All Murders Final! (9 page)

Chapter 13

“I want you to meet my parents,” he said.

“Your parents are here?” I looked over my shoulder, like they might be right behind me. “Why?”

“My family and the Mores go way back. So will you meet them?”

I felt unsure. I was no model or lawyer, the kind of woman Seth usually seemed to be with, but I needed to snap out of that kind of thinking. I ran my own business, and I looked pretty good tonight. Someone out there thought my boots were sexy.
Ugh.
Why had I thought of that? I straightened my shoulders, told myself it would be okay.

“Okay,” I finally said.

Seth took my hand and guided me through the crowd. I gripped his hand like he was a towrope and I was a rookie skier going back up a hill. He gave my hand a squeeze, which made me feel a little better. Seth stopped by two couples and waited until one of the women turned. She looked like a taller, more stylish version of Queen Elizabeth. I resisted the urge to curtsy.

“Seth, darling, Nichole was just looking for you.” She glanced at me, our two linked hands, and then gave me a thorough once-over. I was thankful that I'd worn my vintage 1970s Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, a yard sale find, and a simple necklace I'd made from some old pearl earrings. Hopefully, my black boots weren't too scuffed.

“Sarah, my parents, Aldrich and Paige,” Seth said.

Seth's mom gave me a cold, limp hand to shake. She had on the largest single-carat diamond I'd ever seen in real life. No wonder her handshake was limp: holding that thing up had to be exhausting. His dad enveloped me in his arms. He smelled of scotch and cigars.

“We're so glad to meet you, after hearing so much about you,” he said.

They'd heard about me? I wondered if that was true or if Aldrich said that to all of Seth's friends. I glanced at Seth, but his face gave away nothing.

“You must come to our cottage in Nantucket when the weather warms up,” Aldrich added.

I almost choked. I confess that I'd looked up their “cottage” on Google Earth. It was a sprawling complex of buildings on a piece of land that jutted out into the ocean.

“Mustn't she, dear?” he said to his wife.

“Of course. That would be lovely.” But she said it through clamped teeth. I wasn't sure if that was just her way or if she was biting back a response. “But as I was saying, Seth,” Paige went on, “Nichole is looking for you. We've invited her to the family dinner on Sunday.” She glanced at me sideways, with a glimmer of triumph in her look. It was apparent that she was on team Nichole.

“You should come, too, Sarah,” Seth's father's voice boomed out, much to the chagrin of his wife.

“That's lovely, but I already have plans,” I said. Reading a good book was a plan, wasn't it?

Seth turned to me. “Any chance you could change your plans? We'll be at our place in Beacon Hill.”

“Nonsense, Seth,” his mother said. “Sarah doesn't look like the kind of girl who'd break plans when she's gotten a better offer.”

“
Mom
, that was rude,” Seth said. “I'm sorry, Sarah.”

“Oh, me too, dear. That came out all wrong.” Seth's mom smiled, but it was the least sincere smile I'd ever seen.

“It was lovely meeting you both.” I managed to get out. A better offer, my . . . Okay, it was a better offer, but how did she know? I turned and steamed toward the door, grabbed my coat off the rack, and slipped into the dark, cold air before I said something I shouldn't.

“Sarah, wait,” Seth called out.

I stopped by my Suburban, surprised to be here, without even wondering if the photo taker was lurking. Seth caught up with me, pressed me up against the side of the SUV, and kissed me well and thoroughly. I kissed him back. My anger and resistance were all shot to hell by his lips. He rested his head against mine, his hand holding the back of my neck.

“I'm sorry. She's not always like that. It's just she and Nichole's mother have been plotting to marry us off since we were toddlers.”

“What does that have to do with her not being nice to me?”

“Nichole moved back here over Christmas, and my mom's hopes were renewed. Even though I've told her multiple times that Nichole isn't for me.”

He looped his arms around my coat and pulled me to him again. After another thorough kissing, he said, “I remember so well the night I met you.”

I smiled at him. “Me too.” That he remembered that night so clearly stunned me.

“Let's re-create the rest of that night. Come home with me.”

It had been a long time, a really long time. And it had been a long, terrible week, and I liked him so much.

“Please?” he asked.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll follow you home.”

“You won't change your mind?”

“No. You can follow me, if you don't trust me.”

Seth laughed but then turned serious. “I trust you, Sarah. But I want you to trust me.”

* * *

The sun was shining when I pulled into my parking space beside my apartment Thursday morning. I trotted up the steps and was heading up to my apartment when my phone chimed. I shook my head. Seth had sent me three photos of himself with sad faces as I drove home. I waved at a big guy sitting on a small folding chair outside of Mike's apartment as I pulled up the picture. It was of me walking into the apartment building and was rimmed with a black heart. Same outfit as last night was written across it.

Chapter 14

I must have gasped, because the big guy stood. “Everything okay, miss? Mike said to keep an eye on you.”

I looked at him but didn't really see him. “I'm fine. Thanks.” I didn't know if having a mobster keeping an eye on me was a good thing or not. I unlocked my apartment door and ran to the window that looked out over the town common. No one was out there lurking with a camera. No one stood there with a phone pointing this way. I saw Mike running around the town common with a brother on either side of him. He looked up and waved. Maybe he'd seen something.

I ran back out not even bothering to lock my door, yet alone close it. I figured the big guy would make sure no one went in. I bounded down the steps, burst out the door, and jogged after Mike as fast as I could in my boots. “Mike, guys, wait a minute,” I yelled.

They turned and jogged back over to me.

“Did you see anyone out here taking a picture of me?”

“Naw,” Mike said. “But when we're back behind the church, we can't see nothin'.”

“You got a problem we can help you with?” the taller brother asked.

“No. Thanks.” I was pretty sure I didn't need their kind of help.

* * *

I took my time showering, blow-drying my hair, and putting on my makeup. As much as I didn't want to admit it, I knew I had a stalker. It all added up: the picture of me at Margaret's house, the creepy comments about my outfits, and the photo today. Thinking about it made me want to take another shower. I knew I should tell the police about the photo from this morning and probably about the other ones, too.

Explaining this morning's photo meant admitting I'd spent the night with Seth. And I didn't want CJ to know. I puzzled over that for a few minutes. On the one hand, it was because I wouldn't want to know if CJ had slept with someone, but on the other, I knew I felt slightly guilty about doing it. I was an adult, but I didn't want to hurt Seth or myself or CJ. I'd jumped the gun with Seth. Again. Why was it so easy to say yes to him and so hard to say no?

I shook my head. With Mike next door to me and his brothers sitting out in the hall, I didn't have to worry about being attacked in my home. I'd be extra cautious when I was out and about. The person who had taken the photo of me at Margaret's house either was the killer—gulp, I hoped I was wrong about that—or knew who the killer was, which wasn't a much better option but was a little more comforting than the first. So if I figured that out, I would know who the stalker was and could end this.

I wondered if the stalker had any connection to my virtual garage sale site. I grabbed my computer and opened the site. For once everything seemed to be in order, although I had a few messages to go through.

The first one complained about people advertising their businesses on the site. The person reminded me that this was a buy-sell site and not a job site. Frankly, if someone wanted to mention his or her business, as long as it was legal and was advertised on a Tuesday, I didn't care. I didn't allow people to sell animals or guns or breast milk, but if someone sold beauty products or jewelry, it was fine by me. I wrote a quick response, reiterating the site's policy.

The next few messages were all variations on the same theme—the person thought he or she should have gotten something someone else did. I knew how they felt, given that I'd lost out on the vintage tablecloth in what I'd thought was a breach of virtual garage sale etiquette. Why had Margaret sold it to Frieda instead of to me? It wasn't like she'd needed the extra money. It was probably one of those things that I'd never have an answer to. I wrote back to everyone, explaining that it was ultimately up to the seller to decide whom to sell to. I wasn't going to be the “sales” police. I didn't have time for that, nor would it be fun.

A woman who was downsizing wrote a lovely note, letting me know how helpful the site had been. She was on a fixed income, and the money from her sales would be a huge help in her life. The next message was a virtual Valentine, a pink heart with the words
You're the best, Sarah
written inside. For a moment my skin prickled, but then I realized this was from someone who was happy with the site. Finally, a little appreciation. Every once in a while someone would send me a nice note, but two in one day was almost a miracle. I wrote thank-you notes before dealing with the rest of the messages.

I finished up with the garage sale site but still didn't have a clue as to who could be stalking me. I decided to go over to DiNapoli's for lunch. The more information I had about Margaret, the better chance of finding her killer, which in turn might lead me to my stalker. It was kind of like using one of those reverse phone book sites and going at the information backward. Maybe I could worm some information out of Rosalie and Angelo about that glance they'd exchanged last night.

I threw on a light winter jacket and left my apartment. I stopped on the front porch and scanned the common and the sidewalk. There were skaters at the rink, a group of people walked around the perimeter of the common, and a couple of men headed into the church. No one was paying any undue attention to me.

When I walked into DiNapoli's, the place was packed, and I had to wait in line to order. I hoped I could snag a table. Lois was taking orders, instead of Rosalie. Her black hair was in a low bun, and she wore a black T-shirt and slacks, as did most of the employees. Rosalie was back by the grill, talking to Angelo. From all the hand waving going on between them, it didn't look like they were happy.

“What's going on with them?” I asked Lois when it was my turn to order.

She tucked a strand of long black hair that had escaped her bun behind her ear and glanced back at them. “They've been at it all morning. The rest of us have just tried to stay out of their way. Not easy to do in this place.”

“Why's it so crowded today?” I asked.

Lois's pale face looked exasperated. “Angelo put an ad in the base paper offering ten percent off on Thursday lunches for military. Not only did the military show up in force, but half the surrounding area somehow found out and claims to have served.”

“What's good today?”

“Angelo would tell you, ‘Everything.' Try the eggplant Parm sandwich.”

“As good as that sounds, I'd better have a salad.” I patted my stomach. “An iced tea, too, please.”

“Sarah Winston, you and your virtual garage sale are ruining my business.”

I turned at the voice, which grated more than the metal grater the DiNapolis used for shredding cheese. I knew before I turned that it belonged to Hennessy Hamilton, owner of the consignment store on the west side of Ellington.

Hennessy stood near the door, in a luxurious camel-hair coat that made her broad shoulders look broader. A hint of an expensive-looking red dress peeked out from under the coat. Her long legs were clad in black tights. She stepped forward in spike-heeled black shoes and jabbed a red-lacquered nail in my direction. “People would rather shop online than get the quality merchandise available at my store.” She looked at the people sitting at the crowded tables as if she wanted them to applaud. The crowd in the restaurant was a mix of locals and military. Her beautiful silver bob swung as she held her hands out beseechingly.

I'd heard Hennessy used to be an actress and had even had some minor success on Broadway. With this performance I wondered why she'd given up acting. The customers eating swung their heads toward me. I wished I had a script, but I'd already had enough drama for the day.

I looked up at her and held my ground. I spouted a line I'd read over and over when I worked for a financial planning company years ago, during one of CJ and my assignments. “Past performance is no guarantee of future success.”

“What does that mean?” Hennessy asked.

A few people nodded, but most returned to their food.

“Just because you were successful doesn't mean you'll always be.”

“So you think it's okay to just steal business from me?” Hennessy asked.

“I really don't know what you are talking about.”

“Margaret. I'm talking about Margaret.” Hennessy humphed, grabbed her to-go order, slapped some money on the counter, and exited stage left in a performance worthy of Meryl Streep. As she left, I saw a glimpse of a red sole. Her shoes were Christian Louboutins. How hard up could she be if she could afford those? If that was the kind of merchandise she now had in her store, maybe I needed to go back. I hadn't been in a while.

“Any truth to that?” Lois asked me.

“I'm not sure what she's talking about. But business is always about the competition.”
But why the heck did she bring up Margaret?

“Let me get your order.” Lois grabbed my salad and handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I scooted over to a table that a group had just left, even though it hadn't been bused yet. I stacked some of the dishes to the side and tried to catch Rosalie's eye.

Ryan Jones came over and started loading the dishes into a big rubber tub. He had a round Irish face sprinkled with freckles and light hair that looked more red than blond. “That Hennessy,” he said, shaking his head. “Trying to blame you for her problems. Last time I was over there, the place smelled musty and didn't look organized.” Ryan had worked for the DiNapolis for years, although he was around my age. He not only bused tables but was also their all-around handyman, one of those guys who could fix anything.

“I thought the same thing. But if she's shopping in her own store, maybe things have picked back up.”

“Naw. The quality has gone downhill faster than a skier in Vermont. I was there recently, looking for a gift for my girlfriend.”

“She's a lucky girl, Ryan.”

He turned a little red. “Thanks. I've done some work at Hennessy's shop. She's always blaming someone else for her problems. No matter what the problem is. So don't let her get to you.”

Angelo came up behind Ryan and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let her eat.”

“Sorry,” Ryan said.

“No worries,” I said. “I always enjoy talking to you.” And I'd found out something interesting.

Angelo sat across from me. “Eat,” he said and watched as I took a few bites.

I put my fork down, even though the salad was delicious, full of sweet tomatoes, kalamata olives, feta, and Angelo's secret dressing. “You ought to bottle this dressing, Angelo.” That way I could have it anytime I wanted.

Angelo got a far-off look. “A lot of competition in the area, what with the Cape Cod brand, Newman's Own, and Ken's Foods just down the road in Marlborough.”

“Can't you just picture a bottle with ‘DiNapoli's' written across it and your picture?” I asked him.

“Rosalie's picture might sell more dressing than my ugly mug.” He looked at me in a way that made me think he had something on his mind.

“What's going on?” I asked. Angelo wasn't one to sit during the lunch rush.

“There's something I need to tell you. Rosalie doesn't think I should.”

“You two were back there arguing about me?” I looked toward the kitchen to see Rosalie watching us with an anxious look on her face.

“Discussing. We were discussing you.”

“I saw the look you two exchanged last night in the car. I came over to find out what it was about.”

Angelo rubbed a hand over his face. “You know how some of the people in this town can be.”

I nodded, even though I wasn't sure what he was getting at.

“And a lot of them are related to Margaret.”

I nodded again, hoping he'd get to the point. When it came to Angelo, not getting to the point quickly was an anomaly. One of the things I loved about him was you always knew where you stood. He might be opinionated, but he had a big heart. “Who was the woman who told me I had my nerve being at the viewing?”

“One of Margaret's sisters. She has a ‘kill the messenger' attitude.” He said the last words fast and then leaned back.

I thought for a minute about what he'd said. “So because I found Margaret, I'm somehow in the wrong.”

“Exactly, kid. And she's been sharing her opinion all over town.”

I gasped, my appetite gone. “She thinks I killed her.” Sometimes I didn't understand this close-knit town. “Thanks for telling me, Angelo.” I looked over and smiled at Rosalie so she'd think I was okay. “I think I'll take the rest of this home with me.” I waved at my salad. I realized town gossip would kill my business faster than anything. I knew I didn't kill Margaret, but now I was even more determined to find out who did.