Cancelled by Murder (8 page)

*   *   *

I got to my car, my breath coming in short spurts, every muscle tense. For no reason. The shop had been empty while I was in it, and stayed empty. The so-called intruder had walked away, barely noticing me (I hoped). And even if we had met outside, we might simply have exchanged a pleasant greeting. I had no reason to assume otherwise. I was unhurt. Then why was my heart still beating wildly?

I wondered how Sunni and other law enforcers faced this kind of thing every day. Answering distress calls, walking into places where anything or anyone might be lurking, not shrinking at the sight of a retreating hoodie, rushing toward scenarios others were fleeing. Maybe it would be different with a badge and a gun?

I thought of Cliff, a security guard. In theory, he was standing watch, making sure no one broke in to a building in his charge or vandalized it in any way. In practice, how did he react if he came upon a threatening situation? Still in my postal uniform, I was more grateful than ever for a job where the most difficult scenario involved nothing more than a cranky customer or one trying to sneak disallowed items into a media mail package.

I was surprised to find my car door unlocked. Most of the time, I succumbed to OCD and hit the lock button twice, similar to the way I often worried about whether I'd closed my garage door, drove back, and found it closed. This time
it hadn't worked that way with my car, though I was sure I'd heard the short burst of horn when I hit the button on leaving it.

Well, no problem. There were few safer places than Main Street, North Ashcot, to leave a car unlocked.

Except not this time. My passenger seat was bare. Someone had taken my shrimp dinner and my files on Daisy Harmon's murder case. A thief had broken into my car and stolen my property, within sight of the police department. He was either very dumb or very bold. Either way, I was distressed, unsure whether the violation was worth reporting. On any other summer evening, I might not have given it a second thought, but in the vicinity of a crime scene, where my friend had been murdered, it seemed a significant turn of events.

I did a quick inspection of the doorframe and saw no scratches that appeared fresh. My car had been over some rough terrain a few times, and the scars on its exterior attested to its history. I'd have to wait until daylight tomorrow to get a closer look. The inside hadn't been vandalized, as far as I could see. The upholstery was intact and any debris was mine. A few napkins from the coffee shop, crumbs on the floor from a quick snack in transit, an old blanket on the backseat for when I transported packages that might soil or tear up the seat covers. All mine.

I decided to think more about my loss before telling anyone. I drove home with a queasy stomach, running through possible scenarios. Had the thief been a poor person who'd seen the cooler and assumed correctly that it contained food? He might have been hungry enough to break in, the
files being an inadvertent add-on. In my year back in town, I hadn't seen anyone who fit this profile, but it was a possibility.

I hated the alternative—the thought that someone had been following me, seen Cliff give me the file, and then taken the opportunity to steal it when I left my car on the street. The shrimp dinner was then the add-on, an extra perk.

By the time I reached my driveway, I'd almost settled on a prank theory. School wasn't in session yet and a couple of bored teenagers decided to cruise Main Street in search of a little mischief. In this scenario, I'd forgotten to lock my car and the kids were happy for the easy pickings, until they opened the box and found gourmet shrimp instead of pepperoni pizza.

Served them right.

*   *   *

I changed into jeans and a
CAL BERKELEY
T-shirt that Quinn had given me. Trying to balance all the UMass apparel I owned, he'd said. I wasn't happy about being robbed of my dinner—a continuation of my bad food karma this week—but I decided it wasn't worth reporting the petty theft. And though I didn't look forward to it, I could text Cliff and ask for another copy of the file.

I made the rounds of my house, checking windows and doors. Daisy's murder had affected me in ways that I couldn't explain.

Relieved that I was alone and safe, I dropped a bagel into my toaster, disappointed that I had to be satisfied with the
aroma of cinnamon and raisins instead of shrimp and lemon. While I was waiting for the meager meal to pop up, I scrolled through my smartphone for messages.

How could the list be so long after only about an hour of neglect? Wasn't it just a short time ago that I'd had to wait until I was in the physical presence of a landline answering machine for this information? Longer ago than it seemed, I realized. Aunt Tess had given me my first cell phone, a flip style, as a high school graduation present, making it nearly twenty years ago. If I wanted to feel anything but old, I was probably better off not checking the timeline of cell phone development and use.

A text from Quinn said he'd be home Saturday or Sunday.
Good news
.

Linda still planned to visit for the General Knox parade next weekend.
More good news.

Cliff wanted to hear my progress in the short time since I saw him.
Not so good news
. I had to gear up to telling him the file was gone, probably in some kid's wastebasket by now, smelling of fish.

Sunni called to cancel our plans to get together this evening.
Good and bad news
. Good, because she wouldn't be able to query me on how I was keeping Cliff happy; bad, because I wouldn't be able to query her on how her investigation was going.

My inner circle was accounted for.

Besides the real messages, I listened to offers for new carpeting and for cleaning my old ones; and to solicitations for community projects. A couple of hang-ups were also the norm, but one of those was different tonight, consisting in
fifteen or twenty seconds of breathing. Or maybe I was hearing telephone noise on the line.

I thought of the
go home
note I'd received. And of the burglarizing of my car. Were they all connected? Was I someone's target? Overreacting, I decided, and proceeded to extract my bagel, smear it with a thick layer of cream cheese and a dab of grape jelly, and carry it and a mug of coffee to my rocker in the living room. Before settling in, I made another trip around my house, double-checking all windows and doors.

Not that I was worried about anything. But when my cell phone rang, I jumped and spilled coffee onto the napkin on my lap. I blew out a deep breath when I saw the caller ID. Martindale Qui, which was as close as my cell phone could come to spelling out my long-named boyfriend.

Before the first “Hey,” I decided not to let Quinn in on the mini attacks I'd been through today.

“I'm doing fine,” I said. “So happy you'll be home for the weekend.”

“I can't wait to show you all the treasures I picked up. Though some of them will be arriving by truck next week.”

“No business for the USPS?” I teased.

He laughed. “Maybe tomorrow I'll find something mailable.”

We made plans for dinner on Sunday evening, which was the latest he expected to arrive. I chose an Italian place, since I had an unexplained (to Quinn) craving for shrimp scampi.

My phone alerted me to another call, from Cliff Harmon. I clicked over, happy for an excuse to tell Cliff I had to make it short.

“I'm on another call right now,” I said, “but I wanted to let you know that I'm going to need another copy of the files.”

“Why? What happened?” He sound flustered, as I expected.

“That's not important right now. Can you bring the copies by the post office tomorrow?”

“Sure, but—”

“Thanks. Sorry to rush off. See you then.”

I clicked back to Quinn. “Okay. Everything's all set.”

“Good,” he said, though I knew he had no idea what I meant.

It was just as well. Soon enough, it would be almost impossible to keep a secret investigation secret from him also.

T
here was no use trying to sleep with my head swimming, full of confused thoughts. About Daisy, about tasks to keep Cliff happy without alerting Sunni, and about my own safety. Was that surly note addressed to “Postmaster” a one-off, or would there be more, sullying my mail? Was the looting of my car only a prank, as I wanted to portray it, or a warning message? If so, a message about what?

As if all that mental commotion wasn't enough, I missed Quinn and worried about my friendship with Sunni, given my near promise to play cop with Cliff. Not even a new thriller downloaded to my e-reader was enough to engage me tonight—a tall, handsome ex-SEAL (who graduated first in his class, of course) notwithstanding.

The sooner Daisy's murder case was solved, the better. I put aside complications with the chief of police and
decided to proceed, working with what I had until I could obtain another copy of the file from Cliff.

I thought about the small notebook I'd pulled from the back of the file cabinet in Daisy's shop. Pillows propped behind me, I sat up in bed and tried to remember what I'd seen, berating myself for not taking it with me. At the time, I'd been startled by a night-light, of all silly things, and raced out of the shop. I'd flipped through the pages briefly and seen snippets of to-do lists and pages of a calendar, plus some sketches I took to be ideas for fabric patterns or quilts.

Maybe Cliff could go back and retrieve the book. I certainly wasn't about to. I made a note to ask him about it tomorrow.

Or right now, I thought, as I heard my ring tone and saw his name on the screen of my smartphone.

“Sorry if I'm waking you up, Cassie, but I got a little worried when you said you needed another copy of the file I gave you today.”

What was I thinking? That I'd get away without an explanation? All I'd managed to do was put off the inevitable probing.

I gave Cliff an edited version of my trip home from work, including my vehicle break-in, which I labeled a prank, and excluding my own break-in of what was now his shop. (Was it breaking in even if the door was unlocked? Probably.)

“That's awful, Cassie. What makes you think the killer himself didn't take the file? He could have followed you and seen that I gave you stuff and—”

Way to go, security guard
. “You're scaring me, Cliff,” I said, even though that very thought had occurred to me.

“Sorry, sorry. Of course that's very unlikely. I would have noticed if anyone were watching us.”

I considered mentioning that at least one person had been watching us. The chief of police, in fact, and we hadn't been aware of her, even though she was probably in a well-marked patrol car. I held back. No use stirring up already troubled waters.

“I have a question for you, Cliff.”

“Shoot,” he said, seeming pleased that I was involved.

“Did Daisy have regular meetings with Jules Edwards?”

“Our accountant? Sure, they met every Friday. But, as I say, I never knew the details.”

“They wouldn't be likely to meet every day?”

“No, no reason I can think of. They were both very efficient and kept up to date during those weekly meetings. Unless it was tax season, which it isn't. He's extremely busy then. He has a lot of other clients, in other towns as well as here. Is this important, Cassie?”

I'd come to a point of reckoning. To tell Cliff about the multiple calendar entries in the notebook, I'd have to admit I'd found it while wandering around the shop, which would give rise to questions I wasn't ready to answer. Some other time, I decided. “Nothing special. I'm just trying to get a picture of what her business life was like.”

“She gave it her all. I'll tell you that.” Cliff's voice broke up and I could hear that, as clinical as he was trying to be about the investigation, and as eager as he was to find her killer, first and foremost, he loved and missed his wife.

My heart went out to him. I did my best with soothing words, and suggested we both get some rest.

Once we signed off, another reason for frequent meetings between Daisy and Jules popped into my head. What if they were having an affair? Wasn't that the number-one motive for murder? Surely on the top ten list. I shoved the thought aside. Who writes down times and dates of secret trysts? I was glad it hadn't come up when Cliff and I were talking. He had enough to worry about.

Since I was still fully awake and reluctant to turn off my lights and toss around in the dark, I figured I might as well do something useful. I pulled a notepad onto my lap and began to compile my own list of people to contact. The quilting group was a good start. But it was after ten o'clock, past the time when I'd feel comfortable calling most people.

I looked around my bedroom, tapping my pen while I thought, pausing now and then to doodle. Without consciously applying myself, I found I'd drawn what could pass for a tree branch and part of a quilt. It wasn't hard to figure out how my mind worked.

I was distracted by the dusty surfaces of my room and the pitiful state of the décor. It was past time to take down tattered posters that were from trips to Boston's MFA more than a year ago. Linda would have had her favorites matted and framed; I still acted as though I lived in a dorm room. I'd thought about removing Aunt Tess's old, busy lilac wallpaper and painting the room a fresh off-white or pale yellow for a change. Maybe I could talk Quinn into helping. As a woodworker, as well as an antiques dealer, he had a practiced eye for interior decorating. Or maybe I could just declutter and dust before committing to a bigger project.

When my glance landed on my purse, in its usual place on a chair next to my bed, I felt a plan taking shape.

I knew that Eileen Jackson, who'd hosted the quilting meeting the other night, was a night owl. She'd mentioned it in connection with an all-night radio talk show she listened to. I scrolled through my phone contacts and called her. To my relief, she sounded chipper, and ready to chat.

“No apology necessary. You know I was up,” she said when I mentioned the late hour.

“I think I left my new sunglasses at your house,” I said, after our greetings. “It was still sunny when we arrived at your house, but dark when we left, so I didn't notice.”

“Do you remember where you might have left them?” Eileen asked, sounding eager to help, thus bringing about a sour taste in my lying mouth. I cleared my throat, now nervous about prolonging my fiction. I should have checked on whether it had rained on Tuesday evening, for example. “I'm pretty sure I put them on the table with that beautiful stained glass Tiffany-style lamp.”

“Oh yes, I love that lamp. The shop where they made them is gone now. I guess I'm not the only one who's allowed to retire.” She paused, possibly reflecting on all the cool shops that were no longer with us. “I think I would have seen your glasses, since that's my reading corner, but let me check. Maybe they fell behind the chair. Can you hold?”

“Sure.”

I felt really bad sending Eileen on a wild-goose chase, since I knew for a fact that my sunglasses were in my purse. Did real cops rely on this kind of trick? Did Sunni ever pull something like this? Did she train Ross Little, the young
officer I'd come to know, in these wily ways? Had she ever pulled a fast one on me? I didn't want to believe it.

Eileen was back. “Sorry, Cassie. I don't see them. I'll check again tomorrow, when it's light, and I'll also check with Buddy. He might have found them and moved them. I'll call you if I find them.”

Great. Now Eileen's husband would be enlisted in this fool's errand. I thanked her for her trouble, thinking I should bring her some candy or flowers to make up for my deceit.

I realized I hadn't quite thought through the next step. I'd created a believable excuse to contact Eileen, but how was I supposed to get from her useful information for the murder investigation? I couldn't exactly ask her whereabouts during the storm. The category-zero storm that hit the town on Monday was already old news to most of North Ashcot's citizens. The wind and rain had done little damage, except to provide a fleeting cover for Daisy's murder.

Cliff's idea had been to ask Daisy's friends if they noticed anything unusual or if Daisy had fought with anyone recently. I had no idea how to approach that topic with Eileen. It was clearer than ever why someone with training in interrogation techniques should be left alone to do her job. I should go back to perfecting my skills at the job I already had. What had that note said?
Do your job
.

Contrarian that I was, I made a stab at prolonging the conversation with the accommodating Eileen.

“Thanks for checking, Eileen. I suppose I might have left them in another purse.” She had no way of knowing that I never changed my large, roomy leather purse, unless it was to switch to a small clutch for a wedding or, in
Boston, for clubbing with Linda (who changed purses with each outfit). “And thanks for hosting us the other night, by the way.”

“It was the least I could do to honor Daisy and try to keep her passion alive. It's such a shame, what happened.”

A nice thought from a nice lady. One who didn't deserve to be manipulated. “I wonder what will become of the shop,” I said, as if I didn't have a direct line to its owner.

“That's a good question. Of course, I'm happy to have the group here on a regular basis,” Eileen said.

“Or we could rotate so no one has the burden every week.” In a record-breaking round of questionable connections, I thought of Molly and her lameness, how she'd told us a different story from the one she offered in the post office today. “We could give Molly a pass for a while, however, until her ankle heals.”

“Oh, for sure,” Eileen said.

“I saw her today at the post office,” I said. “She's doing much better. Which reminds me. You wouldn't happen to know if she still has her cat, would you?”

“Not anymore. She swore last winter, when the last of her three tabbies died, that she wouldn't get another one. Why do you ask?”

“Mentioning her reminded me that my friend's cats passed on also, and she's looking for someone to give their toys to.”

“Well, not Molly. And not me, I'm afraid. I'm a dog person. Bitsy is a very shy little chow chow, so I tucked her away in our bedroom the other night when the group was over, but I know you two would get along really well.”

After a minute or two of pet talk, we were ready to end
the call. I thanked her again for searching for my sunglasses and for her great hospitality. I looked forward to meeting Bitsy, I told her, as my final fabrication.

By now I was upset with myself and a little frightened at the ease with which I'd come up with falsehoods. Would I ever be able to look Eileen straight in the eye again? Or myself in the mirror?

As if I'd conducted a real interview, I inserted a check mark next to Eileen's name on the Daisy page of my notepad.

And a question mark next to Molly's. Why had she lied to the curious barista in the post office? Did it mean anything in the larger scheme of things? Maybe Molly was a chronic teller of white lies, and both stories—blaming first the Adirondack chair and then the cat for her tripping—were fiction. I didn't know Molly very well; maybe she was a private person, not wanting to share her personal life with a casual acquaintance or a stranger as the barista might have been, and made it a practice to make things up as she went along.

Aunt Tess always said one reason not to tell lies was that you had to have a very good memory to keep them straight, whereas if you always told the truth, you had nothing to worry about. I felt a flush across my face as I thought of what she'd have to say of my dealings tonight.

Of course, Aunt Tess didn't have a murder to solve.

But then, technically, neither did I.

I made quick calls to Quinn and Linda, who'd texted me while I was on the phone with Eileen. I was glad I was able to end the evening with honest exchanges and a few smiles.

Quinn didn't press me for how I was handling Cliff's
recruitment efforts. Instead, he teased with news of something special he'd picked up for me. I made a few guesses, but he stuck to his plan. I'd have to wait till he returned to find out.

Linda kept me distracted for a while, talking about a possible career change. An opening had come up for a job as postal inspector. It would mean more travel and she'd miss the group she now supervised, but maybe she was ready for that change. What did I think?

“Do I really want to be the ‘Postal Police'?” she asked.

“What's the best thing and the worst thing about the job?” I asked, pulling out the kind of question we always asked each other before a big decision.

“Best: An amazing variety of challenges. Mail fraud. Identity theft. Credit card fraud. Robberies that involve our employees or facilities. Mailing of contraband. The variety is endless.”

“But you'd have to specialize.”

“Right. And believe it or not, I'm attracted to the education programs, teaching kids especially how to use the Internet wisely—it's now considered a form of ‘mail' and therefore falls under our mission.”

“Wow. Do we even need to get to the worst part of the job?”

“A lot of new training, for one thing.” I heard a partial yawn. “Maybe more tomorrow night?”

“Okay, if you must go.”

Linda sensed my need for an upbeat ending and hit me with an old joke.

“Did you hear the one about the unstamped letter?” she
asked. Then gave me the punch line, though I'd already started to laugh. “Never mind. You wouldn't get it.”

With two large doses of happy talk, I was ready to call it a night, grateful to have both Linda and Quinn in my life.

I inhaled deeply, turned out my light, and slid under the covers.