Death Takes Priority (13 page)

“I'm good with that. And thanks, Ross. I really appreciate all you did.”

“My pleasure . . . well, not a pleasure, but you know.”

I did.

*   *   *

The rest of the morning passed routinely with packaging items for the recovery center and dealing with the usual round of mailings, including two international packages that had to be rewrapped.

Sunni called just before noon, concerned. Ross had described my prework adventure.

“Who do you think did that?” she asked. I almost told her it was her job to find out, but I suspected that was my fear talking.

“Some vandals, I guess. A couple of mothers came in with their kids and told me there was no school today because of a teachers' conference.”

“A possibility.”

“Do you know of others?”

“Not specifically, but I want to reiterate my warning to you.”

I figured it would be counterproductive to pretend I didn't know what she meant. I tried not to read too much into the fact that Derek Hathaway came through the front doors at that moment.

“Oops, customers arriving,” I said. “I'll talk to you later.”

Derek walked to the counter, leaned over. “Are you ready for some Derek time?”

I nearly gagged, but managed, “I thought we were meeting at Betty's?”

“I know you don't have a car, so I came to get you.”

Color me red. Had I really forgotten that my car was in the shop? The next question was more frightening.

“How did you know?” I asked Derek.

“It's all over the news. Your Jeep was seen being towed to Marley's.” He paused and laughed. Derek's laugh was not so much light and fun as dark, bordering on mean. “Just kidding. So, are you ready?”

What were the chances Derek had slashed my tires, just so he could pick me up and take me . . . where? To the woods where Wendell had been killed? Was I being paranoid, or wiser than oh, so many victims of serial killers? I thought of a famous one who lured young women to ride with him by having one arm in a sling, looking helpless. Dozens of well-meaning girls stopped to help him and never came back.

I took a breath, came back to reality and reasonableness.

“I'm ready.”

For what? I wished I knew.

*   *   *

“We can go right in,” Derek said, bypassing the line at Betty's. “I made a reservation.” I supposed there was no point in reminding him that Betty's didn't take reservations.

Once Betty's had come into view, about a quarter of a mile down the road, I'd relaxed in Derek's luxury town car, thinking it was hardly likely that he'd kill me in this part of town. I'd wondered if Wendell Graham had gone through the same kind of reasoning.

Derek had been quiet on the short ride to the restaurant, asking only about Ben's adjustment to his new status (no problems; he's been a big help) and mine also (no problems; all is well), and whether I planned to stay in North Ashcot permanently (hard to tell).

Now we were settled at the best table in the establishment, of course, far from the din of the kitchen and the drafts from the front door. As soon as our server set down our plates with the special of the day, which Derek had preordered, Derek dug into his agenda.

“Did you happen to read that brochure on the betting club?” he asked, after a healthy bite of crab salad.

I thought back. Hadn't it been Selectwoman Gert and Coach, whoever he was, who'd given me the literature? It was possible I had that wrong. I'd gone from near-zero personal interactions last week to a record high this week. At this rate, the town would have to hire more gossipers just to take care of my news.

“I honestly haven't had a chance,” I said. “It seems the office has been busier than ever since the terrible tragedy this week.” A lame segue if I ever heard one, but it was the best I could do to introduce my own agenda.

My attempt didn't work. Derek continued on his own
train of thought. “When you examine the very reasonable arguments, I think you'll agree, it would be a very bad move to bring that kind of activity into North Ashcot. We don't want the type of person it would attract in our town.” In case I still hadn't been persuaded, he added, “Have you ever been to Las Vegas?”

“No, but it was good enough for Frank Sinatra.”

“My point exactly.”

“My mom and dad idolized him.”

Derek shrugged his shoulders. Had I really caught him? “I didn't think you lived here anymore, Derek. Are you planning to move back to North Ashcot?”

“I still care about my hometown, Cassie. As I told you, my ex-wife and daughter live here.”

“I understand you were friendly with Wendell Graham. That you two reconnected recently?”

“We saw each other now and then, yeah. It's bound to happen when you come back to a town like this. You know that, right, Cassie?”

Why did I cringe every time Derek Hathaway said my name? “His death must be hard for you. I'm sorry,” I said.

“It was quite a shock, yeah. I can't say we were close, but he was a classmate after all.”

“But you also had some business together lately, isn't that right?” I asked, all casual.

Derek sat back in the seat, puffed out his chest as far as he could. “What makes you think that?”

I buttered a piece of warm cheese bread. “Small town.”

“Why are you interested?”

“Just curious.”

“You know what they say about the curious.” He laughed, with the same unpleasant tone. “But, hey, this was supposed to be a friendly little reunion lunch.” He raised his coffee cup and motioned that I should do the same.

I turned my cup toward him. “All gone,” I said.

I
exited Derek's car and walked toward the side door of my building, collecting a few stray wrappers on the way. I'd never understood why my elegant colonial, so beautifully landscaped, flag flying high, didn't inspire people to take care of the sight and dispose of their own trash.

I replayed my lunch, asking myself several questions. Why did Derek care so much about my one vote on the betting club referendum? He'd brought it up twice more before we left.

I wanted to tell him I had no desire to encourage a betting club. It would have ended the topic, but I felt it was none of his business which way I was leaning. In fact, his and Gert's opposition might just push me the other way. I looked around in case the man named Coach, who'd accosted Gert in the post office, was around to provide some
balance. Perhaps Derek was grandstanding in case voters were listening.

A bigger question in my mind was why did Derek avoid talk of Wendell? If Wanda was telling me the truth, her brother and Derek had renewed contact and appeared to have business dealings. I wished I'd asked what kind of business a big developer and a small-town telephone company worker could have together. I doubted a guy in Derek's position would have to manage the day-to-day operations involving wires and phones.

I supposed I could give Derek the benefit of the doubt and conclude that he was grieving over Wendell's death, and it bothered him too much to talk about anything to do with his friend. Possible. But hard to swallow.

Even more puzzling was my own behavior. Hadn't I very recently received a “hands-off” warning from the chief of police and, maybe, a definite in-my-face warning in my driveway this morning? What had I been thinking, directly interrogating a very rich, very powerful man? This was not a case of mail fraud, which I knew a lot about; or of a few extra stamps here or there; or trying to stuff nonmedia items into a low-rate package. This was a murder case and I had no business even being curious.

I tried to strengthen my resolve and clear my mind of all but postal matters. I entered the building, walked to my desk, and glanced toward the front doors, where someone was waiting for me to open. I still had fifteen minutes, but an exception was called for.

Quinn Martindale stood with his back to the building, hands in his pockets, jockeying from one foot to the other, as if he were continuing a run, but more likely to keep
warm. I gathered he hadn't noticed that I'd entered through the side door. I was still expecting a fully cooked chicken dinner tonight; the least I could do was open the doors for him a little early.

“I want to show you something,” he said, once inside. He held out the piece of backpack strap I'd found by my wounded vehicle this morning. “I forgot to pass this on to Ross, so I did a little digging of my own.”

We sat on two folding chairs in the lobby. I congratulated myself on not violating the “Employees Only” rule for who was allowed behind the counter, even though his Scott James persona had already done that last weekend when he'd entered and carted my phone books away.

“You ran fingerprints on the doodads and ID'd the tire slasher?” I joked, because it would have been too depressing to be serious.

“Not quite. But getting close,” he said, surprising me. Of the three doodads that still dangled from the strap, Quinn singled out the small flashlight and held it so I could follow as he ran his finger along the edge. “It's still scratched up, but I cleaned it the best I could and now you can sort of see a logo that's a stylized tree.”

“Your restoration talents at work,” I said.

Quinn smiled. “I guess so. I was pretty sure it was swag from Take a Hike, that sporting goods store in South Ashcroft. I gave the store a call to see if I was on the right track. The guy said yeah, they did at one time give the flashlight I described to all the Scouts in the area. Sort of goodwill, a gesture of support. And promotion, of course.”

“This is amazing, Quinn. We should take it to Sunni.”

He handed me the strap and hanging doodads. “I think you should be the one to give it to her, not me.”

“But you're the one who figured it out,” I said, ready to give it back.

He shook his head. “That doesn't matter.”

“But it's a fantastic lead. Are you sure you don't want to take it to the police?” I hesitated to come right out with a reminder that he needed brownie points with the NAPD even more than I did.

“I'd just as soon they forget about me,” he said.

I put what I hoped was a useful piece of evidence in my pocket. “I understand.” Next thing I knew, I had the nerve to ask what had been a nagging question. “Who knows your real name at this point?”

“‘Who knows?' is the answer. To the best of my knowledge, only you and the cops know. I didn't even tell my boss. He's not aware of the phone book fiasco, even though he did see how upset I was that my photo was out there. He just thinks I'm shy.”

“Ben Gentry knows,” I said. “But I don't think he knows you took the phone books. He was too distracted with other things the day the books were returned to us. He's never asked how they got to the police station en route.”

“So I guess I'm still Scott James to most people. The chief said it was up to me to clarify things with the RMV, but I'm hoping not to have to hide behind that name much longer. I'm not driving with an expired license, just so you know. It's just that you're supposed to notify them if you change your name. On the other hand, it's sort of part of changing your name to notify them, so it's a circle and I'm just riding it for now.”

“I wasn't worried.” And I certainly didn't need all that explanation, but I was glad he thought he should tell me. Now, if he would just tell me what was in the undeliverable letter that I so kindly delivered. The letter with the peacock blue ink. I cleared my throat and took another direction. “Do you have any idea how Wendell knew both your names?”

“I've tried to figure that out. He did work for the telephone company. He might have seen the directory before it was out. But so what if he saw my picture? He didn't know me before I came here. What would make him take notice?”

“We may never know,” I said, wistful, not for the answer, but for the loss of Wendell.

“Maybe it will be cleared up once we know who murdered him.”

“Maybe.” I rubbed the flashlight doodad, as if it were a genie-bearing bottle. “I'll stop by the station on my way home and turn this in. I won't mention your name.”

“Much appreciated. Are we still on for dinner?”

“I'm counting on it,” I said.

I felt only a flicker of my old worry: Was I entertaining and becoming close to a murderer? To the son of a murderer? Both? Whenever the thought came up, I dismissed it more quickly each time.

*   *   *

Ben, who I now considered my savior and best friend, called around three.

“I just woke up from my after-lunch nap. I'm bored.”

Talk about an honest guy. No pretense about why he was calling. “Too bad you don't have an old job you can pop in on at any time.”

“You busy?”

“Not too many customers right now, but there are still some unattached items to deal with.”

“Plus some sweeping up?”

“Definitely some sweeping up.”

“You can plan on leaving in about a half hour.”

I blew him a kiss, thinking how good it was that he'd never know.

I called the auto shop and, as luck would have it, my car was ready. Things were looking up all around, once my Derek Hathaway lunch was over.

“No damage other than the tires, that the mechanics could see,” the secretary told me. “Too bad, though, huh?” I didn't respond. “I mean too bad it happened,” she explained.

“Yes, too bad,” I said.

“One of the guys can drive it over now, if you want.”

Apparently, the auto shop was much better staffed and equipped than the police department, with more personnel and more supplies, like extra tires. In a town like North Ashcot, where there was no public transportation except to take seniors to medical appointments, it made sense. Everyone depended on cars and pickups, so it wasn't hard to keep a decent-sized staff of mechanics on the payroll and busy full-time.

With such a low crime rate, however, what was the point of a large full-time police force? I wondered if things would be different now that a murder had entered the crime statistics. How many major crimes would it take for Sunni to get approval for more resources? At least she had better coffee than the auto shop, though that was just a guess on my part.

For now, I was happy to be getting my Jeep back.

*   *   *

Ross was on hand, as usual, to accept my piece of strap.

“I forgot to give this to you before I left this morning,” I admitted.

“Hmm. It might be nothing. Or it might be something.”

“I think it's something,” I said, and pointed out the flashlight logo. I felt like a fraud, claiming to have thought of checking, and, further, to have contacted Take a Hike. Too bad brownie points weren't transferable.

I drove away on my new tires, confident that the PD would take it from there, and headed for a stop at the market. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought there was a team following me around. This time it was Tim Cousins, our architect in residence, in the produce aisle.

“I heard about your Jeep,” he said, shaking his head. “Bad news.”

“Did Derek tell you about it? Or was it Gert?”

“Huh?” he asked.

“Never mind.”

“Probably some kids,” he suggested. “But, all four of them? That's something else. Any idea who's involved?”

“No idea,” I said. Didn't he have beams to paint? Church pews to convert to living room furniture? Incense to burn?

I wished he'd stop checking out items in my cart. Was he counting them? Would he report that I had enough veggies for two? Would everyone soon know that I was expecting company for dinner tonight?

“Do you have any news on the investigation into Wendell Graham's murder?” he asked.

“No, do you?”

He gave me a funny look, perhaps finally understanding that I'd had my tongue in my cheek during our whole conversation. As soon as he indicated that he was turning right toward Canned Goods, I turned left toward Bakery.

*   *   *

Working side by side, finding the proper utensils and cookware (me) and cooking (Quinn), was more fun than I'd had in a long time.

“Did you ever notice this?” he asked, holding out the blue-and-white pot holder with Gert Corbin's name on one side.

“Yes,” I said. “It dates back to before I got here.”

“Was your aunt a fan of the selectwoman?”

“I'm not sure. I think she kept everything that ever came into the house.”

“Or she just needed a pot holder,” Quinn said. “Have you seen this?” He'd turned the pot holder over to reveal the writing on the other side:
Endorsed by Raymond Levitt, Mayor of Albany, NY.

“Strange. Wouldn't anyone in Massachusetts endorse her?”

“I guess New York matters more in the scheme of things.”

I thought of Ben's lecture to me about how small-town North Ashcot looked askance at all things Boston. I shared Ben's city-versus-town argument with Quinn, explaining how small towns got short shrift when it came to resources.

“Good to know,” he said. “Helps me plan my next move.”

I didn't know what to make of the fact that I cared what that would be.

“Let's eat,” I said.

*   *   *

In the middle of an incredibly tasty curry chicken dinner, the phone rang. If it hadn't been Sunni Smargon, Chief of Police, I wouldn't have answered.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Sunni asked. “Never mind, I'll tell you the good first. The store was very helpful and we have the kid who slashed your tires.”

“He admits to it?”

“She.”

“A girl slashed my tires?” I wasn't proud of my leaning toward a stereotype, assuming the little criminal was male. Why couldn't a girl bend over and use a knife on my tires? Probably because we don't think of girls as being violent, but with so many real-life cases to the contrary, it was a foolish assumption.

“She admits to it. But there's something funny about her confession. That's the bad news. This is a reasonably good kid. She's an honor student, not from the richest family in town, but she's never been into vandalism before.”

“You think someone paid her to do it?”

“I'm not thinking anything at the moment. The store had a record of all the kids in town who got flashlights. Not very many. It turned out they weren't a mass distribution item, but given to certain kids who completed a project. So, right away, we have a Girl Scout, literally, and one who is smart and has good follow-through. There were only four girls on the list, and we were able to narrow it down quickly.”

“What happens now?”

“We'll be talking to her parents. I'm hoping she'll open up and tell us what's really going on. I'll keep you informed.”

Unlike with the murder case. “Thanks,” I said.

“It was a girl,” I told Quinn, sounding as if I were announcing a birth. “Which sort of surprised me.”

“Not me,” he said. “From the other gizmos hanging on the strap—flip-flops and a small key the size of a charm. Much more likely to be a girl. A boy would have a knife, maybe, but that's it.”

“Not even a little soccer ball?”

“Not unless he's five years old.”

We were a pretty good detective team, I thought.

We talked and ate and talked more. Quinn seemed more relaxed now that at least someone (the cops and I) knew his secret.

“I tried to get ahold of that lawyer, you know.”

“Edmund Morrison? The lawyer who got you out of custody.”