Stuck on Murder (4 page)

“Oh, and so Mayor Ripley thought I should be the one to tell you to sell your property and star in the campaign to court tourists.”

“Hmm. And what do you think I should do?” he asked her.

His gray eyes were intent upon her face, and Brenna was again hit with the sensation that she had captured his complete attention. It was flattering and a bit unnerving.

“That’s really up to you, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, but I want to know what you think,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder through the living room window toward the lake and said, “I like it the way it is.”

He gave her a warm smile. They ate silently for a few moments, the steady tick-tock of the kitchen clock the only sound in the small house.

“When does Dim Dipley expect you to report back to him?” he asked.

“Dim Dipley?” she repeated.

“My little pet name for the mayor,” he said.

Brenna laughed and he grinned in return.

“He said he would check up on my progress tomorrow. He’s a bit tenacious,” she said.

“A bit.” Nate was staring out the back window toward the woods beyond. She followed his gaze but could see nothing in the darkness.

“Well, you can tell Dim for me that I will spearhead a campaign,” he said. “In fact, he can be sure to see a piece about it in the
Courier
the day after tomorrow.”

“You will?” Brenna asked. She was shocked. She had been so sure he would be furious with the mayor.

“Yep,” he said. He scraped his fork against his plate to get the last of the melted chocolate, and he looked at her with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “Seconds?”

He looked entirely too happy, and she knew it wasn’t just a chocolate buzz from her casserole. No, she had the distinct feeling that he was up to something, but given his private nature, she was hesitant to ask. She’d just have to wait and see what this man of mystery had up his sleeve.

 

 

She didn’t have long to wait. Mayor Ripley found her at Vintage Papers the next day, and she told him exactly what Nate had said. He clapped his hands, looking delighted, and credited her with Nate’s cooperation.

Brenna was left feeling ill at ease. She had no doubt that it was due to the calculating gleam in Nate’s eyes when he had said good night to her. She wondered if she should warn the mayor, but she was still a little peeved with him for putting her in the middle of this.

It was not a tremendous surprise to Brenna when, a few days later, the
Morse Point Courier
ran the story of Nate’s campaign to save Morse Point Lake from the evil clutches of Mayor Dim Dipley. And yes, that was how they printed his name.

The clincher, however, was the line drawing penned by Nate that accompanied the article, in which Mayor Ripley was depicted, with his comb-over and suspenders, as a large, sweaty giant handing over the town of Morse Point to a black-cloaked grim reaper with the words
land developer
on its scythe in exchange for a bucket overflowing with cash.

“Oh, my,” Tenley breathed as she scanned the newspaper Brenna had slapped down in front of her moments before.

Tenley was sitting at the bar in the Fife and Drum, Morse Point’s oldest restaurant, which looked out over the town green. It was their Friday night ritual to close the shop early and treat themselves to a glass of wine in the bar and a couple of chicken Caesar salads in the restaurant.

Tenley had been talking with Matt Collins, the bartender, when Brenna arrived with the paper. As Tenley finished reading and turned to stare at her, Matt pulled the paper close and gave a low whistle when he took in the picture of the mayor.

“Heads are going to roll,” he said. He glanced up at them and then squinted over their shoulders through the picture window. “Right about now, by the look of things.”

Tenley and Brenna turned to look out the window as well. Brenna gasped. Standing on the steps of the town hall, which was adjacent to the restaurant, were Nate Williams and Mayor Ripley. Judging by their irate expressions and wild arm gestures, they were not exchanging pleasantries about the weather.

Brenna rushed through the front door. She couldn’t help feeling as if this was her fault. She should never have told Nate what the mayor wanted. She should have just put Ripley off until he gave up the whole idea. Realistically, he would have approached Nate himself and they’d be in exactly this same spot, but at least she would not feel like part of it was her fault.

“Look, Dim Dipley,” Nate was yelling. “I am not now nor am I ever going to sell off my property so that you can line your fat pockets with more money.”

“That’s slander!” Mayor Ripley shouted back, waving a chubby finger at Nate. “I could sue you for that.”

“Really?” Nate asked. “Are you telling me you’re not planning to profit from this?”

“This is for the good of the town,” Ripley protested. “I am ensuring economic stability for future generations.”

“Pah!” Nate scoffed. “The only economics you’re interested in are the balances of your own bank accounts.”

“That’s it!” Mayor Ripley balled up his chubby fists. “I am going to sue you for libel and you’ll have to sell your property just to cover your legal expenses.”

“Go ahead,” Nate dared him. “But I’ll sell my property over my dead body. Or better yet, over
your
dead body!”

With that, he turned and stormed down the steps of the town hall, climbed into his ancient Ford pickup truck, and drove off. The mayor turned on his heel and stomped back up the steps into the town hall, slamming the large door behind him.

People all around the square had stopped what they were doing to watch, and now a buzz of conversation hummed on the air like a busy swarm of bees.

Chapter 4

The feud between Nate and the mayor was the talk of the town. Ed Johnson, the
Morse Point Courier
’s editor-in-chief, was found in Stan’s Diner having raptures that his newspaper had run the first piece of art produced by Nate Williams in years. The newspaper had actually had to run extra copies to meet the demand, and rumor had it the story might get picked up on the wire. Ed was ecstatic.

In his late fifties, Ed had waited his entire professional career for his Pulitzer moment. It was easy to see, as he chain-smoked and slugged back coffee with ill-concealed glee, that he thought this was it. He had all of the coffeehouse regulars enthralled with his tall tale of how he had wrestled the story and the drawing out of Nate Williams. As he paced between their booths, with his big bald head perched on his stringy neck and his beak-like nose twitching, Brenna couldn’t help but notice Ed’s resemblance to a plucked chicken. When he saw her standing at the counter, he stopped short. Uh-oh.

Brenna glanced back over the counter at Stan, whose big, sausage-shaped fingers were putting the froth on her café latte. Stan took his froth very seriously, and it would do no good for her to tell him to hurry it up.

“Well, if it isn’t Morse Point’s loveliest new resident,” Ed said as he took the empty seat beside her at the counter. “How are you, Ms. Miller?”

Brenna sighed when she saw Stan trying to sculpt her froth into a swan shape. There would be no quick escape. She was just going to have to deal with Ed head on.

She turned to face him. “I’m fine. How are you, Mr. Johnson?”

“Please call me Ed,” he said. He smiled what she was sure he considered to be his most engaging smile, but it just made her feel greasy, like she’d been dropped into Stan’s fryer.

“And how is our mutual friend Nate Williams?” he asked.

“As far as I know, my landlord is fine,” she said.

“Really?” he asked. “No fallout from the mayor then?”

“I suppose you’d have to ask him,” she said. “Since you’re such close friends.”

He pursed his lips, momentarily thwarted. Brenna took this as confirmation that Nate had gone back to his reclusive ways and was no longer communicating with the editor-in-chief.

Stan placed her latte in front of her with a flourish, and Brenna had to admit that she was impressed. The swan was dusted lightly with cinnamon and bobbed gently on the surface of the coffee as if ready to swim away.

“It’s beautiful, Stan,” she said. “Thank you.”

Stan did not smile—he never smiled—but he flexed his forearm, which showed off his Navy tattoo, and he nodded at her.

She paid for the coffee, adding a healthy tip for sheer aesthetic value. Ed opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a cheery, “Bye, fellas, have a great day.”

She spent the rest of the day working the counter at Vintage Papers. Tenley had just received an order of Bertini Italian print paper, and Brenna was sorting the sheets and pricing them before putting them out. In addition to the big money makers of greeting cards and wedding invitations, Tenley prided herself on carrying an assortment of specialty papers from around the world. It was one of the things Brenna loved best about the shop.

The Porter sisters popped in later that morning, seemingly to examine the new papers, but Brenna knew it was really to see if she had any more information about Nate’s scuffle with the mayor. She was happy to report that she did not.

“I heard from Mimi Gardener, she works in the town tax assessor’s office, that Mayor Ripley was going to hire the law firm, Payne and Zuffren, to represent him in a slander suit against Nate Williams,” Ella said. She fingered the Bertini paper called “scrolls” as she spoke. Brenna watched her pink fingertip trace the swirling patterns of color.

She pressed her lips together. If she said nothing, then the conversation would have to die, even if it was a slow and painful death.

“Well, I heard from Jeanette Milton, she’s the organist at the church, that Nate Williams was going to countersue for harassment,” Marie said. “Has he said as much to you, Brenna?”

“No,” she said.

The twins gave her identical vexed looks when she didn’t elaborate.

“You know, you really should tell him not to,” Marie said. “Lawsuits never solve anything. You’re his friend. Tell him to make up with the mayor. I’m sure he’d listen to you.”

“I am not his friend,” Brenna protested. “I’m just his tenant.”

So what if she and Nate shared a love of baked goods and baseball? That hardly made her his friend or put her in a position to tell him what to do about the mayor. And thinking of Mayor Ripley, Brenna decided this whole mess was his fault. If he hadn’t asked her to speak to Nate, the two men wouldn’t be feuding now. Well, maybe they would, but she wouldn’t have any part in it.

As far as Brenna was concerned, she had learned her first real lesson about small town life. She was never again going to get involved in something that was none of her business.

That resolution lasted for several days. Brenna ignored the emergency town council meeting that the mayor called. Because Nate had yet to rent out half of his ten cabins, the mayor was proposing to have the cabins ruled a blight on the community, to be confiscated by the town using eminent domain. Although she feared she might lose her home, Brenna avoided the meeting and stayed out of the debate.

Thankfully, Silas Cooper gave an eloquent speech to the town council about a man’s right to own his own property without fear of it being seized by the government just because it wasn’t up to snuff. Silas’s farm had a reputation for being a tad sloppy, but his family had farmed in Morse Point for six generations. The council voted down the mayor’s proposal four to one. After that, Brenna had been sure the worst of it had passed, but no.

Nate applied for the cabins to be registered as historic properties. They had been built in the early 1900s as vacation getaways for rich Bostonians looking to escape to the country. That was in the flush times before the Great Depression. Roger Chisholm, the president of the local historical society, was delighted by Nate’s request. The mayor was not. If the cabins achieved a historic designation, there would no chance of tearing them down to develop the land.

The mayor then decided to go for Nate’s wallet, and Brenna woke up one morning to find the tax assessor for the town standing on her front porch, measuring her cabin. It was an obvious ploy on Mayor Ripley’s part to increase the property value on the cabins and drive Nate out.

Still, Brenna stayed out of it. She was absolutely, positively not going to get involved. Period. End of discussion.

She stayed her course, refusing to get sucked into the drama, right up until a week later when Matt Collins made an unexpected appearance in the shop.

Brenna was sitting at the large worktable in the back, soaking cutouts of apples in a bowl of water. Once saturated with water, the apples would be coated with glue and pasted onto an old ceramic jug. She was making it as an example for a future class project.