Cancelled by Murder (19 page)

“His home, too,” Cliff said. “Same as his office. I'd swear he's not coming back. I'll bet they won't even get fingerprints.”

“You realize how much you've compromised the investigation. Any defense lawyer will say you went in to plant evidence.”

“Not if they don't know. And you won't be on the spot—don't worry. I'll just deny it, and deny that I told you. If it comes to that. Besides, it was all useless, since there was nothing in either place that told me where Jules was headed. I'm counting on the police to check airlines and bus stations and all. Do you think they will? I'm sure it's too late to set up a roadblock.”

“I'm confident our police will be on it. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“I hit up a friend who owed me a favor and pulled together enough for the trip. The last thing I want is to keep
Daisy's parents waiting.” He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “I'm really not looking forward to seeing them.”

“Don't you get along with them?”

“Oh yeah, they're great people. Her dad is ex-military and he has some great stories. But, you know, their only daughter is dead and—”

And you're not, I thought. I knew how that felt. “Cliff, no one expects a spouse, even one who's in security, to be present and on the watch every minute. Someone took advantage of Daisy's vulnerability during a storm. He's the one who's guilty. There's no way you could have prevented that.”

He shook his head, as if he didn't believe a word I said. Was anyone exempt from feelings of guilt when a loved one died? I knew from a nurse friend in Boston that medically trained people felt this way when someone close to them died, no matter the cause. She admitted that there was always that nagging doubt that they didn't do what they should have to save them. Now before me was a member of law enforcement who felt the same inadequacy.

“Yeah, okay,” Cliff said, though I knew it wasn't okay, and wouldn't be for a long time. “Anyway, I got a seat on a red-eye.” He checked his watch. “I'll be heading for the airport in about a half hour. I'm counting on you to keep the investigation alive while I'm gone, Cassie.”

“I'll do my best.” What else could I say that wouldn't bring him further down?

*   *   *

A good-night chat with Quinn calmed me down enough to fall asleep the same day I got up, a feat these days. But the dream state didn't last long.

My phone startled me awake.

“I thought you'd want to know right away,” Sunni said.

“What happened?”

“Something turned up in our search. If you're not half-asleep, I'll stop by on my way home now and tell you more.”

“I'm wide-awake.”

And a quick cup of coffee later, I was. Wide-awake, in my living room, waiting for my doorbell to ring.

*   *   *

I switched on my porch light and waited for my late-night guest, realizing that Sunni hadn't said much about what they'd found. Just “something.” I'd assumed that by “search,” she'd meant Jules's home and office. Where had the “something” been found? And what was it? She hadn't given me a clue.

Maybe she figured a phone line wasn't secure enough for passing on police information. I was pleased that she'd want to share the information with me immediately. That would do for now.

I settled in with old
Boston Globe
newspapers with unfinished jumbles and other word games. I'd long since abandoned the idea of keeping up with the Back Bay social scene. The sound of a car in my driveway interrupted me.

I popped up and held the door as Sunni climbed the stairs to my porch. She was still wearing her uniform, which I'd find unbearable. As much as I loved and was proud of my red, white, and blue outfit, I couldn't wait to get into my jeans and tees or sweatshirt when I left the post office.

Sunni headed straight for her favorite rocker and accepted a cup of coffee. She let out a satisfied grunt.

“So? You found something incriminating at Jules's?” I asked, on the physical and mental edges of my seat.

She nodded. “At the moment we're keeping it quiet. You know how fast news travels in this town.”

“Where was it? His office? His house?” No response. “His car?” I refused to allow the notion that she intended to withhold information from me, too, not just from the ordinary citizens of North Ashcot. The ones who weren't more or less deputized. The ones whose food she'd eaten all week.

“It's better that we play this close to the vest. Keep it off the news,” said the chief of police, sitting on my rocker, drinking my coffee.

“You're going to keep it from me?” I tried to keep my tone at an even pitch. Not hysterical.

By way of answering, Sunni took another sip of coffee. She cleared her throat, but no words followed.

“You came out of your way to tell me . . . nothing?” I noted the higher pitch my voice had reached.

“I just wanted you to know that, essentially, the case is solved. Our job now is to find Jules. You can relax.”

“You're kidding me,” I said. But I knew she wasn't. “I'm off the case?”

“As much as you were ever ‘on the case.'” She drew quotations marks in the air, which hurt.

I felt almost as bad as when I was dumped by Adam Robinson back in Boston. “I thought we were partners,” I wanted to tell Sunni, which was what I'd wanted to say to Adam more than a year ago.

I thought I heard an “I'm sorry” as Sunni took her abrupt leave, but it was probably simply what I hoped to hear.

I
thought back to the day I entered (not broke in to, I reminded myself) Daisy's shop. I'd just seen someone exit, and followed that person to the corner. Was it only two days ago that I'd skulked around the backyard and heard the intruder? He or she had been carrying something that looked like a USPS Priority Mail Flat Rate envelope.

Now I thought it must have been Jules, whisking off whatever it was Sunni and her crew had found on his property tonight. Most likely a ledger book or financial data of some kind, something that would speak to the motive I'd conjured up: embezzlement, of course, but with nothing to go on other than his hesitancy to show Cliff the books.

It took no time for me to create a story in which Daisy had printed up a ledger sheet showing discrepancies that she wanted to talk to Jules about. Then, after they argued about the numbers, and Daisy was dead, Jules remembered
the sheet and needed to retrieve it. He crept into Daisy's on the very day that I was there, and stole the sheet, shoving it into a nearby USPS envelope.

All clear. Why couldn't Sunni have simply told me that?

I wondered if it mattered that I'd seen Jules carrying off the evidence of his white-collar crime. I couldn't identify him with certainty, but the timing might be important to the case in another way. I'd never told Sunni about my venture onto the crime scene and then into the shop. Now was the time. Except it was almost midnight.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I dialed Sunni. She should have this information ASAP. And, by the way, maybe she'd rethink her decision to keep me out of the loop.

She answered after two rings. “What, Cassie?” Spoken with a long breath of annoyance.

“I'm sorry to call so late, Sunni. But I might have something important. I think I know when Jules picked up that evidence you mentioned.”

I gave her as brief a summary as I could about my unauthorized visit to Daisy's shop, making sure to mention that the crime scene tape had been removed.

“Interesting,” she said.

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“Can you just tell me if it was a postal envelope that you found? One of the cardboard Flat Rate envelopes?”

“You certainly are persistent.”

“Thanks?” I chuckled to show that I wasn't nervous about being a pest, and to remind her that we were BFFs.

“Yes, the item was in a postal envelope.”

I suppressed an “aha.” “Then he took it from Daisy's shop
while I was in the backyard. That would have been around five thirty on Thursday evening.” How was that for being useful?

“Okay.”

“I assume it was some kind of ledger sheet or financial stuff?”

“Good night, Cassie.”

“Lunch tomorrow?” I asked, but all I got was a dial tone.

*   *   *

On Sunday morning, Eileen called with a reminder that the quilting group would be gathering on Monday evening to scope out and prepare the community room for the quilt display next Saturday.

“I don't have a completed quilt to show,” I reminded her.

“First-years never do, dear, but we'd be glad to have your help anyway. We also need people to help at the refreshment table. If you wouldn't mind—”

“Not at all. I'll be glad to.”

“Thanks, Cassie. It will be sad with Daisy missing, but nice to have a new face at the show.”

The rest of the morning was strange. There was no Officer Ross when I peeked out the window. No one for me to track down and interrogate, since the case was solved. No to-do lists or made-up motives for murder. Not even the chance that Cliff would drop in with food and a new theory.

This should have been good news. Hadn't I wanted Daisy's killer caught? So what if I wasn't the one who found the evidence? I was free now as I'd hoped, to spend a relaxing day decompressing, unstressing my mind, and getting ready for Quinn's return. Maybe bake him his favorite lemon
meringue pie. Or order one from our bakery. Linda was due for her visit in a few days. She deserved a clean guest room. And maybe the éclairs that she loved. Definitely a bakery order.

I didn't mind not being in on the search for Jules. I expected a full-out alert for him. If Pete's recollection was correct, he hadn't had much of a head start and he'd be in custody soon.

I forced myself into a round of deep-breathing exercises, a remnant of my halfhearted attempt at yoga a few years ago. It didn't even come close to taking my mind off the case. Was this another occupational hazard of police work? No relief, even after the case was solved?

But that was the problem. I wasn't satisfied with the resolution of the case. I needed one more beat, one more element of closure: I needed to know what evidence Sunni and her crew had uncovered during their search. “Where are they when you need them?” my father had often asked, mostly about doctors but equally for cops. It was clear that Sunni wasn't about to invite me to her briefings or call me with an update. And with no one tailing me, I wasn't likely to run into law enforcement. Getting back in the loop seemed hopeless.

Until I remembered that Officer Ross Little was a big fan of a new item on Mahican's menu: On Sunday morning only they served a Continental breakfast with fruit and breads and their usual good coffee. (The North Ashcot PD were a cut above coffee and donuts.)

Ross's shift ended about fifteen minutes ago. What were the chances? I dressed hurriedly and went forth to find out.

*   *   *

Sure enough, Ross had shown up at Mahican's. I found him exiting the buffet line and heading toward a table with a blue NAPD windbreaker flung over its accompanying chair. I waved and made a motion for him to save me a seat. No words would have reached him over the din of music and chatter. “All you can eat” was a big attraction in our town.

I tossed a pumpkin scone and half a banana onto a plate and rushed to join the cop, sitting by himself.

“What a nice coincidence, Ross. I miss you on my tail.”

Ross smiled. “I'll bet. You're welcome to sit, but I'm not staying long. I'm just off my shift and ready to crash.”

“But you want to go home on a full stomach.”

“Exactly.” He pointed to my place. “No coffee for you?” he asked.

“Later maybe. Right now I'm starving.” For information, I meant, and I had a feeling he knew that.

We chatted about what a great idea Sunday brunch was, especially since it was self-serve, and open to seconds and thirds. Ross had loaded his plate with three muffins, a cinnamon roll, and a thick slice of banana bread. A single strawberry hung off the side.

He held up a blueberry muffin. “They make them smaller on Sundays,” he said.

A good thing, if they wanted to stay in business. Now for my question. “Hey, Ross, I heard you guys cleared the case last evening.”
Reminding you that I'm in the inner circle.

“Looks that way.”

“Sunni told me you found something in Jules's office.”
She tells me everything
. “In a post office envelope, of all things.” A shared chuckle. “I guess it was one of those ledger books accountants seem to carry around.”

“Did the chief tell you what we found?”

“She stopped in on her way home. She was in a rush, so she didn't go into detail.”

The idea was, she would have, if she'd had time. I so hoped Ross got all my subtext.

“I'm sure she'll fill you in.”

“You could save her some time and just—”

“Out with it, Cassie. You think I owe you because you didn't rat me out about working two jobs.”

If it hadn't been for Ross's wide boyish grin, I'd have been worried that he'd arrest me for bribing an officer. “I don't want you to get in trouble,” I said, stopping short of reminding him that he was a lame duck and had nothing to lose.

He leaned in toward me, but not before downing a large chunk of sugar frosting from the cinnamon roll. “It was a small notebook, like the kind my girlfriend carries in her purse, with a flowery cover.”

“Not money related?”

“Didn't seem to be.”

“Why would he take something like that?”

“Beats me. I thought it was strange, too. Maybe he thought it was important, then realized it wasn't.”

I'd been so sure the police had found financial spreadsheets or pages from a ledger that I had trouble adjusting to this new image of the contents of the Flat Rate envelope. “Why would a simple notebook be incriminating? Just because it was Daisy's?”

“There was also the fact that he happened to close out his accounts and take off.” Ross drained his cup and I had a feeling he'd be on his way in a minute. “And then, there was the paint, too,” he added, pushing his chair back.

“What about paint?” I asked.

“Gotta go, Cassie.”

“Wait—do you think that's it?” I asked. “Is the case really closed?” By now he'd stood, a large man despite his surname, and I was conscious of having to look up at him. I tried not to raise my voice. We'd been lucky so far to have constant upbeat music and a loud group of women two small tables over.

“Until we find him and he hires a lawyer. Less than a week and it won't matter to me.”

“Okay. Thanks, Ross.”

He grabbed his jacket and held up his hand. “Don't thank me. Please, Cassie. Okay?”

I pressed my lips together in a gesture of silence, went to the counter, and ordered a large cappuccino, double shot.

*   *   *

On the way home I should have felt a sense of satisfaction. After all, I'd played a part in the investigation. The chief of police had given me an assignment and I'd followed through, managing to interview most of the quilters, and annoy some of them. And though she wouldn't reveal the resolution, Sunni had given me credit for getting Molly Boyd to own up to her presence in Daisy's backyard moments before it became a crime scene. It didn't matter that I wasn't the one to have uncovered this last bit of evidence.

I wished I had stuck it out with Ross and pressed him
to tell me about the mysterious paint. He wasn't that hard to manipulate. Had there been paint at the crime scene? Not that I could remember in all the back-and-forth with Sunni. And there was also something funny about the notebook with the flowery cover, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

My car rang, the hands-free link startling me as it always did. With no caller ID screen, I had to take potluck and click the
ON
button.

“Hey, Cassie,” Quinn said in a voice that said he had bad news.

“Are you on your way home?”

“I wish. The big estate sale is great, but I ran out of cash and checks and they won't take a credit card.”

“Who doesn't take a credit card?”

“This one dealer apparently. Meanwhile, Fred's away and the kid who's in charge of the store doesn't have access to the accounts, so I have to wait until the bank opens in the morning. I am so bummed.”

What good was the Internet when people like Cliff and Quinn had to wait to do business on Monday morning, as if it were 1950? I wanted to explain the many reasons why I was more bummed than Quinn was, but didn't want to make him feel worse. He spent a few more minutes running through all the negotiation it took to have the dealer hold the merchandise and spell out the terms of the transaction.

“I'm not even sure it's worth the haul, but Fred seemed to think so. Now he's off somewhere and I can't get to the money to pay for it.”

“You're only a couple of hours away. I could drive out. We could at least have dinner together.” Even a long drive
by myself seemed better than hanging around my empty house.

“Manchester is over three hours with traffic, and dinner will be at a vending machine. And you'd have to leave at dawn for work in the morning. No, I'll tough it out, and I'll make it up to you, I promise. I already have something very cool that I picked up for you.”

“As long as it's not a ten-thousand-dollar mirror.”

“Much more personal, I promise.”

“Skype tonight?”

“You bet,” he said.

I'd pulled over to give my attention to the call and ended up at the curb in front of the police station. Not the best spot in town to put my head down and feel sorry for myself. Not that I had a legitimate reason for whining. Quinn was the one stuck in a motel and working on a Sunday.

Still, I couldn't remember a more upsetting, frustrating week. I gripped my steering wheel—holding fast so I wouldn't do something foolish and storm into the building demanding answers from the chief of police. I came to my senses and drove around the block, parking again behind the bank. I'd decided to storm into Pete's hardware store instead and interrogate the last remaining quilter on my list, Andrea Harris. If anyone knew about paint, she did.

*   *   *

“We don't see you for months outside the post office, and now twice in one weekend? What's up, Cassie?” Pete removed his painter's hat, wiped his brow, and replaced the cap. He seemed nervous and I suspected he thought I was back to quiz him about the meeting in Molly's salon. Unlike
his sister and her husband, Pete was known to be politically neutral, avoiding any discussion even the slightest bit political in nature. He was about the same age as my mentor, Ben, I guessed, and had figured out how to get along with everyone.

“I thought it was about time I spruced up my patio, maybe do a little painting. The summer won't last forever.”

“Glad to help. What color scheme do you have in mind?”

“I'll bet she's thinking of a shade of red.”

Another country heard from, as Aunt Tess used to say. Andrea had come up behind her brother. She wore a standard burgundy apron over jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt reminiscent of men's underwear.

Pete, his hands in the pockets of a matching logo apron, tilted his head toward his sister. “She's good, isn't she?” He addressed her. “How in the world do you know that, Andy?”