Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (5 page)

“What’s a Ken Follet section?” skinny Trimble asked.

“He’s an author. Ask Margaret,” Nick said bruskly. “Wait and take Ida to see exactly where she was sitting.”

The disgruntled deputy nodded. “Ay-uh.”

Ida announced, “Hannah and Agnes can come with me, then we’ll all go to Hannah’s. Nora can follow. We’ll plan the party.”

Nick thanked Ida for her information.

I kissed them all good-bye. Hannah whispered, “I’m so proud of our Ida. Hasn’t she been wonderful?”

“Yes. Wonderful,” I said. And I meant it.

“We all should have paid more attention to her. Like the sheriff, I’m sorry we didn’t.”

It was pouring by the time we got into the car for the drive home.

* * *

Hannah’s house was the largest Lassiter home in Silver Stream, a sprawling colonial that started life as a cabin and grew over the years as the family grew. The child in me remembered the bigness. The adult saw beyond that. Here was something passed down through generations by folks who had broken away from the modern world and ventured far from the ease of the towns. Into the woods. Into the unknown.

I came from hardy stock.

The outrageous aroma of apple pies and blueberry turnovers warming in the oven wafted through the house. The dining room table was laden with all good things—shrimp with cocktail sauce, Swedish meatballs, chicken Marsala, lobster salad, a cauldron of beef barley soup and one of lobster bisque, both homemade. There were homemade breads, wheat and zucchini, crusty French and banana nut.

Hannah, Agnes and Ida had invited every Lassiter in Silver Stream and the surrounding towns, several friends and neighbors and, I suspected, a few single men. My three great-aunts wanted everyone to meet me. I was touched, not only by the gesture, but by the reception from the family. It was as warm and friendly as the big house felt.

I met cousins, aunts, uncles and longtime family friends. Since I was here for such a short time, I didn’t bother trying to remember names, which I’m terrible at anyway. Most of the talk centered around the murder and I had to recount my discovery-of-the-body story several times.

Uncle JT waltzed in three hours late, removed his shoes, like everyone else in Hannah’s house, and put on slippers. I was the only person in the house not wearing slippers, a tradition I’d forgotten about.

As I headed toward JT, his wife Ellie stepped into the entranceway, glared up at him and hissed, “You ass. Better watch your step. I have a key to that rifle cabinet.”

Startled, I stepped behind a leafy ficus bush, not the greatest hiding place, but still … .

In the next instant I decided her words were just an exaggeration. Had to be. You know, like when someone says, ‘I could kill you.’ Not a nice thing to say, but not to be taken literally either. My mother used to say that to me all the time when I was a kid.

“Goes both ways,” I heard him fire back. With that, Ellie spun on her heel and left. I tried to look casual, as if I wasn’t eavesdropping, as I edged around the ficus. I examined a leaf with feigned interest, amazed to find it real. I once bought a real ficus and it lost all its leaves within a month. These Maine people knew a lot about plants. They could grow anything. I was a plastic plant person myself.

JT came over the minute he spotted me. “How’s the car holding up? When you’re ready to buy instead of rent, you should go over to the Auto Mart. They’ll give you a good deal.”

“I’ll stick with the rental for now. I have to call them about the insurance. They should cover the money I paid out to have repairs made.”

Wearing jeans and a green plaid shirt, he smelled like cigar smoke and beer.

“Still, buyin’s your best option.”

“I won’t be here that long. Leaving Monday.” I paused. “JT, can you tell me the real reason Dad left Silver Stream?” I asked, getting right to the point, not interested in his chit-chat.”

He hesitated, “Come by Monday after the will’s read. We’ll talk.”

I didn’t like being put off. I watched him as he made he way to the buffet table, and couldn’t help wondering why he was stalling and what it was that he didn’t want me to know.

Nick Renzo arrived. My stomach did a little fluttery rotation. I was glad I looked better than the last time I’d seen him. My streaky blond hair, as Hannah calls it, which falls to my shoulders, looked like a shampoo commercial tonight. I know this because I was swinging it back and forth pretending I was in one of those commercials as I looked in the mirror. Shallow, shallow, shallow my mother would have said, and she’d have been right.

I had chosen my outfit with great care, a sky blue, soft-as-velvet lambskin jacket with an asymmetrical zipper up the front, and matching slim leather skirt. Men had told me I had a sexy caboose, and I knew this skirt accented it, which is why I bought it. Worse than shallow, Nora.

I watched Nick remove his shoes and slip into orange, day-glo scuffs? Good grief. Subtract a couple of points.

“Hello,” I said. “Didn’t know you were a Lassiter. Or a close family friend?”

“I’m a Renzo. Nobody was checking ancestry at the door so I slipped in.”

“Security’s loose here.”

Fortunately, I had no intention of falling for this guy so I was relatively safe. Not only was I leaving soon, but I know a thing or two about cops. My father was a cop, and though I loved him, the hours he worked were horrible and the danger was worse, so I put cops on my negative-guy list.

“Love your slippers,” I remarked.

“A gift. My mother picked them up at some big sale.”

“Oh.” It’s not good to criticize a person’s mother, so I clamped my mouth shut.

“I don’t like them,” Nick said, “but it would be a waste not to use them, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. Thrifty you.”

“Umm.”

“Instead of wearing them you could stand on your roof and direct airplane traffic, I suppose.”

The man actually smiled. Then he told me he’d talked to Mary Fran.

He waited for me to say something.

“The aunts thought my old ‘friend’ should be here. She’s coming tonight,” I said, wondering whether she’d told him about our agreement, hoping she hadn’t. It would be better if no one knew that I was playing detective. As it was, I felt a little guilty taking money under false pretenses. I would give it all back if I couldn’t do the job.

His stare made me uncomfortable. “You can’t be serious about working for her.”

My heart sunk a little, but I tried not to show it. “She told you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m taking the case,” I told him, watching his expression, wondering if he knew the truth about my detective status, and wondering whether he was going to call me a fraud.

He took a Bud Light instead.

“If Percy suspects for a second you’re tailing him, he might get rough. He’s different from most folks around here. He’s … tougher. Can be ruthless.”

I’d never considered that. “Has he ever been abusive to Mary Fran?” Hard to picture, recalling her finger-bending ability.

“Not that she’d ever acknowledge, but I’ve suspected it on more than one occasion.”

I nodded. That gave a new dimension to the case, another reason to catch him.

Case. I had a case? I couldn’t believe I’d committed myself.

“You shouldn’t do this.”

“I want to.”

“Yes, I see. I just wonder why. You’re putting yourself in jeopardy.” He paused and took another sip. “You really should know what you’re doing first.”

Oh, crap. He had checked me out.

“You know, don’t you?”

“I’m the sheriff. I know everything.”

“You plan to expose me?” As soon as the words were out, I rephrased, “Tell Mary Fran?”

“Expose you?” He grinned down at me. “It’s crossed my mind.”

Ignoring the double entendre, I twirled a lock of hair around my index finger, giving my best dumb blonde imitation, and said, “I know what I’m doing. I’m a detective-show fanatic, you know.
Murder, She Wrote. CSI. Law and Order.
All the reruns. I’ve seen them all lots of times so I know lots of investigative things.”

The corner of his mouth tipped and he nodded, then he pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote a number on it. “Keep this handy. Call if you run into trouble. Any trouble. Anywhere. Anytime.”

Even though I was warmed by his gesture, I made no move to accept the paper. “I don’t think I’ll need your private number.”

“Who said it was my private number?”

He looked at me with his dark bedroom eyes. I read the subtle challenge there, and took the damn paper.

“I cannot imagine ever having to call you. What trouble could I possibly get into, Nick Renzo?” I smiled sweetly.

When Mary Fran arrived, she introduced me to her husband Percy immediately. He was a big man, overweight by about fifty pounds, with slicked back hair, a red vest, and a salesman’s phony smile.

“Shame about Al,” he said to the sheriff and me. “Ay-uh. We’ll all miss him.” He shook his head, his mouth dipping down in sorrow. “Can’t imagine who would want to kill such a great guy. If I can be of any more help, Nick, you just let me know. Don’t want any killers running loose in Silver Stream.”

Phony, phony, phony.

The word swirled in my head like an F-5 tornado. That said, he invited me to view some used trucks. “I just picked up some kick-ass trucks at the auction,” the man bragged, clearly not interested in the murder of his partner. “You might be in the market. I heard you’re renting a car. Not economical. Renting and leasing? For suckers.”

“Auction?” I said, not really interested, as Nick drifted away.

“Car auction. In Framingham, Massachusetts. My job takes me to the auto auctions.” He smiled. “Pick up lots of good stuff there.” He glanced at Mary Fran who seemed to be deliberately ignoring him. And me.

“JT already tried to get me to buy,” I said, looking around for Ida, Hannah or Agnes. Anyone.

Like the angel she was, Hannah came over and told me she wanted me to meet another cousin.

Mary Fran managed to leave Percy’s side for a few minutes and whispered, “See you in the morning.”

When Nick was putting on his shoes to leave, he motioned me over. Once more, he repeated his warning. “Stay away from Percy.”

FIVE

The interior of Hot Heads Heaven was everything I’d expected, and then some. The ceiling and walls were silver. Someone had run amuck with a magenta paint brush and done some freeform design damage.

It was exactly nine-thirty Monday morning. This would have been my last day in Maine, but I had to get the evidence—the emails and the photos—so I’d probably be here until Tuesday.

“Hi, Nora. Come on back and have a cup of coffee with me,” Mary Fran called from a small alcove where she stood next to a steaming coffeepot.

Dressed in a magenta smock with silver trim, she blended into the decor.

“I make wicked good coffee, for sh-ur. Here’s the key to the back door of my house, and the directions,” she continued with barely a breath, skipping the small talk, her hand shaking like a woman with a major case of caffeine overdose as she gave me a key and a crumbled piece of paper. “I’ve never done anything like this. I couldn’t sleep all night. This will not be my first cup of coffee today. I’m a wreck.” Rat-ta-ta-ta-tat. She sent the words out machine-gun fire.

She’d be more of a wreck if she knew she’d hired a total novice, so in kindness, I decided to keep that to myself. I slipped the key into my purse where it clanked against the mace canister, then glanced at the hand-drawn map. Looked like some kid had scribbled it.

“Give me some details,” I said, folding the map and stuffing it in my purse. I’d scrutinize it later.

She poured coffee for both of us, splashing it far enough to make me step back.

“Are you sure you want me to do this, Mary Fran?”

“I was in love with him, you know. Really. Maybe I still am. I can’t believe he would jeopardize everything for some cheap fling.” She took a sip of coffee. “For some tramp.”

“Maybe he didn’t,” I offered, not believing it for a nanosecond. I could tell her about my ex-fiancé, Whatshisname, and the bimbo in the shower, but that wouldn’t help either of us.

Her head snapped up. “Oh, he did, all right. Just get me the evidence I need. I’m feeling soft. I can’t afford to. I couldn’t sleep last night just thinking about this.”

I added milk to my coffee as she explained what I needed to know.

“Percy’s left already.” She glanced at the clock. “He leaves at eight-fifty, on the dot. He takes Wendy, our seven-year-old, to school, then goes to the Auto Mart. He’ll be gone all day, at least until five tonight. Unless, of course, he has to work late. Ho-ho-ho.

“Anyway, no need to worry you’ll be discovered. As for my daughter, she’ll be dropped off here at three-thirty. You should have no problems. You’ll probably be done before then, right?”

“Absolutely,” I said, projecting confidence I didn’t feel. “I have the reading of the will at four.”