Stuck on Murder (5 page)

The bells jangled when Matt pulled open the front door and stepped inside. With his brawny build and masculine good looks, he seemed as out of place as a Great Dane in a litter of toy poodles.

Brenna saw Tenley start and watched her face turn just the faintest shade of pink. Even if she hadn’t looked, Brenna would have known it was Matt Collins who had just come into the shop. Tenley always looked as if she’d just been plugged into a wall socket whenever Matt was around.

“Hi, Matt,” Tenley greeted him from where she was arranging the Bertini paper into a striking display.

“Hi, Tenley,” he said in return. His gaze swept over the shop in appreciation. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Brenna wasn’t positive, but she thought Tenley’s face might have gotten even pinker. She’d been watching these two do-si-do around one another for over a year now. She couldn’t help but hope that Matt had finally screwed up the nerve to ask Tenley out.

“Is there something I can help you find?” Tenley asked.

“Oh, no thanks,” he said. He ran a hand through his thick thatch of blond hair as if he, too, was feeling a bit awkward. “I found her.”

He turned to face Brenna. Out of the corner of her eye, she was sure she saw Tenley stiffen, but when she glanced at her, Tenley gave her a small smile, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“What can I do for you, Matt?” Brenna asked. She had no idea what to expect. She’d never gotten anything other than a friendship vibe from him, so she knew he wasn’t here to ask her out. Maybe he had a decoupage project for her. That would be nice.

“Well,” he hesitated. “It’s not really any of my business, but . . .”

“But?” she encouraged him.

“Have you been out to your place at all today?”

“Not since I left this morning,” she said. “Why? Is something wrong?”

Matt cupped the back of his neck with his right hand and said, “Not if you mean something like a flood or a fire.”

“Matt, spill it,” Brenna said. She pulled the paper apples out of the water, letting them drip dry for a few seconds. She laid them out on a towel and was half out of her seat in anticipation of a calamity, but Matt’s next words made her sit back down with a thump.

“It looks like Nate is organizing a campaign out there,” he said.

“A what?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll have to see it for yourself,” he said. “But it’s not going to endear him to the townsfolk. Even though everyone agrees that the mayor was out of line on the eminent domain thing, a lot of the business owners wouldn’t mind seeing those townhomes go up to increase business. Now Nate’s always been fine to me, so I thought maybe you could have a talk with him. I hear he’ll listen to you.”

“Oh, for the love of Pete! Nate Williams doesn’t listen to me. He doesn’t listen to anyone!” Brenna snapped. She was getting sick to death of everyone thinking she had some influence with Nate, especially when what she did have was bubkes.

She brushed some white glue on the back of her apple cutouts and gently stuck them on the side of the ceramic jug. Her fingers were damp from the water bowl and she used them to smooth the apples, being sure to get rid of any air bubbles.

Matt stood watching her, and she knew he was waiting for her to do something.

“Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll go see what I can do, but I’m telling you right now, I probably can’t do squat.”

“Thanks, Brenna,” Matt said. “Not for nothing, but this situation between Nate and the mayor is getting a little out of hand.”

She washed her glue brush and dried her hands at the sink in the back of the room. Then she grabbed her black backpack purse from under the counter.

“I’ll try to talk to him,” she said. “Although I’m sure I’ll be of no use whatsoever. Tenley, do you mind making sure my apples dry smooth? I’ll be back later.”

“Sure,” Tenley agreed. “Good luck!”

Brenna waved as she let the door swing shut behind her. She wished Matt had given her a better idea of what to expect, but it seemed to be beyond his descriptive capabilities. That had to be bad. What could Nate be up to? Hadn’t he caused enough of a ruckus with his sketch of the mayor? What could he have cooked up now?

In exactly four and a half miles, she could stop speculating. Visible from the main road were big, garish yellow signs that read “Save Morse Point Lake!” and “Down with Dim Dipley!” They were planted all over the lake-front property like oversized, monster dandelions.

Brenna felt her jaw do a slow drop and stay there as she gaped in wonder at her front lawn. Nate had obviously lost his mind.

She parked in the small communal lot they all shared and scanned the cabins perched around the lake.

“Brenna!”

She turned to see Twyla, one of Nate’s older tenants, skipping, yes skipping, across the lawn toward her. It was quite a sight since Twyla was somewhere in her early sixties. It had taken a few months, but Brenna had grown accustomed to Twyla’s skipping. She said it kept her young, and truth to be told, Brenna had actually tried it in the privacy of her own home. She had to agree that there was something invigorating about skipping.

Twyla was a character. She wore her long gray hair in a braid that hung down to her waist and she favored brightly patterned broomstick skirts. The matching tops were usually weighed down with a variety of polished stone necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. She was a sculptor of metal by trade and usually had a welder’s helmet perched on her head. Today, however, she wielded a fistful of paintbrushes.

“Hi, Twyla,” Brenna said faintly. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“You’re just in time.” Twyla grabbed Brenna’s hand in her callused one and dragged her across the lawn toward Nate’s porch.

The other two tenants, Paul and Portia Cherry, were a married couple who lived in separate cabins because of Paul’s snoring. They were sitting on the porch amid cans of paint with brushes in hand. Like Twyla, Paul and Portia were older than Brenna. She guessed them to be somewhere in their fifties. They both wore glasses and kept their gray hair cropped short, as if their years together had caused them to begin to resemble one another. Being roughly the same height and body shape, they reminded Brenna of a pair of bookends.

Childless, they had retired young, Paul from being an economist and Portia from a career in nursing, to pursue their artistic dreams. Portia worked in glass, while Paul’s preferred medium was clay. Given that the sight of blood made Paul woozy, they didn’t share studio space either. He had been known to faint whenever Portia nicked her finger on a sharp edge.

The couple had just finished another sign and were admiring their handiwork when Brenna and Twyla joined them. This one said, “Keep Morse Point Lake Free!”

The words were bordered by psychedelic swirls of color that were almost blinding in their intensity. Brenna feared there’d be a lot of drivers heading right into the lake if this was placed within eyeshot of the road.

“Isn’t it fabulous?” Twyla asked.

“Uh . . . yeah,” Brenna agreed. The others looked so pleased with themselves that her underwhelming response went unnoticed. “Is Nate around?”

“He sure is.” Twyla looked away from the sign and pointed toward the far side of the lake. “He’s putting up a few signs down by the swimming hole. Wait ’til he sees this one!”

On a map, Morse Point Lake looked like a big blue handprint just a few miles from the center of town. It covered 320 acres with one main body of water and several long inlets that ran off into smaller streams and brooks. Nate’s cabins surrounded the thumb part of the handprint, and the property he’d been acquiring over the past few years surrounded the main body of water.

The locals’ favorite swimming hole was a large sandy beach on the main lake. Nate owned the land, but he let the townspeople use the lake with the stipulation that the town provide lifeguards during the summer. Brenna had not known any of this until a few days ago when the Porter twins had stopped by to swap information. They had been woefully disappointed with what Brenna had brought to the table, which was nothing, but the joy of sharing what they knew overrode their censure.

Brenna followed the path to the main lake. It had rained during the night and left the path riddled with puddles and slick with mud. It squished up the sides of her shoes and she was glad she had worn her cotton sneakers. At least they were washable.

It wasn’t long before she could hear the rhythmic banging of a hammer on a stake. As she stepped around a budding maple by the water’s edge, she saw Nate in a bright blue T-shirt and jeans bent over yet another sign. This one read, “Impeach Dim Dipley!”

“Hi, Nate,” she called.

He glanced up at her and grinned. Brenna blinked. She’d never seen him look so animated before. He wore a self-satisfied smile, the kind you’d expect to find on someone who was winning an argument.

“Having fun?” she asked.

“Nothing like a good cause to get your motor running,” he agreed. He lowered his hammer and stretched his back.

Brenna had to appreciate the way his eyes crinkled in the corners and his lips turned up in an impudent grin. He looked as happy as she’d ever seen him.

Still, Matt had said the local business owners weren’t going to be happy with Nate’s eye-popping campaign. Given that Matt had lived here all his life, she trusted his judgment. She also knew she should butt out. After all, hadn’t she learned her lesson from the last go-around?

And yet, she didn’t want to see Nate get into trouble, and not just because it might affect her living arrangement. He was an outsider in Morse Point like her, and she felt they needed to stick together. Besides, having lived in a wide variety of apartments in Boston over the years, she knew a good landlord was hard to find.

“You look worried,” he said. He tilted his head to the side and studied her. He didn’t look amused now. His gray eyes were intent upon her face, making her uncomfortable. She had the feeling he knew exactly what she was thinking. His next words confirmed it.

“The mayor can’t do anything to me,” he said. “And I’m allowed to have a difference of opinion with him and express it.”

“Yes, that’s true,” she said. “But this is a very small town. Dip . . . er . . . Ripley has lived here all of his life, and you’re an outsider.”

“Do you think they will tar and feather me? Or run me out on a rail?” he asked. The crinkles were back in the corners of his eyes.

Brenna had no idea why this made her face grow warm. She tried to ignore it. She turned away from him and picked up a long narrow stick. She poked holes in the mud with it.

“What if he succeeds in levying a massive property tax on you?” she asked.

“I can handle it,” he said.

“What if they refuse to let you buy any more land?”

“There are many ways to acquire property,” he said.

“What if they try to take possession of the cabins again?” she asked. She knew it was a long shot, but she wanted him to understand that this wasn’t New York. Memories were long in Morse Point, and unless you were a fifth-generation native-born resident, you might as well be from Mars.

“They won’t. No one wants that to become a precedent. I may be an outsider, but no one in this town went for the mayor’s attempt at eminent domain, and they never will,” he said. His voice was disgusted. “He is the greedi est, most corrupt public official I’ve ever seen. He needs to step down.”

She looked at him in alarm.

“Brenna, what are you so worried about?” he asked.

She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. What could she say? He had a self-assurance that she envied, and he was right. He was allowed to have his opinion and express it, even if it wasn’t popular with the town officials. She just had a bad feeling about this whole business that she couldn’t shake, but how could she explain that to him?

“I just don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and find the villagers marching on us with torches,” she said.

He stared at her for a moment and then threw his head back in a great guffawing laugh that was even more contagious than his grin. She laughed, too. She supposed she was being silly. Realistically, what could happen? Nate and the mayor would work this out, sooner or later, and with any luck, it would be resolved in a way that they all found livable.

“Nate!” a shriek sounded from the path, halting their laughter. Twyla appeared in a burst of iridescent blues. “The mayor is on a rampage! Come quick!”

Chapter 5

Nate and Brenna exchanged a surprised look and hurried up the path toward the cabins. Nate took the lead with his longer stride, leaving Brenna to follow, with a winded Twyla bringing up the rear.

“I will not stand for this!” Mayor Ripley shouted. He was jumping up and down on the remnants of one of the signs. The bright yellow poster board was covered in his muddy size nine footprints, and the wooden stake it had been perched on was as splintered as kindling.