by ACF Bookens
Max gestured toward a stool by a tall desk in the corner, and I sat down while he pulled up another stool and sat next to me. We watched Symeon fluff the risotto and then add in the mushrooms before plating the deliciousness and sprinkling it with parsley and truffle oil. He slid that dish up next to a filet of salmon and rang a bell. A moment later, a young woman with purple hair slid into the kitchen, grabbed the plates and stepped back out.
Only then did Max speak. "Apparently, he thought I poached his best bartender."
I scowled at Symeon who smiled mischievously, clearly happy his choice of words had given me the perfectly wrong impression. "Oh," I said, trying to cover up my moment of confusion that Davis didn't think Max had stolen his girlfriend, only his employee. "He owns a restaurant, too?"
"He does," Max said. "A very good one. The Thurber Tavern in Boston. They're famous for their gourmet burgers that are perfectly paired with choice cocktails."
"That sounds amazing," I said before I could stop myself. "Have you been?"
He smiled. "Yep. I go every time I visit the city."
I leaned back on the stool. "You, Max Davies, of the French cuisine, go to a burger joint on the regular." I laughed. "Color me pleasantly surprised."
"I wouldn't exactly call The Thurber Tavern a 'burger joint,'" Symeon chimed in. "Those burgers cost forty dollars a pop."
I nearly fell off my stool. "Forty dollars for ground beef. Really?" Then, I checked my cheap-o mindset and said, "Is it worth it?"
Both Max and Symeon nodded vigorously. "So noted," I said. "I'll plan to check it out next time I'm in Boston." I looked over at Max who was smiling at me with a little gleam in his eye. For some reason, that gleam didn't bother me as much today, and I was bothered that I wasn't bothered.
"Anyway," Max said. "Lizzie, um, Cassandra as he knew her, told him she had gotten a job offer that she couldn't refuse here, and she gave two days' notice and left. Davis came down as soon as the weather cleared to see what had happened. He knew our Lizzie was something special, too."
"But you said he didn't know her as Lizzie?" I asked.
"Nope, he looked up the town, scanned our small offering of restaurants, figured out that mine is the only one with a full bar, and looked me up." Max sighed. "The guy didn't know she had died. Thought he might come and ask my help in convincing her to go back to the Tavern."
"What did he say when you told him?" Symeon asked.
"Oh, I didn't tell him," Max said.
Symeon and I both stared, slack-jawed, at Max. "You didn't tell him? Why not?" I was practically shouting. You didn't have a person come across five states to see someone and then hold back that the someone was dead.
Max looked down at his hands and blushed. "I didn't know how. He seemed so kind, and given how wonderful Lizzie was . . ." He just stopped talking and stared down at the floor.
I put a hand on his shoulder and looked over at Symeon, who was, apparently, as puzzled as I was by Max's newly found conscience. "What did you tell him?"
Max stared even harder at the floor, and I felt a twist in my gut.
"Max, what did you tell him?"
"I told him to go back and see you, and you could help him find Cassandra." He turned his eyes up to me and kept his head down like a sad puppy who wanted my forgiveness.
But I was too busy thinking about how to break the news to this dedicated employer that his favorite staff member had been killed. I didn't have time to forgive Max. Which was good because I wasn't planning to do it soon.
"Jerk," I said as I stood up and walked to the kitchen door. "Just pass the buck, Max. Real classy." I tried to slam the kitchen door, but it just swung and hit me in the back of my legs.
5
I was so mad at Max that I didn't know what to do with myself, but I did know I was in no shape to talk to Davis. So I turned left out of Max's front door and walked toward the art co-op. I needed a place to vent, and I headed toward Cate. She was working on a series of photos about Korean-Americans on the Eastern Shore. It was a passion project for her, something to honor her own heritage and dispel the mistaken belief that the only people in this part of Maryland were black or white. She was hanging the show tonight, so I knew she'd be putting final details on the mattes.
When I walked in, my dear friend smiled, straightened her back, and then rushed toward me as soon as she got a good look at my face. "Harvey, what's going on?"
I felt tears prick my eyes and cursed my tendency to cry no matter what strong emotion cropped up. It was a proclivity that drove my dad crazy because, I think, he hurt when I did and didn't know how to help. But despite my self-awareness and a good bit of conversation with therapists about this physiological response to emotion, it still happened. Now, the anger and sadness and a little bit of fear were spilling over out of my eyes.
Cate guided me to a pair of turquoise, mid-century modern chairs in the front of her studio, and I took the tissue she handed me. "Max is a total jerk." I really wanted to swear, but the door to Cate's office was open so I respected the customers.
"Well, yes, but that doesn't tell me exactly what's going on. What happened?"
I looked at my friend and then explained the entire morning from Davis's visit to my spying on Max to Max's refusal to be a grown-up and tell Davis the truth himself. As I talked, I heard the bitterness and fear in my words, and with each sentence, my language became a little less strident, a little less sure of my righteousness. Finally, when I finished the story and looked at Cate, who had listened quietly and squeezed my hand often, I realized something. "Max is grieving, isn't he?"
Cate let out a long sigh. "I think so. I think he's probably also scared."
"Scared to tell Davis what happened?" I could hear the disbelief in my voice at the same moment I registered that I was, in fact, hiding to avoid having to tell Davis myself.
"Yeah, probably." Cate raised one eyebrow. "So maybe cut the man a little slack. He has trouble connecting with people, and he seemed to really like Lizzie. Then, she was dead in his store on her first day. I imagine you can relate a little, right?"
Her voice was soft, but her words went straight to the center of my heart. I could relate. Entirely, given that not just one but two people had died in my own store. I sighed. "Thank you," I said quietly. "I needed to be called out."
Cate hugged me. "I'm not trying to call you out. Max was a jerk to pass this off to you, no doubt. But I expect he did it because he knew you'd know how to handle it."
I gave her a wan smile. "I suppose."
"And for the record, you have every right to be angry with Max." She looked me firmly in the eye. "Every right. But maybe putting that aside for the moment so that you can prepare to tell Davis his friend was killed is the best thing?"
I nodded. She was right. I would address Max's behavior later. Right now, I needed to figure out how to tell a man who had traveled hundreds of miles that the woman he knew had been murdered. The pit in my stomach grew into a softball, and I groaned. "Okay, so how do I tell him?"
"You just tell him, Harvey. Don't overthink it. Just tell him." She pulled me to my feet. "Want me to come with you?"
I looked at the disarray in her studio, all the half-framed images on her table and the photographs leaning against the wall. "No. You finish hanging your show. I've got this." I walked to the door of her studio. "I’ll text you to let you know how it goes."
She blew me a kiss, and I walked out the door, far less angry and far more sad than I had been when I came in. But the brisk, cold air outside gave me courage, and I strolled to my shop with determination. By the time I reached the door, I almost hoped Davis would be there, both so I could get it over with and because I felt like I knew what to say.
Seeing Max in the cafe as I headed toward the register drew me up short, though. He was facing the door, and as soon as he saw me, he stood up and made his way to where I was standing. He took my hands in his and said, "I'm sorry."
I stared at him, looked down at our hand
s, and back up at his crisp, blue eyes. "What?"
"I'm sorry, Harvey. I shouldn't have put you on the spot. I was just—"
I interrupted him. "I know. We'll talk about it later. But I realize you were scared and sad, and I get that."
He let out a long slow breath. "Yeah. Thanks." He let my hands drop and looked over my shoulder. "Looks like I'm going to have to deal with my fear and sadness, though."
I turned around and saw Davis coming into the shop. He looked around and then saw Max and me and came over. "Hi. Do you have a minute?" he asked me.
Max didn't even give me a chance to answer. "Actually, I need to talk to you, Davis. Can we sit?" He gestured toward a cafe table, and when Davis nodded, he walked over, pulled one chair out of the way, and sat down in the other.
I looked around the store, saw Marcus had things well in hand, and pulled the chair Max had moved up to sit between him and Davis. I wasn't excited about having this conversation, but from the way all the blood had drained from Max's face, it looked like he could use a friend. I guessed I was as close as it got.
Davis looked from Max to me and back to Max. "What is going on? Did something happen to Lizzie?"
For a brief minute, I puzzled over his question and wondered if I would presume something had happened to someone I knew if I was in this situation. I figured I would if there was this much rigamarole about it.
"Yes," Max said and took a deep breath. "Someone killed her on the first night she worked for me."
Davis's eyes flew to me, and I nodded. "It's horrible, but it's true. We're sorry." I don't know why I felt like I could speak for Max, but I felt his foot slide over under the table and rest against mine. For some reason, the small motion was comforting, and I left my foot in place.
Max described how we'd found Lizzie, told Davis what Tuck believed about how she was killed, and said that the sheriff was working day and night to catch her killer.
When Max finished talking, Davis stared at him for a second and then put his head in his hands and cried. It was one of those quiet cries where the only sign that he was sobbing was the shaking of his shoulders. I felt torn between leaving him privacy to weep and wondering if he wanted company in this hard moment. I opted to stay, as did Max.
After a few moments, Davis took a long, shuddering breath and looked up at us. "How can I help?"
I sighed and smiled slightly. "Maybe you could tell us a bit about Lizzie, I mean Cassandra. I never met her."
"And I only knew her a little. We didn't even know her real name," Max added.
Davis looked from me to Max and then seemed to gather himself. A small smile played across his face. "Cassandra – she only wanted to be called Cassandra, never Cassie – was amazing. The most determined person I ever knew. We met at a wheelchair basketball game. She'd come to cheer on a teammate of mine who she'd met in an amputee support group, and she cheered with such wild abandon that I don't think anyone in the gym that day missed her. My friend had hoped to date her, but Lizzie had made it clear she wasn't interested in dating, just in recovering from her surgery and getting back to her first love, bartending."
Davis looked out the window. "After the game, we all went back to my restaurant for dinner and drinks, and my friend mentioned that Lizzie had won some bartending competitions back in the day. It was a Sunday night, and the restaurant was closing up. So I gave Lizzie a little challenge – rearrange my bar to its optimum set-up."
I imagined the scene. A quiet restaurant. A group of friends like mine. A couple of bottles of wine. The glow of the lights. I placed Lizzie at the table and could imagine her grin when Davis challenged her. I'd never seen her smile, but all the things I'd learned about her and the ideas I'd formed because of her clear interest in Lizzie Borden made me picture her as mischievous and never one to turn down a dare.
"She didn't even hesitate. Within seconds, she was behind the bar and moving bottles. Within thirty minutes, she had rearranged all my glassware, reordered the liquor on the shelves, and told me I needed to move the dishwasher closer to the end of the bar to make for easy restocking." Davis looked down at his hands. "I have to admit, I thought she was kind of cocky, but darned if the next night, my bartenders didn't say that her changes made everything run more smoothly. I hired her immediately to be my bar manager. Best business decision I ever made."
Max smiled. "I didn't get to see her work very long, but she was amazing at her job."
"Beyond amazing," Davis added. "I've never seen anyone make better drinks and be a better listener to her customers. The legend of the barkeep as confidant wasn't just a farce to Cassandra. She took that work very seriously. My customers loved her." He looked at Max. "So when she left, I didn't understand what had happened. I thought you'd made some kind of crazy good offer." His eyes passed from Max to me and back again like he was searching for an explanation.
Max blushed. "Actually, I doubt I offered her anything near what you were giving her. We just don't have the kind of business you do, and our bar just basically serves the tables. Her talents were definitely going to be underused here. I actually told her that, but she was adamant. She wanted to be in St. Marin's, and she wanted to bartend. So she took the job."
I looked between the two men sitting with me. Both of them had clearly admired this woman, and that made me even more sad over her death. It also made me so very curious about why someone would have wanted to kill her.
Apparently, Max was thinking along the same lines because he asked, "Any idea why someone would want her dead?"
Davis shook his head slowly. "Not a single one. Everyone seemed to like her. She had regulars at the bar who came in only when she worked just to talk with her. But I never heard anyone say anything bad at about her."
I sighed. No leads there. "Are there other friends of hers that we, um, I mean the sheriff could talk to?"
Davis looked at me for a minute and then glanced out the window again. "You know, beside that mutual friend we had that was in the support group with Cassandra, I never heard her talk about her friends or met any of them. She came to work parties and things, but never with a date or even a plus one."
"Family?" Max asked.
Davis looked at him and tilted his head. "No. I never heard her talk about them either." He glanced down and took a deep breath. "That's weird isn't it?"
I had to admit, it was a little weird, but there were other possibilities, too, including the slim chance that all of this was an act on Davis's part. Maybe he didn't want us talking to other people. Maybe he was just here to see what we knew. I didn't get that feeling from him, but he could have been an excellent actor. "Maybe," I said casually. "Or maybe she just didn't talk about her private life at work."
Davis shrugged. "Maybe." He pushed back from the table. "I'm going to be in town another day or so. Could you give the sheriff my number, tell him I'm happy to answer any questions he has?" He slid a business card to Max.
Max put it in his breast pocket. "Sure thing. And maybe you could help me with the funeral?"
I looked at Max. It was a kind gesture, but an odd one given that Lizzie didn’t know anyone here. But then, if we didn’t know where her family was, and Davis was the only friend we had contact with . . . And of course it would fall to Max to organize it since he knew her best. I flushed that I hadn't even thought of that.
Davis nodded. "Sure. I can't stay past the weekend, but maybe we could arrange it for Thursday? Or is that too soon?"
Max stood, and the two men moved to the door making plans for a service on Thursday.
Just as he passed through the front door, Max turned back to look at me. "Thank you," he said. "Talk to you later?" His voice was timid but hopeful.
I nodded and felt a wave of discomfort pass over me, but this time, it wasn't at the thought of talking to Max. Just the opposite, and I didn't know what to make of that.
* * *
Soon after Max and Davis left, we got a flurry of customers, and Marcus and I spent the next two hours
recommending books – including suggesting a series of mandala coloring books from Dover to an IT support agent who needed something to do while on the phone with customers. When we hit another lull, I stepped into the back and gave Tuck a quick call to share what Davis had told us.
"Oh yeah, Max already came in. Caught us up. But thanks," the sheriff said. "How's that 'I don't want to talk to Max' thing working out?"
I flushed. "Well, it has turned out to just be easier to talk to him." I felt the deception in my words, but it wasn't a complete lie . . . and right now, I couldn't deal with the complete truth either.
"Uh-huh," Tuck said quietly. "You do what you need to do, Harvey. Be kind about it. But do what you need to do."
Suddenly, I realized, we weren't talking about Lizzie's murder anymore. I could barely swallow.
* * *
I headed out about four as per usual on the days when I opened the store. I thought about swinging by Daniel's garage and seeing how his day had been, but I wasn't excited about talking with him yet. I wasn't sure why, and I figured that until I did know I needed to stick with our arranged meet-ups. I didn't want to say anything I'd regret.
I decided to take a walk instead and was glad I had brought Mayhem's sweater along. For Christmas, Henri had knitted my hound girl an orange sweater from alpaca yarn. She said it was left over from a project, but I was pretty sure that this gift was a way of Henri having a dog without having dog fur that might stir up Bear's asthma. The sweater slid snugly over Mayhem's torso and then buttoned at her throat, and the dog loved it. When she saw me take it out, her entire body wiggled so much it was hard to get the sweater on.
But once she and I were bundled up, we headed out, ducking through the parking lot between my shop and the garden center and heading out onto the residential streets that bordered Main Street. At this time of day, children were spilling out of school buses, and I could see golden light coming through the front windows of the old Victorians and quaint cottages along the road. We passed a few other folks and their dogs walking, and Mayhem sniffed with delight when we met a young girl walking her very rotund Russian Blue Cat, who she proudly told me was named Alexander after the tsar. I made a note to check with her mom, who was a frequent customer, to see if she knew Rita Mae Brown's Mrs. Murphy mysteries and the Russian Blue co-star named Pewter.
