Cancelled by Murder (4 page)

Six of us assembled at Eileen's home at the west end of town tonight. Sunni had expressed her regrets at missing the meeting. We all understood how busy she must be, and I figured she was also not ready to face a firing squad in the form of a group of quilting women eager for the latest information.

Eileen, tall and stately, with a teacher's commanding voice, assumed Daisy's role and called us to order. We carried our sewing totes and works in progress into the living room and took seats in the same configuration that we chose in Daisy's back room. Frances Rogers, a middle-aged woman who worked as a teller at the Main Street Bank, sat to my left; beauty salon owner Molly Boyd, to my right. Molly, a short, heavy woman, was on crutches this evening.

“My brand-new porch chair, a big Adirondack, got tipped
over during the storm and landed on my ankle,” she explained. “Don't ask why I didn't go inside as soon as the wind picked up. Now I have a broken ankle, just because I wanted to sweep up outside in honor of the new furniture. How dumb can I be? And now it's a mess out there anyway, of course.”

We all expressed our sympathies and hoped Molly would be walking normally soon.

Someone suggested a moment of silence for Daisy. I joined in, though I'd already had many moments of silence and meditative thought inspired by Daisy's passing. For a minute or two, all we heard were the Westminster chimes from the Jacksons' grandfather clock, the only gesture to the past among the modern furnishings. We resumed normal chatter slowly, with murmurs that our mourning wouldn't really be over until we knew what had happened behind Daisy's shop.

Terry Thornton, our youngest member, got us started on the future. Excited about her upcoming bachelorette party, Terry asked for advice on whether she should wear her long blond hair up or down. She demonstrated both styles for us. My first thought was of the inappropriateness of a cheerful bride-to-be conversation, but I quickly realized that we needed something to help focus on the future and whatever good news might be on the way. The vote was nearly unanimous that Terry should take advantage of her natural curls and let her hair cascade past her shoulders.

I never would have guessed that the next bit of good news would be the start of what old Ben would have called a “catfight.”

Andrea Harris was a veteran quilter whose niece was
expecting her first child. This evening, Andrea was ready to put the finishing touches on a baby quilt in different shades of yellow and pale green.

“They don't want to know the baby's gender before the birth,” she moaned, referring to her niece and nephew-in-law. “So I have to use these so-called gender-neutral colors.”

We all uttered a version of “It's still beautiful.”

“But look what I had to pass up,” she said, her short, pudgy fingers extracting a swatch of very pink cloth from her tote. “Look at these adorable pink creatures.”

Liv Patterson looked closely at the piece of fabric and screwed up her nose. I felt another version of yesterday's unpleasant mood coming on. “A mermaid and a hippo on the same piece of fabric? Maybe they do know the gender, Andrea, and that's why they won't tell you,” Liv suggested, drawing a nervous chuckle from most of us. Emboldened by the response, Liv went on. “Aren't you supposed to be the color expert for paint supplies in your brother Pete's hardware store?” She looked around. “Who here wants a pink bedroom?”

The laughter stopped and so did Liv, finally. Andrea looked up from her sewing and seemed understandably put out by the comment. “You're in a good mood, Olivia. Could it be because the storm has made your life easier?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Liv asked. She removed her fifties-style sewing glasses, which matched her wardrobe, I noted, and cast an angry glance at Andrea.

“I mean your worries about Daisy's shop encroaching on your customer base are gone now that she's out of the picture,” Andrea said.

All the noise in room ceased; it seemed quieter than it
had been during our moment of silence. Liv's face turned red. She put her fabric across her lap and opened her mouth to speak.

“What a terrible thing to say,” Molly Boyd cut in, followed quickly by overlapping comments from everyone except me. I was too stunned to join the chorus and was glad when Eileen stepped in.

“Let's try Molly's new cheesecake recipe,” Eileen said, holding up her hand as if that would be enough to block further unpleasantness. A trick she'd learned from years of elementary school classes, I was sure.

Molly, in spite of her bad ankle, put down her sewing and hobbled over to carve a delicious-looking raspberry-bedecked creation. In deference to Molly's lameness, and to mask my nervousness, I took over the job. The clatter of china dessert plates and silverware became the only sounds in the room, but not for long.

Andrea hadn't finished, starting up again to address Liv, but in a normal conversational tone. “Well, we all know you've been losing money since Daisy added a line of cards to her inventory.”

“Excuse me?” Liv asked, her whole stocky body stiffening.

“I get it,” said Terry, the youngest in the group, ready with an explanation. Was she naive, thinking one was needed, or was she trying to keep the pot of trouble boiling? “Andrea is referring to how you think Daisy should have stuck to fabrics and not tried to be a card shop, too, since you already run one. Everyone heard you two arguing.”

Apparently, she liked the boiling-pot option.

“Not everyone heard anything,” Eileen said, scrambling her negatives. She cleared her throat and pulled out her schoolteacher voice again. “Maybe we should change the subject. Did I show you my latest?” Our hostess bravely held up a block we hadn't seen before, a star quilt in shades of green. “Do you think this will be okay for a guy's dorm room? My grandson hinted that quilts were not just for girls, so I'm taking him up on that.”

“I think it's perfect,” I offered. As the newest person in the group, and inherently averse to conflict, I'd have said anything to get us back to quilting.

“It's manly,” Molly offered.

Liv, however, had more to say on the controversial topic. She turned to face Andrea straight-on. “Are you saying I'm glad Daisy is dead?”

Fran, who'd been quiet until now, gasped. “What a terrible thing to say.”

Bride-to-be Terry looked eager to say something else, but bit her lip instead. Good choice, I thought.

Liv kept her eyes on Andrea. “If anyone is glad, it's probably you. That's one less obstacle in the way of Reggie's proposal for a farmers' market.”

More gasps and words of explanation for those not in the know. Like me. By listening carefully to the snippets of conversation around me, I was able to piece together the story. Reggie Harris, Andrea's husband, a big developer in the county, was spearheading a proposal for a farmers' market in town, every weekend between Memorial Day and Labor Day. The plan called for blocking off the cross streets at both ends of the business district on Main Street
on Saturdays and Sundays. Though nothing would happen until next spring, tempers were already running high. I learned that Daisy had led the opposition, maintaining that a farmers' market would severely impact all the businesses between the post office and the police station and beyond.

Almost a full year back in North Ashcot, working in the center of town, and I still had a lot to learn about city politics. It wasn't enough to listen to my customers; I needed to work on the stack of local newspapers by my rocker, especially the op-ed pages.

Liv and Andrea packed up and stormed out of Eileen's house within five minutes of each other. No one wondered out loud whether they'd come to an impasse or were taking their fight somewhere else.

Eileen made an effort to pull the rest of us together by reminding us that we needed an extra meeting on Monday evening next week to prepare for the quilt display as part of Henry Knox Day. We'd meet in the community room adjoining the post office around seven to take measurements and otherwise prepare the room.

I'd had grand plans to be part of the show, unaware at the time of how much work was involved in making just one quilt.

“Next year,” I told Eileen in an effort to lift her spirits. “For now, I'll just be part of the backstage crew.”

Tonight we beginners (Terry and I) were supposed to learn how to choose and prepare sashing—the strips of fabric that separated the main blocks of a quilt. We approached the lesson, to which everyone usually contributed advice and tips, only halfheartedly. The altercation had gotten us off to a bad start that we couldn't seem to recover from. Not
even Molly's special cheesecake or the other snacks could get us out of our funk. Eileen offered a fresh pitcher of iced tea, but no one had the heart to stay much longer.

Poor Eileen looked as if she'd done something wrong.

I thought of calling to her attention that the unpleasant evening wasn't her fault, and that at least no blood had been spilled on her soft white sofa.

B
y Wednesday afternoon, the world knew that Daisy Harmon had been murdered. Or so it seemed in my post office in the middle of the day, with everyone gasping and gulping as the awful news spread. I wasn't surprised that a murder provoked more distress among our citizens than an accidental death. I hadn't heard the final word directly from Sunni—just because we were BFFs didn't mean she had to keep me in the loop, crime-wise, I told myself—and I hadn't watched television at lunch as I sometimes did.

But, as the old bumper sticker says,
there may not be much to see in a small town, but what you hear makes up for it
.

If all that I heard was correct, Daisy was already dead when her killer rolled a large, heavy tree branch over her body, a branch that had conveniently fallen to the ground in
the backyard of Daisy's Fabrics. Police thought (said the townsfolk) that there'd been an argument.

“Ya think?” asked Moses Crawford, our oldest citizen, hitching up his baggy jeans. “That must have been some danged argument. Don't know what this world is comin' to.”

I regretted that I couldn't take notes, then realized that the chatter I'd heard all day was hearsay at best and I'd lose nothing of value if I forgot some of it.

Between locking the front doors at closing and packing up to leave the building, I played my cell phone messages. I clicked through the usual check-ins from Linda Daniels in Boston (“Any big news in the little town?”) and Quinn Martindale, now on the North Shore near Gloucester (“Miss you. Back as soon as I can.”) Sunni's voice promised she'd drop in soon (to “explain a couple of things”). The most surprising was a call from Cliff Harmon, Daisy's now-widowed husband. I knew Cliff as well as I knew any of my regular customers, but I wouldn't have expected to be at the top of his list in a crisis.

“If you can spare a few minutes, I'd like to talk to you, Cassie,” Cliff said. “Any time that's convenient.” His voice was cracked and hoarse as he gave me his cell number.

Curious, as well as eager to help in any way I could, I decided not to wait until I got home. I sat at my desk, surrounded by posters of commemorative stamps of the Civil War, this month's special. I looked past the lobby through the double front doors to the outside, still light, and calm as a late-summer afternoon should be. The storm was long gone, but I knew its aftermath was just beginning for some. I took a deep breath and called Cliff's number.

“Thanks for getting back to me, Cassie. I know you're busy,” he said.

“If there's anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask. I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” he said, his voice understandably weak. “I was doing okay at first, you know. Then when I heard . . .” He left unsaid the fact that a murder verdict had compounded his grief over his wife's death.

“This has to be really hard for you. I don't know what to say or how I can help.”

“I do have a favor I want to ask. Can you come by this evening? Or I can go to your place. Or some place neutral if you want.”

I thought a minute. “Let's meet at Mahican's. That way neither of us has to waste time getting drinks or anything.”

Selfish, I admitted to myself. It was less likely that I'd have to deal with an emotional outburst from a grown man—a beefy one, at that—if we were in a public place. My psych classes and further training with the USPS went only so far in enabling me to handle extreme distress, which I imagined was Cliff's current state.

“Whenever you say.”

I looked around and saw nothing urgent on my desk. “A half hour?” I asked.

“I'll see you there. Thanks, Cassie.”

I finished packing up paperwork that I could take care of at home later and prepared myself to meet Cliff. I doubted I could be of help, but I hoped I could at least be a good sounding board if that was what he needed.

*   *   *

Cliff was at a corner table in Mahican's, talking to Jules Edwards, his and Daisy's accountant, a middle-aged man I'd met a couple of times in passing. They were head-to-head and seemed quite serious, and I figured that condolences were involved. I wasn't sure if Jules intended to be part of my meeting with Cliff, so I ordered an iced drink at the counter and headed for an empty table where I could wait. Cliff saw me and waved me over.

Jules, maybe an inch taller than my five-nine, greeted me with “How are you doing, Cassie?” and before I could answer he turned and addressed me over his shoulder as he was leaving. “See you around,” he said. Not part of the meeting apparently.

Cliff stood, all six feet four of him. His muscles strained the fabric of his army green polo shirt. I put my plastic cup on his table and we shared a brief hug. I'd often thought that Cliff was the poster boy for a bouncer in a tough neighborhood, except that after a few minutes in his company, everyone knew that he was a gentle man and not about to abuse his gift of physical strength. It was well known that the small-framed Daisy was the more aggressive member of the family, the more involved in community issues, the more likely to speak her mind.

“He just walks around and carries a big stick,” Daisy often said of her husband.

I pointed to where Jules had been seated and where I'd placed my mug. “I didn't mean to interrupt,” I said.

“We were done for now. Daisy's the one who handled all the finances, for the house as well as the shop.” He rubbed his forehead, stressed. “I have so much to learn. I don't know where to begin. I guess I figured she'd always be around.”

I was at a loss to respond verbally and hoped taking his hand and guiding him to sit down again would do the trick.

When we were both seated at one of Mahican's more scratched-up wooden tables, Cliff handed me a memorial card. On one side was an image of an angel in white, arms (wings?) raised to heaven; on the other a poetic tribute to Daisy Harmon and the important dates in her life. Her birth, marriage to Cliff, and death. A small photo of her was included; in it she looked much younger than her forty-four years. By contrast, Cliff, ten years older than Daisy, I'd heard, looked old enough today to be her father.

“This card is lovely,” I said. “I'm surprised you have it so soon.”

“The funeral parlor prints the cards themselves, would you believe? Pretty much while you wait.”

“I guess I would believe it.” I thought of Aunt Tess's memorial last summer and how many services the mortuary offered, right on site. Turnkey shopping was the rule, complete with sheet music to review, and several designs of memorial cards to choose from, like the one I had in my hand.

“They're making the arrangements to have her flown to Miami where her parents are, as soon as”—he closed his eyes and swallowed—“the police will give her back to us.”

I let Cliff take the lead in the conversation. He seemed to want to chat for a while. I heard how determined Daisy was to make the shop work, how passionate she was about everything she became involved in. Her husband extolled Daisy's virtues as a wife, a friend, a businesswoman, a concerned citizen.

I wasn't sure yet why I needed to hear this, or why I was
sitting across from him, but I wasn't about to rush Cliff into telling me what favor he wanted. The iced cappuccino was refreshing and if all Cliff needed was someone to listen, I had no problem filling the role.

About fifteen minutes into the visit, I noticed our chief of police enter the café. Before I could put my cup down and raise my hand in greeting, she came up to our table. One might even say, stormed over to our table.

“Hey, Sunni,” I said.

She nodded and looked at Cliff, then me, then back and forth one more time. “I hope this isn't what I think it might be,” she said, a neutral expression on her face. “It will be much better for all of us if we stick to the jobs we're committed to do.” She rapped her knuckles on the table and strode away, without the teasing smile or pat on my shoulder that I expected, leaving me agape.

“What was that about?” I asked Cliff, who seemed to know what Sunni was talking about, as evidenced by the dramatic nodding of his head while she issued her directive.

“It was a warning,” he said. “I may have vented a little down at the station today, about how they're not doing much to find out who killed my wife.”

“They've hardly known about it for a day,” I reminded him.

“I know, but they're not exactly the NYPD, or even the BPD, are they?”

New York and Boston. Apparently, Cliff put more faith in big-city police forces. I couldn't blame him. Sunni had four officers, one admin, and a fleet of three patrol cars at her disposal. I didn't know the stats of the NYPD, but in my former job, I did interact with the BPD's postal needs and
recalled that there were over two thousand officers and nearly one thousand civilians in the department, all together about the entire population of North Ashcot.

While I'd been doing the math, Cliff had continued. “When I went down there this morning, there was Ross—Officer Little, that is—playing solitaire or poker or something on his computer.”

I felt a great urge to defend my friend and her staff. “They've all been working overtime since the storm on Monday. What if Ross worked all night and finally took a twenty-minute break?” I asked Cliff, tentatively, conscious of his vulnerability at the moment.

I knew this couldn't have been the first time Sunni had to deal with a distraught family member of a victim of crime, and I was sure she had the skills and temperament to handle the job, but a little support couldn't hurt.

“You're right, you're right, Cassie, but it's, like, I'd just convinced myself that Daisy was one of so many victims of storms and natural disasters over the years, and I was going to have to deal with it, and then I hear that she was”—he seemed to be holding his breath—“that someone deliberately . . . I'm sorry if I just lose it.”

I put my hand on his, gave it a squeeze, and offered to get refills for both of us. While I waited at the counter in the sparsely populated café, Sunni's words came back to me.

“Do you know what Sunni meant when she said ‘stick to our jobs'?” I asked when I returned to our table.

Cliff shrugged. “I guess she figured I was asking you to help with the investigation.”

“But you're not.”

“Well . . .”

Uh-oh. I realized Cliff still hadn't asked for that favor he'd mentioned on the phone. I shook my head before he could utter the words. “No, Cliff. I can't do that. I'm not a cop.”

“But you've done this before. Everyone knows you helped Sunni last year in that murder investigation.”

And almost lost Sunni as a friend, I remembered.

“I'm a postmaster; you're a security guard. That's certainly closer to being a cop than I am. Isn't investigation considered part of your job?”

“Not unless the school was set on fire, and even then, it's the local agencies that take the lead.”

“My point exactly.”

“This is Daisy we're talking about, Cassie. My wife. You can't ask me to sit around and watch. You know, the whole town knows, that I couldn't get into the police academy. My eyesight doesn't meet their standard”— he removed his eyeglasses and held them out, as if to prove his point, then wiped the lenses with his shirt while he was at it—“but I have good instincts. And security guards have high-quality training.” He took a deep breath, then continued, this time pointing a finger at me, albeit unobtrusively. “Did you know that it was a private security guard who alerted the police to the break-in at Watergate in the seventies?”

“I didn't know that.”

“Yeah, the guy was only twenty-four years old, making his rounds in the building, and he noticed a door had been rigged to stay open. He dug around a little, reported it to the local police, and they found out what was going on and eventually arrested five guys who weren't supposed to be there.”

“And the rest is history,” I said, fascinated.

“The guy was pretty famous for a while, even got a mention from one of those Watergate scandal reporters, either Robert Redford or Dustin Hoffman, I forget which, but then he came upon some hard times.”

I felt his confusing of Woodward and Bernstein with the actors who played them in the movie was understandable, given the circumstances, and let the reference stand. I could tell that this tidbit of history was important to him, and probably in the annals of security firms and personnel everywhere.

“You're just making a case for going off on your own, Cliff. Not that I recommend that. But I have absolutely no training along those lines, except to hit an emergency button if an armed person comes into the post office.”

“You're being modest. I know better. I think if we worked together, you and I, we could . . .”

I held up my hand. I was doing a lot of that lately. Cliff continued anyway.

“We could claim you're just helping me clean out the shop.”

I'd already shaken my head so much my neck hurt. I stood to leave, which seemed to be the only way to end this conversation. But that didn't work, either. Cliff put his fingers on my wrist, and locked my hand in place. I was amazed that I felt no pain, just a steady, gentle pressure. But one that didn't leave much room for fleeing. His expression registered nothing but pleading.

“Please, Cassie. Will you at least let me tell you some of my ideas?”

I sat back down. I thought about the risks. That we'd
get nowhere, but Sunni would find out we were working on the case and cut me off her list of friends, thus shortening my list considerably. That Cliff and I would actually make progress in uncovering Daisy's killer and be killed ourselves. Either way it wasn't a good outcome. The chances that we would discover Daisy's killer and be alive and well at the end, in good standing with the police, were near zero.