Drop Dead Cold

by Karin Kaufman

  “That Bouchard is a piece of work. Ma’am this and ma’am that, never really saying a anything that means anything. Tell me, Kate. Tell me the absolute truth. What did you see when you found him?”

  If Sierra had killed Gavin, she was doing a masterful job of pretending she knew nothing about the state of his body in the snow, not to mention pretending she cared about him. Her eyes were red, her eyelids puffy. Alone in her house, with no one as an audience, she’d been crying. “I got out pretty quickly, so I didn’t see a whole lot. Gavin looked like he was sleeping on his back.”

  Sierra snorted.

  “No, he did. I thought he’d fallen asleep and maybe . . . the cold had . . .”

  “Got to him and he froze to death? What would he be doing laying in the snow?”

  “It didn’t make sense to me, either. I didn’t realize at first that he was dead, but he didn’t look like he’d been in pain.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone in the woods?”

  “No one.”

  “That Bouchard said you’d been out walking and that’s why you found him.”

  “I like to walk, and I prefer to walk in the woods rather than along Birch Street because it’s peaceful.”

  “Not this morning it wasn’t. They wouldn’t tell me how he died, you know?”

  “It takes time for them to make certain. They’ll let you know.”

  Sierra fingered the fabric on her arm rest. Her hands were chapped from the cold, her cuticles rimmed with soil.

  “Were you outside just now?” I asked.

  “I was in the back yard. I wanted to know what Richard Comeau was looking for.”

  “Where was he looking exactly? I ask because I think he was in my back yard last night.”

  An expression akin to relief came over her face. She had wanted to know what I’d seen in the woods, but having heard me, she wanted to wash my words from her mind and move on. “He was looking around rocks and under pots, like you would for worms. Ray Landry had two dozen pots out there. Gavin didn’t watch Comeau like a hawk, not the way I did. He told me to get away from the window because he trusted everyone, but that Comeau was up to no good. What did he want to search those pots for? And then he came back inside and acted like he hadn’t just searched my yard.”

  “He’s a strange man, and possibly a dangerous one. I thought you didn’t mind Comeau messing around in your back yard.”

  “It bothered me more than I said in front of Gavin. Did you hear what Comeau said on the bus, about houses revealing their secrets? It made my skin crawl.”

  “Sierra, had you ever met Comeau before? Even briefly?”

  “Once, yeah.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. “When was this? Where?”

  “I need coffee.” She rose shakily and started for her kitchen. “Want coffee?”

  “Sure,” I said, trailing after her.

  The Dearborns’ propensity toward general knick-knackiness hadn’t extended into Ray’s old kitchen, I noticed as I took a seat at their Mission-style breakfast table. The counters were clean and, except for a few stainless canisters, a blender, and a Keurig coffeemaker, free of clutter. Ray would have liked it. Sierra popped a couple pods into the Keurig, and a minute later were again talking about Comeau.

  “I met Comeau before the tour,” she said. “In Hannaford’s, two days before. I don’t know how, but he knew who I was.”

  “He lives in Lewiston,” I said. “What was he doing in the Smithwell Hannaford’s?”

  Sierra gave me a barely perceptible shrug. “He had a cart with groceries in it, so . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  “He congratulated me on buying the Landry house, said he’d wanted it himself but moved too slowly and didn’t offer enough—or something like that. He was very polite, I remember. He bowed a little when he introduced himself.”

  I wanted to ask her how the heck Comeau had known she’d bought Ray’s house and how he’d known to find her in the supermarket, but I knew those vital questions, on the tip of my tongue, would alarm her if I asked them. I took a drink of coffee. Maybe grief had dulled her reason in the matter, but even given her professed distrust of Comeau, it seemed she wasn’t applying logic to their improbable meeting.

  “On the bus, Comeau didn’t act as though he’d met you before,” I said.

  “Yeah, but that was okay with me. I didn’t tell Gavin I’d run into Comeau before until yesterday.”

  “Was he upset?”

  Sierra looked confused. “No. It’s not like Comeau threatened me.”

  “And you’re sure Gavin had never met Comeau before?”

  “I didn’t think so, but you know what? I’m having second thoughts. Gavin didn’t say outright that he’d never met him, and I’ve been wondering why he didn’t react more to Comeau turning pots over in our back yard. Maybe he did know him. My Gavin would’ve shown a stranger the door for doing that, but he gave Comeau free rein and told me to stop watching him because it would make him uncomfortable. It seems . . . not normal, now that I think about it. Gavin was always friendly, but this was beyond . . . I mean, it was different.”

  A faraway look in her eyes, Sierra slumped back in her chair and at last took a sip of coffee. It appeared she was beginning to ask herself the questions I’d wanted to ask.

  I sat with her for a couple minutes. Neither of us spoke, but I felt the need to keep her company, if only for a little while. There was now no doubt in my mind that Gavin had known Comeau. It was even conceivable he’d invited Comeau over to explore his back yard. Letting him overturn pots like that—it wasn’t something you’d let a stranger do. Maybe Gavin’s love of all things miniature had drawn them together.

  I put my cup in the sink and thanked Sierra for taking the time to talk to me. At her front door, I ventured one last question. “If Gavin did meet Comeau before the birding tour, where do you think that might have been?”

  “Comeau’s thing for pots and plants . . .” Sierra leaned on the door frame, thinking for a moment before she continued. “They could have met at the Dover-Foxcroft Alpine Garden Society. Gavin isn’t a member, but he’s been to their shows. Unless they met at the Central Maine Trail Club, but Comeau doesn’t look like he could hike more than a mile without collapsing. Other than that, I don’t know.”

  “When was the last meeting of the Alpine Garden Society?”

  “Oh, about a week ago. Gavin came back kind of—not excited, exactly, but more energetic than usual. I wish I’d asked him why. Will you tell me if you find out anything? You’ve talked more to me than the police did.”

  “Sure. Of course.” I thanked Sierra again and headed to my Jeep. Where to next? I wondered. Emily needed to stay at home with Laurence, and Minette, whose insights had guided my amateur murder investigations before, couldn’t help me now.

  To my own satisfaction, if no one else’s, I had narrowed down the suspects in both murders to Comeau, Tom, and Joel. Most of all, I suspected Comeau, but I knew my instinctive dislike of him might be leading me astray. I needed information, proof. Laurence was still pumping his contacts for details, but in the meantime, I thought, I’d head back to Wildland Birds and have another talk with Sophia. As much as that woman knew about my three suspects, I had a feeling she knew even more than she had told me. If I took her at her word, she didn’t know Comeau, but she knew an awful lot about Tom Roche, his divorce proceedings, and Tom’s need for a break. The man lived in Glenburn and his bakery was in Old Town—either way, not a quick drive from Smithwell. Why had Sophia coaxed him into taking a birdwatching tour?

  Then there was Joel. Being a co-worker, it made sense that Sophia would know about his personal life, but she’d overreacted when I’d asked her about him. But he’s one of us. He’s a nice guy. One of the best. Something wasn’t right there.

  I stopped at Angelo’s for two cups of coffee to go, then drove the few blocks to Wildland Birds. Sophia, still dressed in her snow boots, baggy jeans, and tattered cardigan, gr
eeted me with a big smile and a thank-you when I handed her a coffee. She seemed in a cheery mood, which I hoped signaled a fruitful conversation to come.

  There was no time to waste, so I jumped right in, starting with news of Gavin Dearborn’s death. But word had already traveled across downtown Smithwell.

  “I just heard about that,” she said. “It’s unbelievable. What’s going on? It’s like the tour was cursed. Was it a heart attack? I heard it was a heart attack.”

  “The police haven’t said what his cause of death was. How well did you know Gavin?”

  “I knew about his house, poor guy, and that he liked birds and plants. We talked when I signed him and his wife for the tour. Sierra! What’s she going to do?”

  “Had you met him before?”

  “No, we just talked when I signed him. He was a talker, you know? More than his wife.”

  “Listen, Sophia. I’m trying to help Sierra, and you seem to be very observant.” I glanced surreptitiously around the office, and Sophia, game for a little cloak-and-dagger fun, followed suit. “Did Gavin have any enemies on that bus? Or anywhere else that you know of?”

  Genuinely perplexed, she shook her head. “He seemed like a nice guy. He got along with his wife and everybody else that I saw. Not that I saw much.” She pried the lid from her cup and blew over her coffee to cool it.

  “What about Nadine? Did Gavin know her?”

  “I don’t know. But why would he?”

  “Because Nadine worked in insurance fraud and investigated his house fire.”

  “Yeah? Even so, he wouldn’t have hurt her. He and Sierra were really happy with their insurance company. They talked about their fire, said the money they got helped them pay off their house and get an even better one in Smithwell, and that’s where they’d been wanting to live for five years. Gavin said the fire turned out to be a blessing. That’s the same word Joel used—a blessing. He was even happier with his insurance company.”

  “Tom Roche wasn’t.”

  “Tom had worse problems than his bakery flooding and his insurance company not giving him enough money.”

  “His wife?”

  “That’s right. If Tom was going to kill anyone”—she threw out her hand—“not that he would, don’t misunderstand. But if he did, it would be his wife. Besides, he didn’t know Nadine would be on the tour. None of them did, except for me and Joel.”

  “Why Joel?”

  “He thought it would be a good idea to put them together. The Dearborns and Tom, especially. I should have thought of it myself. It’s part of my job. When I told Joel about Tom’s flooding and divorce and all that, he told me to switch him to this Saturday, so—”

  “From when?”

  “From last Saturday. I called him up and told him I’d overbooked.” Pleased with her crafty move, Sophia grinned. “They’d all had a tough winter, and we like to match people on the tours as much as we can, so it benefits everyone. The birders can make friends—and if they do, they’re all more likely to be return customers.”

  “Wait, wait.” I groaned and ran my hands down my face, frustrated as all get-out at having missed this crucial piece of the puzzle. “Did you tell the police Joel had you switch the dates?”

  “Why should I? We’ve done it before.” She scrunched up her face. “Though I never say I’ve overbooked. That was a stretch. I say, ‘Would you like to change dates and meet someone who also loves to read?’ That kind of thing. Like I told you, we try to match personalities in our groups, and Joel saw an opportunity. He’s a good guy.”

  My mind was racing a mile a minute. Insurance companies, payouts large and small, and three claimants on the same tour bus, thanks to Joel Perry. “Did Joel help any of the other birdwatchers? I mean, did he suggest you change dates for anyone other than Tom Roche?”

  “No, but, well . . .” Sophia took an exasperatingly long drink of her coffee. “Then again, Nadine’s date changed. I didn’t sign her, but her name was originally penned in for another day. Then someone drew a line through her name and moved it to this past Saturday. I assumed Beth, my office mate, did it. It’s her handwriting.”

  “Is she in?”

  “Not today.” Oblivious to my shock at this bombshell, Sophia took another casual sip of coffee. “Want me to call her?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Feeling like I’d just cracked the case with one conversation, I drove to the police station on Falmouth Street. But before going inside, I called Laurence to see if he could bolster my argument. Convincing Bouchard of my theory would require all the ammunition I could muster.

  Laurence answered on the second ring. His contacts had come through for him again, this time with information on Nadine. Word was, the insurers Nadine worked for had been about to cut her loose as an independent contractor. In their eyes, her past few reports had been questionable. She had suggested the maximum payout in four cases and more than the maximum in one—Joel’s—and the companies’ hands were tied by her reports since the claimants could use them if they took the insurers to trial. The one exception was the payout Nadine suggested for Tom Roche’s bakery, which was lower than his insurance company had been willing to pay.

  “In Tom’s case, it’s almost as though she was covering herself,” I said. “Do you think it’s possible for a claimant not to know who the insurance investigator is on their case?”

  “Oh, sure,” Laurence replied. “You deal with the company, right? The company hires the investigator—if they hire one at all—not you. Though if you were persistent, you could find out.”

  “Did you learn anything more about the payouts?”

  “The Dearborns’ payout was normal, far as I can tell,” Laurence said. “Joel’s was too much. More than his house was worth, even with the renovations. And here’s the kicker. I looked into who owned the house Nadine gave another big payout to. It was the sister-in-law of Joel’s former employer, the guy who owned the trucking firm.”

  “A trail from Nadine to the sister-in-law to the employer and to Joel,” I said. “It’s six degrees of separation.”

  “Which can be plenty, unless someone gets cold feet.”

  “Thinking you might lose your means of making a living could give you cold feet. Thanks, Laurence. I’m in front of the police station right now.”

  “As long as you don’t mention my contacts.”

  I laughed. “One day you’ll have to tell me who they are, Mr. Bond, because I haven’t the faintest.” Tempted as I was to ask him what sort of oddball yet brilliant contacts he had, I didn’t want to be sidelined by my curiosity. I had an Officer Bouchard to convince, and that would take time. And probably a fair amount of pleading.

  I trotted up the steps and into the station, hoping to make it past the front desk without the guard-dog officer there stopping me. It was not to be. I told him it was vital I speak to Bouchard.

  “He’s not in, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He left for Bickford.”

  “Will he be back soon?”

  “Um . . .” The guard dog checked his wristwatch. “Not until after dinner, and he might go directly home after that. You can leave a message with me.”

  “No, it’s too important.” Voices floated down the hall, and my eyes wandered in that direction.

  “Well, let me see . . .”

  I looked back to the officer as he was examining a roster of some kind. At least he was trying to be helpful.

  “Do I hear Detective Rancourt down there?” I asked.

  “He’s not supposed to be here. He just got out—”

  “I know about his accident, but it’s important. Would you ask him if he has a moment, please? My name is Kate Brewer.”

  The officer worked his jaw a little, clearly disapproving of my impertinence, but he made the call, and a minute later I was seated in Rancourt’s office, telling him everything new I’d learned about Nadine’s murder while he dug into a bag of potato chips. He grunted now and then, his gray brows kn
itting as he listened.

  “I wondered how all those people with insurance claims ended up on the same bus,” I continued. “Turns out Sophia changed Tom’s tour date—on Joel’s suggestion—and another office worker, Beth, changed Nadine’s tour date. Joel told her to switch dates because Nadine wanted the switch.”

  Rancourt gave me a small nod of his head. “That puts the alteration is in Beth’s handwriting.”

  “Sophia called Beth while I was at Wildland Birds, and Beth confirmed Joel had her make the change. And another thing. Nadine got angry with Joel when he took the threatening note from her. She went on and on, saying all he cared about is money.”

  “This jibes with some of what Bouchard told me in the hospital. The last nail in the coffin, I’d say.”

  “I thought you weren’t getting out until tomorrow morning.”

  “Change of plans. I can be persuasive.” He shoved several chips in his mouth and brushed his hands together.

  “You should wash that down with some vitamins.”

  Grimacing with the effort, Rancourt got up, dropped the potato chip bag into a trash can, and took his coat from a rack by the door. “You may have sealed it, Mrs. Brewer. Joel Perry was in Tijuana two weeks ago, something he failed to mention in our interviews. Close to seventy percent of the illegal fentanyl and carfentanil in the U.S. travels through Tijuana on its way to California.”

  “Holy cow.” I rose. “What was he doing there?”

  “He has a sister in San Diego.”

  “Of course! He was born in California.”

  Rancourt glared at me, grumbled something about knowing things I shouldn’t know, and slipped on his coat.

  I waffled and weaved. “I mean . . . someone told me that . . . at some point. You know, I was on that bus, sitting right behind Nadine, so it’s natural I’d talk to people afterward. Was there any carfentanil on Joel’s belongings?”

  “Nothing. If it was him, he was careful. He and Nadine were alone on the bus early on. She was the first birdwatcher to arrive, and the Dearborns were next.”