“Mind if I tag along?” Don asked.
“Not at all.” She swept her arms forward. “This way.”
They walked along the boardwalk until it ended on the beach. Don removed his sneakers. Sherry laced hers tighter. Their footsteps were heavy and cumbersome in the dry sand. Sherry stopped once to shake out some pesky granules that had hitched a ride in her sock and scratched her skin. Don dug his feet in deep until they were covered.
“Why don’t you just take those off?” he asked. “The sand feels so good.”
“I’d have to rinse and dry my feet before we get back in the car, and I’m too tired,” she moaned.
“Winter’s coming fast. You may not get another chance.”
“On my next day off, I promise I will.” She reached behind her back and crossed her fingers.
As they approached the group of kite surfers, Sherry scanned each person for any signs of familiarity. With their wetsuit hoods pulled up over necks, ears, and hair, she found making a positive identification of someone close to impossible. The suits offered so much compression she could barely tell a male from a female.
“I’m going to talk to that guy who’s unloading his equipment. I want to pick his brain. I might have to take up this sport.” Don trotted toward a Jeep that had four-wheeled to the top of the beach.
“Have fun.” Sherry neared the group, most with their backs to her. “Excuse me,” she said to the first person she approached.
The body in front of her holding ropes with gloved hands made no move to respond.
“He can’t hear me,” she muttered. “Excuse me,” Sherry shouted. Her words cut through the roaring wind and startled the kite surfer.
A whiskered man jerked his head in Sherry’s direction. “Yup?”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else,” Sherry retreated a step and caught her foot on the edge of a board someone had just set down. Her other leg collapsed under a mistimed step. She tumbled onto her side. The coarse sand broke her fall, but the granules made themselves known in every accessible clothing opening. When she stood up to dust herself off, the sand sprinkled out of her pant cuffs, her waistband, and her sleeves.
“Might as well have taken off my shoes at this point,” she laughed.
The kite surfer wrinkled his nose and refocused on straightening his ropes.
Sherry sidestepped a huge sail canopy as it lay in wait on the sand. “I’m looking for Lyman St. Pierre. Do you know him?” she asked a surfer dragging a board toward the water.
The surfer, who she assumed was a woman after assessing the delicate physique, made a head bob toward the water. Sherry’s gaze followed the direction of the head bob. Bouncing from whitecap wave to whitecap wave was a kite surfer in full flight. The colorful canopy billowed overhead, catching the wind to power him forward. Sherry walked to the edge of the surf. The next thing she remembered was crawling out of knee-high water.
“That’s the worst place you could have chosen to stand. Are you okay?” another neoprene-protected body asked her. “These canopies are hard to control. I’m learning the technique as we speak. This is only my third time out. Lucky you weren’t dragged out any farther.”
Sherry crawled to dry land then chose to sit on the sand where she could safely monitor how see-through her soaked pants had become. “No problem. My fault.”
“Coming in!” shouted a kite surfer as he sped toward shore.
Before Sherry had time to leap to her feet, she was nearly face-to-board with Lyman and his equipment.
“Phew, that was close. Glad you saw me. Quick, grab my kite.”
Sherry swiveled her head in hopes an expert kite grabber was in sight. Seeing no one facing the surfer, it became clear the directive was aimed at her. She beelined for the canopy and held on for dear life. The wind tried its hardest to rip the sail from her grip. Sherry held her breath as she watched lines and harnesses being unhitched. Finally, the edge of the canopy was deflated. It fell to the sand, limp.
Lyman thanked Sherry for her service. He peeled his tight hood down to his neck. “Have we met? I’m sure we’ve met.” He surveyed Sherry’s soaked clothing. “You were dressed a bit differently. It was at the cook-off reception last night. I never forget a face, but I’m not coming up with your name, sorry.”
Sherry wiped her hand on her pants, which only served to sand them up further. “Sherry Oliveri. I was one of the cook-off contestants.”
“What a coincidence running, or should I say, sailing into you down here. I hope you’ll enjoy the spice samples included in your goodie bag. Spice Attitude only imports the finest.”
“Actually, I live in Augustin, so it’s not that much of a coincidence. I don’t get to the beach as often as I’d like, but today was so lovely, I couldn’t resist playing a bit of hooky from my work. Needed to relax after the cook-off.”
“Ha,” he chuckled. He studied Sherry from head to toe. “You might want to consider the other side of the beach where the action’s a bit slower.”
“I learned that lesson the hard way. Are you staying in Augustin long?” She handed Lyman a stray cable. “Where are you from?”
“I’m staying at the Augustin Motor Lodge for a few days. A few more business appointments to attend to. I’m from the northern hill country of Connecticut. Close enough I had to bring my kite board, which I don’t get to use as much as I’d like, due to travel obligations. I spend a fair bit of time in Maine, where our distribution plant is located.”
“Maine is such a foodie paradise. Seafood, produce, craft beers. Everyone is about organic and sustainable up there. I’m jealous.” Sherry waited until Lyman’s full attention was on her and off his equipment. “Wasn’t that awful about the contestant, Fitz Frye? I was looking forward to cooking alongside him.”
Lyman squinted and gazed past Sherry’s head. The wind caught his hood and pushed it halfway up the back of his head. “Poor guy.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Nope. The few minutes I spent with him I got the impression he was kind of feisty. Maybe that’s a characteristic of the creative.”
“Honestly, I heard he had angry words with some at the party.” Sherry took some time to scan her surroundings. Twenty people, at least, were milling about the beach. The closest person to her looked as if he or she could subdue Lyman if need be. She could see Don making his way down the beach toward her, as well. Sherry decided to go for it. “As a matter of fact, I specifically remember you and him arguing over something.”
Chapter 10
Lyman resumed packing up his equipment. “Unfortunately, that’s true. Goes to show, pick your battles. It was a silly argument over dried herbs versus fresh herbs. As an importer, I choose dried spices and herbs because that’s what I represent, so that’s the side I’m on. Fitz was Team Fresh Herbs all the way. So silly, right? Never know what will set someone off. I’m guessing he’s got a few skeletons in his closet if he angers that easily.”
“Someone was angry enough with him to kill him.” Sherry sucked in her breath, bent down, and collected the rope Lyman let fall from his grip.
“Kill?” Lyman spat out the word. “He was murdered? Makes sense why all the questions. Some lady came looking for me just before I set sail. Never seen anyone wear so much makeup to the beach in my life. She had a lot of questions. I admit I ran out of patience with her prying. When did his death happen, exactly?”
“After the party. Sometime around midnight last night.” Sherry handed Lyman the rope.
“Hey, you’re the spice guy from the cook-off,” Don said as he trotted up to Sherry. “I watched you come in. You’re amazing. I need to take up this sport.” Don’s hand jutted out and shook Lyman’s, ropes and all.
“Thanks. You should. It’s a blast. Gotta get going. Nice to see you both. Write a review of the spices on our website, if you enjoy them.” Lyman turned and hauled his board and harness up the beach.
Don transferred his attention to Sherry. “I wasn’t aware ki
tesurfing was an audience participation sport.”
Sherry inspected her pants again. “I wasn’t either. I hope Amber has a change of clothes I can borrow back at the store.”
“Probably should have taken your shoes off.”
“Definitely will next time,” Sherry agreed. “Would you like a ride back to the store?”
“I think I might go for a walk. Maybe someone can text me if we’re getting together for a drink.” Don glanced up the beach in the direction Lyman was headed. “Was seeing Lyman St. Pierre the errand you needed to run?”
Sherry sighed. “It was, and I didn’t even get any spices out of it.”
“I’m going to go watch that guy sail. I can’t get enough of this sport.” Don headed down the beach. “I’ll catch up to you later.”
Sherry attempted to dislodge more sand from her pant cuffs, but the wetness of the fabric held the sand tight. She gave up the task, sighed, and made her way back to her car. As soon as Sherry put the vehicle in reverse, her phone rang. The backup camera on the center console overrode the incoming call information. “Hello?”
“Sherry?”
“Yes?”
“I got your number from a very nice woman named Amber when I called The Ruggery. This is Vilma Pitney.” The caller paused.
Sherry stepped on the brake pedal. “I need to have a word with Amber about handing out my phone number.”
“Speak up, dear, I can’t hear you.”
Sherry raised her voice. “Hi, Vilma. What can I do for you?”
“When I called the store in hopes of finding you there, she mentioned you were out on an errand. I called to tell you to run, don’t walk, to catch up to Lyman St. Pierre. He’s down at Town Beach surfing across the ocean while being dragged like a puppet by a flimsy kite sail thingy. He’s the one who can get the suspicion off your brother.”
“By any chance, did you have a conversation with Lyman within the last hour or two? I found him, and he mentioned someone had asked him questions. Presumably about Fitz.”
The phone crackled. Sherry pictured Vilma repositioning it.
“Yes, I did. I went right after I visited your lovely store. I felt like you might not have taken my suggestion to seek him out seriously, so I found him myself.” Vilma’s tone was a blend of apologetic and annoyed.
“I appreciate your suggestion.”
“If you have any information to share, please let me know. He didn’t have any time to speak to me. In midsentence, his sail caught wind, and he took off.”
“Why are you even interested? I thought your article was about the cook-off.” Sherry put her car in gear and drove out of the beach parking lot. She caught a last-minute sighting of Don waving to her.
“You, of all people, should realize a murder connected to a cook-off makes for great reading. I want to be current with my information in case the story explodes. I want a leg up on that Mellitt woman.” Vilma’s w’s began to sound more like v’s as her accent crept in.
“I’ve arrived back at the store,” Sherry fibbed. “Yes, I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”
“And I, you.”
The remainder of the drive back to The Ruggery wasn’t phone-free for long.
“Call Ray Bease,” Sherry ordered.
The voice-commanded dialer connected.
“Sherry, is there a problem?” Ray asked.
Sherry was caught off guard by the urgency in his voice. “No, no. I wanted to run something by you. Hold on for one second.” Sherry heard a groan on the other end of the phone. She wedged her car into the narrow parking spot beside Amber’s car in the back alley of The Ruggery. “Are you still there?”
“No rush. I’ve got all day.” Ray’s sarcasm made Sherry cringe. “You could have called when you had your ducks in a row.”
“Don’t get ornery, Ray. I’ve done some legwork on Lyman St. Pierre. While he appears a happy-go-lucky spice rep, the brief conversation I had with him revealed a different side to his personality. He didn’t mind sharing that he and Fitz had had an argument about dried versus fresh herbs.” Sherry stared at the phone display on her dashboard and watched the timer tick off seconds of dead air. “Ray?”
“You’ll have to do better than that. Witnesses say it was a full-blown altercation between the victim and Mr. St. Pierre. I highly doubt a spice controversy initiated much more than a debate.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be happy with me doing some investigating,” Sherry admitted. “I’m bracing for your lecture to stay in my lane and let the long arm of the law clear my brother. And a bunch of euphemisms from past decades blended in for good measure, Detective Bease style.”
“On the contrary. Don’t get me wrong. If you want to search for the murderer in order to clear your brother, feel free.”
“Is this Detective Ray Bease I’m talking to? The man who, on three separate occasions, went above and beyond to try to keep me from any involvement in a murder investigation, even when I, and then my father, were the prime suspects? What’s gotten into you?” Sherry watched a blue jay land in a bush outside her open car window, only to be spooked by her voice.
“Frankly, I don’t mind the assistance right now.” Ray’s voice dropped to an almost inaudible level.
“Is everything okay?” Sherry matched his tone.
“It’s been a tough few months for me. My mother is on her last legs. I’m the caregiver. The situation has taken a toll on my work schedule, and, as much as the department tries to support me, I know I’m on thin ice if I don’t wrap up this murder investigation in a timely and successful manner. I feel like the young detective vultures are circling my decaying carcass in hopes of picking my bones clean and claiming my job.”
“I’m so sorry about your mother. Maybe you’re being a bit dramatic about the status of your job being in jeopardy?”
“My job is most certainly on the line, to some degree. If I’m demoted, well . . .” Ray sounded winded, as if he were fighting surfacing emotions and losing the battle.
“That’s not going to happen. As annoying and prickly as you are sometimes, you’re the best at what you do. You’ve always said your street smarts can beat out the new crop of detectives’ book smarts any day.”
“Huh.” Ray’s tone picked up energy. “I do want to tell you I’m getting pressure to formally question Pep. Time’s ticking. You didn’t hear it from me. Anything else?”
“I wish I had more, but I don’t. Chin up, old friend.” Sherry ended the call. “I’m starving,” she muttered to herself. She reached into the crevices of the car’s center console and pulled out a stick of gum. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” She crumbled up the foil wrapper and set it in one of the cup holders. “What’s this?” She lifted two business cards wedged in the adjacent cup holder. “Well, what do you know? Now I remember putting these here after the contestant party.”
One card read: SPICE ATTITUDE, FINEST IMPORTED DRIED SPICES AND SPICE BLENDS, LYMAN ST. PIERRE, SALES REPRESENTATIVE.
The other read: FITZ FRYE, PERFECT LOCATION INC. PROPERTY MANAGEMENT.
Sherry tucked both cards in her purse and exited the car.
“I’m back,” Sherry called out as she entered the store.
Erno was with a young couple at the rug hooking demonstration table. He was punching the sharp metal hook threaded with luxurious yarn through a hand-drawn canvas tacked to a wooden frame. The couple watched in amazement, as most did, while her father crafted his artistic magic. He tossed a hand in the air as a greeting. Bean scampered across the store with a more ebullient welcome.
Amber trailed behind her four-legged companion. “Erno made it back right after you left. He said Ruth and Beverly snubbed him in favor of a spontaneous bridge game. No men allowed. Was your errand successful?” Amber pinched her eyes nearly closed.
“What’s that look you’re giving me?” Sherry asked.
“You went in search of that Lyman fellow, admit it.”
“How did you know that?”
�
��A woman called here looking for your cell. She told me to urge you to find the killer. She was pretty assertive. Judging by the soaked outfit, ocean water smell, and dots of seaweed on your pants, you found him in the Long Island Sound.” Amber laughed. “I’m not a bad little detective, am I?”
“Bingo.” Sherry pried off her wet shoes behind the sales counter.
“It helped that the lady looking for your number mentioned the importance of finding a certain Lyman St. Pierre who was kite surfing. You’re being extra careful, I hope.”
Sherry swept her open arms across her body. “Extra, extra careful. Any chance you have a change of clothes here or in your car?”
“Yep. I’ll go get them and meet you in the restroom. Oh, and Day said she and Don would be at the Lobsta’ Taproom at five-thirty, and we should please come.” Amber nodded her head and flashed a broad smile.
“Perfect. This stick of gum is all I’ve had to eat since the cook-off. I might splurge for a celebratory lobster roll in honor of my cook-off win. We’ll close up promptly at five and hustle over there.” Sherry raised her sleeve to her nose and sniffed. “No time for a shower. I should be plenty ripe by then. Is Pep interested in joining us?”
Sherry glanced at Erno. He was plunging a hook threaded with a long strand of lavender yarn through the framed canvas.
“Pep told Erno a few minutes ago that he had somewhere to go. I didn’t hear where, and I didn’t hear how long he’d be gone. He was checking his phone every few minutes like an anxious parent while you were gone. As much as I enjoy his company, it was kind of a relief he took off.”
“He gets in his own world sometimes and won’t tell me where that world is.” Sherry shrugged. “I can only pry so much before his shell snaps shut and he retreats. I’ll text him the plans and hope for the best.”
Only one task remained before closing time. Sherry collected the last bits of yarn from the floor and marveled at the array of colors in her hand. She packed them neatly in the half-full canister under the demonstration table.
Eat, Drink and Be Wary Page 8