Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (26 page)

“Sure.”

“Coffee?” Hannah asked, following Ida.

“Okay. That would be good.”

“Here, let me plump your pillow,” Agnes offered, shuffling over.

“Thanks,” I said, leaning forward, although I could have plumped my own pillow. Or poured my own coffee. Or gotten my own blueberry turnover.

Then it hit me. The melancholy I’d been feeling had been triggered by things about my dad, but there was another layer I had kept well hidden. From myself.

Do I have to go?
Do I?

I would be leaving the family soon, the aunts in particular, people who hadn’t been part of my life for a very long time, but who had become special in a very short time. Special people are rare in anyone’s life. It was hard to think about walking away.

Right now they were trying to make up to me for not believing my father, for causing me unhappiness. Such kindness. It made me want to cry.

When I was all settled in, and they were all settled in, I decided to tell them what was going on with Percy and Mary Fran. I knew they would enjoy hearing about it. It would also be my way of telling them that I held no hard feelings toward them.

“I have something to share with you all. First, I must swear you to secrecy.”

They looked from one to the other. “We swear.”

I launched into the “case.” I told them everything, including my time in the Dumpster and my time under the bed. I left nothing out.
Absolutely nothing
.

Their eyes grew wide. They leaned forward again and again, oohing, aahing, and chuckling.

“Who would have thought that nice Mary Fran was having such a time of it,” Ida remarked, shaking her head. “I get my hair done at her place once a month. She’s nice as can be.”

“My goodness,” Agnes said, her eyes wide. “All this going on in Silver Stream. How can we help?”

“I suppose if we could tell you who this Marla is, it would help,” Hannah said.

“I was hoping you’d know someone named Marla.”

“Roping? Somebody was
roping
somebody? Was this another one of those games?” Agnes asked.

I repeated myself for Agnes.

No one knew anyone named Marla.

“We do have a lot of contacts,” Agnes said. “We’ll ask around.”

“No,” I said vehemently. “Definitely not. I want this kept quiet. I don’t want Percy to find out. If he knew, he’d hide his money, make arrangements for some of it to disappear for a while so Mary Fran couldn’t get her fair share.” I didn’t mention her fair share would be about eighty percent. “Even Marla, whoever she is, can’t know because she’d tell Percy.”

“She’s gotta be from out of town,” Ida said.

“Maybe not.” I told them my theory, based on what I’d observed at the funeral. “There was a certain look in his eye when he nodded in their direction. I think Marla may just be a name she used during sex.”

They all nodded. They knew the look. Pursing her lips, Hannah said, “Game playing,” like she knew about such stuff. “Trust your gut on this, Nora.”

“I do. I now think Marla might be one of two women because Vivian has been eliminated. It’s down to Margaret and Amy. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Ellie.”

“Oh, my word.” Agnes chuckled. “A secret vamp. Amy or Margaret? Who is the real Marla?”

Ida tsk-tsked.

Hannah grinned and slapped her thigh. “Well, I’ll be. Haven’t heard such goings on since Viola was alive.”

“The vamp in the family tree?” I asked. “The one whose blue eyes are like mine?”

“
Wine
?” Agnes asked loudly. “I don’t usually drink during the day, but if you’re serving… .”

“Eyes like
mine
,” I said.

Next, I told them about the photo I’d taken at the funeral with JT in the background.

After the gasps, Agnes asked, “Are you sure it was JT?”

Ida’s hand went to her heart. “Thank the Lord. I didn’t want to say it, but I was beginning to think he might be dead.”

Hannah said, “I wonder if Ellie knows. Do you suppose he’s been in contact with her and she hasn’t told us because she’s protecting him?”

That seemed unlikely, but you never knew.

* * *

The following day, I drove out to JT’s auto repair place to see about the radiator for my car. I was only going because of my car. Period. No snooping planned. Since the salesman had put in a purchase order, taking over Collins’ job without being asked, I simply wanted to hurry things along.

The place was busier than it had been the last time I’d been here. I could see at least five men working as I stepped from my truck. No boss, but they were working. Interesting. JT must have put someone in charge.

I went into the office, wrinkled my nose at the stink of smoke, and told a guy with a cigarette dangling from his mouth about my radiator. He didn’t bother to remove the cigarette when he said he had to check something and left me standing there.

Several pads of business forms on the cracked linoleum counter caught my attention. I glanced around, didn’t see the smoker, opened a book of invoices and flipped through, just passing the time of day, nothing more. I should have brought a book to read. Dull stuff in this invoice book. I glanced around, but the smoker was nowhere in sight. There was a second book on the counter, this one labeled Purchase Orders. I flipped it open.

Omigod.

My heart raced as I quickly leafed through the pages. Without reading details, I ripped one out, stuffed it in my pocket and continued looking. My heart was still doing double time as I turned to see the cigarette guy staring at me from the doorway. When had he returned?

“Looking for something?” His voice was harsh, accusing. I drew a momentary blank. Nothing came.

Be calm, Nora. Be calm.

I took a breath, which I needed, and smiled. When in doubt, smile. Then inspiration struck.

“I was looking to see whether Kendall’s Auto Mart had sent you an order for my radiator. The guy said he did, but you never know. I’m from New York. Skeptical is my middle name. I’m sorry, really. It was nosy of me.”

I laid it on, hoping he hadn’t seen me rip a page out. “I need that radiator. I’m afraid of breaking down and getting stuck around here.” Poor little, incompetent me. “I was here a few days ago about a rattle. My Uncle JT fixed it.”

Mentioning my relationship to the owner helped. I knew I had him. Thawing was evident around the edges. Not all that obvious. But to the trained eye … Nora, Nora, you are too much. Trained eye?

He took a puff on his cigarette, tipped his head and blew a plume of blue smoke to the ceiling where it swirled into the rest of the fog.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He took a business card from the counter and handed it to me. “Call back later.”

Chatty guy. Well, it was better than nothing.

Nick had said someone was watching JT’s place. If that were so, the watcher was well hidden. I took my time starting the truck as I searched for him. Then I phoned Nick and asked, “Who’s watching JT’s Auto?”

He said hesitantly, “No one right now. Why?”

“I’m here.”

“Damnit all, Nora. Get out of there.”

“I have a bad radiator. You said so yourself. I came to see if Kendall’s Auto ordered the new one. I’ve got a warranty, you know.”

“And what else are you up to?

“You are so suspicious.”

“You are so transparent.”

“Nick, I give you valuable tips. You said so yourself.”

“Why are you asking about surveillance if you’re only interested in a radiator?”

I hesitated, more for drama than from reluctance to share what I’d found.

“JT signed the purchase orders in the book,” I said.

After some silence, I said, “You still there, Sheriff?”

“How did you happen to see the purchase order book?” Nick asked, a sarcastic edge in his voice. “I can’t picture anyone saying, ‘Here, have a look at our Purchase Orders.’”

“The smoking guy left me alone and I had nothing to read. I flipped through a few things.”

“For most people that would involve magazines.”

“The thing is, I think you should have surveillance here during the day, too.”

“I don’t have enough men. I’m stretched thin as it is.”

“I could watch for a while.”

“No,” he said in his no-nonsense sheriff’s voice.

“Why not?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

“Where does the surveillance guy watch from? I don’t see much around here,” I said, checking the woods on either side.

Silence again.

“JT signed the purchase orders,” I repeated. “
All
of them.”

“I heard you the first time. But his signature could be forged.”

“You won’t have too much trouble checking the signature.”

I heard him groan. “You snatched one?” There was a hint of despair in his voice. I imagined he closed his eyes, too.

* * *

I drove to Aunt Ellie’s. When I pulled into the driveway, that same rush of nostalgia washed through me. Like the last time I was here, I remembered bits of my childhood. Running through the sprinkler on a hot summer day, catching fireflies, riding on the tractor with Dad as he plowed a trail through the woods. So many happy things. Before everything changed.

I stopped the car and took the photo from the seat beside me, wondering whether Ellie would be shocked that her husband had been so close that day. Or, had she known?

The day was warm and crystal clear, like so many September days, so many back-to-school days. I had loved going to school here.

I felt again the sadness of separation that I’d felt all those years ago, sadness at the injustice of it all. Why hadn’t Great-grandma Evie just called Dad? Or other members of the family? I would never understand that. All those years, wasted.

I knocked on the door to Ellie’s house. Once, I wouldn’t have knocked, I’d have breezed right in.

Did I want to live in Silver Stream again?

A troubling consideration. I was a city girl.

I made a strong effort to shrug off the nostalgia. I was here on business today.

“‘Morning, Nora. Come in,” Ellie said as she held the door for me. She was dressed in a yellow warm-up outfit with a gray turtleneck underneath. Her hair was done up and sprayed stiff enough to resist a nor’easter. I didn’t care for that shade of green eye shadow, but hey, it’s a free country.

We stood in the foyer. She didn’t ask me to come in for coffee. After an awkward moment, I said, “I came to show you one of the photos I took at the funeral.”

She stepped back as if I had a communicable disease, her face a mask of disgust. “You took pictures at a funeral? No one takes pictures at a funeral. How ghoulish.”

I held the picture out. She refused to look. I guess she needed time for the impact of my barbarism to ease. I waited, my hand still extended. Finally, with all the enthusiasm of someone looking through a mug book for a serial killer, she glanced at the photo I’d blown up.

No disgust now. Just annoyance.

“The man’s a fool. Showing up there,” she said as she stared at her husband’s picture.

“Why did he run, Ellie?”

“I told you. Besides, what’s it to you, anyway?”

The animosity in her voice took me by surprise.

“He’s my father’s brother,” I replied.

“I think this is none of your business. You’re here for a short time. Don’t get involved.” She looked at her watch when she spoke, not at me.

“What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer.

“Did he kill Collins?” I finally asked, my voice a harsh whisper.

“You’d better leave,” she said, pushing the door open for me.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Everyone I’d met in Silver Stream, plus a few hundred folks I’d never seen, were at the lake for the bean-hole supper, an event I was sure I’d miss. But I was still in Maine, still in Silver Stream.

It was close to dusk. The sun was dipping in the western sky. It was cool. In the open tent with the aunts, all the folks wore wool sweaters or light jackets. Being a cautious woman who doesn’t like the cold, I wore the natural wool fisherman sweater I’d ordered from L.L. Bean, and jeans. Tied at my waist was the deep red Norwegian-inspired snowfield fleece pullover that had just arrived this morning. Not in my color palate, I admit, but necessary. Not that it was cold at the moment, but the sun was sinking in the west, there were woods all around, and we were heading into the tail end of September in Maine. Do the math.

Huge tent-tops dotted the meadow with folks milling around each one. The delicious aroma of baked beans wafted across the fairgrounds from the bean hole. I could smell the molasses they put in the beans.

Local talent livened up the place with piano, banjo, fiddle, accordion and washboard, playing music from a different era. If I were home, I wouldn’t waste my time listening.