by Sofie Ryan
“Fine,” I said.
On the way to the shop we talked about what we were going to do with the milk bottles. “I was thinking I’d just get Avery to come up with a way to display them,” I said. “On a table or something similar.”
“Absolutely,” Rose said. “I don’t think you need to do anything fancy. The next group of leaf peepers and those bottles will be gone.”
“You really think so?” I came to a stop at the corner and, as always, Elvis checked the traffic in both directions.
I saw her nod out of the corner of my eye. “Oh yes. Those kind of things are very popular with baby boomers.” She smiled. “You know, I remember when the milkman used to come and leave the milk just outside the kitchen door. The bottles had a little cardboard top and in the winter sometimes the milk would start to freeze and it would push the cap up. Of course the cream would be at the top so my mother would just slice that with a knife right into my father’s coffee.” She shook her head. “Good gracious! Don’t I sound like I’m a hundred years old?”
“No, you do not,” I said. Elvis meowed loudly in agreement.
Rose laughed. “I think both of you may be biased, but luckily shameless flattery works on me.”
Mac’s truck was the only other vehicle in the parking lot when we pulled in, no surprise since he lived in a small apartment on the second floor. He’d bought the old truck fairly recently from Clayton McNamara—Glenn’s uncle—when we’d decluttered the older man’s house and it had been useful, more than once, for moving big pieces of furniture to the shop.
Mac Mackenzie was my second-in-command. He had been a financial planner in Boston, but he had walked away from all of that after some major changes in his personal life. He’d come to Maine because he loved to sail—his passion was to someday build a wooden boat. Since there were eight windjammer schooners based in North Harbor and dozens of other sailing vessels, Mac got lots of chances to sail, crewing for pretty much anyone who needed him. He worked at Second Chance because he liked working with his hands. He was a talented carpenter with a mechanical bent and when he’d spent several weeks back in Boston dealing with some personal issues we’d all missed him like crazy.
Rose headed for the back door of the shop carrying her bag in one hand and Elvis in the other. I scanned the parking lot for broken bottles and any other garbage before I followed. Second Chance was housed in a redbrick building that had been built in the late 1800s. We were located on Mill Street where it curved and began to climb uphill, about a fifteen- to twenty-minute walk from the harbor and easily accessed from the highway—the best of both worlds for tourists that made up a big chunk of our customers. Gram held the mortgage on the building and I was working to pay her back as quickly as I could.
Rose, and Nick’s mother, Charlotte, worked for me part-time along with Liz’s granddaughter, Avery. And the Angels ran their detective agency from my sun porch. That meant I tended to get pulled into their cases—but it was better than the alternative.
My father had been born in North Harbor, and after he died I’d spent every summer here with my grandmother. The rest of the year I’d lived first in upstate New York and then in New Hampshire. Both my father and mother had been only children, so I didn’t have any cousins or aunts and uncles to hang out with during the summer. Charlotte, Rose and Liz were Gram’s closest friends and they became my extended family, a trio of loving but very opinionated aunts. I likened them to Flora, Fauna and Merryweather, the three fairy godmothers from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty.
When I’d moved to Maine and decided to open Second Chance, Rose, Charlotte and Liz had been almost as thrilled as my grandmother. They were my family even though they drove me crazy sometimes. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for them.
I trailed Rose through the workroom into the store proper, flipping on lights as we went. Mac was just coming down the stairs carrying two coffee mugs, which meant one of them was for me. He smiled at Rose. “The kettle just boiled.”
“You are a darling man,” she said, smiling back at him. She set Elvis down on the bottom step and he led the way up the stairs.
Mac crossed to me and handed me a cup. He was all lean, strong muscle with light brown skin, black hair cropped close to his scalp and dark eyes.
I’d left the bag of bottles and my messenger bag by the cash desk. I wrapped both hands around the pottery mug, took a sip and sighed. The coffee was strong and hot, just the way I liked it. Mr. P. got the beans from a small specialty roaster in Boston and Mac ground them fresh every day. “Thank you,” I said.
“I heard what happened last night,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“There isn’t anything you could have done.” I took another sip of my coffee. Just standing here with him eased the tension in my body. “Nick used to be a paramedic so he knew what he was doing.”
“It still had to be awful, having someone die right in front of you.”
“His name was Christopher Healy,” I said. “I didn’t recognize him. Do you know the name?”
Mac shook his head. “It doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Liam said he was involved in some kind of lawsuit with Joe Roswell.”
“The developer who’s building the hotel?”
I nodded. “Some other deal that went bad maybe?”
His brown eyes narrowed. “You don’t think that . . . ?” He let the end of the sentence trail off.
“I don’t,” I said. “But Rose is convinced that Healy was poisoned. He seemed to have some kind of seizure before he collapsed. Mr. P. and I pointed out that lots of things could cause a seizure.”
Mac smoothed a hand over his hair. “But you didn’t convince her?”
I smiled over the rim of my mug. “It’s Rose. What do you think?” I gave my head a shake. “Could we talk about something else, please? How was the auction?”
Mac had gone to Ellsworth with two of our best customers who ran a bed-and-breakfast. They had bought the house next door to theirs and were looking for furniture for it.
“It was a bust,” he said. “The dining room set and the bedroom furniture they were interested in both had woodworm.”
I made a face.
“I said we’d watch for pieces for them. I’m going to call Cleveland to keep his eye out, too.”
“Next time I see Teresa I’ll mention it to her as well,” I said.
Both Cleveland and Teresa were trash pickers. They made their living out of things the rest of us put out for garbage. I regularly bought items for the shop from the two of them, everything from dishes to furniture to old LPs. We always managed to make a deal both sides were happy with.
Mac nodded. “Is Liam still coming by with the toys?”
“After last night I don’t know.” I unzipped my jacket. “I hope so. I’d like to get Avery started taking photos of everything.”
We were listing all of the toys that had been found in one section of our website along with a short write-up about the hot lunch program. It seemed like the best way to attract the attention of collectors and nostalgic baby boomers and I was hoping that learning where the money was going would encourage potential shoppers to make a purchase. Since Avery had a creative bent and was much better with a camera than I was, I’d asked her to handle the photographs. She’d readily agreed.
“We need the images to look good in thumbnail and when they’re viewed on a phone,” she’d said. Then she’d waved one hand in the air. “And you don’t have to think about that stuff because you have me.” I’d walked away from the conversation feeling a little bit like a dinosaur.
“What’s your morning look like?” I asked Mac. He was wearing jeans and a denim shirt, both splattered with paint, which told me he was most likely going to tackle a project out in the work space we’d made in the former garage.
“I found four casters that I think are going to wo
rk on that metal sorting station that you bought when the old post office in Belfast closed. And at some point I have to pick up the glass for that metal table. What about you?”
I ran down the mental checklist I’d made while eating breakfast. “I’d like to start stripping that mantel you trash-picked last month and I need to bring in a couple of boxes of picture frames for Rose to go through. I’d like to frame at least some of the pictures that were found in the hotel. I think the old black-and-white photographs would look good that way.”
“I can go get those frames for you right now,” Mac said.
“Thank you,” I said. I took his coffee cup out of his hand and he smiled at me. We stood there looking at each other for a long moment, like some scene in a romantic comedy. Then, just like in a movie, Rose came down the stairs and the moment was over.
Mac took a step back. He motioned in the general direction of the workroom. “I’ll go look for the frames.”
“Umm, sure,” I said.
Rose was wearing her apron and carrying her tea. I looked at my watch. It was quarter to nine. “What would you like me to do first?” she asked.
“Mac’s going to bring in some of our collection of picture frames. I’d like to see if we have enough to frame all the black-and-white photos or at least all of the ones that are of the downtown. I thought they might have a better chance of selling if they were framed. We probably need at least two dozen.” Along with the toys, we were also selling some of the photos that had been unearthed. Those sales would benefit the hot lunch program as well.
“Are you thinking plain frames or more ornate?” She leaned her head thoughtfully to one side and at her feet Elvis did the same.
I shrugged. “Mostly I’m thinking I hope we have enough frames that are the right size.”
Rose smiled. “Elvis and I will see what I can find.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m going to hang up my coat and get another cup of coffee.”
Just then Mr. P. came in from the workroom. The strap of his messenger bag was over his shoulder and his cheeks were pink. It was clear that he’d walked to the shop.
“I didn’t know you were coming in this morning,” I said. “We could have stopped to pick you up.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” he said. “It was a last-minute decision.”
Something was off with him. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Rose had noticed as well. “Is everything all right, Alf?” she asked.
“I found out this morning that an old friend of mine—Elliot Casey—is back in town. He’s been here for a few weeks.” He slipped the messenger bag from his shoulder and set it at his feet. “Elliot has been gone from North Harbor for most of his adult life.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “Christopher Healy is—was—his stepson.”
Rose closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. She laid a hand on his arm. Mr. P. covered it with his own hand for a moment.
“So am I,” I said. “Is there anything we can do?”
He nodded. “Thank you, Sarah, yes. There is something you can do.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“I haven’t spoken to Elliot in a long time, but I’d like to go see him to at least pay my respects and maybe there will be something I can do to help. He and his wife are living at Legacy Place.”
“I’d be happy to drive you,” I said. The former chocolate factory—now a seniors’ apartment building—was close to the downtown core. “When do you want to go?”
“Would the end of the day work for you?”
“It would.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“I’m coming with you, Alf,” Rose said. “While you see your old friend there are a couple of people I’d like to catch up with.”
He smiled at her. “I’d like that.” He picked up the messenger bag. “I have some work to do.”
Rose patted his arm again. “I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
Mr. P. headed out to the Angels’ sunporch office trailed by Elvis. Rose and I went upstairs. I dumped my things in my office and got another cup of coffee. When I came back and picked up my phone I discovered that I had a text from Nick.
Call me first chance you get, was all it said. No “Hi, how are you?” or even “Hey, it’s me.” Call me. Brief and to the point.
This was not good.
Chapter 3
I called Nick and, no surprise, got his voice mail instead. I left a message saying I’d gotten his text and that I’d be at Second Chance all morning. I was in the workroom about an hour later sitting on the floor, sorting through a box of candelabra when Nick returned my call.
“Hi,” I said. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“I have some questions about last night.”
I got to my feet and walked over to the back door for a little more privacy. Mr. P. was in the shop taking the glass out of a couple of picture frames for Rose. “Okay, what would you like to know?”
“First of all, you know that Christopher Healy is dead?”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “I talked to Michelle this morning. She told me.”
“Were you looking in his direction before he collapsed?” Nick asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you see, exactly?”
I pictured the room from the night before. “Healy was standing at the bar. He took a drink of his coffee, then his hand started shaking. He put his other hand to his chest, just below his throat. I thought maybe he was having trouble breathing. He made a noise.”
“What kind of noise?” Nick said.
“It was almost like he was choking. The coffee cup hit the floor and then he collapsed.”
There was silence for a moment and I wondered if Nick was making notes. “Sarah, was there anyone around Healy?” he asked.
“No.” I looked across the parking lot. Mac had the big door to the former garage open and I could see him working on the mail-sorting table. “The bartender was at the other end of the bar and there was no one else around.”
I heard Nick exhale on the other end of the phone. “When we started doing CPR, do you remember Healy smelling like anything in particular?”
“What do you mean?” I said. “He smelled like coffee because I think some got spilled on his jacket when he dropped the cup, and I could still smell alcohol. I’m pretty sure it was beer. And aftershave, something with rosemary I think.”
“Did you catch the scent of anything else?”
I turned away from the window. “Like what?”
“I just want to know if you smelled anything besides coffee and beer.” There was a bit of an annoyed edge to his voice.
I reminded myself that Nick was most likely just doing his job. He was an investigator for the medical examiner’s office. He’d worked as an EMT to put himself through college and he’d been considering going to medical school before he took the investigator’s job. Christopher Healy’s death could be his case now.
I closed my eyes and pulled up the memory of bending over Healy’s body. “All right. Like I said, the man was wearing aftershave. I caught the scent of that. Nothing else stands out.”
“Okay, thanks,” he said. I heard the squeak of a chair, which likely meant he was at the police station and not his office.
“Do you have any idea how Mr. Healy died?” I asked.
“The autopsy isn’t scheduled until this afternoon.” I heard voices in the background. “I have to go,” he said. “And I probably won’t make it to The Black Bear tonight.” Both Nick and I were regulars at the Thursday-night jam at the downtown pub.
“Call me if there’s anything else I can do.”
He said he would, and ended the call. Nick hadn’t answered my question about how Christopher Healy had died. He’d just put me off by saying the a
utopsy wasn’t until that afternoon. And why had he asked me if I’d smelled anything?
A tight knot had formed at the back of my neck and I massaged it with two fingers. Rose had insisted that Mr. Healy had been poisoned. I knew certain poisons had distinctive aromas. Most people knew that cyanide has a bitter almond scent, although Nick had once told me that some people were genetically unable to smell it. Was it possible that Nick suspected the dead man had been poisoned, too? I hoped I was wrong about that supposition. I hoped the autopsy would prove that Christopher Healy had died of natural causes.
Liam showed up about half an hour later with several boxes filled with the toys that had been on display at the reception. No one was really sure where they’d come from or how they’d ended up in the basement of the old hotel. The best guess was that they were toys that had been kept for children who were guests. Most of them were in excellent shape, and they didn’t look as though they’d been played with very much.
“These are just the toys,” Liam said as he set the last carton on the workbench. “I’ll bring the photographs by later this afternoon or tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Avery is going to start taking pictures of everything when she gets here after lunch and Rose is already sorting through picture frames.”
He nodded absently. His mind was somewhere else.
“Have you talked to Michelle today?” I asked.
“What?” He gave his head a shake. “I mean no.”
“You know that Christopher Healy is dead?”
“Joe told me.” His eyes narrowed. “Have you talked to Michelle?”
I glanced at the boxes, looking for the View-Master. I’d already decided I wanted to buy it as a surprise for Mr. P. “First thing this morning,” I said. “But I don’t know anything more than you do. I talked to Nick as well. He said the autopsy wouldn’t be done until this afternoon.”
Liam stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Healy seems kind of young to have had a heart attack.”
“I don’t think he had a heart attack,” I said. “It looked like he might have had some kind of seizure.”
