Death Takes Priority

by Jean Flowers

  “You ran fingerprints on the doodads and ID’d the tire slasher?” I joked, because it would have been too depressing to be serious.

  “Not quite. But getting close,” he said, surprising me. Of the three doodads that still dangled from the strap, Quinn singled out the small flashlight and held it so I could follow as he ran his finger along the edge. “It’s still scratched up, but I cleaned it the best I could and now you can sort of see a logo that’s a stylized tree.”

  “Your restoration talents at work,” I said.

  Quinn smiled. “I guess so. I was pretty sure it was swag from Take a Hike, that sporting goods store in South Ashcroft. I gave the store a call to see if I was on the right track. The guy said yeah, they did at one time give the flashlight I described to all the Scouts in the area. Sort of goodwill, a gesture of support. And promotion, of course.”

  “This is amazing, Quinn. We should take it to Sunni.”

  He handed me the strap and hanging doodads. “I think you should be the one to give it to her, not me.”

  “But you’re the one who figured it out,” I said, ready to give it back.

  He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “But it’s a fantastic lead. Are you sure you don’t want to take it to the police?” I hesitated to come right out with a reminder that he needed brownie points with the NAPD even more than I did.

  “I’d just as soon they forget about me,” he said.

  I put what I hoped was a useful piece of evidence in my pocket. “I understand.” Next thing I knew, I had the nerve to ask what had been a nagging question. “Who knows your real name at this point?”

  “‘Who knows?’ is the answer. To the best of my knowledge, only you and the cops know. I didn’t even tell my boss. He’s not aware of the phone book fiasco, even though he did see how upset I was that my photo was out there. He just thinks I’m shy.”

  “Ben Gentry knows,” I said. “But I don’t think he knows you took the phone books. He was too distracted with other things the day the books were returned to us. He’s never asked how they got to the police station en route.”

  “So I guess I’m still Scott James to most people. The chief said it was up to me to clarify things with the RMV, but I’m hoping not to have to hide behind that name much longer. I’m not driving with an expired license, just so you know. It’s just that you’re supposed to notify them if you change your name. On the other hand, it’s sort of part of changing your name to notify them, so it’s a circle and I’m just riding it for now.”

  “I wasn’t worried.” And I certainly didn’t need all that explanation, but I was glad he thought he should tell me. Now, if he would just tell me what was in the undeliverable letter that I so kindly delivered. The letter with the peacock blue ink. I cleared my throat and took another direction. “Do you have any idea how Wendell knew both your names?”

  “I’ve tried to figure that out. He did work for the telephone company. He might have seen the directory before it was out. But so what if he saw my picture? He didn’t know me before I came here. What would make him take notice?”

  “We may never know,” I said, wistful, not for the answer, but for the loss of Wendell.

  “Maybe it will be cleared up once we know who murdered him.”

  “Maybe.” I rubbed the flashlight doodad, as if it were a genie-bearing bottle. “I’ll stop by the station on my way home and turn this in. I won’t mention your name.”

  “Much appreciated. Are we still on for dinner?”

  “I’m counting on it,” I said.

  I felt only a flicker of my old worry: Was I entertaining and becoming close to a murderer? To the son of a murderer? Both? Whenever the thought came up, I dismissed it more quickly each time.

  * * *

  Ben, who I now considered my savior and best friend, called around three.

  “I just woke up from my after-lunch nap. I’m bored.”

  Talk about an honest guy. No pretense about why he was calling. “Too bad you don’t have an old job you can pop in on at any time.”

  “You busy?”

  “Not too many customers right now, but there are still some unattached items to deal with.”

  “Plus some sweeping up?”

  “Definitely some sweeping up.”

  “You can plan on leaving in about a half hour.”

  I blew him a kiss, thinking how good it was that he’d never know.

  I called the auto shop and, as luck would have it, my car was ready. Things were looking up all around, once my Derek Hathaway lunch was over.

  “No damage other than the tires, that the mechanics could see,” the secretary told me. “Too bad, though, huh?” I didn’t respond. “I mean too bad it happened,” she explained.

  “Yes, too bad,” I said.

  “One of the guys can drive it over now, if you want.”

  Apparently, the auto shop was much better staffed and equipped than the police department, with more personnel and more supplies, like extra tires. In a town like North Ashcot, where there was no public transportation except to take seniors to medical appointments, it made sense. Everyone depended on cars and pickups, so it wasn’t hard to keep a decent-sized staff of mechanics on the payroll and busy full-time.

  With such a low crime rate, however, what was the point of a large full-time police force? I wondered if things would be different now that a murder had entered the crime statistics. How many major crimes would it take for Sunni to get approval for more resources? At least she had better coffee than the auto shop, though that was just a guess on my part.

  For now, I was happy to be getting my Jeep back.

  * * *

  Ross was on hand, as usual, to accept my piece of strap.

  “I forgot to give this to you before I left this morning,” I admitted.

  “Hmm. It might be nothing. Or it might be something.”

  “I think it’s something,” I said, and pointed out the flashlight logo. I felt like a fraud, claiming to have thought of checking, and, further, to have contacted Take a Hike. Too bad brownie points weren’t transferable.

  I drove away on my new tires, confident that the PD would take it from there, and headed for a stop at the market. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought there was a team following me around. This time it was Tim Cousins, our architect in residence, in the produce aisle.

  “I heard about your Jeep,” he said, shaking his head. “Bad news.”

  “Did Derek tell you about it? Or was it Gert?”

  “Huh?” he asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Probably some kids,” he suggested. “But, all four of them? That’s something else. Any idea who’s involved?”

  “No idea,” I said. Didn’t he have beams to paint? Church pews to convert to living room furniture? Incense to burn?

  I wished he’d stop checking out items in my cart. Was he counting them? Would he report that I had enough veggies for two? Would everyone soon know that I was expecting company for dinner tonight?

  “Do you have any news on the investigation into Wendell Graham’s murder?” he asked.

  “No, do you?”

  He gave me a funny look, perhaps finally understanding that I’d had my tongue in my cheek during our whole conversation. As soon as he indicated that he was turning right toward Canned Goods, I turned left toward Bakery.

  * * *

  Working side by side, finding the proper utensils and cookware (me) and cooking (Quinn), was more fun than I’d had in a long time.

  “Did you ever notice this?” he asked, holding out the blue-and-white pot holder with Gert Corbin’s name on one side.

  “Yes,” I said. “It dates back to before I got here.”

  “Was your aunt a fan of the selectwoman?”

  “I’m not sure. I think she k
ept everything that ever came into the house.”

  “Or she just needed a pot holder,” Quinn said. “Have you seen this?” He’d turned the pot holder over to reveal the writing on the other side: Endorsed by Raymond Levitt, Mayor of Albany, NY.

  “Strange. Wouldn’t anyone in Massachusetts endorse her?”

  “I guess New York matters more in the scheme of things.”

  I thought of Ben’s lecture to me about how small-town North Ashcot looked askance at all things Boston. I shared Ben’s city-versus-town argument with Quinn, explaining how small towns got short shrift when it came to resources.

  “Good to know,” he said. “Helps me plan my next move.”

  I didn’t know what to make of the fact that I cared what that would be.

  “Let’s eat,” I said.

  * * *

  In the middle of an incredibly tasty curry chicken dinner, the phone rang. If it hadn’t been Sunni Smargon, Chief of Police, I wouldn’t have answered.

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Sunni asked. “Never mind, I’ll tell you the good first. The store was very helpful and we have the kid who slashed your tires.”

  “He admits to it?”

  “She.”

  “A girl slashed my tires?” I wasn’t proud of my leaning toward a stereotype, assuming the little criminal was male. Why couldn’t a girl bend over and use a knife on my tires? Probably because we don’t think of girls as being violent, but with so many real-life cases to the contrary, it was a foolish assumption.

  “She admits to it. But there’s something funny about her confession. That’s the bad news. This is a reasonably good kid. She’s an honor student, not from the richest family in town, but she’s never been into vandalism before.”

  “You think someone paid her to do it?”

  “I’m not thinking anything at the moment. The store had a record of all the kids in town who got flashlights. Not very many. It turned out they weren’t a mass distribution item, but given to certain kids who completed a project. So, right away, we have a Girl Scout, literally, and one who is smart and has good follow-through. There were only four girls on the list, and we were able to narrow it down quickly.”

  “What happens now?”

  “We’ll be talking to her parents. I’m hoping she’ll open up and tell us what’s really going on. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Unlike with the murder case. “Thanks,” I said.

  “It was a girl,” I told Quinn, sounding as if I were announcing a birth. “Which sort of surprised me.”

  “Not me,” he said. “From the other gizmos hanging on the strap—flip-flops and a small key the size of a charm. Much more likely to be a girl. A boy would have a knife, maybe, but that’s it.”

  “Not even a little soccer ball?”

  “Not unless he’s five years old.”

  We were a pretty good detective team, I thought.

  We talked and ate and talked more. Quinn seemed more relaxed now that at least someone (the cops and I) knew his secret.

  “I tried to get ahold of that lawyer, you know.”

  “Edmund Morrison? The lawyer who got you out of custody.”

  “Yeah, I just wanted to find out who sent him and why. But I couldn’t reach him. I left messages and a secretary said he’d get back to me when he could, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “He’s probably pretty busy.”

  “I just don’t like loose ends.”

  I didn’t blame him. I felt I had more loose ends than a tailor’s shop. I told Quinn about my lunch with Derek Hathaway, his strange fascination with the betting club, and his near denial of any kind of relationship with Wendell Graham.

  The topic we saved for last was the most serious.

  “I’d like you to pull back a little,” Quinn said. “In fact, make that ‘a lot.’”

  Uh-oh, I sensed that I’d had my last home-cooked meal in a while. “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed pushy with you.”

  Quinn blinked and shook his head, causing a pleasant movement of his longish hair. “I meant, stop investigating. I’m worried that the little message delivered through your wheels today might have to do with the fact that you’ve been hanging around Wanda, questioning Derek, for starters.”

  “It was a Girl Scout,” I reminded him.

  “Maybe not.”

  “You said you don’t like loose ends. Don’t you want this all cleared up? Isn’t it enough to have one murder trial hanging in the balance, and affecting your life?”

  “Of course, I want it all cleared up. But not at someone else’s expense.” He looked straight at me. “Not at your expense.”

  “Dessert?” I asked.

  * * *

  Quinn left early enough for me to make some calls. I dialed Ben first, and got a woman’s voice.

  “Is Ben there?”

  “Hey, Cassie, it’s Natalie.”

  I’d met Ben’s niece once or twice when I first moved back. She lived in Boston and had just started nursing school near a large hospital. I wondered if her uncle had given her the “Boston-Is-Bad Talk.” Knowing him, he might be accusing her at this very moment of taking the water from under him and his neighbors, just to be sure the big city kept on rolling.

  “I didn’t know you were visiting. How nice.”

  “Just since yesterday. A friend is getting married in town. I’ll be staying the weekend. Besides, I have to check up on the old man, you know.”

  I laughed. “You’d better not let him hear you call him that.”

  “No kidding. Wait a sec. I’ll put him on.”

  “Sorry to call so late,” I said, when Ben took the phone. “I just want to be sure everything went smoothly this afternoon. Is there anything I should know about before I raise the flag in the morning?”

  “Nope, everything’s fine. Oh, yeah, except we’re out of those hot-rod commemoratives. Put in an order, would you?”

  An odd request, and an odd way for him to make it, as if I worked for him and not vice versa. I cleared my throat. “Sure. Anything else?”

  “I think that’s it. Make sure you’re in by about two-thirty tomorrow.”

  “What? What are you talking about, Ben? Is there something different about tomorrow morning that I shouldn’t go to work as usual?”

  “That’s correct. Thanks for asking. I’ll see you then.”

  Now I was really confused. Was nothing normal these days? Was I about to find out that Benham Gentry was a fake name, that he’d burned flags and had been on the run since the seventies?

  Then it hit me. His beloved Natalie was visiting. She probably didn’t know that Ben was on his way out of the postmaster job. He wanted his niece to think he was still in charge. That was probably why he called yesterday, asking to come in. What other reason for this little dance? I knew he cared a great deal about Natalie, and had had a lot to do with raising her, so it couldn’t be that he didn’t want to spend time with her.

  “Okay, boss,” I said.

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll see you at two-thirty. Call if you need anything.”

  I wondered if I’d find it so hard to leave my post when my time came.

  * * *

  I stopped for a cup of coffee, then made my second call, to Linda, and asked that very question.

  “It’s sad, in a way,” she said. “I don’t see myself hanging around, begging to work more. I’ve got a ton of things I’m going to do once I don’t have to dress in blue.”

  “You don’t have to dress in blue now. You’re in the main office, where no stamps are sold, no services provided.”

  “Metaphorically speaking.”

  I’d debated about telling Linda that my car had had an adventure today—major surgery on its wheels. “Not now” won over “share everything,” on the basis t
hat I didn’t want to give the upsetting incident any more sway over me and my friends than it already had. Besides, it was over.

  The last call of the evening was incoming, from Wanda. I thought of ignoring it, since I had no information for her, but she’d just keep trying and I’d never get to sleep. Besides, I did really feel sorry for her. I picked up.

  “Hey, Cassie, just checking in, you know.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you and wish I had something positive to report.” Again, I decided to skip the fact that I had new tires.

  “I wanted to tell you that we’re having a service for my brother on Saturday and I hope you can come. Nothing big; I’m sure it will be mostly family. Walker and Whitney are flying in tomorrow. I know Wendell would want you there if you can possibly make it.”

  “Of course, I’ll be there. Just tell me where and when and if there’s anything I can do.”

  Wanda gave me the details, then broke down. I couldn’t help but join her.

  * * *

  I made a tour of my house before going to bed, checking the locks on all the doors and windows. I positioned my cell and its charger on my night table, within easy reach. Nothing wrong with having two phones handy, just in case. I returned to the front windows and peeked out at my driveway one more time. All was quiet and my car seemed to be standing tall.

  I caught myself just before saying good night to my Jeep and wishing it well.

  14

  I’d been tempted not to set my alarm, to sleep late, since a little surprise time off for me just happened to serve Ben’s needs. I hated to waste the morning, however. I thought of all the things I could do before two-thirty—learn to sew, for example. Failing that, I could read or shop. There was a good-sized mall one town over, where I could browse in person. Imagine actually trying on a skirt before ordering it. Was that what my parents and Aunt Tess had done before the Internet became the worldwide mall?

  My favorite photo of my mother came from a shopping trip we took together to New York City when I’d just turned thirteen. I snapped her picture as she was walking down a major avenue carrying three large shopping bags in each hand, all with the store logos facing front. Big smile on her face, though most of the purchases, as I recalled, were for me.