Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (24 page)

“
Come
, not gum,” Ida clarified.

“Come where?” Agnes asked.

“West at the poplar tree,” Hannah directed in an officious voice. “Step lively everyone.”

Lively, I had come to understand, was one notch above pause.

Ida fell back and walked next to me. Smiling, she said, “Hannah always has to be in charge. It’s her way. Her Henry used to call her Queen of the World.”

“Good title. It fits.”

We moved onto a narrow path and hiked along single file.

“What are we looking for next?” Agnes asked as we approached the aspens.

“Should be a hawthorn a short ways northwest of the aspen grove. That’s our final destination.”

There was a trace of fall in the air today, no mistaking it. It was past the middle of September, still summer in New York. Here, the air was brisk, pure, with a hint of things to come. I breathed deeply. No exhaust fumes. No city buses. No loud noises. No pollution. Some of the leaves were touched with gold and bits of red. In another week, this area would be spectacular. Too bad I’d miss it. I’d do more photography and take the beauty home.

When we reached the hawthorn, Agnes, breathing heavily, plopped down on the trunk of a fallen tree. I paced off ten steps from the hawthorn in the direction Hannah indicated, and found the spot beneath the leaves where some rocks had been arranged in a circle. I began to dig. Hannah pulled on her gloves and offered to dig.

“I’ll start. You can dig once I loosen this up,” I told her.

She joined Agnes and Ida on the downed tree trunk, and watched the show. I was glad I had heavy boots on. It made shoveling easier.

In short order the shovel connected with the metal box. It wasn’t buried too deeply. Grandma Evie didn’t want to spend much time digging, I guess. Smart woman. When I pulled the box out, Hannah and Ida eased off the tree trunk and came over. Agnes remained behind.

I pried the cover off with my L.L. Bean Swiss Army knife.

Opposite me, the aunts waited as I opened the box. There were two envelopes inside. I opened the top one.

“Hey.” Agnes called from the tree trunk. “What is it?”

“Money,” Ida yelled, staring at the bills in my hand. “And a paper.”

“It names my father, then Mom, then Howie and finally me, as co-owners of this money,” I said.

Astounded, I stared at the money in my hand. How had Grandma Evie managed this?

“I’m stuck,” Agnes called, breaking into my thoughts. “I can’t get off this tree trunk.”

We walked back and I helped Agnes up.

I decided not to open the sealed envelope right away. I had a strong feeling it contained something important, more important than the money or even the land.

Back at the house, I set the box on the kitchen table and we all read the short note again.

“Thought her savings account was low,” Ida commented. “This is where the money went. I wondered about that.”

“I was surprised in the lawyer’s office when there wasn’t more inheritance money,” Hannah said. “Now we know why.”

These women amazed me. “Why didn’t you say something then?”

Rubbing her butt, Agnes shrugged. “No need.”

Ida and Hannah looked at me blankly and Hannah said, “It was Evie’s business,” in a tone that implied I should have known that.

How easily they accepted this. No rancor, no anger. These three Lassiters were not a greedy group, that was for sure. Maybe it had something to do with their age. Maybe not. But I did wonder about JT.

Then I opened the second envelope and took out an old yellowed newspaper clipping encased in Saran Wrap.

“What on earth?”

I held the clipping gently in my palms. The front page headline jumped off the page and slammed into my chest.

Percy Kendall Murdered
.

The breath snagged in my throat. Why had Great-grandma Evie included this? Please, God, it wasn’t what I thought. I had to force myself to drag air into my lungs. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The article was dated twenty years ago.

Hit in the head with a baseball bat …

My hands began to shake. Did this relate to my father? I knew it did. Knew it without reading another word. Knew it as sure as I knew I was standing here.

I looked to the aunts and they looked away, even Hannah, stalwart Hannah, couldn’t look me in the eye. I raced through the story, glancing at details, looking for a name. There, near the end of the article I found it:

Thomas Lassiter, who’d had a fight with Kendall that was witnessed by several employees at Kendall’s Auto Mart two days prior to the murder, was brought in for questioning, but released when his alibi checked out.

Dad had been a suspect.

“You knew this and you didn’t tell me? How could you?”

“Nora, honey,” Hannah began. “We knew. Yes. I didn’t think it would help you, help anyone, to rehash this. It’s over. No amount of talking about it will undo what’s been done. Your father is at peace now. Let it stay that way.”

I had one more question to ask them all and I dreaded asking, because I dreaded hearing the answer. I prayed it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. But Great-grandmother Evie had included this clipping for a reason and it had something to do with the money. She was giving me, actually she had wanted my father to have, eight thousand dollars. She was paying for more than money lost when dad sold his home and business and fled Maine.

This was guilt money.

The reason went beyond her feelings about the sexual harassment incident. She was paying for a bigger mistake.

I thought I understood.

TWENTY-FOUR

My father didn’t leave because his family didn’t back him up when he wanted to press sexual harassment charges. He might have been pissed, as he used to say, but that wouldn’t have made him pull up stakes and haul his own family to New York.

I closed my eyes briefly, then finally asked what I needed to ask.

“Did you all think he was guilty of killing Percy Kendall?”

Ida started to cry. I wanted to run to her and take her in my arms. Agnes sniffed. I loved both of them and wanted my arms around them, but I couldn’t make myself budge. This revelation had the quality of a physical blow.

Hannah said, her voice low, cracking with emotion, “I am ashamed to say that we didn’t think he was innocent. There was such anger in him back then. Anger at Percy. At us, too, for not immediately believing him.

“Maybe we should have lied and told him we thought he was innocent, but that night when he came to the family, I’m sad to say we let him know how we felt.”

Anger flaring, I fought back. “How could you? You knew him. Knew what kind of a person he was.” My throat clogged. My eyes filled with tears. “He was a good man, the most ethical man I ever knew. Not perfect, but moral. Honorable. He never would have done such a thing. If I know that, why didn’t you?”

Her face a mask of sorrow, Hannah’s hands went to her cheeks. Ida wept quietly, her arm around Agnes.

Agnes said. “He hated Kendall. He’d punched him a few days before. And he had no alibi for the time of the murder.”

“No alibi? It says here he was released because he had an alibi.”

Hannah said quietly, “I supplied it. Without an alibi he would have been arrested for sure, then tried and possibly convicted. He told us he was out walking by the lake, looking at the stars. I offered to supply an alibi. He was angry that we didn’t believe him. He wanted to tell the truth, but we convinced him that would have been suicide. I’d lie. Tell the sheriff he was visiting me. He reluctantly agreed because the alternative was jail, a trial, a lawyer. He had his wife and children to consider. So, I told the sheriff he was with me.

“What we really thought was that there might be extenuating circumstances, things none of us understood that made him do what he did. All he could see was that we thought he might have murdered a man. He couldn’t take that. Your father never could abide disloyalty.”

But he accepted the fraudulent alibi, I thought, swiping at the tears that wet my cheeks.

* * *

I was still upset when I spoke to Howie that evening.

“You’re telling me they all thought he murdered someone? Bashed some guy with a baseball bat?” Howie asked when I finished telling him what I’d found out.

“They thought he might have,” I corrected. “Of course, they weren’t sure.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know, Howie. I get the feeling they still don’t believe in his innocence one-hundred percent. I couldn’t bring myself to ask.”

After a long pause, he said, “You don’t think that he did it, do you?”

“Wash your mouth out with soap. He would never do that and you know it,” I said. “A baseball bat? Give me a break. The person who did that was a lowlife. Cruel, savage.”

“You’re right,” Howie agreed. “Unless Dad was a different person back then, and I don’t think he was, he sure doesn’t fit the profile.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“It seems to me that the person who gained the most in all this was Uncle JT. He got our house and land for a lot less than it was worth.”

“You’re not suggesting he killed Percy, senior, are you?”

“No. But it’s strange that he disappeared after that guy Collins was murdered. If I were the cop on that case, JT’d be at the top of my suspect list. He’s involved.”

“You have that jumping-to-conclusions gene, Howie.”

“You’re playing detective, trying to prove JT is innocent, aren’t you, Nora?”

“Not exactly.”

“Stay out of it. Leave it to the professionals.”

“Oh, right. They do such a stellar job. Like catch the guy who murdered old Percy a couple of decades ago.”

“What makes you think it was a guy?”

What indeed?

“I don’t know. Too vicious for a woman?”

“Not if she were protecting herself and a bat was all she had handy.”

Food for thought. See, that’s why it’s good to run this stuff by Howie. He comes up with these angles I never consider. “Never thought of that,” I said.

“What are you going to do with the money and the property?” Howie asked.

“Me? You mean us. I’m up here facilitating the whole thing, but Evie left the money and the land to us, not me. Oh, and she wanted me to bring the family together again. What are you doing on your vacation this year?”

Silence.

“Come-on, Howie. I have an assignment from our great-grandmother. Her dying wish.”

More silence.

I said impatiently, “You’re rolling your eyes and making a face, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” he replied.

“Your pants are on fire, liar. At least tell me what we should do about our money and our property? I’m asking for help here, and getting a big fat zero.”

“I’ll go along with whatever you want, Nora. The decision is in your capable hands.”

“Convenient. Okay, here’s my decision. I think I’ll keep everything myself.”

I hung up before he finished laughing.

My next call was to Lori. After asking if she’d seen any listings for computer analysts in the
Times
, and hearing the negative answer I expected, I filled her in on my expedition into the woods with the aunts, then let her vent about her breakup with her boyfriend. She went on for fifteen minutes. I listened for fifteen minutes. Sometimes, I am a saint.

When I got off the phone, I thought about Whatshisname and our breakup. It seemed like a long time ago. I realized that it had been days since I’d pictured him showering with that woman. Progress.

* * *

I needed to look at my digital funeral shots on a large computer screen. When I flipped through them on the tiny camera screen, certain figures were indistinct. Since I intended to show any incriminating results to Nick, it made sense to use a computer in the sheriff’s office. Besides, I wanted to find out if he’d learned anything new.

I felt a heaviness when I thought about my father, so I pushed him from my thoughts and read the note Ida’d left on the fridge. She’d gone to another church meeting with Hannah and Agnes about the upcoming bean-hole supper. Having grown used to her breakfasts, I was a little disappointed. To make it up to me, she’d set out freshly baked blueberry muffins. Oh, it was going to be hard to leave Maine.

As a kid one of my favorite books was
Blueberries for Sal
, the attraction being the berries that were plinked into Sal’s pail. I loved berry picking as a kid. This was the first batch of blueberry muffins Ida’d made. She told me she had frozen the berries she’d picked out back this summer. Good woman, Ida Lassiter.

I ate one muffin. The warm butter dribbled down my hand. I wrapped two muffins to go. Pretty soon I wouldn’t be able to zip my jeans. Instead of making coffee, I’d stop at the Country Store and pick up a container before dropping into the sheriff’s office. Nick only worked half a day today so I wanted to get there early. Aside from using his computer, I needed to ask him about Pom Mom Vivian and her neighbor. I also wanted to know more about the gruesome murder of Percy Kendall, senior.

Amy gave me a cheerful hello when I walked into the Country Store. She was refilling salt shakers. The place was empty.

“Taken any good pictures lately?” she asked as I slipped onto a stool at the counter.

For a moment I was taken aback, thinking she was referring to the funeral. An instant later I realized she remembered the disks and batteries I’d bought here.

“A few. But I haven’t run anything off yet. I will when I get home.”

I looked at Amy with different eyes today, wondering if she could be Marla. I had looked at Margaret and Vivian the same way, regardless of what Mister-Head-Honcho wanted. One of these women was likely the mystery woman, the “tramp,” and the key to the Collins murder.

“I’ll just take a coffee. Regular.”

“Sure thing.”

All I knew about Amy was that she was a widow, like Vivian, and she was either a liar, or a woman with a piss-poor memory.

No one gets murdered in Silver Stream. This here’s always been a safe place to live.

That murder must have been the talk of the town for a long time. Of course, Amy recalled the event when I jogged her memory.

As she poured the coffee, I tried to picture her in a maid’s outfit, playing the meek one as Percy stomped around in his boots. Or would she prefer to play the dominatrix to his little boy persona? It was too early in the morning for such images. Some things really didn’t go with breakfast.

I asked, “You buy your car at Kendall’s Auto Mart?”

“Sure. Most folks around here do,” she said as she put the coffee pot back.

More interested in her reactions than what she had to say, I watched her carefully. “You know Percy Kendall well?”

Amy shrugged, but I thought I saw a flicker of something. Resentment? Wariness? Hard to tell. It was the kind of thing that happens so fast you’re never sure what you saw. If life came with rewind-replay buttons, I’d be good to go.

“As good as anybody,” Amy replied casually, wiping the counter. “Sure are full of questions today. You sound like the detective you are.”

That took me by surprise.

I added cream and stirred my coffee. “No, it’s just I’m new in town… .” I left the thought hanging.

“Ought to ask your family. They know the history of this town as well as anybody.”

In other words, shut up, Nora? Had I hit a nerve?

“Maybe even the sheriff,” Amy continued. “I hear you been spending a lot of time with him lately. You two got something going under the sheets? You New York City girls work that fast?”

That came out of left field. Her tone was petty, vengeful. Is that what people thought? Or was Amy trying to turn the tables on me?

Whatever.

I wanted to smack her in the head. Instead, I replied calmly, “Would it bother you if I were sleeping with Nick?”

“What the hell do I care what Renzo does?”

Bingo. One button pressed. The only thing was, I didn’t know what it meant.

Why would she care about Nick and me? Was she interested in him? For some reason, I didn’t think so, but maybe I should consider that.

She inhaled and the button over her breast looked like it was about to pop. Momentarily distracted, I wondered why she would wear something so tight to work.

It would be prudent to back off, not say another word, but since prudence wasn’t my strong suite, I said, “Well, I’m glad it’s nothing to you. That leaves the way clear for me.”

I was turning into such a liar, I couldn’t stand myself. This was not me. I was famous for telling the truth. I didn’t believe in lying. The lofty me felt it diminished a person.

“I thought you were leaving Maine and going back to New York.”

“I’m not so sure,” the diminished me replied. I took a sip of coffee. “This is a nice town. Except for that murder, of course. But Nicky’s really working on it. He’s got several leads. Promising ones. I think he’ll solve this mess soon.”

Had I really called him Nicky?

She stared at me. Said nothing. Then turned on her heel and went into the kitchen.

Nick had said Amy’s name was A.M. Yanetti. Could the M stand for Marla? Maybe I should check Vivian’s middle name. And Margaret’s.

* * *

After breakfast I went across to the sheriff’s office. Nick, aka Nicky, was in his office with the door open.

“Any news?” I asked as I peeked in, going for cheerful when I felt anything but.

The sun cut through the vertical blinds on the east window, laddering his desk and his left side.

Nick shook his head. “Nothing. Quiet day so far.”

“I need to download some photos from my digital,” I told him. “I know you have a photo program on your computer. I noticed the icon when I was here last time. Adobe Photoshop.”

“And who says you’re not a crack detective?”

I hid my feelings behind the expected smile.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, coming from behind his desk, “What’s the matter with Nora Lassiter this morning? She’s upset.”

“No, I’m not. I’m fine.”

He nodded as if accepting this, then surprised me by saying, “All right. Tell me when you’re ready.” He led me into the back room. “Do I need to show you how anything works on this computer?”

“I think not. Thanks.” As he was walking away, I said, “If I find the murderer, I’ll call you.”

He chuckled and waved over his shoulder without turning.

Once I had downloaded the photos I clicked through them one at a time, enlarging each one in turn and studying it. The process got tiring. I hadn’t realized I’d taken so many pictures. Then I saw something. My stomach did a flip. I hit the zoom and closed in on one section of a photo where a head was barely visible, someone peering from behind a tree.

I gasped.

The image was blurred because it was a good distance from the figures I’d focused on, but even blurred I recognized Uncle JT. Numb, I stared. I quickly clicked to the next photo, hoping for a clearer shot. Nothing. I went through the rest of the pictures, then back to the beginning of the set to check everything a second time. No other pictures with JT in the background. I blew up the photos of Ellie, thinking JT may have been looking at her, but nothing showed.

I went back to the original and studied it, wondering why he was there, why he had run, and where he was hiding.

I was studying the blowup when Nick returned. It was close to noon, time for him to leave, and he’d changed from his uniform into jeans and a gray sweatshirt. It was cool out today, but beautiful.

“It’s JT,” I said quietly, motioning him to come around and look at the screen.

He sat beside me and stared at the picture, his expression intense. “How did I miss him? I was looking.”

“For JT?”

“For anything or anyone out of the ordinary. He certainly qualifies.”

“Don’t blame yourself for missing him. He was hiding.”

He grunted in reply as he studied the photo on the screen. I knew he was beating himself up inside. Although I wanted to reassure him, another part of me wanted to defend my Dad’s brother. Torn, I said nothing as I saved the photo of JT to the hard drive, then removed the disk.

“JT knew Collins. He did business with him, and he wanted to return for the funeral,” I said, quelling the other thought rattling around in my head, which was directly connected to the reason I took the photos in the first place. No and no. Not possible. JT was not a murderer, just like my father had not been a murderer.

“Sure. Just two good buddies,” Nick said, his voice laced with irony.

I closed my eyes and sighed. Life stinks sometimes.

“Do you have any hard evidence that he killed Collins?” I asked. “And don’t tell me about that stupid patch again.”

Nick didn’t speak immediately. Finally he said, “He ran. It happened on his land.” Then, “Let’s go for a drive and talk. I have to get away from this place for a while.”

We left my truck parked outside the Country Store and took his  sheriff’s SUV. I didn’t bother to ask where he was going. I didn’t care.

TWENTY-FIVE

Nick and I ended up at the lake, a breathtaking sight. Trees and boulders hugged the shoreline in a random pattern. Both had been here long before humans found the place. Perfect for a photo shoot. I mentally framed a few shots, but had no desire to get my camera.

It was peaceful here and so quiet I could hear the breeze dancing across the tops of the trees. Nick and I walked a well-traveled path through the meadow down to the lake. This coming weekend the whole area would be swarming with people enjoying the Silver Stream Festival, especially the bean-hole supper that started the event. I would probably be in New York City by then.

Nick pointed to a pile of wood in an area that had been cleared. “They’ll bury the bean pot over there. You remember any of this from when you were a kid?”

“Sort of, and Aunt Ida told me about it.”

We walked over to a pit about three feet deep and almost as wide, lined with flat rocks.

“I remember this pit,” I said, stepping back from the edge. “Wouldn’t want to fall in that when it was hot.”

“Friday night they’ll fire up half a cord of hardwoods, maple and oak, and get that going for about four hours or so until they have some real hot coals. The bean pot will be placed on top. Then they’ll cover it with dirt to keep the steam and smoke from escaping. Cover that with a sheet of plywood, and leave it overnight. A fair number of folks gather ‘round just to watch that part of it. The beans’ll be ready by Saturday. They’ve got to cook at least sixteen hours. Wicked good beans. For sh-ur.”

“Ida said they were wicked good, too. I hate to miss this.”

“Do you have to?”

Like an arrow shot by an expert marksman, the question hit the target and stirred a deep yearning I had been unwilling to acknowledge.
Do I have to go?
Do I?

To distract myself, I sidestepped the issue. “I remember being at this festival. I was in a three-legged race with Howie. My mother insisted we do it together. I fell a few times. Howie was such a pain about it. One complaint after the other.”

Why had I said that? The town fair was a fun time yet all I could think of was falling when I was a little kid. It was damn hard to shake this mood, which was unusual for me.

“Most kids fall in that race,” Nick said.

“Mmm.”

Pointing down the shoreline, Nick said, “Everybody skates around here. When the lake freezes up we build a fire in those barrels over there. Even the old folks come out, some to skate, some to watch. They bring folding chairs, hot chocolate, and very warm hats and boots.”

“That would be me. Bundled in a down quilt, wearing earmuffs and a wool hat, sitting with the old folks so I wouldn’t freeze.”

“I wouldn’t let you sit.”

I looked up at him. He was smiling at me. Damn. I loved his smile.

“I wouldn’t let you freeze either,” he said.

In silence, we walked along the shoreline, over rocks, around bushes, enjoying the clean scent of autumn in Maine, the feel of the sun on our faces, the sounds of water lapping gently near our feet.

Nick didn’t probe. Didn’t push. I appreciated that. I knew he wanted to know what was wrong, but I needed time. I thought this might be the last time we were together, alone like this, and I found myself memorizing the moment, storing it away like a squirrel storing nuts for a long winter. Instead of helping, this made me feel worse. I tried hard not to let any emotion show on my face.