Claw Enforcement

by Sofie Ryan

  “Do you remember what Joe Roswell told us about the injuries to his hand?” I knew that he did, but I needed to work into what I wanted to tell him.

  Alfred nodded. “He said he jammed his finger, which is how he got the bruise and that he was cut by a piece of glass from a broken light fixture, which is why he needed stitches.”

  “The part about the stitches is true. Liam did take Joe to the emergency room to have the glass removed and get stitches. But Joe told Liam he jammed his finger and scraped his arm cutting wood.”

  Mr. P. looked past me to where Liam and Charlotte were “skating” with, it seemed, a little coaching from my grandmother. “That is the problem with lying,” he said. “It’s hard sometimes to remember all the details.”

  I shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. “Do you think we should go talk to Mr. Roswell again?”

  He took off his glasses, adjusted the left end piece out just a fraction of an inch and put them on again. “At some point, yes. But I think it would help if we can figure out where he was, and you may have just given me a way to do that.”

  “How did I do that?” Did I look as confused as I felt?

  He smiled. “You said Liam told you Roswell said he got hurt cutting wood.”

  I nodded.

  “Did Liam seem surprised by that explanation?”

  I pictured Liam, straddling the chair next to me. “No, he didn’t.”

  Mr. P. nodded. “Very good.” It seemed I’d given the correct answer.

  “This may be a bit of a leap,” he continued, “but I think we can infer that cutting wood is something Mr. Roswell does on at least a semi-regular basis.”

  “That makes sense,” I said.

  “Where is it happening?”

  “In the woods somewhere, I guess.”

  Mr. P. was nodding once again. “Exactly. Which suggest he owns a woodlot or at least has access to an area where he can cut wood.”

  “Somewhere that monkshood may grow,” I said slowly.

  “Exactly,” Mr. P. said.

  “So how do we find out?”

  Mr. P. didn’t say a word. He just looked at me with a Mona Lisa smile.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I forgot for a moment who I was talking to.”

  “It’s quite all right, my dear,” he said. “Now that I know what I’m looking for it’s not like searching for a needle in a haystack. We will get to the bottom of this.”

  I nodded, hoping I wouldn’t have a problem with what we found when we got there.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sunday morning I didn’t get up and go for a run like I’d planned. Instead I slept late and had brunch with Gram and John. I spent some time cleaning up the apartment and doing laundry while Elvis sat on the top of his cat tower meowing and muttering at me like a feline Greek chorus.

  I debating curling up on the couch for the Star Trek marathon I’d put off the night before, but the sun was shining and being outside seemed like a better idea. Jess was still working on the wedding dress. Mac was helping a friend make repairs to his sailboat before it was put away for the season. Michelle had a cold and had lost her voice for the most part. Liam and Nick had driven down to Portland to find hockey skates for Nick, inspired maybe by Charlotte’s skating lesson for Mac and Greg, which had ended with Avery and Greg making plans to skate with Rose and Mr. P. once the rink slated for the far end of the library parking lot had ice.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, furball,” I said to Elvis. He was sprawled on his stomach; he opened one green eye and looked at me for a moment. “C’mon, we might as well go out to the shop and work on that mantel.”

  He made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat and closed his eye again.

  I had been ditched by a cat.

  I made sure Elvis had fresh water and a clean litterbox, then I pulled on a hoodie, grabbed my bag and my keys and headed out to my SUV. I turned at the corner and was singing along with the radio when I caught sight of Mr. P. heading down the sidewalk carrying one of Rose’s tote bags. I pulled over to the curb and rolled down the window.

  “Would you like a ride?” I asked.

  “Hello, Sarah,” he said with a smile. “Thank you, but I’m not going home. I’m going to see Elliot and Nora.” He held up the bag. “I found an album from our Scouting days.”

  “I’ll take you,” I said. “The only thing I’m doing is going to the shop to do some sanding.”

  “In that case, yes, a ride would be very nice.”

  He climbed in and I waited until his seat belt was fastened before I pulled away from the curb.

  I waved a hand in the direction of the canvas tote. “Are those photos of you and Elliot or of your whole Scout troop?” I asked.

  “The whole troop,” he said.

  “When you get the album back from Elliot . . .” I began.

  “You’d like to look at it,” Mr. P. finished.

  I glanced sideways and smiled. “I would, if you don’t mind. I like looking at photographs. They’re a moment from someone’s life, captured forever.”

  “I’d be happy to share them with you,” he said.

  I found a parking spot on the street right in front of Legacy Place. Elliot and his wife were sitting on a bench in front of the building.

  “Do you mind if I come say hello?” I asked Mr. P.

  “Of course not,” he said.

  I got out of the car and we walked over to the Caseys.

  “You found the pictures,” Elliot said as we came level with him and his wife. He looked at me and smiled.

  Mr. P. took the photo album out of the canvas tote bag and handed it to his friend. Nora got to her feet. She patted the back of the bench. “Have a seat, please, Alfred. I need to stretch my legs.”

  Elliot looked up, concern in his eyes.

  Nora put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fuss,” she said. “I’m just going to walk along the front of the building.” She looked at me. “Sarah, would you mind coming with me?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  We walked slowly along the concrete path. As soon as we were out of earshot Nora turned to me. “I, uh, I have a question.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She cleared her throat. “Do you think Christopher suffered?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”

  She looked down at the ground, kicked a small rock and sent it skittering along the walkway. “I want to know the truth,” she said. “Not something sugar-coated because I’m his mother.”

  I stopped walking, and turned my head to look at her. Her grief was etched into every line on her face. “That is the truth, as far as I know it,” I said. “I looked over at the bar where your son was standing, just watching people. Suddenly he put a hand to his chest, his body shook for a moment, he made a choking sound and he went down. It took seconds for Nick and me to get to him. But he was already . . . gone.” I put a hand on her shoulder for a moment as I swallowed down the lump that was pressing at the back of my throat. “I don’t think he suffered. There just wasn’t time.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  We walked to the end of the brick building, turned and started back to the men. “I’m glad Elliot reconnected with Alfred,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “He needs a friend like that. I hope he’ll still be Elliot’s friend when I’m gone.”

  “He will,” I said, my voice tight with emotion.

  We’d reached the bench and Elliot looked up at his wife. “What were you and Sarah talking about?” he asked. “You looked so serious.”

  Nora’s gaze shifted to Mr. P. “I was telling her that I hope Alfred will continue to be your friend once I’m gone.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Elliot said. He got to his fe
et. He was noticeably upset by his wife’s words. His jaw tightened and there was an edge to his voice. “We’re going to find a way to fight this. I don’t care what it takes. I will do anything.”

  Nora caught his hand. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just happy that you and Alfred are back in each other’s lives.”

  “So am I,” Mr. P. said. His eyes met Nora’s and whatever she saw in them seemed to put her mind at ease.

  “I have to get going,” I said. “It was good to see you both.”

  Nora smiled. “It was good to see you again, Sarah. I’m going to get Elliot to bring me over to your store. I’ve heard so much about it from Alfred.”

  “You’re welcome to stop in anytime.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sarah,” Mr. P. said.

  I nodded and headed back to the car. Talking to Nora had just reconfirmed how much I needed answers. All I had to figure out is where to find them.

  Chapter 19

  I spent about an hour and a half out in the sunshine working on the fireplace mantel. Then I headed home. Elvis was still sprawled on top of the cat tower. The only hint that he’d moved while I was gone was the two cat treats missing from his bowl.

  We had supper—cat food for him and leftover lasagna for me—and had just settled in to finally watch our favorite Star Trek movie—The Voyage Home—when there was a knock at the door. I lifted Elvis off of my lap and set him on the couch before I went to answer it. The cat leaned sideways as though he wanted to know who it was but not enough to jump down and walk over to find out.

  It was Mr. P. He was carrying his computer in one hand and a plate with three cupcakes in the other. He held out the cupcakes. “Rosie sent these,” he said. “They’re mocha fudge.”

  “Please tell her thank you,” I said. I resisted the urge to take a swipe of frosting from the top of one of them.

  “Do you have a minute?” he asked.

  “You found something?”

  “I did.”

  “Please, come in and show me.”

  He set his computer on the kitchen counter and tapped the touchpad. A map of Maine’s midcoast region filled the screen. “Amanda Roswell owns a woodlot in Waldo County,” he said.

  “Joe’s wife,” I said.

  Mr. P. nodded. Then he tapped the screen near the bottom-left section of the county on the map. “It appears to be property she inherited when her grandfather died.”

  He brought up another smaller map of the entire state. “This is a Biota of North America map of the state. See those purple shaded areas?”

  I nodded.

  “Those are areas where monkshood has been reported to grow.” He clicked back to the first map.

  “The woodlot would be in one of those purple areas,” I said.

  “It appears so.”

  I linked my fingers and rested my hands on the top of my head. “So what do we do?”

  “I think you should treat Elizabeth to a late lunch at Sammy’s,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “What do you think?”

  I nodded. “I think that sounds like a wonderful idea.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Joe Roswell was at the same table at The Black Bear that he’d occupied the last time Liz and I were there. We’d thought about getting there ahead of him, but Liz had decided that a “dramatic entrance” might unsettle the man a little. Not to mention she liked making dramatic entrances. She was dressed for one, in black trousers, a deep crimson sweater and a black faux leather jacket. Her nails were a vivid shade of red.

  There was one empty chair at Roswell’s table. Liz sat down without being invited. I stayed standing like I was the bodyguard for some celebrity, which in a way I was.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again, Mrs. French,” he said.

  “You should have, Mr. Roswell,” she said. “I consider myself a very tolerant woman. I don’t care whether you shave your head or choose that unfortunate style known as a man bun. I don’t care whether you name your child after a piece of farm equipment or your grandfather. But I do loathe being lied to. It’s an insult to my intelligence. And you lied to me.”

  He didn’t even flinch, although he should have. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “How did you get the scratches that were on your arm?” Liz asked. One leg was crossed over the other, her foot bobbing as if to some piece of music only she could hear. It was the only indication of her annoyance.

  “I already explained that,” he said.

  The foot’s tempo increased. “And which explanation should I go with? The one you gave us or the one you gave other people such as the ER doctor?”

  It was a bluff but a good one based on the way the color rose in Joe Roswell’s face.

  “Your wife owns a woodlot in Waldo County,” Liz continued. “It turns out, in a happy little coincidence, that the plant that poisoned Christopher Healy grows in the same corner of the county where that woodlot is located.”

  Roswell went rigid. The muscles along his jawline tightened and his mouth pulled into a thin line. “I told you that I didn’t kill Christopher Healy.”

  Liz eyed the man the way I’d seen her look at something that had stuck to the bottom of one of her expensive pairs of shoes. “Mr. Roswell, at the moment you have zero credibility with me. And I see no reason not to share what I know with the police.” She continued to look at him. He stared back at her without speaking.

  I knew he was going to lose. Liz waited less than half a minute, then she got to her feet. As she turned toward the door, Roswell jumped up as well.

  “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Just wait a minute. I didn’t kill Healy. I swear I didn’t.”

  Liz looked at him over her shoulder. “Same song, same verse—sing something else.”

  He looked down at the table for a moment. I counted in my head, one, two, three.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay, yes, I got the scratches in the woods, but I wasn’t looking for anything to poison Healy with.” He paused again.

  “You’re burning daylight and my patience, Mr. Roswell,” Liz said, the warning obvious in her voice.

  Roswell ran a hand back over his hair. “The centerpiece of the hotel lobby is this massive reception desk made of reclaimed wood from the old hotel and some other businesses that were torn down for the harbor front development,” he said.

  I remembered Liam telling me about that. It was a way to acknowledge the history of the waterfront and the town. Liz nodded as though she was aware of the plan as well.

  “The problem is most of the wood went missing.”

  “What do you mean, missing?” I asked.

  He put both hands flat on the table. “We have a contract with a company that has a wood gas generator. They take whatever wood can’t be recycled. It saves us money and overall it’s less stuff that ends up in the landfill. That wood—the stuff I wanted to use on the reception desk—was sent to them by mistake and by the time I realized what had happened—”

  “Your front desk had gone up in smoke,” Liz said. She pulled out her chair and sat down again.

  Roswell took his seat as well. “That reception desk was a contract item. There’d be a substantial penalty if we didn’t deliver it.”

  Liz made a motion like she was shooing away a fly. “I understand all of that, but what does it have to do with Mr. Healy’s death?”

  Roswell picked up his coffee cup then set it back down again. “I’ve been . . . appropriating wood from different buildings to make up for what’s missing. It’s not easy to find the right . . . vintage. There’s an old barn on a piece of land next to my wife’s property. I tried to track down the owner—I swear I did—but the man lives out of state and I was running out of time.”

  “So you stole what you needed.”

  “
Borrowed,” he said sharply. “I was going to pay everyone back.”

  Liz shook her head. “No. The word you’re looking for is ‘stole.’ You took something that wasn’t yours.”

  His expression hardened. “I wasn’t in the woods looking for a plant to poison Christopher Healy. I didn’t try to kill him. That’s the truth. That’s always been the truth.”

  I had been listening to Joe Roswell’s voice and watching his body language looking for a sign that he still wasn’t being straight with us. I didn’t find it.

  “Do you want me to show you the barn and the wood? Is that what it will take for you to believe me?” he asked.

  Liz stood up again. “This is enough. For now,” she said. “But you do need to come clean with the hotel management about the reception desk. And find the man who owns that barn so you can pay him for the wood you ‘borrowed.’”

  Roswell stiffened and looked away. “The penalty is several thousand dollars.”

  “The truth is worth more than that,” Liz said. “Your word is worth more than that.”

  For a long moment he said nothing, then finally he met her gaze. “All right,” he said.

  Liz nodded, seemingly satisfied. Then she turned and walked away. I followed.

  “Do you believe him?” I asked as we drove back to Second Chance.

  “Do you?” she countered.

  I checked the traffic and made a left turn before I answered. “I do. I didn’t see any signs that suggested he was lying. He looked you in the eye. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t shade his words. On the other hand, as we know from the last time, he is pretty good at shading the truth.”

  I saw her nod out of the corner of my eye. “Yes, he is, but I believe him as well. Lying to us the first time was self-serving. This story, however, doesn’t get him anything. I think it’s the truth.”

  And that’s what we told everyone when we got back to the shop.

  “It should be possible to match the boards to their source,” Mr. P. said. He glanced at his laptop, which was next to his elbow.

  “I don’t think that’s anything we need to concern ourselves with, Alfred,” Liz said. Rose had brought her a cup of tea and she took a sip of it. “Let’s face it: If Joe Roswell wanted to kill that young man there were easier ways to do it. In my opinion, he just doesn’t benefit enough to be our killer.”