Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream

MURDER BY THE OLD MAINE STEAM

Copyright © 2011 by Bernardine Fagan

Cover design: Pat Ryan Graphics

Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number: 2011912682

ISBN - 13: 9781463665401

ISBN - 10: 1463665407

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

This book is for my family
:

My husband Bill, who supports me always,

My daughter and my son, Kristen and Brian,

two people I am so proud of

My brother Francis who gave me my first computer

and told me I should write a book

My sister-in-law Bernadette who cheers me on

My daughter-in-law Gina who gives me feedback

Elizabeth, Paige and William, our three newest members, who are a source of great joy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Nancy and Bob Young,

first readers who gave valuable input

Fellow writers Marilyn Levinson, Myra Platt,

and Marianne Tremmoroli who laughed in all the

right places and kept me going

ONE

The huge black SUV thundered to a stop close enough to Uncle JT’s auto body shop to throw a spray of pebbles against the plate glass window of his office. I jumped back. Uncle JT never moved. He just stared, frozen, no expression on his face that I could figure.

My first thought was that we were isolated. Most everything in the Maine woods is isolated, of course. I never should have left New York City, no matter how desperate I was to get away, no matter how hurt, or how angry.

“Who is it?” I whispered to JT as a skinny guy bolted from the SUV and stormed our way. “He looks mad.”

“Ay-uh,” was all JT said.

Outside, a big guy sat statue-still in the passenger seat. I couldn’t see him clearly. I tensed, thinking robbery, murder, maybe hostage-taking. Great-aunt Ida’s ridiculous prediction about a coming murder raced through my head, and I slipped my hand into my purse and rummaged around for the mace I always carried.

As far as the family was concerned, I’d come here for the reading of Great-grandma Evie’s will, and to get reacquainted with the extended family I hadn’t seen since I was ten years old. I am now thirty years old. If I could find out the real reason we left Silver Stream in the first place that would be a bonus. No one knew what prompted me to l
eave the city
. Some things are best kept secret.

Uncle JT puffed his cigar. Clouds of acrid smoke swirled and blended with the exhaust fumes and oily odors seeping under the garage door creating a toxic mix that would probably kill me.

“Don’t worry, Nora. This is nothing much,” JT assured me, his cigar-hand shaking. “Have a seat behind the counter. I’ll handle this.”

I wondered how many men he had working in this shop–I’d seen three when I drove up–and whether they’d come to our aid if needed. Would they hear a cry for help? The sound of a pneumatic drill rasped from one of three open bays beyond the office door, cutting into the harsh sounds of rap blasting from a boom box.

The office door burst open. “JT, we gotta talk. Now.”

The guy had a narrow face, pointed almost, and wore an awful jacket, something brown and mustard-colored, a tweed, with imitation leather elbow patches that looked like they’d been pilfered from the set of an old movie.

Narrow Face ignored me. JT looked past him to the truck parked out front. “Percy with you?”

“Yeah.”

“His wife’s here, too,” JT said slowly as he looked from the front to the side windows. “Don’t know where she’s gone and disappeared to. She just drove up a few minutes ago. Can’t miss that red hair.”

“This ain’t got nothing to do with her,” he fired back. His eyes narrowed as he finally looked at me, then down at my Diane von Furstenberg python print tote, which I’d selected especially for this trip. The rugged look had a woodsy quality that I thought went well with the surroundings, and with this outfit. Just in case he thought I had a gun in my rugged bag, I released the grip on the mace canister, eased my hand out and took a seat behind the counter.

“Outside, JT. We gotta talk.” He jerked his narrow head toward the door.

JT hesitated, and I saw the ash fall off the end of his cigar as his hand trembled worse than before. Without a word or even a glance at me, he followed the guy outside.

Oh, God. What was going on here? I took the mace canister from my tote and slipped it into the pocket of my gray slacks for easy access.

The three men stood next to the SUV talking. I got up and inched closer to the door, but the noise from the open bay seemed louder and I couldn’t hear a thing. I ambled around the room, trying to look casual, unconcerned. This was none of my business.

Suddenly the noise level dropped and I heard a different sound, a human sound.

“Pssst.”

I tensed. Glanced around.

“Pssst. Over here.”

The side door opened a crack and a hand, a skinny one, reached in and snatched my hand.

“Aaah.”

“Shh. Nora. Nora Lassiter. It’s me.”

Without waiting for a reply, the owner of the brightest red hair on the east coast, looking like a live version of Raggedy Ann, tugged until I followed her behind a bushy evergreen with sharp needles. Since she had called me by name, I didn’t yell for help, not that anyone would hear me or even care if I yelled. I guessed she was the woman JT had just mentioned.

“I’m Mary Fran Kendall. Do you remember me? We played together as kids? Of course, I wasn’t Kendall then.” She spoke rapidly and puffed as if she’d been running.

“Mary Fran.” I shoved an evergreen branch away from my face. Yes, I remembered Mary Fran. Oh, did I. The memories came back in a rush, all of them bad. She was the only reason I was glad my family left Silver Stream years ago.

Lowering her voice, she leaned toward me and whispered, “What I have to say is urgent.” She glanced at the SUV, then back at me.

She hunkered down in back of the bush, grabbed my hand and yanked me down beside her. Sharp branches from another bush poked me in the back, and lower. My irritation kept pace with my discomfort as I shifted my bottom. “What’s going on?”

“You remember me?”

“Mary Fran. Yes, I remember you,” I informed her without smiling. My childhood nemesis. Maybe it was her strong hands that triggered the memory, those strong wiry fingers.

“Like I remember my worst nightmares,” I went on. “When we were kids, you had about twenty pounds and three inches on me. You were a fighter who meted out punishment for real or imagined reasons with no mercy. I used to run the other way when I saw you coming.”

“Sorry about that. Now let’s move on. I–”

“I always wore my running shoes,” I cut in, not ready to move on. “Come summer, no cute little open-toed sandals for me. No. I had to wear canvas Keds.”

“What’s wrong with Keds?”

Mary Fran was rail thin, with makeup that could have doubled for wall spackle.

“You used to bend my fingers back,” I announced in a no-nonsense voice.

“Nora, I have no time to rehash old times. Here’s what I need.”

Rehash old times?

“I need a private investigator. I heard all about you this morning, being as how I own and operate the beauty salon on Main Street. Hot Heads Heaven. Maybe you noticed my new magenta marquee? Silver stars around silver heads on a magenta background? Kendall: Proprietor written on the door?”

“No, I didn’t notice.”

I seldom lie. But this was Mary Fran. Besides, that sign was appalling, a blight on an otherwise quaint and attractive main street.

She gave my hair a professional glance and declared, “You could use a touch up. But I digress. I heard you’re a hotshot detective from New York City. I’m willing to pay. Do you know much about computers?”

“I do not need a touch up.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “Computers? How good are you?”

I debated whether to tell her I was better than good. I was a computer analyst, and one of the best at my job until I got laid off when the company downsized last week. However, I was not, and never had been, a detective on the New York City Police Department. That story had been fabricated by Great-Aunt Ida to get the sheriff’s attention when she had tried to convince him that she’d overhead two people in the library plotting a murder. Aunt Ida reads a lot of mysteries and watches every crime show on television. The woman has a vivid imagination.

I said simply, “I know a thing or two about computers.”

“Perfect. I gotta find out who my husband—that would be smooth-talker and all-around ass Percy Kendall,” she paused and nodded toward the SUV, “has connected with over the Internet. Some little whore. I know he’s screwing around, but I need ironclad evidence. Emails. Some videos or photos, too. He’s very clever. It will take someone clever to catch him. That would be you. I always thought you were clever, you know.”

I wouldn’t let praise go to my head. I was firm. “I don’t think so, Mary Fran.” I went to stand up, but she pressed her hand on my shoulder. She was very strong. Must work out.

“We were talking about you in the salon today. So when you stopped in front, I decided to follow you.”

“I was at that stop sign for a few seconds. You hadn’t seen me in twenty years,” I scoffed. “So don’t tell me you recognized me.”

She waved her hand, dismissing this as trivial. “So I hopped in my car and followed you. I must say, and this is not a criticism, mind you, but you were playing your stereo way too loud. I could have followed the noise alone. It sounded like someone screeching off-key. Why would you buy a CD with such a weird sound? But, I digress again. There’s no accounting for taste in music and that’s that. You also have a loud rattle. Maybe you should have JT look at it. He’s pretty good.”

“That’s why I’m here. The rattle’s in—”

“Don’t sidetrack me with your car trouble. I have enough trouble of my own. I need a detective, fast.”

I shook my head. No, I was not going to do this. Even if I were a detective, I would not want to help this woman. Didn’t like her as a kid. Didn’t like her now. End of conversation. Time to tell her the truth about Aunt Ida’s fabrication. “Mary Fran, the reason I can’t possibly do this—”

She grabbed my hand. I winced although she didn’t hurt me. Sometimes anticipation is everything.

“It won’t be hard,” she said. “Just listen before you say no, and keep in mind I’ll pay your fee, whatever you ask, plus a bonus.”

Fee? Bonus? I was out of a job and my American Express bill was a whopper this month. Never should have gone on that shopping spree after I was laid off. I suppose it was only polite to listen.

“Okay, Mary Fran.” I gently extricated my hand and peeked through the bush to see if the men had left.

“Your husband’s one of the guys talking to JT?”

“Yes. I hid my car around back. I don’t want him to see me talking to you. He’d know I’d hired a PI. It would ruin everything.”

She opened her wallet, yanked out a fistful of bills, grabbed my hand and began counting out twenties. All the while her gaze never stopped shifting between the bills and me. “A retainer,” she explained. “To show I’m serious.”

Taken aback, I glanced at the pile of bills in my hand. “But Mary Fran you don’t understand.”

She handed me four more twenties, to shut me up, I suppose. The ploy worked.

“Let me explain what happened just before Percy and me got married. My mother, who was married to the town Casanova, insisted I get Percy to sign a prenup. Do you believe that? Nobody, and I mean nobody, around here signs a prenup. That’s for folks like Donald Trump and Julia Roberts. The night I mentioned it to Percy I acted as if it was some big joke. I told him it was to please my mother. He was a little drunk at the time. I had waited for that. He may not even remember because I never mentioned it again. Stupid I am not. Anyway, the prenup said that if he fooled around and I could prove it, and we got a divorce, there’d be no fifty-fifty split of assets. It would be eighty-twenty, my favor. That paper is in my mother’s safe deposit box even as we speak.”

I folded the money in my hand. “How devious. But it might not stand up in court.”

“It will. I checked with a lawyer.”

Mary Fran stood, parted the branches, and peeked out.

“Percy’s the guy in the red tie, the pompous ass standing next to JT. Looks like a slick infomercial salesman. Thinks he’s king of everything. The other guy’s his partner, the jerk with the stupid patches on his elbows and the big can, which you’ll notice when he turns around. Lard Ass Collins. Percy and him. Perfect team.”

“Lard Ass? I hadn’t noticed.”

As if on cue, Collins turned his back to us. Since I am totally lacking in self-control at times, I laughed out loud. My God. Perfect nickname. How could I not have noticed that shelf?

“Shhh.” Mary Fran elbowed me. It had been a long time since anyone elbowed me. Startled, I stared at her. I was not going to work for this woman. And that was that.

Out front, JT waved both hands and smacked the fender. Even from here, I could see the color rising in his cheeks.

“Why are they here?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” She shrugged. “I guess your curiosity is the sign of a good detective.”

“What does your husband do?” I asked instead of telling her the truth.

“Sells cars. Him and Lard Ass have a place on the edge of town. Biggest Little Auto Mart in Maine. They sell used cars and trucks. Maybe you remember it? It was here when you lived here. Percy’s father owned it. He was murdered years ago.”

Mouth agape, I stared at her. “Murdered. Who did it? Why?”

“Don’t know the answer to that one. It was never solved. If his father was anything like him, he probably fooled around and got caught with his pants down. Some jealous husband probably coshed him a good one and it was lights out.”

Mary Fran shrugged as if it wasn’t important and continued, “JT does repairs on used cars for the Auto Mart.”

I was barely listening. Silver Stream is a small, isolated town. Good people live here. First Aunt Ida mentions a possible coming murder, and now I hear about this happening years ago. Omigod.