Sweet Tea and Secrets

by Joy Avon

  “I don’t know. I’m just trying to explain the discovery of Quinn’s tape measure beside the body. It does incriminate him. If you also have prints on the murder weapon …”

  “We don’t know what the murder weapon was. Judging by Jamison’s head wound, the weapon must have been blunt and heavy. The killer might have brought it along and taken it with him.”

  “Or her.” Callie looked at his profile. “Or do you think the murderer was so strong that it couldn’t have been a woman?”

  “It might certainly have been a woman.” Falk glanced at her. “Jamison was struck down while his head was in a low position. Probably when he was going through the file cabinet to find something. When you strike a blow that way, it takes less force than when you have to reach up.”

  “I see.” Callie tapped her coffee cup. “Could the killer have picked up the weapon in the office? Someone who had been there before could have noticed the presence of a convenient weapon at that time. Something heavy to strike with and maybe even make it look impromptu? If the killer wanted to incriminate Quinn, the scene could have been set up for you to conclude it happened like this: Quinn comes in, argues with Jamison, grabs a weapon at hand, bashes him on the head and runs off with the weapon but loses his tape measure.”

  “I’m not excluding any possibilities yet, so I certainly considered whether the weapon came from the office. But Jamison’s secretary was in shock after finding the body, so I didn’t want to take her into the office to have her check if anything was missing. But as soon as she’s up to it, I’ll do that. If we know what we’re looking for, it will be easier to find it.”

  “There’s a lot of water around town. If the killer removed the weapon because fingerprints were on it, it might have been thrown into the ocean. It has to be heavy, you just said, so it would sink right away.”

  She eyed Falk with a frown. “It did strike me when I was in Jamison’s office that there was a combination lock on that file cabinet. Like he didn’t want anybody getting in there. But can we seriously believe he was hiding something in there relevant to the Monica Walker disappearance? That he had it in there since 1989 and never did anything with it? It seems like such a long time.”

  “I agree. My colleagues are checking everything in the cabinet and making a list for me.”

  Falk pushed himself up on the balls of his feet. “Isn’t the quiet here the best? I can always think better when I’m here.”

  “It’s beautiful. Thanks for showing this to me.” After a pause she added, “And that map on the desk? Did it come from the file cabinet?”

  “It might have.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Monica Walker?”

  “Could be.” Falk glanced at her. “I don’t know yet, and once I do know, I will share it with people who need to know.”

  “I’m not trying to interfere. I’m just thinking … Monica vanished and so did a boat, right? A boat that a fisherman claimed was stolen? Did Monica sail away to wedded bliss, as Iphy puts it, on that boat? Or did the boat vanish to suggest that she left? Maybe she never left. Maybe—”

  “She died here around town? Maybe, but I can’t start digging at random. Besides, there have been a bunch of building projects in the last few decades. The site where she was buried might now be the new mall.”

  “I see.” Callie finished her coffee. “That was delicious. Thanks.” She handed him the cup. Their fingers touched as he accepted it. She wanted to ask him why he hadn’t answered her emails and why he had been acting so different since she had moved back, but it seemed odd to ask. What if he said he didn’t understand what she was talking about? It would be so awkward. Falk said, cutting through her thoughts, “What do you have?” He held her gaze. “Remember, I told you that Quinn is no journalist and how Jamison was killed. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I know, and I have something for you.” Callie reached into the bag she had slung over her shoulder when leaving Book Tea. “I received a lot of calls the other day. Some information was so vague and pointless I just couldn’t do anything with it.”

  “Now you can experience firsthand how we have to work in an investigation when we ask the public for tips. There’s just so much fluff going around, of course from well-meaning people who sincerely believe that they’re helping the case, but it can be hard to dig out what’s real.”

  “Yes, I do see that now. However, I did manage to put together a time line of Monica’s actions during the last hours she was still seen around town. I have it here.” She handed him the cardboard.

  Falk studied it. “Aha. Her outfit could be important if we do at some point come across … you know.”

  “Clothes decompose, right?” Callie asked with an unconscious shiver.

  “Yes, but sequins don’t. Neither do high heels.” Falk studied the time line more closely. “I see she was in public places. She could have been seen there by some disturbed fan or admirer.”

  “Who then came after her and killed her?”

  “Well, imagine the fan asks for an autograph, and Monica doesn’t feel like it. There’s an argument, a struggle. She could have taken a tumble, hit her head. The fan was shocked and, to conceal what he did, hid the body.”

  “And stole a boat to make it look like she left? It sounds too well planned for someone who killed on impulse, almost by accident. If the stolen boat was part of the plan, it must have been better prepared than that.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. That doesn’t quite fit. Yet.” Falk held up the time line. “Is it okay if I keep this?”

  “Of course.” Callie didn’t tell him that she had an identical one back at Book Tea. “If you think it might help.”

  Falk lowered it with a sigh. “I hope it can. Look, despite what I think of Quinn, I realize that I might be focused on an innocent man right now. That, whatever he wants with the Monica Walker story, he did not kill Jamison. I owe it to him, and to justice in general, to do the best I can. But it’s not going to be easy. There are too many unconnected dots.”

  Callie took a deep breath. She wondered if she should share with Falk that Dave Riggs had turned up at Book Tea the other night and had acted kind of weird, claiming Elvira couldn’t know anything about him meeting Monica Walker the day before she had vanished. Could it be that Dave had been smitten with Monica? Could he be a killer? Of both Monica Walker and Jamison?

  Jamison, who might have known or suspected that Dave had been involved back then?

  Callie shivered as she considered that her next-door neighbor might be a murderer. Had been for three decades, while peacefully living with his wife and tending to the lighthouse.

  Falk said, “Well, thanks for this, but I have to get back to the station. I want to have another talk with Quinn now that I know he lied to me about being a journalist.”

  “Are you going to keep him locked up?”

  “I don’t know yet. That probably depends on what forensics can come up with on short notice. And how he reacts to new questions. If he keeps working against me, I could hold him just for obstructing the case.”

  “Don’t hold him just for the sake of holding him.”

  Falk slapped the cardboard against his thigh. “I’m not sure he’s guilty of anything, but I’m not certain he’s innocent either. You keep that in mind when he gets out again. We have no idea what he actually wants.”

  Chapter Eight

  At Book Tea, all the outside tables were taken. The neat red-and-white-checkered clothes on them moved in the mild breeze that tempered the sun’s warmth. People sat talking over maps to plan a bicycle tour or a boating trip, while enjoying their teas with bookish treats. In passing, Callie saw that the Hound of the Brownievilles was quite popular: brownie bites shaped to form a dog figure running across grass made from marzipan.

  Some kids were sampling Grimm Tales, a plate with several cookies in fairy tale shapes and with colorful frosting forming cute details.

  Peggy stepped out the door just then, carrying a tray with
lattes and cappuccinos, while in the kitchen Iphy put the final touches on a large cake. With her tongue between her lips, she attached tiny marzipan roses to the trellis on a miniature cottage. “Where Darcy asked Elizabeth Bennet to marry him. For a birthday party of Austen-mad friends who will arrive in, say”—she checked the silver watch on her slender wrist—“twenty minutes. How did it go with Falk?”

  Callie made a so-so gesture. “It seems Quinn lied about a lot of stuff. Like an elaborate smokescreen almost. Falk is not amused and is looking for a way to keep Quinn locked up. He thinks he could be dangerous.”

  “He wants to keep him away from Peggy,” Iphy concluded.

  Callie nodded. “That too. I must admit it’s off-putting that Quinn lied. I mean, why would he do that?”

  “We’ll have to ask him as soon as he’s out again.” Iphy put the cake in the fridge. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks, Falk gave me some.” Callie didn’t tell her great-aunt it hadn’t been at the station. The amazing beauty of his private hideout still struck awe in her: the sea; the horizon with the thin clouds, like a panoramic oil painting; the red kite from some local kids, a lone dot against the azure skies; the boys’ excited cries carrying far on the clear air.

  She could understand so well that Falk needed that place to create clarity in the muddle in his mind whenever a case was developing in three different directions at the same time and he wasn’t sure what leads to follow and what to dismiss. He didn’t have time to go after everything, especially not with the sheriff out of town.

  Iphy said, “I’m so sorry for Jamison’s wife. I gave her a call to express my condolences.”

  “And?” Callie studied her great-aunt. She knew her well enough to be certain that while Iphy meant it when she said she was sorry for the new widow, she had also been eager to learn something—anything—that might help the case. After all, it was also in Mrs. Jamison’s interest to find out who had hurt and killed her husband.

  Iphy stared at the floorboards in deep thought. “She was very upset about Quinn’s arrest, blaming herself for having told him things about her husband’s involvement in the Walker case. She seems to think it’s directly related to his death. She told me, in tears, that ever since it came up again, her husband hadn’t been himself. That he had slept badly and had stayed away from home late at night.”

  “Like last night?”

  “Yes. She went to bed around eleven thirty, and he wasn’t there yet. This morning, when she woke up, she thought he had already left for the office again. He often left while she was still in bed. He usually made her coffee and brought in the newspaper, laid it out, ready for her on the counter. This morning there was no coffee and no newspaper.”

  Iphy looked up with sadness in her eyes. “Strange how little things can tell us something is wrong even if we can’t put our finger on it just yet.”

  “Does she believe Quinn killed her husband?”

  “I’m not sure. She seemed to like him. I asked her outright if she knew of anybody here in the town who might have been involved in the case at the time and who might be able to help out now. She said that the former owner of the Cliff Hotel might be able to tell us something. He sold the hotel years ago, but he still lives around these parts. We might go and see him.”

  “That’s a good idea. But can you leave? The birthday party is about to arrive.”

  “I know. I thought you might go alone. Take Daisy and Biscuit for cover.”

  “Cover?” Callie asked, surprised.

  “Yes, I heard from Mrs. Jamison that the former owner of the Cliff Hotel—Mr. Bates his name is—is a keen artist, and he likes nothing better than doing pet portraits. I thought you could ask him if he could do a portrait of these two. He’ll need to take a picture of them to work from. You can have a look around his studio and maybe turn the conversation to the murder.”

  Callie grinned. “That sounds pretty devious, but doable. I’ll go right away. Where is this studio of his?”

  Iphy wrote down the address, and Callie left, with the dogs, to find her artistic source.

  Mr. Bates’s pet portrait studio turned out to be a half-wooden, half-brick villa situated among pines, with hydrangea bushes in pale blue and pink set close to a cute outdoor seating arrangement. Callie knocked on the door and studied the miniature portraits of two dogs that were attached to the doorframe underneath the wooden banner reading “Bates Studio.”

  Barking from the inside suggested these were the artist’s own pets, guarding the studio.

  Callie picked up Daisy and tried to keep Biscuit behind her, to avoid any confrontation, as soon as the door opened. But when it did, she just saw a friendly-looking man peering back at her. He had a shock of white hair and light blue eyes. His appearance was rather unkempt, his shirt full of paint stains, and his bare feet were stuck into oversized, threadbare slippers.

  “I locked up the dogs in the bedroom,” he explained. “They don’t like intruders in their home. Ah, what a cute Boston terrier. Very distinctive face. Oh, and a border collie. They can be hard to capture. I don’t want just the energy, but also the intelligence and the loyalty. They are a misunderstood breed. Come in, come in.”

  Callie followed him through a hallway full of antique trinkets, ranging from a marble umbrella stand to a coat rack created from deer antlers, into a living room with large windows that gave the room extra light. Several easels carried portraits of dogs, horses, and even a goat, each at different stages of completion. The floor was partially covered with paint-splattered sheets, and there were half-full paint pots, used brushes, and discarded pencil and charcoal sketches everywhere.

  Biscuit tried to attack a bronze statue of a bear, and Callie gave him a sharp order to sit down and stay.

  Biscuit looked up at her with an innocent expression.

  Callie didn’t smile. Her heart pounded as she worried the eager dog would knock something over, damaging the artworks of this kind gentleman. She might be able to pay for the canvas and paint but could never repay the long hours he had spent creating these stunning likenesses.

  “Do sit down.” Mr. Bates gestured to a faded velvet couch full of cross-stitched pillows. “Throw off any pillow you don’t need. And the dogs are welcome to sit on it as well. That’s what it’s for.”

  Callie put Daisy down on the couch and grinned as the Boston terrier snuggled against a pillow and made a satisfied sound. She pulled Biscuit to her and had him sit, brushing his back and scratching him behind the ears. She told Mr. Bates how she had come to be in possession of Biscuit, while the man poured her some sweet tea from a large jug without even asking if she wanted any. The ice cubes in the jug tinkled against the glass.

  “Very sad,” Mr. Bates said. “People feel sentimental when they are in a shelter, and they want to give the dog a better life. But they don’t understand that it will take effort to change things around. Dogs can be like naughty little children. They need to be told what they can and cannot do.”

  He handed her a glass of sweet tea. “Secret recipe.”

  “Really? You have to come to the Fourth of July party at Haywood Hall, then, and participate in the sweet tea contest. The winner will receive a high tea for six at Book Tea, and their creation will be put on the menu as well.” Callie sniffed and took a sip. “Very refreshing, with a spicy undertone. Does it have a name?”

  “Not really, but I could think of one. The Fourth of July, you say? What time does it start?”

  “The party starts at four PM, and the judging for the contest takes place between six and seven. We expect a lot of entries.”

  “I see.” Mr. Bates settled himself in a chair that was as faded as the couch, and stretched his legs. The threadbare slippers had paw prints on the soles.

  Biscuit looked at the man’s feet. His ears turned forward. Bates shuffled with his right foot and then suddenly flipped the slipper up in the air. Biscuit jumped forward, pulling away from Callie so abruptly that her tea sloshed over t
he rim of the glass. Biscuit grabbed the flying slipper in mid-air and shook it.

  “Well done,” Mr. Bates said with a grin.

  Callie put her glass down on the side table and snapped her fingers to lure Biscuit to her. “Give me the slipper, boy. That’s a good boy.” She shook her head at Bates. “You shouldn’t get him all wild.”

  “I don’t mind wild dogs. There’s not a lot they can break here.”

  “They could ruin your artwork!”

  “They usually have a lot of respect for it, as if they know it means something to the people I’m making it for. Dogs are very sensitive.” He nodded at Daisy. “She’s reproaching your young friend for being so wild, but I can see in her eyes that she also feels sorry for him. She knows he doesn’t have a home.”

  “I’m hoping to find him one.” Callie bit her lip, realizing she had secretly counted on Quinn keeping him. There had seemed to be some sort of instant connection between the two of them, and she’d thought Quinn would have time to work with the dog and gain his full trust.

  But Quinn was at the police station right now.

  Quinn might even be a killer who might never be free again.

  Mr. Bates studied her with interest. “Are you staying here for the summer?”

  Callie wanted to tell him she was moving back here to help her great-aunt run her tearoom, when she suddenly thought that maybe a little white lie would take her further as it could start the topic she was here for. “Yes. At the Cliff Hotel. I think you owned it once? They told me about you there.”

  As she said it, Callie hoped that the current employees at the Cliff Hotel did tell guests about the former owner and his new vocation as pet portrait painter. Otherwise, Bates would be onto her lies in a heartbeat.

  To her relief, he nodded. “Yes, they often send clientele my way. It keeps a connection alive. Although it was ages ago that I sold the hotel. I have nothing to do with it anymore. So if you have a complaint about anything, from the cooking to the bedding or the mattresses, you’ll have to turn to the receptionist.”