All Murders Final! (12 page)

Chapter 19

I settled on the couch, flipped on the Celtics game, and called Seth.

“Sarah, come over.” He sounded so happy to hear from me. I heard voices in the background. “I have people over watching the Celtics game.”

Darn.
I couldn't very well quiz him on his relationships with Margaret and Mike if he had a house full of guests.

“I can't. I had a long day with a client.”

“How'd it go?”

“Good.” Always Miss Upbeat all of a sudden, as I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me.

“I'd get rid of everyone if I could.” Seth's low, soft voice made me tingle, even though I had questions for him.

His friends cheered as one of the Celtics shot a three-pointer from half-court to finish the half.

“Seth, darling, what's taking you so long?” It was Nichole talking in the background. I couldn't believe she called him “darling.”

“I've got to go, Seth,” I said.

“Wait. Why'd you call?”

“No particular reason.” I hung up. I didn't want to give him a heads-up about Mike before we talked in person.

* * *

Sunday morning, after a long soak in the tub, two cups of coffee, and a failed attempt at the Sunday crossword puzzle, I read an article in the paper about Juanita's death. It was splashed all over the front page of the local paper. Two murders within a few days of each other in a small town like Ellington was unheard of. Although technically at this point Juanita's death was a suspicious death, and, boy, did I have my suspicions. But the article didn't tell me anything new.

To keep busy, I flopped on the couch, popped open the laptop, and worked on my garage sale site. One hundred notifications sat there, waiting for me. I took another drink of coffee and started sifting through them. Most of them were easy: a question about how to post something, someone wanting to add a friend to the site, a complaint about someone else bumping their posts up more frequently than the once a week that was allowed.

I breezed through most of them in a half hour. There were a couple of posts about Juanita. One person asked if anyone had heard from her, because she was supposed to clean her house yesterday. She had company coming and was very upset. Then there was another complaint and, finally, a post about Juanita's death, with a link to the story in the newspaper.

I sent a message to the person with the complaint, asking what kind of problems she'd had. I heard back right away. It wasn't a problem with Juanita's cleaning, which was fine, but she'd come home on two different occasions after Juanita had cleaned and left to find a door or a window unlocked. I asked if anything had been taken, but nothing had. It worried me, nonetheless. With Juanita dead, I guessed it didn't really matter if she'd been involved in something bad. It must have died with her.

I noticed that a nor'easter was expected to hit this evening, bringing with it our first significant snow of the year. Right now the sky was blue and cloudless. My phone rang, and I had mixed feelings when I saw it was Seth. But not so mixed that I ignored the call.

“You hung up pretty quickly last night,” he said.

“You had company and were busy.”

“Is this about Nichole? We're just friends. I didn't even invite her. She just showed up with other people I did invite.”

“You don't owe me any explanations.”

“But I want to. I want to mean that much to you.” He always knew what to say to break down my resistance. And since I wanted to talk to him about more than one thing, it wasn't very hard.

“Seth—”

“Come to lunch with me.”

“I have a lot to do.”
Liar.
“Besides, don't you have a thing with your family today?”

“Mother got a better offer and ditched us. So I'm free, and you have to eat. If I know you, all you have in your house is Marshmallow Fluff, peanut butter, and bread.”

“They're staples. Besides, there's a nor'easter headed this way.”

“You are such a California girl. I'll have you home safe before the first flake falls. Please come to lunch.”

“Okay.” I really didn't want a fluffernutter, anyway.

* * *

I figured we'd go to Helen's, my favorite breakfast and lunch place in Concord, but Seth kept driving. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“The Wayside Inn in Sudbury.”

“Longfellow's Wayside Inn?” I couldn't keep the excitement out of my voice. I'd always wanted to go, and it wasn't that far from Ellington. I'd just never made it.

“Yes, but it was around long before Longfellow wrote about it. It's the oldest continually run inn in the States. The road it sits on is one of the first mail routes in the country.”

Seth took the back roads, and I was content to watch the low stone walls roll by and to admire the colonial-style houses, which actually were from colonial times.

“When the inn first opened, the Howe family called it a ‘house of entertainment,'” Seth said as he pulled into the parking lot of the inn.

“That sounds kind of naughty.”

“Maybe it was.”

As we got out of the car, Seth pointed to a window on the second floor of the red clapboard building. “That room's haunted.”

Hairs prickled on the back of my neck when I looked at the window and saw a shadow pass it. I grabbed Seth's arm. “I think I just saw the ghost.”

He looked up and laughed. “It looks like the cleaning woman is vacuuming. Are you afraid of ghosts?”

I squinted my eyes and was relieved to see it was a woman vacuuming. “Maybe. Just a little.”

“If you plan to stay in New England, you're going to have to toughen up. We have a lot of ghosts and a lot of snow. You can't let either of them scare you.”

“Any other tips?”

“You should date only lawyers named Seth.” He linked his hand with mine and pointed at the window again. “This ghost story is tragic. Jerusha Howe, the daughter of one of the owners, fell in love with a guy from Britain. He pledged his love to her. But he had to return to England and promised he'd be back.”

“He didn't show back up, did he? Scum.”

“He might have died at sea or in a carriage accident, pining for her with his last breath.”

I rolled my eyes. “Or had a wife and five kids back at home. What happened to Jerusha?”

“She never married but supposedly lived a happy life and died single.”

“If she was so happy, why's she haunting the place?”

“She never gave up looking for her love.”

We walked to the front door of the inn. As we entered, a greeter in colonial clothes told us he was dressed in garb from the Sudbury Company of Militia and Minute. We strolled down the hall, looking at the historic photographs, until we were seated in the Tap Room, at one of two tables in front of the fireplace. The room's post and beam framing only added to the romantic atmosphere. A girl could get carried away in a place like this. But I didn't plan to end up like Jerusha.

“How did you manage to get a table right in front of the fireplace?” I asked.

“I had a reservation.”

A woman handed us two menus. “It must have been months ago if you snagged one of these tables,” she said.

Seth smiled at me. “I called as soon as you said yes. Sometimes a guy gets lucky.”

I studied my menu to avoid saying anything. I ordered the broiled Boston scrod, a traditional New England dish of baked cod with lots of butter and a crumb topping that originated at Parker's Restaurant at the Parker House in Boston. Seth ordered the Belgian Endive Scoops stuffed with lobster for us to share and a steak.

“This used to be called the Howe Tavern, but after Longfellow made it famous when he wrote
Tales of a Wayside Inn
, they changed the name to Longfellow's Wayside Inn in the late eighteen hundreds,” Seth said.

“How do you know so much?”

“I love history, but it's also on the back of the menu.”

I loved the history of the area, too, so this was another thing we had in common. Before our divorce, CJ had gone with me to a few historical sites, like the Old North Bridge in Concord, and to Salem. But he had just gone to please me, while I had breathed in the history and had felt it in my soul.

We ate our appetizer and started on our entrées before I brought up the subject of Margaret. “I've been hearing a lot about Margaret More.”

“Don't tell me you've been listening to the stories about Margaret. She's almost an urban legend.”

“Do you know Hennessy Hamilton?”

“No.”

I was surprised, but then I remembered that Seth had grown up in Boston and Nantucket. As an adult, he'd lived in Lowell and Bedford. He wasn't as plugged into the Ellington people as I might have believed. And as far as I knew, Hennessy hadn't committed any crimes beyond being overly dramatic. I filled him in on what Hennessy had told me.

“Then I talked to Stella. She said Margaret pressured her to be a star and then, when things fell apart, to do Margaret's bidding.”

“But maybe that was how Stella felt, instead of what Margaret thought. Stella might have felt guilty and thought she'd wasted Margaret's money. She could have just told her no.”

“I guess she could have. But Stella said Margaret threatened to ruin her aunt's political ambitions. Do you know Nancy Elder?”

“Yes, and I have no doubt that Margaret liked to manipulate people. But I think some people just buy into it and others called her bluff. How long have you known Hennessy?”

“I don't really know Hennessy. I've shopped at her store some.”

“And Stella?”

“She's been my landlady for just over a year. But we didn't really start getting to know each other until last April.” I hadn't known Seth much longer than that, either.

Seth leaned back when I finished eating and asked the waiter for more coffee.

“How long had you known Margaret?” Seth asked.

“Several years, through the Spouses' Club. But not well.”

“And what did you think of her before you started hearing all of this?”

“That she was a nice old lady with a lot of money who liked to help people.” I thought Seth was working his lawyer voodoo on me. He had a point but I wasn't done yet. “I heard she helped you, too.”

Seth took my hand. “She backed my appointment as DA, and you think I owe her. Her influence probably did help me get the appointment, and she was backing my campaign to get elected.”

I thought about yelling, “Aha,” but listened instead.

“To assume I got the job because of who my family is and who they know, and not because of my hard work, hurts. It's something I've had to deal with since I was appointed. But I think I've proved most of the naysayers wrong by doing a damn good job.”

“I didn't think that. I'm sorry if it came off that way.” I knew what long hours he worked, and maybe now I knew why.

“Margaret was a philanthropist. She had a lot of money and enjoyed helping people. If people looked at that as owing her, it's on them. She might have been a bit of a meddler, but so what?”

“So you didn't feel like you owed her?”

Seth shook his head. “When Nichole moved back, I occasionally took her to events if Margaret asked me. Margaret wanted to make sure that Nichole knew the right people.”

“You're sure she didn't want you to be more than a go-between?”

“She might have, but I made it clear that wasn't my intention. To both of them. I was just trying to help an old friend. The only thing I owe Margaret is to make sure whoever killed her goes away for a very long time.”

I sipped my coffee, thinking about all Seth had said.

“Are there any leads?” I asked.

“Nothing that I can talk about. Do you want to share a dessert?”

I hesitated before nodding. We'd fallen into the habit of sharing desserts before I'd put the relationship moratorium in place.

“You look reluctant.”

“Dessert sharing is a big step in a relationship. It shows a level of trust and a willingness to be a part of someone's life.” CJ and I had started to share a dessert the night I'd gone to dinner with him, and I hadn't even thought about it. When we were young, we'd skipped the dessert-sharing portion of our lives and gone right into sharing everything. But we'd been young and impulsive.

Seth stared at me. He had to think I was a nut. I'd slept with him the other night. Here I was, out to lunch with him and suddenly worrying about sharing a dessert. I felt a little nuts. I blamed it on lack of sleep.

“It's just dessert. A willingness to enjoy without overindulging. But I like your take on it. I want to be a part of your life, and I'm glad you trust me,” Seth said.

“How does the deep-dish apple pie and ice cream sound?” I should have kept my mouth shut.

Chapter 20

When we finished, I stood and headed for the door of the inn, but Seth grabbed my hand and led me upstairs.

“Let's see if we can peek inside Jerusha's room,” he said.

The door to the room was open, and the maid's cart sat outside, but she was nowhere to be seen. We walked in. The room had wood paneling and a low beamed ceiling. Seth's head almost touched one of the beams. CJ would have had to duck. People had written Jerusha notes and had tucked them into crevices around the beams in the ceiling.

I went over to the window. It looked out over the road, and I pictured Jerusha sitting there, waiting for her love to come back. It probably wasn't unlike how a military spouse felt when his or her loved one was deployed. Only Jerusha never moved beyond it. It made me wonder if I could ever truly move on from CJ or if I really wanted to.

Seth came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. He pressed his lips to my neck, but instead of warmth, I felt cold, as if an icy hand had caressed my neck. I thought I smelled a faint whiff of flowery perfume. Seth stiffened.

“Let's get out of here,” I said.

“Did you feel that?” he asked as we hurried down the steps.

“I did. Like a cold caress, but it probably was just a draft.”

“Or Jerusha trying to tell us something.”

“What would that be?”

“Don't wait on love?”

I wasn't sure if he was talking about him or me, but once we were back out in the bright sunlight, it didn't seem to matter.

* * *

A few snowflakes were falling when we pulled up in front of my apartment. Seth glanced up, not at my apartment but at Mike's.

It had been such a nice afternoon that I hadn't wanted to bring up Mike, but now I felt like I had to. “Were you playing poker with Mike Titone the other night?”

Seth looked down at his hands before turning to me. “Does it matter?”

“It looked like you ducked back so I wouldn't see you.”

“I was smoking. I do it about once a year, but I didn't want you to see me.”

I thought about the cigarette butts at Margaret's house.

“Lots of guys smoke on poker night. Is that so bad?” Seth asked.

I shook my head, but I wasn't quite sure I believed his story, and that made me uneasy. “He's in the Mob. I think that's what you didn't want me to see.”

Seth tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “No one knows that I play poker with him on occasion. If anyone saw me go in, they'd think I was going to see you.”

“I don't even know what to say to that. I'm not sure which is worse, that you'd risk your career for a poker game or that you'd use me to do it.” I opened the car door. “Thanks for lunch.”

Seth snagged my hand. “Don't be mad. I have my reasons for playing with Mike.”

“Let's hear them.”

“I can't tell you.”

How many times had I heard that over the years from CJ, while he was active duty in the air force? Part of me understood that some jobs required great amounts of discretion, clearances, and secrets. But another part of me was sick of it. Was there any such thing as an easy relationship?

“I stood outside your door that night after I left Mike's. It was late, so I didn't knock. I didn't want you to misinterpret my being at your door so late. Please understand.”

I thought about Jerusha waiting for her love. Had she tried to tell me something? “Okay.”

Seth pulled me into his arms, and we kissed until neither of us could catch a breath. I climbed out of the car and watched him drive off. Dark clouds had gathered to the southeast of the church steeple. It looked like a storm was coming.

* * *

I walked over to DiNapoli's Roast Beef and Pizza, knowing the state of my larder was right up there with Old Mother Hubbard's. I could buy a pizza, a salad, and some ziti, which would get me through the storm if things got really bad. Plus, maybe I could find a way to discreetly ask the DiNapolis about Seth and what was up between him and Mike. I yanked on the door, but it didn't budge. They were closed. I'd never seen DiNapoli's closed during the middle of the day. A little fissure of anxiety zipped through me. There was no note on the door. I hoped nothing had happened to Angelo or Rosalie. I whipped out my cell phone and tried to call Rosalie, but she didn't answer. I cupped my hands and peered in. Nothing stirred. Maybe Angelo had finally ruffled the wrong feathers and a health inspector had closed them down for a minor infraction. The second option seemed all too possible.

Angelo, whose name meant “messenger of God” in Italian, had a bit of a reputation in town for his opinions and temper. He regularly wrote letters to the editor, calling out anyone he felt was out of line on either side of the political fence. He reprimanded jaywalkers, and sometimes his priest came to him for advice. Angelo did it all out of the best place in his heart. He wanted people to be safe and happy. But not everyone saw it that way. Thankfully, there weren't any notices on the door indicating they'd been cited for a health infraction. Even the pickiest inspector would have a hard time finding fault at DiNapoli's. Although the fixtures were old and worn, the restaurant was always spotless.

I stood there, trying to figure out what to do. Maybe Carol would know why DiNapoli's was closed. She and Angelo weren't the closest of friends—even the term
friends
was stretching it—but there'd been a bit of a thaw in their relationship since the fall. I turned to go to Carol's but realized it was Sunday and she was closed. One of the ways I found things out was through the local grapevine, and with DiNapoli's closed, the grapevine might be broken.

* * *

Around six in the evening the snow was hurtling down. I turned on the news. As predicted, a nor'easter had formed off the coast to the south and was moving more quickly than expected. It was going to come through hard and fast tonight.

Rosalie called. “I need a favor,” she said.

“Of course. Anything.” They'd fed me and comforted me so many times, I was eager to repay them in some small way. “But are you and Angelo all right? Why's the restaurant closed?”

“We're fine, but Stefano took a turn for the worse.”

“Oh, no. What's wrong?”

“He had a heart attack this afternoon. The family is all here in Cambridge, trying to figure out who'll run the family business while he recuperates.”

“Real estate,” I heard Angelo yell in the background. It made me smile. Angelo had repeatedly told me the family business was real estate. I hoped it was.

“Tell Stefano I hope he recovers quickly.”

“I will. Could you move my car for me? I heard Ellington has a snow emergency going into effect. I left it parked up the street from DiNapoli's and rode over here with Angelo. I don't want it to get towed.”

I glanced out the window. The flakes were small and moved sideways, obscuring my view of the Congregational church and the town common. As much as I wanted to help, I was reluctant to drive to Cambridge in this weather, even in my Suburban. But this was for Rosalie and Angelo. “I'll come get the keys.”

“You don't have to do that. The keys are under the mat on the driver's side,” Rosalie said. “It's a gray Honda Accord, four door.”

I shook my head at the thought of leaving one's keys in the car. Normally, Ellington had relatively little crime, but still. “Okay. No worries. I'll move it. Let me know if there's anything else I can do.”

I slipped on my heaviest coat, pulled a hat low over my ears, and wrapped a scarf around my face. I checked my pocket for gloves and trotted downstairs. I was about to walk out when Stella walked in.

“Where are you off to?” Stella asked.

I pulled my scarf down to talk. “Moving Rosalie's car for her. I'm going to park it in the Callahans' spot since they're gone, if that's okay with you.”

“Sure. I could use a walk. I've been inside all day, judging a middle school singing contest,” Stella said. “Let me dump this stuff in my apartment and go with you.” She had a briefcase and a bag from the packy—a state-run package store, or liquor store—that looked like it held wine. “We can have a glass of wine when we get back. Come on in. I have to feed Tux, too.”

Tux, Stella's adorable cat, loved me, and as soon as we walked in, he wound between my legs, purring. I bent down to pet him, and he rolled on his back for a tummy scratch.

“Oh, sorry,” Stella said. “He has a sixth sense about people with allergies.”

“It's fine,” I said, straightening up. “I just need to wash my hands and not touch my eyes.”

Two minutes later we headed out. We stepped onto the porch, and a gust of wind swirled snow around us like we were inside a snow tornado. It let up for a second, but another gust followed.

“You don't have to come,” I yelled to Stella, my voice muffled by the snow and the scarf over my face. “I can move the car and be back in a few minutes.”

I stepped off the porch onto the steps. The flakes had turned into pellets of snow that felt like they'd been shot out of a cannon. I readjusted my scarf and pulled my hood up over my hat, drawing the strings tighter, hoping to protect as much of my face as possible. If this were for anyone but Rosalie, I would have hightailed it back into the house. Even out here, I couldn't see the big Congregational church on the town common.

“I'll come,” Stella shouted. “You shouldn't be out in this alone. It reminds me of that scene in
Little House on the Prairie
where they can't see the barn and have to follow a rope. This is wild.”

I was grateful Stella was coming, not because I was worried about getting lost, but because a tiny part of me was afraid that even on a night like this, my stalker might be around. We linked arms and bent over, walking into the wind. It was pointless to try to talk, between the wind, the snow, and our multiple layers of clothes. Our footprints were obliterated as soon as we took our next step. I was grateful for the Sorel boots I'd bought off my virtual garage sale site. At least my feet were dry and warm.

Great Road was deserted, businesses closed. It looked like a ghost town set in the Arctic instead of suburbia outside of Boston. We could barely see the stoplight and crossed even though it was red. There was a time last spring when I would have waited even on a night like this, because anytime I did anything remotely out of line, some police officer was there to catch me. Fortunately, that nonsense had subsided.

The area behind the businesses was more residential and darker. I smelled smoke from multiple fireplaces as we trudged up the street. A fireplace, a good book, and a glass of wine. I could just picture the cozy scenario. I tugged on Stella's arm and pointed. The car was up ahead. We hurried the last bit and open the doors, then almost bashed heads over the console as we both lunged into the car. I wrenched the car door closed after a brief battle with the wind.

“The keys are supposed to be under the mat,” I said. The car was neat and tidy, except for the little puddles dripping off our boots onto the floor mats.

Stella pointed a mittened hand. “They're in the ignition.”

“Rosalie is too trusting.” I fired up the engine, blasted the defrost, and turned on the rear window defroster. Fortunately, the snow hadn't started piling up on the car, because of the swirling wind.

I put the car in drive and cautiously pulled out. A few seconds later we passed another parked car. “Poor sap is going to get towed.”

“Rosalie's lucky you were willing to move hers.”

I took a right down a residential street. Lights glimmered dimly through the snow from the houses lining it. Another right and we were headed back to Great Road. As I turned onto Great Road, the car died. I used its forward momentum to steer it to the side of the road.

The locks on the car clicked down.

“What the hell?” Stella asked.