Cancelled by Murder (5 page)

“Okay,” I said. “Let's hear it.”

*   *   *

Cliff and I decided to move to more comfortable, private quarters, and drove separately toward my house. While he made a detour for ready-made chicken dinners, I ran around my rooms brushing crumbs off my chairs and stuffing stray clothing into closets or hampers.

My mind raced along with my body as I tried to organize what was known about Daisy's murder. That it was not premeditated was obvious—the convenience of a downed tree branch couldn't have been built into the crime scene ahead of time. It seemed most likely that, as the post office gossipers theorized, her murder was the result of an argument that went bad and got physical in the heat of the moment. I wondered if Cliff had come up with the same scenario, and could put a face to the other person.

I remembered the tale of antagonism between Daisy and several merchants along Main Street, especially Liv Patterson, the owner of the card shop next door to Daisy's Fabrics. I nearly laughed at the idea that a quilter could be a killer. But there was nothing funny about what had happened in the backyard of Daisy's Fabrics.

Once Cliff returned with dinner, we wasted no time putting the food on the table and getting to the matter at hand. Although Cliff had chosen top-of-the-line for a precooked meal, and the aroma was appealing, we picked at the servings, neither of us taking dinner too seriously. Somewhere in the last hour, my appetite had left the building.

“What if this was a complete fluke, like a stranger drifting through?” Cliff suggested, clearly struggling with the idea.

“It's possible,” I said, though I figured we both knew the unlikelihood of a random killer passing through town during a severe storm, looking for a shop owner to attack, or, finding her hurt, shoving a tree limb across her body.

Cliff rested his forehead in a steeple formed by his arms. He looked defeated already. “Otherwise, I have to believe that someone in this town, someone I may have known for years, killed my wife. Deliberately. Someone who might have been to our home.”

Someone whose packages I've processed, I added to myself. “We have to start somewhere,” I said. “Is there anyone in particular that Daisy was upset with lately? Or vice versa?”

“Sure. If you deal with the public at all, there's bound to be someone unhappy with you at any given time.”

“Absolutely,” I said, remembering a few nasty notes I'd received in my career at all levels of postal service.

“I feel awful saying this, but my Daisy could rub a lot of people the wrong way.” He blew out a breath, as if trying to gather the courage to say anything negative about his deceased wife. “A few months ago, she had it out with Pete at the hardware store. She said the lightbulbs he sold her didn't
last as long as the package claimed they would. Pete tried to make her see that the package had some weasel words, like ‘up to' a certain number of hours, not guaranteed. But she wouldn't quit until she got her money back.” He smiled. “And if you know Pete, you know he was no match for someone looking for a fight.”

I did know that about Pete, the contrast of his sister, Andrea, having been brought home during our quilting session when she showed herself to be the fighter in the family.

“Daisy was a strong person,” I said, for lack of a better response.

“That she was. These days, as you know, it's Olivia Patterson she was having trouble with, but truthfully it was Liv who started this little feud.”

“Over the greeting cards.”

Cliff nodded. “Daisy's been over-the-top angry lately because Liv attacked her decision to branch out into cards and gift items in the shop. You simply can't run a one-item store in a small town. Unless it's auto parts, or bikes. Even then, Mike has started to carry a few toys in his shop. But Liv kept yelling how she wouldn't think of selling fabric in her card shop.” He took another breath. “Then Daisy pointed out that Liv did sell fabric in a way—she had some tea towels for sale. And on it went.”

“But Gigi carries greeting cards in her florist shop, too, which is not unusual,” I noted. “Is Liv going to go after every merchant in town?” I asked.

“It wouldn't surprise me. Daisy tried to be a responsible merchant, you know. She purchased the cards we carried from an independent artist over in Springfield. But most of
Liv's card were from a huge chain. Sure, Liv made a bigger profit, but how is that helping the local economy?”

I saw that although it was now a moot point, it was important for Cliff to run through his defense of his wife's choices. I felt he was trying to rewind recent history to see what could have been done differently. I was no stranger to that mode of dealing with a highly charged emotional experience.

“Surely it wouldn't have been that hard for them to come to an agreement,” I said. “Even if Daisy agreed to limit the number of cards she carried, or offered to maybe carry only cards with fabric themes.”

“Yeah, that might have worked,” Cliff said, brightening, as if it could still happen, as if it weren't too late.

I noted how easy it was in the abstract to settle a dispute that had cost two businesswomen their mutual support and friendship and, possibly, one of them her life.

As for me, I was almost ready to close the case. I pictured what might have started as a verbal confrontation between Daisy and Liv, and then the two women ending up, in the middle of the storm, pushing each other around. I could see Daisy falling, perhaps hitting her head, and Liv, frantic, seizing the chance to cover up the unfortunate result with a tree branch that had already fallen. Too easy a solution? It was not for me to say.

The business issue was so much more complicated than a cursory glance would indicate. I wondered, for example, if I'd ever parked in front of Liv's store and gone in to buy a card in Daisy's shop, thus keeping someone who wanted to shop at Liv's from easy access. My head hurt with the possibilities. There was also the impulse buy. I, for one,
never bought just one greeting card. While I scanned the rack for something for Linda's nephew's graduation, I might remember another friend's upcoming birthday or the need for a get-well card. And so on. Almost as bad as my Internet shopping patterns—I'd go online to buy pads for my kitchen chairs and end up with a new flannel nightgown and surely a book or two.

Investigating the card-buying habits of North Ashcot citizens was one thing, but it was another entirely to link the local feud to the murder of Daisy Harmon, making Olivia Patterson the chief suspect. If that was all there was to police work, we probably wouldn't even need a chief.

I returned my focus to Cliff. “Maybe there was something else going on between Daisy and Liv, some issue bigger than greeting cards.”

“If there was, I don't know,” Cliff said.

I thought about the altercation at the quilters' meeting. “I heard about the farmers' market proposal and a hint that Daisy vocally opposed it.”

Cliff nodded. “Right. That was Daisy's beef with the Harrises. Reggie and Andrea. Daisy went at it a few times with both of them. But it wasn't personal. It's not like they're farmers themselves who'll profit from the new business. They just want the produce readily available, I think.”

It occurred to me that Daisy might have thought otherwise, with the interests of local businesses in mind.

I looked at our dinner plates, both still untouched. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls—it had sounded like a good idea at the time, but all either of us had had for nourishment so far was a bite or two of a roll and an entire pitcher of ice water between us.

“Why don't I box this up again?” I said, already into the process. “You might want it later, or tomorrow.”

Cliff looked doubtful, but he agreed to accept half of everything.

I stored my half in the fridge, already knowing what I'd have for dinner instead. I planned to dig into a box of candy Quinn had sent me from a specialty shop in Ogunquit, Maine. I tried to focus on the sweet message that accompanied it, pushing away all the nasty, vengeful thoughts that had filled the day and evening.

W
ith no dishes to wash, and three truffles—one vanilla cream, one chocolate toffee, and one raspberry (they were small) under my belt—I settled down to work on my quilt. I started to sew together the pieces of my block depicting the
9/11 HEROES
stamp, the most recent design the late Daisy Harmon had found for me in her efforts to help with my patriotic theme. She'd been thrilled when she tracked down the special fabric for me. When too many thoughts of her generosity as an instructor and her unthinkable end came to mind, I put the sewing aside.

I turned to my pile of local newspapers. The top story of the last couple of weeks was the controversy over the farmers' market proposal, submitted to the town governors for review, by Reggie Harris, quilter Andrea's husband and the town's biggest contractor. Cliff had made little of the animosity between the Harrises and Daisy, but I noted that
Daisy was not so dispassionate. Daisy's Fabrics had taken out an ad inviting everyone to come to the shop and sign a petition against Reggie's proposal. Not as trivial a difference of opinion as Cliff thought.

Here I was, not just reading the newspaper, but looking for suspects. Sunni would not be happy with me.

I read on. The pros for a market were clear: fresh fruit and vegetables for all, increased revenue for the town. And who could be against healthier North Ashcot citizens?

No one objected to organic veggies. The main problem seemed to be the proximity of the proposed location to the regular downtown merchants, and the redundancy of items already being sold by established shops. The farmers' market would carry products like honey, special teas, candles, and, as noted in a letter to the editor from our florist, Gigi, even plants and flowers. I imagined Gigi, a somewhat shy young woman, mustering the courage to put her thoughts in writing and air them to the public. Clearly, this was a sensitive issue for all concerned.

I saw the dilemma: On the one hand, the farmers wanted their stalls close to where people usually shopped; on the other, the local merchants had some rights to a buffer zone between them and the competition.

I sometimes journeyed to the farmers' markets in surrounding towns with somewhat larger populations than ours. They'd managed to find space far enough away from their main shopping area that no one complained. Not loudly, anyway. I wondered how they got their plan to work.

Figuring it out was a job for the selectmen of the town, I decided, and perhaps the Reggie Harrises of the area. I
abandoned the issue for the night, doubly glad I had no political aspirations. Why anyone did was beyond me.

*   *   *

I adjusted my reading pillow and climbed into bed, hoping to lose myself in a thriller. But it was hard to focus when my mind was off on a tangent, replaying the real-life drama of Daisy Harmon's murder. No need for spies, international intrigue, or hijacked fictional vessels when North Ashcot itself was the center of captivating theater. Was it possible that what I saw as a minor problem—working out fair business practices in a small town—could have led to murder? It was difficult to accept, no matter how many similar stories fiction and history might provide.

At eleven o'clock, my computer, waiting on my bedside table, pinged. Quinn checking in. I put my book aside and replaced it with my laptop. Though we texted frequently during the day, we'd gotten into the habit of a voice-to-voice or electronic face-to-face good-night chat.

Tonight Quinn was staying in a suburb south of Boston. Behind his handsome, ruddy face was a typically drab motel bedroom in oranges and browns, long past their primes. I felt I could smell the dust mites nestled in the drapes and carpet. It occurred to me how challenging it must be to live with furniture put together from a kit while you were seeking out hand-carved pieces from master Philadelphia cabinetmakers. Poor Quinn.

“Did you find any hidden treasures for the shop today?” I asked him.

Big smile over the wires. “I got lost for a while in a cool
antiquarian bookstore in downtown Boston. It's huge, and offers all these special services.”

Quinn spoke in excited tones, as he always did when talking about his passion. I often thought how much Aunt Tess would have enjoyed him. I urged him on. “What's a special service for books?”

“Glad you asked. Say you need eight feet of books bound in blue, for example; they'll put them together for you.”

“That seems strange. Why would anyone buy books by color, or order them by length?”

“Lots of reasons. It could be for a theater set. Or some people like to use books for decoration and they want colors complementary to their living room. Or they want a certain theme in their summer rental. Or they're selling their house and they need to stage it. Or—”

“Okay, I get it.” I ran my hand over the book at my side. The dust jacket pictured a large sea vessel, its front end in the water, its back end on fire. The image of red and yellow flames was raised from the glossy paper, an approximation to three dimensions and a promise of action to come. This cover hadn't been designed for any particular décor. “I can't imagine buying books for any reason other than to read, no matter what the cover looks like,” I said.

He laughed. “That's why you're not in my business. I bought a couple of leather-bound sets, one in dark green and one in brown with gold trim. I have no idea what's inside.”

“And you think someone will buy them?”

“Uh-huh. Especially if I display only one set at a time. And if you don't understand why I'll put out only one at a time, you have a lot to learn about the games we play in this business.”

“Not my first clue. And speaking of business issues . . .”

I told Quinn about my meeting with Cliff, and the various town controversies as I understood them. I did my best to play down the part where Cliff had almost hooked me into playing detective or, at least, security guard.

Quinn let out a long breath and I knew I'd said too much. “Do I need to come home and make sure that doesn't happen?”

“No, no.”

“As if I could stop you. Just—”

“I know. I'll be careful.”

When we hung up, I realized that I'd unintentionally begun leaning toward a decision. One more plea from Cliff, or one tiny clue that might surface, and I'd end up helping him look into his wife's murder. The best I could hope for was that Cliff would forget he'd ever asked that favor.

As if I needed a prod in the opposite direction, my next call was from Chief of Police Sunni Smargon.

“Did you and Cliff have a good visit?”

“Uh, yes. He's having a tough time with Daisy's death, as to be expected.” Clinical enough, I hoped.

“I noticed you extended the visit to your place.”

I should have known that Sunni would have seen Cliff's car outside my house. She saw everything. She probably knew he'd stopped to pick up dinner, and what kinds of sides were included.

“Excuse me? Is this the NSA or CIA calling?” I asked. Humor was always worth a shot.

“Don't be cute. And don't tell me the incompetence of the North Ashcot PD didn't come up in your conversation.”

“He needed consoling.”

“And second-guessing us, I'll bet.”

“Isn't it only natural that he'd be questioning everything and wondering how it happened that his wife was murdered? He hasn't said so directly, but I think he feels guilty that he wasn't home to protect her. He's a guard, after all. In the protection business.” I left out “like you.”

“He was at your house a long time.”

“You really are the NSA.” Still keeping a smile in my voice. “I suppose you won't believe that we talked about the parade next weekend and whether we'd wear costumes.”

She shook her head. “All of a sudden you're both big fans of General Knox and his ox?”

Finally, a chuckle, at the rhyme. “Did you know that Knox and the load of cannons crossed the state line from New York into Massachusetts at Alford, and probably sledded right through what is now North Ashcot?”

“Fascinating,” Sunni said. “Here's another thought. Maybe what happened tonight was that the widower Harmon has made a complete and swift recovery, and you've dumped the antiques dealer for the local security guard.”

“You got it,” I said. “Cliff and I are eloping at midnight. In fact, maybe you can help. Aren't you legally certified to perform a marriage ceremony?”

“Touché. Do you stay up thinking of ways to annoy me?”

“Are you still patrolling around town?”

“Yes, and I could use some coffee.”

“How about some chicken and mashed potatoes?”

*   *   *

It was worth my getting out of bed to be able to give some comfort to my hardworking friend. Either Sunni was too
tired to issue her usual warnings about my snooping (she called it “obstructing”) or she was too hungry to care. After polishing off the chicken dinner in record time, she moved to the living room and leaned back in one of my glide rockers, feet up on the matching ottoman.

“I may be getting too old for this job,” she said.

“What is it? Only another twenty-five years to retirement?”

She gave her forehead a slap. “Thanks for the reminder. The worst part is that I have to look at everyone as a suspect and every situation as a potential for crime. People I deal with every day. Last week, I walk into Andy's Dry Cleaners and I find myself looking more closely at the equipment. That hot, heavy press would make an effective weapon, I'm thinking. Poor Andy. He must have thought I was nuts looking at him suspiciously. And I wasn't even working a homicide at the time.”

Sunni didn't usually share such feelings with me. I decided to move in while she was in a vulnerable position, having sought solace in my home, ingested my food, and stretched out on my furniture. Bad Cassie.

“Did Barry offer anything useful? Like a clue as to who might have been fighting with Daisy?”

“No hair or fibers, if that's what you mean. Who knows what the wind and rain that day might have washed away? He found a trace of a substance that at first he thought was blood, but of course most of it would have been washed away. Turned out not to be blood anyway. Possibly ink. How about that?”

“That's something, though. Where was the ink?”

“On Daisy's wrist, I believe.”

“Can they tell what it's from? Like a marker or a regular ballpoint? Or would that even matter? Maybe it could be traced to a particular user, like a specific shop owner, something like that?”

Sunni shook her head, shrugged in a helpless gesture. “On TV maybe, before the next commercial. The only clear conclusion of our ME's exam is that Daisy struck or was struck by a hard object, like a rock, and that she put up quite a fight.”

I shut my eyes against the image of bruises on Daisy's small body. From the look on Sunni's face, I thought she might be having the same reaction. I left the room and took a few minutes in the kitchen, refilling our mugs.

“It must be awful when you don't have much to start with,” I said.

Sunni popped up in the seat. “Hey, enough.”

Good intentions but bad judgment on my part. I gave Sunni an innocent look and held up my hands in surrender.

“What did you put in that coffee?” she asked.

“Truth serum,” I said, getting a welcome laugh from her and relieving the tension.

She lumbered off the chair, looking only slightly better than when she had arrived. “I'd better get going.”

“I can drive you home if you like,” I offered. “And pick you up in the morning. No problem.” Obliging Cassie.

“I'm fine. Thanks anyway.”

Sunni departed on her own, assuring me she'd drunk enough coffee to keep her awake for the few miles to her house, and leaving me with nothing but a last-minute mention of a spot of red ink to think about.