The Case of the Faithful Frenchie

by B R Snow

  “Summerman’s a spy?”

  “I think it’s a distinct possibility,” Josie said, sinking further into the couch.

  “Rock star turned spy? How does something like that even happen?” I said, frowning.

  “Beats me.”

  “So what do you think? Could you handle a relationship that’s only three months out of the year?”

  “I’m a little old for summer romances, don’t you think?”

  “Only if you let yourself be that old, Josie.”

  My comment seemed to strike a nerve, and she sat quietly for several moments.

  “He’s the guy, Suzy. The one I’ve always wanted.”

  “I know he is,” I said.

  “But I’m afraid this is a deal breaker. At some point, I want a family. And a part-time partner is definitely not in the cards.”

  “I think you should let the situation play out for a while. If Summerman really wants to be with you, maybe he’ll figure out a way to get out of whatever it is he’s involved with at the moment.”

  “Maybe,” she said, glancing up at the clock. “And I’ve got a few weeks before he leaves. Right now, I need to focus on the gorgeous Irish Setter I’m about to remove a tumor from.”

  “Is Maxie going to be all right?”

  The dog had been coming to the Inn for her regular checkups since she was a puppy. The dog and her owner were a couple of our favorites.

  “I think so,” Josie said, getting up off the couch. “I found it early, but it’s in a bad spot, and I need to get it out before it gets any bigger.”

  “You want me to bring you some breakfast?”

  “No, thanks. Actually, I’m not hungry,” she said, shrugging.

  She seemed as surprised as I was when it came out of her mouth.

  “Ah, lovesickness,” I said, laughing. “The ultimate diet.”

  “Shut up,” she said. “What’s on your agenda today?”

  “I have a meeting with our supply rep, and then a conference call with the people who are asking us to do a presentation at their conference next year in Ottawa. After that, I thought I might pay a visit to Lucinda Winters. You know, drop by to offer my condolences and see if she needs anything.”

  Josie stared at me through narrowed eyes.

  “What?” I said.

  “Be gentle, Suzy. She just lost her mom.”

  “No, I’m serious. It’s a sympathy visit.”

  Josie continued to stare at me, and I was unable to maintain eye contact.

  “Okay, I’ll probably be doing a little snooping while I’m there, but I do feel sorry for her.”

  “Not to mention the fact that you think she might have killed her own parents,” Josie said.

  “Yeah, there is that,” I said.

  “Just promise me you won’t be horrible.”

  “I think I can manage that. Should I bring flowers?”

  “No. We’ll save the flowers for the memorial service. But take one of the chicken casseroles in the freezer with you. It’s always a good idea to bring food along at times like this. Plus it will give you a plausible excuse for showing up at their door.”

  “You don’t think I should stop by their house, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Am I being despicable?”

  “No, I’d never use that word to describe you.”

  “Intrusive?”

  “Highly likely. How much will depend on how well you control yourself.”

  “I think I’ll manage just fine.”

  “Disagree.”

  “Mildly disagree?”

  “I’m gonna go with vehemently.”

  Chapter 15

  As I drove to the Winters’ place, Josie’s comment about my decision and motives for stopping by the house nagged at me, but not enough to convince me to turn around and forget the whole thing. And the more I thought about it, the more I was forced to face the fact that my friends might have a point. My comfort level with inserting myself into the lives of others was off the charts and threatening to get out of control. But I was intrigued by the colorful cast of characters that was the Winters family, and I felt an odd sense of responsibility to find out who had killed Buggy. The question of who had robbed the bank was also on my mind, but since the robbery and the murder were linked as far as I was concerned, my working theory was that, if I could get a handle on the identity of the murderer, the robbery would pretty much solve itself.

  My working theory was severely tested a few minutes when my phone rang. I held the phone up to my ear as I turned off the Route 12 and onto Bailey Square Road.

  “This is Suzy.”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hi, Detective Abrams. What’s up?”

  “You’re driving while talking on the phone, Suzy. You do know that’s against the law, don’t you?”

  “Who called who?” I said, putting the phone on speaker then sliding it into the cell phone holder attached to the driver side console. “There. Is that better?”

  “Much better. Thanks. I’d hate to have to arrest you.”

  “You wouldn’t do that, would you, Detective Abrams?”

  “Suzy, I’m about to become the new police chief. Don’t you think it’s about time for you to start calling me by my first name?”

  “I don’t think I can do that, Detective Abrams,” I said. “How about if I call you Chief?”

  “It’s a start. Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way out to the Winters place to pay my condolences.”

  I waited out a rather lengthy silence. I couldn’t tell if he was mad about my decision, or just caught completely off guard by the news.

  “Okay. But please try to be gentle,” he said, softly.

  “Josie said the same thing.”

  “Josie’s a smart woman.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to drop off one of Chef Claire’s chicken casseroles, pay my respects, then leave.”

  “Is that the one with the chanterelles and caramelized onions?” he said.

  “That’s the one. It’s a total knee-buckler,” I said. “Why did you call?”

  “You’re never going to believe what happened at First National this morning,” Detective Abrams said.

  “Don’t tell me they got robbed again?”

  “No. Just the opposite, actually.”

  “You lost me…Chief.”

  “Hey, that doesn’t sound too bad,” he said, laughing. “Just after they opened this morning, the manager, Fred, got a phone call and was told by the unidentified caller that the panel van parked in back of the bank was for him.”

  “I hope he had the good sense to call you or Jackson before he opened it. Or worse, before he tried to start it.”

  “He did. He called Jackson who called me at state police HQ, and we got a unit over there to sweep the van. It was clean. And you’ll never guess what was inside.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I checked my rearview mirrors and slowed down to forty. It was Detective Abrams turn to wait out a lengthy silence. I focused on my breathing and let my mind go wherever it wanted. Eventually, it landed on the spot, and a lightbulb went off. I caught the small smile on my face in the mirror, then responded.

  “Everything taken during the robbery was inside the van,” I said.

  More silence ensued, and the longer it went, the more I knew I’d nailed it.

  “How on earth did you know that?” he whispered.

  “Just a lucky guess,” I said.

  “I think we need to get you tested for psychic abilities,” he said. “And remind me later that I need to speak with you about something else.”

  “Will do. So, what’s your take on it?”

  “I think that whoever returned all the stuff taken during the robbery must have found what they wanted,” he said.

  “And then decided if they brought everything else back, the bank and the cops wouldn’t spend a lot of time trying to figure out who had robbed it in the first place.”<
br />
  “That’s my best guess at the moment,” he said. “But who would do something like that?”

  “Based on what I assume they found in the safe deposit box, it was somebody who doesn’t need the money,” I said. “And someone who had an awful lot to lose if they ever got caught. And dumb enough to think that an idea like this would actually make people like you lose interest in the robbery.”

  “Brock and Bentley?”

  “They’re certainly a good place to start,” I said. “Bringing all that stuff back just makes you want to solve it even more, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. And you know why.”

  “Because without the robbery, the only thing left to focus on is Buggy’s murder,” I said. “And because the two are definitely connected.”

  “It’s so easy to see,” he said. “Could they really be that stupid?”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out at some point,” I said.

  “Yeah, but be careful out there today. If it is Brock and Bentley, they know they’re close to pulling off whatever plans they have. And if they were responsible for killing their brother, and maybe their mom and dad, they wouldn’t think twice about doing the same thing to you. You need me to swing by at some point?”

  “No, that would just make them suspicious,” I said, putting on my turn signal. “I’ll be fine at the house. If they do decide at some point I’m a threat, they’ll find another place to do something about it.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But be careful.”

  “Will do. Okay, I’m here. Thanks for calling.”

  I ended the call and put the phone in my pocket. The driveway that led up to a house perched on a hill amid a stand of pines was long and narrow. The house was big and remote. Like Caspian’s home in the woods, it wasn’t a place that was easy to find, nor was it a house strangers were likely to stumble upon.

  I parked in the roundabout in front of the house, grabbed the dish from the passenger seat, and took a few minutes to appreciate the large, manicured lawn and gardens before heading for the front door. I rang the bell and waited on the doorstep with the casserole tucked under one arm. Moments later, the door opened partway and Lucinda’s husband, Oliver, peeked out through the opening.

  “Can I help you?” Oliver said, blinking at me like I was from another planet.

  “Hi, Oliver. It’s me. Suzy Chandler. Do you remember me from dinner?”

  “Oh, of course. Ms. Chandler. What can I do for you?”

  Oliver was in his bathrobe, and his salt and pepper hair was a mess. I couldn’t be sure, but the crack in the door seemed to be getting smaller.

  “I just stopped by to offer my condolences. And bring you this,” I said, holding the casserole dish with both hands. “I figured the last thing anyone would want to do right now is cook. It’s really good. It’s one of Chef Claire’s specialties.”

  “Oh, well, that was very kind of you,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder before focusing on the casserole dish. “Yes, most kind. I’m sorry, but I’m the only one here at the moment. Lucinda has gone out for the day. Funeral arrangements. Making plans for the memorial service. I’m sure you understand. And I think I overheard Brock and Bentley making plans to play golf today.”

  “Of course,” I said, extending the dish toward him. “But please make sure to offer everyone my best wishes, and don’t worry about returning the dish.”

  “I will certainly do that,” he said, pulling the door open just wide enough for me to slip the dish through.

  “Oliver, are you coming back to bed or not? I’m not even close to being finished.”

  I recognized the voice immediately. Oliver, startled by the voice, turned around and let go of the door. It swung wide open on its own, and while I had recognized the voice, I certainly didn’t recognize the woman standing in front of me about ten feet away. Caspian, devoid of makeup, was naked and returning my stare with a look of shock and disbelief. She was covered head to toe in tattoos, and her hair cascaded over her shoulders almost to the waist. But it was the dozens of scars all over her body that got most of my attention.

  “You certainly do have a knack for showing up at the oddest times, Suzy.”

  “I’m so sorry, Caspian. You too, Oliver.” I stammered, holding out the casserole. “I just stopped by to give you this.”

  She put her hands on her hips and stared at the dish making no attempt to cover herself up. I did my best to keep my eyes on hers, but I was fascinated by the scars and elaborate tattoo work that reminded me of something she might paint.

  “That was kind of you. Thank you,” she said, with an audible sigh. Then she shrugged. “You might as well come in.”

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea, Caspian?” Oliver said, tightening his robe as he glanced back and forth at us.

  “Oliver, would you rather I try to explain the situation, or would you prefer that she leaves and then fills in the blanks on her own?”

  Oliver’s blinking kicked into overdrive, and then he exhaled and seemed to deflate a bit as he stepped back from the door to give me room to walk past.

  “Of course,” he said, staring down at the floor.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Suzy. I’ll be right back.”

  As she turned to walk away, I couldn’t help but notice several fresh welts and cuts. I grimaced, then glanced at Oliver whose face had turned as bright red as Caspian’s back. He managed a small gesture toward the living room, and I followed him inside the large, ornate room that looked like it was rarely visited. Several of Caspian’s paintings occupied most of the wall space, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone wearing a blue blazer had walked in and asked if I was ready to begin the tour of the museum.

  “You’re probably wondering what’s going on here,” Oliver said, now blinking non-stop.

  “No, I think I got it, Oliver.”

  “It’s, uh,” he said, then shook his head. “Ah, forget it.”

  Oliver headed for the liquor cabinet, then poured and downed a generous shot of scotch. I waved off his offer, then he repeated the process and sat down in a chair across from me. We shared several nervous glances, then to get away from his incessant blinking I focused on the closest painting hanging on the wall.

  “Warm today, huh?” Oliver said.

  “What?”

  “Outside. It’s warm.”

  “Sure, sure. I guess it is a bit warm today.”

  “Unseasonably so,” he said.

  I’d just caught him red-handed cheating with his wife’s sister and all this guy wants to talk about is the weather? But then I realized the weather was probably the safest topic he could come up on the spot. Fortunately for both of us, Caspian entered wearing a black terrycloth robe that was loosely tied. She stood in front of us and looked at Oliver.

  “You should probably go, Oliver,” Caspian said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Where should I go?” he said, blinking up at her through a bewildered expression.

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “But I’m sure you can think of something. Go weed the garden.”

  “I did it yesterday.”

  “Then go play golf.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t remember, Caspian. You never listen,” he said, offended. “I don’t play golf.”

  “Then this is probably a good time to start, right?” she said, glaring at him. “Go.”

  It reminded me of the voice I sometimes used around the Inn when one of our dogs got into trouble. Oliver nodded, got up out of his chair, and tightened the belt on his bathrobe. Pouting, he nodded at Caspian, then looked at me.

  “Good day, Ms. Chandler.”

  I waved and watched him head for the stairs. Caspian also watched him go, then gave me a small smile.

  “Questions?”

  “Tons,” I said, nodding.

  “I’m certain of that.”

  She sat down in Oliver’s chair and draped a leg across the other. I was face to face with
an elaborate abstract tattoo that covered her left foot and ran the length of her leg. I studied her face. I wouldn’t have been able to pick her out of a lineup; the cloaking abilities of her white mask were that good. Her hair was jet black and long, but she looked a bit older than I had assumed, and I couldn’t miss the resemblance to her brothers. She was attractive, and I couldn’t begin to comprehend the demons that had caused her to hide her good looks all these years. But I had no trouble understanding why she had decided to cover her entire body in public. The tattoos were certainly noteworthy, but I was sure the reason she dressed the way she did was to hide the scars.

  “Where would you like to start, Suzy?” she said in a quiet voice, her eyelids fluttering.

  “Geez. That’s a good question,” I said, frowning. “Since I’m having a hard time dealing with the scars, let’s start with them. You must have hundreds of them.”

  “I do,” she said. “When I was younger, I was what’s commonly called a cutter.”

  “You cut yourself?” I said, grimacing.

  “Constantly. My shrink says it was a coping mechanism. You know, a way to deal with the pain of my emotions brought on by situations that were too difficult to handle. Or when I was thoroughly convinced nothing could ever change.”

  “That’s so sad,” I whispered.

  “Personally, I think I did it just to see if my parents would even notice. It’s kind of a strange attention-seeking behavior to adopt, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone doing that to themselves.”

  “I’m sure you can’t,” she said, shrugging. “Looking back, it wasn’t one of my proudest times in my life.”

  “What on earth did you use? Some of those scars are enormous.”

  “Let’s see. Razor blades. Steak knives. Scissors,” she said, casually listing the items. “But my favorite were box cutters.”

  She pulled one of her sleeves up and traced her finger across a raised section of skin on the inside of her arm that was partially hidden by a tattoo.

  “This was the last cut I ever gave myself,” she said, continuing to gently rub the scar. “I almost went too far with this one. I thought it would never stop bleeding.”