by Anne Canadeo
“Just since Thursday night,” Dana clarified.
Lucy felt most responsible for Edie being kept in the dark, since she had known the longest. “I’m sorry, Edie. We all thought Maggie should be the one to tell you. I guess she just didn’t get a chance.”
“No, I didn’t. Yesterday morning when I came to the get iced coffee, I tried. But we got interrupted,” Maggie reminded her.
Edie thought back, and her eyes narrowed. Then her expression relaxed and she nodded. “I did get the feeling you wanted to tell me something. And you never drink cold coffee in the morning, no matter how hot it gets outside. So that seemed fishy, too.”
Maggie smiled a little. “Sometimes I do . . . but I was really there to talk to you. I’m sorry I kept that from you. Even for a day. Can you forgive us?” she asked sincerely.
Edie sighed and shrugged. “Oh, whatever . . . I’m never one to kill the messenger. And you weren’t even the messenger, were you? The one to be smoking mad at is Richard. And that wretched witch, Cassandra. I don’t have much steam leftover after that.”
“How is Nora taking this?” Dana asked.
“She’s beside herself. She didn’t even believe it at first, when he told her.”
“Richard told her?” Lucy asked.
“He had to. The police called them both in for more questions and Richard knew that was the reason.” Edie paused, smoothing out her big flowered dress. “Funny thing is, Nora had taken to her bed over Cassandra. She was practically catatonic over it. But now she’s full of piss and vinegar. I hardly recognized her voice on the phone. She was down for the count one minute, then jumped back up, swinging away.”
Lucy had expected Nora to fall into an even deeper emotional decline over the news of Richard’s betrayal. She was glad to hear that hadn’t happened.
“So the anger has . . . animated her?” Maggie said.
“That’s right. Perked her right up,” Edie replied.
“Interesting,” Dana said, sounding curious. “Is she still seeing her therapist?”
Edie shrugged. “Said she didn’t need that anymore. Though she may need to find a good marriage counselor. Richard’s moved into the antique shop. Talk about a guy who has to sleep on the couch. He’s got his pick. He can try a new one every night. Though those old sofas are lumpy and scratchy. I’d never have an antique couch in my house. What’s the point?” Her rambling wound down and she sipped again at her tea.
Lucy and her friends exchanged glances. None of them spoke. “I’m just worried about Nora,” Edie repeated.
“Because of this radical mood swing?” Dana asked.
“Because she was the last one to visit Cassandra. The last one on the list, anyway. Because she doesn’t have a good alibi for the rest of the night. She went home and took a sleeping pill and went to bed. She didn’t wake up until the next morning. Dale was out. He went to a party after work. Richard dropped him off, and went back to his wood shop. Then he went to get Dale at the party on his way home. Nora was home alone all that time. The time they say that Cassandra was murdered.”
Nora’s lack of an alibi was alarming. But what motive would Nora have to take Cassandra’s life? She had no idea of the awful hoax Cassandra and Richard had been playing on her. Not at that point.
“What does Richard think about this—all the police attention focused on Nora? Are you speaking to him?” Maggie asked gently.
“I don’t want to. But I don’t have much choice. Dale is still working for me, and I can’t help but see Richard, twenty-four/seven.” She stood up and smoothed her dress and hair. “He apologized to me and explained his side of the story. Have to admit, I felt sorry for him. He did a damn stupid thing,” she added quickly. “But the man’s been sort of broken since Kyle died. Knowing how sick Nora has been, I don’t entirely blame him. Is it fair to judge anyone by one stupid act?” She shrugged her big shoulders. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve screwed up plenty of times. Times I wouldn’t want people to judge me on.”
“That’s true, Edie,” Lucy said. She felt the same about Richard. Some of the time, anyway. “But what does he think about the police questioning Nora?” Lucy asked again. Edie seemed to have lost focus on that point.
“He’s worried. He doesn’t want her to talk to them again without a lawyer.”
“They haven’t called a lawyer yet?” Dana asked. Lucy could tell she was trying not to sound alarmed. But she didn’t do a great job of it.
“They will now. Even if I have to find one and pay the bill,” Edie said.
“And what about Richard . . . are the police questioning him more?” Lucy felt uncomfortable asking the question. But she wanted to know. With this latest revelation, Richard had as much motive to kill the psychic as Nora did, if not more.
Edie met her glance, then looked away. It was hard to guess what she thought of speculation in that direction. “No. The police are not hassling Richard. Just Nora. He was here in town, working the whole night. After he dropped Dale off at a party, he went back to the shop to finish a dining table and chairs he had to deliver the next day. He was making so much noise that a tenant came down and had a talk with him. Just about the time they say Cassandra was killed. People saw him going in and out, loading his van with the furniture.” Edie shrugged. “He’s covered. It’s poor Nora who’s got no way to prove she was out like a light, all night.”
Lucy nodded, feeling almost sorry now that she’d asked the question. Edie looked so upset all over again about Nora. But at least, she knew. “I see . . . well, maybe something will turn up. Some way Nora can prove she was home all night.”
“I hope so, though I don’t know what that would be. Hey, I’ve got to go. They’ll be sending a search party out for me in a minute.” Edie glanced at her watch, a bubble-gum pink digital model with a rubber wrist strap. It looked as if she had borrowed it from a granddaughter. She squinted down at the face, then put her glasses on to double-check.
Lucy wondered what had happened to the watch she usually wore—a man’s watch, an expensive one, too, with a thick gold band and large face with sweeping hands and Roman numerals. It had belonged to her father, Edie had told them, and Lucy had rarely seen her without it.
Perhaps the battery needed to be changed, or the band broke. It was an impractical accessory for someone who ran a diner.
Lucy and Dana said goodbye and Maggie walked Edie down to the gate, gently holding her arm.
“This has been a shock for Edie, too,” Maggie said when she returned. “Never mind Nora. Our dear friend is not getting any younger.”
“Do you really think the police suspect Nora?” Lucy asked her friends. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly and would have never harmed a hair on Cassandra’s head. I don’t believe she’d be capable of bashing someone’s head in with a big rock.”
“Not the night Cassandra was murdered. Though she’s probably feeling incredibly angry and betrayed now,” Maggie said.
“I also think the police are on the wrong track, focusing on Nora,” Dana said. “Even Richard had more reason to want to end Cassandra’s life. She was practically extorting him. But he also needed her to keep the hoax going. Even though he may have hated her, and hated how she was manipulating him, I don’t think he would have ended their charade so abruptly. Or so violently. I think he would have put more thought into it. Made it look like an accident maybe,” Dana mused.
“Either way, it sounds like he has a solid alibi for the time Cassandra was murdered,” Maggie reminded her.
“He does,” Dana said. “Nora is the problem. She has no way to verify that she’s telling the truth about where she was and what she was doing.”
“Let’s hope the person of interest in the Jimmy Hubbard case ties in to Cassandra’s case in some way,” Lucy said. “Maybe Cassandra was in on the drug dealing, and this disgruntled sandwich shop clerk took revenge on both of them. Didn’t you say the police had found a connection between Jimmy and Cassandra?”
“Yes, he�
�d made at least two appointments with her. Maybe they were business meetings and not psychic sessions. Maybe selling and distributing drugs, and this store clerk, all fit into the puzzle.” Dana returned to her knitting. “The police will be happy to solve two murders with one clean sweep.”
“Will they ever,” Maggie said. From her tone, Lucy could tell she was not seeing Charles tonight for their usual Saturday night date. Perhaps he’d be coming by very late, after work? But Maggie looked so out of sorts at the mention of the subject, Lucy didn’t want to ask.
Lucy made a mental note not to miss the local news tonight. If the case was solved with the apprehension of the sandwich shop clerk, Maggie would be very happy, too.
* * *
Lucy rarely watched the news on Saturday night, but she and Matt had stayed in, watching a movie, and when eleven o’clock rolled around she suddenly remembered the sub shop clerk.
Matt was already on his way upstairs, collecting his sneakers and a denim shirt that was hanging over the back of a chair. “Coming up soon, honey?”
“In a minute. I just want to get the coffeemaker ready for tomorrow and check something.” She did begin putting up the coffee, while listening to the newscasters’ banter, trying to deliver the day’s fairly dull events in a lively way.
Finally, a female anchor with a helmet of dark red hair said, “The Essex County police are looking for a man in connection with the homicide of a Plum Harbor businessman and resident, James P. Hubbard. Hubbard was found dead two weeks ago in the theater he owned and managed. Investigators are now seeking this man, for questioning. Twenty-one-year-old Quentin Kestler, a counter clerk at the Quik-Stop sandwich shop on Route One.”
A photograph flashed on the screen. Quentin Kestler looked much like Lucy had pictured him, a skin-and-bones build with a white baseball cap on backward, a tattoo swirling down his neck and disappearing somewhere under the collar of a black T-shirt and the edge of a bright yellow apron, his Quik-Stop uniform. He was sticking out his chin, mugging for the camera.
“Police ask the public’s assistance in establishing Kestler’s whereabouts and have set up an anonymous tip line to receive information.”
An 800 number flashed on the screen. Lucy found it disturbing that Quentin Kestler had disappeared into the woodwork. Disturbing and incriminating.
Maybe Edie’s heartfelt wish would come true.
* * *
Maggie was thinking the same thing, having watched the same report. Charles was in the kitchen that adjoined her family room. He’d come in from work a few minutes past eleven and was enjoying a very late dinner; a dish of chicken parmigiana with spaghetti on the side, one of his favorites in her recipe repertoire. She’d just happened to have some in the freezer, along with some sauce, and had eaten just a salad herself, much earlier. She had been sitting with him, though, sipping a glass of red wine.
“I just want to check the weather,” she said, when she noticed that the report about the sandwich shop clerk was coming on. “I’m meeting Lucy and Matt at the beach tomorrow.”
That part was true, though the weather was incredibly clear and dry, with no threat of rain for the next week.
“It’s all right, turn it up,” he called after her. “I want to hear how much they decided to give the media about that guy, Kestler, anyway.”
Maggie glanced over her shoulder, listening to the report with interest. Which was scant, she had to say.
She returned to Charles and sat across from him again. “So, there’s more known about Quentin Kestler by now. I guess there has to be. That wasn’t nearly enough to make him a wanted man.”
Oh . . . dear. She was doing it again. And she had been so good these last two weeks, since Jimmy Hubbard had been found. Even Charles had remarked on it.
She glanced up to check his reaction. He sat back and smiled at her. “Of course there is. That’s why we want him so badly for questioning. So far, he looks like our missing link. We can connect him to Hubbard and Waters. There’s a ton of phone contact between him and the movie theater owner and visits to the back of the theater. The boy who works there, that Scotty Bailey who found the body, he can verify that and also says he overheard a big argument between the men just days before Hubbard was murdered.”
Maggie tried to dampen down her reaction. Charles was on a roll. She’d rarely seen him this forthcoming about one of his investigations.
“Interesting,” she murmured, just enough to encourage him, she hoped. “What about the psychic? Do you think the three were involved in a drug dealing partnership?”
“That’s still a live lead. Kestler is noted in her client log about three times. He visited her cottage the morning she was killed,” he added. “We haven’t been able to pin any of the clients, who say they came to her for supernatural advice, as known users of illegal substances. But we’re still not wiping that angle off the board. Maybe Cassandra Waters was just buying from him,” he said with a shrug. “Her autopsy turned up negative for any junk like that, but you never know.”
He shrugged and expertly swirled a last few strands of spaghetti onto his fork, then downed it in one bite.
“This is all inside information, Maggie. You know that, right?”
“Yes . . . I do,” she said, nodding firmly. “And I’m honored that you trust me with it. But what in the world has loosened your tongue tonight, may I ask? Was it the wine?” She took hold of the bottle and examined the label, as if it held the mysterious answer.
Charles laughed at her. “Could be. Or something in this awesome chicken parm. Or maybe I’m just tired and grateful to have someone as wonderful as you waiting for me at the end of a very long day.” He took her hand and smiled into her eyes. “And my, dear . . . you’ve been so good. You’ve earned it.”
Maggie laughed. “I have been good. I’ll try to live up to your trust,” she said in a half-joking, half-solemn tone. Though she wasn’t really sure she could.
Maggie was amazed and secretly proud that she had managed to keep her promise to Charles on Sunday, while spending the afternoon with Lucy, Matt, and Matt’s daughter, Dara, at Crane Beach in Ipswich.
The beach was crowded with families and Lucy was often engaged with Dara, watching over her in the water, or playing with a big bag of sand toys. The three of them managed to fashion a life-size mermaid out of wet sand and took many pictures for Facebook—and posterity—before the day ended and the incoming tide nibbled on the mermaid’s long tail and tendrils of hair.
Maggie was actually relieved that there had been no time to chat one-on-one, or take a long walk to the deserted end of the shoreline, though she hoped to return soon with Charles and do both of those things; it was one of the most beautiful stretches of coastline in New England and definitely her favorite. After their beach day, it was lobster rolls and fried clams at Woodman’s in Essex, where they sat at the picnic tables in back.
It was late in the day and a cool breeze from the open grassland and inlets was very refreshing. Everyone was too worn-out from the sun and surf to talk much anyway.
“How is Charles holding up? Working hard, I bet,” Lucy said on the ride back to Maggie’s house.
“Yes, he is. Hard to say how long this will last, too,” Maggie added. “So how was school this year, Dara? Happy to be on vacation?” She turned to the little girl who sat beside her in the backseat of Lucy’s Jeep.
Dara was happy about that and even happier to chat about the end-of-the-term events, including a pool party at her best friend’s house and field day, which her class won. Maggie listened closely, asking a lot of questions, until her house came in sight.
A narrow escape, but she was proud of her willpower. Maybe she could manage this. Just until Quentin Kestler was found, and all the information came out?
But when Maggie spotted Edie, waiting on the porch of her shop on Monday morning, looking as anxious as ever and “practically doing a tap dance”—Edie’s favorite expression to describe such a state—Maggie knew her heart was g
oing to overrule her head and her promises to Charles, as well. The information he’d imparted could very well put Edie out of her misery and she so wanted to help her friend.
“So what do you think of this Quentin Kestler character? Have you heard anything? Do the police have any idea where he is?” Edie asked in a wheezy rush.
Maggie unlocked the shop and Edie followed her in. “You’d think with all the gadgets and gizmos they’ve got, they could track down a measly little deli clerk. The cops on TV do it in two minutes,” Edie added.
“The police are doing the best they can, Edie. But this is reality. Not a half-hour crime drama.”
“I know, I know . . . but did you see that guy’s picture? He’s no Einstein.”
Maggie agreed on that assessment. If one could judge from appearances. Then again, had Edie ever really looked closely at a picture of Einstein?
“I haven’t heard anything from Charles about the search,” Maggie said honestly. “But Charles did tell me a few things that should put your mind at ease about Nora,” she added quietly.
“He did? What did he say?” Edie stood watching Maggie make coffee. Her mouth—lipstick already smeared—hung open a bit.
Maggie quickly related all Charles had told her—about the connections between Jimmy Hubbard, Cassandra Waters, and Quentin Kestler. “Charles reminded me it’s all circumstantial evidence and might turn out to be a dead end. But it’s more than they’ve been able to pull together so far on either of these cases.”
Edie released a huge sigh and leaned back. She briefly closed her eyes and touched her chest. Maggie hoped she wasn’t feeling heart palpitations again . . . and then hoped Edie didn’t ask for a cup of coffee.
“That is good news,” Edie said finally. “I just hope they catch him. He could be in Canada by now. Or Mexico. Or anywhere.”
“True. But let’s hope that’s not the case. You don’t want any coffee, do you?” Maggie asked.
Edie shook her head. “Just some cold water if you got it.”
“I do.” Maggie quickly grabbed a bottle from the fridge. “Let’s sit a minute,” she said, leading Edie out to the shop again.
