A Side of Murder

by Amy Pershing

  “So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Helene said as she lit a couple of candles in their hurricane lamps. “One, you think Estelle might have been murdered, but the police don’t agree. Two, you think Trey stole your mother’s notebook, but he might have taken it by mistake. Three, you think, or thought, that Estelle might have had something on Trey, but your mother says not. And four, you think Estelle was, in fact, blackmailing somebody who might have killed her for it, but you don’t know who.”

  I nodded miserably. Put that way, I sounded like a real nutcase.

  “And, five, you’re angry at Jason for eating all your cookies,” she added.

  “No,” I snapped. “I’m angry at Jason for keeping our relationship strictly professional.”

  Helene raised an eyebrow. “And what would you like your relationship to be?”

  “I want to be friends,” I said quietly, all my anger gone. “I just want us to be friends again.”

  “And that’s why you flirted with this Trey Gorman? Because Jason wouldn’t be your friend?”

  I nodded glumly. Again, nutcase.

  “Do you really want to know what I think?” Helene asked.

  “Maybe not,” I said.

  As it turned out, her question was rhetorical. I was learning that Helene always told you what she thought, whether you wanted to hear it or not.

  “Well, I think you’re right that Estelle was murdered,” she said. “I think your questions about her death are good ones, and I trust your instincts. Also, Jason clearly agrees with you, and I trust his professional judgment. I also think you’re right that she was a blackmailer. Even if she made up this piping plover story, it’s pretty clear that she tried to pressure Trey Gorman with it. I think he knew Estelle had talked to your mother, and he deliberately took that notebook to find out what Estelle had said to her even if it was a pack of lies. Or at least keep anyone else from finding out about it. And, finally, I think Estelle Kobolt was murdered because she was successfully blackmailing someone and they’d had enough. The problem is going to be finding out exactly who that someone is.”

  I stared at Helene. I’m pretty sure my mouth dropped open. Always an attractive look. “So you don’t think I’m a nutcase?”

  Helene shook her head. “No, I don’t think you’re a nutcase. But I do think you need to be very, very careful.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  I thanked Helene for the wine and the validation and took myself and Diogi home for dinner. I had some eggs I’d picked up at a roadside stand with a hand-lettered sign reading “Fresh Eggs from Happy Chickens.” There is nothing better in the world than a fresh egg from a chicken that spends its day running around eating bugs. These are the absolutely best eggs for spaghetti carbonara, which I suddenly had a huge hankering for. (Tip: For a truly rich carbonara, but only if you have really good eggs, just use the yolks, not the whole eggs, one yolk for every two servings.) I had some salt pork that I’d planned to use in a batch of clam chowder one of these days, but, diced and rendered into crisp little bacon nuggets it would easily substitute for Italian pancetta.

  I gave Diogi his usual dinner of dried doggy nuggets while I feasted on the pasta. He ignored his bowl and looked at me pathetically. I will give him credit though. He did not beg. Diogi has too much dignity to beg. So I took the couple of tablespoons of fat left over from rendering the salt pork and poured it over his nuggets and both of us were happy.

  But lying in bed that night, I couldn’t hold on to the mood. I hadn’t actually asked Helene what she meant by “very, very careful.” Careful about making assumptions? Careful about missing clues? Or careful about annoying someone who had already killed somebody who had annoyed them?

  I had the awful feeling it was the last one.

  Maybe Krista and Jason were right. Maybe I needed to step down on this. I knew I should just tell Jason what I’d learned and then let him convince Chief McCauley. I had no other leads anyway.

  But wait. I did have another lead. I’d forgotten about the other waitress at the Inn, Suzanne, Suzanne Herrick. It was a long shot, I knew. Mr. Logan had said she had some kind of dementia, but depending on her recall of the past, she might know something about Estelle’s little blackmailing game, about who else might have had it in for her. It was worth a try. It might give me some further leads.

  And it would be an excuse to put off seeing Jason again. The memory of our eyes locking that morning still made my face burn. Yup, definitely I needed some time before facing Jason.

  * * *

  * * *

  I called the nursing home the next morning to check on visiting hours and spoke with the manager, a nice woman who introduced herself as Jillian Munsell, to make sure it was okay to spend some time with Suzanne, maybe talk a bit about old times at the restaurant we’d both worked at.

  “Of course it’s all right,” Ms. Munsell assured me. “Suzanne loves having visitors.”

  “Norman Logan told me she has some kind of dementia?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Logan was just here yesterday. We hadn’t seen him for a while. But, yes, he’s right, it’s the early stages of Lewy body dementia, I’m afraid,” she said. “LBD isn’t the same as Alzheimer’s. People hear ‘dementia’ and they think LBD sufferers can’t remember anything. But for them it’s more short-term than long-term memory loss. The bigger problem is real-time confusion and hallucinations.”

  “That sounds awful,” I said.

  “It can be very difficult,” she conceded, “but in the early stages, like Suzanne’s case, the delusions are fairly benign—often seeing children or small animals, that kind of thing. And if you talk about the past, it would be a real tonic for her.”

  We agreed on early afternoon for my visit, and hanging up the phone, I felt better. By just doing something, taking a step forward, my natural optimism had kicked in. I would see if Suzanne had anything substantive to add. Then I would call Jason—not go in person—and tell him what I’d learned. And then he’ll tell you that he’ll take it from there.

  Fine. I would get on with my life. I had a yummy restaurant to visit as part of my new job. I had another, incredible job offer in the wings. An incredible job offer that is only going to be open for two more days, I reminded myself. But still. I had options. I was young and healthy and I had a really nice dog.

  Whoa. When had Diogi become my dog?

  * * *

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure what the proper attire was for visiting a nursing home these days. When we’d gone to visit my nonna at Shawme Manor, Sunday best was the dress code, partly because we usually visited on a Sunday after church, but also, I thought, as a sign of respect for Nonna herself. When I’d packed my bag for the Cape this time, I’d included a vintage navy shirtwaist dress with white collar and cuffs that I’d always liked for its retro Mad Men sixties vibe and thought might be suitable for meetings with lawyers and real estate agents. That would do for today’s visit.

  Shawme Manor was your typical one-story redbrick oblong that had been the design rule for nursing homes when it was built in the seventies. But it was well-kept, with lovely grounds made wheelchair and walker accessible by concrete pathways and raised garden beds for those who might want to pull a weed or plant a pansy.

  As I turned Grumpy into the closest parking space to the building, a black SUV pulled in behind me and parked at the far end of the lot. One of those people, I thought, who takes every opportunity to add to their ten thousand daily steps. I am never going to be one of those people. I am one of those people who always parks in the closest spot. It is a matter of principle. The person with the closest spot wins. Everybody knows that.

  Inside, it was bright and cheerful, with sunny yellow walls hung with framed botanical prints and fresh flowers gracing the reception desk. Ms. Munsell, a tall, graceful woman with close-cropped hair, deep mahogany skin, and a smile as warm as her voice, greeted me, as
ked me to call her Jillian, and led me to Suzanne’s room.

  “Suzanne,” Jillian said, “you have a visitor, a Samantha Barnes. She says you worked together once at the Logan Inn.”

  I peered into the room. It was hard to believe that the frail creature sitting in the armchair by the window was the same woman who had once balanced heavy trays of restaurant crockery on one hand.

  Suddenly, I was assailed by doubts. Why was I bothering this poor old lady with my problem? Because it’s not your problem, I reminded myself. A woman may have been murdered. To quote Jenny, that made it everybody’s problem.

  Suzanne smiled sweetly. “I remember a Samantha Barnes,” she said brightly. “She worked one summer at the Logan Inn. I felt sorry for her. She was too tall for a girl.”

  “Hello, Suzanne,” I said, stepping forward. “That’s me. Samantha Barnes.”

  “I remember a Samantha Barnes,” Suzanne said again with that same sweet smile. “She worked one summer at the Inn. She was too tall for a girl. What did you say your name was, dear?”

  Jillian gave me a look and said, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

  I started to sit down on the other armchair in the room, but Suzanne stopped me, raising one birdlike hand gently. “Oh, do be careful, dear. You’ll sit on the kitty.”

  Startled, I looked at the empty chair, then remembered what Jillian had told me about hallucinations. Well, a cat curled up on a chair struck me as a fairly benign delusion, so I didn’t argue. I just parked my butt on the end of Suzanne’s neatly made bed.

  “I saw Mr. Logan the other day, Suzanne,” I began. “He mentioned you. . . .”

  “Oh, Norman Logan’s a fine man,” Suzanne said. “I like to talk to him about old times at the Inn. He helps me when I get confused. He was my boss, you know.”

  “He was Estelle’s boss, too,” I prompted her.

  “Oh, Estelle,” Suzanne said, her voice suddenly much stronger. “She was such a nosy parker. Always sniffing around other people’s business.”

  I blinked, but said nothing. If I’d learned anything from my journalist mother it was don’t interrupt the flow.

  “One day she told me that Linette Flugal’s new baby was actually Donny Klimshuk’s, if you can believe that.” Suzanne looked at me expectantly.

  “I can’t,” I said helplessly. “Not Linette.” Whoever Linette was.

  “Exactly,” Suzanne said triumphantly. “Everybody knew it was Guy Murphy’s baby. All Linette Flugal’s babies were Guy Murphy’s. Even Frank Flugal knew that.”

  And there I’d been trying to protect Linette’s reputation.

  “Linette told me that Estelle said if she, Linette, gave Estelle one hundred dollars Estelle wouldn’t tell Guy that the baby was Donny’s. Because Guy is a crazy jealous type. And do you know what Linette did?”

  I didn’t dare speculate. Linette was a mystery to me.

  “She pulled a one dollar bill out of her wallet, gave it to Estelle, and told her to stick it where the sun don’t shine.” Suzanne chortled. “And then she said that if Estelle did that and Linette could watch, Linette would be happy to give her ninety-nine more under the same conditions.”

  “My goodness,” I said, actually quite shocked. “What did Estelle do?”

  “What she always did when somebody stood up to her. She spread the dirt around, true or not. Mean as a snake that woman was.”

  “I guess she made herself a lot of enemies. . . .”

  “Well, nobody liked her, that’s for sure,” Suzanne agreed.

  “Do you think she ever, maybe, got it right?” I suggested. “Got some real proof, maybe enough to get someone to pay up?”

  “Well,” Suzanne said uncertainly, “once she told me that he had been there with her that night, that she had proof, but he says I got that confused.”

  This sounded like an illicit romance, and I wanted to ask who the he and she were in this case, but Suzanne was off and running and I couldn’t get a word in.

  “And she had poor Howard Sykes paying through the nose for years after she caught him red-handed out on the bay pulling lobsters out of traps that weren’t his. That time she showed me the picture she took on the telephone thingy of hers.”

  Pulling someone else’s lobsters was a pretty serious charge, though I couldn’t imagine that a lobsterman had been paying Estelle’s rent the last couple of years. But it was worth checking into.

  “Where’s Howard now?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s gone to his reward,” Suzanne said.

  So not Howard. But at least I had some confirmation that Estelle was, in fact, a blackmailer. Nothing that would hold up in court, of course, but something that indicated I was on the right track.

  Suzanne peered closely at me.

  “What’s your name again, dear?”

  “Samantha,” I said, “Samantha Barnes.”

  “I remember a Samantha Barnes,” Suzanne said. “She worked one summer at the Inn. I remember she had a terrible crush on a boy who worked there, used to follow him around like a lovesick calf. I felt sorry for her. I could have told her it was no use. She was too tall for a girl.”

  Okaaaay. Clearly I hadn’t been as discreet in my attentions to Jason as I’d thought at the time. Maybe that’s why Estelle had followed us down under the deck.

  I made a couple of weak attempts to move the conversation back to Estelle, but I could see that Suzanne was tired and I suddenly felt very guilty for pushing her. As I stood up to leave, I promised her I’d come to visit again. I told myself I would keep that promise.

  “Watch out for the kitty when you leave,” Suzanne warned. “She’ll try to follow you out if you’re not careful.”

  At the door, I made shooing sounds in the general direction of where I thought the kitty might be, and this seemed to satisfy Suzanne, who waved goodbye cheerfully.

  “You come visit anytime, dear,” she said. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Sam,” I said, “Samantha Barnes.”

  “I remember a Samantha Barnes . . .”

  I half closed the door behind me and began to walk down the hall.

  “She was too tall for a girl. . . .”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I pulled out from Shawme Manor, the black SUV behind me. I hoped their visit hadn’t been as confusing as mine. In the ten minutes it took me to drive back to Aunt Ida’s house, I tried to sort out what, if anything, I’d learned from Suzanne.

  One, Estelle did, in fact, have a history of small-time blackmail and, when that didn’t work, of spreading false rumors out of spite. Just as she’d threatened to do to Trey.

  Two, Estelle had taken incriminating photos with her cell phone.

  I wondered what had happened to Estelle’s cell. I knew from Jason that no purse had been found by the police, which presumably meant no cell phone either. If Estelle had been killed for her phone, I could only assume that by now it was lying at the bottom of the bay and her killer knew that he—or she—was safe.

  That was a perfectly reasonable assumption, I thought. But only an assumption. I wasn’t going back to Jason with assumptions. I mean, how much further would it get his inquiries to know about Estelle’s unpleasant penchant for squeezing people she didn’t like?

  Until I had something solid, something really solid, to give Jason, I didn’t have to go back and talk to him. He’d just tell me to leave everything to him anyway.

  As I turned off the blacktop onto Bayberry Point, I noticed that the black SUV—or maybe it was another one, I couldn’t be sure—was still behind me. Okay, Fair Harbor was a small town. It was perfectly reasonable that someone out on the Point also had a family member or friend at Shawme Manor. Nonetheless, I was somehow relieved when, as I slowed to make the turn into Aunt Ida’s driveway, I saw Miles’s truck parked by the house. As I turned in, I did a quick check of
the rearview mirror. The black car slowed, then drove by. I was glad to see it go.

  Miles himself was precariously balanced on a creaky wooden ladder that had been propped against the house since I had moved in and probably for years before that. Diogi, who Miles must have let out with the spare key in the conch shell, was gazing up at my friend’s considerable bulk, perplexed by what could possibly be of interest to the Big Hairy Man peering intently into the copper gutter running along the eave. I was a bit perplexed myself.

  I gathered up my shoulder bag and got out of the truck. Diogi interrupted his supervisory duties to lope across the yard to welcome me, and then led me over to the day’s excitement.

  “Miles! What are you doing up there? You’re going to break your neck or, worse, Aunt Ida’s ladder.”

  Miles turned from his inspection, and the ladder protested loudly.

  “I’m checking out this clogged gutter. I don’t think it needs to be replaced. That’s the good news.”

  “And what’s the bad news?”

  “I’m going to have to snake the drainpipe, and from the smell of it, there’s something dead in there, maybe a squirrel or a bird.”

  “Oh, gag,” I said. “Just what I need. Another corpse.”

  Miles made his way gingerly down the ladder. Once the Big Hairy Man was on solid ground, Diogi relaxed his vigilance and wandered off in search of rabbits.

  “What prompted this visit?” I asked.

  “I finished thinning the lettuces a little early—”

  That reminded me. “Congratulations by the way,” I interrupted. “I hear you have a deal to supply Mr. Logan’s new restaurant.”

  “Well, I’m not counting those chickens ’till he actually shows up with the contract,” Miles said, but I could tell he was pleased that he’d landed the business.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I reassured him. “He told me on Wednesday he was bringing it over. He probably just got sidetracked with contractors and stuff.”