Olive and Let Die (9 page)

My curiosity got the better of me. “Did you two talk
about anything while she was getting inked?” My thoughts shot back to Lieutenant Hawthorne. I was in for another lecture if he found out about this. The argument between Spiro and Sophie was still going strong in the other room.

“Let's see.” Inky's brows drew up in concentration. “She came in, said it was her first tat and she wasn't sure what she wanted. She wasn't wearing her lunch lady uniform, but it was about two o'clock on a weekday so I figured she'd come straight from school. She smelled like turkey and gravy, and I got a little hungry.”

Not surprising. Inky was always hungry. He clearly had a lightning-fast metabolism and/or worked out a lot—probably both—because his lean frame didn't seem to carry an ounce of extra fat.
Jealousy doesn't become you, Georgiana Gertrude
, I admonished myself, and took another bite of my pie. “Go on,” I prompted. “What else happened?”

“Well, she looked through my design books. There was no one else in the shop, so I sat down with her to flip through the pages. The scent of turkey was strong—like an entity floating around the room! Finally, she let out a huge laugh. She had one of those dry, wheezy kinds of laughs like she'd smoked for years then given it up. ‘That's the one,' she said, and pointed to a picture.” He paused for dramatic effect.

I took the cue. “And? What did she pick?” I found myself caught up in the story.

He leaned back against the counter. “A stylized dollar sign.” He smiled and a dimple appeared in his lean left cheek and the snake that was inked up onto his shaved scalp twitched with the movement. “Which she wanted me to put right around her belly button. Then she changed her mind
and put it on her arm so more people would see it.” Inky reached over with a tanned hand and broke a piece of crust off my pie and popped it into his mouth. “Wow, this is good. Spiro wasn't kidding.”

“I'll find you a cook,” I said absently. My mind was racing. Why would a sixty-year-old cafeteria worker suddenly decide to get her first tattoo? And why a dollar sign? That seemed an odd choice. Of course, I had no idea what Doreen's financial situation had been, but she couldn't have made much more than minimum wage at the school. She lived outside of town at the family farm (I winced. That was my family farm too, even though I'd never been there), so her taxes were probably low, but it would cost an arm and a leg in the winter to heat an old farmhouse. “Did she end up getting the tat? Did she say anything else?”

Inky continued to eye my breakfast, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, presumably to keep from picking anything more off my plate. I walked to the cooler, pulled out the last piece of pie, and handed it to him with a fork, regretfully. He forked up some berries, then looked at me. “Where's the whipped cream? She said she was going to come into a pile of money in a few months, then retire. She was celebrating early.”

Interesting. My thoughts turned again to the jewels and the priceless table I'd found upstairs. Had Doreen thought she was somehow entitled to some of that money through her heretofore unknown relationship with me? Had she been planning to blackmail me perhaps? I tried not to snort. My life so far had hardly been interesting enough to engender blackmail. Sure, my husband preferred men, but that was
out in the open. I'd thought long ago about having an affair, but that had been short-lived. I couldn't reconcile being the mother of a junior high school kid and being involved in a secret affair simultaneously, so I'd ended it almost as quickly as it had begun, choosing to be able to look my daughter in the eye at the dinner table over potential sex with somebody I didn't love. I'd liked the guy, and he'd liked me, but the fireworks were noticeably absent.

“Did she say where the money was coming from?” Another thought struck me. Maybe it wasn't me she'd been planning to blackmail. Maybe it was Melanie. In fact, maybe she'd already made her demands on Melanie and that was why my long-lost mother had decided to reappear in Bonaparte Bay. To try to stop her. What if Melanie had agreed to meet Doreen, and it had gotten physical? What if Melanie snapped and strangled Doreen in an effort to silence her, then showed up here at the Bonaparte House as if nothing had happened? A cold lump formed and twisted in the pit of my stomach.

“Georgie?” Inky's voice brought me out of my thoughts. “You okay, honey? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

I shook my head to clear it. “Uh, yeah. Just remembering finding Doreen, that's all.”

“Such nastiness. And she wasted all that money on a tat that she barely got to enjoy.” He finished off the pie and set the plate in the big stainless steel sink. “You know what else is a piece of nastiness? We got a shipment of stuff in from the restaurant supply house in Watertown, you know, dishes, silverware, utensils? Well when Spiro and I went to put everything away, the roll of plastic wrap had been opened and almost half of it was gone.”

I sucked in a breath. Doreen had been strangled with a rope made from braided plastic wrap. I studied Inky's face. He wouldn't have seen the murder weapon that night because it was too dark. He didn't seem to have made the connection between his missing wrap and Doreen's death, which was obvious, so it was clear he had not heard what the murder weapon was.

“And not only that,” he continued. “But the key we keep under the back mat was missing too.”

NINE

A crash sounded from the dining room. Inky vaulted around the counter and raced in the direction of the noise. I followed, not quite as nimbly. When we arrived, Sophie's face was nearly as red as her hair, and her hands were fisted on her bony hips. Spiro lay sprawled on the floor, a chair lying next to him on its side. He got up, sputtering. I looked from Sophie to her son. I had a new respect for her. There had been times when I had also wanted to knock the seat out from under him.

“Oh, quit looking at me like that, Georgie,” Spiro spluttered. “She didn't do this. I was tipped too far back in the chair and I lost my balance.” He got to his feet and righted the chair. “Come on, Inky. Let's go. We've got work to do.” He turned to his mother and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I'll see you later, Mana.
Signomi.
Sorry.”

Sophie nodded. “Bye.” Just like that, their argument was over.

Inky took Spiro by the arm and they started for the kitchen.

“Inky?” He turned back toward me. “Uh, that roll of plastic wrap? You can't use that now, but don't throw it away. In fact, don't touch it . . . in case it's contaminated with something.” Spiro, my germaphobe almost-ex, shuddered. There was no way he would touch it now. “I'll come over and pick it up in a few minutes.”

Inky's eyes held a question, but he nodded. “Door's open anytime.” They left.

Sophie smiled, triumphant. “We gonna keep Dolly,” she said.

I smiled back. “I never had any doubt.” Sophie had won. She always did.

“What do you have planned today?” I hoped she didn't want me to entertain her. Not that I minded spending time with her, but I had to give my statement to the police, then I was scheduled to go back to Gladys's to help with boxing up the artifacts. Oh, and I needed to talk to my bio-mom.

Sophie stared at me. I held my ground, managing not to squirm. She let me off the hook. “Marina is starting to pack up her house today. I'm gonna help. Then we got our bus trip.”

The Turning Stone Casino would never be the same. “When does she go back to Greece?”

“Next week. She's got a hot date over there—Dimitrios Papadopoulos. He been waiting for her to come back.”

“I have some errands to run today. I probably won't be back until dinnertime or later.”

She stared at me again, most likely waiting for me to tell her what those errands were. When I didn't oblige, she said, “I'll eat with Marina. We gotta clean out her fridge.”

“Do you need a ride?” Sophie could drive, but preferred not to. And Bonaparte Bay was always safer if she didn't get behind the wheel of her enormous Lincoln.

“No, I'll have Spiro drive me, or maybe that Inky guy. You go on.” She headed toward the spiral staircase that led to our living quarters upstairs, then turned back. “Stay out of trouble.”

I smiled. “I'll try.”

*   *   *

I dialed Melanie's
number. The phone rang, then made a little beep and rang again.

“Caitlyn Black.” The voice had a slight edge to it, as though she were keyed up. I guess I'd be keyed up if I had to put up with a diva like Melanie. If Melanie really were in financial trouble, I hoped Caitlyn was still getting paid because she deserved every penny she made.

“Hi, Caitlyn, it's Georgie. Is Melanie there? I've had an invitation to lunch at one of the big houses and you two are invited to join us.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “She's having her American ginseng infusion bath right now, then she's scheduled for a massage. Let me check with her.” Music began to play, the schmaltzy orchestral theme song from
The Desperate and the Defiant
, when she put me on hold. She came back on the line a moment later.

“Melanie says she doesn't feel like it. Just between us, she's been in a bit of a state since we got here. She's upset about her cousin.”

I'm sure she is
, I thought. But was she upset because Doreen was dead? Or because Doreen was dead and Melanie had somehow caused her death? No, until I had some kind of proof, I had to believe my mother was not a cold-blooded killer. Could I get more information out of Caitlyn? Only one way to find out.

“So,” I began. “We haven't really had a chance to talk. What brings you two to Bonaparte Bay after Melanie's long absence?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Caitlyn was all business when she responded. “I go where Melanie goes. She doesn't always confide in me. And I don't expect her to.”

Well, drat. Melanie had found herself a discreet assistant. I was disappointed at not learning more, but I had to admire Caitlyn's professionalism.

“If you change your mind about going to lunch, call me. It's at one of the big Victorians and the house is spectacular. I'm sure Melanie would like to see it.”

“Hold on, she's yelling for me.” The soap opera orchestra played again, then Caitlyn came back on the line. “She wants to know whose house it is. Whether it's somebody famous.”

Why wasn't I surprised? “No, nobody famous. A kind woman named Gladys Montgomery.”

Caitlyn didn't bother to put me on hold this time as she repeated the name to Melanie. I heard a faint splashing noise, then an emphatic “No.”

“She says no.”

“I heard her. All right. Why don't you schedule her to
come over to the mainland tomorrow? She needs to go check on that bracelet she's having made and we need to plan Doreen's funeral.”
And I need to talk to her
, I thought.

“I'll see what I can do,” she said, and clicked off.

The call had barely ended when the back doorbell rang. I shoved the phone into the pocket of my jeans and opened the door, just in time to see a brown uniform walking back to a matching brown delivery truck. A package lay at my feet. The return address revealed that it was a shipment from the independent bookstore in Vermont that I liked so much, but rarely got to. I checked the mailbox and the day's post had been delivered, so I picked that up too and went inside to deposit everything on my desk. I thumbed through the mail. An envelope made of thick creamy paper was at the bottom of the stack. The return address,
MacNamara and MacNamara
, was embossed in pretentious black cursive letters.

If my divorce lawyer spent a little less on stationery, he wouldn't have to charge me a couple hundred bucks an hour. I had to sell a lot of baklava to afford James Benjamin MacNamara Jr. I'd have to sell twice as many to afford his father.

I tore open the envelope.
Dear Ms. Nikolopatos. Please make an appointment to come to our offices and sign paperwork pertaining to your legal matters. Sincerely, James Benjamin MacNamara Jr.

Really? A tree had to give its life when JB Jr.'s assistant, Lydia Ames, could have just picked up the phone and called me? Or maybe this paper was made of cotton, not wood. Whatever. The law firm billed in six-minute increments, so this was costing me at least twenty desserts.

I tossed everything on my desk, then picked up my purse and headed out the door.

First stop, Spinky's.

The back door was unlocked as I entered the kitchen. Construction debris littered the black-and-white-tiled floor, and boxes were stacked high around the perimeter of the room. Noises like furniture being moved came from the front of the house, so I assumed Spiro and Inky had workers in rearranging the booths they'd just had reupholstered in cherry red vinyl. I was tempted to go in and take a look to see how they'd come out, but I was running behind as it was.

I scanned the room. There was the big industrial-sized roll of plastic wrap, sitting in its box on the prep counter. The lid was open. The roll inside looked to be about half full, maybe a little more. My initial thought had been to bag this up, without touching it directly, and take it with me to my meeting with the state troopers. Now, I realized that wasn't a good idea. Kind of stupid, really. I didn't want to contaminate any evidence, or smudge any fingerprints that might be on it. But I didn't want anyone here touching it either. I wondered if it had already been moved.

I pulled a piece of paper out of my purse and scribbled a quick note:
Don't touch.
Then I draped the clean trashbag I'd brought with me over the box, and left the note on top. I wondered if the police had investigated inside or only the outside crime scene.

An hour later I'd given my statement. The detective—not Lieutenant Hawthorne—was nonplussed about the plastic wrap, but I saw him jotting something down in a small
spiral-bound notebook. I told him where they could find Melanie, and that she'd be in town tomorrow night.

I dropped my car at the Bonaparte House, then sat on a bench on the dock to wait for Jack while I reviewed my mental to-do list. I had just ended a call with Clive at the funeral home, arranging a meeting tomorrow to discuss the details, when Jack pulled up.

His movie-star good looks gave me a little thrill. “Hello there, gorgeous,” he said, offering me a hand. “Let's head out to Gladys's place. I need to get this project done today so I can deliver everything to Trish this weekend.”

“And I need to get back to the Bonaparte House this afternoon so I can start the prep work for the weekend. Moussaka waits for no one.”

He smiled. “But would you wait for me?”

What did that mean? “Wait for what?”

His face was inscrutable and there was a firm set to his jaw. “Oh, wait for me to kiss you once we get out of town and out on the water.”

Somehow, I didn't think that was what he really meant.

Twenty minutes later, and after some kissing that lived up to its promise, we had pulled up at Gladys's dock. We unloaded the extra plastic boxes Jack had bought and Gladys directed us to put them in the library.

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, you two,” Gladys said. She brushed a bit of flour off her apron, which was light blue with a pattern of red hearts. “Lunch will be ready in about an hour, so go ahead and get started and I'll call you for a break.” She set a silver tray containing a crystal pitcher and glasses on the table. “Help yourself to
lemonade while you work. I made it fresh this morning.” My mouth puckered. Real lemonade was such a treat. And it was oddly touching that Gladys had brought out the good crystal just for us. Although at her age, why not use the good stuff all the time?

Jack dropped a light kiss on the top of her head and managed not to mess up any of her white curls, which looked freshly set. A light scent of White Shoulders wafted toward me. Still a lovely perfume—old-fashioned and feminine. I never wore it myself, but I appreciated it on other people.

“Off you go,” Jack said. “Leave this to us.” Gladys retreated to the kitchen and my stomach growled as I wondered what manner of scrumptiousness she was preparing.

In the library, Jack opened the boxes and inserted the plastic dividers. I poured us two tall glasses of lemonade, making sure each glass had a slice of lemon and lots of ice, then set to work cutting bubble wrap and cotton batting into assorted-size pieces. When I had a pile, we donned gloves so the oil from our skin wouldn't alter the artifacts. Jack handed me an arrowhead, which I carefully wrapped and handed back to him. He placed the hand-numbered card from the display case, yellowed with age, into one of the compartments of the box, then took the wrapped piece from me and placed it atop the card.

We work well together
, I thought as we developed a rhythm and made good time filling up the first box. Jack snapped on the lid and we moved on. I couldn't ever remember sharing a project with Spiro in the twenty years we were married, so the sensation was new. And I liked it.

It didn't take long for us to empty the first two display
cases. I stood up and stretched, then rolled my head side to side to stretch out my neck muscles.

“That wasn't so bad, was it? One more case to go, then we're done.”

Before I could answer, Gladys appeared in the doorway. She'd removed her apron to reveal a pair of nicely tailored charcoal trousers and a sweater twin set in a lovely shade of orchid that made her bright blue eyes stand out even more. On her feet she wore pristine white tennis shoes, the same brand that Sophie wore if I wasn't mistaken. The effect was charming. Style and comfort. “Lunch is on the table.”