Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (30 page)

“Get out of the tree before you’re spotted.”

“There’s a dangerous moose below. I’m waiting for him to leave.

“Oh, God, Nora.”

“He’s leaving now, finally. Gotta go.”

Relieved, I worked my way down to the lower branch. I was about to ease to the ground when my purse strap snagged, throwing me off balance. I took a header, landing on the ground with a thud loud enough to alert the moose.

Precious seconds flew by as I took inventory of my body parts. Nothing broken, just bruised. I looked around for the monster, but couldn’t see him. Gingerly, I stood, scooped my purse and leaned against the tree, still surveying the area.

Disaster averted, I fished in my purse for my cell phone.

“Drop it!”

Shocked, knowing before I turned who had spoken, I whirled around. “You?”

“Drop the phone. And the bag. Now!”

“Amy. You’re Marla?”

A look of surprise flashed across her face. “Only Percy uses that name. He made it up.”

“Well, I—”

“Who cares, Ms. Nora Lassiter from the big city? I said drop it.”

I would rather have faced the moose. This woman wanted to kill me. The white-knuckle grip on the bat, the anger etched on her face, the combative stance … she wanted me dead.

* * *

Drop my saddlebag purse with the mace canister jammed in the bottom?

I think not.

It didn’t take a detective to figure that for a stupid move. Run. I had to run. It was my only chance. Negotiation was not an option.

In the seconds we stood staring at each other, several things clicked through my head like photos being snapped at a fast F-stop. Green. Her lime green cotton sweater stretched tightly across her ample breasts. There was a pull in the sleeve. Loose threads. I knew where the missing thread was. In an evidence bag.

Lime. I saw her wearing that shortly after I came upon Collins’ body. I would have made the connection. I know I would have. But Nick had told me they analyzed a green cotton thread. Did the man not know his colors? One doesn’t say green when one means lime.

“Did you kill Al Collins?” I blurted.

She grinned as she flexed her hands on the bat. “Oh, you’re the smart one, you are.”

Keep her talking, I thought. Keep her talking. “Why?”

“He wanted more money. Little shit thought he could blackmail me. Nobody does that and lives to tell about it, not even Al. I told him to set up a meeting between him and JT. In the woods. Wanted him to take out JT, the chickenshit, then I intended to take him out. Surprise, surprise. No JT. Just me and my shotgun.” Amy rested the bat on her shoulder like a player at home plate.

“I meant to see that JT got what he deserved, too. I set up the frame. Right there in his beautiful Maine woods I planted his patch on a branch. I’m surprised he never noticed it missing. It fell off in the Country Store one day and I kept it.”

“You planned this in the library, didn’t you?”

“Yes. How … never mind. I’m finished chatting. Drop the bag.”

I wanted to take a step back, but was afraid to move, afraid she’d start swinging. I wondered how long it would be before the Gray police arrived. I knew Nick must have called them. Would they even know I was here? I’d hidden the Highlander down the road. Percy’s truck wasn’t visible from the road.

Please, God, send them fast, let them find me somehow. Send someone, even the moose. I would love to see that moose again. Really, I would.

“What does JT have to do with this?” I asked to keep her talking.

“Mighty slow for a detective,” she said, a touch of superiority in her voice. “His land, big city girl. His land. He’s got over a hundred  acres.”

So my uncle was involved.

Time. I needed time. I sensed she wanted to brag so I encouraged her. “Land for what?”

“Hah. You don’t know shit from Shinola. Whatever the hell Shinola is.”

“I believe it used to be a brand of shoe polish,” I said, shaking in my boots.

She looked at me as if I were crazy. “Who the hell cares? I needed land for weed. Pot. Marijuana. What’d you think Percy was selling? Air filters?” She snorted. “My stuff is grown underground in beds dug by my dear, departed husband. After he croaked, JT wanted to cancel everything. I made him see the light. Poor, wimpy JT. He took off when things got a little too hot.” She gave a harsh laugh devoid of humor. “He musta thought he was next after Al. He was right about that.”

She shifted the bat from hand to hand. I sensed her impatience.

Playing for time, scared in a way I’d never been scared before, except maybe on those first days in high school when someone tried to throw me down the stairs, I asked, “You would have killed JT? Who was next? Percy?”

“No one takes advantage of me. Never again. Hear me?”

I nodded my understanding, inched back, hoped she wouldn’t notice. Perspiration formed a river between my breasts. I could feel sweat puddling under my arms.

“Who else took advantage of you, Amy?”

Watching her arc the bat back and forth, I thought I already knew the answer to that one.

“That fat slob. Percy’s father. You asked me about him a few days ago. He raped me when I sixteen. I worked for him. I cleaned his damn showroom, his damn toilets, his damn offices. He considered me trash. If I told anyone, who would have believed me, a kid from the wrong side of town?”

“He harassed my mother,” I said.

“Big deal. He cornered me in the storage closet. They kept baseball equipment there for the office team. Fat fool turned his back when he zipped his pants. Do you believe that? Mister Modesty. After what he’d done. Last pair of pants he ever zipped. Since then I’ve carried a bat in any vehicle I’ve ever driven. Quieter than a gun. Sometimes you need quiet. Know what I mean?” she said quietly as she stepped toward me.

Terrified, I turned and ran.

My fears ratcheted up a notch as I zigzagged through the trees, ducking branches, hopping over downed limbs. I smashed into a tree stump and went airborne, ass over teakettle, as they say. Stuff flew from my bag. In seconds she was there, the bat raised above her head.

Terror gave me strength and I rolled, avoiding the worst of the blow. But it caught the pinky on my left hand and I screamed. I rolled over the soda can and snatched it up.

As the follow-up blow descended, I held up the can to ward it off. Stupid, I know, but you go with what you have. The bat connected with the can of ginger ale, and it exploded, catching her in the eyes, giving me precious seconds. I was on my feet, running again, holding onto my pocketbook for dear life. The mace! I had to get the mace.

The pain in my pinky was excruciating. Such a little body part, such a huge pain. I knew it was broken. No X-ray needed when a person can see a little bone jutting through the skin. Every jolt, no matter how small, increased the pain. A bat to the head would put an end to pinky pain. That was a given. So I kept on running because my life depended on it.

She was gaining ground. Friendly waitress Amy with the Pam Anderson breasts, murderer Amy with in the lime sweater, widow Amy with the weed patch. Her widow’s weeds.

I should have returned to New York City where it was safe.

I didn’t turn again, just focused on navigating the woods, hopping over brushes and branches, avoiding depressions, Nora the gazelle, who should have taken ballet instead of tap. Tears flowed, blurred my vision. I couldn’t turn off the damn water works.

I had to get the mace from my pocketbook. Had to. Had to. Had to. I needed to reach for it with my good hand. I needed time. God, give me time.

Shoving low branches aside, I ran full out. My mind whipped and spun. The only plan I came up with was holding the next large flexible branch back a few seconds, a kid thing to do. Mary Fran had pulled that one on me when I was eight or nine. I gave it a try. It worked. Unable to avoid the fast whip-like motion, the branch connected with a solid thwack. Amy let loose with a yelp of pain and a string of curses.

Good, good, good.

Clutching the pocketbook between my left arm and my body, I reached in for the mace, dropped the pocketbook and spun around. I flipped the cap as the bat came at me again, knocking the canister out of my hand.

No.

I dove in the direction it had flown. She came at me again and I squeezed under a dense bush with a web-work of thick, gnarled branches crisscrossing the top.

“Think you’ll get away?” she rasped, her cigarette voice making her sound like a female version of Freddie Krueger from the horror movies.

“You come up here for a few days from the big city and think you can ruin what took me years to build.” She swung the bat, connected with branches, and I rolled to the trunk. Twigs jabbed everywhere.

I had to get the mace. Blurry-eyed, I kept my gaze on her as I routed around for the canister amid the leaves and debris. Keep her talking, I thought. Keep her talking.

“Let me go, Amy. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I’ll go back to New York. No one will hear from me again.”

“You see ‘stupid’ tattooed on this forehead? I sell thousands of pounds a year. You any idea how much that brings in?”

“No, I don’t,” I answered, my voice trembling. “How much?”

“A lot. I’ll be able to retire and move to an island somewhere.”

“I had no idea.”

Another flood of tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t stop the waterfall. I’m such a crybaby sometimes. I was going to die in Maine. I’d planned to spend four fun-filled days here, get to know the family and all, and here I was in the damn woods, stuffed under a bush about to die at the hands of a maniacal widow waitress in the weed business. I’d once left her a hefty tip, too. Talk about regrets.

“Don’t play the innocent. You knew about this. That’s why you followed us. You’re on the job.”

“No. Believe me. I had no idea.”

I spotted the mace in the jumble of vines, but couldn’t fit my hand through.

“I’ve been working for Mary Fran. She wants to divorce Percy. She needs photos of him with the woman he was having an affair with. Marla.” While I talked, I reached into my bag for the Swiss Army knife, flipped it open, sawed through several vines. “That’s it. I knew nothing about your business. I’m not interested, believe me.” I eased the small canister out.

“You fool.” she said. She swung the bat at the bush, breaking through one of the sections. “Working for Mary Fran.”

“Marla? Why Marla? Why not your own name?” I asked, desperate.

Where on earth were the police when you needed them? Stocking up on more Dunkin’ Donuts, that’s where.

“Percy picked it. Some name from his favorite porn video. And I never much liked my name.” Amy started swinging hard. Cracking branches, sending pine cones flying.

The scent of pine was heavy in the air. I could think of nothing except the oldest ploy in the book, except for swinging branch, that is. I yelled, “Hey. A cop. Finally.”

Distracted, she turned. I was ready. In a lightning move I didn’t know I possessed, I surged between two bowed branches and rolled out, mace at the ready. Killer quick, Amy spun back and swung wildly. On the downward arc, the tip of the bat caught my foot. Like Wonder Woman, I rolled to my feet, ignoring the pain. When she raised the bat again, instead of pulling away, I lunged to the side and let go a long burst. A dead center hit, right in her face. I scudded farther to the side to avoid the back spray.

Target neutralized.

Amy dropped the bat at the same time her eyes slammed shut. She started coughing. A choking cough, music to my ears. No symphony ever sounded so beautiful. Shaking, I set the mace down, and using my good hand, tossed the bat as far as I could.

“Marla, darling. Where are you?” Percy’s voice.

I grabbed the mace again.

Too bad Ms. Marla couldn’t answer. She was too busy choking and gagging. Then Percy spotted us. My self-confidence leaked away as he came at me. I shifted upwind to Amy’s right, the mace hidden at my side.

His eyes cut from Amy-Marla to me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Enraged, he lunged at me.

“Percy, stop. She has–”

I caught him with two bursts, a real snootful, and just for good measure, blasted slugger Amy once more, up close. Without letting go of the mace, even though I figured there was precious little left, I scooped up my pocketbook.

My pinky pained like nothing I had ever known before. I wanted to sit down and cry. Since that wasn’t an option, I started back to the house, moving as quickly as I could. In the distance, I heard the welcome wail of sirens. Dunkin’ Donuts must have closed.

Halfway to the house, I stopped suddenly, dug out my camera one-handed, pointed it at the maced couple emerging from the trees and clicked. I did what I had come to do. I took pictures of Mary Fran’s husband with Marla the Tramp.

Click. Click. Click.

Fumbling, I set the digital on telephoto and raised it again. Amy, aka Marla, was hanging on Percy’s arm as she coughed her brains out. And gagged. It was hard to make out her face though the haze of tears in my eyes. No matter. I’d see it in the pictures later.