Death Takes Priority (15 page)

“Let's start from the top of this list,” I said, hoping Wanda would let the answer to the Scott/Quinn question slide. I wished I'd cleared up with Quinn just how long he wanted to stay under the cover of Scott James.

I wondered what the question marks meant, next to his name and Tim's. Maybe Tim also had a fake name. Or maybe Tim was his fake name. “I'm sure I've never come across Chase or Phillips,” I said. By which I meant they did not use the services of the North Ashcot Post Office.

“Barry Chase owns the barbershop in South Ashcot, I think. Wendell preferred him to the guy in town. But I think he's retired now. I don't know who Margaret Phillips is. We can check her out. Everyone has a website these days.”

Except me, unless you counted the main site for the whole postal system, in which case I'm one of the statistics.

Wanda pulled out her laptop and searched for Margaret Phillips. “That was easy,” she said, after only a few clicks. “I assumed she was in South Ashcot since neither of us knows her and Barry is from there. She's the librarian in South Ashcot.”

“What do you suppose the ‘lines' are that Derek mentions?” I asked.

“The first thing that comes to mind is clothing lines or lines of merchandise, but since this message is to my brother, it must mean telephone lines.”

“I agree, but surely Derek wasn't ordering telephone lines for these people.”

“Maybe he's informing Wendell that these are opportunities for new customers? Tim is in the middle of building his house, so that might make sense.”

“But it doesn't tell us why Derek would be involved. That has to mean something.” I didn't tell her that I had no good reason for saying that. “Then there's the matter of—why copy one town official and not all of them? We have to figure out how Wendell, Gert, and Derek are connected.”

“How shall we proceed?” Wanda asked, as if I were the chief investigator of a team of two. I couldn't blame her. I was certainly acting that way.

“I'll talk to Scott and see if he knows what this is all about,” I said, careful not to out Quinn without his permission, though my good friend and ex-postmaster Ben Gentry hadn't needed my help to figure it out.

“I can swing by the barbershop. They'll know how to contact Barry Chase. And since I'll be in South Ashcot, I can stop at the library, too, and try to catch this Margaret Phillips. Maybe you can stop and chat with Tim Cousins. We'll meet and compare notes afterwards. Then we'll decide when and how to confront our elected official.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said. “How about asking the chief of police if we can take a cruiser on our rounds.”

“Yeah, and maybe she can deputize us,” Wanda said.

At first I thought she was just kidding.

W
hatever Wanda's assignment for me was, I knew I'd be starting with the question-marked Scott James/Quinn Martindale. As soon as my partner-in-crime-solving left the coffee shop, which was now filling up with patrons willing to define lunch as coffee and a scone, I called Quinn and asked him to meet me there.

I felt guilty as I planned to do what I criticized in others—taking up a table and a seat and soaking up Wi-Fi for a long time, on the financial strength of one cup of coffee. To assuage my conscience, I returned to the counter and ordered a cappuccino, a muffin, and a parfait glass with fruit and yogurt. Now that I thought of it, there was nothing wrong with calling that lunch.

Quinn arrived in record time. The sign of a bored man. “How come you're not at work?” he asked me. “If I knew you had the day off—”

“I don't have the whole day. Ben needed something to do this morning.”

“Man, I get that. If I don't go back to work soon, I'll go nuts.”

The barista, a fashionably bald young man with chiseled chin hair, called out, “Small macchiato for Scott.” Quinn responded quickly and picked up his drink. I thought it impressive that he was comfortable with both names, but I couldn't decide whether it was good or bad that he traveled back and forth so easily.

“You said you wanted to show me something?” he said when he returned to the table.

Wanda had thoughtfully printed out a copy of the e-mail for me; I placed it on the table, facing Quinn, and pointed to the sender. “First, it looks like Derek knew both your names.”

“We were already aware that Wendell knew them.” He took a sip of coffee, then a deep breath. “That's what got me messed up with the police, remember? That paper he was carrying with both names.” I nodded. Of course I remembered that. “So maybe Wendell told Derek,” Quinn added.

“Or the other way around.” I tapped the e-mail, hitting the date this time. “This dates back a few days before Wendell was shot. It looks more like it was Derek who found you out, however he did it, and then told Wendell that you were a good ‘opportunity' as it says, for a new line.”

“So Derek is feeding Wendell new customer information? That doesn't make any sense.”

I'd been hoping he, or someone, would see the “sense” that I couldn't see. I sat back, defeated. Why would Derek
bother with something so mundane as someone's telephone line? The kickback potential was nonexistent. Still, something wasn't right with Derek. “I don't know what Derek is up to, but he seems to have intimate knowledge of all that goes on in this town, and I can't believe he has nothing to do with Wendell's murder.”

“He doesn't even live here,” Quinn reminded me.

“It doesn't seem to matter. I think his vested interests are still here.” I cleared my throat, ready for a new topic. “Who knows your birth name, Quinn? Wanda? Your boss? I'd just like to know when I can use it.”

“I understand, and I apologize. I shouldn't have dragged you in. You didn't ask to be involved in my crazy life.”

I hadn't meant to come off so whiny. “I'm not asking to be excused.”

“And I can't thank you enough for that, even though I have no right to ask you to stick with me.” He smiled and put his hand on mine. I caught a look that I trusted. “At this point, I have no way of knowing who can ID me as Quinn Martindale. I haven't told anyone, not even my boss. I'm sure Derek found out by logging into the same resources I used to get a new name in the first place. The only question is why he looked into me.”

“And what he's going to do with the information,” I added. I told Quinn the plan Wanda and I had worked out, to talk to Tim Cousins, plus the two people in South Ashcot who were listed in the e-mail, and Gert Corbin, who was copied on it.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Around us was the aroma of the best coffee in town, outside of the police station, plus the sounds of chatter, the clacking of keyboards,
the hissing of the espresso machine, and background tunes from the nineties.

“I don't like it,” he said.

I figured he meant the music, which I wasn't crazy about either. “It was not a good decade for music,” I said.

“I'm not talking about the music.” He put his hand on the much-examined copy of the e-mail. “I'm talking about this. I don't like any of it. It's dangerous. I don't like the idea of you pursuing it.”

“Think of what it will mean to you if we find Wendell's killer.”

He shook his head, releasing the usual wayward lock of hair. “It's not worth it. We have a man murdered; when you start looking into it with any seriousness, you're going to meet more than just Boy Scouts. You've already had a taste of what could happen, with your tires.”

I tried to wave off the tire incident. “If you're trying to scare me—”

“I am,” he said. “But I have a feeling you don't scare easily. I just wish I could help.”

“I don't think so. It's still important that you not raise your profile around here.”

“I'm hoping that won't be the case for much longer.”

“Is there news about your mother?” I thought of the peacock blue letter, the contents of which I still knew nothing about, except a vague “it might help.”

He hesitated, started to say something, then stopped. “Nothing I can share just yet.”

“That's not comforting to me.”

“I know, and I'm sorry. But I wish you would please think about putting an end to your part in this investigation—”

“Please don't use that word,” I said. I looked around, surprised not to see my friend, the chief of police, standing over me, arms akimbo, as she had appeared in my mind, throughout my conversation with Wanda and now with Quinn.

“You're making it very hard for me,” he whispered.

“Likewise,” I managed.

*   *   *

Home, changing into blues, I thought how much more stressful my so-called free morning was. The activities and interactions had taken more out of me than a normal day of work. I couldn't wait to get back to selling stamps and the satisfaction of moving someone's precious cargo on to the next step in its journey. A small birthday wish from North Ashcot to a big city in Texas, a large box marked for delivery to a town as small as ours, in upstate New York. All important, and all seemed no trouble at all compared to my current personal to-do list.

To keep Ben happy, however, I still needed to stay away from the office for a couple of hours. I puttered around my house, getting caught up on chores. I hung a print that Linda had sent weeks ago, of Boston Common at twilight, in the snow, and straightened out piles of magazines and assorted bills and paperwork. In one of those piles, I came across the literature thrust at me by Coach and Selectwoman Gert, about the proposed betting parlor. I'd meant to toss the two brochures at work, but must have inadvertently stuffed them into my briefcase. Now I talked myself into perusing them, in deference to my duty as a voter.

I settled on my couch and opened the “pro” brochure I'd
gotten from Coach. I'd finally learned from one of my chatty customers that the man had been coaching football at Ashcot High for years. The one high school that served students from both North and South Ashcot was physically located in South Ashcot, which would explain why Coach wasn't familiar to me.

His side of the argument was very persuasive. The trifold pictured a beautifully furnished setting, resembling what might have passed for a gentleman's club years ago, but showing an equal number of females in attendance. It was hard to tell for sure, but it seemed the establishment on the page wasn't an artist's sketch, but a real facility, located on fairgrounds in California. The prose was intended to entice those looking for opportunities to place bets while watching international horse-racing events on one of their big screens or seated in front of an individual monitor.

I read through the hard sell.
Do you enjoy fine dining? Our pleasure to serve you, either at a casual café environment or an upscale restaurant. Don't know which race is which? Click here for a list, from all over the world. Need help with the jargon? Here's a glossary of terms.
I ran my finger down a list of words that were familiar, like “filly,” a female horse under the age of five, and unfamiliar, like “stewards,” who were the officials designated to uphold the rules of racing at the track and accountable to the state's racing commission. A “pick six”? Bet the horses that come in first in six consecutive races. Six times more difficult? I couldn't be sure.

I faded out at the math, just after learning that a furlong was one eighth of a mile, originally the length of a plowed field.

On the “con” side was Selectwoman Gert's brochure, much less colorful, without the support of big money, I guessed. The cover photo was a long shot of an area of an unnamed town with unsavory characters milling around, and undesirable features like trash in the streets and graffiti on the storefronts. Bullet points gave facts and figures on the increased crime rate reported in every city that had established such a parlor. References were sorely lacking.

If I had no other sense, and voted on the basis of who had presented the more appealing case, I'd find myself voting to rush the betting parlor initiative through for North Ashcot.

A knock on the door stopped me before I rashly signed a petition welcoming the parlor into our little town. Skittish from my tire incident, I peered out the front window before opening the door. Tim Cousins stood there, holding what looked like a cup in his hand.

Hardly anyone looked less threatening than the friendly, smiling architect/builder at that moment. Added to that was the fact that he was on my assignment list from Wanda: “Tim Cousins?” was a suggested new opportunity for one of Derek Hathaway's lines, whatever they were.

I opened the door.

Tim thrust out an empty measuring cup. “I wondered if I could borrow a cup of sugar?”

I gave a quizzical look, half smile, half frown, and asked, “What?”

Tim laughed. “Ha. Just trying to find an excuse to visit and this is all I could come up with.”

“Pretty sad.” I didn't reveal that he'd made my life
easier—now I wouldn't have to take the initiative to quiz him regarding the “new opportunities” memo.

“Yeah, sad, that's the truth. But you're always so busy. When I heard you had the morning off, I decided to appeal to your generous nature.” Another quizzical look from me brought further explanation. “Ben said you were off and you'd probably be home.”

I'd have to speak to Ben, who apparently thought, first, that my whereabouts should be public knowledge and, second, that I didn't get out much. Not that he was wrong about number two.

It was hard to resist a guy who'd go to all this trouble to be neighborly. It helped that today he was dressed for a business meeting. “A little formal for North Ashcot,” I remarked.

“I just drove back from Springfield. My day job, you might say.” He straightened his tie. “I decided not to change, thinking maybe it was my dirty overalls that put you off.”

I assured him it wasn't. When I offered him a cup of coffee, he nodded and seemed like a kid who'd finally been accepted for the softball team. Also the frenzy to get information from me seemed to have died down, not just from Tim, but from the townsfolk in general.

In fact, I was getting the sense that the townsfolk had already lost interest in Wendell's murder. Maybe Wanda was right, and even the police no longer gave it much attention. I saw no outward sign of an investigation, but then I had no idea what one would look like from the outside. Would I see cops poking around in trash cans? People being stopped on the street and questioned? Probably not. I wondered how I
could find out from Sunni what exactly they were doing all day, without disobeying her orders to me. Or aggravating her, as I might be if someone asked what I did all day.

“I don't have any sugar for this,” I said to Tim, handing him a full mug of coffee with an image of Faneuil Hall on it, another of my Boston memorabilia.

“I don't use sugar,” he said, in the slightly Southern accent I'd noticed at our first meeting. He turned his measuring cup upside down on my coffee table.

We were off to a good start this time. I was almost sorry I would eventually have to pump him for information.

Tim was in the mood to talk about his building project. A beautiful old white clapboard church almost directly across the street from the police station had gone up for sale a couple of years ago, and he stepped in.

“The church was only about fifteen years old but a rich parishioner decided he wanted his own legacy and donated money for a new one in South Ashcot, where he'd moved to. Must be nice, huh? You move around the state and build your own churches on the way.”

“It's your gain. You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“No question about that. I carpentered and painted my way through college and architect school; now this one is for me. I'd be glad to give you a tour sometime. There's a cool loft that I haven't figured out what to do with yet. Maybe I'll make it an office, or a playroom. Depends on my mood when I think about it.”

“If I built my own house, or turned a church into one, I'd invite the whole town to see it,” I said.

“Not a bad idea, when I'm finished. Don't ask how many more years that will take.” He picked up the betting parlor
brochure that was still laid out on my coffee table. I'd been in the process of trashing it when he knocked. “I see you're into this referendum.”

“Not really, just cleaning out some junk mail of sorts.”

Tim flipped the trifold open and closed, seeming to pay no attention to the content. Maybe he was already very familiar with it. “Do you have a strong position one way or another?” he asked.