by Jean Flowers
“Or the other way around.” I tapped the e-mail, hitting the date this time. “This dates back a few days before Wendell was shot. It looks more like it was Derek who found you out, however he did it, and then told Wendell that you were a good ‘opportunity’ as it says, for a new line.”
“So Derek is feeding Wendell new customer information? That doesn’t make any sense.”
I’d been hoping he, or someone, would see the “sense” that I couldn’t see. I sat back, defeated. Why would Derek bother with something so mundane as someone’s telephone line? The kickback potential was nonexistent. Still, something wasn’t right with Derek. “I don’t know what Derek is up to, but he seems to have intimate knowledge of all that goes on in this town, and I can’t believe he has nothing to do with Wendell’s murder.”
“He doesn’t even live here,” Quinn reminded me.
“It doesn’t seem to matter. I think his vested interests are still here.” I cleared my throat, ready for a new topic. “Who knows your birth name, Quinn? Wanda? Your boss? I’d just like to know when I can use it.”
“I understand, and I apologize. I shouldn’t have dragged you in. You didn’t ask to be involved in my crazy life.”
I hadn’t meant to come off so whiny. “I’m not asking to be excused.”
“And I can’t thank you enough for that, even though I have no right to ask you to stick with me.” He smiled and put his hand on mine. I caught a look that I trusted. “At this point, I have no way of knowing who can ID me as Quinn Martindale. I haven’t told anyone, not even my boss. I’m sure Derek found out by logging into the same resources I used to get a new name in the first place. The only question is why he looked into me.”
“And what he’s going to do with the information,” I added. I told Quinn the plan Wanda and I had worked out, to talk to Tim Cousins, plus the two people in South Ashcot who were listed in the e-mail, and Gert Corbin, who was copied on it.
We sat in silence for a few moments. Around us was the aroma of the best coffee in town, outside of the police station, plus the sounds of chatter, the clacking of keyboards, the hissing of the espresso machine, and background tunes from the nineties.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
I figured he meant the music, which I wasn’t crazy about either. “It was not a good decade for music,” I said.
“I’m not talking about the music.” He put his hand on the much-examined copy of the e-mail. “I’m talking about this. I don’t like any of it. It’s dangerous. I don’t like the idea of you pursuing it.”
“Think of what it will mean to you if we find Wendell’s killer.”
He shook his head, releasing the usual wayward lock of hair. “It’s not worth it. We have a man murdered; when you start looking into it with any seriousness, you’re going to meet more than just Boy Scouts. You’ve already had a taste of what could happen, with your tires.”
I tried to wave off the tire incident. “If you’re trying to scare me—”
“I am,” he said. “But I have a feeling you don’t scare easily. I just wish I could help.”
“I don’t think so. It’s still important that you not raise your profile around here.”
“I’m hoping that won’t be the case for much longer.”
“Is there news about your mother?” I thought of the peacock blue letter, the contents of which I still knew nothing about, except a vague “it might help.”
He hesitated, started to say something, then stopped. “Nothing I can share just yet.”
“That’s not comforting to me.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But I wish you would please think about putting an end to your part in this investigation—”
“Please don’t use that word,” I said. I looked around, surprised not to see my friend, the chief of police, standing over me, arms akimbo, as she had appeared in my mind, throughout my conversation with Wanda and now with Quinn.
“You’re making it very hard for me,” he whispered.
“Likewise,” I managed.
* * *
Home, changing into blues, I thought how much more stressful my so-called free morning was. The activities and interactions had taken more out of me than a normal day of work. I couldn’t wait to get back to selling stamps and the satisfaction of moving someone’s precious cargo on to the next step in its journey. A small birthday wish from North Ashcot to a big city in Texas, a large box marked for delivery to a town as small as ours, in upstate New York. All important, and all seemed no trouble at all compared to my current personal to-do list.
To keep Ben happy, however, I still needed to stay away from the office for a couple of hours. I puttered around my house, getting caught up on chores. I hung a print that Linda had sent weeks ago, of Boston Common at twilight, in the snow, and straightened out piles of magazines and assorted bills and paperwork. In one of those piles, I came across the literature thrust at me by Coach and Selectwoman Gert, about the proposed betting parlor. I’d meant to toss the two brochures at work, but must have inadvertently stuffed them into my briefcase. Now I talked myself into perusing them, in deference to my duty as a voter.
I settled on my couch and opened the “pro” brochure I’d gotten from Coach. I’d finally learned from one of my chatty customers that the man had been coaching football at Ashcot High for years. The one high school that served students from both North and South Ashcot was physically located in South Ashcot, which would explain why Coach wasn’t familiar to me.
His side of the argument was very persuasive. The trifold pictured a beautifully furnished setting, resembling what might have passed for a gentleman’s club years ago, but showing an equal number of females in attendance. It was hard to tell for sure, but it seemed the establishment on the page wasn’t an artist’s sketch, but a real facility, located on fairgrounds in California. The prose was intended to entice those looking for opportunities to place bets while watching international horse-racing events on one of their big screens or seated in front of an individual monitor.
I read through the hard sell. Do you enjoy fine dining? Our pleasure to serve you, either at a casual café environment or an upscale restaurant. Don’t know which race is which? Click here for a list, from all over the world. Need help with the jargon? Here’s a glossary of terms. I ran my finger down a list of words that were familiar, like “filly,” a female horse under the age of five, and unfamiliar, like “stewards,” who were the officials designated to uphold the rules of racing at the track and accountable to the state’s racing commission. A “pick six”? Bet the horses that come in first in six consecutive races. Six times more difficult? I couldn’t be sure.
I faded out at the math, just after learning that a furlong was one eighth of a mile, originally the length of a plowed field.
On the “con” side was Selectwoman Gert’s brochure, much less colorful, without the support of big money, I guessed. The cover photo was a long shot of an area of an unnamed town with unsavory characters milling around, and undesirable features like trash in the streets and graffiti on the storefronts. Bullet points gave facts and figures on the increased crime rate reported in every city that had established such a parlor. References were sorely lacking.
If I had no other sense, and voted on the basis of who had presented the more appealing case, I’d find myself voting to rush the betting parlor initiative through for North Ashcot.
A knock on the door stopped me before I rashly signed a petition welcoming the parlor into our little town. Skittish from my tire incident, I peered out the front window before opening the door. Tim Cousins stood there, holding what looked like a cup in his hand.
Hardly anyone looked less threatening than the friendly, smiling architect/builder at that moment. Added to that was the fact that he was on my assignment list from Wanda: “Tim Cousins?” was a suggested new opportunity for one of Derek Hathaway’s line
s, whatever they were.
I opened the door.
Tim thrust out an empty measuring cup. “I wondered if I could borrow a cup of sugar?”
I gave a quizzical look, half smile, half frown, and asked, “What?”
Tim laughed. “Ha. Just trying to find an excuse to visit and this is all I could come up with.”
“Pretty sad.” I didn’t reveal that he’d made my life easier—now I wouldn’t have to take the initiative to quiz him regarding the “new opportunities” memo.
“Yeah, sad, that’s the truth. But you’re always so busy. When I heard you had the morning off, I decided to appeal to your generous nature.” Another quizzical look from me brought further explanation. “Ben said you were off and you’d probably be home.”
I’d have to speak to Ben, who apparently thought, first, that my whereabouts should be public knowledge and, second, that I didn’t get out much. Not that he was wrong about number two.
It was hard to resist a guy who’d go to all this trouble to be neighborly. It helped that today he was dressed for a business meeting. “A little formal for North Ashcot,” I remarked.
“I just drove back from Springfield. My day job, you might say.” He straightened his tie. “I decided not to change, thinking maybe it was my dirty overalls that put you off.”
I assured him it wasn’t. When I offered him a cup of coffee, he nodded and seemed like a kid who’d finally been accepted for the softball team. Also the frenzy to get information from me seemed to have died down, not just from Tim, but from the townsfolk in general.
In fact, I was getting the sense that the townsfolk had already lost interest in Wendell’s murder. Maybe Wanda was right, and even the police no longer gave it much attention. I saw no outward sign of an investigation, but then I had no idea what one would look like from the outside. Would I see cops poking around in trash cans? People being stopped on the street and questioned? Probably not. I wondered how I could find out from Sunni what exactly they were doing all day, without disobeying her orders to me. Or aggravating her, as I might be if someone asked what I did all day.
“I don’t have any sugar for this,” I said to Tim, handing him a full mug of coffee with an image of Faneuil Hall on it, another of my Boston memorabilia.
“I don’t use sugar,” he said, in the slightly Southern accent I’d noticed at our first meeting. He turned his measuring cup upside down on my coffee table.
We were off to a good start this time. I was almost sorry I would eventually have to pump him for information.
Tim was in the mood to talk about his building project. A beautiful old white clapboard church almost directly across the street from the police station had gone up for sale a couple of years ago, and he stepped in.
“The church was only about fifteen years old but a rich parishioner decided he wanted his own legacy and donated money for a new one in South Ashcot, where he’d moved to. Must be nice, huh? You move around the state and build your own churches on the way.”
“It’s your gain. You seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“No question about that. I carpentered and painted my way through college and architect school; now this one is for me. I’d be glad to give you a tour sometime. There’s a cool loft that I haven’t figured out what to do with yet. Maybe I’ll make it an office, or a playroom. Depends on my mood when I think about it.”
“If I built my own house, or turned a church into one, I’d invite the whole town to see it,” I said.
“Not a bad idea, when I’m finished. Don’t ask how many more years that will take.” He picked up the betting parlor brochure that was still laid out on my coffee table. I’d been in the process of trashing it when he knocked. “I see you’re into this referendum.”
“Not really, just cleaning out some junk mail of sorts.”
Tim flipped the trifold open and closed, seeming to pay no attention to the content. Maybe he was already very familiar with it. “Do you have a strong position one way or another?” he asked.
Uh-oh. Tim was going to pitch his position on the betting parlor. “Why do you ask?” I tried to keep my voice light. “Last I heard, voting was a private matter.” If anything could be private in North Ashcot.
“Just wondering. I see that you’ve become a force in town.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Could it be that I felt defensive? “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you hang around with the chief of police, and then I see you having lunch with Derek Hathaway.” I’d started in on a verbal defense when Tim interrupted me. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I definitely started out on the wrong foot here. Again. I’m a little jumpy. I’m trying to avoid getting snared into one of Derek’s schemes, and, frankly, looking to see who can help me. It’s my roundabout way to ask if he’s approached you also.”
The perfect segue. “You’re asking me if Derek invited me to join him in some new opportunity?”
Tim looked around my living room as if he thought it might be bugged. “Not so new. Derek approached me last year, when I first started my home project. He was careful not to be too specific, but he told me not to make too many commitments to the phone company before he talked to me. Said he had connections and could get me a good deal. Did he offer you the same thing?”
I reread the e-mail in my mind. I was sure it was headed by “new opportunities,” not something a year old. But maybe the people on the list were new, not the venture itself. I didn’t feel comfortable sharing the e-mail with Tim at this point. To what extent could I trust him? For all I knew, he’d been sent by Derek. Was I being asked to be a partner in some scheme? Being tested? Or was I the next victim?
“Not exactly,” I answered, finally. “But I’ve heard about a new venture. I’m too confused to have an opinion. What else do you know about it?”
“Not a lot, but you know when you have the feeling someone is recruiting you? Like, ‘Boy, have I got a deal for you,’ but you know if you get involved, it will come back and bite you at the end.”
I did know what Tim meant, and I was beginning to think that Wendell had been an important part of the deal, helping Derek disseminate it. Whatever “it” was. The e-mail after all was from Derek to Wendell. Was Wendell one of the schemers, or was he trying to get out of a deal when he was shot?
“As my dad always said, ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is,’” I offered.
“Words to live by,” he said.
My best bet was to stall on telling Tim what I knew until I talked to Wanda, who was scouting out a former barber and a librarian in South Ashcot.
Time was on my side. I looked at the clock. “Let’s chat about this another time, Tim. I have to get ready for work.”
He frowned. “Okay. You’re not just blowing me off, again?”
I crossed my heart. “I’m not.”
He zipped his jacket and added hat and gloves. “Thanks for the coffee.” He headed for the door, turned, and said, “You’ll tell me if you hear anything?”
I nodded but didn’t cross my heart.
* * *
What Tim didn’t have to know was that I was already dressed for work, and had only to drive the few miles down the road. But I had some things to figure out before I continued the conversation with him. I sat for a few minutes thinking about his visit and what I’d learned. Not a lot, considering we were talking in circles. He wanted to know what I knew and vice versa. The only thing that seemed certain was that the deal Derek had going—whether a legitimate business enterprise or a scheme that wouldn’t have a happy ending for others—involved telephone lines.
I did the math. Derek’s “opportunity” involved telephone lines. Wendell’s job was about telephone lines. Like the Hollywood-type workman I’d talked to, Wendell installed or deinstalled lines for the phone company. Wendell was shot. I had a flashback to chemistry word probl
ems when I never knew what to put on the two sides of an equation to make it balance. Just like now, when I had no idea where to put the equals sign among all the characters.
One thing that seemed sure was that all the bits and pieces were consistent with Ben’s hesitation to sign off on flying our flag at half-mast for our telephone lineman.
16
I arrived at the post office parking lot in time to meet Natalie, Ben’s niece, who’d come to pick him up. Even bundled into a thick gray parka on one of the coldest days this season, Natalie looked like a model for winter clothing at a classy ski resort. Her short, trendy boots seemed to perfectly match the turtleneck peeking up from her jacket; her gloves matched the band around her head. I, on the other hand, looked like a woman who’d wear anything to keep warm, happy if my accessories didn’t clash too badly with each other.
From her devotion to her uncle, I knew that Natalie was as nice a person as she was a beautiful young woman.
“We’re going to Pittsfield for dinner,” she said, after we shared a friendly hug. She gestured toward the post office building. “I called Uncle Ben to tell him I was on the way. He’d been reading something about privatizing the post office and couldn’t contain himself.” She continued in a deep, Ben-like voice. “‘It threatens our mission to provide service to every citizen, no matter where they live.’ You’d think he wouldn’t care that much anymore. But he loves the postal service, and can’t stand the thought of complete retirement.”
“He’s been a huge help to me. I mean, he’s the boss, but—”
Natalie put her hand out to stop me. “It’s very nice of you to let him think that,” she said.
“No, I meant—”
She patted my shoulder and we continued walking toward the building, heads down against the nasty wind and the beginning of a rainstorm. “Really, thanks, Cassie. It means a lot. To both of us.”
I entered my building with increased faith in those at the younger edge of the millennial generation.