Cancelled by Murder (10 page)

“Profiting because it's his land that the farmers would be using?”

Cliff shrugged. “That and other things not as aboveboard as renting or leasing agreements. It was sort of veiled, you know? Implying that he'd be taking a cut if he got the zoning through.”

Something didn't seem right. “What kind of payoff could Reggie expect from a group of farmers? Unless the price of beets has gone up astronomically, a cut, as you put it, wouldn't amount to much.”

“Maybe it wasn't just beets for sale.”

“Cliff, are you saying the farmers would be coming here selling—”

“I'm not saying anything.” He folded his arms across his wide chest. “I'm just trying to cover all bases, like I told you.”

I moved on, picking up the letter. “This is what Daisy wrote to the newspaper?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. Reggie gave it to me. It was never printed. Reggie and Gordon Brooks, the
Town Crier
's editor, are golf buddies, so Gordon showed it to Reggie.”

“And Reggie was obliging enough to offer you the letter Daisy wrote, disparaging him?”

“I might have bullied him a little,” he said, biting his lip. Sheepish?

I doubted the “little” part. After all, Cliff was a big man, trained in physical confrontation; Reggie was short and small framed, a little chunky, like his wife, Andrea. Cliff had a badge and, on some jobs, carried a gun. Even a little bullying would be enough to intimidate an ordinary citizen. But Reggie himself had a lot of clout, big developer that he was. He probably had muscle of his own. Or at least a couple of junkyard dogs.

I expected Cliff to give me a minute to read the letter for myself, but Cliff went on. “I can't believe Daisy wrote it. She usually would show something like that to me first, but not this time.” He scratched his head. “Never mind. I guess I can believe it. When she was passionate about something, she put everything into it.” Cliff choked up and I was afraid he was going to lose it again, but he took a deep breath and continued. “You can keep that copy and read it later. As I said, it was never printed. Gordon showed it to Reggie to give him a chance to write a response for the same issue if he wanted to.”

“Did Reggie respond?”

“He did write a letter, but then Daisy”—Cliff paused and swallowed—“died.”

“So neither letter was printed,” I finished.

“Right, but here's the problem. Reggie wouldn't show me his response letter.”

“Understandable,” I said. “It will never be printed anyway.”

Cliff's head snapped up. “But it's evidence, don't you see? You have to realize the farmers' market is just part of Reggie's big plan for the city. He's been touting it forever.”

I really did need to read local news before checking the
Boston scene, I realized. “What if he threatened to kill Daisy in that letter?” Cliff asked.

“He'd hardly advertise it to the public before the fact,” I said.

“You never know. Killers do crazy things.”

For some reason, I balked at the characterization of Daisy's killer as, well, a killer. Her murder seemed more of an accident, an argument gone very bad. Not part of the master plan of someone who'd done it before or would kill again. I was at least smart enough not to share this conjecture with Cliff.

The students were back to work now and I realized lunch hour was nearly over for me.

“I have to open the office, Cliff,” I said. “Can we talk later?”

“Yeah, sorry. I kind of lose track of time.” He gathered his things, stuffing papers into his folder. “I'm going to follow up on this letter, try to get at what Reggie's answer was. Maybe I'll go see Gordon at the paper.”

And bully him? I wondered. “Have you thought of taking the issue to the police?”

He laughed, the first time this week in my presence. So what if it was close to a sneer? “If you don't think the letter is that important, how do you think your friend at the station will feel?”

I started to defend myself and Sunni: He'd misquoted me; mislabeled Sunni, as if she were my friend only, and not the chief law enforcer in the town, as fair and honest as anyone could want in the police department; and he'd more or less accused her of going by her feelings, not the facts of the case. He called Reggie's letter of response potential
evidence; on the other hand, he wouldn't trust those whose job it was to process evidence. I looked at Cliff's face—sad, determined—and I saw that there was no point in further discussion.

I tucked Daisy's letter in my purse and stood to leave. I'd been picking at my lunch on and off, but most of it was left in the box. I closed the lid, planning to put the meal in the fridge. I wondered if the food would still be there at the end of the day.

“We need to talk about getting alibis from everyone,” Cliff said, walking me to the door.

I took a deep breath, holding back frustration at Cliff's unwillingness to trust Sunni and her force to do their jobs.

“Good point,” I said. “Let's check in later.”

“I'll see you this evening, right? Jules texted that six o'clock will work for him. His office.”

I took Jules's address from Cliff and let him out through the front lobby doors. I welcomed the customers already in line, accompanied by a cool breeze that had a whiff of the fall to come. I was happy to see people who needed me for what I was good at: post office business.

T
raffic in the lobby was slow for a Friday afternoon. Many businesses had a regular Friday post office stop and people in general wanted to get mail out before the weekend. But today the weather was more conducive to an early getaway to a beach. When Ben stopped by after lunch and offered to take the counter, I felt comfortable abandoning my spot to him.

“You probably have a lot of paperwork to catch up on,” he said, his blue eyes watery. His way of not admitting that he was bored and looking forward to some interaction of the postal service kind.

When I was first back in North Ashcot, I sometimes took Ben's frequent appearances in the office as a sign that he didn't trust me in the job. I soon realized that, while that might have been a small part of his motive, it was mostly
about his need to be productive and useful. It didn't take long for me to acknowledge how lucky I was to have him. Our occasional disagreements about protocol weren't much of a price to pay for having such a great and willing resource on hand.

Today, I dragged my desk chair to a corner by the side door, out of sight and hearing of the activity as the line of customers moved along, tended to by their former postmaster and friend. I let Ben think what he wanted about my paperwork; I had some non-USPS business to take care of.

No sooner had I sat down, a mug of coffee at hand, than my cell phone rang.

Sunni. Perfect timing.
Not.
I'd hoped to have time to process the meeting I'd just finished with Cliff. I wanted to read Daisy's letter and to figure a way to be invited into the investigation by Sunni herself. I could let my phone ring. Sunni used my cell number when she knew I'd be at work and might not answer. She also sometimes used it when she was outside my door or across the street to get my attention. Better not take that chance.

I slid my phone on and accepted the call.

“How's it going?” Sunni asked.

“It's a little slow this afternoon. Ben stopped in for a retail fix, so I'm off the counter.”
In case you're out there in my lobby, looking in. See, I'm telling the truth.

“That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

Uh-oh. She sounded only half teasing. Was she still following me? Had she seen me having lunch with Cliff? Probably. Maybe I could smooth things over by offering her Thai chicken.

“We should talk,” I said.

“Definitely. I might actually get a dinner hour tonight. Are you free?”

“I have a meeting at six,” I said, choosing not to share the details of my arrangement to accompany Cliff to his accountant's office.

“With whom?”

Of course she'd ask. “Is this an official interrogation?”

Big sigh. “Not yet. What if I meet you afterward? Give me a call when you're done with the meeting I can't know about.”

“Okay,” I said, but the chief of police had already clicked off.

I swiveled around and caught a look at Ben, moderately busy. I had time for one more interaction, one that would be hassle free. I texted Quinn.

Where are u?

Heading for Keene.

He was in New Hampshire. On his way home.
Going well?

So well that I may have to rent small trailer. Anything new?

Waiting for you.

Me too. Heading home early as poss Sunday. Skype tonight?

Definitely.

I smiled, my thoughts on Quinn, my gaze at the wall in front of me, next to the side door. A new poster collage commemorating five celebrity chefs smiled back and I felt all was not dark and heavy in my world. I took another minute to go through personal mail for the first time since yesterday when the
do your job
edict had come through. At one point I'd considered Sunni might be the author of the note. It certainly represented her sentiments—except for the
go home
part, I hoped. But Sunni was not the kind of person to attack from the side. If she had something to tell me, she would. And did. Often.

When I finished the pile of mail on my lap without incident, I felt my shoulders relax.

I remembered another letter I'd received today. I fished the letter Cliff had given me from my purse. Daisy's unpublished Letter to the Editor for the
Town Crier.

Cliff had summed it up correctly. Daisy hadn't pulled any punches in expressing her opinion. I zeroed in on the most pointed paragraph.

Does anyone really think that Mr. Harris is working for the good of the citizens of North Ashcot? Never mind the overwhelming competition especially the new crafters will present to us small business people. We should also be worried about how Mr. Harris is lining his own pockets with kickback. And think about it. Where could that kickback money come from? Are his farmers selling only Brussels sprouts and crab apples? I think not.

Daisy had barely stopped short of accusing the farmers of selling illegal substances and Reggie Harris of
sponsoring their activities. I couldn't help wondering if this was Daisy off on some wild imaginings, or if she had evidence to back up her claim.

Even more threatening was Daisy's closing.

Mr. Harris and Mrs. Harris have profited greatly from our town. They live on the most expensive property and enjoy the perks of the wealthy. They may seem invincible, but remember the old saying: The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

It hadn't occurred to me to think of Andrea Harris as more than a member of our quilt group and a hard worker. She helped her brother, Pete, in his hardware store and I'd heard she also managed affairs at the Harris construction offices. I remember being surprised to learn that the offices were a set of trailers on the outskirts of town, not exactly high-rises in the heart of a city, as Boston developers could boast.

Maybe Daisy knew something we didn't. Or she was wrong. Either way, Daisy was no longer with us and that made me sad.

*   *   *

When business started to pick up around two thirty, I left my desk to work the counter with Ben. Our conversation between customers shouldn't have surprised me.

“You're sure spending a lot of time with Cliff Harmon,” Ben said, straightening the bills in the cash drawer.

Only a parent could get away with that kind of talk, I thought, and gave Ben temporary status as a dad.

“Not you, too,” I answered, using my temporary status as a teenager. “How do you even know? We haven't gone to a restaurant or anything like that.”

A customer arrived and we both put on smiles and carried out the transaction together, Ben lifting the heavy box onto a dolly.

Alone again, Ben spelled out for me the chain of communication that fed his need to keep tabs on his friends and neighbors.

“The kid who mows my lawn, Kevin, has been helping out in the community room for a few days,” he explained. “I've known his mother for years. It turns out she picked him up a couple of times and saw you two back there. Then I met her at the gas station and she mentioned it.” He paused for a smile. “Don't you love small towns?”

“Is that why you came by today, to quiz me?”

Ben grinned, continuing his self-imposed task of tidying the cash drawer. “It's just a side benefit.”

With the ebb and flow of customers, Ben was able to sneak in a few gibes and a few probing questions, and I was able to skirt them all.

And yes, I did love small towns. Just not today.

*   *   *

Jules Edwards ran his accounting business from an office suite above the hardware store on Main Street, in the thick of things, or as thick as they got in downtown North Ashcot. A separate entrance led to a small, well-maintained lobby and a flight of stairs to the second floor of the two-story building. Jules shared the floor with a counseling group on
one end of the hallway and a family trust lawyer on the other. All offices were dark at the moment.

Though I was ten minutes early, Cliff was waiting, sitting outside Jules's locked office. The nicely polished mahogany bench reminded me of the kind of furniture in Ashcot's Attic, Quinn's antiques shop. A few more hours, I told myself, and I'd see Quinn's face, if only on my laptop screen. Cliff had offered to pick me up for this meeting, but I wanted the freedom having my own car would bring. Besides, I didn't need another dozen or so of North Ashcot's citizens taking notes as they saw Cliff and me riding around town together.

Cliff stood when he saw me, his arms full of folders. He extracted a fresh pad of yellow lined paper from the stack and handed it to me with “In case you need to take notes.” I thanked him, assured him I had a pen, and took a seat on the bench.

Cliff checked his watch. “It's not quite six yet,” he said. “I thought he'd be here, though, you know, still putting in his day's work.”

“Maybe he's meeting with clients in the field,” I offered.

“True, he often came to the shop if Daisy couldn't get away.” He shuffled through the folders on his lap. “I went to see Gordon at the
Crier
. He wouldn't give me any clue about how Reggie responded to Daisy's letter. The one I gave you a copy of.”

I nodded. I knew which letter he'd meant.

“I feel like going back and searching his office,” Cliff continued. “I'm sure he has a copy somewhere.”

I imagined Cliff putting on his uniform, muscling his
way into the newspaper offices at night with a flashlight between his teeth, lock picks in his hands. He'd also probably be wearing a hoodie.

“Wait,” he said. “Here's an idea.” I shuddered, but let him go on. “I'll bet Sunni doesn't know about either Daisy's letter or Reggie's response, since nothing came of either one as far as the public is concerned. We could show her Daisy's letter. Then she could ask Reggie for his response and he'd have to produce it.”

“Don't you think Reggie has destroyed that letter by now? I would have.”

“I suppose. But he'd have to admit he wrote a response. He couldn't lie to a cop.” He lowered his voice. “Can't you just give it a shot?”

“Me?” I asked, though I wasn't exactly shocked.

“I could tell her, but she already doesn't want to see me. You're her friend,” he said.

For now, I thought.

*   *   *

About twenty minutes later, the three of us stood outside Jules's office. He'd been a few minutes late, dressed in what passed as business attire in our town—newish jeans and a sport coat—rattling off apologies as he unlocked his door.

“I was actually with Molly Boyd, going over accounts for her salon,” he said. “She had some kind of setback with her foot and can't get around very well.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that. And what a freak accident,” I said, seizing the opportunity. “I heard she tripped over her cat during the storm?”

Jules shook his head, in the office now, headed for his
desk, his phone in his hand. One-fingered texting? Jules fit right in with a generation at least one behind him. Cliff and I followed close behind him as he took a seat. “Molly's cat . . .” He turned his sentence into a cough. “Right, excuse me. Yeah, she tripped over the cat. Bad news.”

Too late, I thought; that's the peril of multitasking. I had no idea why Jules would cover for Molly, or why I continued to pursue the real cause of her injured ankle as if it mattered.

Jules took his seat behind an enormous, highly polished executive-style desk; we took chairs in front. I glanced at my reflection in the surface. Real cherrywood or a finish? Quinn would know, but I couldn't tell. Before meeting Quinn, I wouldn't even have thought of the question. I also wondered how they'd managed to get the desk up the narrow stairway and through the office door.

I marveled at how all of Jules's accessories matched, with cherrywood (real or faux) bases for his stapler, clips, tape, pencils, organizer, and bookends. None of my homes or office spaces had ever been so coordinated. I relied on the “messy desk, clear mind” saying and what Linda called my dorm room décor.

Except for the cherrywood, the office was furnished with what looked like the latest in high-tech equipment. The side wall was lined with electronics. Printer, scanner, copier, fax machine, and one fancy piece of equipment, cubical in shape, that I didn't recognize.

“That's a three-D printer,” Jules said, following my gaze. “They'll probably come down in price, but you know me, early adopter and all.”

“What's it good for?” Cliff asked.

Jules laughed, as if he'd expected just such a question. He picked up two chess pieces, a blue pawn and a yellow rook. “Here are my latest creations. I hope to graduate to something more useful soon.”

Cliff shook his head, clearly not impressed.

“We should get started,” Jules said, pulling a file from a drawer. He opened it, ready to get down to the meeting agenda. “As I told you, Cliff, there's no need for you to take on any additional burden for the financial workings of the shop. I'm assuming you're planning to keep it going?”

“For now, yes,” Cliff said.

I hoped that Jules had already offered Cliff some measure of sympathy before this meeting, which was to be all business, apparently. He spread out an array of forms, facing us. “As you can see,” he said, “the last reporting was at the end of July.” He jabbed his finger at the bottom of each sheet. “And Daisy signed off. So we're good to go until the end of this month. In fact, if you need to take a couple of months to get adjusted, don't even worry about all this.”

Jules picked up his phone, which he'd kept at his fingertips, suggesting that he was finished with the meeting, that in his mind, he'd explained whatever needed explaining, and was ready for the next interaction, via smartphone. I surprised Cliff and even myself by prolonging things.

“Actually, we can't see,” I said, with a chuckle. I pointed to the corner of the office where there was a small round conference table and chairs. “Can we sit over there so we can all get a good look? I'm not that used to spreadsheets.”