Cancelled by Murder (21 page)

So, not too much of a heads-up. “How did they find him?”

“A used car salesman, believe it or not, made himself useful. He thought there was something fishy when the guy paid cash, then came out of the restroom with different hair.”

“Has he confessed?”

“He's en route. We'll talk to him when he gets here. Probably first thing in the morning. But he had all kinds of incriminating documents with him, stuff he probably should have shredded before he left.”

“Maybe he intended to burn it all in Canada.”

I wished I knew why Sunni was calling. Was she reinstating me? Apologizing for being so short with me during her little stopover? I didn't know if I should push my luck and ask about Daisy's murder. Not directly, I decided.

“Does that mean Cliff might get his money back?”

“Hard to tell how these things work. The smart ones have all kinds of ways of skirting the law, evading taxes, hiding their money, even after they're caught.”

“Good thing Jules isn't that smart,” I said.

Sunni laughed, the desired effect. “Good thing.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

“Yeah, well, you were a big help with that part of the
case.” Making it clear, spelling out what I'd done, lest I have delusions of grandeur. “We should have lunch this week.”

“Definitely.”

Meaning, peanut butter and jelly alone tonight.

I pulled my computer onto my lap and started a scheduled Skype call to Quinn.

His broad smile told me he wasn't too mad that I'd used him to gain inside information on the farmers' market proposal this afternoon. He didn't have to know that I would have done it so much sooner if I'd known how much he was privy to.

We focused on his return tomorrow, the activities surrounding the Henry Knox celebration, Linda's visit. Happy talk.

I noticed luggage packed up, stacked on the bed behind him.

“I'm getting a head start,” he said when I commented. “I don't want to be here a minute longer than I have to.”

“Works for me.”

*   *   *

Later, when I closed up in preparation for bed, locking doors and windows, I realized it was the first time in a week that I wasn't worried about a note stuck under my door or squeezed into a crack somewhere.

The town of North Ashcot could rest. Daisy's killer had been caught. Jules was in custody. The case was over, all threats gone.

I wished I really believed it.

T
he best thing about Monday morning was that there were no more nasty notes from “Anonymous” telling me to do my job or go home, or otherwise threatening my well-being. The only thing in the delivery room with my name on it was a package containing the new sandals I'd ordered. The heels were a little higher and more pointy than I usually wore, but sometimes style took over practicality when I looked at footwear. Besides, there might have been some element of impressing Linda with a big-city look on my feet.

I was getting used to the idea that Jules really was both an embezzler and a murderer, as well as my stalker. Who was I to question the quantity and quality of evidence the police had put together against him? It was time to give my tired brain a rest and enjoy the job I was getting paid to do.

I stuffed the post office boxes and prepared the retail counter for a normal business day. We were off to a good
start with the Raleys showing up first, bearing an already agile, soft-furred baby genet. From birth, its striped tail was at least as long as its body, making it difficult to control the squirming animal on my scale.

“It sure makes him easier to catch, though,” George said as the rest of my customers enjoyed the antics of the big-eyed feline.

It felt good to greet new customers and old, to accept letters and packages with goodies going to military addresses. When a middle-aged woman told me she'd read on social media about the great service she could expect at the North Ashcot Post Office, I was pleased, and thought maybe Quinn was right, that I was doing a good job in the way that it mattered.

Ben came around with a dose of reality, letting me know that someone wrote a letter to the editor of the
Town Crier
complaining about the “too-friendly postal clerk” who held up the lines to chat with her friends.

“You can't please 'em all,” Ben wisely noted.

I closed up on Monday evening, lowering the flag as usual, feeling cheerful now that Quinn was on his way home. We'd texted throughout the day and I learned the step-by-step process of accessing money from a remote bank. I also had something to look forward to—the quilters and our helpers would be meeting to begin work on the display in the community room adjoining my office, the room that had become the lunchroom where Cliff lured me into helping him with Daisy's case. I gave Quinn my schedule. The plan was that he'd call or text when he was close and find me either at home or at the community room.

There wasn't enough time for me to go home now and
return to the community room in time for the meeting. I headed across the street instead, to Mahican's, where I could pick up a snack that would have to pass for dinner.

I wasn't alone in my decision. Several members of the quilting group—Fran, Molly, and Liv, all of whom worked in the same block along Main Street—plus Eileen and Terry, were seated at one of the rectangular tables along the side wall.

Fran waved me over. “Looks like we all had the same idea,” she said.

“Who wants to go home and cook and rush right out?” Molly asked, opening a plastic cup of cut-up fruit.

“Who wants to stay at home and cook for a guy watching football?” Eileen asked.

“Who needs a three-course dinner when there are girlfriends around?” Terry asked, enjoying her usual nut-filled brownie.

We chimed in with a chorus of ayes and nays, making me happy to belong to a social group. Only Liv snuck in a glare in my direction, giving me a thin smile, a step up from nearly throwing me out of her shop the other day. At one time or another, I'd annoyed these ladies, grilling them for alibis or otherwise bothering them with questions or insinuations. I was lucky they were willing to include me tonight.

I took a seat and joined the chatter. How many quilts would we display? (No more than two for each member, preferably of different sizes.) Who would be responsible for the signage? (Liv, who had a background in graphic design.) For organizing the raffle? (Fran, who'd done it several times in the past.) For answering questions during the show? (We
needed a schedule for taking shifts.) In what order should the quilts be arranged? (By size, said Terry, overruled by Liv, who said color, and then Eileen, who said complexity of design.) I wondered if the parade organizers had as many details to work out as we did. We agreed on one thing, that next year we'd start the planning sooner.

Everyone was delighted when I volunteered to take care of the refreshment table. I questioned whether I should subject Linda to the task, but she might as well know what small-town life was really like. I had in mind seeking out contributions from known bakers and perhaps trying a recipe or two myself. What would Linda think of that?

About twenty minutes before seven, Andrea came in, apologizing for missing the meeting-before-the-meeting. Pete had to make a last-minute delivery, she told us, and she was left to close out the register.

“Any jobs left for me?” she asked. She listened to the list of tasks, all of which could use extra assistance. “Why don't I help Cassie with the goodies table?” she said.

“That would be great,” I said, after nearly choking on a grain of sugar from my muffin. It wasn't good to be surprised while eating.

“In fact, I have an idea for including Cassie even though this is her first year. Why don't we have a special table for a work in progress, to show how far a beginner can get?”

“What a perfect way to encourage new members,” Eileen said.

No one else seemed shocked at the good mood Andrea was in, and the enthusiasm and camaraderie Andrea greeted me with. I realized no one could have known how rude
Andrea had been to me in the hardware store, and probably all were grateful that she and Liv had seemed to work things out after Tuesday's rough spots. Plus, they all knew her longer and better than I did.

Before I knew it, Andrea had turned the conversation to Jules Edwards. “Such a relief, isn't it?” she said. “Jules has been caught. I hope we can all move on. Cliff can certainly use our support when he's back.”

“I'll bet he's glad he doesn't have an unresolved murder hanging over his head,” Terry said.

“I didn't think Jules would be that dumb,” Molly said. “To leave things around like that. Taking Daisy's notebook? What was he thinking?”

“I heard there were a ton of meetings scheduled with him on the calendar pages and he was trying to hide the fact that Daisy might be onto him,” Fran said.

“Where did you hear that?” Liv asked. “All I heard was that it was the notebook Daisy thought she lost, the one she always had by the register.”

“With the van Gogh sunflowers,” Molly added. “Isn't that the name of the painting?”

“Yes, and who knows why he'd latch onto that notebook? But leaving the paint can? That was super stupid,” Terry said.

There it was again. All the evidence that last night I had thought was confidential was out in the open. The town seemed to get smaller with every gathering like this. Where was the leak? Or leaks? Did Sunni's officers have large families? Were they all, like Ross, vulnerable to a little nudge in the direction of gossip?

I thought of a quote from Benjamin Franklin, the country's first postmaster general, “Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.” That was certainly true of a small town.

But something popped out of all the gossip. “Did you say van Gogh's
Sunflowers
?” I asked.

Molly answered, “Yes, that was her book of the year. Remember every year she had a new one, with some famous painting. This year it was
Sunflowers
.”

“Something wrong, Cassie?” Fran asked.

I realized I'd zoned out, focusing on the sunflowers. Wasn't that the notebook I'd rescued from behind the filing cabinets? The book I'd flipped through and then left on a nearby table? But Jules had already accomplished his mission that evening—he'd taken the ledger sheets and walked away before I snooped around and placed the notebook in plain sight. Why would he come back? What if someone else took the notebook after Jules left town, in an attempt to frame him? More likely, what if I was losing control of my ability to focus and think clearly? There was no reason for me to question or care why Jules did what he did.

Andrea and Terry made a few more attempts to keep the Jules Edwards conversation going. One attempt involved praising our chief of police and all her staff. “North Ashcot's finest,” Terry said, as if rallying a cheerleading squad.

In spite of my attempts to keep out of it, I felt compelled to add my two cents. “Does anyone else think it's a little too premature to condemn Jules?” I asked. “I mean, we haven't heard his side of the story, and the evidence is kind of thin.” Plus, I needed time to process this new wrinkle by van Gogh.
When everyone stopped talking and gave me strange looks, I realized it had not been the greatest idea to speak up.

“Time to pack up,” said Liv, who had refrained from the rally, and had decided on her own to put an end to the prattle.

We gathered our things—tossing trash, scraping chairs on the tile, wrapping up bits of conversation—and left the café. Andrea caught up with me as we crossed Main Street, doing her best to match her short strides to my long ones. When we reached the opposite sidewalk, she stopped, out of breath, and motioned me to pause with her.

“I want to apologize for being incredibly rude to you yesterday, Cassie. When Pete pointed it out to me, I was horrified. I guess I've been on edge with this proposal of Reggie's. He worked so hard on it and it's so important for his plans for the future of the town. Nothing matters more to him, but I never wanted to insult you or hurt your feelings. Everyone's glad you're back in town.”

It was hard to reconcile this contrite, caring woman with the vindictive Andrea Harris of yesterday, but I did of course accept her apology.

In the community room, the others had already set to work. Pete joined us, bringing the necessary tape measures, sketches of the proposed layout, and hardware for hanging our quilts. A partylike atmosphere prevailed. With Jules's capture in the back of my mind, it should have been easy to relax and get in the spirit of Henry Knox Day.

If only. Now and then, without warning, a last bit of the puzzle called out to be fit into the picture. I felt it was closer now than ever, but still fuzzy, not quite clicking into place.

We were about ready to call it a night when a text came in with good news from Quinn.

An hour out. See you soon!

Just what I needed.

One by one, we left the room, were picked up, or got in our own cars. Eileen, becoming the new mother hen in Daisy's place, volunteered to lock up.

I drove home, thinking that Quinn's return might be the final piece I needed to put things right in my mind. It could be like turning the clock back a week, I told myself. Back to my regular job, lunches with Sunni, dinners with my boyfriend, my best Boston friend coming to visit, and, to top it all off, a parade on Saturday. Perfect.

*   *   *

I'd stopped at the convenience market and found enough food choices to make Quinn feel welcome and now had a rare moment of wanting to prepare a home-cooked meal. I pulled the beginnings of chicken soup from my freezer, added fresh ingredients, and turned on the stove.

I kicked off my new sandals and settled back to wait for a car in my driveway, eventually enjoying the smell of chicken, carrots, and sage. I resolved to cook more often.

Fat chance,
said an inner voice that sounded vaguely like Linda's.

One more text from Quinn told me he was close to exiting Route 8 and was stalled by an accident.

Scene clearing up
, he wrote.
Maybe 30 min more.

I'd nodded off (cooking was hard work) when I heard a knock on my back door. I thought it curious that I hadn't heard a car, and that Quinn had arrived at the back instead of the front of my house. Maybe his idea of a romantic surprise.

I shook myself awake, straightened my clothes, and smiled my way to the door. I opened it as wide as it would go, hindered as it was by a lineup of potted plants waiting for attention, and greeted—Andrea Harris.