Stuck on Murder (16 page)

“Sorry, it’s procedure,” he said.

“No problem,” Nate said. He looked back at Brenna and Tenley. “Thanks for stopping by and offering to help paint.”

“Anytime,” Tenley said.

“Let us know if there’s anything we can do,” Brenna said.

“No,” Nate said, and his look was sharp. “You’ve done enough. If I need
anything
, I have a lawyer who can take care of it. He’s very good.”

The chief glanced between them and Brenna made her face blank, not wanting to give anything away. Too late. Chief Barker came to stand in front of her and he looked less happy than he had even moments before.

He studied her carefully. “You look pale,” he said. “You two should probably go see Doc Waters if your stomach bug doesn’t feel better soon. I don’t see how you could offer to paint a house being so sick and all.”

Brenna quickly remembered their lie about the food poisoning and nodded. She didn’t really have to feign being sick as she thought she might hurl from the tension right then and there.

“Oh, we’re feeling much better,” Brenna said. She and Tenley gave him matching fake smiles. He didn’t look as if he believed them. Shocker.

“Hunh,” he said and followed Nate and Officer DeFalco out the door. Silently, they watched the hovering reporters mob Nate as he was folded into the back of a waiting cruiser.

“That was close,” Tenley said as she sank back down into her seat. “It sounds like Nate wants us to drop it.”

“I think he’s worried,” Brenna agreed.

“About?” Tenley asked.

“Whoever killed the mayor coming after us,” she said.

“Oh, that would be bad,” Tenley agreed.

“Not as bad as an innocent man going to jail for a crime he didn’t commit,” Brenna said.

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Tenley said and shook her head. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Brenna said. “But I do I think it’s time for a road trip.”

“Bayview?” Tenley asked, and Brenna nodded. “Excellent. I could use some fried clams. I call shotgun.”

“No,” Brenna said. “I don’t want you involved any more than you already are.”

“Sweetie, I’m your best friend, I’m already involved up to my ears,” Tenley said. “Besides, if you don’t let me come with you, I’ll go to the jail and tell Nate what you’re up to.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said.

“Try me,” Tenley said. Her chin was tilted up in full Morse stubborn mode.

“Oh, fine,” Brenna said. She tried to sound put out, but truthfully she was relieved. It was always nice to have backup, just in case.

 

 

As soon as they had jotted down the pertinent names and addresses and plotted their course on a map, they set out in Brenna’s Jeep. The drive to Bayview took two bags of Chili Cheese Fritos, two Dr Pepper Big Gulps, and a shared package of Hostess Snowballs, the pink ones. It also took two hours with one bathroom break to slog their way through the rush hour traffic that congested the highway like a particularly nasty head cold.

Bayview was a tourist Mecca that sat at the heel of Cape Cod. Filled with beachfront inns, bed-and-breakfasts, hotels, and motels, it was the crossing point for all traffic headed out to the Cape on Route 6. It was also a thor oughfare for the travelers catching the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard from Woods Hole, making it the center of all traffic flow.

They decided on the drive to stop at the restaurant that the mayor had eaten at first and see if anyone remembered him. It was called Vincent’s.

Brenna got off the main road and took the shoreline drive that Tenley pointed out. As the sun set, they passed a large marsh on one side and a housing development on the other. As they broke through the trees, the road turned and the marshland gave way to ocean with small businesses lining the opposite side of the narrow road. Within three miles, Vincent’s came into view. It was a large, gray brick building that boasted a view of the water on three sides through its floor-to-ceiling windows.

It was six o’clock, the height of the dinner hour, and Brenna and Tenley found themselves tenth in line, waiting to speak with the hostess. During a quick scan of the room, Brenna noticed that most of the people in the restaurant were older. The décor was bland, everything in shades of mauve and gray, as if the restaurant didn’t want to compete with its majestic view of the ocean.

When they were second in line, Brenna heard Tenley gasp and she turned to see what was wrong.

Tenley was staring open-mouthed at a large portrait that hung on the wall behind the hostess. Brenna studied the four foot by six foot painting of a man with an impressive schnozz and a Sinatra-esque smile, but she couldn’t find anything alarming about it.

“What is it?” she asked.

Tenley leaned close and whispered, “That portrait.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“That’s Vincent . . . Vincent Cappicola,” Tenley hissed.

“He owns the restaurant?”

“So it would seem.”

“What should we do?”

“Hi, can I help you?” the hostess asked them.

Brenna didn’t see that there was much they could do at this juncture. They had to find out whom the mayor had met here even if it was the owner himself.

“Hi,” she said. She fumbled in her purse for the photo of Mayor Ripley that she’d taken from the box Cynthia had given her. “I was wondering if you remember seeing this man here, last Thursday?”

The hostess glanced over Brenna’s shoulder at the waiting line.

“We’re kind of busy, lady, are you planning on eating here or not?”

Brenna handed her a twenty. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” the hostess said as she pocketed the money. She had cranberry red hair, styled in a severe bob, and she kept a pencil behind her right ear. The name embroidered in navy blue on her pale blue polo shirt was Dottie. She frowned at the picture Brenna held out to her, then her face cleared. “Yeah, I remember him. He was a total pain in the ass.”

“How so?” Tenley asked. Her eyes were darting around the restaurant as if she expected the Cappicolas to come out with guns blazing at any moment.

“No table was good enough for him,” Dottie said. “I had to move him four times. He kept saying how he was friends with the owner and he was going to report me if I didn’t give him good enough service. What a jerk.”

“Was he friends with the owner?” Brenna asked.

“Given that the owner is my Uncle Vinnie,” she said and pointed her thumb at the portrait behind her, “and the fact that I’d never seen the jerk before, I’d have to say no.”

“Is your uncle in tonight?” Tenley asked.

“No,” Dottie said. “He’s retired. My cousin Dom oversees the family business now.”

“Is Dom here?”

“No, he’s out on business. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“One more question, Dottie,” Brenna said. “If you don’t mind?”

“Not a bit,” she said. She wiggled her fingers under Brenna’s nose. Brenna sighed and put another twenty in the girl’s hand.

“Was the jerk with anyone?” she asked.

Dottie closed her eyes as if trying to remember. “Yeah, he had a date. A skinny little blond lady, dressed nice, lots of diamonds, but still looked like there were lots of miles on her tires, you know what I’m saying?”

“Cynthia,” Brenna and Tenley said together.

“Thanks, Dottie,” Brenna said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“Anytime,” Dottie said. “Now can I show you two to a table?”

Brenna glanced at the portrait of Vincent looming over them. “Not tonight but thanks.”

Dottie shrugged, looked past her, and barked, “Next!”

They left the restaurant quickly. Neither of them spoke until they were back out in the salty sea air.

“Retired?” Tenley asked. “Can you retire from the mob?”

“I don’t know. I thought the retirement package came with monogrammed cement anklets,” Brenna said.

“I need comfort food,” Tenley said. Her voice held just the barest hint of a whimper.

“Me, too,” said Brenna. “Let’s go.”

 

 

The lobster roll was perfect. The toasted split-top roll, the kind only found in New England, was grilled on the sides and stuffed to bursting with lobster meat drenched in butter. The butter ran down her fingers while Brenna tried to savor each bite, but it was still gone too soon.

She and Tenley had found a drive-in seafood restaurant called Chick’s a few miles up the shoreline from Vincent’s. They parked along the water’s edge and sat on the hood of the Jeep. With a take-out container full of clam strips and French fries between them, they munched in silence as they watched the waves roll in.

“Do you think the Cappicolas offed Ripley?” Tenley asked.

“I don’t know,” Brenna answered. She’d been mulling over the same thing. “It appears that he and Cynthia came down here. Maybe it was just a day trip. Maybe it had nothing to do with Morse Point Lake being developed.”

“Maybe, but it seems unlikely,” Tenley said. “Why would he have the Cappicolas’ name scribbled in his file and why would he be eating at their restaurant if he wasn’t trying to court their business?”

“Those are some pretty dangerous people to go into business with,” Brenna said.

“Maybe he couldn’t he find anyone else,” Tenley said.

“Or maybe he needed someone who was more powerful than Nate,” Brenna said. “Maybe the Cappicolas were the only people who had the clout he needed.”

“Yikes,” Tenley said.

“Agreed.”

“Shall we go and check out the motel?” Tenley asked. She wadded up her wrappers and bagged the empty boxes. She dumped them in a nearby garbage can.

“Might as well,” Brenna said. “I wish we could find some evidence that Ripley met with Dottie’s cousin Dom, however. I get the feeling there was something she wasn’t telling us, and right now it all seems so flimsy.”

“Very circumstantial,” Tenley agreed.

They climbed back into the Jeep and followed the directions to the Red Pony Inn. It was several miles away, and now that it was completely dark, Brenna was forced to drive more slowly along the unfamiliar road.

She wasn’t sure when she started to get the hinky feeling that they were being followed, but given that the stretch of road they were on was becoming increasingly desolate, she found it odd that the large sedan behind them was maintaining a precise distance between them.

“Tenley,” she said. “I’m going to pull over up ahead. Could you get the license plate of the car behind us when it passes?”

“Problem?” Tenley asked.

“Not yet,” Brenna said. “I may just be paranoid, but I can’t help feeling like we’ve picked up a tail.”

“A Buick of a tail, no less,” Tenley said as she glanced behind them. She fished in her purse for a piece of paper and a pen. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Brenna quickly cut the wheel to the right, hoping to catch the Buick by surprise. She did. It sailed passed them as Tenley quickly jotted down the plate number illuminated in the Jeep’s headlights.

“Got it,” she said.

“Good, because it looks as if they’re turning around.”

“What?” Tenley cried as she glanced up from the paper in her hand. “Geez, I really thought you were just being twitchy.”

Brenna didn’t wait for the Buick to complete its K turn on the narrow road. She stomped on the gas, while the Buick floundered like a compass needle seeking north, and sped around its back end.

Tenley turned around in her seat to keep an eye on the Buick. “They’re reversing now.”

Brenna kept her eyes on the road in front of her. Several neon signs reading VACANCY whipped by; still she pressed on.

“They’re back on the road. They’re closing the gap between us.” Tenley’s voice rose higher in pitch with her increasing panic.

Ahead, Brenna saw the Red Pony Inn. She knew she couldn’t outrun the Buick on unfamiliar terrain. She could feel her insides crackle with anxiety. She had a split second to make her decision and hope it was the right one.

Again, she yanked the wheel sharply to the right. Tenley fell half into her seat and then jolted forward as Brenna slammed on the brakes in front of the motel office.

The Buick bounced into the parking lot behind them.

“Come on,” Brenna yelled. “Let’s go.”

They dashed out of the Jeep and sprinted through the front door of the office. Brenna pulled it closed behind them and swiftly turned the dead bolt.

“Can I help you?” The night clerk peered over the counter at them. He was holding a Marvel comic book in one hand and a red Mountain Dew in the other.

“Oh no!” Tenley grabbed Brenna’s hand and pointed at the far wall.

Brenna looked and felt her mouth slide open. The same portrait that had been in Vincent’s restaurant hung on the wall in front of them.

Just then a key turned in the lock on the front door. Tenley let out a strangled cry and they clutched each other close as whoever had been following them in the Buick was about to enter the inn.

Chapter 15