Past Malice (19 page)

“Gonna rain soon,” I said.

“That’s always a help. It drives them in, and sometimes they even buy something.”

I picked my way past the recent best-sellers and the local interest section to find Bucky at the nonfiction shelves, checking out a collection of essays on natural history. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So how’d it go?”

She shrugged, but it wasn’t a happy shrug. “There’ll be no second date.”

“Any particular reason?”

“He was boring.”

“You said Joel was boring. You thought a landscaper would be more of a thrill than a software engineer?”

She shrugged and I decided that I didn’t really want to know what kind of thrills Bucky had been shopping for. Phil was, as Bucky had pointed out to Brian, young and tanned and extremely well-muscled.

“All he talked about was mulch and how much money he makes and going to the gym. And the great parties he and his friends have, where they drink lots of beer and do shots and get hangovers the next day. Oh yes, and how they go looking for hot women.”

“Charming.”

“And tactically stupid, particularly if you are telling this to someone who asked you out.”

“Well, at least you gave it a try.”

“Grand consolation. I’ve decided I’m off the whole male species.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Are you about done?”

“I’m just going to decide about this one. Give me a minute?”

“Sure. I’ll be over in the history section.”

She waved at me, already back into her book, and I
strolled around for a moment. Because Alice kept a small section of used books dedicated to the town’s history, I headed over there and was surprised to see Bray Chandler in deep discussion with a dark-haired woman of about forty or so, their heads close together.

“Bray, how are you?” Even as the words were out of my mouth, I realized my mistake. They hadn’t been talking but caressing each other passionately.

Bray turned dark red as he recognized me. “Uh, not bad, Emma.” He pointedly didn’t introduce me to his companion, but that didn’t faze her in the least.

“This another one of yours, Bray?” she asked, giving me the once-over. Her glance was as frosty as her words.

“Uh, this is Emma Fielding. She’s an, uh, archaeologist—”

But his friend was having none of it. “Sure, Bray. And I’m Mary Queen of Scots. Save it for your wife.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the store. Bray followed, after glaring at me venomously. “Mind your own damn business,” he said to me over his shoulder.

I only said hello, I thought, and gave his back the rude, two-fingered salute I learned in England. Alice caught me doing it, and raised her eyebrows, but then repeated it herself as Bray slammed the book he’d been looking at on the counter right in front of her before following the other woman out of the store.

“What was all that about?” I asked, walking toward the counter.

“Apparently Bray’s peccadilloes are starting to pile up and I think Miss Thing thought you were the competition.”

I thought of his unkempt appearance and petulant personality and wrinkled my nose. “Trust me when I say absolutely not. Besides, he’s married.”

“Oh, yes, he is. Doesn’t slow him much down, though.”

Bucky joined us, putting her selection down on the counter. “Well, he must have solid gold boxer shorts, because I can’t see anything else attractive about him.”

Alice shrugged. “Never mind boxer shorts. Before I even considered sleeping with him, he’d have to have a solid gold—”

“What was he was looking at?” I asked hurriedly. I picked up the book, a used copy of a history of Stone Harbor by Reverend Joseph Tapley. “Are you saving this for him?”

“I thought of you, after I put it on the shelf, but Bray grabbed it before I could put it behind the counter. You want it?”

“You bet!”

“Let me get that.” Bucky checked out the penciled price on the flyleaf. “This will about cover my computerized pilfering.”

“Bucky, I shouldn’t have—”

She nodded. “And I shouldn’t have either. I got it, Em.”

“You got your Binge Card?” Alice asked me. “I can stamp it for you and give your sister the discount.”

“Great, thanks.” I handed my Book Bin Book Binge card to her and she stamped two more little books onto the already crowded space. Only three more spaces, and I’d get ten bucks off my next purchase, but I had to keep reminding myself it wasn’t like that ten bucks was free. Even if I kept Alice in rent every time I walked in there, I was still surprised that people only wanted money for books. Not body parts or firstborns or souls. Just money. It always seemed like a steal to me.

Detective Bader called later that afternoon. Brian handed me the phone, his lips tight, but he didn’t say anything. And
Bader wasn’t just calling to tell me when I could get back to work.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about something we found.”

I could feel my heart begin to pound. “Something near Aden’s body?”

Brian scowled and went back to his work. There was a long silence from the other end of the line.

“I can answer anything you like,” I said as neutrally as I could, “but it might be possible that I could help you a whole lot more if you tell me what you’re looking for.”

There was another brief pause before Bader reached his decision, and when he began to speak, I let my breath out as quietly as I could, not even aware I had been holding it.

“It was homicide.” Detective Bader’s voice was gruff, as if it was a compromise for giving me this information. “Aden Fiske was shot twice through the head, once at the base at close range, then another in the left temple, very close to the head to judge by the tattooing, the powder marks I could see on his neck. It was a smaller-caliber weapon than that used in Justin Fisher’s death. No brass was recovered, but it was definitely a different weapon than that used in the Fisher case.”

“Really.” I mulled that over. It seemed the two cases must be connected, somehow, but this made it more difficult.

“It was very cleanly done; perhaps he went willingly with his killer, perhaps he was unaware that anyone was behind him. There was no sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds, no disturbance to indicate a fight. We think that he was shot just about where you found him, sometime late yesterday, then loosely rolled up in the tarp. You saw for yourself that the killer didn’t take great pains to conceal the presence of the body. I think your tarp was just an afterthought for the killer, though I don’t know why he bothered.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If he was going to dump the body, there was no need for the tarp; he would have brought something. If the killer was sending someone a message, there would be no need for concealment.”

“Sending someone a message?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I realized he wasn’t talking about bread and butter notes on floral stationery. More than that, I wondered whether he was thinking that they were directing that message toward me.

“It has some of the characteristics of a contract killing, but there are problems. Like the attempt to hide the body—why bother? That’s unusual. The casings being cleaned up. Someone didn’t really know what they were doing.”

“But you think it was someone different than Justin’s killer?”

“Different weapon—probably at the bottom of the harbor, by now—and a different MO. A different lot of things. And there was something else.”

I held my breath again. He was telling me so much….

“Fiske’s keys and wallet were missing. They weren’t on him, they weren’t in his office. But his vehicle was still in the parking lot. He drove an old Ford pickup. Liked to pretend he was a gentleman farmer, but the truck was really more of a classic antique than a working vehicle.”

“Was his office disturbed?”

“I think so. You know that he was a neatnik. Well, now it looks a little less neat, more like a normal desk. Someone, probably the killer, was rifling it. Looking for something.”

“The Chandler House alarm didn’t go off that night?”

“No, but if it was never set, we wouldn’t expect it to. What it looks like was that Aden left his office under his own steam, and then the killer came back and did a thorough job
of looking for something. And then just walked out.”

“Looking for what?”

“I can’t say at the moment. Fiona Prowse thought that Aden had already arrived at the house the day you found him, so she didn’t think it was strange the alarm wasn’t on when she arrived at work.”

And she did make a point of asking me whether I’d seen Aden on the site, I recalled. “What was it that you found?”

“A copy of a piece of paper,” he said. “It looks old—the original was anyway. This copy was found crumpled up in Aden’s home office wastebasket. When I brought it to the lab, they gave it a once-over, told me what they knew, and then suggested I contact someone who knew about the Chandlers. And it was either someone at the Historical Society or….” He didn’t need to tell me why they weren’t on his go-to list.

“Or me.

“Right. Can you take a look at it for me?”

“Do you want me to come over now?”

“I’ll stop by the site Monday. You can take up your work by the side of the house again, then, if you feel up to it.”

“I’m up to it. I’ll check with the crew, but if they’re not up for it, I’ll be by anyway.”

“Fair enough.”

I was glad to know more about what was going on; it was just a relief, not that it did anything to inform me about what was happening at the Historical Society. Of course, Brian wasn’t going to be thrilled about this, but maybe if he could see it the way I did, that a closer relationship with the police was going to be in my best interest, he wouldn’t get too wound up about it. After all, it wasn’t as though I was looking for trouble, and helping the police was in everyone’s best interest.

I whistled the first few bars of the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony as I grabbed a broom and began to sweep the kitchen floor.

The next morning, I decided that the best way of starting off Brian’s birthday on an indulgent note would be to go to Wendy’s Bakery, way the heck over on the north side of Boxham-by-Sea. Crossing two towns might sound like a lot of trouble to go through on a Sunday morning, especially for a no-no like doughnuts, but then, you’ve never had a doughnut like these. They’re so tasty you could eat a dozen before you notice it and so fresh you’re not left with that greasy feeling around your lips all day, which makes for a deadly combination. I made sure that I would beat everyone else out of bed, and, fueled only by the delight that comes with doing something unexpected and nice, took off.

Wendy didn’t look as though she was very happy to be awake—her hennaed beehive hairdo was leaning off to one side, like a heavily shellacked Tower of Pisa—and I was careful not to let my own unusually good mood annoy her. There’s nothing worse than some bright, cheery thing in your face first thing in the morning when you’re up only by the grace of autopilot and your body’s still convinced you’ve got another hour left to sleep. She cast an evil eye at the teenyboppers in front of me—when did eighteen-year-olds get so young?—who were chattering away, one hundred and twenty beats a minute. I wondered who told them that sweatshirts and pajama bottoms made suitable daywear, and whether they really thought it was appropriate to leave the house with baseball caps on over their uncombed hair. Even I had combed my hair before donning my Red Sox cap.

When it was my turn, I ordered two baker’s dozens of the juiciest and a large cup of coffee for the ride home. The bags
in one arm, keys and the coffee in my hand, and a chocolate cruller stuck in my mouth, I elbowed the door open and almost bumped into the incoming patrons. The little do-si-do I had to do to get out of the way took me away from my car, but, overflowing with the virtue of doing good deeds so early in the morning, I waited patiently for the beleaguered unshaven father with a stroller and dog and two toddlers to get out of the way. It looked like Mom was having a morning to herself today, if she was lucky.

I glanced over to make sure I wouldn’t bump into anyone else, and a movement in a car caught my eye. A woman was leaning over and kissing someone in the driver’s seat. The driver she was kissing, I realized, was Fiona Prowse.

Well, it’s nice to know there’s someone in her life, I thought. Someone outside the Historical Society.

The kiss broke. Our eyes met. Hands still not free, I gave her a nod of my head and as much of a good-morning smile as I could around the cruller stuck in my mouth. It would be nice if for once the people from the Chandler House could see me when I wasn’t dirty or bending over or loaded down with equipment. Or doughnuts. I guess my first presentation and my talk at the family reunion would be their only chances to see me at my best, I thought as I juggled my way into my Civic.

I was concentrating on getting the bags settled in the passenger seat and my cruller out of my mouth before it broke, when I was started by a sharp rap on the window. Fee was there, red-faced, and I balanced the doughnut on top of the coffee lid as I rolled down my window.

“Morning, Fee. Sorry, I had my hands full back there. Wendy’s is great, isn’t it?”

Fee’s mind wasn’t on pastry, however. “You have to forget what you saw back there.”

“What I saw back where?”

She reddened further. “You know, just now. In the car.”

The penny dropped for me. “Oh…okay. Really? No problem, but….”

“I understand that young people nowadays are a little more casual…about such things, but I am not. I prefer things to stay…quiet.”

“Sure, Fee, fine.” But I was thinking to myself, if she hadn’t made anything of it, I wouldn’t have given it another thought. If she hadn’t been kissing someone in public, no one would be the wiser.

It was as though she’d read my mind. “Gracie is sometimes impulsive. That doesn’t change things for me, for either of us.”

I was starting to get irritated. “Fee, I already said I would keep it quiet, and I will.”

“See that you do.” She pursed her lips. “I take this very seriously. This is the sort of thing that could make a lot of trouble. For everyone involved.”