Cancelled by Murder (11 page)

Jules looked at his watch, then his phone, and grimaced. “I suppose we can do that.”

A short while ago I hadn't wanted anything to do with Jules Edwards or the finances of Daisy's Fabrics. Now here I was, making sure we got what we needed from him. In for a penny, I guessed.

We headed for the corner where a large matted, framed print dominated the wall space over a low credenza. S
UCCESS IS
was in large type. I couldn't read the tiny lettering that followed on the next line, which seemed to defeat the purpose of displaying the message, but perhaps the sepia image of a footbridge cutting through rather swampy land was meant to prevail over the words.

As I passed the two large windows, it occurred to me that this was the first time I'd been above the first floor of the town since I returned a year ago. I had everything I needed on the ground floor. I stopped for a moment to gaze across Main Street to Daisy's Fabrics to the right, and to the police station a block down to the left. As far as I could tell, Cliff had walked right by the views, not looking over at what was now solely his shop.

I wondered if the chief knew where I was right now. I'd find out soon enough, I was sure.

Jules spread his files across the conference table. Though a trolley against the back wall had the makings of coffee or tea, Jules offered neither. “Now, what would you like to know?” he asked, almost as a dare.

I'd expected Cliff to be a master interrogator. Hadn't he referred often to his training, so close to that of police officers? At the moment, faced with his accountant and a windstorm of financial data, he seemed dumbstruck, slunk low in his chair. Without his stiff uniform, in a loose
cardigan (and no badge), he looked much older than his fifty-something years. No wonder he'd asked me to sit in. My only choice was to step up.

“I imagine Cliff would like to know the bottom line, first,” I said. “Is the shop doing well, as far as its financial health goes?”

Cliff gave a pitiful nod. Jules laughed, an intimidating chuckle, as if my question was silly. “Define ‘healthy,'” he said.

As luck would have it, I was in one of my rare moods of Don't Tread on Me, from the days of the American Revolution. “I thought that would be your job,” I answered.

I felt Cliff's nervousness in the seat next to me, whether for my well-being or Jules's I couldn't have said.

“I suppose it is my job,” Jules said. “Let's just say that Daisy sometimes let her reach exceed her grasp and we have some debts to clear up.”

Cliff sat up straight. “Debts? What kind? To whom?”

A big, reassuring smile from Jules. “I told you, I'm taking care of everything, buddy. You have to give me a little time to sort things out.”

“But Daisy always assured me that we were doing well. We paid our bills and were mostly living off my salary. She was putting the profits from the shop into an account for our retirement.”

“Is that what she told you?”

Cliff shifted his body, nearly standing, then sitting down again. I thought he was going to speak, but he simply swallowed, cleared his throat, and glanced at me. A cue, I supposed.

“What are you telling us?” I asked.

Jules waved his hand at me, as if a gnat had spoken up midflight. He pulled on his long, thin chin and addressed Cliff. “Hey, I told you, don't worry, buddy. I'm handling it.”

Why didn't that ease my mind? I could tell by Cliff's fidgeting and his murmured “We were looking at a condo in Miami near Daisy's parents” that Jules's hand-waving, both literal and figurative, didn't help him much, either.

“You'll tell me if we're in trouble, right?” Cliff asked.

Jules reached across the table and patted Cliff's arm with the hand that was not resting on his phone. “Of course, of course. Trust me—I'm on top of it.” He checked his watch. “Listen, I'm expected at a dinner meeting with a big South Ashcot client. But hey, don't hesitate to give me a call if you have any further questions.”

Before we could respond, Jules was on his feet at the door. “You have my number, too, don't you, Cassie?”

“I do, and I promise to use it soon,” I said, with a smile that wasn't returned.

I nearly asked for the number of the nearest auditor.

*   *   *

Outside, Cliff blew out a big breath. He walked me to my car, in my usual downtown spot in the lot in front of the bank, which generously allowed public parking after hours, both in front and in its back lot. We stood talking, leaning on my fender. In the shadow of the police department.

“What do you think?” he asked me, jerking his head toward the second floor of the building we'd just exited.

“I think you need to get copies of everything and show them to another accountant.”

Another loud breath as Cliff's eyes widened, making me wish I hadn't been so blunt. “It's always a good idea to have a second opinion,” I said. “Let's sleep on it, okay? We can talk tomorrow.”

I couldn't think of a nicer way to separate myself from Cliff. I'd planned to walk over to Sunni's office, but I didn't want Cliff to know that. I didn't need any more prompting from him.

“You're probably right,” he said. “I feel like my head is going to explode with all there is to do.”

I knew what he meant. As careful as Aunt Tess had been to set her affairs in order before she died, I was still left with mountains of paperwork, phone calls, sorting, and transfers of this and that to deal with. At the time, I told myself I wanted to simply hide and grieve without letting anyone know where I was, but, in reality, the chores were distractions that were probably good for my mental health.

“I thought everything would be easier since we're going to have the service in Florida, but it's almost worse,” Cliff continued. “People keep calling, wanting to send flowers, or attend a service here. I know I should be grateful.”

Cliff's voice was choked and I felt another meltdown coming on.

“Why don't we have a simple memorial for Daisy in a couple of weeks? I'll take care of it, if you want. Just a gathering to honor what she meant to us and our town.”

“Would you do that?” he asked.

I nodded. “Now will you try to get some rest? I'll check
in with you soon,” I said. I took Cliff's arm, nudged him toward his car, three or four down from where we stood.

“Thanks, Cassie. I'm so lucky to have you on my side.”

I wasn't sure about that, but I smiled anyway and wondered if it was truly my voice I'd heard, offering to arrange a memorial service. It was something aboveboard, and well within my abilities, I told myself. I stayed by my car and watched as Cliff walked down the street to his black, official-looking SUV.

I needed some downtime before I was ready to face Sunni, so I walked across the street to Mahican's. I placed my cappuccino order, took a seat, and called Sunni to say I'd be at the station in a half hour. For all I knew she'd been tracking me since I left work, but I couldn't worry about that.

In fact, I was tired of sneaking around, always concerned about what she would think of what I was doing with respect to the investigation of Daisy's murder, always questioning whether or not I should tell her about what might be a lead or a clue or who might be a suspect, or even strange things that had come my way this week. That wasn't how friends should be with each other, I told myself.

It might have been the rich espresso and the frothy steamed-milk foam that gave me clarity. Or it might have been the sugary morning bun I couldn't resist, though I couldn't get the barista to tell me if it was this morning's or tomorrow morning's fare.

Then and there I came up with a proposal. I packed up my things and headed out the door. As I crossed the street to my car, I noticed the lights were out on the second floor.
I thought of the arrogant moneyman who worked there. I hoped Cliff would take my advice and get a second opinion on his finances.

I put that aside and focused on how to present my proposal to the chief of police. Would she think it was crazy? Or that I was crazy?

It was time to find out.

I
n the bank's parking lot once more, I heard a low-level commotion—an overlapping of adult voices. I stepped back to the sidewalk to check out the source of the noise.

Next door to the bank was Molly Boyd's beauty salon, From Head to Toe.
WE CAN DYE YOUR HAIR AND PAINT YOUR TOES AT THE SAME TIME
, a sign in the window boasted. The door to the salon opened and I saw Molly greet a group of eight or nine people who'd been waiting on the sidewalk, chatting but somewhat subdued. Hard as I tried, I couldn't make out what they were saying.

I thought it strange that the salon would be reopening, then noticed that the salon's front lights were out, but lights in the back were on. I recognized quilters Fran Rogers and Molly Boyd. Andrea Harris was there with her pro–farmers' market husband, Reggie, in a baseball cap. Others who joined the group included several men I didn't recognize
and a few more I did: Andrea's brother, Pete, whose hardware store was next to the salon; Jules (not surprising, holding a phone to his ear); and Fred Bateman, Quinn's boss at the antiques store.

The sight reminded me of brainteasers I'd seen: What do these people have in common? Or, who doesn't belong in this picture?

“Hey, Cassie.” Fred had stepped out of the group and greeted me.

“Looks like a high-level meeting is about to start,” I said.

Fred, in his sixties, I guessed, and usually as laid-back as you would expect of someone for whom a hundred-year-old hutch was “nearly new,” glanced over his shoulder at a couple of new arrivals and let out a skittish laugh. “Nah, we'll just be shooting the bull in the back room. Looks like your boyfriend is having quite a successful trip. I'm sure you've been in touch.”

Smooth transition, I thought, and played along, telling Fred that, yes, Quinn and I had Skyped often, and yes, I'd be glad when he was home.

More people straggled in, exiting cars in twos and threes; others came from both directions on Main Street. I saw Mike Forbes, who owned Mike's Bike Shop, and Dan Fuller, another bank worker. Curious as I was, I didn't know Fred well enough to make a point of querying him about the gathering. We said good-bye, the reason for the meeting in the salon having been buried under small talk.

I was left with my imagination, and came up with an illegal poker game on one end of the spectrum and a surprise party planning session for a milestone birthday on the other. It was a strange collection of townsfolk, including some
quilters, excluding others. Maybe they were designing a memorial service for Daisy. I hoped not, not without Cliff. Or me. But I had enough to worry about and focused on meeting Sunni.

*   *   *

The police department building was a redbrick Colonial, similar to the post office, except that it was two stories high, with a basement, and the interior hadn't been renovated for some time. The white trim on the exterior was badly in need of a touch-up also and the landscaping left much to be desired. I wondered if Sunni's no-nonsense political style and lack of wiles had anything to do with her quarters being low priority for the town budget.

Sunni was alone in the building when I knocked on her office door around seven thirty Friday evening.

“I hope you brought food,” she said, not raising her head from the files on her old oak desk.

“How does Thai chicken with cashew sauce sound?” I asked, lifting the container over my shoulder, waitress-style.

She looked up and I noticed dark circles under her eyes, her red hair falling out of her usually neat bun, her face almost as gray as her uniform shirt. “You wouldn't tease me about something like that, would you?”

I lowered the bag that contained my lunch, waving it slightly to release the aroma, proud that at the last minute before heading over here, I'd remembered that it was in my fridge and made a detour to my office. “It's the real thing,” I said, not bothering to mention that the meal came courtesy of Cliff Harmon.

“Hand it over. I can't talk until I've had something to eat.”

“That kind of day, huh?”

“Instant oatmeal goes only so far.”

I followed Sunni to the small, windowless break room at the other end of the building and set the round table with plastic utensils and napkins while she nuked the plate.

It wasn't like Sunni to whine at such length. She continued. “As if there weren't enough on my plate”—she pointed to the container spinning in the microwave—“and I don't mean this kind of plate. Ross will be leaving us in about a week.”

Reason enough to be cranky. “I'm sorry to hear that.” Officer Ross Little was a capable, likable young man and I knew Sunni would miss him. His departure would also reduce her staff to four officers, including herself. “Why is he leaving?”

“He got a better offer from the Springfield PD. I can't blame him. He's not really a small-town guy.” She smiled. “Maybe the last straw was his assignment to Girls' Hockey Day two years in a row.”

I wanted to ask why a murder investigation, now in progress, wasn't enough to hold the interest of a sworn officer of the law, but I thought it was too soon to bring up the Daisy Harmon case. The success of the idea I would be presenting depended a great deal on proper timing.

We took bottles of water from the fridge and sat with our dinner, most of which I dished out to my hardworking friend.

“This is delicious,” she said. “I'm really not in the mood for a restaurant. In fact, I hate stepping out of the office these days.”

I knew Sunni was referring to the press corps, small but
persistent, who followed her around at times like this. Even worse, the murder in North Ashcot had drawn reporters from surrounding towns as well. We gave thumbs-up to the Thai sauce and decided to visit the restaurant in person when things were more settled, whatever that meant.

I let Sunni go on about how she and her soon-to-be-reduced force of officers were stretched to the limit. She ticked off the issues. Bullying in the elementary school yard, requiring a new program of seminars and training for the teachers, as well as talks with the student body. A string of smash-and-grab robberies at a strip mall on the border with South Ashcot. A rash of Peeping Tom incidents in a neighborhood in the southeast corner of town.

“And, not that I don't love our citizens,” she said, “but our building is the go-to place for any kind of complaint. Your neighbor sprays your dog when he waters his lawn? A passerby left a candy wrapper on the sidewalk in front of your house? The parking meters are too close together? Tell the police.”

“People actually report these things?”

She nodded. “Sometimes they file a report, sometimes they just want to vent. We try to steer this kind of thing to a civilian volunteer, but most want someone in uniform to listen to them, taking up an officer's time.”

I tsk-tsked in sympathy, figuring that every problem she listed was an argument for my idea as the most logical course of action. Help was on the way, in the form of Cassie Miller, Postmaster and Sometime Sleuth, I thought, as Sunni went on.

“We also had a request from Brookside to help with their security. The storm ravaged their shopping district, landing
on them minutes after skirting our own Main Street. The storm hit them so much harder than it hit us.” She paused. “Well, not as hard in some ways. No one died there.”

Although Sunni seemed to give all items on her to-do list equal emphasis, it was clear from her drawn face and shaky voice that Daisy's death and its aftermath were weighing on her. “And, as if we needed one more little project, we have two Brookside men in custody in our jail, since the perimeter of their facility was compromised during the storm.”

I was ready to move in, convinced that the litany of Sunni's overload was the ideal setup for me to make my case. Especially since she opened the door, as the lawyers on TV said, to talking about Brookside.

“You know, they've closed the post office there,” I said. Casually, of course.

“I saw that as I drove by the other day. I thought I was on the wrong block for a minute. Then I figured they were remodeling. It's really gone?”

“It's a pet-grooming place now.” I tried to imbue the statement with as much of a heavy, dramatic tone as Ben had given it earlier.

“Sad,” Sunni said.

“Makes me realize I need to keep my options open and my résumé polished,” I said.

“Don't say that. They'd never close North Ashcot.” Said with such authority I decided to let it stand. “What's for dessert?” she asked, causing me to lose my nerve.

“Coming up,” I said, clearing away the trash from our meal.

“You're kidding.” Her eyes widened. “I was kidding.”

“No kidding. It's not much but”—I pulled out a package of two chocolate cupcakes that had been included with lunch—“better than fortune cookies, which would require our presence in a restaurant.”

Sunni seemed overly pleased by the poor excuse for dessert, and led the way to the more comfortable chairs in her office, around a small conference table. I quashed unpleasant memories of a similar arrangement in Jules's office earlier this evening. The packaged cupcakes were no match for those from our bakery, but washed down with excellent coffee from Sunni's superb top-of-the-line equipment, they weren't too bad.

“This is nice, Cassie. You know, I've never had a close friend. I mean, as an adult.” She took a bite of cupcake, a swig of coffee. “There's the quilting group, and I love that, but it's not the same as one-on-one.”

“With a job like this, you don't have a lot of free time. You're practically on call all the time,” I said.

“It's not only that, but also no one ever wants to hear what I do all day.” She chuckled. “I'm starting to sound like my undertaker brother-in-law in Maine.”

What did it say about me that I loved hearing what cops did? And undertakers. I didn't know one personally, but I had a feeling I'd find her or him fascinating. Much more exciting than the time I uncovered mail fraud when I found a teddy bear in a media-mail-only package.

“I'm surprised,” I said. “Don't people always want to hear cops talk about their adventures?”

“Like whose cat was in the tree and why did it take all day to get it down? Or, worse, as I just poured out all my woes on you?” She shook her head. “Nuh-uh. Sometimes a
case will capture their attention, but then I'm not at liberty to talk about it, am I?”

“Like with a murder,” I said.

“Exactly. I remember when I was working in a big-city department. Hartford PD. And at the end of the day one of my girlfriends would be complaining that the copy machine in her office was on the fritz. And I'd be thinking how I'd nearly gotten shot, stranded in an alley with a guy high out of his mind.”

“Wow,” I said, to keep her going.

“Yeah, this one time, my partner and I were stranded in the worst part of town. This was before GPS, and the bad guys knew we depended on street signs to call in our location. What they'd do is remove the signs in the neighborhood to make it almost impossible to get backup in the middle of a war zone.”

“Clever, when you think about it. But how awful for you.”

“You said it. But who's going to let me whine about how tough a cop's job is, like I'm doing now? Except you just did, so thanks.”

Another opening? If not now, when? It was the first I'd heard that she'd once worked in Connecticut and that she had a brother-in-law. Sunni was in a sharing, perhaps vulnerable mood. As her friend, I owed it to myself to take advantage of the situation and offer to help.

“My pleasure,” I said. I gazed up at the large framed portrait hanging on the wall over a file cabinet, of North Ashcot's first chief of police, one Joseph Lemuel Tanner. He seemed pleasant enough, encouraging me. “I have an idea,” I said. More like
croaked
.

“Oh?” Sunni sounded curious enough but didn't pause
in her nibbling at the edges of the decorative cupcake frosting. “Is this going to ruin a nice evening?”

Maybe she wasn't that vulnerable. I shook my head, though I wasn't sure. “What if I could help you?”

She spread her arms to encompass the table and the evidence of a meal shared. “You are helping. That's my point.”

“I mean really help. You have so much going on, and Ross is leaving in the middle of it,” I said, my palms sweating.

She smiled. So far, so good. “You want to replace Ross?”

“No, no, I'm just saying that there must be some way you can use me, temporarily, to help with the biggest case you have to deal with right now. You wouldn't have to pay me, of course.”

She ran her hand across her brow in a mock gesture of relief. “Whew.”

“I have a few things to offer,” I said, buoyed by the fact that she hadn't cut me off yet. Or pulled her gun on me. “Did you know that the postal service has an extensive investigative branch? Much of our inspectors' work is like police work. They have to sort through communications from all kinds of people. It could be a report from a supervisor, a lead from a suspicious customer or coworker—or a tip from a man on the street.” I threw up my hands, as if to surrender to a great truth. “It's truly detective work.”

“Did you work for that department? As an inspector?”

I cleared my throat. Why did I think Sunni might have let that little attempt at deception slip by? She was no longer hungry and she wasn't
that
tired. “No, but I've heard postal inspectors speak, and seen them in action.” Sunni laughed out loud this time, and I couldn't blame her. But I forged ahead. “I've been called to take over a post more than once
when an inspector has come to arrest a supervisor. I even had to testify a couple of times. I can't tell you the details of the cases, but—”

“Not exactly frontline action,” Sunni said.