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

by Bernadine Fagan

  “Oh, Rhonda. How wrong you are.”

  She found that amusing and laid her hand on my arm, then pulled her heavy wool sweater closed and headed toward a rustic wishing well near the end of the building. The wind whipped around the corner of the lodge, tossing blonde strands across my face. As I reached up to push them aside, a gust rushed up the loosely cuffed sleeve and chilled my arm all the way to my shoulder.

  “Ray and I ran off together. I’d known him for years, and he was there for me when I needed someone. I think I married him mostly to get back at Buster, to show him I didn’t need him. I wasn’t even in my second month. It all happened so fast.

  “Ray worked at our camp every summer, even through college. He wanted to go to pharmacy school, but didn’t have the money. I encouraged him to go. My parents helped financially and so did I. I worked at the camp and eventually took over.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’ve kept these secrets all my adult life,” Rhonda said. “Will you keep my secrets? Use then to help catch a murderer, but keep them from becoming public?”

  My mouth went dry. I didn’t know what to say. I could not lie to this woman. “Rhonda, I’ll do my best to keep your secrets, but I can’t promise. The sheriff might need to know some things. I’ll ask him to be discreet. No promises.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to accept that because there is nothing I want more right now than to catch the person who killed Buster.”

  She released my hands. “My son,” she said. “He doesn’t know that Buster is his father.”

  She fiddled with her sweater and began to walk.

  “When Buster returned,” I said, “what happened?”

  “He kept his distance. For reasons I couldn’t understand, he seemed angry at me. Like I’d betrayed him. It wasn’t until Steven started pre-med that I felt compelled to tell him the truth. I was so proud of our son. I thought he should know that Steven was his son. He didn’t have children.”

  Rhonda stood quietly for a moment.

  “I planned to tell him and walk away. After all, it had been many, many years. I was over him. I wasn’t a dewy-eyed kid any more.” Rhonda’s voice cracked.

  I swallowed hard and bit my bottom lip.

  “How naive of me,” she said.

  “So you couldn’t walk away.”

  “Oh, but I did. I told him and I walked away. We were both married, both had obligations, commitments. But the attraction was more powerful that any commitments.”

  Back at the wishing well, Rhonda stopped again. Behind her, the swinging bucket shifted and squeaked in the wind.

  “It was like nothing I’d ever known in my life. I thought about him constantly. He was in my head every day, every night. I had to be with him. He had to be with me. It built in me.

  “One evening after choir practice almost a year later, I bumped into him. Literally. He was standing by the beech tree, examining it. The pastor asked him to trim some dead branches. Next thing I knew we were in each other’s arms and we never looked back. Shortly after that night he began to work at the camp, and do what he’d been doing on his own for a long time.”

  Although I’d never been through what she had been through, it resonated. I felt her heartache as if I owned it. I swallowed hard.

  “You mentioned Vivian?”

  “They almost had … I don’t know what to call it. The year before when Vivian’s husband was sick, Buster’s wife too, they almost got together. During a snowstorm he offered to pick up a prescription in town for her. They kissed when he gave it to her. They planned to get together later that evening for a glass of wine and … whatever. Buster canceled. They never spoke civilly again.”

  “That would certainly explain the hard feelings.”

  The door opened and Ray stepped out. “Rhonda, where did you put the onions? I can’t find that second batch.”

  I turned to the side and asked quietly, “Does Ray know about your son?”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” she called to Ray.

  She leaned forward, kissed my cheek and whispered, “I never told him, but there have been times when I thought he knew.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The Pumpkin Bash, aka the Pumpkin Regatta, attracted enough people to cause a traffic jam on Main Street. Not a jam as I knew it. Nothing compared to a mid-town Manhattan traffic jam, but there were a lot of vehicles on the road.

  The sidewalks were lined with pumpkins large and small, some painted, some carved to resemble spiders and jack-o-lanterns, ghosts and spooky monsters. I remembered the pumpkin I’d decorated for this event. I could have won the contest that year. Could have.

  I’d spent hours painting my pumpkin, allowing each color to dry before proceeding. Nothing must be smeared. I’d created a masterpiece with all the colors of the rainbow represented, and bits of grass painstakingly glued in place, one blade at a time, for the hair. My mother drove me to the town pumpkin site, and then took off to talk to friends.

  Mary Fran came skipping along with her crummy little pumpkin with the slap-dab paint job that had probably taken about three and a half minutes to complete, pretending that she didn’t see me. That should have been a clue. She was singing, too. Another clue I missed. Mary Fran was not the singing type. To this day I cannot hear “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” without running her version through my head.

  I’m a little pumpkin, orange and round.

  Now you see me broken on the ground.

  Next thing I knew my pumpkin was exactly that, a cracked mess splattered on the ground. She claimed she hadn’t seen it. Big fat liar.

  I cried.

  My mother got annoyed, saying it was just a pumpkin and besides it looked like it was going to rain and we should go home. Time to deep-six that memory.

  Today I would have enjoyed viewing the pumpkins and casting a vote for my favorite in each category, but I skipped the show, swung around behind the Country Store and parked near the library.

  The ride to the lake usually left from the campground, but since the passengers for the Regatta were mainly senior citizens, the pick-up location was in town.

  When I told the aunts I wanted to get to know Stan better, they suggested we board early so we’d have our choice of seats. That way I could sit in back of the driver’s seat, maybe chat with Stan.

  The bus was a surprise. I wasn’t expecting a sparkly new luxury coach with every amenity known to mankind, but this vehicle looked as if it had been around the block a few times more than was merciful. I immediately thought New York City Transit, old New York City Transit. But that couldn’t be. This behemoth boasted a rest room, and everyone knew that NYC transit buses were not equipped with rest rooms. I tried to guess the year, a ridiculous mental exercise since I knew nothing about bus models.

  I shifted my cobalt blue Balenciaga bag, a favorite of mine, and checked the camera equipment I carried. All there.

  Several folks stood around, some chatting with Stan, all with folding lawn chairs, some with basket lunches that impressed me as substantial, but none that equaled Hannah’s lunch suitcase for sheer size.

  No one seemed dressed for the showers predicted for late afternoon. I had packed my folding umbrella and worn my L.L. Bean rain boots. I’d taken further precautions, too, and worn my belted thigh-length red Burberry rain jacket with the gunflap, stand-up collar and drawstring hood. It went well with my gray jeans. A nice fashion statement.

  “Hi Stan,” I said as the aunts got out of the car. “How are you doing?”

  He grunted in reply and tipped his red, white and navy New England Patriots’ hat to Aunt Hannah.

  I tried again. “Think it will rain?”

  He shrugged.

  He wasn’t much of a talker so I purposely gave his hat a knowing look. “Those Patriots. What a team.” I wondered whether they were hockey or football.

  “Ummm,” he replied.

  I could see that talking to him might be a problem, so I asked, “Can we board now?”

  He just lo
oked at me. I think he was mulling it over. Not willing to let a conversational opportunity pass, I added, “Instead of standing around?”

  “Sure we can,” said Hannah, elbowing her way to the bus without waiting for his answer. With the flick of her wrist, she twirled the telescoping handle on her easy-glide wheeled suitcase in my direction.

  “Please bring up our lunch basket when you board, Nora. Stan, will you put our chairs on board?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Lassiter. Here, let me help you up,” he said, trying to reach her before she touched the bottom step. How he could even see her with all the hair falling in his face was a mystery. I hoped he brushed it away from his eyes when he drove. I’d offer him my comb. He could keep it.

  “No need. I can manage,” Hannah said airily, one hand raised to stop him.

  Stan wasn’t foolish enough to take on a woman in her eighties, so he stood back. Ida handed her lightweight lawn chair to Stan and she managed nicely, too. Then came Aunt Agnes, who handed over her chair as she faced the steps, a determined look on her face.

  “This first step’s a doozy,” Agnes said, lifting her right foot and leaning forward, one hand on the pole by the door. Stan looked worried as I positioned my hand on her back.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  I waved him away.

  “Aunt Agnes, we’ll count to three. On three, give it all you’ve got. I’ll push.”

  “Okey-doke.”

  Hannah and Ida joined in and added a handclap after each number, giving a nice cadence to the count.

  One-clap, two-clap, three-clap.

  On three I boosted, Stan watched, and Agnes pulled and heaved. She made the first step. Amid lots of huffing and puffing, including from Stan who moved closer to watch, the maneuver was repeated twice more, and Agnes was on the bus. A cheer went up from us, the onlookers, and Agnes, who was smiling her biggest smile as she headed for the seat next to Ida. We agreed that I would sit with Hannah behind the driver’s seat.

  Relieved, I grabbed the lunch suitcase and hopped on the bottom step, my agile self paying no attention to the wheels on the bottom of the bag as I sprinted up the next step.

  A quick, and fairly graceful, one, two, three and I was on the bus floor, belly-side down, my head a few millimeters from the base that supported the driver’s seat. It was an interesting base, a platform with three metal sides, open only in the back.

  Right next to my head.

  Oh, damn.

  Lots of dust and dirt under there, and a paperback. I did not gasp or change expression when I saw the title. The pained expression was easy to maintain considering I’d banged both knees, my right shin, left elbow, my forehead and chin.

  Hannah was up in a flash. “My word. Are you all right. Here, let me help.”

  “No, I’m fine, really Aunt Hannah. Stan, let go of my ankle.”

  “Oh, my heavens. Are you all right?” Ida yelled as she bounded from her seat.

  The milling folks stopped milling and crowded around to view the accident. After all, it was not every day they got to see a woman sprawled on the bus steps.

  Someone whispered, “I think she’s the one who hurled the book at Rhonda Racanelli’s head.”

  “Almost killed her, the way I heard it,” a man said in a low voice.

  “In church, right?” another whispered.

  “She’s from New York,” a woman said.

  “Oh. I suppose that explains it,” someone said.

  I opted against defending myself.

  Finally seated, Agnes became aware of the situation and asked, “What happened? What’d I miss?”

  I got up off the floor as quickly as I could, which was actually kind of slow—I was injured, after all—went back down for the suitcase which was tipped on its side at the foot of the steps, grabbed the handle and lifted it, careful to avoid snagging the wheels on the bottom step, hoping the lunch was intact.

  Stan watched me.

  “Need help?” he asked as the case cleared the second step.

  “I suppose you could hand me the suitcase.” I looked down at the suitcase and feigned a surprised look. “Oh, no. Not necessary. I already have it, don’t I?”

  He looked puzzled.

  He was a jerk and maybe a murderer.

  I limped to the seat next to Hannah in back of the driver. The rubberneckers suddenly decided it was time to board. Coincidence? I think not. For the next half hour or so I was on stage, the center of attention as the bus lumbered along at snail speed. I understood why everyone packed a food supply.

  Fortunately, there was only a drop or two of blood on my chin from the tiniest cut. Ida carried band aids and Neosporin and immediately patched me up. She told me she was in charge of first aid. The aunts were solicitous, fussing and fretting like the wonderful people they were, making me feel cared for and loved.

  Even Mary Fran inquired about my condition. “I hear you tripped. I missed it.”

  “Well, the rerun has been cancelled.”

  When the tut-tut-tutting died down, I pulled out my stylish iridescent mother of pearl double mirror case with the butterfly designs on top and the raised lattice pattern on the bottom, a clever design which eliminated the smooth-case-slipping-from-your-hand-problem, and checked the colorful egg forming on my forehead. I even used the magnifying mirror side, something I seldom do since I am not a masochist and do not need to see any spots, pimples, pores or irregularities in larger than life size, thank you very much.

  I covered the forehead mark with a dab of liquid makeup, tissued the smudge off my cheek, checked my Band-Aid and fixed my hair.

  Our lunch was in good shape despite the tumbling episode. Hannah packed well. The aunts and Mary Fran had done a spectacular job preparing lunches, and everyone shared with me. The trip was a food fest, more fun than I’d expected. I discovered that I liked something called pumpkin hazelnut bisque so much that I was tempted to ask for the recipe, which would have been beyond the pale since I don’t cook. It was kept warm in a thermos.

  After we’d been on the road for almost an hour, I tried talking to Stan again, this time more pointedly.

  “I heard you might be interested in buying your own bus, Stan.”

  “Nope.”

  I decided it was time to let Nick know about the book. He could meet the bus and “find” it, no search warrant necessary. I’d have to phone him, and knowing him, probably explain, something I couldn’t do with big-ears Stan right in front of me. I looked back at the restroom, a little cubicle barely large enough to accommodate a whole person. It had definitely been installed many years after the bus was on the road.

  With all the coffee I’d had—I should have thought about this earlier—a trip to the john was actually necessary. I’d kill two birds with one stone, as they say. No wonder the aunts drank so little. Smart women. I knew that we’d turn off the paved road soon so I’d better get moving. Wouldn’t want to get jostled in the aisle while the bus was on the bumpy leg of the journey.

  “Aunt Hannah, I’m going to the john. Be right back.”

  As I walked down the aisle I was careful not to thump anyone with my heavy bag which held two cameras, a telephoto zoom lens and large flash attachment, plus assorted necessities. I should have just brought my cell. As a child it had been drilled into me never to leave my purse in the seat of a bus. I could have left it on this bus. Well, no matter. It was force of habit.

  I nodded to a small group of senior men who sat near the lavatory comparing cell phone apps. Good. With the noise they were making they wouldn’t hear my conversation or anything else.

  This was going well.

  I opened the door and immediately shut my eyes, a ridiculous reaction since it did nothing to curtail the odor. Small doesn’t begin to describe the lavatory. To get inside, I turned sideways, inhaled a last clean breath and then angled around. My leg brushed the bowl. Damn. I could barely turn in here. If possible, the smell was worse with the door closed. When was the last time anyone cleaned thi
s closet?

  I pulled the door tighter and flipped the throw latch, which dropped into the latch bar, which fell off and hit the floor with a triple ping—one loud, two soft, a bar and two screws.

  I bent sideways to pick them up, keeping one hand on the latch to keep the door closed. No need for the group to witness another misstep.

  I needed to reach back farther. As I was grasping the screws, the bus hit a bump and I was thrown forward and down. Too far forward. Too far down.

  My head lodged between the wall and the toilet bowl. I couldn’t move. It was like I was being held in a vise.

  I understood in a totally new way the meaning of the word panic. I pictured spending the rest of the trip like this, with my head stuck between the wall and the toilet.

  The smell was worse down here. I should let the door go and yell for help. No. After the fiasco on the steps, everyone would think I was clumsy.

  Desperate to break free, I wiggled and jiggled. I exhaled to make myself smaller. When I was unable to hold my breath a second longer I inhaled in a torrent so huge, I erupted backwards almost opening the door.

  Free at last. My head hurt. I probably had red marks on either side of my forehead.

  I came up with only one screw. I tried to screw it in, careful not to drop it, but it was stripped and it hit the floor again. No way was I going after it.

  I could handle this. I’d simply keep one hand on the throw latch to keep the door closed, and take care of personal things with my free hand. Piece of cake.

  I started to set my bag on the floor, decided against it, having seen that section of this lavatory up close, and looped the bag around my neck. This may have been a mistake.

  Getting my jeans down with my free hand was tricky. What a relief when the entire process was complete, and I’d done some of what I’d come to do. Now, to get my pants up and call Nick.

  Suddenly, I almost lost my balance.

  Omigod.

  The bus hit a series of bumps and I scrambled to keep from falling back onto the dirty seat, which I hadn’t allowed my bare body to come in contact with.