Fillet of Murder (14 page)

“So anyway, I had this gorgeous antique clock I thought he might like—a Seth Thomas mantel clock with a double dial, walnut case. Real beauty of a timepiece, and in perfect condition. It wasn't worth anywhere near what I owed him, but I thought it might appease him temporarily.”

“But it didn't.”

“No.” Cliff's voice quaked. “I guess he was having a bad day because he smashed the clock against the wall in his office, face-first. It was so stupid of him—the clock was worth a grand. ‘You owe me cash, not clocks,' he screamed at me. The clock broke, and the face got shattered.”

Talia slipped the arrow back into her pocket. “How much did you owe Phil?”

Cliff's shoulders drooped. “Seven and a half grand.”

Not a fortune. Certainly not enough to kill over, unless Cliff had been truly desperate. Talia had the feeling that what he owed Turnbull was only the tip of an extremely fast-moving iceberg.

“Um, does anyone else know you found that?” Cliff asked in a mousy voice.

“Not yet.” Talia knew it sounded like a dangling threat, but Bea's freedom was at stake. “Cliff, I'm not trying to hurt
you. I understand your problem better than you think I do. But the bottom line here is that the police are homing in on Bea as their primary suspect. I do not intend to let her go to prison for a crime she had nothing to do with.”

Cliff chewed one side of his lip. “Are you freakin' kidding me? The cops think . . .” He looked away. “But that's just crazy.”

Talia shook her head. “They're doing their job, Cliff. Bea's the one who refused to sign Turnbull's petition, and she'd had words with him earlier that day. That makes her suspect number one on their hit parade.” That and a bunch of other things Talia had no intention of sharing. And in spite of all the people who had strong reasons to hate Phil, poor Bea was the one who'd threatened to boil him in oil on the very day someone else killed him. And in front of a witness. What kind of rotten luck was that?

All at once, Cliff got antsy. “What do you want from me? I didn't kill him either. You're wasting my time.”

Talia let her gaze wander around the disorderly shop. She was stalling, hoping he'd blurt out some useful tidbit that she could take to the police. When she saw that he wasn't biting, Talia leaned over the glass counter and said, “Cliff, do you know who might have wanted Phil dead? Have you told the police everything you know?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but I already talked to the cops.” He pointed a bony finger at her. “Now get out of here. I don't have to talk about my personal life to a
fry coo
k
.”

Talia gave him a stiff nod. “You need help, Cliff,” she said quietly. “If I were you, I'd find it before it's too late.”

With that she spun on her heel. She was almost at the door when he called out, “Wait! What are you going to do with that minute hand?”

Minute hand. He'd known perfectly well what it was.

Talia turned and graced him with a flat smile. “I haven't decided yet, Cliff. I'll let you know.”

She closed the door hard and was crossing the arcade when she realized a man was leaning against the façade of the vacant antiques store next to the Clock Shop. In his hands was an open newspaper. She hurried toward Lambert's, turning as she reached the entrance. The man had lowered the paper, just enough to reveal his face from the nose up. His stare burned through her, and a chill zipped straight down her spine.

It was the same scary guy who'd been bothering Cliff in Queenie's that morning. The same creepazoid who'd made her want to scrub her skin raw.

With a shudder, Talia plunged through the front door to Lambert's. The toe of one of her Keds caught on the tile, sending her tripping toward the nearest table. She grasped onto the back of a chair to right herself. When she looked down, she saw that her hands were shaking.

Luckily, no one was in the dining area to witness her klutzy move. She headed into the kitchen, where Whitnee was busy whipping up another batch of mushy peas.

“Figured we'd need more for the dinner rush,” Whitnee said, smiling. “We nearly ran out at lunch time.” She reached into the utensil drawer for the masher. “Are you, like, okay? Your face looks kinda red.”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Talia looked at the bottom of her sneaker and laughed. “Sometimes rubber soles are a—”

The entrance door thumped open. Talia's heart leaped in her chest, until she saw who it was.

Connie Parker again—Whitnee's mom.

The gargantuan tote was gone, replaced by a supersized
plastic purse that stuck out from under one shoulder like a shiny white tent.

Her mouth agape, Whitnee took in her mother's polyester ensemble beneath the ever-present peacoat. “Ma, what are you doing here again? You going to work on Saturdays now?”

Connie slogged toward the kitchen. “I'm workin' extra hours to make up for bein' sick the other night. And I thought you were comin' home for lunch,” she whined, waving a wrinkled brown bag at her daughter. “I even made those brownies you like with the colored candies in 'em.” Head down, Connie made a beeline for the gap between the speckled blue counter and the wall.

This time Talia was ready for her. She quickly stepped into the opening, blocking Connie's access.

“Do you mind?” Connie said rudely, jiggling the bag in Talia's face.

In spite of being half the woman's size, Talia stood her ground. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Parker, but I can't allow you into the kitchen. The state has health laws, and we have to comply with them. The kitchen is for employees only. No exceptions.” She knew she sounded ridiculously formal, but how else could she get through to this bulldozer of a woman?

Connie's jaw dropped. Her gaze shot to her daughter, then back to Talia.

“However”—Talia cleared her throat—“since it's quiet at the moment, you can visit with Whitnee for a few minutes at one of the tables in the dining area. If you'd like, I'll even prepare some fish and chips for you. It'll be my treat.”

Connie stuttered backward a few steps. “Well, I guess that'd be okay. No fish, though—just French fries, and lots of 'em. And some of that coleslaw, too.”

Whitnee slammed down the stainless-steel bowl of
partially mashed peas. “Ma, why don't you go home? Bea pays me to do a job—not to socialize, and not to have you barge in here any time you feel like it!”

Talia gave herself a mental slap. Why, oh why, had she offered the woman a free meal? Why had she interfered?

Connie blinked several times and her face reddened. “Well, little miss smart mouth, isn't that a nice way to talk to your mother. And after everythin' I've done for you.” She pointed a fat finger at her daughter. “Maybe I ought to rent out your room to someone who appreciates it. Maybe you'd like to come home some night and find a smelly boarder stinkin' up your bed.”

Talia sneaked a glance at Whitnee. The girl's eyes were closed, and her complexion had gone pasty.

“Do whatever you want,” Whitnee said through clenched teeth. She jammed the masher into the mound of peas and began crushing the pulp out of them. “I love this job and I'm not gonna risk losing it. You can rent my room out to any bum you want. I'll move in with Pug and his roommate.”

Connie's small eyes narrowed into slits. “I mighta known,” she said with a sneer. “Once you give it away the first time, it's a free-for-all, isn't it?”

“All right, Mrs. Parker, that's enough,” Talia said. “Now I will have to ask you to leave.”

Connie looked at Talia as if she were a spider on her shoe. “Don't worry, I'm goin'. But that one”—she jabbed a finger at Whitnee—“better come home with her tail between her legs, or else.”

Talia watched the woman stomp out the door and then went over to Whitnee. The girl was standing stock still, but her entire body trembled. “I'm sorry, Whitnee, I shouldn't have interfered. That was all my fault.”

Whitnee shook her head. “No, it wasn't. You were just being nice. She just, like, can't accept that I'm a grown woman. She pokes her nose into everything I do, like I'm a child.”

“I know. Some moms hate to see their kids grow up. When I first went off to UMass, my mom cried for a week.”

“She did?” Whitnee stabbed the masher into a clump of peas.

“Yup. Even more embarrassing, my dad showed up at my dorm on my third day at school with a big Tupperware container of all my favorite snacks. He was afraid I'd starve on the dorm food, which was notoriously awful.”

Whitnee sniffled. “You must have really nice folks.”

“Well, of course I rolled my eyes and pretended to be mortified,” Talia said, “but in truth, I was thrilled to see him. Plus, I scored a boatload of peanut butter cups that lasted me a month!”

Whitnee sighed. “I guess I overreacted about her showing up with those stupid brownies. She was only, like, trying to be thoughtful. 'Course now she's seriously mad at me, so I'll have to deal with that when I go home.”

Talia's heart broke for the girl. She really did seem to have a chaotic home life, and her mother clearly had a nasty bent. Talia shuddered to think what it would be like to live with a woman like that. She went over to Whitnee and touched her forearm. “Hey, look, if it gets too hairy at home, you can always give me a call. There's a pullout sofa at my nana's. You'd be more than welcome to bunk there for the night.”

“Thanks,” Whitnee choked out. “I really appreciate that.”

Whitnee went back to her pea mashing, which turned out to be cathartic. Her thin face began to relax. Soon her head was bobbing to a tune that only she could hear.

Talia peeked out at the dining area, which, fortunately, was empty. In that respect, Connie's timing had been good. No customers had been around to witness the “row,” as Bea would have called it.

When she thought about it, Talia still couldn't believe she'd confronted Connie that way. Never before had she taken so bold a stand! She'd behaved almost as if—

—as if Lambert's Fish & Chips already belonged to her. As if this were
her
culinary home away from home, not Bea and Howie's.

Chuckling to herself, Talia wondered why she'd never taken a stand like that with Chet. Why she'd let him make all the decisions, without any input from her. Even on matters that affected them equally, it never occurred to him to ask for her opinion.

She'd never forget the Thursday evening he'd made a trip to the specialty bath shop in Belmont without even asking her if she wanted to tag along. He'd returned with a set of aqua horse-themed accessories for the bathroom—towels, shower curtain, throw rug, toothbrush holder—the works. After arriving home, he'd plopped a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, dropped his purchases onto the sofa, and then asked her to wash everything so they could start enjoying their new bathroom décor right away!

Kicking Chet from her thoughts, Talia scrubbed her hands, dried them, and pulled on a fresh set of disposable gloves. She began lining up the ingredients to prepare the next batch of batter for the dinner rush. She'd checked the haddock supply after the lunch crush had ended, and they were good for the rest of the day. Lambert's was closed on Sundays, and the seafood supplier from Boston would be there early Monday morning with fresh reserves.

Talia was grateful she didn't have to work on Sunday. Much as she loved the eatery, she desperately needed a break. Rachel's play was tomorrow. Talia was eager to see the kids perform “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” at the assisted living facility.

Which reminded her of her folks. Both her mom and dad had been e-mailing and texting her frantically since the morning she'd discovered Turnbull's body.
Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it? Are the police harassing you? Do you want to sleep here
?
She'd been feeling guilty for not calling them, but sometimes their histrionics drove her over the edge. She'd put them off with reassurances that she'd be seeing them on Sunday at the play.

A sudden stab of guilt poked at her. Witnessing that horrible scene between Connie Parker and Whitnee had made her realize how blessed she was to have such loving and supportive parents. She really needed to cut her folks a little slack.

Talia measured the dry ingredients and added them to the bowl she used for preparing the fish coating. Slowly, she poured in the club soda, along with several splashes of malt vinegar. She glanced at the clock. Twenty to four, and Bea still hadn't returned. Not that Talia had expected her back that soon, but she was worried about how things were progressing.

Her thoughts traveled to Kendra as she whisked together the ingredients. In Talia's mind, that woman should be at the top of the suspect list. Had the police even considered her?

Means, motive, opportunity. Didn't the police have to prove all three?

As for means, anyone could get their hands on a fillet
knife. The gourmet shop on Park Square in Pittsfield carried all kinds of funky utensils. If Kendra wanted to frame Bea for the crime, all she had to do was buy a piece of fish at the supermarket, stab a fillet knife through it, and then use the knife to kill Phil. Easy peasy.

Motive shouldn't be hard to prove. Before Phil's demise, Kendra owned a half interest in the lighting shop. Now she owned the whole thing. The math couldn't be simpler. Plus, any number of people knew they despised each other.

Opportunity was a bit more problematic. Aaron claimed Kendra had been at her weekly spa appointment at the time Phil was murdered. According to the text from Abby, the medical examiner had estimated the time of death at anywhere between seven and nine
PM
. Was that time carved in stone?

Talia covered the batter bowl with plastic wrap and tucked it into the fridge. The spa Aaron referred to—Always You—was a well-known destination for locals and tourists alike. The only one of its kind in the area, the gray, stone monstrosity sat on a landscaped hill only a few miles outside the Wrensdale town limits. At best, it was a seven- or eight-minute ride from there to the lighting shop. Double that, and add the time it would take to confront and murder Phil . . . with careful planning and a pocketful of luck, Kendra could have pulled it off in under half an hour.