Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (6 page)

“Good.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

She smiled. “She’s a great kid. Better than I ever was. Smarter, too.”

“Well, that’s nice.” I smiled. “How about your neighbors?”

“Neighbors? No neighbors will drop by. They know I’m working. Oh, you mean will they think you don’t belong there if they spot you going in?”

“Or be suspicious if they see my car parked out front?”

“Not to worry. Park in back. Best spot is behind the garage. No one will see the car there, not even someone pulling into the driveway. You’ll be totally hidden. There’s a cement slab, an unfinished basketball court that Percy began when I was pregnant. When our daughter was born he decided not to bother finishing it. He wanted a boy. The ass.”

“Okay,” I said calmly, keeping my unease in check. I had never done anything this furtive before. This was the kind of thing you saw in the movies that made you want to shout, “Hurry up, hurry up. Get out before someone discovers you.”

There was still time to tell Mary Fran the truth. I considered it as she walked me out to the car. With trembling fingers she touched my arm. “How long did you say this would take?”

“I didn’t. It depends on how quickly I can get into his email account. Then there’s the amount of mail I have to go through before I find what you want. Some people delete stuff right away. Some save a ton of it. I’ll run off whatever’s pertinent.”

Even as I said this, it occurred to me that I should have paper. He might notice if I used too much of his. Or he might be out of paper. Why hadn’t I thought of this? Where was my head? I’d stop at the Country Store. I wanted to go in there anyway and see what it looked like. I had plenty of time.

“The computer’s upstairs in the room between our room and the bathroom. You can’t miss it,” she told me as I got into the car. Reaching through the window, she grabbed my hand and held it to her chest. I held my breath.

“Good luck. Thanks for doing this for me.”

I gently extricated my hand. “I’ll call as soon as I find anything,” I said, passing up the last opportunity to be an honest woman and change my mind.

* * *

The Country Store was down the road from Mary Fran’s hair salon. There was no need to drive, but I did. The place was hopping with the breakfast crowd. Well, not exactly a crowd as I knew a crowd. Nine people sat at the counter. The waitress I’d met before, Amy, had a chest like Pam Anderson, which might explain why seven in the crowd were men. So transparent. So single-minded, the lot of them.

The place reminded me of one of those old-time general stores you see in Westerns. It smelled of bacon and hot coffee, toast and pancakes. If I were hungry, I’d be tempted. I walked through slowly, taking it all in as I looked for the stationery section. This was a multifunction establishment: a variety store, a post office, a luncheonette, a grocery store, a wine store, a video rental store. I loved it. Nothing had been overlooked.

When I found the computer paper, I noticed the room in the back with the potbelly stove and several men sitting around. That places like this still existed warmed my heart. I peeked in. Two of my uncles were in the group. Seeing them made me feel a part of something in a way I’d never been before. I was related to the in-crowd who sat around a potbelly stove. Just jawing. Old-fashioned. Nice. Ida had mentioned that the men came here to chat about important things, like world events and deer season.

From the doorway I gave the uncles a big hello.

“Morning,” they said politely.

One of my uncles introduced me, and everyone nodded and wished me a good day. That was it. For a few awkward moments I stood there, unsure of what to do while they all stared silently at me. It was clear I was an intruder in the men’s circle.

“Well, see ya,” I finally said, and walked off, wondering what century I’d dropped into. Old-fashioned jerks.

I glanced at the waitress, who was watching me. Double-D for sure. When she turned away I inhaled, held my breath for a few seconds. Single-B, at the most. I was a foolish woman.

Amy was at the cash register when I paid for the paper.

“Don’t pay attention to them, honey,” she said, tipping her head in the direction of the back room. “They’ve got their ways. Change is slow in this part of the world. They’re not a bad lot.” She chuckled.

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure we were on the same page. I was annoyed because my uncles had snubbed me. I didn’t care about the rest of them and
their ways
.

“That’s like a sacred spot,” she explained. “No women allowed. Just the men, talking politics and such. Bunch of old farts. At least they’re not as bad as my deceased husband used to be. Now there was a real jackass.” She laughed, then yelled to a customer asking for coffee, “Keep your shorts on, Lenny, I’ll be right with you.”

Laughter greeted her reply.

I liked Amy. “I’m sorry your husband died.”

“Don’t be. I’m not. He left me a little something, more than I had when we was together. Where ya from, honey? I know you’re not from these woods.” She looked meaningfully at my violet cashmere sweater and black linen DKNY slacks. “You look so city-like.”

“New York City. But my family’s originally from Silver Stream.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said slowly, as if just remembering me, which I didn’t believe for a minute. “Ida Lassiter was with you the day good old Al got himself shot. Someone told me you haven’t been here in years. Smart lady.” She checked out my apparel again, craning to look over the counter to see my shoes, which didn’t match the outfit, since I was in stealth mode and wearing sneakers. She frowned. “Nice outfit,” she commented insincerely. “I heard about you. A detective. You’re up here on some case, right?”

I opened my mouth to reply as she handed me my change, then changed my mind. Instead of answering, I smiled, going for an enigmatic look. I don’t know whether I was successful or not. I’d have to check it in the mirror later.

“Sort of,” I said.

“Must be interesting work. Following clues, catching the bad guys.”

What would Jessica Fletcher say, I wondered?

“A lot of it is routine. Even boring.” Liar, liar, liar.

“I hear you’re really good.”

I smiled modestly. Who had she been talking to? Mary Fran?

“Are you?” she asked when I didn’t comment.

What was I supposed to say? “I’ve had my moments.”

She nodded. “Well, gotta run, honey. The natives are restless. Have to finish up the breakfast crowd.”

* * *

Using the smudged, squiggly map from Mary Fran, I got lost and didn’t arrive for over an hour.  The house was a large red brick cape cod with two dormers, on a quiet street in a small cleared area surrounded by woods. It had a detached garage. I pulled behind the garage, nervous as a burglar on a virgin run, which, in a way, I was. Hands shaking, a little like Mary Fran’s had been, I unlocked the back door, opened it slowly and went into the kitchen. It smelled of burnt toast and peanut butter. Breakfast dishes littered the table, a nice sight for Mary Fran to come home to.

I stood for a few seconds listening to house sounds–a grandfather clock ticking somewhere, a faucet dripping in the kitchen, the refrigerator humming.

Finally, I headed upstairs, stopping on the third step when it creaked.

Ba-boom, ba-boom. Who knew a heart could pound so loudly without bursting through the chest?

I wondered what I’d say if I were discovered. Foolish thought. I was here alone and would remain alone. I continued up, found the computer and turned it on, remembering when the desktop screen flashed on that I’d left the computer paper in the car. Where was my head today?

While the computer was warming up, I ran out to get the paper. More time lost. It was almost eleven already. When I returned, I tried the easy way first. Searched the desk drawers for evidence of passwords. Nothing. I checked under the keyboard, around the monitor, on the tower, beneath the lamp, the telephone, the pen holder.

Under the desk. Randy215. That had a certain ring to it.

My guess was that randy Percy had met his lady love last February fifteenth. I would soon see. I opened his email program, typed in the password, hit Enter, and waited. Like magic, I was in.

This was easier than I thought. If Mary Fran knew anything about computers and was able to find the password, she could have done this herself. I checked the folders, opened one named Marla, the only one with a woman’s name on it.

Good guess.

My God. He had eighty-three messages stored here, the first one dated July twenty-eighth, about seven weeks ago. Chuck the theory about them meeting in February.

I began reading her mail to him and some of his to her that was on the same page. My face grew hot, and I do not consider myself a prude. Randy was a fitting password for both of them.

Wow.

Penned porn. No detail too small, too insignificant, too disgusting, to be mentioned. Why not just send the
Karma Sutra
back and forth, for God sakes? They included clothes, no, more like costumes, to be worn at the onset, descriptions of equipment to be utilized and a step by step on what the utilization entailed. I barely noticed the poor spelling and creative punctuation.

Dates were mentioned. No times or places though. Perhaps they always met at the same time, same place. I was looking for an email that mentioned a motel or some other destination.

Fifty-two emails later I decided to stop looking, and begin printing. I should have done that immediately. Not thinking. Too nervous. I pulled the dust cover off the printer. Omigod. An antique. One of the slowest printers HP ever made.

I pressed the On button and froze.

I heard a noise. In the next room. I stopped breathing and listened. A shuffling sound. Panicky feelings worked their way into my throat and I had trouble swallowing.

Like a big sissy, I grabbed my purse, bolted into the closet and yanked on the bifold doors, no easy task since I was off balance and immediately got entangled in long plastic dry cleaner bags and dropped my purse. A plastic bag caught my nose as I tried to turn. Dear God. I couldn’t breathe. More panic as I tried to remove it, and, at the same time, keep myself from falling through the louvered bifolds.

Get a grip, Nora.

The noise came again. I pressed an ear to the closet wall, this time circumventing the bags.

A scraping sound. No, not quite scraping. It was like someone digging. They had sand in the bathroom?

Peeking through the slots, I could see the computer screen and the last email I’d read. I had to get out of this damn closet, turn it off, and quit this stupid stuff. Nick Renzo was right. I was no detective.

Just then, the
Toreador March
blasted from my purse. Oh, my God. I groped around the floor, hit my head on the partially opened door, but managed to snag the damn purse. I grabbed the damn phone and shut it off. I figured the jig was up now for sure. I was as good as dead. If anyone had not heard that damn music or the thump on the door, they were deaf.

Resigned to discovery, I stepped out, rubbing my head. That’s when it suddenly hit me. The scraping sound. A cat in a litter box? Did Mary Fran have a cat? The thought was sunshine, even though I am severely allergic. Sneezing beats death by a Maine mile.

I tiptoed to the bathroom and glanced in just in time to see a fluffy white feline stepping primly from a litter box. I laughed with delight. Well, it was more like giddy relief, I suppose.

The snooty little cat spared me a brief glance as it strolled past with a get-out-of-my-way attitude that had me stepping aside.

For the next two hours I ran off emails on the slowest printer this side of the Rockies. I probably didn’t have to run them all off, but I wanted to be efficient. Earn my fee.

I checked my watch. It was already two-ten. I was in that movie again saying hurry up, hurry up to the heroine.

Restless, waiting for the pages to print, I prowled the small office, then stopped to look out the back window. They had a lot of property. A tire swing hung from a tree and I imagined a child playing on it. I imagined swinging on it myself.

I heard the car before I saw it. Mary Fran? No, not in that big SUV. Possibly a neighbor. But why?

My throat went dry, my heart began a wild ba-boom, ba-boom, and I had to pee.

SIX

With unsteady hands, I cancelled the print and shut down the computer.

Outside, a car door slammed.

I grabbed the papers I’d run off, stuffed them into my tote, and, knowing it was too late to exit the house, desperately looked for a place to hide. The closet? Been there, done that. Where would he not notice me? Hall closet? Daughter’s room? Under a bed? A bed.

It was almost two-fifteen. In a flash of insight that came too late, like a lot of my brilliant flashes, I understood the password. Not a date, not February fifteenth, but a time. His dates with Marla were at two-fifteen. Here. The nerve.

Hide, hide, hide.

I quelled the urge to head for the stairs. Instead, I ran to his daughter’s room across the hall from the master bedroom, a pink frilly place with an unmade bed and toys and clothing scattered from here to kingdom come and back again. The daughter was a messy kid. I shoved my tote under her bed and scrambled after it. The only plus was the dust ruffle that touched the floor. I was hidden. The mattress was low, making it a tight fit. If I’d had breakfast or lunch I might not have made it. For a panicky moment I pictured getting stuck under the bed, having to call 911 and explain the situation. Calling Nick. No, I’d stay here before I’d call him.