Cancelled by Murder (16 page)

“I think I have a few of those,” I said, already planning to weed them out of my stash.

We chatted for a few minutes about the upcoming Henry Knox Parade and other festivities, which had been taking a backseat to a murder investigation in the minds of our citizens. It was a lot for a little town to handle. The parade was scheduled for Saturday, a week from today. Would the selectmen cancel it? Would we go ahead with the plans but have a moment of silence for Daisy? Would there be another storm, as predicted? We were both looking forward to the display of quilts (Fran's included) that would be part of the weekend celebration.

Much to my relief, Fran and I parted friends. I wondered how soon I could come back and assume the role of investigator again.

*   *   *

I used my hands-free link in my car to answer a call from Cliff on the way home. Of course, he wanted an update on
my progress, and I regretted that all I had were innuendoes that he himself had motive to kill his wife. Was it my place to tell him that? I decided against it. I did want to ask what he really thought of Daisy's aggressive interaction with the farmers' market proposal, but having to yell at my dashboard to be heard on the car's system wasn't the ideal setup for that conversation.

“I just heard from Dr. Wilson,” Cliff said. “He's ready to release Daisy's body, so there's nothing standing in the way now. I can finally take her to her parents in Miami.”

“I'm sure they're very relieved,” I said. “When are you leaving?” It was up to Sunni to let him know if she felt she needed him in town until Daisy's killer was found. Or for more questioning.

“As soon as I can get the funds together. In a day or so, I hope. You wouldn't believe what it costs to transport a . . .” Cliff paused. I thought I'd lost him, then heard him whisper, “A person who's deceased. You have mortuary costs at both ends, plus the airlines. It turns out, like, about ten times the amount for an ordinary flight. I need to talk to Jules to see what's the best way to get the money together, but I can't reach him. He's not answering either of his phones. I hope I don't have to wait until Monday till someone's in his office. I'll let you know.”

A call from Sunni to me interrupted us and Cliff rang off with a promise to touch base with me before he left for Florida. I clicked over to Sunni, feeling as if I'd been caught not doing the homework assigned by two teachers. It didn't help when I heard her first question.

“How come you cancelled the pickup from Ross this morning?”

I hated to admit to her that I couldn't find Nasty Letter Number One. “It's probably because I was in a hurry. I'm going back to check again,” I said, coming up with the idea on the spot. It was possible that I had missed it, I told myself. Strictly speaking, I wasn't lying.

“How about I stop by this evening and get a report on your day?” she asked.

“And you show me yours,” I said, a weak chuckle following my inane remark.

“See you around seven,” she said, and hung up.

I realized what a mess my so-called investigation was. I couldn't even keep the terms of the reasonable deal Sunni had made with me. I'd lost a threatening note; I'd neglected to tell her about my car break-in, as well as my theory about the premeeting crowd that I'd witnessed in front of Molly's salon. So what if none of these things was in a direct line with the investigation? I remembered hearing someone—probably a TV cop, but they were smart, too—say that, in a homicide, everything matters.

I hadn't even talked to all the quilting ladies.

I checked my watch. Barely midafternoon. There was still time to pull the day out of the loss column. I could start with Liv in the card shop, and move on to Molly, who was sure to be in the salon today. The worst that could happen would be that I'd stock up on birthday cards for the year and, so that Linda would be proud of me, spring for a mani-pedi.

I turned onto Hawthorne Street and realized I made a wrong turn somewhere between Fran's house and a construction detour I'd been forced to take. Talking while driving, even on a hands-free link, had its disadvantages. After my
mental ridiculing of Ross, it turned out I wasn't above using a North Ashcot street map.

I pulled over to the curb and reached into my glove compartment. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a car slow down, then pass me. I could have sworn it was Ross. In fact, I knew it was Ross. Another coincidence, or was he following me? I made a mental note to take Quinn up on his offer to install an updated GPS in my old car.

What if Sunni considered me a suspect in Daisy's murder and had set me loose while ordering her deputy to keep track of me? I could think of nothing more uncool. Or maybe Ross was acting on his own. He might even be leaving the NAPD because of me, preferring to work for a police department that did its own homicide investigations and didn't engage personal friends of his boss.

My perspiration level rose by the minute as I considered these possibilities, finally settling on the most convenient choice: coincidence. I had work to do.

I checked the map and made a U-turn that would ultimately bring me to the business district on Main Street. I drove off. No more wild ideas about being stalked or tailed, I told myself. There was nothing to worry about. Unless Officer Ross Little showed up for a dye job at Molly's salon.

I
parked in the lot behind the bank again, in part to avoid walking in front of Daisy's Fabrics. From the steady stream of pedestrian shoppers in the area, all seeming indifferent to their surroundings, no one would know that the small house-turned-shop had been a crime scene earlier in the week. I knew it would take me a long time to achieve that level of detachment.

I crossed Main Street and entered Liv Patterson's card shop on the corner, which was comfortably air-conditioned and not very crowded for a Saturday afternoon. It was still pool weather, typically hot and humid for late August, and I imagined families gathered at various public and private watering holes in town. I'd gotten used to being near the ocean all those years living in Boston and, as a result, had passed on swimming during my year back inland. It wasn't the same without the tides and the waves and sandy beaches.

I waved to Liv, who was helping a customer choose an engagement book among the colorful options, and started down one of the card aisles. It had been a while since I'd bought a formal card for any occasion. I still drew from my large supply of note cards from Boston's many museum shops.

I was amazed at the different headings on the racks; many categories had been added since my last look. Now you could buy cards for pets; for all members of blended families; in foreign languages; and with a range of religious messages. I opened cards that played music, and cards for holidays I'd never heard of. National Hug Day, National Newspaper Carrier Day, National Cookie Day. And I was just in time for National Trail Mix Day at the end of the month.

I wondered why Liv was so upset that the fabric shop next door was carrying a few handmade cards from local crafters; surely Daisy wasn't trying to compete with this array.

Since there was no card labeled “From Mid-Thirties Woman to Boyfriend, Dating for About a Year,” I chose an innocuous birthday card for Quinn, one very masculine with just the items Fran had offered to quilt for me. On the cover, an antique lamp with a bronze base and a dark green shade sat on a stack of old books, each volume with illegible but attractive gold lettering. Inside, a simple birthday greeting was spelled out in plain font.

On the way to the counter, where Liv was now alone straightening packages of tissue paper, I passed an aisle of small gift books, most of which offered inspiration or quick
solutions—ten ways to do this or seven ways to stop doing that. On display behind Liv was one of her own quilted wall hangings. A colorful four-by-six-foot piece featuring images of summer, fall, winter, and spring. Meant to remind customers that there were cards and gifts for all seasons, I presumed.

“I remember when you were putting the finishing touches on that beautiful hanging,” I said, stepping up to the register with my purchases. I'd picked up a small ceramic replica of the Duxbury Pier Light for Linda, who collected lighthouse tchotchkes.

“Hi, Cassie,” Liv said, coolly, I thought. “It's been a while since I've seen you in here.”

“I don't have much of a list for card giving,” I said. I held back on assuring her that it wasn't because I'd been buying my cards at Daisy's.

“And you just happen to have a need today?”

I told her about Quinn's birthday and handed her the card I'd chosen.

Liv shifted her short, stocky body to reach the scanner and ran the card, and then the lighthouse, under its red beam. “For your information, by the way, on the day that Daisy died I was in South Ashcot, checking on my mom. She lives alone and I needed to be sure she was okay in the storm. I also stopped in at her next-door neighbor's, another widow, and helped with her shutters. I'm sure she, too, would be glad to vouch for my whereabouts.”

Uh-oh.
Apparently, word had gotten out. I felt my law enforcement career slipping away before it started.

“Okay, I—” I stammered, catching my breath.

“If you want, I can call Molly over here right now and make it easier on you. You won't have to cross the street to the salon. You can quiz her on that broken ankle. Oh, and did you plan to interrogate Pete in the hardware store also? I could ask him to come join us. Or is it just quilters whom you suspect of murder?”

“Liv, will you let me explain?”

“No need. It's all pretty clear. You come back to town and feel like your big-city life entitles you to lord it over those of us who have stuck it out and tried to make something of this town. You think you're smarter, so righteous. Doing us all a favor by coming back.”

“That's not true, Liv. I wish—”

“Would you like your receipt in the bag?” she asked, cutting me off again, dropping my lighthouse and card in a bag. The
thunk
they made as they hit the counter told me she was finished with me. No room for discussion.

“Thank you. That will be fine,” I said.

I turned and walked out the door, red-faced, figuratively if not literally. Another bust. I hadn't even gotten to the part where I'd ask simply if Liv had any insight into who might have been upset enough with Daisy to have killed her. The only tidbit I'd gotten was a reminder to look into Molly's broken ankle. Unless Molly was ready for me, too.

I hurried to my car, parked behind the bank, now next to a beige sedan with a driver asleep at the wheel. It couldn't be. But it was. Ross's forehead touched the top of the shiny brown steering wheel, his breath coming out in soft snores.

For some reason, I decided to wake him. Maybe because I needed to put someone else through an embarrassing
moment like the one I'd just had. Perverse, I admitted, and not my proudest moment. I touched Ross on the shoulder. He jumped, his elbow landing on the horn. A quick blast, in case anyone else in the vicinity was trying to catch a few z's.

“Cassie. Wow. I guess I was asleep.”

“Ross, what are you doing here? Is there some reason you've been shadowing me?”

Ross rubbed his eyes, shook his head. All the motions I went through at six in the morning. “Sunni asked me to,” he blurted out.

I congratulated myself on choosing just the right moment to confront him, between sleep and wakefulness, catching him off guard. “She sent you to follow me around?”

He nodded, cleared his throat. “We heard about how stuff was stolen from your car and you didn't tell us.”

“How did you hear about that?” As soon as I asked, I realized who had to have been the leak. The only one I'd told. “Cliff,” I said.

He shrugged and I took it as a yes. “So Sunni figured the first threatening note must have been stolen also, and that's why you cancelled my pickup,” he said.

“That's it? That calls for a police escort?”

“Plus, Cliff's going to be leaving town for Florida and he was worried about you being here alone. You know, security guards, they like to think they're police.”

Which meant that Cliff had also been following me around? Which meant that instead of an aide to this investigation, I'd been a burden on several people. And insulted the others.

“Thanks, Ross, but I don't think I'm in any danger.”

“Still have to do my job.” He sat up straighter, scratched his head. “Say, Cassie, do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“About the nodding off.”

“Don't worry; I won't tell your boss.”

Ross let out an appreciative sigh. “The chief doesn't know this, but my captain-to-be in Springfield asked me to start a little early and take a couple of night shifts for him. I guess he's running a couple of guys low.”

“That's a pretty long commute.”

“Yeah, over an hour, even in the middle of the night with no traffic, but I felt I had to do it. Good first impression, you know. I've leased an apartment there, starting the first of the month, but until then, I'm putting on the miles.” He let out an exhausted sigh, bordering on a groan. “I'm beat.”

Poor Ross. I promised I wouldn't rat on him, as he'd put it. And he promised that though he had no intention of leaving me on my own, he wouldn't intrude on my personal life. I figured, in an emergency, a sleeping Ross was better than no Ross at all.

I was left with the fact that even sleep-deprived, short-timer Ross was more use to the North Ashcot chief of police than I was.

*   *   *

In spite of Liv's mockery, I decided to take my chances with Molly Boyd. Maybe Liv was only faking it when she implied that Molly (and the whole town) knew what I was about. I crossed the street and entered Molly's salon.

My nostrils were accosted by chemicals. It had been a while since I'd visited, as anyone with a keen eye for coiffure
could tell you, and I'd forgotten what goes into the simple act of covering one's gray or trying a different color.

“Yeah, that's what I said. Red, white, and blue,” I heard a young woman say to the beautician standing behind her.

“For the parade,” the beautician said. “Great idea. Let's see what we can do.”

Molly was in the middle of a serious project, tending to a woman whom I might have recognized if her head hadn't been covered with small pieces of foil and a host of hair clips, all nestled in foam. When Molly looked up and caught my eye, I expected to be ushered out without ceremony. Instead, I saw a smile, as if she were glad to see me. Could that be?

I stood in the center of the salon, surrounded by larger-than-life posters of the world's most beautiful hair, accompanied by the faces of women of all ages, while Molly removed her black apron and called out for assistance.

“I'll take it from here.” A woman much younger than Molly's fifty-plus years stepped from behind a partition, part cloth, part plastic.

I hoped she was up to the major overhaul in process.

Molly thanked her and addressed me. “Cassie, come in back with me for a minute.”

I walked down a short hallway, passing noisy blow dryers, a row of sinks, and a washer and dryer set, both in operation. Behind the curtain was a small area that served as a break room. I noticed their coffee equipment was nothing like the high-end brewing system I'd enjoyed in Sunni's office.

Molly pointed to an orange molded plastic chair, like the ones in front of the sinks that lined the hallway. “Have a
seat.” I followed her direction while she lowered her wide body onto a green chair of the same style. “I've been wanting to talk to you, Cassie.”

Really? Was this a trap? Had Liv warned her and cooked up a way to trick me? Or worse? The break room had nothing more lethal than a few butter knives, but out there in the salon were enough instruments of torture for an army. I could be sprayed with a poisonous hair product or held down while my head was shaved with an efficient electric razor. I had a wild vision where all the women with black aprons were lined up for a curling-iron-burning contest with me as target.

“Cassie?” Molly repeated.

My hands clutched my purse under the table and I half stood to leave, the victim of my imagination. “I can see how busy you are,” I stammered, forgetting that I was the one who came into her shop with a mission.

“No, no, don't worry about it. Everything's under control. I have my whole staff here on Saturdays. A bridal party is coming in later for an evening wedding, but we're all ready for them. Six girls and six boys. Gosh, isn't that a lot of attendants? We're doing the boys, too. And I've known the bride since she was in grade school. Sure makes me feel old.”

Molly was even better at stalling than I was. I was sure she didn't intend to have this catch-up session, but I was too anxious, wondering what was up, to mess with the peaceful conversation. I stayed silent, except for nuh-uhs (“Can you imagine such a huge wedding party?”) and uh-huhs (“Doesn't time fly?”), until Molly took a big breath, expanding her bosom, and got to her agenda.

“Cassie, I know you're helping Chief Smargon with the
case. With Daisy's case. And I want her killer found as much as anyone and I've been so afraid to approach the chief.”

Molly got up, still limping slightly, and poured herself a cup of coffee, holding it up in a silent offer to serve me a drink.

I shook my head. The coffee smelled almost as bad as the chemicals in the next room. “Do you have information that will be useful in the investigation?”

“Not really. Well, maybe.” She took her seat again. The green chair creaked. “The fact is that Daisy and I had a bad fight that day. The day of the storm.” Molly pulled threads from a white towel that was stained with what I hoped was red hair dye and not anything more organic.

I thought back to our last quilting session on Tuesday night and the argument that had started when Liv insulted Andrea Harris's taste in fabric. A pink hippopotamus came to mind. Andrea had countered by accusing Liv of having a motive to eliminate Daisy, her competitor in greeting card sales, and Liv had shot back with references to the public discord between Daisy and the Harrises' farmers' market proposal.

As far as I recalled, Molly had stayed neutral, serving up her special raspberry-bedecked cheesecake. She'd also come up with her first story about her broken ankle.

“Your broken ankle was from the fight with Daisy,” I said now. “Not from tripping over your Adirondack chair or your cat.” I felt more confident now that things were falling into place, although on a very small scale.

“I feel awful about those ankle stories.” She leaned over and ran her finger around the top of the blue brace that ended low on her calf, as if to loosen it. “I don't know what got
into me. I'm really not a liar. That's what I wanted to tell the chief. Not about the ankle, but about that morning. Liv asked me to talk to Daisy, to try to get her to see Liv's point of view, how it looked like Daisy was encroaching on her turf. Daisy and I were close, you know. She was almost like my daughter, and Liv's my friend, too. I thought I could bring them together.”