Stuck on Murder (6 page)

“I called the police,” Portia shouted from the porch, where she and Paul stood wearing identical expressions of bemusement.

The mayor’s head was a bold shade of apple red, his tie was askew, and his suspenders were holding on for all they were worth. When he caught sight of Nate, he gave a primal roar and tugged another sign out of the ground. He charged across the lawn swinging the sign as if hoping to smack Nate out of the figurative ballpark with it.

“Was there something you wanted to discuss?” Nate asked. The mayor kept charging.

Nate gave Brenna a half-stunned, half-amused smile and jogged over to stand behind the mayor’s silver Lexus. The mayor chased him around the car, but Nate stayed just ahead of him. With an infuriated grunt, Mayor Ripley switched directions and so did Nate. This game of tag went on for several minutes. It would have been funny, Brenna supposed, if the mayor hadn’t been frothing at the mouth, looking like he planned to shove the business end of the sign through Nate’s heart.

A screech of tires made Brenna turn to look through the trees that lined the drive to the road beyond. At least twenty cars had stopped to watch the show, the last one almost rear-ending the car ahead of it. Several townspeople had climbed out of their vehicles and were sitting on the trunks, roofs, and hoods to get a better view. If they’d had coolers and hibachis, it’d look like a tailgate party.

A large white sedan, sporting vintage bubble lights, left the other cars on the street and wound its way up the drive. It was a local police car, obvious from the Morse Point Police Shield on its side, and was being driven by the chief of police himself.

He parked behind the Lexus and glanced through his windshield as if unsurprised by what he was seeing. Brenna knew that Ray Barker had been with the town police for thirty-five years, and even in an uneventful town like Morse Point, he had probably seen it all and then some.

“Gentlemen,” he called as he stepped out of his vehicle, “what seems to be the trouble?”

Ray Barker was six foot three, tall and lanky with close-cropped silver hair and a matching mustache that he’d probably had since the seventies. He spoke soft and slow, but Brenna got the feeling that he’d have you splayed out on the ground before you knew what hit you if you gave him any provocation. He was the very essence of law and order.

Chief Barker’s gaze slid across the scene, and Brenna knew that he missed nothing from the numerous yellow signs to the two men causing the ruckus to the plump, black and white Muscovy duck swimming for deeper waters in the lake beyond. The chief was cataloging it all. When his gaze rested upon Brenna, she felt her palms get sweaty, which was ridiculous. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

Nate and Mayor Ripley abruptly stopped their game of tag. While Nate looked charmingly sheepish, Mayor Ripley was furiously indignant. He threw down the sign he clutched and stomped over toward the chief.

“About time!” he snapped. “Make him take down all of these signs.”

The chief just shook his head and spoke in a low drawl that Brenna had to strain to hear. “Can’t. It’s his property. He can put signs wherever he wants.”

“But it’s libel, it’s slander, why, it’s visual pollution!” Mayor Ripley protested. “There has to be an ordinance against this!”

“Well, there isn’t,” Chief Barker said.

“That can be changed!” Mayor Ripley warned.

“There has been some damage done here, though,” the chief said. He gave the mayor a sideways glance. “It could be considered vandalism.”

“That is preposterous!” Mayor Ripley protested.

“Did you do this, Mayor?” Chief Barker asked.

The mayor glanced around and Brenna had the feeling he would have lied, but there were too many witnesses.

“I was merely protecting my good name from his lies and propaganda.”

“Either way, I need to ask Mr. Williams if he wants to press charges,” Chief Barker said.

If the mayor had been angry before, now he looked positively volcanic, as in about to explode.

“Press charges? Against me? Need I remind you that I am the mayor?”

“I think I’m pretty clear on that,” Chief Barker said. Brenna could have sworn he had a laugh tucked neatly under his mustache.

She caught Nate’s eye over the chief’s shoulder and shook her head. Enough was enough. If he brought charges against the mayor, she feared the town really would show up in the middle of the night to burn them out.

Nate glanced away as if he hadn’t seen her, and she clenched her teeth. Stubborn man! Why, he made even the most ornery mule seem sweetly dispositioned by comparison. And no, it did not escape her that she was comparing him to a jackass.

“Well, I don’t know,” Nate said as he leaned against the police cruiser. “Would he have to do jail time?”

The mayor gasped and clenched his fists.

“For a few signs?” Chief Barker asked. “No, ’fraid not.”

“Community service?” Nate asked.

“Nope.” Chief Barker moved to lean beside Nate. “You’re looking at a citation with a minimal fine.”

Mayor Ripley looked as if he wanted to yell, but he wisely stayed silent.

“Hardly seems worth the effort then,” Nate said.

The chief nodded and said, “Okay, then, you head on home, Mayor, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

The mayor’s head snapped between the two men, and he pulled himself up to the fullest of his inconsiderable height.

“I’ll have your job, Chief Barker,” he said.

Ray looked at him, and one of his eyebrows lowered skeptically. “I’ve been ready to retire for six years, but no one will let me. Be my guest.”

The mayor let out a snarl and slammed into the driver’s seat of his Lexus. With a spray of gravel, he sped down the lane toward the main road. Figuring that the drama was over with the arrival of Chief Barker, the glut of traffic had begun to move just in time to let him merge.

Chief Barker pushed his hat back on his head and looked at Nate. “I’ve known Jim since he was a kid, and even then he was a snot-nosed little bugger. But are the signs really necessary?”

Nate shrugged. “He’s trying to develop the lake. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop him.”

“Some folks think development is good for the local economy.”

“It’ll cause the lake to become overcrowded with water-skiing yahoos and motorboats, and it’ll kill off the brook trout,” Nate said solemnly.

Chief Barker frowned. “Can’t have that. Maybe I should go and take an informal survey of the wildlife.”

Nate nodded and it seemed to Brenna that an unspoken understanding passed between them.

The chief went to the back of his car and opened the trunk. He pulled out a rod and reel and a large tackle box. He slammed the trunk, and with a tip of his hat, he disappeared down the path that wound around the inlets.

Brenna gave Nate a questioning look, and he grinned and said, “It’s all who you know.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. She felt like smacking her own forehead. How could she have been worried about him? If ever there was a man who did not need looking after, it was Nate Williams.

Chapter 6

As Brenna learned over the next few days, the town residents were quite divided in their opinions of Nate versus Mayor Ripley and the future of Morse Point Lake.

Two days after the mayor’s hissy fit at the lake, she was standing in the checkout line at Mitch’s Hardware Store, which sat across the town square from Vintage Papers, buying a large can of Polycrylic for her next class. She was second in line when Mitch the owner and Bart the store clerk, who, thanks to Tenley, she now knew liked to streak across the green to relive 1972, began to have a heated discussion behind the counter.

“He’s saving the lake for everyone,” Bart Thompson said. He was wearing his usual tie-dye T-shirt, and his long gray ponytail was tucked into his apron.

“He’s impeding the growth of the town,” Mitch argued. “How do you think I am going to keep paying your salary if we don’t get some new residents in this town?”

“You haven’t given me a raise in two years,” Bart growled. “So I know you’re saving money there.”

“Tree hugger,” Mitch accused.

“Corporate shill,” Bart snapped back.

The customer ahead of Brenna hurried through his transaction as if uncomfortable with the sudden tension.

Brenna felt the same way.

Mitch barely glanced at her as he rang up her purchase, and Bart bagged it with more exuberance than was necessary.

She had almost made a clean getaway when Bart called after her, “Hey, don’t you live out there on the lake with Nate Williams?”

“Uh, not with him, no,” Brenna said. “But I do rent one of his cabins.”

“Well, you tell him that I think he’s doing the right thing,” he said. “Power to the people!”

“Huh,” Mitch grunted.

“I’ll do that,” Brenna said and hurried out of the shop. She found the same debate raging at the post office and the grocery store.

When she stopped by the library to return her books and scan the new book rack, she overheard the head librarian, Lillian Page, talking to Roger Chisholm, the president of the local historic preservation society.

“I do have a book about the history of Morse Point that includes the cabins,” she was saying.

Brenna’s ears perked up. She had no doubt that they were talking about
her
cabins. She picked up a book and pretended to read the cover blurb.

“Excellent,” Roger said. “That should make it much easier to get them designated as a historic site. Oh, I can’t wait to see Ripley’s face.”

Lillian pushed up her narrow, dark-framed glasses and studied him. Wearing a cardigan with patches on the sleeves, Roger had a scholarly look to him, which was reinforced by his thick silver hair and neatly trimmed beard.

“Still bitter, Roger?” she asked, her tone gently teasing.

“Bitter, I’m not . . .” he began to protest and then his shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Yeah, I’m pretty bitter.”

They both laughed and Brenna knew they shared a joke to which she wasn’t privy.

“I don’t blame you,” Lillian said. “He maneuvered the town council into buying that land to put that strip mall up before the preservation society could make an offer.”

“They just plowed over the old school yard as if it were no more a historic site than the dump. It was such a travesty. Well, I think the mayor has finally met his match. I’m going to enjoy watching Nate Williams take Jim Ripley down,” Roger said. “And I’ll do anything I can to help.”

It seemed to Brenna that Roger Chisholm was more than a little bitter. In fact, it sounded as if should Ripley happen to step in front of Roger’s car, he’d be hard pressed to decide whether to hit the gas or the brake.

She left the library with a wave to Lillian, who frequented her decoupage classes, feeling more than a little disturbed. A resolution needed to be made about the lake property, and soon, before the town was irrevocably divided by the issue. She mulled it over on the drive back to her cabin, but with no resolution in mind by the time she got home, she was happy to close her door on the entire mess.

She had bought a fresh loaf of French bread and quickly pulled together the ingredients for a cheese soufflé, which she seasoned with dry mustard, garlic powder, and kosher salt. While that baked for thirty-five minutes, she made a spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette and poured herself a glass of wine.

The sun was just beginning its descent so she took her wine outside. She sat on the top step and rested her back against the porch railing, watching as the lake reflected the sky’s deepening amber hues as perfectly as a mirror. A soft breeze sent ripples across the water’s surface, and Brenna wrapped her arms about her middle, trying to keep in more of her own warmth. This was her favorite time of day, when the woods surrounding the lake took on hushed tones like a parent tucking a child into bed.

As the water smoothed back into its pristine veneer, she saw something bob to the surface. At first she thought maybe one of Nate’s signs had fallen into the drink, but no. This was too large and too brown.

She placed her wineglass on the top step and rose from her seat. The sunset was now bursting into vibrant shades of blood red tinged with gold. She felt a chill spread up her arms, giving her goose bumps.

She squinted at the object in the water. It looked like an old wooden steamer trunk. What was it doing in the lake? Having spent many of her days off foraging in the town dump, looking for old furniture to restore and decoupage, Brenna couldn’t help but think that this trunk could be quite a find if it wasn’t too water damaged.

Without stopping to reconsider, she kicked off her shoes and rolled up her pant legs. The trunk was close enough that she didn’t think she’d actually have to swim for it. She grabbed a fallen tree limb from a nearby willow and shimmied out onto a big rock at the edge of the water. She had to use two hands to maneuver the branch over the trunk to try and rake it closer. It bobbed on the water, getting nearer before it got bogged down in the weeds that filled the shallows at the water’s edge. Damn.