“I went back, and at first I noticed that the clock tower bell had tipped over. I was surprised . . . It was supposed to be so steady . . . Then I walked over . . . It was behind the table, by the gate door, so I didn’t see it at first . . . There’s someone under the bell.”
“Someone? Do you know . . . Can you tell . . . who?” I asked, swallowing hard.
“Kim Gray’s dead.”
I gasped in shock. “I’ll text Jeff.”
After I sent the text, I followed up with a call. I kept my voice low as I told him what happened, relieved to find out he was across the street, walking his mother to her car. Seconds later Jeff burst through the door and headed straight back to the portico.
“Don’t move,” he said to Pat and me. “Nobody moves. Make sure, okay?” We both nodded, and Jeff went out the side door.
I put my arm through Pat’s and leaned my head on his shoulder. Poor Pat. In December, I’d been the one to find a dead body, and it took me a long time to get that image out of my head. Some nights Mark Pine, one of my former employees, still haunted me.
“Okay, Ruth?” Jeff was speaking to me, and I hadn’t heard a word. I hadn’t even seen him come back in.
“Sorry. Say it again. I was a million miles away.”
Jeff reached a hand out, took mine, and gave it a squeeze. “Do you have a list of who was here today?”
I disentangled myself from Pat and stood. “Yes, Nadia had a sign-in sheet, so we could contact donors who didn’t make it. She also wanted to get the names of folks who came by, so we could follow up with them.”
“Good. Get those lists and add the names of anyone else. Write down the timeline. Everything you remember from today.”
“You want me to help?” I said.
“I want you to cooperate,” he said. “Pat, come back and show me what you found. Talk me through it. You up to that?”
“Of course,” Pat said. The two men walked out toward the back of the room.
“What’s up?” Ben asked. He and Fred had continued to move the tables into the side room where we were going to store them. They were both about to grab the last table and had stopped when Jeff rushed past them. “Where’s Jeff going?” Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at me.
“There’s a situation out back. There’s been an accident. Kim . . .” My voice broke.
“Is she all right?” Ben asked, concerned.
I shook my head and blinked back tears. She wasn’t my favorite person, far from it, but still. Everyone stared at me, and I cleared my throat. “I think we should hold tight while we wait for Jeff, Chief Paisley, to come back. Or until someone else official arrives.”
At that moment the scream of a siren came closer. “Speak of the devil,” Zane said. The cavalry, in the guise of Officer Ro Troisi, had arrived.
• • •
Out in the Berkshires, towns have their own police force. But nights and weekends, the state police were usually on call. Not in Jeff Paisley’s Orchard, though. Jeff Paisley was always in charge, along with three officers. Ro Troisi was the only full-time officer, and Jeff’s right hand. She had grown up in Orchard, which was both an advantage and a burden. An advantage because she could fill in gaps for Jeff and explain town connections that an outsider might miss. A burden because she was known as the youngest Troisi, the only girl with five older brothers. Her family nickname, she confessed to me one night after we’d finished a bottle of wine, was Princess. The name suited her. Ro had dark, curly hair she clamped back in a clip. She didn’t wear makeup, but she didn’t need it. Off duty, she looked like a princess, but not the frilly, big-dress sort of princess. More the take-no-prisoners, rally-the-troops sort.
Ro came into the Town Hall and walked over to Ben and me.
“Jeff’s out back,” I said. “He told me to pull together lists—”
“I know. We’ve got Wilson and O’Malley securing the perimeter. Marytown is sending over a team to help. They are going to be here in a few minutes.”
“State?”
“We’ve had to call them in as well,” Ro said. “But this is our investigation.” She looked up and cleared her throat.
“Listen, folks, I’m going to have to ask you to stay put for a few minutes until someone comes in to take your statement,” she said.
“I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible,” a voice said. I turned to see Jason Scott standing beside the table with the last of the signed strips. One hand was on his waist, the other hand held his water bottle, which was half-full. “I have to get back to the shop and then run back to Marytown to pick up some supplies. You have no idea how quickly we are going through allergy meds these days. They tell me it’s because of the winter we had, whatever that means. Anyway, I’m sorry that there’s been an accident, I really am, but you can’t keep us here. There’s a concert tonight. I have to go get dressed—”
Ro muttered, “Give me strength” under her breath—so quietly only I could hear—and turned toward Jason, addressing him but speaking loudly enough that everyone could hear.
“Friends, thank you all for your patience. I’m sorry to say, there won’t be a concert tonight. Not here,” she said. “This is a crime scene.”
chapter 9
Pat Reed and I sat on the edge of the platform and sipped the coffee that Moira had asked Tuck to send over from the Sleeping Latte. We were all waiting for Jeff to tell us when it was time to go home.
“I don’t suppose it might have been an accident?” I asked Pat.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about it,” he said.
“When I found Mark in December, I wrote everything down so I wouldn’t forget it, and to help me think. I also talked it through with Jeff, point by point. He helped me process what I had seen. You may end up telling Jeff everything in your statement, but I know that he wouldn’t be your first choice for a confidant.”
“No, not likely.” When someone arrests you for murder, that’s a hard thing to get past, though I know Pat was trying. For Moira’s sake.
“You could always talk to Nancy,” I said.
“Even less likely,” he said, looking over at his wife. She was deep in conversation with Jimmy Murphy, but as if her sixth sense kicked in, she looked up and met Pat’s gaze.
“You need me, Pat?” she asked.
“Wondering if there were more cookies.”
“I’ll text Tuck and have him bring over what’s left. May be a while—he has to close by himself tonight.”
“No rush,” I said, but it was too late. Nancy’s fingers had been flying while we talked and she was already back to her conversation with Jimmy.
“Pat, why don’t you tell me what happened. I’ll write it down and give it to Jeff. It will help settle your mind, I promise.” I sat back and took another sip of my now cold coffee.
Pat still didn’t say anything, but I had to keep trying. “How do you think the bell fell over on her?” I asked. “Maybe she was having some sort of attack and she grabbed it for support? Pulled it over on herself?”
Pat took a deep breath and ran his hand over his chin. “The thing of it is, Ruthie, I don’t see how it could be an accident.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ve picked up a few bells in your lifetime.”
“Tried to with some of them.” Bells could be awkward to pick up. Heavy, weight not evenly distributed. Wrestling a bell wasn’t simple.
“So what are the chances of a bell falling off a stand and the mouth covering her face perfectly?”
“Not good,” I said, putting my hand on his. “Tell me what you saw.”
Pat flipped my hand over, gave it a squeeze, and then let it go.
“I went outside, making sure the bell was set up like we’d talked about. Then I saw a pair of legs around the corner of the table. I knew it was Kim—I recognized those rid
iculous shoes she insists on wearing. At first I thought she’d passed out, so I started to go over to her, but then I saw the bell . . . and that she wasn’t moving. I checked her pulse to be sure. Then, well, you know the rest.”
“Poor Pat. I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll be fine. But I won’t forget it, not for a long time,” he said.
“Can I ask you a gruesome question?”
Pat screwed up his face, but didn’t look away. “What?”
“The scene must have been a real mess.”
“A real mess? What do you mean?”
“You’re going to hate this, but I’ve been reading a lot of crime novels lately—”
“Bad enough you’re living one—”
“Enough. Anyway, head wounds are really bloody. Plus, everything else. But you don’t look like you got any blood on you.”
Pat closed his eyes. “There wasn’t a lot of blood,” he said.
“Maybe you missed it?”
“Ruthie, I’m going to tell you something I’m not too proud of. I can’t stand the sight of blood. Back when the kids were little, Nancy was in charge of Band-Aids. Nope, if there’d been a lot of blood I wouldn’t have gotten close. But I walked around and checked her wrist for a pulse. Got close.”
“Make sure you tell Jeff where you walked, just in case there are footprints,” I said. “I’m sure it’s important for him to have every detail. Did you see anyone else?”
“Zane was going to go up to the tower to check on something, lights or something, just as I was coming into the vestibule area. I told him something had happened to Kim and that he needed to make sure no one went back to the portico. I saw Freddie unwrapping a tray of cookies in the corner. Jason was coming in from the kitchen area. He may have been looking for the water tap to fill up his blasted water bottle. He looked like he was going to head out the side door, but I told him not to go out there.”
“I wonder why he was heading back there?” I asked.
“No idea, unless it was to sneak out so he didn’t have to clean up. I wouldn’t put it past him,” Pat said gruffly.
The back portico to the Town Hall was blocked from the front path by a fairly sturdy door. It could be opened, but was usually locked to keep folks from wandering around the grounds. The side door led to a good-sized vestibule that provided access to all parts of the Town Hall. One door opened to the staircase up to the clock tower. Another led to the kitchen and office areas. A third let folks into the Town Hall itself. It was quite ingenious, actually, controlling access while keeping the Town Hall itself wide open. If the gate door was closed and locked, the only way to get back there was through the Town Hall.
“Maybe he was going to get his bike? Isn’t the new bike rack out there?” I said.
“Other side of the fence, along the ‘Dumpster shack,’” Pat said. The Dumpster shack was nicknamed by Mac Clark, who had designed and built the structure, with Pat’s and Ben’s help, in order to keep the peace on this side of Washington Street. The shack was more of a storage shed. It was behind the Corner Market, parallel to the Town Hall. The fence was attached to it on both sides. Beckett had strong feelings about food Dumpsters, potential rodents, and smells, and complained about the Dumpster lineup behind the Corner Market. Mac agreed to the building now referred to as the Dumpster shack, partially as an excuse to step up his recycling game. The structure held a food Dumpster and recycling bins. Off to the side, out of Beckett’s line of sight, was a compost heap. Mac tried for 0 percent food waste, preferring to donate to soup kitchens and shelters when he could, or compost rather than tossing it.
Mac installed some bike racks along both sides of the Dumpster shack, part of the agreement he’d made with Kim to get the Dumpster shack approved and not tied up in permit hell. Kim loved tying things up in permit hell, and keeping her hands on the strings. She wasn’t going to be doing much of anything anymore now though. I shivered.
“That side door used to be one way to get outside to the back of the building, but now it’s the only way, with the fence.”
“Was the gate closed?” I asked.
“And locked,” Pat said. “Besides, she was lying right in front of the door. I don’t see how anyone could have gotten out that way.”
After a moment, Pat cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s all I remember. Once I got back in here, I found Jeff. You know the rest.”
“I wonder if gap in the fence by the ‘Been There, Read That’ side was open?”
“Nope,” he said. “Beckett’s Dumpster was tight up against his side of the fence.” The fence on the Been There, Read That side of the back grounds was six feet tall, with a three-foot gap for egress. Beckett pushed his Dumpster up against that gap, moving it aside only when specifically asked to. Likely he also parked up against it, to make sure no one moved it. No one could access the back portico from outside, only from inside the building.
There were a dozen questions pecking my brain cells into action. How did Kim die? When did she die? Why did someone kill her? I ran my hands over the raised gooseflesh on my arms. If someone killed Kim, the only way they could leave was through the Town Hall.
Then, why someone killed her was the most important question. That would be the only way to figure out the who. Because the list of possible suspects was long, and likely included me.
• • •
The concert was moved to the school gym. There was some talk about canceling it outright out of respect, but then a suggestion was made to do the concert in honor of Kim, and the show went on.
“Thank you all for your patience,” Ro Troisi said. “We’ve got preliminary statements from all of you, and we’ll be getting in touch tomorrow to go over them with you.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Jason said.
“Yes, it is,” Ro said, smiling benignly at the big man. “The next day is Monday.”
“I just mean, I don’t work on Sundays. I spend the day in Marytown.”
“Will you have your cell phone with you?”
“Of course.”
“Then we can reach you when we need to. And we’ll need to, I’m sure.”
Ro and Jason had a brief staring contest, but he blinked. I made a mental note to invite Ro over for a cup of coffee. She had a story to share. I could feel it.
“We need to finish cleaning up,” Ben said, starting to reach for a stray cup that someone had left on the edge of a table.
“No, we’re going to ask you all to leave everything set up just as it is. You need to leave everything here.”
“But the leftovers—” Freddie said.
“There are no leftovers. Only evidence,” Ro said. Fred put his arm around his daughter, and she buried her head in his chest.
Jason Scott scurried out as soon as he could, mentioning “volunteer usher” issues that needed attending. He fussed when Ro made him leave his knapsack, but he finally agreed once she let him take his helmet, water bottle, and bicycle wheel so he could ride back home. He scurried off, shirttails out, pants clipped at the ankles. I was grateful he hadn’t changed into his bike shorts. That was a sight I didn’t need to see tonight.
No one else made a move, so I stood. “Well, friends, I hate that this is how today ended.”
“Me too,” Nancy said. She put her arm around Caroline’s shoulder. “What should we do next? Head over to the Latte?”
“It’s late,” Caroline said. “I for one am exhausted. How about if we all meet at the Cog tomorrow afternoon?”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Flo said. “Perhaps we should have a meal of some sort?”
“We could use a Grandpa Harry high tea,” Nancy said. My great-grandfather Harry wasn’t as gifted a clockmaker as his son or his father but he was a real town leader, getting Orchard through Prohibition, the Great Depression, and World War II. Rumor had it he got the town through Prohibition b
y running a speakeasy in the back of the shop on Sunday afternoons. He called it “high tea.” Everything was served in china teacups, but it was seldom tea.
“I think that could be arranged,” I said, looking at Caroline. She nodded.
“I’ll send out an e-mail when I get home, coordinating food,” Nancy said. “Caroline, can you take on the tea?”
“Nancy, I didn’t mean for you to take over—” I said.
“I’m not taking over. I’m helping. You don’t mind me helping, do you?” she said, looking hurt. “Because—” Pat shot me a look, and I understood.
“Of course not, Nancy. You know I can’t pull these things off without help. Let’s plan on five—”
“There’s a game at four,” Pat said. The game was, of course, the Red Sox. I had learned opening day that the Red Sox and their games were a major part of Pat Reed’s summer entertainment. Entertainment was probably too mild a word. His summer obsession. It was quickly becoming one of mine as well.
“The game will be on,” I said.
“Then I’ll be there at four,” Pat said.
“You two are impossible. I doubt that everyone wants the play-by-play . . .” Nancy stopped and put her hand over her mouth. “What are we doing? Kim is dead. We’re planning a party, and Kim is dead.”
“Let’s call it the business owners of Orchard gathering to show respect,” Flo said. “That’s appropriate, isn’t it, Caroline?”
“I should think so,” Caroline said. “A wake of sorts.”
“You see? If Caroline says it’s fine, it’s fine. Now listen, Nancy, I’ll be in touch. Ben, would you drive these old bones back home? I don’t think I can do it.”
“Of course, Aunt Flo,” Ben said. He walked over to me and squeezed my hand. “Are you okay? I’m going to drive her home, then I have an errand to run. Not sure when I’ll be back.”
I squashed down my disappointment and forced a smile. “Call me when you get back,” I said. “Maybe come over?”
“It may be really late. But I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise.”
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