Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (22 page)

“I’m so glad. I thought I might have to wait because Collins was in charge of repairs.”

Without commenting, he removed the radiator cap. “I’ll put the sealer in for you.”

I tried again. “I guess Collins will be hard to replace.”

Still nothing from him. I decided to try a lie.

“I met his wife at the funeral. Poor woman. But she seemed to be handling it well.”

He made an odd sound. I pretended he’d said something I hadn’t heard and moved closer. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

Typical man-answer. A grunt.

I tried a different tack. “Must be nice working here. Lots of benefits. Bet you get a car for personal use.”

He pulled his head from beneath the hood. “Yeah. I drive that Ford Expedition over there,” he said, pointing to a black SUV. It’s one of the perks.”

“What a car.” I gave him my best, most admiring smile. “You must have a great boss to let you drive that.”

“Al Collins set me up with that baby.”

“Oh? I thought Mr. Kendall was the big boss.”

“He is.”

I said, “Maybe Mrs. Collins will want to get involved in the business. You know, to replace her husband.”

He shook his head as he wiped his hands on a rag. “Hope not.”

“Don’t want a woman boss, hunh?”

“Not that one.”

“Why not?”

“She’s got a cash register for a heart. If it weren’t for her driving him …” He shook his head and tossed the rag aside. “Water under the bridge. You need anything else?”

“Driving him? To do what?”

Pete busied himself with the empty sealer container.

“Aren’t you related to JT Lassiter?” he asked, sidestepping my question.

“He’s my father’s brother.”

“We work with his company. Maybe you could get the radiator sooner if you talked to him.”

“I’ll try that. Have you seen him lately?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.”

Disappointed, I got into my truck, and called Nick on his cell. No answer. I decided not to call him at the station. I was making contact with him way too much. Getting close when I should be pulling back.

* * *

I had a big problem, a serious problem that required action right now. It had gone on long enough. My fault.

I had nothing to wear.

I sat in Ida’s driveway mulling over the situation. I couldn’t keep rifling closets and borrowing Salvation Army-style clothing worn by my relatives a generation or more ago. Old furniture might have value as antiques, but old clothes were fodder for the ragbag. Ida’d never thrown them out because she was a saver. Not that I was complaining. In a few instances, her collection saved me. But I’m not, by nature, a ragbag kind of woman. I need decent clothes, even if they are only woods walking clothes.

God, I’d looked a sight yesterday in that army fatigue shirt. The memory made me shiver. The dark olive color with the blotchy brown spots was all wrong. The shirt fit like a tent, and the material … well, what can I say? It was a little softer than plywood and smelled stale enough to attract gnats.

A few years back I’d had my colors done. Some discerning fashion consultant told me I was a summer, which meant I looked best in warm colors, especially near my face, muted pinks, mauves, yellows, off-whites, certain greens and blues. I carry color swatches in my purse—the Girl Scouts ‘Be Prepared’ motto applies to lots of things—and I haven’t deviated from my palate since. I’m partial to certain blues that match the color of my eyes, my Viola blues as Agnes calls them. I wear a lot of off-whites and light blues next to my face, too.

Today I wore a light blue Jones of NY tee shirt with khaki slacks and a stylish pair of tan sling-back sandals. I felt normal. But soon I’d have to return to the damn woods to get the damn photos, and the damn buried treasure box.

Damn.

The bottom line was I needed clothes, even if I was going back to New York shortly.

Resigned to my fate, I went inside. Ida was knitting, and watching  one of her DVDs,
Homicide: Life on the Street
, a show I’d never seen before.

I took a deep breath. For courage. For strength.

“Ida,” I said, my voice trembling, “where’s the L.L. Bean catalogue?”

* * *

On Sunday I went to see Vivian the Pomeranian Lady. I hadn’t planned to see her, but since there was a slight, very slight, possibility that she might be Marla, I figured a short visit couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like I was interfering in the murder investigation or anything.

I called to tell her I was coming.

As I drove, I wondered if anything had happened yesterday. Although he never said much about it, I knew Nick was alert because of Percy’s list. Something was going down on the twentieth. We both knew it. Maybe Nick suspected something specific. If so, he was unwilling to share. And if that were so and I found out, well, I wouldn’t share with him again either.

Petty of me, I decided, as I drove past the sheriff’s office.

Once outside of town, the road narrowed and trees were the main scenery. Trees and some fast-churning brooks. It was a gorgeous day, pure sunny September with a blue sky above and a light breeze ruffling the leaves.

Maybe I was naive, but I figured if I could find Marla babe, everything would fall into place.

Percy’s words to Marla played in my head again, like a mantra.

I’m not getting involved in this shit … I’ve done enough … look at Collins.

What shit? Something to do with the car business? That would make sense since Collins and Percy were familiar with that. They knew the ins and outs, how to scam, how to cheat.

Was JT involved in that, too? Scamming people? Ripping them off. Could they all be ripping off companies. Let’s see. Companies. Insurance companies? Suppliers? Who else was involved with them on a business level? I’d have to find out.

And Collins? Had Percy been forced to kill him for some reason? Maybe to shut him up?

Then I had a mental flash that almost caused me to crash into a tree. Marla might work for one of the companies associated with the Auto Mart. I hadn’t considered that. Maybe someone should be checking those women out, too. She could be their connection to inside information. I straightened Chevy Charlene and concentrated on the road.

But it still came down to one woman, and she went by the name of Marla, at least on one occasion. I decided to concentrate on the women Percy had nodded at. Three possibilities in Silver Stream: Margaret the librarian, Vivian the Pomeranian lady and Amy the waitress. Not Aunt Ellie. Couldn’t be her.

TWENTY-TWO

Vivian lived in a wooded section at the outskirts of Silver Stream. A U2 CD blared from my speakers as I cruised the winding road toward her house. I had a Silver Stream town map on the seat beside me. No sense getting lost any more.

Windows open to the beautiful day, I sang along. It’s amazing how when I sing by myself, I hardly ever miss a note. I should record myself at times like these.

As I pulled to a stop in the driveway, I heard a screechy racket that rivaled the sound of pneumatic drills skidding across chalkboard. My God. Several little furry dogs, curly tails bobbing, yapped at me. With an early-warning system like that, it was no surprise that Vivian opened her front door before I turned off the engine.

So these were the Pomeranians. The name was bigger than the dog.

“Sugar Bottom. Button Nose. You quiet down.” Vivian yelled.

Sugar Bottom and Button Nose were obviously obedience school dropouts. They did not quiet down on command.

Vivian’s blond streaked hair looked better than the last time I had seen it in the holey cap. She was a stocky woman, in her late forties, dressed in jeans and a dark green tee shirt that proclaimed her a Pom Mom. I had an awful thought about that. Weren’t female dogs called bitches? Vivian must know that. Yet she still wore the shirt. People were a puzzle sometimes.

Enough. The question was, Could she also be Marla?

“Muffy. Coco Puff. Lovey Poo. Quiet. Into your pen.” To me she called, “I’m so glad you came. I really want to nail that Buster Verney. Throw his sorry ass in the slammer.”

She signaled me out of the truck. All the dogs weren’t in the pen yet. Two bounced and barked, probably communicating with each other: attack, attack, attack. These little pups had teeth, didn’t they? Needle teeth, like piranhas. I remembered a movie I saw once where piranhas got loose in a river and chewed up a bunch of kids swimming at a summer camp and left arms, legs and other body parts floating all over the place. A bloody mess. Gave me nightmares for weeks.

Finally, Vivian locked her piranhas in the pen and invited me in for coffee.

“I’m trying to socialize them,” she informed me, leading the way into a kitchen that hadn’t been updated since Nixon, or maybe Kennedy, was president. “Pomeranians need extensive exposure to people. They’re naturally cautious dogs and we don’t want that natural caution to evolve into suspiciousness, do we?”

“No, of course not.” To my credit, this came out as sincere.

“They get along fine with the cats now.”

Cats
? She had cats, too?

Vivian dusted animal hairs off the gray Formica-topped kitchen table with a dirty rag. In the rays of light beaming though the window, I watched them float back to earth and resettle. I sneezed. At least this time I wasn’t trapped under a bed with a cat.

“So Vivian, who’s this Buster Verney you mentioned and why do you think he poisoned your dog?”

She jerked her head toward the window with the ruffled café curtain. “Lives just down the road. I’ve known him for years. We don’t get along. His wife died a little over a year ago and since then he’s worse than ever. Thinks he can go around killing my poms and get away with it. I’m a new dog owner. Got these poms last winter because I wanted to fill the house with life again. The two cats weren’t enough. My Jake’s been dead going on two years now and we never could have kids.”

“Sorry for your loss.” I paused. “How did the dogs annoy Verney?”

“Once in a while one of the dogs runs off. Dora was a runner.”

Vivian swallowed hard and despite my feelings about Dora’s friends, I felt empathy for her. All loss is hard on those who survive.

“Dora would race down to the road and bark at cars. One day she raced after Buster’s truck and he swerved and hit a tree.”

I sneezed twice in a row and Vivian handed me a tissue. I wondered whether it had dog or cat hair on it but didn’t bother with a thorough inspection. Throwing caution to the winds, I blew my nose. At least there weren’t any gnats around. A thought about fleas flashed through my head, but I pushed it aside.

“He could have hit the dog,” I pointed out, bunching the tissue. “But he cared enough to swerve.”

“He threatened to kill them all.” she said, her voice going up an octave. “Came right to my door. ‘Good-for-nothing mutts.’ he said to me. ‘Someone should do the world a favor and wipe out the entire breed.’”

The change in voice had me picturing Vivian as Marla, moaning in ecstasy, saying,
Oh, Percy
in that phony, high-pitched, squeaky voice.
There’s no one like you. No one, my love.

Were the voices the same? Hard to tell.

I tried to think of something else to get her riled so I could hear it again. Like a replay.

“Verney had just had an accident,” I said. “Maybe he loved his car or truck or whatever.” I paused, then decided to go for it. “Did you apologize for your dog causing him an accident?”

“What? I should apologize to that creep? That dog killer. If that’s what you think, maybe I don’t want you looking into this.”

Well, her voice went up all right, even squeaked, but it lacked the Marla quality I remembered. Of course, the circumstances were different. One has to make allowances.

I could have pointed out that Verney hadn’t killed the dog at that point, if, in fact, he did kill the dog, but I could see no point and tried to calm her enough to keep me on the case.

“Vivian, I know that seemed harsh, but I have to say these things if I’m to get all the facts.”

“Well,” she said, sounding mollified.

“Sometimes people say things when they’re angry, make threats they don’t really mean. My mother’s a prime example. She used to say, ‘I could kill you, Nora.’ She never meant it, of course because here I am.”

Vivian put an instant coffee bag into a cup of water and set it in the microwave without commenting, but I could see she was calming down. She moved a pile of newspapers from a chair and sat on the cracked, yellow vinyl cushion opposite me.

“I suppose I can understand that.”

“Good. What did the sheriff say when you told him about this?”

“Renzo sent that deputy of his, the skinny one, to investigate. That guy couldn’t find his di—”

“Trimble?” I interrupted.

“Right. He said unless I had concrete proof, he couldn’t do a thing. Is there a way you could prove Buster’s guilty?”