Death Takes Priority (12 page)

It was too early for bed, so I took out my laptop and clicked around, but even my Web browsing, which a week ago might have included a frivolous game or two, now consisted of serious searches.

I found Wanda's card and typed in her website address. I opened her home page—Wanda Graham Cox, Freelance Graphics Designer—and admired the head shot in the upper left corner. Wanda's red hair was cut shorter than she
wore it now, in an attractive, mature-looking bob. Her wide smile spoke of friendliness and confidence. Seeing her full name reminded me of her brief mention of a failed marriage. She didn't seem to have any scars from it. I rubbed my arm as if to check for scars from a failed engagement.

Wanda's professional offerings were many and her samples impressive. Covers for e-books, website design, flyers, banners, logos and letterhead for small and large companies. The little girl who lost her toys every day had done very well for herself. I had the sad thought that her brother, who must have been very proud of her, could no longer let her know his feelings. I didn't look forward to telling her that, despite my chummy dinner with the chief of police, I was no closer to knowing how Wendell's murder investigation was proceeding. In fact, I suspected it wasn't proceeding at all.

While I was at it, I did another search—for Edmund Morrison, the lawyer who'd bailed Quinn out, though not literally. I sifted through the search engine hits and settled on a likely candidate, Edmund A. Morrison, “of counsel” at a large Albany law firm with a long list of partners. The firm listed many associates and of counsels, which I knew could mean many things, from a young lawyer on probation to a retired lawyer who was still consulting. Given the photo posted, of a gray-haired, bespectacled man, the latter seemed more likely. I scrolled through Morrison's publications and credentials, Yale Law School among them, then clicked on his image and sent a screen shot to Quinn with a simple note: “Your lawyer?”

If someone knocked on the door and asked me why I was researching our murder victim's sister and our only suspect's
lawyer, I'd have been at a loss to explain. Maybe Wanda and Linda were right. Maybe I was a detective at heart.

I hoped not.

I got a text reply from Quinn immediately.

Yup. That's him. U up?

I felt that familiar twinge at what seemed like an invitation. It took longer than it should have for me to decline a late-night visit. Too many questions, doubts, and potential dangers. My warning system kicked in.

Turning in now
, I responded, not sure what I was missing.

*   *   *

My house needed a good cleaning, but all it got tonight was a once-over, with a little dusting here and there, a run through with my handheld vacuum, and a quick straightening up in the kitchen.

I felt I'd done all I could for the day, at least trying to keep all the promises I'd made, while staying on the good side of Chief Sunni Smargon. I rummaged through my to-be-read pile of books and chose a mystery novel that I knew would end well. The victim would not be a completely innocent, all-around nice guy; the killer would be caught; justice would be served; the protagonist would live to solve another crime. A different world. I sat in bed reading until my eyelids were too heavy to continue, and switched off the small lamp on my night table.

I'd nodded off—or had I?—when I heard the noise. Were the crashing, clattering sounds in my dreams or in my driveway? My bedroom was in the back of the house, one
half flight up from the street, at the level of my front and back porches, overlooking a small yard. Along the edge of the house was a pathway with several trash cans for different categories of waste. The noise seemed to come from there.

Though the ruckus stopped in the next few seconds, I got up and went to the window, peeked through the drapes at the backyard, and saw nothing unusual. I chalked it up to a raccoon or a skunk, hopefully not the rabid animal waging war in Mr. Jayne's backyard, as I'd heard about from one of Sunni's officers. While I was up, I wandered through the house, peeking through all the windows. I saw nothing out front except my old Jeep in the driveway.

Too sleepy to worry any longer without a good reason, I trudged back to bed.

I
woke up in good spirits on Thursday morning, despite the gloomy weather. Rain or snow on the way? It was anybody's guess. I resolved to take the warning from Sunni seriously and pay strict attention to my postal duties today. Wanda would have to understand that I had orders from the chief of police herself to back off.

I looked forward to a nice chicken dinner with Quinn this evening. As for lunch, who knew which of my fans would pop in at the last minute and claim their date? Derek Hathaway, the richest guy in town? Tim Cousins, the young man who was so eager for gossip? Or Gert Corbin, the government official who probably wanted me to continue whatever Aunt Tess had started by way of support for her campaign?

I donned a brand-new navy blue cardigan, a warm scarf, my navy parka, and I was ready to go. I gave one last look
at my house, which I felt was fit for company, especially since the sun would be down long before dinnertime, hiding the dust. I'd always counted on that when entertaining.

Keys ready, I headed down the porch steps, approached my Jeep. And groaned. A flat tire? Really? My right front hubcap rested unnaturally close to the concrete. Good thing I had a spare, and an even better thing that my father had forced me to learn to change a tire before I had my first drivers ed course. No worries.

Also, I was glad I'd gotten an early start this morning, though this wasn't the way I'd planned to use the extra time.

I tried to remember where I'd been in the last twenty-four hours that was rough enough to bring on a flat. Only around town as usual. Not even as far as Pittsfield, where Sunni had taken her car last night. I walked around to the trunk. And groaned again. Another flat. My right rear tire had bottomed out also.

It didn't take a genius to think of checking the two left tires. Now the groans were less casual. I toured once around the Jeep, looking more carefully, noting the slash marks on each tire. I thought of Ben's story about the Halloween gang that had struck last year, but I didn't remember any real damage that had been done, just a nuisance attack. This felt more personal. Designed to keep me from work at least, or something more sinister at worst.

My back to my house, I walked to the edge of my driveway and surveyed the neighborhood. As if someone would be hanging around, his knife on display, admiring his handiwork and the homeowner's distress. I glanced behind me, then to the sides where small pathways separated my
house from my neighbors' houses. It seemed no one was up yet.

I tried to convince myself that harmless teen vandals were having a little fun at my expense. The queasiness in my stomach and the tremors in my hands as I tried to calm my nerves told a different story. If this wasn't for fun, what was it for?

I considered running back into the house and locking myself in. I also considered running down the street, away from the house, from the car, from North Ashcot.

In the end, I stayed put and called the police department, having decided they should see it before a tow truck did.

While I waited for Ross, I walked around my property looking for a clue. As if I'd have known one if it were in front of me. Unless the slasher had dropped a glove full of DNA, or hurt himself and left his bloody fingerprint behind. Not likely. Nevertheless, I searched the small area—under my car as far as I could see, up and down the two pathways on either side of my house. I found a candy wrapper; indeterminate pieces of stiff plastic, one possibly from a six-pack of soda, another a blister pack, and still others that could have held together the countless items that came shrink-wrapped; a metal nail file that could have been mine.

On one side, stuck in a tuft of weeds, was part of a strap of nondescript color that looked like it was ripped from a backpack. From the size, I guessed it was a kid's. It was hard to picture Operation Tire Slash associated with a cute grade-schooler, with a lollipop in one hand and a knife strong enough to slash my tires in the other.

It might just as easily have fallen off last summer, I
reminded myself. Or it might have blown into the thin strip of grass overnight, from several houses down the block. I was realizing more and more how difficult it was to be a detective, how personal stress might influence “guesses,” and how far off one could be.

Dangling at the end of the strap were three doodads, in Aunt Tess parlance. It occurred to me how often I lapsed into her figures of speech and weird jargon. We'd spent a lot of time together in her last days—making me wish I'd come back to be with her long before she was near the end—and I'd picked up some ancient expressions. Maybe hanging on to them was keeping her close.

I'd resisted acquiring doodads, or whatever they were called now, though even my classiest friend, Linda, had a couple hanging from her tote. One I was tempted to emulate was a small photo of her standing in front of the first post office where she worked. The photo was encased in clear plastic, the office identified on the back.

“Post office memorabilia don't count as doodads,” she'd advised me.

The set of objects I inspected now comprised a flashlight that was not much bigger than my thumb; a pair of miniature neon green flip-flops; and a small key, not for a life-sized door, but something that might symbolize the key to one's heart. No identifying marks that I could see.

The gloomy weather had settled in my body and I quit my search. I took the strap and my heavy heart to my front steps and waited for help. If things continued this way, I'd have to buy a chair for my tiny front porch. Maybe Ashcot's Attic had an appropriate one.

*   *   *

“Might be some kind of personal message,” Officer Ross Little said, articulating my worst fear. He looked at my face and tried to smooth things over. “Not personal like you. I mean, personal as in, they wanted to aggravate some person. But not necessarily you.”

Strangely, I knew what he meant, and it did make me feel a little better.

Ross walked around my car as I had, stooping now and then, writing in a notepad, then slapping the pad against his hand. Thinking.

“I wasn't sure I should bother you with this,” I told him.

“No, no, you did the right thing, Cassie. Someone will be coming by here to see if there are any prints or anything we can use. We'd like to go over the whole car, just in case.”

“Sure.” I handed him my keys.

In case what? My car was rigged to explode? I pulled my scarf up around my neck, above the collar of my parka. The temperature seemed to be dropping by the minute.

“You don't have to stay,” Ross said. I have everything I need from your statement, and I can call the auto shop for you when I'm done. Can you get a ride to work?”

Ross seemed genuinely concerned about me, possibly from having seen me carless, stranded, for the second time this week. “Sure,” I said again, though I was far from it. With all the interactions of the week, was I any closer to being able to pick up the phone and find someone who'd drive me to work? Maybe a little.

I almost hated to leave before Ross did another search.
What if I missed something important? But I knew I should get to work and let the police take care of my problem. Unlike murder, car vandalism was probably a specialty of the house. Like rabid skunks. I almost felt bad that I'd blamed last night's clatter on an innocent animal.

I pulled out my cell phone. Quinn and Ben were the only ones I knew who would be willing to chauffeur me. Did I want Ross to know what my relationship was with Quinn? Worse, for him to speculate and come up with something it wasn't? I hated to bother Ben, who was not a morning guy. He'd claimed he'd never have retired if he could open at ten or eleven every day.

But Ross already knew Quinn and I were connected in some way from all the events of the week, including prison visits, so to speak. In for a penny, I thought, and dialed Quinn.

*   *   *

Quinn took his own tour around my sagging Jeep, keeping his impressions to himself. He and Ross said barely more than “good morning” and we took off. True to his driving policy, he kept to the speed limit. As far as his meticulously full stops at the
STOP
signs, all of my Boston friends would have been disgusted with him.

“Stop signs are only a suggestion,” I'd heard from more than one of my city colleagues.

I reached into my purse for a mint and pulled out a long, thin piece of canvas with doodads on the end.

“Oops. I forgot to hand this over to Ross.”

Quinn turned to look at what I was holding, still with both
hands on the wheel as we drove on an open road. It was as if he were saying, “See how I'm obeying the law, Officer. My hands are at ten and two o'clock.”

“I found this in the grass between my house and the one next door on the left. It's probably nothing but trash,” I explained.

“You never know. Leave it in the cup holder. I'll take it to Ross.”

“Thanks.” I had an “I'm glad I met you” moment. I was in a mood to take what I could get by way of friendship.

“I don't suppose you have a clue how this happened? All four of your tires?” Quinn said.

“I wish I knew. I heard some noise last night before I fell asleep but I don't think it came from out front. I was sure it was from the side or out back.”

“That could have been the getaway route. Are there trash containers back there that he might have knocked over?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think it's someone who knows you're investigating Wendell's murder? Are you getting too close?”

“I'm not investigating. And I'm not close at all.”

We both laughed at the internal contradiction. “Reminds me of that lawyer joke,” Quinn said. “The defense lawyer says, ‘My client is innocent of letting his dog loose, and if he did let it loose, it was of grave necessity, and my client may not have a dog.' Something like that.”

I laughed. “I know the one you mean.”

“Seriously, Cassie. You're seen with me, with Wendell's sister, with the chief of police. Someone could misinterpret your role in all of this.”

“And how would four flat tires stop me?”

Quinn shrugged. “What if the killer thinks you're on to him or closing in, and wants to scare you away?”

“It's scaring me all right.”

“Enough so you really will stop thinking about it, stop trying to help the police department, stop trying to work on closure for Wanda, and maybe for yourself?”

“It's just tires,” I said.

*   *   *

Even with Quinn's overly careful driving, I made it to the post office in time to raise the flag, stuff the PO boxes, and open the doors to the retail counter by nine o'clock. To my surprise, none of my customers mentioned either my slashed tires or the fact that I'd been dropped off by Quinn Martindale. I decided the key to maintaining privacy in North Ashcot was to arrange for all embarrassing or confidential moments to occur early in the morning.

A highlight was a visit from a young llama. His keeper, an old-timer who lived in South Ashcot, learned from Carolyn and George Raley that the North Ashcot Post Office had an animal-friendly scale. He introduced himself as Vic, and his llama as Llarry—with two L's, he explained. He raised the animals and shipped the wool around the world. From now on, he told me, all his mailing business would be conducted in my establishment. South Ashcot had lost his considerable business.

When my first break in the line came around ten-thirty, I thought I was doomed to lunch by myself. None of my potential dates had made an effort to schedule. My relief was short-lived when I checked my cell phone messages.
Derek Hathaway's secretary had called to ask me to please meet him at Betty's at twelve. I wavered between ignoring the request, which left no room for confirmation (didn't everyone know I couldn't leave my post until noon?) and taking a chance on learning what, if anything, had been going on between Wendell and Derek. I told myself it was a simple way to follow up on Wanda's tip that Derek was a new presence in her late brother's life.

While the office was quiet for a while, I pulled a white tub from a shelf—a container of what we called “unattached items.” I'd already weeded out obvious trash, like coffee cups and crumpled paper napkins that had been dumped in the collection box, but it always amazed me how personal belongings ended up there. Teddy bears were a constant presence, as were CDs, books, and packages of cookies for Santa. Some of the items in the tub were incoming; that is, they'd arrived at the North Ashcot Post Office separated from their packaging. Others had simply been dropped into our collection box, accidentally or on purpose.

“Or maybe they're meant as gifts to postal workers,” Linda had said more than once in our Boston office, as she was sorely tempted to confiscate a lovely silk scarf or a bestseller she'd been wanting to read. “Too bad it's against the law to give us presents.”

Once in a while Ben or I could identify and return an item, like a child's sweater with a label sewn in, or the red sneaker with running lights that we'd seen on Mrs. Hagan's granddaughter. Today I pulled out several items of clothing and a small camera—maybe deliberately discarded in favor of cell phone apps? I had some discretion as to how to dispose of such objects, but, for the most part, I took a conservative
route. If neither Ben nor I had a hope of determining the owner, they'd be sent to the mail recovery center, where they would eventually be discarded or auctioned off.

I was fingering what looked like a computer part when the phone rang. Derek Hathaway's secretary canceling our lunch? No such luck. Officer Ross Little, instead, letting me know that my car had been towed to the auto shop.

“Sorry they can't give you an exact quote on how long it will take to replace the tires. They suggested that they look for other damage also, that might not be visible. I told them okay. You good with that?”