Murder Drama With Your Llama (Friendship Harbor Mysteries Book 1)

by Erin McCarthy

  “I guess it’s possible. But he looks like a man who knows his way around animals. That seems careless.”

  “Well, Jack didn’t open the gate himself with his hooves, so who did? I can’t stand the idea that people think it was me. I want to start a life here, not be the town murderess.”

  “Is it really murder if you didn’t mean to do it? And it was a llama?”

  I eyed my friend. “Okay, fine, that’s probably manslaughter, but I still don’t want anyone thinking it was my fault.” I have this problem where I wanted people to like me. My mother wasn’t like that at all. She did what she wanted and couldn’t care less what people thought of her. Frankly, she assumed everyone liked her, because why wouldn’t they? I had gotten none of that. I still wondered why Nicole Snowden hadn’t liked me in the seventh grade. I’d been really nice to her.

  “So ask the pub guy if he went in to see Jack. You’re supposed to be meeting him after six, remember?”

  I hadn’t remembered. It had completely fled my mind when my afternoon had been interrupted by Death by Llama. “He does not seem like a guy who would take a stranger from California accusing him of being careless very well.”

  Oliver waved his hand. “Who cares? It’s your property and he lives on it. It’s a completely reasonable conclusion that he might have been the one who left the gate open.”

  I took one last sip of whisky. “Then let’s go downstairs and talk to Dean.”

  “Let’s do it. Show him who’s boss.”

  When we entered the pub, it was hushed and dark. The deep stained wood gave it a traditional pub feeling but it also contributed to the somber mood. A woman was behind the bar, softly weeping in Dean’s arms.

  Yikes. Grateful I was wearing sandals that were quiet on the wood floor, I made my way to the bar and sat down, clearing my throat so they would notice me. There was only one table with customers, a family of four, and one older gentleman down at the end of the bar.

  The woman pulled back from Dean. She was an attractive blonde with an hourglass figure I kind of envied. I was shaped like a teen boy, long and lanky. She hastily wiped at her tear-stained cheeks and sniffled. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’m Sophie LaFleur,” I said. “I inherited the pub from Sunny, my grandmother.” Which sort of made me her boss. “This is my friend Oliver, who’s staying with me this week before heading back to California.”

  “Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry,” she said, swiping away her tears. “It’s just that I just heard the news about Cliff. I can’t believe it. What a horrible way to go. But it’s nice to meet you. I’m Brandy Hardeson. I’m a waitress and bartender here at Steamy’s.”

  “I totally understand,” I said. “I’m shocked about Cliff’s passing and I just met the poor man today.”

  Brandy nodded. “I’m going to go check on my table. But let me know if I can get either of you anything.”

  “I’ll take a menu,” Oliver said.

  I eyed him and he gave me a “What?” look in return.

  “All we’ve eaten today is ice cream and whisky,” he pointed out. “I can’t function on nothing but sugar and booze.”

  He did have a point.

  Dean hadn’t said a word through our exchange. He just leaned on the back of the bar and brooded. He seemed to be really talented at that.

  “I know the circumstances aren’t ideal,” I said to him. “But we do need to talk about how the pub is running. I don’t want to interfere but I feel I should be informed.”

  I was trying to strike the right tone of firm but friendly. I was probably failing miserably but I needed to start somewhere.

  “What would you like to know?” Dean asked. He shifted off the bar and pulled two glasses out from under the bar. He filled them with ice and used the tap to squirt water onto the ice.

  “I’d like to know who is on staff, hours of operation, the menu, and the financials. I tried to do a little research before I left California but you don’t seem to have a website.”

  Dean plunked a napkin down in front of me and Oliver and shifted the water glasses onto them. “We don’t need a website. Everyone in town knows about the pub.”

  I was starting to feel like he was being deliberately obtuse. “Hey, after you saw Cliff this afternoon, did you see Jack? Was he out of his pen?”

  Dean raised his eyebrows. “No. I went straight into the house though. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out how he could have gotten out,” I said. “The gate was closed when Oliver and I left.”

  I wasn’t sure I had any reason to believe Dean. For all I knew, he’d let Jack out just to mess with the new owner, not thinking Cliff would end up dead.

  “We have a pic,” Oliver said, pulling out his phone. He found the image and turned his phone so Dean could see. “Definitely closed.” Brandy put a menu down in front of him. “Oh, thanks, gorgeous, you’re the best.”

  Brandy smiled at Oliver, looking flattered.

  Dean studied the photo. I wondered what he was thinking about our selfie. I really did have a terrible habit of making the weirdest faces in those things. In this one, I looked a little bit like I’d been hitting Grammy’s edibles. I felt mildly embarrassed. Brooding or not, he was still hot.

  “Maybe the wind blew the gate open.”

  I didn’t think a latch like that could blow open but I just sipped my water while Oliver perused the menu. “What time did you leave your place?” I asked, trying to figure out the timeframe. If someone had wandered onto the property, would I have seen them? Doubtful. Oliver and I had been mostly in the kitchen.

  “Twenty minutes after I saw you. I just showered and then headed out. I went to Brandy’s since she needed a ride to work. I was at her place for about an hour, then we’ve been here since.”

  I had a feeling that he and Brandy hadn’t been discussing ways to improve the pub’s profits. Even though his expression was neutral, the comforting hug and “hanging out for an hour” pointed in the direction of them dating and a little pre-work afternoon delight. And I didn’t mean going for ice cream.

  So if he was busy hooking up with Brandy, did that mean I could believe him? It did seem unlikely that he would have had time to go hang out with Jack before his meetup with the waitress. I made a mental note to find out where Brandy lived and how far of a drive it would be to the pub. Then I did a mental facepalm. What was I trying to prove? Was it just that I wasn’t responsible for Cliff’s death?

  Or holy moly, was it possible someone had murdered sweet old Cliff?

  I took a huge gulp of my water.

  “Can I get some fried clams?” Oliver asked.

  Dean nodded.

  “I just feel so bad about Cliff,” I said, trying to ferret out any information about him that I could. Was he someone another person would want to murder? “Was he well liked? He seemed like a charming guy.”

  “Men liked Cliff. He was easy to get along with and a hard worker. Women liked Cliff until they didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He ran through women like toilet paper. They would fall hard for him, then he’d eventually move on, and then they hated him.”

  Interesting. Goes to show there was no age limit on players. But before I could move on to someone else being involved, I had to be sure Dean’s alibi held up.

  “So I don’t want to be nosy, but are you and Brandy dating?”

  Dean paused, wiping down the bartop. “That seems pretty nosy for someone who doesn’t want to be nosy.”

  He’d called me out, but I pressed on.

  “Well, I’m just curious. I mean hanging out at her house for an hour? That seems like a long time to be there. You know, if you were just picking her up for work.”

  Dean stared at me for a moment longer, then tossed the damp rag he still held in the sink. “I should let the cook know about that order of clams.”

  As soon as he disappeared through a swinging door into the kitchen, Olive
r turned to me and hissed, “What are you doing?”

  “I need to be sure Dean’s alibi is solid. We can’t look into other suspects until we rule him out.”

  “Other suspects? What other suspects? The police suspect your llama. All solved.”

  “But someone let Jack out. We know that.” I gestured to his phone.

  “Okay, so Dean says he wasn’t even around at the time. That doesn’t mean someone else didn’t wander up and let out Jack.”

  “But why?”

  Oliver frowned at me like I was crazy. “You can’t think someone let out your llama to use him as a lethal weapon?”

  “Maybe not as a weapon. Maybe as a decoy from what really happened. Remember on the fourth episode of season two of Murder, She Texted, the killer used the victim’s extreme allergy to cats to disguise the reaction of the poison he used to murder her?”

  Oliver gaped at me for a minute, then said calmly, “No. No, I don’t remember that. You do know I only encouraged you to come down here to confront Surly McSteamy just to absolve you of any involvement when it came to the locals. I didn’t expect you to decide there was somehow foul play.” He made air quotes.

  “Surly McSteamy.” I nodded approvingly, undetermined by his tone. “That’s a really good one. Nice play on the name of the pub too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I just think there is something off about all this,” I said. “And he did say that Cliff had a lot of women who hate him.”

  “Soph—”

  “Did you decide on something to eat?” Brandy said from behind us, causing us both to jump.

  “Oh, um, Dean took my order,” Oliver said.

  “So, how long have you and Dean been dating?” I asked as soon as Brandy came around the bar.

  Brandy gave me a puzzled look. “We aren’t dating.”

  I glanced at Oliver pointedly as if to say, “see, Dean’s timeline doesn’t make sense.” Oliver rolled his eyes.

  “We’ve been friends for years. He’s a huge help with my son. Like today, he watched Ethan while I ran some errands before work. Ethan’s dad is a total deadbeat, and Dean has always been there to help me out. But we’ve never dated.”

  A strange rush of relief coursed through me, which was, of course, solely because I could trust Dean’s story. It certainly had nothing to do with him still being potentially single.

  “Wait,” Brandy said, her brown eyes wide with concern. “You aren’t going to prohibit coworkers dating, are you?”

  “No,” I said and she immediately looked relieved.

  “Oh good, because I’m supposed to be going to a concert with Chad.”

  I nodded, happy for her, although I had no idea who Chad was.

  “He’s the new dishwasher,” she added, probably seeing my confusion. “I have terrible taste in men, so who knows where it will go anyway.” She shrugged and moved to fill a pint glass with beer, then headed down to the old guy at the end of the bar.

  “Well, I doubt she’s a suspect,” Oliver said wryly. “She clearly isn’t the tight-lipped type.”

  I nodded. It was good to know I could check one person off the list of suspects. Not that I exactly had a list. Yet.

  Dean reappeared with a plate of clams in hand. He set them down in front of Oliver. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No,” my friend said quickly, obviously trying to stop me from further questions.

  Dean reached under the counter and set out two sets of utensils wrapped in paper napkins for us, then turned to leave, but he only took a couple steps before returning to us.

  “Listen,” he said, his expression still unreadable, “I get the feeling you think I messed around with the gate. But I’m telling you straight up I didn’t. And I’m also telling you I’d be man enough to cop to it if I did. For the record, Sunny loved that llama and I’d never let him roam around town just to play some stupid game with you.”

  I met his gaze, and though his eyes were still cool, I could see truth in them. I could also see they weren’t just a golden amber color. They were flecked with green. Like seriously gorgeous green. I nodded.

  He nodded too, then left to go back into the kitchen. Behind me, I heard more people enter the bar.

  Oliver let out a low whistle. “He’s enough man alright.”

  I elbowed him, but smiled. “Okay, so I believe Dean didn’t let the llama out. But someone did. And I’m going to find out who and why.”

  “Good luck with that,” Oliver said, then popped a fried clam in his mouth. He made a face of approval, then nudged the plate toward me. I tried one, and moaned with appreciation.

  “Wow, those are amazing,” I said.

  Oliver responded by pulling the plate back in front of himself and eating another one.

  “Just so you know, I’m not going to need luck,” I told him. “I’m going to figure this out with some good, logical detective work.”

  Oliver frowned and chewed.

  “But not until I get some of those clams too.” I waved to Brandy to place an order.

  Four

  “I really don’t see what we’re doing back here,” Oliver said, trailing reluctantly after me.

  I strode down the dirt path through the canopy of trees. “I think we should take another look.”

  “A look at what?”

  “The crime scene.”

  “Doesn’t there have to be a crime for it to be called that?” he pointed out.

  “I just think we should be sure. If Cliff’s death was a crime, there are bound to be clues.”

  “If Cliff’s death was a crime, the police would have had the scene roped off and they would be the ones looking for evidence.”

  Oliver did have a point, but something told me I need to be certain. What if something was missed?

  As we reached the place where Cliff had died, the wind started to gust in from the ocean, the air chilly and damp. Clouds rolled over the gray, rough water.

  “I feel like a heroine in a gothic novel,” I said, pushing my windblown hair out of my eyes. “A stranger in the wilds of Maine with no one to trust. Well, you know, aside from you.”

  Oliver shot me an exasperated grimace. “I feel like this is creepy. A man died here today. And it looks like it’s going to storm.”

  “All the more reason to look for any evidence now.” I started inspecting the dirt path.

  “What evidence?” Oliver wasn’t hiding his annoyance. But to my surprise, he started scanning the ground. He knew I wouldn’t stop until I fully investigated the area. Silently, we searched the area around the now faded splotch of blood.

  After a few moments, Oliver bent down and started to reach for something along the edge of the path, where it turned to grass.

  “Wait!” I cried and he jumped. “Don’t touch anything.”

  I pulled a set of plastic gloves and a Ziploc bag out of my back pocket. I held the items out to him.

  Oliver stared at them, then gave me a puzzled, and slightly concerned, look. “Where did you get those?”

  “I snagged them from the kitchen in the pub when Brandy brought me back to meet Jimmy the cook and Chad. You know the new dishwasher. Which by the way, Brandy wasn’t lying, she clearly doesn’t have the best taste in men. I mean he seemed nice enough, but she could definitely do better.” I sighed, immediately feeling guilty. “I really shouldn’t make such a snap judgment though, should I?”

  Oliver continued to look at the gloves and baggie as if I was offering him a big, hairy spider. “You stole them from the kitchen.”

  I made a face as if he were crazy. “Of course, I didn’t. I asked the cook if I could take them.”

  He still looked somewhat appalled. “I’m sure he didn’t find that random. Soph, you are taking this all way too seriously.”

  “Of course I am. It is serious, and if we find something important, we can’t risk contaminating it.”

  Oliver shook his head, but took the items. He tugged on the gloves, then picked up the object he�
��d discovered. He looked at it for a second, then held it up for me to see. “Thank God I didn’t contaminate this old bottle cap.”

  “You know, sarcasm isn’t always a good look on you. Put it in the bag. You never know, it might be something. What if the killer always drinks...” I read the top of the cap through the wrinkled plastic as he dropped it in the baggie. “Moxie. What the heck is that? See, that has to be unusual.”

  “I’m sure Moxie will be the smoking gun.”

  “Sarcasm,” I pointed out as I moved off the path. The tall grass swayed and bent in the breeze, so I moved slowly, brushing aside the blades and weeds with my feet.

  “Does a candy bar wrapper count as evidence?” Oliver asked, holding up the crumpled plastic foil between his fingers.

  “Yes, bag it. It might have traces of saliva.” I slipped back into my role as Jennifer Flescher easily.

  He grimaced and shoved it into the bag.

  I returned to toeing at the grass, but after several minutes of searching, I hadn’t found so much as a wrapper. I couldn’t get discouraged. This was a slow, systematic process, not a mystery designed to be wrapped up in a sixty-minute time slot. With renewed determination, I continued for several minutes, when Oliver made a gagging noise from behind me. I stopped and dashed to see what he’d found.

  “I think it’s a fingernail.” He cringed and pointed to a spot in front of him.

  I peered down at the small, oval thing in the gravel. “It does look like it. Pick it up.”

  He pursed his lips and rapidly shook his head. “Mmm-mm, I’m not touching that. There are limits to friendship and this is it.”

  I sighed and leaned down to snag the small object, not an easy task since my gloves were far too big for me and a good length of plastic flopped past my fingertips.

  “Got it,” I said after several attempts. I dropped it into the palm of my other hand and we both stared at it. It was definitely a nail. A press-on type colored a creamy pale pink. Bits of dirt stuck to the adhesive on the other side.

  “Thank God it’s fake. I could not handle a real nail.” He shuddered dramatically.