Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 02 - Murder in the Maine Woods

by Bernadine Fagan

  “Oh, take a chance,” Ray said to the woman ahead of me, pointing to the jar of multi-colored sour balls on the counter. “It’s only two bits. For a good cause. And you could win if your guess is closest to the correct number.”

  Two bits?

  They went back and forth for several minutes. I wanted to tell her to take the damn chance and go home, but I remained patient. Life moves slower in Silver Stream than Manhattan.

  When I finally stepped up to the counter, he smiled and said, “You must be Nora, the little lady Rhonda called about, the one who needs the paste,” he said.

  Little lady? Two bits? No wonder Rhonda had an affair. Already I didn’t like him.

  Then I went deeper and it didn’t seem like such a rush to judgment. The man was a pharmacist and knew about poisons. That was a definite. If he were jealous of Buster, if Rhonda were still having an affair with Buster … if, if, if.

  He handed me a package of one-step temporary tooth filling, and gave me instructions on how to use it. Maybe he thought I’d have trouble reading the directions. As he was going on about the amount of moisture to use, and I was trying to estimate the number of sour balls in the glass jug, I heard beeping from an alarm at the back door. Buster’s nephew walked in carrying an attaché case.

  Ray reached under the counter, hit some numbers on a key pad and the alarm stopped.

  “Lenny works here?” I asked. “I saw him at your camp about an hour ago.”

  “Yes.” He turned to Lenny and said, “Wish you’d use the front door. You know I have that back alarm set.”

  “Right. I will.”

  “I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you’d need more time off.”

  “Stan and me saw Uncle Buster’s lawyer yesterday,” Lenny said, shifting an expensive-looking leather computer case from one hand to the other. It was the kind of case I’d pick out. “Then we moved back into the house.”

  Ray said, “So soon?”

  “The lawyer said it was okay to move in even though ownership was not officially transferred, seeing as how the place was empty and we could look after things.”

  “Oh. Makes sense.”

  “Biggest problem was who moved into Uncle Buster’s room. He had the best room with the best bed when we lived there before. ‘Course, that was how it should be, seeing as how he owned the place an’ all.”

  Red flags waved and snapped in my head as if they were being battered by hurricane force winds. I needed to talk to the aunts, soon. And Nick. And Vivian. But right now I needed to smile my pleasant smile at callous Lenny, regardless of the death scene in Buster’s room that played like a video in my head behind those distracting red flags.

  For a few awkward moments the three of us stood silently, staring, trying to think of something neutral to say. Ray had no expression I could decipher, and Lenny stood quiet as a tomb, possibly sensing he’d said something inappropriate. I looked around. That’s when I spotted the tub of rat poison.

  “You have a problem with rats?” I asked Ray, nodding in the direction of the huge container.

  Both men looked from the container to me. “Uh … well … I have to bring that home tonight. A preventive measure. We use it … carefully.”

  “I’m sure you do. You must know a lot about poisons, being a pharmacist and all.”

  He stared at me a moment, unsure. Finally, he said, “Right. You need anything else? We’re closing in a few minutes.”

  I’d left my phone in my handbag, which I’d tossed by the stairs as I came in the door, which is why I hadn’t checked for messages until I plunked down on my bed. Good thing. Because when I saw a text message from my ex-fiancé, a guy whose face I never wanted to see again unless it appeared on a wanted poster in the U.S. Post Office, my reaction was physical. My stomach flipped and flopped every which way. I didn’t want to open the message. I did. I didn’t. I did.

  Before I fell off the bed from this roller coaster equivocation ride, I opened it. The text read: SRY4 everything. SSRY. I need to rent ur apartment. PCM. PLS. F?

  I read it a second time, a tiny smile playing on my lips. I read it a third time, let it all sink in, rolled back, kicked my feet in the air and laughed out loud. Life is good sometimes. So perfect. I would put a pin in his balloon, but I’d make him wait.

  Message translation: Sorry for everything. So sorry. I need to rent your apartment. Please call me. Please. Friends?

  What that meant in NYC-speak was he didn’t have a place to live yet, and was probably renting some cheap hotel room or crashing with a friend who wanted him out.

  I lost a bundle because of Whatshisname, who lived in my apartment rent-free until that fateful day we became unengaged. I emptied his drawers, color coded socks and all, right out my second-story window and followed them with his golf clubs that he kept covered to prevent nicks and dings, the ones he cleaned with a soft-bristled toothbrush and dried with a special soft towel that I wasn’t allowed to touch lest I leave a speck of dirt on it.

  I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

  THIRTEEN

  I sat bolt upright in bed, my eyes suddenly wide open as I looked wildly around the darkened room. Light from a fat harvest moon illuminated the floor next to the bed in an irregular rectangle that shifted in rhythm with the swaying trees. I checked the bedside alarm clock. Three-fourteen. The room was cold, not unusual for October in Maine. At least I couldn’t see my breath when I exhaled.

  Releasing my grip on the quilt, I slipped out of bed, and stepped into the silver-blue patch of light. For several seconds I stood quietly, not sure why my heart was pounding, not sure what woke me.

  The oak floor was colder than the air. I considered going for my slippers, but I wasn’t sure where I’d left them. The closet? Under the bed? I wished I were more organized. Maybe tomorrow I’d get organized.

  I listened intently, cocking my head toward the bedroom door when I heard something that didn’t belong. I’d grown used to the creaks and groans of this old house, especially when the wind was up, but this was different.

  I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against it, listening, wondering if I were imagining things.

  I thought I heard the back door. That distinctive squeak was hard to miss, something to do with the hinge.

  Without a thought to possible danger, I rushed into the hall and down to Ida’s room. I peeked in. Ida was not creeping about downstairs. She was sound asleep in her bed, snoring lightly.

  I dashed into the empty room across the hall, the one that once belonged to the WAC and her husband, a guy who played golf, of all things. Not many golf courses around here. I grabbed a club from the bag, a nine iron with a nice curve to the head.

  Without slippers or shoes, I padded downstairs, feeling less brave with each step, pausing more than I needed to. It was very cold down here, and breezy. Club at my side, I slinked through the hall, keeping my back against the wall. At the kitchen entrance, I stopped and peered around the edge of the door.

  Just then a gust of wind flung the back door against the wall. I gasped and stepped back, bringing the club to my shoulder as I prepared to attack.

  Nothing happened.

  The door knob banged against the wall a few more times. Gathering my courage, I ran into the kitchen, slammed the door and locked it.

  Heart hammering, I darted to the window and looked over the lace tier curtain. Even with a full moon splashing silver-blue light everywhere, I saw nothing moving, except the shadows from the trees.

  I checked the rest of the house. No one was behind the furniture or in any closet. The doors were locked, the windows closed.

  Before calling 911, I had to wake Ida.

  I ran to her room. “Ida,” I said softly, shaking her shoulder the tiniest bit. “Wake up.”

  She came awake so quickly I jumped back.

  “Nora, what is it?”

  “Is there any chance you left the back door ajar? I went down and closed and locked it when I heard the wind knocking it aga
inst the wall.”

  “I suppose I could have. I was so tired tonight.” She sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. “Is everything all right? Was someone in the house?”

  “I don’t know. The back door was banging. I took a quick look around and nothing seems to be missing, but I’m not sure.”

  I expected her to be frightened, but she took it in stride, surprising me. Strong woman, my aunt Ida.

  The next thing she said surprised me more. “I’ll get up and check again. Just in case.”

  “No. You stay here. I’ll call Nick.”

  As soon as I returned to my room, I hit Nick’s number.

  “What happened?” he asked before I had a chance to say hello.

  “The back door was open,” I began. When I finished telling him everything, he said. “I’m on my way. I’ll check the place out. Or I could send Trimble. He only lives about five minutes from you.”

  “I don’t believe I’m saying these words, but here goes. Send Trimble. It was probably nothing anyway.”

  Trimble arrived ten minutes later with lights rotating and siren blaring. I’m sure he woke up everyone in the vicinity. Ida and I met him at the door and showed him through the kitchen to the back door. He checked with his flashlight.

  “No marks on the door. I don’t think anyone tried to break in this way.”

  Next he checked all the windows on the ground floor and then went out and walked around the perimeter of the house.

  “Everything looks fine,” he said when he came in. “You probably overreacted. But you can call me anytime you feel threatened.”

  “Thank you for coming,” I said, instead of telling him I had not overreacted.

  Nick called a few minutes later to make sure I was all right.

  The following morning I gritted my teeth through a cold shower, determined to call that plumber again and find out whether he’d fled to Arizona, retired, or closed for the season. I thought about last night and considered the possibility that someone had been in the house. That scared me.

  I tried not to think about it.

  I dressed in my New York City clothes, an oatmeal-colored Diane Von Furstenberg cashmere-silk cardigan that draped low in front, skinny Marc Jacobs ankle black jeggins, and the best part, ta-da, my cozy Ugg boots with the Mongolian sheep cuffs. I walked across the room, turning this way and that, making quick, sharp moves so that the sheep hairs flared out. I loved these boots. They were part of my last expensive purchase before I lost my job.

  I headed downstairs, remembering how frightened I’d been last night when I came down these stairs. I planned to check outside for footprints after I had breakfast. Trimble might have missed something.

  Hannah and Agnes were here. Agnes was describing her bout with diarrhea, and in the background an old episode of Blue Bloods played silently on the television. Occasionally, Ida glanced at it. I figured she knew most of the dialogue.

  “Diarrhea. Second to none in the known universe,” Agnes said in a booming voice that bounced off the walls.

  I stopped and considered going back to my room and closing the door.

  “At first, I didn’t take anything,” she went on. “You know my motto, ‘Let nature take it’s course.’ I always say there’s a reason for everything. Maybe some bug in there that my body has no other way of expelling. Besides, as we all know, I usually have the opposite problem.”

  I closed my eyes. I should go back to New York. Really. I should.

  “Well, I have an appointment with the thumb doctor this afternoon,” Hannah cut in, obviously not wanting to hear more about Agnes’ diarrhea. “Maybe you should come with me. He’s down the hall from your internist.”

  What was a thumb doctor?

  Ida joined the conversation with, “My knee’s been a acting up lately, to say nothing of my diverticulitis. That kicked in this morning, at least I think that’s it. Either that or the menses are back.”

  Peals of laughter all around. Aunt Agnes rocked back in her chair; Hannah set her coffee cup down to avoid spilling; and Ida bent forward, hands on the table to support herself as she laughed. I smiled with the aunts. These women had become such a warm part of my life.

  The phone rang, putting a temporary halt to the laughter and medical updates. I walked in as Aunt Ida said hello, and then in a stage whisper loud enough for Aunt Agnes to hear said, “You’ll never guess.”

  “Who?” Hannah demanded. “Don’t do this, Ida. I can’t stand guessing. You know that.”

  “Is it a man for our Nora?” Agnes bellowed, beaming up at me.

  “Stop guessing. No guessing,” Hannah ordered.

  “Not exactly. It’s … it’s Wild Walter.”

  “Oh, no.” Agnes and Hannah said, almost in unison.

  “Just a minute. I’ll get her,” Ida said, as she extended the phone to me. “It’s your Uncle Walter.”

  “I never met him, did I?” I asked, remembering Nick’s comment about him being a person of interest. I never did find out whether he was off that list or not.

  Two other Lassiter cousins made that list, too. They should be cleared by now, or Nick would have said something.

  “You never met him,” Ida said. “He married Marge Lassiter. They’re divorced. She moved to Arizona after the house burned down. They never had insurance.”

  “What’s he like? And why is he calling?”

  Ida shrugged with her hands out, Hannah smirked, and Agnes added a scoop of cream cheese to her sweet bun and said, “Cousin to Daffy Duck, if you ask me.”

  “He’s not a true Lassiter,” Hannah said. “According to Marge, he’s a teller of tall tales. So be careful. Don’t take everything he says as gospel. Although,” she paused and flexed her thumb. “His comfrey tea did help ease the arthritis in my thumb. I applaud him for that. He’s into herbal teas.”

  Thumb doctor. Arthritis. It fit.

  I didn’t care about his herbal teas or his tale spinning. I didn’t plan to marry the guy, just to find out what he wanted. I hoped he was interested in the property.

  Teas? Maybe foxglove tea?

  I took the phone, and listened to Walter.

  “Yes, it’s still available,” I answered when he asked about the property. “I can meet you today. How about this afternoon around three?”

  Silence settled over the kitchen like a heavy blanket as the aunts focused on me, all eating and silverware-clanking temporarily on hold.

  “Works for me,” Walter said. “I’d like to reconnoiter the area.”

  Reconnoiter?

  I wanted to ask exactly what he was talking about, but decided against it because the aunts would probably suggest I hang up. I suspected—okay, I knew for a fact—they did not want me to sell the property, and it seemed they really wouldn’t want me to sell it to Uncle Walter.

  “Okay, that’s fine,” I said.

  My goal, I reminded myself, was to find a family member to buy my property.

  “What’d he want?” Ida asked as soon as I hung up. “What’s he coming here to see?”

  “The land?” Hannah asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “That’s what he wants, right? Well, I don’t think he has enough money to buy land. He’s wasting your time.”

  So much for keeping the idea a secret.

  “Does he want the truck?” Ida asked with a worried frown.

  “No need for that kind of language,” Agnes burst out, her hand shaking so much that her cheese-covered sweet bun took a nose-dive into her lap. “No need at all.”

  “Trrr-uck,” Ida repeated, and again, “Truck.”

  “Nora, tell us about the conversation,” Aunt Hannah said.

  The concept of privacy was foreign to the aunts. What’s hard to understand is why I’m so slow to grasp this.

  “He wants to look over the property,” I explained, handing Agnes a towel to wipe the cream cheese off her slacks.

  “Well, I thought you said something worse,” Agnes said to Ida.

  “Likely story,” Hann
ah huffed in my direction, repositioning the glittery purple scarf around her neck. “Look over? I think not. He’s got something up his sleeve. Like maybe he wants it for free.”

  “He already knows what it looks like,” Agnes said. “He’s lived here all his life.”

  “Walter used to go hunting with Buster,” Ida told me as she ladled apple-laced oatmeal into a bowl. “I guess they had a lot in common. I think they had a falling out. I don’t know what it was about.”

  Before I could turn the conversation to Buster, they began talking about the door incident last night and I had to go through the story again. When I finished, Ida said, “It was my fault. I think I didn’t lock that door and it blew open.”

  “Speaking of Buster,” I said, “I saw his nephews yesterday at Rhonda’s camp. What can you tell me about them?”

  All three stared at me, expectation on every face. What had I said?

  FOURTEEN

  “You’re definitely staying with the case then?” Ida ventured. “When Walter called about the property we thought you might take the profit and head back to New York, especially since Vivian is out of jail and she has a good lawyer.”

  “You don’t actually think I’d leave Vivian with this mess, do you? I have to find out who killed Buster. Besides, I haven’t sold the land yet.”

  “Just checking,” Hannah said.

  They grinned at me.

  I grinned back.

  That settled that.

  Their nods and smiles spread around the table faster than the blueberry jam.

  I added milk to my steaming hot coffee. One sip and the heat zeroed in on a nerve ending for a direct hit and I let out a yelp.

  “Paste filler doesn’t help much,” I gasped when I could finally talk.

  “You’re going to the dentist and that’s that. Not another word. Tooth filler, my big toe,” Hannah declared as she rummaged through her purse and pulled out a little black book. “Ida, call this number. Let’s get an appointment for our Nora this very day.”