Fillet of Murder (23 page)

The broker looked at her blankly. “Well, it wasn't me, and I'm sure it wasn't the Rands.” She spoke as if the couple wasn't standing a foot away.

“No,” the male half of the Rands said timidly. “Neither of us touched the radio, although I did admire it from afar,” he added. “I love old radios and televisions.”

Talia's shoulders sagged. She felt bad for having sounded like such a meanie. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so testy. The radio was probably like that all along and I just didn't notice. Don't worry about it.” She offered the duo a halfhearted smile, which they appeared to accept with grace.

“We really do love the bungalow,” Mrs. Rand piped in. “We're not planning to have any children, so size-wise it fits our needs to a T.”

Talia swallowed back a sob. Strangers were going to be living in Nana's home. The thought was unbearable.

“So, shall we do one more walk-through?” the broker said, her voice more shrill with every word. “Then we can complete the Offer to Purchase and include any items we want the seller to take care of before closing.”

Talia felt her hands close into fists. She knew the broker was only doing her job, but the woman was getting way too
far under her skin. “I'll just grab something from the fridge and be out of your way,” she said.

An idea had struck her, one she'd been tossing around in the car on the way back from Belmont. This was the perfect time to follow through on it.

She snagged the container of Tina's luscious stuffing from the refrigerator and headed to Lambert's.

The scent of hot oil, fragrant and inviting, wafted through the dining area of Lambert's. In spite of the lunch hour having long passed, the aroma of fried fish and chips still lingered.

“Talia, luv! What are you doing here on your day off?” Bea toddled out from the kitchen and threw her short arms around her.

Talia set her container of stuffing down on the nearest table and shed her flared jacket. “Oh, it's been a stressful day, so I thought I'd stop by my favorite eatery and hang out with the kitchen crew.”

Bea laughed, and then her brow creased into a sad face. “Did you get all your stuff out of the condo?” she asked. “Did Chet try to convince you to come back?”

“No.” Talia drew in a calming breath. “Chet has moved
on, and so have I. I won't be seeing him again, and that suits me just fine.”

Bea waved a hand in disgust. “Well, he's a barmy idiot, giving up a girl like you. But I'm glad you won't be going back there.”

On impulse, Talia hugged her friend. “I have some news. Can we talk for a few?”

Bea's leaf-green eyes lit up. “It's quiet now and Whitnee's on break. Poor girl's having another bad day. Big row with the boyfriend last night, or so I gathered. Anyway, let's you and I have a cup of java and chat.”

“Good, because I'd like to discuss it with you privately before she gets back.”

Talia grabbed her jacket and the stuffing container, and they went into the kitchen and sat at the tiny table. Bea poured them each a mug of steaming French-roast coffee, adding a packet of raw sugar to her own.

“I've made a decision, Bea.” Talia stirred milk into her coffee and took a bracing sip. “I want to accept your offer and take over the eatery. I'm going to miss you and Howie terribly if you move down South, but I promise I will do my best to continue making this restaurant a place to be proud of. This is my second home, and I love it here. I have a lot to learn and I know I'll make mistakes, but I want to do it. I have some savings, and I'll work out the rest with you and Howie.”

“Oh, luvvy.” Tears filled Bea's eyes. “I was hoping you'd say yes. Howie is going to be so excited when I tell him.” She hopped off her chair and gave Talia a squishy hug, along with a noisy kiss on the cheek.

“Oh gosh, I feel terrible about Howie,” Talia said after Bea reclaimed her seat. “I'd planned to visit him in the hospital over the weekend, but somehow I never got there.”

Bea waved a hand. “Aw, don't worry, Tal. This news will make him so happy he'll probably do an Irish jig across the room, bum knee and all. Of course, you'll have to change the name of the place. You can't call it Lambert's any longer.”

“Oh, Bea, I don't know . . .”

“Well, I do. This is going to be your baby now,” she said, damp-eyed, “and you need to choose a name.”

“We'll see,” was all Talia would agree to. “Any news from your lawyer?”

Bea slugged back the last swig of her coffee. “No, nothing new, except that I found out the police searched the Dumpster in the alley the day we stumbled on Turnbull's body. I suppose they were hoping to find a plastic glove with his blood on it, along with my fingerprints.”

“Which, of course, they didn't,” Talia said.

“No, but my lawyer says I shouldn't be surprised if they ask for a warrant to search my house.”

“That's ridiculous,” Talia sputtered. “What do they expect to find there?”

Bea shrugged. “Bloody clothing, I suppose.”

“But the real killer would've washed the clothes! Or burned them.”

“That's true,” Bea said. “But supposedly the forensics people have ways to detect blood, even in clothes that were washed.” She shook her head. “You know what's really bugging me, Tal? It's the whitefish on the murder weapon. The thought that someone set me up to take the fall crushes me to the core.”

The whitefish had been a sticking point in Talia's mind, as well. It seemed too incriminating to be a coincidence. She explained to Bea what she'd learned about Kendra, and
how she suspected her of orchestrating Turnbull's early demise.

Bea's eyes widened. “So the witch could've purchased a fancy knife, run it through a slab of haddock, and used it to kill her ex. And all while she was
supposedly
at the spa having tummy troubles!”

Talia sighed. “That's what I'm thinking. But for some reason, the police seem to have let her off the hook.”

Bea tapped a finger on the table. “Maybe they're toying with her, letting her think she's free and clear while they build a case against her.”

Talia had never thought of that. Was it possible? Did the police play games like that with suspects?

Right now, she had to put it out of her mind. Only so many things were in her control, and police procedure wasn't one of them. Reaching for her container, she explained where she'd gotten the stuffing and proposed her idea to Bea.

“Oh, Tal, that sounds marvelous,” Bea said. “I'll get the batter.” She turned as Whitnee entered through the dining room. “Oh look, here's our Whitnee now. Hello, luv! Have a good lunch?”

Whitnee shrugged, her carrot-colored red hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. “I didn't really eat anything,” she said, moving into the kitchen. Her pale eyebrows dipped toward her nose when she saw Talia standing at the work counter. “What are you doing here? I thought you didn't work Mondays.”

Thanks for the warm welcome,
Talia was tempted to retort. Instead, she pasted on her sweetest smile. “Hey, Whit. You're just in time.”

Whitnee looped her overstuffed book bag over the door hook and draped her coat over it. “In time for what?”

“In time to taste test something. I'd love to have your opinion, and Bea's, too, of course.”

“There you go.” Bea set the bowl of batter down at Talia's elbow. She turned up the temperature on one of the fryers.

Using a sharp knife, Talia sliced Tina's stuffing into six roughly even squares. “It's been in the fridge all night, so it's still firm,” she explained. She swirled the first square through the batter and lowered it into the hot oil. She repeated the procedure with two more squares of stuffing. When the batter reached a golden hue, she raised the basket to drain them.

“Oh my, they, look scrumptious, don't they?” Bea's fingers twitched with enthusiasm.

“Yeah, and they like, smell good, too,” Whitnee commented, though a smile never touched her lips.

Talia slid the deep-fried stuffing squares onto a plate, and the three sat at the table. “Careful, now,” she cautioned. “They're very hot.”

Whitnee immediately plucked one off the plate and bit off a large chunk. “Oh my God,” she said around a mouthful of food. “This is, like, amazing. Now I'm glad I didn't eat lunch.”

Talia took a careful bite of her own square. The combo of the fried batter and the luscious herbs and cranberries nestled inside the stuffing was like a trip to the heavens on a fluffy cloud of cotton. She chewed slowly, savoring the flavor. Tina
had
to give her this recipe!

Talia glanced around the kitchen. If all went as planned, soon this would be hers. She began picturing the possibilities, ideas diving into her head like mini-parachutes.

What if she devoted a section of the menu to deep-fried desserts? Instantly she thought of peanut butter cups, her absolute favorite snack. What about deep-fried chocolate
cake? Drizzled with a light raspberry sauce, it would be positively irresistible! The possibilities were—

“Talia, this is marvelous,” Bea cried, disrupting her thoughts. She'd scarfed hers down in about thirty seconds and was eyeing the stuffing container.

Grinning, Talia battered and fried the last three squares and set them on the table.

“Weren't you supposed to, like, see your old boyfriend today?” Whitnee said, snagging another square.

In a brief recap, Talia gave her the highlights of her trip to Belmont.

“Wow,” Whitnee said. “Men really are rats, aren't they?”

“Ah, luvvy, they're not all like that,” Bea said lightly. “Look at my Howie. Why, he's the dearest man ever walked the planet!”

“Yeah, but he's, like, you know, from the olden days. Guys aren't like that anymore, Bea. At least none of the guys I've met.” She scowled at no one in particular.

Talia exchanged glances with Bea. “Is everything okay, Whitnee?”

Whitnee's pale lashes grew damp. “I thought I'd surprise Pug last night and wait for him behind the burger place when he got off from work.” She shook her head. “When I pulled around the back of the building, I saw this other car there next to Pug's. Then I saw him and this girl—they were sitting in the front seat of Pug's car, laughing and smoking and . . . and . . . he was playing with her hair.” A choked sob escaped her, and she swiped at a lone tear.

“Oh, Whitnee, I'm so sorry,” Talia said.

“Did he know you were there?” Bea asked, her kind face creased with concern.

Whitnee sniffled. “I think he might've seen me when I pulled out of the lot. I just . . . I didn't know what to do, so I tore out of there as fast as I could. I cried all the way home. It's a miracle I didn't have an accident.”

Bea patted the girl's arm. “Aw, luvvy, he doesn't deserve you, then, does he? You'll meet a nicer boy, one who will appreciate a smart and pretty girl like you.”

“That's what my mom said, but I'm not sure I believe it anymore.”

“So, things are okay with your mom?” Talia asked.

“Of course,” Whitnee said icily. “Why wouldn't they be?”

Oh, I don't know. Maybe because she's a nutcase who threatened to rent out your room to a smelly stranger?

Whitnee scraped her chair back abruptly and stood, leaving her second square of stuffing mostly untouched. She swept past Talia like a cold breeze and headed for the fridge. “We're getting low on slaw, Bea. Do you want me to shred some cabbage?”

“Exactly what I was hoping you'd say.” Bea rose and hugged the girl. “Now don't you go fretting over that bloke, luv. He's just another stepping stone on the way to Prince Charming.”

Whitnee lifted her thin shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. “Yeah, I guess so.”

With a sigh, Talia cleaned up the remains of her experiment. She hated to admit it, but Whitnee's snub had been hurtful. She made a silent vow to never again mention Whitnee's mother. She only hoped she never had to
see
her again.

Talia kissed Bea on the cheek. “I've got a few things I want to check out, but I'll see you early tomorrow. We've got lots to talk about.”

“That we do, luv.” Bea's face beamed. “That we do.”

The melodic tinkling of ceramic chimes announced Talia's arrival as she stepped inside Jepson's Pottery. To the right of the entry was the sales counter, upon which sat an old-fashioned cash register. Beyond that and to the left stretched four rows of wooden shelves set at geometrically pleasing angles. Each shelf held a stunning array of pottery pieces arranged by the hues of a rainbow. The air was scented as well, the sharp aroma of incense tickling her nose.

Jim Jepson appeared from around the corner, his gray hair captured in his ever-present ponytail. Splotches of clay dotted his red corduroy shirt, and he wiped his hands on a large cloth as he strode toward her.

“Hey, Talia.” His greeting was cordial but slightly underdone, like a biscuit removed from the oven a minute too soon.

“Hi, Jim,” Talia said. “Wow, this place is fantastic. I've never actually been in here before.”

Jepson gave her a stiff smile, the tension in his eyes unmistakable. Talia thought he might offer her a tour of the shop, but he continued scrubbing the tips of his fingers with the cloth. “So, what can I do you for? Were you looking for anything in particular?” He said it lightly, but it was clear that Talia's visit was an unwelcome intrusion.

“Actually, Jim, I'm here to talk about an unpleasant subject.”

Jepson's face tightened into a frown. “Turnbull,” he said flatly.

“Yes, Turnbull.” Now that she was here, she wasn't exactly sure how to begin. It wasn't as if she could simply ask him if he'd murdered Phil.

With a sigh, Jepson waved a hand to signal that she should follow him. “Why don't you come on back for a few while I work at the wheel? I've got a time-sensitive project, so I've been putting in a lot of extra hours.”

Talia followed him past the rows of shelves laden with finished pottery pieces. At the back of the shop he led her into a separate room that was roughly double the size of Nana's kitchen. What she assumed was a potter's wheel sat in the middle of the work area. The wheel itself looked like a flat surface centered inside a large bowl. A blob of wet, taupe-colored clay occupied the center of the wheel.

Jepson tossed his cloth onto an adjacent table that was covered with metal tools. A plastic bowl half-filled with water sat beside them. One tool in particular reminded her of a drill, and looked a tad too sharp for her liking. The image of that awful knife sticking out of Turnbull's neck
blew through her mind like a chill wind. She tugged the collar of her flared jacket more closely around her neck.

“Have a seat.” He pulled a paint-splattered chair over to one side of the wheel and then dropped onto a stool on the opposite side. “If you don't mind, I'll work while we talk. I've been commissioned to make a full set of plates, cups, and bowls as a wedding gift. The bride and groom want a unique set of pottery dinnerware, something no one else will have.”

“What a terrific idea,” Talia said, taking the chair he'd offered. She pointed at a grouping of three oversized plates that rested on a long wooden table against the wall. The plates had been painted a glossy sea green and had shallow wells in the center. “Are those the dishes?”

Jepson nodded. “Yup, but I've got a long way to go. I'm making a set of twelve.”

“I love the design, especially those slightly raised edges. I imagine they'll help keep the spills to a minimum.” She knew she was stalling, trying to figure out how to broach the subject, but she truly was impressed with his work.

“Exactly,” Jepson said. He did something with his foot, and the wheel began spinning. “When you're starting a new piece, the first thing you have to do is center the clay. Otherwise you'll lose control from the get-go and have a devil of a time getting it back.”

Arms close to his side, Jepson began working the clay. The process fascinated Talia, so much so that she forgot for a moment why she was there.

She watched silently for a few minutes and then said, “Jim, I don't know who killed Phil. I only know that Bea didn't, and she's the one the police seem to be homing in on.”

Jepson nodded slowly, but said nothing. He dipped a hand
in the water bowl, and then inserted two fingers into the top of the mound. Before Talia's eyes, the clay morphed into a shape that was either a future mug or pitcher.

“I think all the hoopla over that silly petition might have been blown out of proportion, don't you?” Talia pushed. “I mean, maybe it wasn't about the petition at all. Maybe it was about something else entirely.” She wasn't sure she believed that, but she wanted to gauge his reaction.

After a long pause Jepson said, “I don't know what to tell you, Talia. The man had his enemies.”

When Talia didn't respond, he stopped the wheel. His pinched face had a defeated look when he said, “Okay, look, I'm going to tell you a little story. When I'm through, maybe you'll understand where I'm coming from.”

Talia swallowed. “Okay.”

“Once upon a time, there was a young man with lofty ideals. This man envisioned a world where love and peace and equality would crush hatred. A world where everyone would be treated fairly and poverty would be eliminated.”

“Utopia,” Talia said.

Jepson nodded, and his eyes flared. “In a manner of speaking, yes, but when you're young and idealistic you think all things are possible. Anyway, in college this young man marched for all the right causes—civil rights, equality for women, cessation of war.” He gave her a twisted smirk. “He horrified his dour, conservative parents with his antics, but he knew what was right and he fought for it.”

Talia knew he was talking about himself, but where was this story headed?

“Then the young man met a girl, a fellow student, who shared his passion for equality and justice. This girl even burned her bra in a campus demonstration one day and got
arrested for unlawful gathering.” He flashed a smile. “They fell in lust and had a quickie marriage. Seven months later she popped out a boy—a son they named Erik.

“But then something happened to the girl. Her ideals changed. After the baby was born, she moved in with her snooty parents, who agreed to set up a trust fund for little Erik if she would abandon her wicked ways. And her new husband.”

“Erik is your son,” Talia said quietly.

Jim nodded, and his expression darkened. “A son I hardly ever saw. A son who grew up thinking the world owed him something, that he could hurt people and get away with it because granddaddy would always fix it.”

“Jim, that must have been so hard for you.”

Jepson blinked. “Fast forward to the mid-nineties. After dropping out of college, roaming the country, and getting in all sorts of trouble, Erik meets a girl and gets her pregnant. Sound familiar?”

Talia winced. “Yes.”

“Only Erik doesn't want to be saddled with a kid. So granddaddy shoves a pile of money at the mother. That way Erik can wash his hands of both of them and come out sparkling clean.”

“But that baby is your grandchild!” Talia said.

“She's my grandchild, and she was born developmentally challenged,” he said. “The mother—her name's Lara—has done a great job caring for her, but it's been tough. Even with granddaddy's dough, the child's special needs were daunting.”

“Erik didn't help out at all?”

“No, and there lies the crux of the drama. Erik refused to acknowledge the child, and Lara agreed never to reveal the
identity of the father. In return, she receives regular stipends from Erik's granddaddy, so she has no choice but to keep her lips sealed. But let's go back again. Erik straightens out and goes back to school, where he manages to earn a liberal arts degree. At his granddaddy's urging, he moves out of state—Oklahoma, of all places—to a town I'll call Nowheresville. Granddaddy has an old friend there who takes Erik under his wing, gives him a job, sees that he stays on the straight and narrow. Before long, Erik has carved out a little niche for himself. He sets up his own insurance agency and starts making lots of money. I should mention, by the way, that Erik is freakin' good-looking. He took after his mom, not his dad.” Jim grinned, revealing one graying front tooth.

Talia smiled on cue.

“So now Erik meets another girl, this time a sweet young thing named Amber. Amber's dad is a former mayor, with lots of political connections. They marry, have two darling babies, and all is rosy in Erik's world. But Erik has bigger dreams. Because of his popularity as a local business leader, he decides to run for state rep. With his father-in-law's connections, and because he's running on a ‘family values' platform in a town where flag-waving is almost a blood sport, he's a shoo-in.”

Talia shifted in her chair, wishing he would get to the point.

As if he'd read her mind, Jepson said, “Cut to another scene, good ole Wrensdale, Massachusetts. Turnbull tries to pressure me into signing a petition that, in my opinion, is elitist and discriminatory.” Jepson's gaze narrowed. “I told him precisely what he could do with his so-called petition. Even gave him some suggestions on how to fold it so it would fit properly.”

Talia stifled a smile. She wanted him to get on with the story.

“Three days later, Erik called me in a panic. He'd gotten a call from Turnbull threatening to expose the sins of his youth. Turnbull had dug into my background, found out about Erik and the child he abandoned, and was threatening to disclose it to Erik's opponent. Erik knew he'd lose the election if that happened. He'd be exposed as a liar, not to mention a deadbeat dad.”

“So essentially Phil blackmailed you,” Talia said. Suzy's words rang in her ears.
That was his weapon. He collected information about people . . .

“Exactly.” Jepson looked away, one foot jiggling nervously. “Erik was so sure no one would ever find out about his past. Turned out it was my fault. Turnbull saw a photo of me with my granddaughter on my Facebook page. She's an adult now, and lives with her mom in Maine. I visit her two or three times a year. Phil connected a few dots, made some phone calls, and tricked Lara into telling him everything.”

An uneasy feeling gripped Talia. Clutching her purse tightly, she said, “Was that your son who called the night we were all at the tea shop? I heard a voice yelling at you. He said something like ‘
you said everything would be okay, that you would take care of it
.'”

Jepson looked away, his eyes glazed. “Yes, that was Erik. And I did take care of it,” he added softly. “I did something I was loath to do, but it had to be done. For my son.”

Oh dear God, he did murder Phil. So why am I sitting here like a bubblehead, taking his confession
?

Talia tried to swallow, but the boulder in her throat wouldn't budge. Her urge to bolt was quashed by the realization that her legs had gone numb. “S . . . so you mean, you . . .”

“Yeah, I signed that lousy frickin' petition. I signed it so Phil would leave Erik alone.”

Talia let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding. All at once, the room felt hot, and she had to fight the urge to peel off her jacket. “That's . . . what you meant when you said you'd take care of it?”

“Of course. What did you think I— Oh, wait, I know what you thought.” Jepson let out a throaty guffaw. “You thought I killed the SOB, didn't you?”

Talia cringed. “No, honestly, Jim, I didn't really think that. Not until you said . . . I mean—”

“Aw, Talia, you're priceless,” he said. “No wonder you were one of my favorite students. You've got guts, girl. You always did.” He raised his fist in a show of solidarity. “You keep up the good fight, you hear?”

Talia pushed back her chair and rose. “I will, Jim. I'd better go.”

“One last thing.” Jepson's voice was sharp. He pointed a clay-mottled finger at her. “In case you're inclined to think poorly of me for violating my principles, keep one thing in mind. In this crazy world where life is fragile and no one is safe, we all protect our own.”

Talia scuttled past the shelves of pottery until she reached the exit, those last five words vibrating through her head. By the time she stumbled outside onto the cobblestone plaza, Jim's parting statement seemed to have taken an ominous tilt.

We all protect our own.

•   •   •

The sky was clear—a charcoal canvas scattered with pinpoints of light. Talia inhaled a lungful of the crisp air,
grateful to be away from that stifling room in the rear of the pottery shop. Even the chill that crept up her arms felt like cool relief.

In the window of the Clock Shop, a faint light was visible. Talia hurried across the plaza, her Keds barely making a sound against the rounded stones beneath her feet. In spite of the posted hours announcing that the shop closed at six—it was now only five twenty—the sign in the window had been turned to
CLOSED
.