by Jean Flowers
“Until a murder victim shows up with your contact information in his pocket.”
Sitting across the coffee table from me, he threw open his arms to encompass my living room. “But then there’s this. And I’m glad I met you.”
I covered my embarrassment by refilling our coffee mugs and helping myself to a slice of Jarlsberg, but he might have heard my low, “Same here,” followed quickly by, “Do you mind sharing with me what you did in San Francisco? Work-wise, I mean.”
“Hey, we’ve shared a sweatshirt,” he said, arms open again. “I was a computer programmer.”
“Connected to the telephone company in any way?”
“Do you mean could Wendell have wanted my expertise or to consult on some telephone matter? Nope. Except that I had a phone, of course. I worked for a big grocery chain, writing code for inventory control. That’s why I chose antiques out here. You know all those spy novels and witness protection dramas—they always tell you to avoid what you did in your other life. If you were high tech, go low tech, et cetera. If you were great at football, go for baseball.”
“Or knitting,” I suggested.
He laughed, which was my goal. “I’m also kind of a handyman, woodworking type, so being around old furniture has been fun.”
“Are you back at work now?” I asked Quinn, flitting back to the present.
“Fred told me to take the week off. I hope it’s not his way of firing me, but I don’t think so. He’s a good guy.”
Quinn caught me looking at my watch. I regretted that he had to leave, not only because I was sure he had an excellent chicken recipe.
“I probably should get ready,” I said.
He rose. “Sure. You have an important date. Maybe you can ask her if she still thinks I’m guilty of anything.”
“Not you, too.” I explained how Wanda had pressed me into service to find out how the investigation was going.
“I never meant to put the heat on you,” Quinn said. “I was teasing, really. I hope you don’t think I’ve been hanging around just because you have the police chief’s ear.”
I assured him I didn’t think that. I just had to convince myself.
* * *
In the few minutes before Sunni arrived, I had a quick conversation with Linda, across the state, via Skype.
“You are really stirring things up there,” she said. “I can’t wait to meet this fugitive of yours.”
“He’s not exactly—”
“I know. I’m sorry. And I’m really sorry about Wendell. I feel bad about dissing him last time. I hope they catch whoever did that to him. Are you working on it?”
“Me? What do you mean?”
Linda shook her finger at me, a possible disadvantage of visual phone calls. “Come on. When did you ever let a little detective work get by you?”
“Join the club that thinks that.”
“I can’t believe you don’t recognize the talent you have. Remember that lost revenue program we had, where we tried to uncover ways we were losing revenue? Didn’t you take the prize for the most money recovered, from misuse of media mail, money order fraud, and I forget what else.”
“That was just part of the job.”
“Yes, but you excelled at it. Do you mean to tell me you’re not putting those talents to use on an investigation of the murder of an old friend? In a town where there are four cops?”
“Well, not technically, but—”
“Aha.”
My turn to shake a finger at the face on the screen. “And there are five cops.” I had to admit to Linda that I was sort of involved. “Only peripherally,” I said.
“Of course,” she said, in a tone that sounded incredulous. “But after your dinner with the police chief tonight, it will be centrally, I’ll bet.”
“We’ll see.”
Linda shared news of her own recent date, the real kind, where you had dinner at a nice restaurant at the top of a skyscraper, and ended at a club with dancing. She’d met this new guy, Noah, at a retirement dinner for one of our old bosses. She’d already sent me a smartphone photo of him, the lights of Boston in the background.
I listened to a few water-cooler tidbits about people I’d worked with. I decided not to share the insights I’d picked up from Ben about how small-town North Ashcot viewed big-city Boston. She had enough to hold against my hometown without more ammunition. But, apparently, selfish as the big city was, there were more opportunities for meeting people with only one identity.
* * *
The twenty-minute ride from my house in Sunni’s black Explorer was quiet, with intermittent talk of the weather (too cold for this time of year), movies (holiday shows were mostly kid-flick fare), an upcoming referendum on more STOP signs in town (sure) and one on a betting parlor (no way), and Sunni’s daughter who’d be going off to college next year. I wondered if I should warn the young woman that she shouldn’t pick a school in the parasitic city of Boston if she ever wanted to come back home.
We arrived at Russo’s early enough to choose seats against the wall, Sunni’s preference. I imagined she was always surveying her environment. The restaurant was a noisy little Italian place in a cluster of eateries just off the main street in Pittsfield, the largest city in Berkshire County. The funky décor included the high tables and chairs that seemed to be so popular in restaurants and coffee shops these days. Climbing up was easy for someone of my height—it was more like sliding across. But not so for Sunni, who, once she reached the red vinyl seat and shoved herself back, claimed she wasn’t planning to descend except to go home.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of uniform,” I said.
She fluffed her brown-red hair. “It happens.”
“Nice sweater set. It’s almost the post office blue.”
“I know it’s a fifties look, but they’re back. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
I had noticed, and commented on how much snazzier the bolero-type cardigan was. “It’s not my Aunt Tess’s sweater set.”
After a brief chat about wardrobes, Sunni dropped her casual tone. “Let’s get right to the business stuff,” she said. “That is, my business, not yours.”
Uh-oh. A warning. “Sunni, I assure you it’s not my intention to interfere with your business.”
She looked doubtful, then patted my hand as if I were an unruly kid. “It’s not that I couldn’t use a little help, Cassie, and real leads or information, delivered to me directly, would be most welcome, but nothing is served by rumors and innuendos, and those seem to spread like wildfires in the hills. And as far as snooping around without a badge and weapon . . .” She trailed off with a “needless to say” gesture.
“I understand completely.” I hoped Sunni didn’t think I’d spread any rumors. She needed only to ask my frustrated customers to learn that my lips had been sealed in that regard. Whatever the citizens were spreading, they didn’t hear it from me.
“I know you’re close to Quinn. I’d like to think you and I are friends, too, Cassie, but when it comes to the law and major crimes . . .” She opened her palms, which I took to mean that, once more, I could fill in the rest.
“I’m glad we’re friends, and I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.” Or get myself arrested, I added to myself.
“Or get hurt in any way,” Sunni added, as if she’d heard both my spoken and unspoken thoughts.
Once that was settled, I realized, my true intentions for the dinner flew out the window.
We ate caprese salad and pasta (I decided against a chicken dish, hoping that I’d have one tomorrow evening), and affogatos for dessert. We talked about her quilting (she’d just finished a special one for her daughter’s future dorm room) and my adjustment to managing my own post (slow), books we’d read and television shows we liked (crime drama for both of us), and a new set of shops coming to downtown. It also turne
d out that neither of us wanted a betting parlor in town.
“Not unless they triple my staff,” Sunni said. “And my ammo budget.”
It was nice to be in agreement. No talk of Wendell Graham, Quinn Martindale, or murder.
Anyone listening to our conversation would have thought we were just friends.
Wasn’t that what I’d hoped to find back home in North Ashcot? A friend to share the small things with. A meal, a conversation, a few laughs.
Why was I disappointed when that’s how the evening turned out?
* * *
Back at home, I found myself in withdrawal. I’d spent so much of my time and mental energy the last three days on the phone book theft, the Scott/Quinn revelation, Wendell’s murder, being stalked for gossip, meeting Wanda again after nearly twenty years. And, not to be neglected, new feelings for Quinn Martindale—mixed as they were, since I had no reason to believe he really was who he now claimed to be. I told myself that, by this point, Sunni would know the answer to the last question, and that she would have found a way to warn me about hanging around with him if there was anything to worry about. I hoped I hadn’t missed a cue.
It was too early for bed, so I took out my laptop and clicked around, but even my Web browsing, which a week ago might have included a frivolous game or two, now consisted of serious searches.
I found Wanda’s card and typed in her website address. I opened her home page—Wanda Graham Cox, Freelance Graphics Designer—and admired the head shot in the upper left corner. Wanda’s red hair was cut shorter than she wore it now, in an attractive, mature-looking bob. Her wide smile spoke of friendliness and confidence. Seeing her full name reminded me of her brief mention of a failed marriage. She didn’t seem to have any scars from it. I rubbed my arm as if to check for scars from a failed engagement.
Wanda’s professional offerings were many and her samples impressive. Covers for e-books, website design, flyers, banners, logos and letterhead for small and large companies. The little girl who lost her toys every day had done very well for herself. I had the sad thought that her brother, who must have been very proud of her, could no longer let her know his feelings. I didn’t look forward to telling her that, despite my chummy dinner with the chief of police, I was no closer to knowing how Wendell’s murder investigation was proceeding. In fact, I suspected it wasn’t proceeding at all.
While I was at it, I did another search—for Edmund Morrison, the lawyer who’d bailed Quinn out, though not literally. I sifted through the search engine hits and settled on a likely candidate, Edmund A. Morrison, “of counsel” at a large Albany law firm with a long list of partners. The firm listed many associates and of counsels, which I knew could mean many things, from a young lawyer on probation to a retired lawyer who was still consulting. Given the photo posted, of a gray-haired, bespectacled man, the latter seemed more likely. I scrolled through Morrison’s publications and credentials, Yale Law School among them, then clicked on his image and sent a screen shot to Quinn with a simple note: “Your lawyer?”
If someone knocked on the door and asked me why I was researching our murder victim’s sister and our only suspect’s lawyer, I’d have been at a loss to explain. Maybe Wanda and Linda were right. Maybe I was a detective at heart.
I hoped not.
I got a text reply from Quinn immediately.
Yup. That’s him. U up?
I felt that familiar twinge at what seemed like an invitation. It took longer than it should have for me to decline a late-night visit. Too many questions, doubts, and potential dangers. My warning system kicked in.
Turning in now, I responded, not sure what I was missing.
* * *
My house needed a good cleaning, but all it got tonight was a once-over, with a little dusting here and there, a run through with my handheld vacuum, and a quick straightening up in the kitchen.
I felt I’d done all I could for the day, at least trying to keep all the promises I’d made, while staying on the good side of Chief Sunni Smargon. I rummaged through my to-be-read pile of books and chose a mystery novel that I knew would end well. The victim would not be a completely innocent, all-around nice guy; the killer would be caught; justice would be served; the protagonist would live to solve another crime. A different world. I sat in bed reading until my eyelids were too heavy to continue, and switched off the small lamp on my night table.
I’d nodded off—or had I?—when I heard the noise. Were the crashing, clattering sounds in my dreams or in my driveway? My bedroom was in the back of the house, one half flight up from the street, at the level of my front and back porches, overlooking a small yard. Along the edge of the house was a pathway with several trash cans for different categories of waste. The noise seemed to come from there.
Though the ruckus stopped in the next few seconds, I got up and went to the window, peeked through the drapes at the backyard, and saw nothing unusual. I chalked it up to a raccoon or a skunk, hopefully not the rabid animal waging war in Mr. Jayne’s backyard, as I’d heard about from one of Sunni’s officers. While I was up, I wandered through the house, peeking through all the windows. I saw nothing out front except my old Jeep in the driveway.
Too sleepy to worry any longer without a good reason, I trudged back to bed.
12
I woke up in good spirits on Thursday morning, despite the gloomy weather. Rain or snow on the way? It was anybody’s guess. I resolved to take the warning from Sunni seriously and pay strict attention to my postal duties today. Wanda would have to understand that I had orders from the chief of police herself to back off.
I looked forward to a nice chicken dinner with Quinn this evening. As for lunch, who knew which of my fans would pop in at the last minute and claim their date? Derek Hathaway, the richest guy in town? Tim Cousins, the young man who was so eager for gossip? Or Gert Corbin, the government official who probably wanted me to continue whatever Aunt Tess had started by way of support for her campaign?
I donned a brand-new navy blue cardigan, a warm scarf, my navy parka, and I was ready to go. I gave one last look at my house, which I felt was fit for company, especially since the sun would be down long before dinnertime, hiding the dust. I’d always counted on that when entertaining.
Keys ready, I headed down the porch steps, approached my Jeep. And groaned. A flat tire? Really? My right front hubcap rested unnaturally close to the concrete. Good thing I had a spare, and an even better thing that my father had forced me to learn to change a tire before I had my first drivers ed course. No worries.
Also, I was glad I’d gotten an early start this morning, though this wasn’t the way I’d planned to use the extra time.
I tried to remember where I’d been in the last twenty-four hours that was rough enough to bring on a flat. Only around town as usual. Not even as far as Pittsfield, where Sunni had taken her car last night. I walked around to the trunk. And groaned again. Another flat. My right rear tire had bottomed out also.
It didn’t take a genius to think of checking the two left tires. Now the groans were less casual. I toured once around the Jeep, looking more carefully, noting the slash marks on each tire. I thought of Ben’s story about the Halloween gang that had struck last year, but I didn’t remember any real damage that had been done, just a nuisance attack. This felt more personal. Designed to keep me from work at least, or something more sinister at worst.
My back to my house, I walked to the edge of my driveway and surveyed the neighborhood. As if someone would be hanging around, his knife on display, admiring his handiwork and the homeowner’s distress. I glanced behind me, then to the sides where small pathways separated my house from my neighbors’ houses. It seemed no one was up yet.
I tried to convince myself that harmless teen vandals were having a little fun at my expense. The queasiness in my stomach and the tremors in my hands as I tried to calm my nerves told a different story. If thi
s wasn’t for fun, what was it for?
I considered running back into the house and locking myself in. I also considered running down the street, away from the house, from the car, from North Ashcot.
In the end, I stayed put and called the police department, having decided they should see it before a tow truck did.
While I waited for Ross, I walked around my property looking for a clue. As if I’d have known one if it were in front of me. Unless the slasher had dropped a glove full of DNA, or hurt himself and left his bloody fingerprint behind. Not likely. Nevertheless, I searched the small area—under my car as far as I could see, up and down the two pathways on either side of my house. I found a candy wrapper; indeterminate pieces of stiff plastic, one possibly from a six-pack of soda, another a blister pack, and still others that could have held together the countless items that came shrink-wrapped; a metal nail file that could have been mine.
On one side, stuck in a tuft of weeds, was part of a strap of nondescript color that looked like it was ripped from a backpack. From the size, I guessed it was a kid’s. It was hard to picture Operation Tire Slash associated with a cute grade-schooler, with a lollipop in one hand and a knife strong enough to slash my tires in the other.
It might just as easily have fallen off last summer, I reminded myself. Or it might have blown into the thin strip of grass overnight, from several houses down the block. I was realizing more and more how difficult it was to be a detective, how personal stress might influence “guesses,” and how far off one could be.
Dangling at the end of the strap were three doodads, in Aunt Tess parlance. It occurred to me how often I lapsed into her figures of speech and weird jargon. We’d spent a lot of time together in her last days—making me wish I’d come back to be with her long before she was near the end—and I’d picked up some ancient expressions. Maybe hanging on to them was keeping her close.
I’d resisted acquiring doodads, or whatever they were called now, though even my classiest friend, Linda, had a couple hanging from her tote. One I was tempted to emulate was a small photo of her standing in front of the first post office where she worked. The photo was encased in clear plastic, the office identified on the back.