Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (2 page)

I focused on the three men. Lots of agitation. I wished I could hear.

I wished I were a hotshot New York detective who could get the goods on her husband. I thought about it. Maybe I could. Ability with computers seemed to be key. I knew I could find out who Percy was emailing. I could be a first-class hacker if I wanted to, a small detail few people knew. I was friends with a bunch of computer nerds and we still got together from time to time.

All I had to do to catch Percy was find out when he was meeting the woman, follow him and snap a few shots of them coming and going. Piece of cake. I was good with cameras, a hobby I’d played around with since I was a teenager. Intending to take pictures of the family, I’d packed my Canon XTi. I even packed the high powered telephoto lens that cost more than the camera, both bought back in the days when I was flush.

I fingered the wad of bills in my hand that I’d almost decided to give back.

“Yes. I’ll take the case,” I told Mary Fran, my heart thrumming up a storm.

If it became necessary, I’d spend a few more days here. It’s not as if I had a job to go home to. Or a fiancé. Both were part of the recent past that I’d come up here to put behind me.

“Come by my salon Monday morning, first thing,” Mary Fran said.

* * *

When JT returned, the glowing cigar clamped tightly in his mouth, he launched right into a discussion about my car problem, as if nothing unusual had happened. So much for our happy reunion. He set to work, and cleared up the rattle in the front wheel well of my rented PT Cruiser in no time.

There were so many things I wanted to ask to him, mostly about the family, especially my father. I wanted to find out why Dad had left Silver Stream so suddenly. At the time, he told me he didn’t get along with Grandpa who wanted him to go into the lumber business. They had fought. As I got older I suspected there was more to it because Dad didn’t want us to even mention his family.

JT was on edge after the visit from Lard Ass and Big-shot Percy so I decided not to launch into any discussion about family. But I did have to ask one thing.

“Did Aunt Ida tell you what she overheard in the library?” I said as I got back into the car.

He shook his head and laughed. “She told all of us. She thinks someone’s going to be murdered. Crazy old broad. She’s a joke. Overheard someone whispering in the library about getting rid of someone. They were probably talking about a mystery book.”

My hands clutched the wheel. Only the fact that I intended to leave in four days kept me from firing back at him, from alienating my deceased father’s only brother. Then I noticed the twitch in his left eye. A family trait? That used to happen to Dad. I figured out at an early age that it had to do with tension, and I remembered clearly the first time I realized that. It was right before we moved to the New York City all those years ago.

TWO

Aunt Ida and I had stayed in contact mainly though letters. My father tolerated this. I suppose he felt he had little choice. In the beginning, I’d given him Aunt Ida’s letters to read, but he handed them back immediately. Not interested, he’d say. Eventually I stopped offering. He must have been curious though. He had such a large family in Silver Stream—parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, his brother.

But only Ida wrote to me.

Ida loved to write. I tolerated it, especially as I got older. I tried to talk her into email a few years back, but she considered that in the same league with intergalactic travel, so at some point we’d switched to monthly phone calls. I decided not to mention texting.

Ida lived in my great-grandmother’s house, an old Victorian set back in the woods, with original gingerbread trim, and a wide front porch with a hanging swing. The whole thing looked like it wouldn’t be out of place on a birthday cake. I loved it. The rooms were large, with overstuffed furniture, dark wood tables freshly lemon-oiled, lace on every available surface, and a definite hint of lavender in the air.

Ida had put me in Great-grandma Evie’s old room. Said she’d cleaned it especially for me. Evie, my father’s grandmother, had married the oldest Lassiter brother. Her room was frilly, a girly room from long ago with lace curtains, knick-knacks, and a ruffled, flower-patterned bedspread on the double bed. Great-grandma Evie had crocheted the lace canopy that draped over the top of the dark mahogany frame, and it had been carefully mended over the years.

It was Friday, my second day in Silver Stream. I planned to leave Monday after the reading of the will, or maybe early Tuesday morning. In the short time I had, I wanted to see the house I used to live in, the one Uncle JT now owned, visit as many relatives as I could, see if I could find out why Dad left, and get a few shots of Mary Fran’s husband and his lady friend. Feeling better than I had in weeks, I hopped into the shower. It was a short shower. The water went from lukewarm to cold after a minute or two. I toweled off quickly, shivering the whole time. September was chilly in Silver Stream.

I put on my only pair of Laurel Canyon jeans, an extravagance I will never allow myself again, and a blue ribbed turtleneck that matched my eyes, then hurried downstairs, following the scent of something wonderful baking in the oven. One of the
CSI
shows that Ida’d recorded was playing on the small kitchen television. I had a feeling Ida wouldn’t approve of the job I’d taken for Mary Fran, but I’d have to tell her anyway.

“Ida. Blueberry muffins.”

I threw my arms around her as she set the last muffin in a Tupperware container. “You treat me like this, I may never leave.”

“Wicked good muffins, just for you.” She smiled and hugged me back, then put her show on Pause. At eighty-four, Ida was still going strong, a little overweight with grey hair secured in a bun at the nape of her neck, wearing coral polyester slacks and a flowered blouse in the same color family.

“Maybe you shouldn’t leave. You could live here with me. This is a big house for one woman. What’s holding you in the city?”

“My life is there, Aunt Ida. Everything I know.”

“But you have no job. You were fired, something I don’t understand at all.”

“I wasn’t fired. I told you I was excessed. It’s called downsizing. Big difference.”

She looked doubtful and I didn’t blame her. I was a little doubtful, too.

“You were their best computer analyst, weren’t you? Didn’t you get that Employee of the Month plaque a while back? I seem to remember you telling me.”

“Yes. All past history.” Unfortunately.

“Like your fiancé? Or do you think you’ll get back with him?” Her brows shot up in question. “Reconcile, maybe?”

“That’s not happening.” I shook my head, more to dislodge the last awful scene with him and his bimbo in my shower, than to deny the likelihood of a reunion. “He’s history. Let’s not spoil this beautiful day by talking about any of this. I want to walk through the woods and see my old house this morning, then go with you to see Aunt Hannah and Aunt Agnes.”

I sat down at the table. “Have you seen any moose in the woods around here lately?” I asked casually.

“There was one around back about a week ago. Haven’t seen him since. Nothing to worry about. Mating season doesn’t start for another few weeks.”

I was about to ask what mating season had to do with anything but decided to let that go.

Over breakfast, Ida said, “The old logging trail you kids used as a shortcut is still there. JT plows it from time to time to keep it open. Not sure why. He hardly ever comes here to visit anymore. Anyway, you won’t get lost. Just take the bridge over the stream. You’ll remember the way.”

She glanced at my feet. “Wicked smart boots you got on. Chic, I guess you’d call ‘em. Maybe you’d better change into something a little more substantial for trekking through the woods. Help yourself to anything in the closet upstairs.

I thought my knee-high Bally boots were sturdy, but perhaps she was right. Didn’t want to scrape these.

I went back upstairs, pulled on a pair of heavy socks and found ankle-high walking boots that probably belonged to some long-dead uncle, dusted them off and yanked them on. Unattractive, and definitely too large, but necessary.

Woods are dangerous. You need heavy boots.

I was careful on the trail. I walked head down, conscious of each step, knowing there were things here to be avoided at all costs, things like moose droppings and deer stuff. Scat, they called it.

There were even animal potholes. Of course, I knew they were not called potholes. I scared myself with the thought of animals waiting to pop up and get me, so I walked cautiously. Ever alert. It goes without saying that I was continually on the lookout for moose. Didn’t want to run into any of those. How scared I was as a little kid when my brother Howie told me he’d seen a moose lurking around our driveway, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up as moose meat. Of course, I later found out they were plant eaters, but still… .

Unbidden, came mental images of skunks and weasels and porcupines. Getting shot with a quill could probably kill a person. At the very least, it would hurt like hell.

Snakes? Could there be snakes? More vigilant, I stepped over broken branches and around small trees, on guard for any threat. I took my mace canister out of my bag and shoved it into my pocket for easy access. Like a gunslinger, I was ready.

The sun was visible through the burnished leaves fluttering above my head. Birches. I knew birches, the ones with the white bark. The morning frost had long since vanished, but bad weather was on the way. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.

I wasn’t sure where the property lines were, probably the stream off to my left. I could cross it ahead. Some of this land belonged to JT, some to Great-grandma Evie or Great-aunt Ida. What a feeling. Family woods. Once, Indians roamed here, hunting, making camp. As I stepped around a fallen branch, I pictured an Indian gathering firewood. My mind leaped from the Indians to my ancestors and I pictured Lassiters walking these same woods, maybe even this same trail, over a century ago. The sudden feeling of connection I experienced was so unexpected, I stopped dead in my tracks. But only for a second or two. Maine was not for me. I belonged in the city.

I followed the trail to where it forked. On the right, it sloped slightly toward a deadfall, and on the left it evened off and ran closer to the stream. Except for the softly rippling water, it was quiet here. No bird chatter, no small critters scurrying through the underbrush. I imagined I could hear my heartbeat. Strange, this stillness.

A ways down the path I spotted what looked like a brown alligator boot sticking out from behind a boulder.

“Hello?”

I stopped and waited.

No reply.

“Hello. You behind the rock.” I took a deep breath, grabbed the mace in my bag and stepped closer, my heart picking up speed like a semi on a downhill run. I was hoping, hoping, hoping that someone was just sitting here, leaning against the boulder, enjoying the stream. But somehow, I didn’t think so.

I should check. Take another step.

Or, I could run the other way.

I finally looked behind the rock. Even prepared as I was to find something awful, like a dead body, I gasped when I saw him. I knew he was dead. I knew
him
. Omigod. There was blood, so much of it. He’d been shot in the head, and I think an animal had nibbled on his fingers. Several of them were chewed to mere stubs. I hoped he was dead when that happened. I began to shake.

Suddenly, I couldn’t look another second. I scrambled backwards, stuffed the mace in my pocket, and ran like all the animals in creation were on my heels. Breathing hard the whole way, feeling a wild hysteria that about choked me, I finally stopped and yanked out my cell phone. I dropped it twice. Butterfingers. When I had a firm grip, I hit 9-1-1, gave the operator a brief rundown and continued to Ida’s at a fast clip.

Minutes later, the
Toreador March
played on my cell, and I answered.

“Nora Lassiter?” a man’s voice said.

“Yes, it’s me. Is this the police?”

“Yes. I’m Sheriff—”

“Help!” I yelled before he finished. “There’s been a murder. I’ll meet you at my aunt Ida’s. That’s Ida Lassiter in Silver Stream.” I gave him Ida’s address.

“Where are you now?”

“In the woods.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Specific? What was wrong with this man? “Not even if I had a GPS,” I replied, making no attempt to keep the sarcasm from my shaky voice.

“Are you near Ida’s?”

“Not too far. Going back the way I came.” My voice cracked as I skirted a snake and yelped.

“What happened?”

“I almost got attacked by a snake.” I looked back at the snake to make sure it wasn’t preparing to strike. “Cancel that. Just a dead branch.” I took a deep breath, and continued running. “An animal chewed on his fingers.”

Which reminded me of the mace. Better to be safe than sorry. I yanked the canister from my pocket.

“Do you know the victim?”

“Yes. It was…”

I stepped in a pothole and twisted my ankle. Yelped again. The phone went flying as I struggled to keep my balance.