A Tale of Two Biddies (9 page)

“I’m telling you what I’ve already told you. I don’t want to see you get mixed up in anything you can’t handle.”

“You don’t know me well enough to know what I can handle and what I can’t handle.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Suddenly, we weren’t talking about Richie or Hank or investigating anymore.

And I wasn’t one little bit comfortable with it.

I pushed back my chair. “Thanks for the coffee,” I told Levi, and headed back toward where I’d parked the car.

Did I say I didn’t know much about Levi? I guess I knew enough to expect him to be persistent, because it didn’t surprise me at all when he was suddenly at my side. I gave him the briefest of glances before I decided to show him I could be plenty persistent, too.

“Dino says he doesn’t know who Richie is,” I said.

No comment.

“But after that watermelon got whacked, Dino looked into the audience. Right at Richie.”

More silence.

“You have to admit, it’s intriguing. If Dino thought Richie wanted to hurt him, Dino might have decided to strike back.”

I guess there’s only so long even a Norse god can play the strong, silent type. Levi tossed his hands in the air. “So you’re going to . . . what? March back over to your B and B, corner Dino, and beat him with a wet brioche until you get him to talk?”

Apparently I wasn’t the only one feeling just a tad sarcastic that morning. “I had planned on talking to him. The brioche is a new thought. Thanks.”

“Always willing to help.”

“You know, I can be subtle.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

I didn’t spare him a look. But then, I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was smiling, and I preferred not to be caught by the gleam in his eyes.

“Mike Lawrence left the bar early,” I said, changing the subject oh-so-smoothly.

“So you think he looks fishy, too.”

“I know he was behind the bar when we walked outside to see the fireworks. And I know he left the building just as the fireworks show ended.”

“You’re wasting your time on that front. Mike called this morning to explain. He said he knew I’d be right back in so he didn’t feel bad about leaving. His wife called right as the fireworks show was ending. One of the kids was really sick and she asked him to come home. No mystery there.”

“If it’s the truth.”

I heard him mumble a word I didn’t quite hear but could pretty much figure out. “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

Rather than explain that I had my reasons, I stuck to the subject at hand. “Mike has motive galore. He lost his business because of Richie. And his home. And his reputation. Richie gets poisoned, Mike leaves the scene of the crime. You can see where this is headed.”

We were back in front of Levi’s bar and Chandra was nowhere around. Too bad. This was the perfect opportunity for a graceful exit.

I guess Levi knew I was planning my escape because he put a hand on my arm. Fortunately for both my equilibrium and his safety (I took self-defense classes back in New York when I was being stalked by a crazy guy), he knew better than to leave it there. “Bea, just because there’s a mystery to solve—”

“Doesn’t mean I should be the one to solve it. That’s what you’re going to say, right?”

Though it made plenty of sense when I told Chandra the same thing, it grated on my nerves now, and I knew exactly why. It was that darned photograph of Richie, the one taken when he was a kid, and try as I might, I couldn’t help but take another look at it.

Though there were plenty of people who probably didn’t believe it, I did have a heart, and I swear, just looking at the cute, goofy-looking kid in the picture made it break in two. Like all kids’ lives, Richie’s contained an endless amount of possibilities. No, he may not have lived up to them. At least as far as anybody knew. But that didn’t mean his death didn’t send ripples through his community.

I guess that’s what I was feeling, those ripples that flickered over my skin like the touch of a skeleton’s hand, cold and dry; I shivered.

I guess that’s also why I lifted my chin and defied what I knew to be Levi’s unarguable logic with a look that told him that if I wasn’t dead-set on investigating before, I sure was now. “Like I said before, nobody said anything about investigating. So who says I’m looking to solve Richie’s murder?”

Levi didn’t take the bait. In fact, all he did was look in the direction of the grocery store. “When Chandra left here earlier, she was smiling.”

“So?”

“So I know Chandra. Of all your friends, she’s the one who’s bound to bug you the most about investigating. She’s an excitement junkie. You know that. Chandra is a drama queen. And in her own way, she’s as nosy as the Defarge sisters. But this morning, like I said . . .” He pointed to his own mouth, though I’m pretty sure there wasn’t anyone on the island who would have mistaken his grimace for a smile. “Smiling. Chandra was smiling. That means she’s not mad at you. And that means she’s not upset. And that means you caved and agreed to investigate. And that explains what you were doing over at the knitting shop before you walked over here.”

“Maybe you should be the detective.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Maybe. And maybe you should mind your own business.”

“Maybe.”

Chandra or no Chandra, I turned and went to the car. I didn’t bother to add the rest of what I wanted to say to Levi, but then, the stormy look in his eyes told me he probably caught the subtext.

Maybe I would mind my own business.

Right when Hell froze over.

I
would apologize to Chandra later for not waiting around for her.

Then again, she was the one who’d abandoned me in the first place, so maybe I wouldn’t even bother.

If I ever made it home.

I grumbled and pounded my steering wheel. With the sailing regatta scheduled to start in just a little while I should have anticipated heavy traffic in the downtown area, and when I left Levi’s I should have gone not toward the lake, but away from it.

Talk about symbolism! I’m pretty sure this said something not-so-good about the way the man turned my brain around.

And boiled my blood.

“Poking my nose where it doesn’t belong,” I muttered. “Minding my own business. He’s got a lot of nerve and—”

A couple teenagers stepped off the curb in front of the SUV, and I slammed on the brakes and grumbled a word I only use when I’m alone. They were oblivious to my death-ray looks, so once they were on the other side of the street, I eased my foot off the brake and joined the rest of the traffic that crawled toward the yacht club hosting the day’s event. This wasn’t just a boat race; it was a daylong extravaganza that included a craft show, musical entertainment, and vendors of all things nautical. Nearly to a street where I might be able to turn to get out of the island equivalent of rush hour, I stopped the SUV to allow three elderly women to cross from the Smoky Joe’s Ribs food truck on one side of the street to the Sweet Sushi truck on the other.

As it turned out, it was a good thing I did, or I never would have seen Mike Lawrence near the yacht club entrance, selling ice cream out of a cart.

Parking was another challenge altogether. Fact is, I’d never actually owned a car when I lived in New York, but I’d learned a lot from watching the way many of my neighbors drove. And parked. Within just a couple minutes, I’d managed to go where no SUV had gone before—nor was meant to go—smack dab between a massive motor home and a golf cart.

I exited the SUV before anyone showed up to point out that I had no business wedged so close to either vehicle and joined the flow of the crowd heading to the lake. I was so busy trying to see over and around the people on all sides of me to where I’d last spotted Mike, I practically ran right into Luella, who was going in the other direction.

She put a hand on my shoulder to keep me from going down like a stone. “You look intense. What’s up?”

“Mike Lawrence!” I stood on tiptoe so I could see the entrance to the yacht club. Both Mike and the ice cream cart were gone and I grumbled a curse. “I need to talk to him.”

In her own way, Luella was as tuned in to island gossip as the Defarge sisters. No doubt, like everyone on the island, she knew the details of Richie’s story. She didn’t have to ask; she also knew exactly why I wanted to talk to Mike. She wasn’t the least bit surprised that I was hot on the trail of a suspect.

“I just got back to port with the group of fishermen I had out this morning, and I’m on my way home for a while before I take another group out this evening. You know I’d offer to help but—”

“I do. Don’t worry about it! You go home and get some rest and I’ll catch up with you later and let you know what I find out.”

Luella smiled her gratitude. “I’ll keep an eye out for Mike,” she promised, and edged out of the worst of the press. “I can’t stand crowds. Give me the lake any day!”

I knew just how she felt. The closer I got to the yacht club, the more I was simply pushed along by the tide of spectators. When we were finally across the street and just a few feet from the lakeshore, I managed to dodge a stroller, sidestep a woman with a walker, and double shuffle around a couple who insisted on walking side by side with their arms looped around each other when there was hardly room for even one person to get by. I slipped to the side, away from the main gate where regatta tickets were being collected.

Fists on hips, I looked around and wished I wasn’t so short. The answer to my problem, though, was only a few feet away in the form of a lightpost sunk into a foot-high cement base. I grabbed the post, hoisted myself up onto the base, and took advantage of a completely new perspective on the scene.

An Impressionist painter would have had a field day with the swirl of colors that played out before me. Lake Erie was a brilliant blue, three shades darker than the dome of sky above it, and there was just enough wind to kick up foamy whitecaps that turned turquoise where they broke against the sides of the boats with their sails, billowing and brilliantly white. Sailors stood at the ready, a couple here and there decked out in jewel tones that added colorful exclamation marks to the scene, a splash of green here, a dab of red there.

I’d never been much of a sailor myself, but I’d attended a few of these kinds of events over the years, and I knew the boats that looked to be randomly sailing back and forth were actually plying the waters near the starting line, waiting for the signal for the race to begin.

Onshore, the panorama was just as interesting. The grounds of the yacht club were immaculately groomed, the grass a gorgeous emerald, and the geraniums that lined the walk a crimson as dark as rubies. The folks in the crowd were dressed in every fashion imaginable, from traditional sailors’ whites to brightly colored sundresses to denim and T-shirts, the kaleidoscope of colors intensified by the afternoon sun.

Lucky for me, the race started and the slowpokes still waiting for a good vantage point got a move on. The crowd thinned, and I spotted Mike and his ice cream cart on the other side of the main entrance. I got over there just a fraction of a second after Alice.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess, gorgeous. You’re here for a chocolate cone!” Even before Alice answered, Mike flipped open the lid of the ice cream cart and started to scoop.

“You know me too well,” Alice chirped, then in response to Mike asking about a vanilla cone for Margaret, she added, “I think it’s too hot to take a cone back. It will be mush before I get halfway there.”

While Mike took Alice’s money and made change, she took the time to look around and noticed me standing in line behind her. “Well, isn’t this a coincidence. I’m lucky enough to get to see you twice in one day!” She took her cone and stepped aside, and because I didn’t want to grill Mike in front of her, I signaled to him that I’d order in just a bit and moved to stand in the shade with Alice. “Are you going to get chocolate, too?” she asked.

I glanced at the list of flavors written on an erasable board and attached to the front of the cart. “I think I’ve already got my heart set on salted caramel.”

Alice grinned and took a lick of her cone. “Good choice. Now don’t you go tattling on me to Margaret about this. If she finds out I had ice cream and she didn’t get any, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

I crossed my heart to prove my good intentions. “Margaret’s back at the shop?”

Since Alice was mid-lick, she simply nodded. “I know I can’t stay long. I just wanted to see the start of the race. But I’ve got to hurry back. Good heavens, if anyone comes in and asks Margaret a knitting question . . .” Whatever else she was going to say, her cheeks turned pink and Alice clamped her lips shut.

Call me as nosy as the Defarge sisters, I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on.

“Margaret must know as much about the shop as you do,” I ventured, trying to draw her out. “You two have owned the shop for how many years?”

“Oh good heavens!” Thinking, Alice closed her eyes. “Going on forty, I think,” she finally said, opening them again and realizing there was a chocolate drip about to run down her hand. She licked the edge of the cone. “And of course Margaret knows as much as I do about inventory and orders and payments and utility bills and such.”

Don’t think I didn’t notice that she’d left something out.

“But not about knitting?”

The pink in Alice’s cheeks intensified. “You know how it is with sisters,” she said, and I had to admit that I didn’t; I had no siblings. “Well, it’s worse with twins,” she assured me, undeterred by my only-child status. “Always sticking up for each other. Always having each other’s backs. Of course, that’s why I hate to say anything bad about Margaret but . . .” She leaned in close. “Truth be told, she’s not much of a knitter.”

I would have laughed if not for the grave look on Alice’s face. To her, this was serious stuff.

“Oh, she tries,” she added, and I guess she thought that took care of the having-each-other’s-backs part, because she went on to say, “but Margaret’s fingers just aren’t as nimble as mine. They never have been. Not even when we were kids and first learned to knit. It was for the war effort, you know, Korea. All the women here on the island got together two nights a week over at the town hall and knitted socks for the soldiers. Such a good memory!” Her smile was soft, but only for a moment. Then her lips puckered. “Oh, I don’t mean the war. Don’t get me wrong. I’m talking about the friendship between the women. We got together, we talked, some of the women brought the letters they got from sons and husbands and brothers, boys we all knew who were all away fighting the war. And we knit socks. My goodness, did we knit socks! We even got a commendation from the national Red Cross because we made so many pairs.” Her slender shoulders went back. “Even though I was a brand-new knitter, I ended up knitting more socks than anyone. That’s how easy knitting came to me. Like that!” She snapped her fingers. “Margaret . . . well, she tried, bless her heart. But it was never easy for her. To this day, she can’t look at anyone knitting socks without getting heart palpitations. Now don’t you go spreading word around about any of this,” she warned me with a look. “Margaret’s a little touchy when it comes to her knitting skills.”

I gave her a wink. “Your secret is safe with me.”

That was enough to satisfy Alice. She took another lick of her cone, gave me a jaunty wave good-bye, and headed downtown to the knitting shop.

“You want that ice cream now?” Mike asked me.

I assured him I did, paid for my cone, and bided my time. If there was one thing I’d learned investigating Peter’s untimely demise, it was that suspects can’t be rushed. At least not without spooking them. Since I couldn’t afford to let Mike know I was investigating, I decided to play dumb.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you working for the ice cream company before. Oh!” I put a hand to my mouth. Too dramatic? Since Mike went as still as a statue, his hand inside the ice cream freezer and his face suddenly the color of the crimson geraniums that grew nearby, I don’t think he even noticed.

I did my best to sound repentant. “This was one of Richie’s jobs, wasn’t it?”

Mike slapped the cooler cover closed. “Yeah, well, Richie’s a little busy being dead today so the guy who owns the concession called me to fill in.”

I took the ice cream cone out of Mike’s hand. “So what’s your theory about the way Richie died? You must have one. Everyone else I’ve talked to about it today does.”

As if he couldn’t believe I cared enough to even ask, Mike snorted. “Drank himself to death. Or maybe it was terminal stupidity that killed him.”

He didn’t know.

Or he pretended he didn’t.

The chill that ran through me had nothing to do with the ice cream.

I watched Mike carefully, hoping to gauge his reaction. “You haven’t heard the news.”

“I know the idiot is dead, and I say good riddance. Believe me, the world is a better place without Richie Monroe in it.”

This didn’t seem like an especially good time to start slurping down a salted caramel ice cream cone, but since it was already dripping down my fingers, I gave the cone a quick lick.

“Richie was murdered,” I told Mike.

If Mike was surprised by this piece of news, he didn’t show it. He wiped a damp rag over the top of the ice cream cart. “Everybody who ever met the guy hated his guts. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“You don’t sound especially sorry.”

Understatement, and I guess Mike knew it because he barked out a laugh. “Sorry? Should I be? I mean, really? I know you’re pretty new around here, but even you must have heard the story. That jackass ruined my life.”

Somehow, eating ice cream and talking about murder didn’t seem to go together, but the sun was hot, and my salted caramel was quickly disintegrating.

I licked around the cone, paying special attention to the rim. “Did you like Richie?” I asked Mike.

Surprised by the question, he flinched. “Like him? You mean before he ruined my life or after?” It was a small ice cream cart and no way it needed it again, but he swiped the towel along the chrome top one more time.

“I tried,” Mike said, and I knew it wasn’t easy for him to admit it; a muscle jumped at the base of his jaw. “You know what I mean? Like everyone else on the island, I felt sorry for the guy. He was so quiet, and anytime I saw him, he was usually alone. Yeah, I tried to like him. And I tried to help him out. I hired him to do lots of odd jobs for me. And I thought, you know . . . I thought maybe if I stopped in at a work site to see how he was doing, and we talked a little bit . . . I thought I could get to know him a little better, maybe sit down and have a beer with him sometime. And just when I figured I’d ask if he wanted to come by the house for a burger and a brew, that’s when he’d do something so stupid that all I could think was that I wanted to wring his neck.”