

  “Sure thing.”

  All I knew about Amy was that she was a widow, like Vivian, and she was either a liar, or a woman with a piss-poor memory.

  No one gets murdered in Silver Stream. This here’s always been a safe place to live.

  That murder must have been the talk of the town for a long time. Of course, Amy recalled the event when I jogged her memory.

  As she poured the coffee, I tried to picture her in a maid’s outfit, playing the meek one as Percy stomped around in his boots. Or would she prefer to play the dominatrix to his little boy persona? It was too early in the morning for such images. Some things really didn’t go with breakfast.

  I asked, “You buy your car at Kendall’s Auto Mart?”

  “Sure. Most folks around here do,” she said as she put the coffee pot back.

  More interested in her reactions than what she had to say, I watched her carefully. “You know Percy Kendall well?”

  Amy shrugged, but I thought I saw a flicker of something. Resentment? Wariness? Hard to tell. It was the kind of thing that happens so fast you’re never sure what you saw. If life came with rewind-replay buttons, I’d be good to go.

  “As good as anybody,” Amy replied casually, wiping the counter. “Sure are full of questions today. You sound like the detective you are.”

  That took me by surprise.

  I added cream and stirred my coffee. “No, it’s just I’m new in town… .” I left the thought hanging.

  “Ought to ask your family. They know the history of this town as well as anybody.”

  In other words, shut up, Nora? Had I hit a nerve?

  “Maybe even the sheriff,” Amy continued. “I hear you been spending a lot of time with him lately. You two got something going under the sheets? You New York City girls work that fast?”

  That came out of left field. Her tone was petty, vengeful. Is that what people thought? Or was Amy trying to turn the tables on me?

  Whatever.

  I wanted to smack her in the head. Instead, I replied calmly, “Would it bother you if I were sleeping with Nick?”

  “What the hell do I care what Renzo does?”

  Bingo. One button pressed. The only thing was, I didn’t know what it meant.

  Why would she care about Nick and me? Was she interested in him? For some reason, I didn’t think so, but maybe I should consider that.

  She inhaled and the button over her breast looked like it was about to pop. Momentarily distracted, I wondered why she would wear something so tight to work.

  It would be prudent to back off, not say another word, but since prudence wasn’t my strong suite, I said, “Well, I’m glad it’s nothing to you. That leaves the way clear for me.”

  I was turning into such a liar, I couldn’t stand myself. This was not me. I was famous for telling the truth. I didn’t believe in lying. The lofty me felt it diminished a person.

  “I thought you were leaving Maine and going back to New York.”

  “I’m not so sure,” the diminished me replied. I took a sip of coffee. “This is a nice town. Except for that murder, of course. But Nicky’s really working on it. He’s got several leads. Promising ones. I think he’ll solve this mess soon.”

  Had I really called him Nicky?

  She stared at me. Said nothing. Then turned on her heel and went into the kitchen.

  Nick had said Amy’s name was A.M. Yanetti. Could the M stand for Marla? Maybe I should check Viv
ian’s middle name. And Margaret’s.

  * * *

  After breakfast I went across to the sheriff’s office. Nick, aka Nicky, was in his office with the door open.

  “Any news?” I asked as I peeked in, going for cheerful when I felt anything but.

  The sun cut through the vertical blinds on the east window, laddering his desk and his left side.

  Nick shook his head. “Nothing. Quiet day so far.”

  “I need to download some photos from my digital,” I told him. “I know you have a photo program on your computer. I noticed the icon when I was here last time. Adobe Photoshop.”

  “And who says you’re not a crack detective?”

  I hid my feelings behind the expected smile.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, coming from behind his desk, “What’s the matter with Nora Lassiter this morning? She’s upset.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m fine.”

  He nodded as if accepting this, then surprised me by saying, “All right. Tell me when you’re ready.” He led me into the back room. “Do I need to show you how anything works on this computer?”

  “I think not. Thanks.” As he was walking away, I said, “If I find the murderer, I’ll call you.”

  He chuckled and waved over his shoulder without turning.

  Once I had downloaded the photos I clicked through them one at a time, enlarging each one in turn and studying it. The process got tiring. I hadn’t realized I’d taken so many pictures. Then I saw something. My stomach did a flip. I hit the zoom and closed in on one section of a photo where a head was barely visible, someone peering from behind a tree.

  I gasped.

  The image was blurred because it was a good distance from the figures I’d focused on, but even blurred I recognized Uncle JT. Numb, I stared. I quickly clicked to the next photo, hoping for a clearer shot. Nothing. I went through the rest of the pictures, then back to the beginning of the set to check everything a second time. No other pictures with JT in the background. I blew up the photos of Ellie, thinking JT may have been looking at her, but nothing showed.

  I went back to the original and studied it, wondering why he was there, why he had run, and where he was hiding.

  I was studying the blowup when Nick returned. It was close to noon, time for him to leave, and he’d changed from his uniform into jeans and a gray sweatshirt. It was cool out today, but beautiful.

  “It’s JT,” I said quietly, motioning him to come around and look at the screen.

  He sat beside me and stared at the picture, his expression intense. “How did I miss him? I was looking.”

  “For JT?”

  “For anything or anyone out of the ordinary. He certainly qualifies.”

  “Don’t blame yourself for missing him. He was hiding.”

  He grunted in reply as he studied the photo on the screen. I knew he was beating himself up inside. Although I wanted to reassure him, another part of me wanted to defend my Dad’s brother. Torn, I said nothing as I saved the photo of JT to the hard drive, then removed the disk.

  “JT knew Collins. He did business with him, and he wanted to return for the funeral,” I said, quelling the other thought rattling around in my head, which was directly connected to the reason I took the photos in the first place. No and no. Not possible. JT was not a murderer, just like my father had not been a murderer.

  “Sure. Just two good buddies,” Nick said, his voice laced with irony.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. Life stinks sometimes.

  “Do you have any hard evidence that he killed Collins?” I asked. “And don’t tell me about that stupid patch again.”

  Nick didn’t speak immediately. Finally he said, “He ran. It happened on his land.” Then, “Let’s go for a drive and talk. I have to get away from this place for a while.”

  We left my truck parked outside the Country Store and took his sheriff’s SUV. I didn’t bother to ask where he was going. I didn’t care.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Nick and I ended up at the lake, a breathtaking sight. Trees and boulders hugged the shoreline in a random pattern. Both had been here long before humans found the place. Perfect for a photo shoot. I mentally framed a few shots, but had no desire to get my camera.

  It was peaceful here and so quiet I could hear the breeze dancing across the tops of the trees. Nick and I walked a well-traveled path through the meadow down to the lake. This coming weekend the whole area would be swarming with people enjoying the Silver Stream Festival, especially the bean-hole supper that started the event. I would probably be in New York City by then.

  Nick pointed to a pile of wood in an area that had been cleared. “They’ll bury the bean pot over there. You remember any of this from when you were a kid?”

  “Sort of, and Aunt Ida told me about it.”

  We walked over to a pit about three feet deep and almost as wide, lined with flat rocks.

  “I remember this pit,” I said, stepping back from the edge. “Wouldn’t want to fall in that when it was hot.”

  “Friday night they’ll fire up half a cord of hardwoods, maple and oak, and get that going for about four hours or so until they have some real hot coals. The bean pot will be placed on top. Then they’ll cover it with dirt to keep the steam and smoke from escaping. Cover that with a sheet of plywood, and leave it overnight. A fair number of folks gather ‘round just to watch that part of it. The beans’ll be ready by Saturday. They’ve got to cook at least sixteen hours. Wicked good beans. For sh-ur.”

  “Ida said they were wicked good, too. I hate to miss this.”

  “Do you have to?”

  Like an arrow shot by an expert marksman, the question hit the target and stirred a deep yearning I had been unwilling to acknowledge. Do I have to go? Do I?

  To distract myself, I sidestepped the issue. “I remember being at this festival. I was in a three-legged race with Howie. My mother insisted we do it together. I fell a few times. Howie was such a pain about it. One complaint after the other.”

  Why had I said that? The town fair was a fun time yet all I could think of was falling when I was a little kid. It was damn hard to shake this mood, which was unusual for me.

  “Most kids fall in that race,” Nick said.

  “Mmm.”

  Pointing down the shoreline, Nick said, “Everybody skates around here. When the lake freezes up we build a fire in those barrels over there. Even the old folks come out, some to skate, some to watch. They bring folding chairs, hot chocolate, and very warm hats and boots.”

  “That would be me. Bundled in a down quilt, wearing earmuffs and a wool hat, sitting with the old folks so I wouldn’t freeze.”

  “I wouldn’t let you sit.”

  I looked up at him. He was smiling at me. Damn. I loved his smile.

  “I wouldn’t let you freeze either,” he said.

  In silence, we walked along the shoreline, over rocks, around bushes, enjoying the clean scent of autumn in Maine, the feel of the sun on our faces, the sounds of water lapping gently near our feet.

  Nick didn’t probe. Didn’t push. I appreciated that. I knew he wanted to know what was wrong, but I needed time. I thought this might be the last time we were together, alone like this, and I found myself memorizing the moment, storing it away like a squirrel storing nuts for a long winter. Instead of helping, this made me feel worse. I tried hard not to let any emotion show on my face.

  Finally, we came to a large flat-topped rock and I climbed up and spread my arms wide to the sky, then hugged myself.

  Nick watched and I wondered if he saw more than I suspected. He hopped up. We sat together on the rock overlooking the calm waters of the lake where Nick Renzo swam in the summer and skated in the winter, where he had brought me as summer headed into autumn.

  “One of the few things I remember my great-grandmother telling me when I was a kid was that autumn made her sad,” I said. “She considered it a dying t
ime, a time when things come to an end, leaves, flowers, all of it. At some point every autumn, I remember her telling me that.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “You’re not good at keeping things bottled up inside, Nora. Some people are very private, hold things close to the vest. Like me. You’re not like that though,” Nick said.

  My first impulse was to deny the truth of what he’d said. I didn’t want to seem weak in his eyes, wimpy, or needy. I assured myself that I was strong. Sorrow was not tantamount to weakness.

  It was several minutes before I replied. “Sometimes, if I can’t share, I think I’ll explode.”

  He accepted this quietly, but didn’t take the opportunity to probe.

  I told him what I’d found in the box, about my relatives, about my father. I finished by saying, “I can’t find the real murderer, can’t clear my dad’s name. It all happened too many years ago.”

  “Do you want this all kept secret, or are you willing to open it up? Possibly reopen old wounds?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can check into the cold case files, see if anything was overlooked. Murder cases have no statute of limitations. I can find out the name of the cop in charge and everyyone else on the case. Get their take. If I start asking around, other people will find out we’re looking into it. They might wonder about your father’s guilt. Would that bother you?”

  “I don’t care who knows. If there’s a chance… .”

  Before I finished speaking he pulled out his cell phone and hit a number.

  “Miller, everything quiet?”

  He listened. “Good. Do me a favor and check out some old records on the Kendall murder. Kendall, senior.” He gave Miller the information. “Find out who had the case, who took the initial call. Get back to me ASAP.”

  The longer I knew this man, the more he pleased me. He was a man of action, a man who got to the heart of things, minus all the fanfare.

  To me he said, “Most likely, the cop would be retired now. But if we’re lucky he may be able to tell us things that aren’t in the file.” He set the phone next to him. “Are you angry at your family?” he asked before I could thank him.