Cancelled by Murder (13 page)

For now, I felt I had to defend the husband. “Cliff was miles away, at a training conference, probably seen by dozens of people, most of whom would be in law enforcement and security.”

“And maybe a few chiefs of police giving seminars,” Sunni added.

“The good guys,” I said.

“And wouldn't that be handy?”

I searched Sunni's face. Was she seriously considering Cliff a suspect? The Cliff I'd been consoling, helping, accepting food from? The supplier of this evening's meal for both Sunni and me? “You think he hired someone? What possible motive could he have?”

“Cassie,” she said, using a grade school teacher tone. “There's a reason spouses, boyfriends, girlfriends, and the
exes of all of the above top the list. Whenever you have the capacity for love, you also have the potential for hatred and greed.”

“And the rest of the deadly sins,” I added, feeling my shoulders sag and my spirits hit bottom.

“A ripe environment for violence.”

“Depressing,” I whispered. Was there no possibility of romance? A happy marriage? Was it necessary to hold this worldview to succeed as a cop?

I thought of my ex-fiancé, Adam Robinson, who'd called it quits last year, by way of three text messages. My
do your job
warning letters paled in comparison with the hurt inflicted by Adam's curt memos. We lived in the same city at the time, within walking distance, and saw each other regularly, but he chose to inflict his wound not face-to-face, but remotely and electronically.

Sunni knew about Adam and now seemed sorry for inadvertently reminding me of him. “I apologize, Cassie. I didn't mean to dredge up old memories.”

I shook my head. “Not a problem. I only hope Adam is alive and well. I wouldn't want the Boston Police Department banging on my door asking for my alibi if they find him otherwise.”

“I guess you're over him,” Sunni said, her first smile of the evening.

On the whole, I was over Adam, happy I'd returned to my roots over one hundred miles away, and happy with Quinn Martindale, so I was surprised at my reaction to Sunni's negative view of relationships. I found myself wondering about the chief of police herself, who shared little of her personal life. I knew that she'd been married briefly,
divorced—ostensibly because each was married to a job (cop for her; defense lawyer for him), and had one daughter. As for the present, I didn't see that she had much time for dating.

Sunni followed up on the question of Cliff Harmon's status. “Granted, the details of Daisy's murder don't support a hired gun. It seems more spontaneous, an argument gone bad, and a handy opportunity for cover-up.”

“The storm,” I said, a bit relieved. I could no more imagine Cliff hiring a hit man than I could his wielding the blow himself.

“But I must tell you, there was motive there.”

I started. “Cliff had a motive to kill Daisy?”

“More on that later.”

I almost screamed how unfair it was of Sunni to withhold that information from me. Shouldn't I be alerted since I was hanging around with the man, sharing meals? But the chief and I were just beginning our alleged collaboration, and I didn't dare.

“Maybe we should go back to Tony,” I said.

“Tony Masters. Claims he was surveying the damage in the back of the bike shop. He saw that the tree branch was down in Daisy's yard next door, thought he heard shuffling noises, and climbed partway up the fence to see what was going on, and, yada yada, I think you've heard this story.”

“I have. Does this mean we can pinpoint Daisy's time of death? If he heard noises, it might have been the killer. Tony might have just missed him.”

“It's not that cut-and-dried. Tony couldn't say for sure that it wasn't the wind he was hearing, or something else
falling in the yard. It's close, though, according to the medical examiner. Daisy died about one o'clock, give or take, about a half hour before Tony found her.”

I wished I'd known that part of the timeline while I was compiling my list. I'd have to go over it again with that in mind. Liv had finished in the post office just before noon, which neither incriminated nor eliminated her. I couldn't account for anyone else. “Do we need to consider Tony a suspect?”

“I doubt it. He's clean. No record, has a wife and a new baby, goes to school nights to get his mechanic's license, saving up to open a body shop eventually. His boss and his neighbors say only good things about all the Masters family.”

At least there'd been no harm done in my leaving Tony Masters off my list, no matter that I hadn't thought of him in the first place. “Where do we go from here?”

“I hesitate to even say this, but it would be good to have you involved with the quilting group, see if there's anything to this feud with Liv Patterson, or anything else that might be going on where ladies gather.”

“I can do that.”

“As for the farmers' market thing—I'm glad for the tip about the letters to the editor. I'll see if I can get Reggie Harris to cop to writing a response to Daisy's letter. I'm sure he's deleted it, if there ever was one, but I can ask nicely if he'll let us have his computer, and his answer will tell us a lot.”

“Wouldn't he be within his rights to refuse to surrender his computer without you thinking that makes him look guilty?”

“Right,” Sunni said with a wink in her voice.

I was beginning to appreciate my own job more and more. When someone entered my post office lobby, I had only the most pleasant expectations for our interaction. I made an assumption, mostly justified, that my role was to bring people together for mutual greetings and presents. And the occasional breakup letter.

Sunni continued. “Can you find an excuse to talk to Liv and Molly and the others privately and see if anything pops? Try to get their alibis, for one thing, and we'll compare them with what they told me.”

“You don't believe them?”

“You'd be surprised at what people don't tell the police.”

“Okay, I'm to go undercover. I like the sound of that.”

“Don't push it. Can I count on you to stay within the bounds of what I'm asking you to do?”

“Absolutely.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

She added a couple more notes to whatever document she'd been working on, sat back, and closed her laptop. I did the same.

“Is there anything else before we call it a night?” she asked.

A moment of truth. To show her my recent threatening mail or not? “Uh—”

“So that's a yes?”

Apparently, my face had answered for me. I retrieved the sheet of paper that I'd found shoved under my door. She took it from me and immediately focused on the content.

“And there's a reason you didn't show this to me right away?”

“This is number two,” I said, getting it over with. “The first one came yesterday morning. It's in my desk at the office.”

“Again, you weren't planning to show these to me because . . . ?” Her eyes were questioning, her tone bordering on scolding.

“Because—”

She held up her hand. “Never mind struggling for an excuse. You didn't show this to me right away because you thought I'd try to curtail your snooping even more. Or you just couldn't see that it was anything but a prank.” She paused for a breath. “I'm taking this one and I expect the first one in my hands tomorrow morning. I'll send Ross to get it.”

I gulped. Duly scolded. “I'll have it ready for him. Or I could bring it to the station before work?”

She shook her head. “Ross needs a boring errand to convince him he's making the right move out of a small town.”

“You want him to leave?”

“I don't want to hold him back. He'll only resent me and I don't want that. This way there's a chance he'll be back.”

Smart thinking. I forgave the fact that she'd named me part of a boring errand and focused on the positive. “Then I'm still on the case, so to speak?”

She nodded. “I figure it's better that I know what your assignment is rather than worrying that you're out of control.” She cleared her throat. “You will stay in control?”

I gave my head a vigorous nod. “Deal.”

*   *   *

No sooner was Sunni out the door than I realized I'd forgotten to expand on my theory about the group of suspects—that is, ordinary people—I'd seen entering Molly Boyd's salon together earlier this evening. I maintained my strong suspicion that their agenda had to do with the farmers' market proposal. I doubted that Daisy would have been invited to the meeting and I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that there was something shady going on.

I told myself I could add “farmers' market research” to my newly approved duties without getting specific permission. Surely that wouldn't be violating my deal with Sunni. A girl needs fresh produce, after all.

As if the letters hadn't been enough of an omission, I'd also forgotten to tell her about the theft of my property, files, and food from my car: either a bad sign that I was in denial, especially in light of two nasty notes, or a good sign, that I wasn't stressed-out over the theft or the notes. I chose the glass-half-full version and decided I'd tell Sunni later, when I was ready to report on my new missions.

For a nanosecond, I considered asking Ben to cover for me for a few days while I sleuthed, but I came to my senses and ironed my uniform shirt.

M
y nightly Skype call to Quinn was brief, since we'd both had a long day, his very likely more productive than mine. As I feared, he started right in with “How was your evening with the chief of police?”

“Sunni's fine. We always enjoy our time together.”

“Any murder talk? Did you make any promises?”

I heard a challenge in his voice, which was unusual. Maybe absence was making the heart snarky. He was wearing the UMass sweatshirt I'd given him. I was relieved that he wasn't so upset with me that he'd abandoned the shirt.

Quinn faced me, a typical inexpensive motel bedroom in the background. Dull brown and orange décor. Small table holding a lamp with a tipsy shade. Even the framed picture of autumn leaves looked listless. I could only imagine the covering of dust and sticky stains on all surfaces.

I noticed several brown carton boxes of various sizes piled
on the bed behind him. I could make out the label
LAMP
on the side of one of them,
DESK SET
on another. “Looks like it was a rewarding treasure hunt for you today,” I said, not the least bit snarkily. “Did you pick up some cool stuff?”

“Yeah, and this neighborhood is a little sketchy, so I thought I'd better take the smaller pieces inside.”

“I hope you're locked in,” I said, and immediately wished I could take it back. Why in the world would I want to remind him of the necessity to keep safe? Too late now. I heard it practically before he said it.

“You're the one who needs to be careful. You didn't answer my question. Did Sunni set you straight on what an ordinary citizen should not be doing with regard to a murder investigation? Emphasis on ‘not.' And on ‘murder.'”

“You think I'm ordinary?” One more attempt at diversion. I could tell by his face and posture, by the way he frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, that it hadn't worked. I almost wished we were limited to voice contact. Or, for that matter, Pony Express, considered speedy communication during the Civil War. The men on horses covered more than two thousand miles; Quinn was little more than one hundred miles away. The distance would give us time to process each other's reactions. “I'm sorry,” I said to Quinn's frowning countenance. “I know you're serious, but everything's fine here, really. When are you coming back?”

His face turned grim, his square jaw pulled up, thinning his lips. “Bad news, sort of. Fred wants me to check out a big estate sale on Sunday, so I had to double back to Manchester. Then, depending on how long it takes, I'll head out late Sunday evening or Monday morning.”

I should have been more disappointed, but the delay
bought me some needed time. I tried not to sound too upbeat. “Can we leave the topic of investigating, or not, till then?” I asked. By which time, I figured, we'd have solved the case.

I was amazed that Quinn agreed and guessed that he didn't want unpleasantness at a distance any more than I did. At least, face-to-face in the same room, I might have a chance to explain myself and what seemed like rash behavior. He was probably thinking the same thing about his position.

“I wish you could have seen the nine-thousand-dollar mirror at the last dealer I visited today,” he said, the change of topic bringing a smile to his face and a sigh of relief from me. “From the sixties, with an illuminated frame, made in Germany. And another one from 1950s Italy with a leafy ceramic frame. About a dozen small lights stuck between green leaves. Too bad the guy wouldn't let me take a picture of them.”

“But aren't they all on the Internet anyway?”

“Sure, and that's what I told him, but apparently he doesn't trust cameras in the shop, period. Maybe he thinks some crook is really using the camera to case the joint”— Quinn laughed at his forties noir talk—“and the guy will come back in the dark with a truck.”

“I'd be afraid to own even one piece like that. If breaking a small, inexpensive compact mirror brings seven years' bad luck, how many gruesome years could we expect if we broke a nine-thousand-dollar version?”

We had a good time over the math, deciding we couldn't live long enough to fulfill the prophecy.

Quinn and I signed off, “I miss you” from both of us not
less fervent because of our disagreement. The usual closing blips poured out of my computer speaker and I closed the cover of my laptop.

I'd planned to call Linda in Boston next, but couldn't face the possibility of another prickly scolding about my new project involving police work, low-level as it was. Maybe this was what Sunni meant when she said her job precluded close friendships. Was I so unusual in my desire to help solve a serious puzzle? Didn't everyone want to be part of the job of setting matters right when an innocent person, who was also a friend, had been struck down?

I fell asleep hoping I wouldn't lose all the contacts in my smartphone, all my friends near and far.

*   *   *

Saturday morning I stopped at the post office to pick up Nasty Letter Number One for delivery to Sunni via Ross. I let myself in through the side door. With all the shades in the building pulled down, as I'd left them at closing yesterday, the area was dark, only a small amount of early sunlight peeking through. I had the same creepy feeling I'd had in my home last night at the arrival of Nasty Letter Number Two. I didn't like this at all. My home and my post office had always been havens for me, places where I felt connected to the world, yet comfortable and safe.

Ignoring the creaking sounds of hundred-year-old floors in my Colonial-style building, I headed straight for my desk. I wanted in and out as quickly as possible.

I opened the middle drawer. I'd slipped the note in it yesterday morning and hadn't looked at it since. I searched
and felt around now and couldn't locate the letter. I sat in my chair and bent over until I was at eye level with the drawer. I pushed aside clips, pens, rubber bands, adhesive notes, highlighters, cough drops. No letter. I ran my hand under the desk blotter in case I'd somehow missed the opening yesterday. Nothing. I checked the drawer again, this time removing larger items and placing them on top of the desk—a hand paper punch, a fifteen-inch ruler, two pairs of scissors, a roll of red, white, and blue tape I'd been looking everywhere for, and a cardboard box of oversized binder clips. I pulled the drawer out as far as it would go and rummaged once more. Still nothing. All I had for my trouble was a small splinter from the back end of the drawer and lint-rich fingernails.

To stem a rising panic, I sat back and took some breaths. What was I missing? The wastebasket, of course. I dragged the round metal container from under the desk and started to plow through it. Brenda, my occasional cleaning help, hadn't been in for almost two weeks, but I emptied the trash myself every other day or so, depending on how many smelly lunch remnants I'd tossed in it. I remembered dumping the contents on Wednesday evening, so two days' worth of scrap had accumulated.

I knew even before I started digging that it was hopeless. The basket held only small scraps—bits of tape, hand wipes, and (busted!) a candy wrapper or two. Something as large as an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet, even folded, would have stuck out in the rubble. Besides, unnerving as it was, I knew for sure that I'd slid the letter and the envelope, separated, into my middle drawer.

I was stumped. And worried. If I hadn't taken it home, which I was sure of, or thrown it away, the inevitable conclusion was that someone had stolen it. Or taken it back. Had Anonymous found a way to retrieve the letter? Why? Out of regret? To further rattle me? How would anyone have gotten into the building? I had no extra key in a planter or under a mat outside. Only Ben had a key of his own. Not even Brenda, who worked only when I was present, had a way to walk into an unattended building.

Eight thirty on a Saturday morning and, instead of relaxing on my sofa with a cup of coffee and a good book, I was already on course for a bad day. I'd made arrangements to meet Ross, Sunni's soon-to-be ex-officer, at Mahican's for the transfer of the now-missing letter. I made one final round of possible locations, then pulled out my phone and texted him.

Handoff cancelled. Misplaced letter.

And received an immediate response.

Back to bed.

Was everyone under thirty thumb-ready with a phone, twenty-four/seven? This was one time when I was grateful for the trend.

I knew I should call Sunni right away and report the missing note, but I talked my way around it. She needed her rest, and shouldn't be disturbed this early, I reasoned. Magnanimous, that was me.

I had the strongest urge to follow Ross's example and
retreat to my own bed for extra sleep. I remembered weekends in Boston, when Saturday morning meant staying in bed as late as I wanted, sometimes dragging a couple of books over and beginning the day with juicy fiction. This would be after Friday evenings that usually involved a quick change out of work clothes and a show or concert with Adam, Linda, and however many of our friends we could round up.

For the rest of the weekend, if our bank accounts were in good health, girlfriends and I would hit the chic shops on Newbury Street. If they were a little low, we'd browse Quincy Market or downtown Boston. I was completely unaware at the time of how the officers of the Boston PD spent their weekends—working hard while I was playing.

Annoyance crept in as I realized I couldn't even count on my home now for an atmosphere of peace. What if Anonymous was at this moment skulking around my door delivering Nasty Letter Number Three? I might as well keep to my plan and stay in the field like any good agent of the law.

I changed my mind about a quick in-and-out, and decided to do a bit of research in my office. Why should Anonymous intimidate me to the level of being afraid in my own domain? I swept my supplies back into my desk drawer, pulled my laptop from my briefcase, and set it on the desktop.

Like with every other business enterprise these days, big or small, I expected farmers' markets to have an Internet presence. I searched for locations within thirty miles of North Ashcot and found ten markets that had their own websites and their own social media pages. Each site listed the number of participating vendors (up to fifty in some cases), the products sold, and directions to the originating
farm or orchard (which generally also offered an amusement such as a hayride or pumpkin picking). I felt a field trip coming on.

Farmers' markets had come a long way since I shopped with my parents years ago. Then, a few local farmers drove their battered trucks to a vacant lot on the outskirts of town and sold seasonal vegetables and fruits, using their tailgates as counters, often literally weighing the items by hand.

“This feels like exactly one pound,” a farmer would say, tossing green and yellow bell peppers from one hand to the other.

“Wow,” I'd say in my little girl voice, believing the old man's hands were magically calibrated. I usually earned a wink and a smile for my eager involvement.

I remembered dipping my fingers into paper cups holding cherries and pieces of apple to sample. There might have been a cooler with soft drinks for sale, but certainly no line of food trucks as pictured at today's venues. By the time I was in high school, the farmers had disappeared, and I wondered if those same farmers had joined the more formal cooperatives whose wares were now spread over the Internet. Were those farmers the ones Reggie had in mind in his proposal for North Ashcot? Or did his all have MBAs?

I clicked through mouthwatering photos of ears of yellow and white corn; white and green heads of cauliflower; lettuce in many shades of green and red; deep purple eggplants; three kinds of carrots (Yellow carrots? Who knew?); blue green beans (another eye-opener); jars of orange and strawberry jam; jugs of maple syrup; and racks of candied apples, the smooth caramel syrup seeming to drip onto my desktop.

For my destination today, I chose the market with the
most attractive website, thus confirming the wisdom of advertisers everywhere. I clicked on directions for the Knox Valley Market, located in the newly gentrified civic center of a town twenty miles from North Ashcot. My choice might also have been influenced by the name of the venue—the same as that of my current hero, Henry Knox, of Revolutionary War and commemorative stamp fame.

The trip seemed like an ideal way to turn the day around from its bad start. I could buy fresh produce, and while I was taste-testing the plums, I could chat with the help about the proposed market a few miles north and be on the lookout for . . . for what, exactly? Merchandise being passed between the flatbeds of trucks or the trunks of two cars? A ten-dollar bill offered under the table (literally) for a few extra blueberries in a basket? The plastic bag franchise?

The truth was that I was hoping to come upon dramatic, incontrovertible evidence pointing to Reggie Harris as Daisy's killer. I still had strong suspicions about Jules, the moneyman, and even Liv, the card seller, but the stakes might be even greater for a business enterprise like a farmers' market. Close-up photos on the website showed credit card transactions, indicating that a serious, professional business was on-site. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that liability insurance had become a must, not to mention the challenges of organizational structures and tax issues.

So much had changed since I carried cucumbers and long celery stalks to our car as a child.

Maybe I could unearth something bigger than a baker's dozen of zucchini as Reggie's payoff for bringing one of these highly photogenic markets to our town.

The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that
I'd find anything of value. But I had to try. I was in favor of anything that even hinted of progress toward making me and every North Ashcot citizen feel safe again, to say nothing of honoring Daisy's memory.

*   *   *

I left my office, tempted one last time to tear it apart, inside and out, in case Nasty Letter Number One had mysteriously reappeared, having landed in a dusty corner far from my desk. I figured I'd had enough fruitless searching for one day, and left the building.