by Parker Riggs
Around him pie lovers and their kids wandered through the tents. They all looked so home grown and wholesome. He glanced down at his expensive silk shirt and leather loafers. His New York-ness stuck out like a hamburger at a hot dog stand. Just as he was about to take a quick plug off the flask to ease the awkwardness, he felt a hand on his sleeve. “So you couldn’t resist the sisters after all.” Emily stood beside him, wearing an apron that read Live Free and Bake. “You want to take a picture of the winning pies? I could introduce you to the champions.” She looked down at the pecan pie she was carrying.
“How’d it do?”
Emily touched the red ribbon around her neck. “I won second place this year.” She pursed her lips at the pie as if it had misbehaved. “Beat by Heidi’s strawberry rhubarb.”
“Is she here?” Barrington looked around at the milling crowd. “I love Table Talk.” When he looked back, Emily was frowning. Barrington laughed at her sweet freckled face, so Norman Rockwell. He was dying to take her picture, but he couldn’t tell if it would be rude to shove a lens in her face. “Sorry to rave about the competition,” he said.
“That’s all right, everyone loves Table Talk. I have to compete with her every day because of my husband.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Anyway, she ran out of here a couple of minutes ago like her bum was on fire.” Emily put her hand over her eyes and looked toward the parking lot. “I think there are staffing issues at the restaurant.” She looked back at Barrington, “Come on, let’s go watch the pie eating contest.”
Barrington and Cosmo followed her past a table filled with hungry pie eaters to the silent auction, where Emily arranged her pie on the table. Barrington wrote his starting bid on the sign-up sheet next to it. Cosmo’s little nose was reaching upward, but he stayed seated like a good boy. “Mind if I use you as a model?”
“Oh, gosh.” Emily tried to puff her hair, which Barrington thought looked perfect. She was that sweet kind of girl you always wished you’d married. “I look horrible for sure!”
Barrington tried to get her smiling next to her pie, but Emily wouldn’t keep still. People kept stopping to talk to her. As he tried to get some candid shots, he wondered what his life would have been like if he’d stayed in Wyoming and worked the cattle ranch with his father, settled down with a girl like Emily or Nancy Miller or Nicole Teale and had some kids. Yeah, and you probably would have died young from sheer boredom, so stop having these what-if moments. You’re rich, you’re famous. You got exactly what you wanted.
“Well, look who’s here,” Rocky lumbered toward them holding a paper plate with a big piece of blueberry pie on it. He clapped his hand on Barrington’s back. “And the little dog, too.” He leaned down to pet Cosmo.
Emily put her hands on her hips. “Good grief, Rocky, why are you wearing that awful thing again?” He was wearing a pineapple print Hawaiian shirt that made Barrington wince. He loved avant-garde clothing, but the shirt was a real eyesore. Emily rose up on tiptoe as Rocky bent down to kiss her.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Rocky looked hurt. “It keeps me cool.”
“I need to take you shopping,” she said, shaking her head, “or throw that shirt out when you’re not looking.”
“What did you say?” Rocky leaned closer to her. “I didn’t catch that last part.”
“I was just asking if you’re here to congratulate me.” Emily winked at Barrington, who was trying hard not to laugh. “I won second place.”
“Congratulations.” Rocky enveloped her in a huge bear hug, keeping his pie in the air so he wouldn’t lose it. He wasn’t an attractive man. His head was square, his complexion pitted from old acne scars, and his large belly barely fit his clothes. Yet he looked so content Barrington felt a stab of jealousy. Rocky had lived his entire life in Haven, and didn’t seem to mind that he’d never been to Paris or Tokyo or flown to Rio for the weekend for the hell of it. It was enough to have a steady job, a comfortable home, a wife and a family who loved him. “You should have won first,” Rocky told his wife.
“Now, honey bun.” Her voice was muffled by his arms, and she stepped back to look at him. “Don’t you eat too much pie. You remember what Doctor Geary said?”
Rocky winked at her. “My heart’s just fine as long as I’m with you. Where are the kids?”
Emily nodded to the pie eating contest. “They’re getting ready to have stomach aches.” Barrington spotted all three of the towheaded children bellied up to the table among the other competitors. “I’m going over there to make sure they don’t cheat,” Emily said, and she flounced away as only Emily could.
Rocky took a bite of his pie. “Barrington Bigelow,” he said with his mouth full. “I was actually hunting you up. You talked to Rose about New York?”
“Sure did, honeybun,” Barrington grinned. “Sounds as if she gave that bodyguard a run for his money.” Barrington thought it was incredibly sexy that Rose knew how to do karate, or whatever she did. He felt almost wimpy next to her, which wasn’t how he particularly liked feeling around beautiful women.
“Yeah.” Rocky wiped blueberry off his mouth with his napkin. “She taught him not to point his weapon at a Luscious Lady customer.”
On stage the Crazy Mary Band was slowing down to announce the pie contest. Barrington saw that they had no Joan, just three retired men belting out folk songs in straw hats and blue jeans, playing guitar and fiddle. Rocky took out half his pie with the next forkful. “Listen,” he said over the Crazy Mary band as they announced the names of the pie eaters, “I’m coming by tonight to keep you company. After that murder at Table Talk, we can’t be too careful.” He managed to put the rest of the pie in his mouth.
Barrington saw the kids leverage their faces just centimeters from the pies. “I’m actually staying at Rose’s while she’s in Mass. Cosmo will be my guard dog, won’t you, boy?” Cosmo looked up at him with slightly worried eyes. He always seemed to be asking silently: Where’s Rose? Where’s Rose? Where’s Rose?
“I know.” Rocky tossed his pie plate in a nearby can as if he were lobbing a basketball. The swarm of yellow jackets above it broke up and then gathered again. “She asked me to stay at the house with you tonight just to make sure you’re safe.” The whistle blew, and eighteen little faces fell into eighteen slices of pies.
“She said she’d be home before midnight.”
Rocky stood back and watched his kids frantically eat pie. “Change of plans.” Rocky grinned. “Seems her friends in Mass live near a shoe outlet.” The whistle blew, and the first round winner was announced. He was the skinniest child Barrington thought he’d ever seen. “But don’t worry, she’ll be back tomorrow to celebrate the fourth.”
“Really, it’s not necessary,” Barrington said to Rocky. “I’ll be fine.”
Rocky leaned in, looking behind Barrington to see if anyone was listening. “Listen,” he said, “we don’t know that. I found a forty-caliber shell casing at the scene.” Rocky looked around but everyone was focused on the next round, and he continued. “Same type that killed Hal. The medical examiner is running ballistics to see if the bullet’s from the same gun.”
“So that’s why you two are so worried about me.” Barrington looked out at the landscaped park and the old hardwoods blowing in the breeze. It seemed wrong that such a beautiful place could be home to a killer. As scared as the idea of a guy with a gun made him, it felt good to know Rose and Rocky cared about him. If he was killed, Marcie would cry for about a minute and then hurry back to the office to raise the price on all his work. Ditto with the galleries that showed his work. All his hotshot artist friends were more interested in their egos than him. Rocky watched his kids. The next pie was lemon, and their faces looked green when the lemon mixed with the blueberry. “What’s your take on Delores’s story about Jess?” Rocky asked.
Barrington shook his head. “I have a hard time believing Jess is a criminal, and Artsy Phartsy has always been a respectable gallery. I can’t believe they knew anything about secrets
hidden in frames.” He watched another boy stand up and take his seat on the finalist’s stage next to the Crazy Mary band members and the skinny kid. It was incredible, the turmoil Jess had left behind. Barrington tried to think back to the days and months leading up to her disappearance, whether she’d left clues about what was going on at the gallery, but his mind was blank. Those were, after all, the heady glory days that had given birth to his ego. It had been a field of plenty where he’d bloomed wildly amid the accolades that began to pour in from the artistic community. In that youthful arrogance, he’d failed to appreciate Jess, his inspiration, his biggest cheerleader. No wonder she’d left him.
“What’s surprising to me,” Rocky said as they waited for the Crazy Mary lead singer to announce the last round, “is that Beach specifically wanted Jessica to work at the gallery. Why wouldn’t he pick someone he’d known longer, someone he knew he could trust?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I wonder,” he said quietly, “if Jessica was more than his employee.”
Barrington’s head began to throb, and he did what he’d been wanting to do all afternoon. He reached into his camera bag, pulled out the silver flask of liquor with his initials engraved across it and tipped a shot’s worth of whiskey. The cancer doc had told him to lay off the booze. He thought maybe not drinking had brought on the headache, and he might as well take the edge off. Except while he was screwing the top on, Marcie’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Face it, Big, what’s making your head pound is the idea that Jessica and Beach were having an affair, because you know what that means. Rocky watched him put the flask back in his bag. “You all right?” he asked.
Barrington nodded. The whiskey felt good, even on a hot day like this, and it took the sting off what he knew both he and Rocky were thinking: Jessica’s child might be Sandy Beach’s kid.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alisa Minot’s apartment at the Haven Assisted Living facility was much smaller than Rocky imagined, but the medicinal smell was living up to his expectations. He wished he hadn’t worn a tie and long-sleeved shirt. He was sandwiched into a room that barely fit the three of them, and he was sweating profusely. Telepathically he was telling Rose to open the window she was standing next to and let in some fresh air, but she wasn’t getting it.
“I’m a hospital volunteer.” Alisa sat down gingerly, as if her bones hurt. Her hair was straw-like, her body withered, and her eyes had lost their shine. She looked about a hundred years old, not fifty. “I knit blankets for newborns.” She pointed to a pile of wool blankets spread out on her dining room table. “In case you’re wondering.”
Rocky had been wondering. Obsessed, is what he’d call it. Oversized rolls of yarn were stacked high on chairs, tables, the kitchen counter, the television, the windowsill, everywhere. He felt as if he was trapped inside a sweater. “I’d like to talk to you about what’s happened at Solitude.” He wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Fernando, come here.” Alisa patted the chair cushion beside her with a thin hand, and a large black cat glided over on soft paws, circumventing balls of yarn as if he was navigating an obstacle course. In one fluid motion he jumped up and sat down beside her.
Rocky pushed a bunch of yarn off a ladder-back chair. The legs felt wobbly. He hoped he wouldn’t break it when he sat down. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to get into the cottage?”
“I think it’s very strange.” Alisa plucked two sharp-looking knitting needles out of her hair and picked up a ball of yarn. Her fingers seemed agile enough, looping yarn around the needle. He couldn’t remember what was wrong with her, perhaps MS. “I thought it might have to do with that man being murdered?”
The needles clicked so quickly Rocky felt dizzy watching them. He remembered how pretty she’d been just a few years ago, her long brown hair and great body. But there had been something odd about her, too. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.
“This whole damn thing has turned into a nightmare,” she said. “I told Tommy I didn’t want to rent that house. He kept insisting, because it was Barrington Bigelow, I should be thrilled. Far from it. I told him renters were problems. Money, money, money. Tommy’s always thinking of money.” She glanced at Rocky and then at Rose. “You try having a son who only thinks about his bank account. He’s only twenty-six, but he’ll be a billionaire by the time he’s my age. Count on it.”
Rocky didn’t like the way the cat was staring at him, the feline version of the evil eye. “We don’t know if the murder has anything to do with the break-in,” he said, “but there’s a good chance …”
“Well, I’m worried about Mr. Bigelow’s safety,” Alisa interrupted. “Tommy went through the cottage after the break-in and checked the inventory list I’d drawn up. Nothing was missing.” She looked at Rocky over the top of her reading glasses. “Which seems very suspicious. First a man is murdered, and then Mr. Bigelow is attacked. Seems to me someone is targeting him, have you thought of that?”
Rocky remembered suddenly what it was. She’d had an affair with an art teacher at the high school. How could he have forgotten that scandal? “It’s possible,” he said. He wanted to stick his tongue out at the cat. “We’re considering every angle.”
Alisa’s eyes swiveled to Rose. “Did Mr. Bigelow hire Chandler Investigations? Is that why you’re here, tagging along with the police?” Fernando growled as if daring Rose to step forward.
Rose did step forward, because Rose wasn’t afraid of any cat, unlike Rocky, who thought cats might be alien creatures from another planet. “The man who was murdered, Hal Cappodecci, was my employee. He was helping Mr. Bigelow look for a woman he knew thirty years ago.” She took the photo of Jessica out of her pocket.
Alisa glanced at it and resumed knitting. “Thirty years is a long time. She’s probably changed so much you’ll never recognize her,” she said. “Is she dangerous?”
“She is if she’s responsible for killing Hal and assaulting Mr. Bigelow,” Rose said, “but we won’t know until we question her.” She held up the photo again. “You’ve lived in Haven a long time, Mrs. Minot. Does she look familiar?”
Alisa shook her head, her eyes on her knitting. “I don’t know her,” she said.
“Exactly how long have you lived in Haven?” Rose asked.
“Longer than I intended,” Alisa said, glancing at Rocky. “I didn’t think I’d ever get married or have a child. Life can throw curve balls when you least expect it.”
Rocky remembered the art teacher. Alanzo Ballistrasi, had been a good-looking Italian guy who started an art colony at Frickman’s old farm. They said art hippies got naked there, swam in the old cattle pond and slept on the roof. He’d disappeared after the affair.
“Have you ever visited New York City?” Rose asked.
Alisa stopped knitting and turned to Rocky. “May I ask what these questions have to do with what’s happened?”
“Ah, I can’t get into specifics,” Rocky said, shifting his large bulk in his chair. Sweat was seeping out of every pore of his body. He hated summer. He’d take cooler falls and snowy winters any day. “We think there may be a New York connection to the crimes,” he said.
Alisa took off her reading glasses and set them on a table piled high with yarn. Rocky wondered if she’d ever find them again. “A man was murdered at my cottage, and now you tell me there’s some kind of New York connection.”
“It’s just a theory.” Rocky backpedaled and changed direction. “Is it possible the thief could’ve stolen something Tom didn’t know about, something not on your list?”
Alisa smiled tightly. Great. Now he’d made her angry. “Are you accusing me of hiding something from my son?” Her hands clenched the knitting needles. He remembered, too, that Alisa herself had disappeared for a while, left town right after the affair went viral. Some said she’d gone to live with Ballistrasi, and when she came back months later, Rocky couldn’t remember exactly when, she wouldn’t talk about where she’d been.
> “We’re not accusing you of anything,” Rocky said. “I thought maybe you’d kept some jewelry or maybe some family heirlooms at the cottage.”
“I keep important documents in my safe deposit box at the bank, and no one else but me has the key,” she said. “My jewelry, I keep in my bedroom down the hall. Do you want to see it?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Rose said.
Rocky wanted to loosen his tie. Sweat was dripping down his neck, and the cat was growling. He wondered if the medicinal smell in the room might be coming from its litter box.
“You never did answer my question.” Rose glanced at the cat. “Have you ever been to New York City?”
“My God, you’re cheeky,” Alisa said as she shook her head. Rocky didn’t like the way Fernando was flexing his claws and twitching his tail, as if he was getting ready to pounce. “Are you always so belligerent?”
“Actually, this is me being easygoing.” Rose grinned.
“Well, I think it’s quite clear,” Alisa said. “You two have your work cut out for you. The problem isn’t me, it’s Mr. Bigelow. He’s probably a target because he’s very famous and very wealthy.”
Rose nodded. “Have you ever met him?”
“No, I haven’t,” Alisa said wearily, “but I am sure Tom has told you I am a huge fan of his work. I have four gallery books of his, and I’ve traveled great distances to see his shows. If he’s in trouble, I suggest you do everything in your power to protect him.” The cat’s shoulders started to shimmy as he scooted toward the edge of the chair. Alisa put her hand on his neck and held him down. “I’m not feeling very well.” She shook her head heavily as if it hurt.