by Linda Reilly
A thought struck her like a hammer to the chest. She’d never told Bea about Westlake’s advice to get a lawyer. She’d been stalling, dreading Bea’s reaction.
But if she delayed telling her long enough, maybe she’d never have to. Wasn’t it possible the police would have the real killer in custody by morning?
Didn’t the police work around the clock to catch a killer?
She sure hoped so. Because the thought of them marching into the eatery the next day and arresting Bea for murder was just too horrible to imagine.
10
Talia zipped her little car into Nana’s driveway and killed the engine. The bungalow was pitch dark. With an involuntary shiver, she vowed to buy a timer for one of the lights. Never again did she want to be forced to enter an unlit house.
Using the mini-light on her ladybug keychain for guidance, she climbed the front steps and unlocked the door. A sudden, plaintive cry gave her a start.
Mewww.
Talia let out a breath. The sound was animal, not human.
Heart thumping, she walked to the side of the porch, toward the sound. She flicked the beam from her keychain over the edge of the railing. An adorable feline face came into view—a furry, tricolored angel. The cat gazed up at Talia with a pair of moon-sized eyes.
Talia ducked inside the bungalow and plunked her handbag and the empty pickle tray onto her grandfather’s ratty old chair. She flipped on the porch light and then, moving quietly, descended the steps. She hoped she hadn’t already spooked the cat with the bright light.
It was still there—a darling calico, thin and shivering. Its face was mottled black and tan, and it had delicate white paws. Talia recalled reading somewhere that calico cats were almost always female, though she couldn’t remember the reason why.
Moving slowly, Talia stooped and held out her hand. “Oh, sweetie, are you hungry?” she said in a soft, singsong voice. “Would you like something to eat?”
The cat took a few skittish steps backward. She looked ready to bolt.
Talia rose and retreated into the house, praying the cat would remain where she was. She returned with two plastic bowls—one filled with fresh water and the other with a can of flaked tuna. She wasn’t sure if cats were supposed to eat “people tuna,” but surely it was better than starving.
The calico kitty was still there. The moment Talia set the bowls down, the cat attacked the tuna.
Talia watched her scarf down food for a few moments, her heart melting for the little creature. If nothing else, the cat wouldn’t go to bed hungry. Wherever her “bed” was.
She climbed the porch steps again and stepped into the cozy warmth of Nana’s bungalow. The cat kept popping into her mind. Was she alone in the world, with no one to care for her? Had someone dumped her and fled, leaving her to fend for herself?
Nana had always wanted a cat, but her severe allergy to cat dander had put the kibosh on that notion. Chet, naturally, had an intense loathing of cats, so Talia never even brought up the subject with him.
For now, the least she could do was feed her little visitor. In the morning she’d check the animal shelter to see if anyone had reported her missing.
Talia washed the pickle tray and set it in the dish drainer, then nabbed a quick supper of Cheerios with low-fat milk. Curled up on Nana’s sagging green sofa, she channel-surfed for at least half an hour. It struck her that the Friday night television lineup was alien territory. When she lived with Chet, their typical Friday evening consisted of drinks and dinner with a colleague or two from Chet’s investment firm, followed by a late movie or the occasional sporting event. For Chet, the idea of spending an intimate Friday evening alone with Talia had all the allure of a trip to Mars. Not possible. Not happening.
With a sigh, she gave up trying to find anything that appealed. Random thoughts tumbled through her head, refusing to leave.
Her concern for Bea.
Her worry over needing a job and a permanent place to live. Plus, she hadn’t seen her folks in several days and she knew they were getting antsy.
And the biggie—a murderer still at large.
At last, the bath oil Suzy had given her beckoned. Talia filled the tub and stepped into the steamy, aromatic water. The luscious scents of pumpkin and vanilla bubbled around her. She sank deep into the water. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine she was lying on a tropical beach. A bright sun warmed her face, while the sound of the waves curling over the shore lulled her into peaceful drowsiness.
Without warning, a man emerged from the sea, intruding on her tranquil image. Red-rimmed eyes shone from a pale, angry face. A knife protruded from the ugly wound on his neck. Dripping wet, he trudged toward her, one arm outstretched. He drew closer, until she could see him clearly.
Phil Turnbull.
Talia’s eyes jerked open. Good glory, she must have nodded off for a minute or two.
Or was Turnbull haunting her from the grave, trying to send her a message?
No, it was her—she was losing it. It was her overactive imagination, struggling to make sense of the murder.
One thing could not be denied—someone had hated Turnbull enough to want him dead.
Someone had seen to it that he would never again laugh or love, or peddle his lamps, or drive his treasured Caddy. Unfortunately, Turnbull had been a pro at making enemies. The killer could be anyone. Someone the police haven’t even thought of.
It was all making her head throb. Relax, relax. She breathed in deeply and then exhaled, trying to slow her heartbeat. On her hit parade of murder, two suspects jockeyed for first place.
In the top spot—Kendra. The K-witch.
She’d crashed the meeting, but for what purpose? To rub their noses in the fact that her bizarrely clad stepson was going to set up shop in their midst?
According to Jill, Kendra also owned an interest in the lighting shop and had been strong-arming Phil to make changes he’d have hated. Talia suspected the word compromise did not occupy the pages of Kendra’s personal dictionary. What if Kendra had taken matters into her own hands? Took the ultimate step and killed off the source of the objection?
Kendra had also made a cryptic comment about having “bigger, more lucrative fish to fry.” The woman had plans up her designer sleeves. Was it the lighting store she coveted? Somehow, vintage lamps and chandeliers didn’t seem like her type of gig.
And what had Jill meant when she pulled Kendra aside and accused her of sitting pretty?
And then there was suspect number two—Suzy Sato. Talia hated adding her to the list. She genuinely liked Suzy. Still, a few things about the woman didn’t add up.
Suzy swore she hadn’t signed Turnbull’s petition, but Talia was more convinced than ever that she was lying. The way she’d blushed and caught herself when she made the “weirdo” comment had been a sure tipoff.
Something else about Suzy nagged at Talia’s memory—something she couldn’t quite lasso into her consciousness. It would come to her eventually. Maybe if she slept on it, it would float into her brain, and by morning she’d have all the answers.
Yeah, right. In the words of Aerosmith … dream on.
Talia closed her eyes again and tried to unwind her jumbled thoughts. There was another suspect she needed to consider—Jim Jepson.
Before tonight, she would never have believed she’d be considering her former geometry teacher for the position of murder suspect. Mr. J.—Jim—was the quintessential pacifist. Then why had he avoided looking her in the eye when she’d asked him about the petition? The phone call was odd, too. Whispered. Urgent. Was it about Turnbull? Or had she read too much into it?
After pulling on her favorite sleep jersey—a knee-length purple affair embellished with ladybugs—Talia booted up her laptop. Of the seven property management companies she’d sent her résumé to, so far only two had responded. Both replies had been in the negative, although they promised to keep her “fine résumé” on file in the event of a future opening. The rejections had sounde
d eerily similar. Was there some database these people went to for stock responses?
She scrolled through her inbox, deleting the junk. She opened a message from her mom, sent a few hours ago: Didn’t want to bug you, honey, but are you okay? Dad and I are worried about you!
Talia grinned. Her mom disliked texting, preferring to use e-mail. Talia e-mailed back that she was hunky doony, as her dad liked to say, and that she’d see her on Sunday at Rachel’s play.
She scrolled down to the last e-mail. It was from Diamond Crown Properties, a property management company in Holyoke. Her pulse pounding, Talia opened it.
Ms. Marby, thank you for your résumé and for your interest in Diamond Crown Properties. Are you available for an interview next Friday at 9:00 sharp? Our company is expanding, and we have an opening for a property manager. Your excellent qualifications fit our needs, and we look forward to meeting you.
Yes! She scored an interview! She crafted a quick response thanking the sender—one Donna Franklin—and confirmed the appointment. But when she slid the cursor to Send, her mouse finger froze.
Was this what she wanted? Holyoke was only an hour or so from Wrensdale, in the central part of the state. She could buy a garden-style condo for herself, start building up some equity. Meet new friends.
So what was the problem? Why was she wavering? She couldn’t stay in Nana’s house forever. At best it was a stopover until she could find her own place.
In her mind, she pictured herself telling Bea she was bailing on her, and Bea’s kindly face crumbling. Okay, sure, Bea knew Talia wasn’t a forever employee. She was only helping out while Howie was laid up. Still, it would be a setback, especially with the present turmoil in her life. Bea was going to be crushed if she got this job.
Stop being ridiculous. You’re thirty-four, for pity’s sake. Time to get a life and a home.
Before she could overthink it, she clicked Send. Task accomplished, her mind drifted back to her suspect list. Maybe Google could perform a little magic.
The search engine brought up several links on Suzy. The first was a 2010 snippet from the Wrensdale Weekly. “Vermont Native Opens Fragrance Shop in Wrensdale Arcade.” The article featured the opening of Sage & Seaweed. On the left was a photo of Suzy with her husband, Kenji Sato. Suzy’s face was half hidden by an enormous pair of faux scissors as she pretended to cut a yellow ribbon in front of the charming new shop.
The remaining links mentioned Suzy in a cursory way, mostly relating to local charitable donations or fund-raisers. Talia searched for a Facebook page, but the only one she landed on was the one for Sage & Seaweed. She was surprised someone as gregarious as Suzy didn’t have a personal page.
A search under Kendra’s name brought up scads of links—everything from a fender bender with her Beemer to an Easter egg hunt sponsored by the Wrensdale Women’s Council.
One particular link caught Talia’s eye. The article, dated five months earlier, was from the Berkshire Eagle. “Wrensdale Resident Pitches Spa Designs to Planning Board.” The short clip described Kendra LaPlante’s intention to acquire a seventeen-acre spread near the town line and build a luxury day spa. The spa would offer everything from facials and massages to yoga classes and professional beauty consultations.
Bigger and more lucrative fish to fry.
So that’s what Kendra was cooking up.
Later articles confirmed approval of the plan. Envisioning new tax dollars plumping up the town’s coffers, the planning board members had unanimously approved the proposal.
So where was Kendra getting the funding for her grand project? Even the sale of the lighting shop wouldn’t make a dent in the cost of the new spa.
It was all making Talia’s head spin. She yawned, too tired to think anymore. She was about to power down when a chirp from her computer signaled a new e-mail. She opened her inbox. Her stomach flipped when she saw the name of the sender—Chet Matthews.
A tiny sprig of optimism bloomed in her chest. Did he have a change of heart? Did he want to apologize for his bad behavior? Scrap the past and give their relationship a fresh start?
Is that what she wanted?
She opened the e-mail.
Hey, Talia. Hope things are well. I hate to pressure you, but I wondered if you could come by soon and pick up the rest of your things. Your quilt is still here, and a slew of winter clothes. Do you want that table you bought in Rockport? It goes more with your décor than with mine. Anyway, if you pick a day, I’ll arrange to be here. I can always work from home if necessary. How’s the job search coming? Regards, Chet.
Stunned, Talia reread the e-mail.
Four years she’d lived with Chet. Loved Chet. Let him make all the decisions—which furniture to buy, where to vacation, how to spend every moment of her precious free time.
And since when had the décor become his and hers? Had she ever objected to the sleek, hard-edges pieces he’d chosen for the living room, and to which she contributed half the exorbitant cost? The single piece of furniture she’d chosen—the antique mahogany candle table—had been the only item in their condo she truly loved.
Swiping at the hot tears flooding her cheeks, she bashed out a terse response. Monday is my day off. Will late morning work for you? She didn’t even type her name. Let him think she was too busy to be bothered.
With that, she shut down and slammed the cover of her laptop. Her cell rang from the depths of her purse, and she fished it out.
“Perfect timing,” Talia said.
“Hey, you’re still up.” Rachel’s perky voice held a trace of something Talia couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“Is that rhetorical?” Talia sucked in a long sniffle.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel said immediately. “Your voice is weird.”
“Nothing’s wrong, except that I’m a fool and a buffoon.”
“Not,” Rachel retorted. “What gives?”
Talia gave her a briefing on Chet’s e-mail.
“The gall, the absolute nerve.” Rachel’s voice was tight. “Oh, Tal, I finally get it. You are so done with his sorry rump. I wish I could go with you on Monday to fetch your stuff.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine,” Talia said. “And I certainly don’t intend to linger. I’m going to stuff my belongings into my car as fast as I can and then split like a torn seam.”
“Will all your things fit into the Fiat?”
“I’ll make them fit,” Talia said, thinking about the candle table. It was about thirty inches tall. If she laid her clothes out flat over the backseat, she could rest the table across them. With a bit of luck, she’d still be able to see through the rear window.
“More importantly, Rach, did you find out anything from Abby?”
Rachel sighed into the phone. “I did. Abby sent me a text a few minutes ago. Here, I’ll read it. ‘Prelim report from lab showed victim died from knife wound to neck severing carotid artery. Weapon fillet knife with six-inch blade and molded rubber grip. At base of blade, miniscule traces of whitefish found. Estimated TOD between 7 and 9 PM.’”
Talia felt her limbs go numb. “Whitefish?” she whispered. “I don’t understand. What would whitefish be doing on the knife?”
“I guess that’s what the police want to know.”
Talia took her mind back to the crime scene, to that horrible moment when she saw Turnbull sprawled on the floor. She’d seen the knife only briefly, but she remembered the handle had been green.
She tried to remember if she’d ever seen a knife like that among Bea’s countless utensils. Bea did own loads of kitchen knives. Did she have one with a green handle? The report had said fillet knife. Bea didn’t fillet her own fish—it arrived “kitchen ready” from the seafood supplier. Still, this was all going to look bad for Bea. Very bad.
“Sorry, Tal,” Rachel said. “I wish I had more encouraging news. Unfortunately, there’s one other thing.”
What other bad news could there be? How could it get any worse?
“
Someone, an elderly man, called the station late yesterday. He reported that on the day of the murder, he heard Bea threaten to kill Turnbull.”
“But that’s crazy! It’s—”
And then, like a punch to the abdomen, the memory came to Talia.
Fire up the deep fry, Talia. I’m going to boil Phil Turnbull in oil!
Except for Talia, the only other person who heard Bea utter those words was their loyal customer, Mr. Ruggles.
11
On Saturday morning, Talia tugged open the creaky door of Queenie’s Variety. She pulled it closed behind her—it always stuck if you didn’t—and stepped into the warmth of the old place. The scent of brewing coffee and bakery delights drifted toward her from the snack station adjacent to the checkout.
Built in the late 1930s, Queenie’s still had the same sagging linoleum and the same glaring lights blinking overhead. In the center of the store, in front of the supporting column, fake wood glowed in an electric version of the ancient potbellied stove that once occupied the same spot. On the post behind the stove was a yellowed photo of old Queenie, his hazel eyes sparkling beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows, his ever-present cigar clasped in his fingers.
Talia took a deep breath and inhaled the mélange of aromas. It reminded her of Saturday mornings when she was a kid. Her dad always brought her here for strawberry-frosted doughnuts delivered fresh from one of the bakeries in Pittsfield. Dad would put away three with ease, while she and her mom split the other three.
At the moment, even the cozy familiarity of Queenie’s failed to cheer her. She was going to have to tell Bea what she’d learned from Rachel. She only hoped Bea wouldn’t pull a nutty.
It was beginning to look as if Bea really did need a lawyer. There was only so much Talia could accomplish on her own, although she’d surely do whatever she could to help her friend.
Yeah, right. Like abandoning her for a new job?
She didn’t want to think about that now. Besides, why was she already assuming that the job in Holyoke was hers for the taking? How egotistical was that? The company probably had a wealth of qualified candidates to choose from. What made her so special?