by Jean Flowers
“They’ve hardly known about it for a day,” I reminded him.
“I know, but they’re not exactly the NYPD, or even the BPD, are they?”
New York and Boston. Apparently, Cliff put more faith in big-city police forces. I couldn’t blame him. Sunni had four officers, one admin, and a fleet of three patrol cars at her disposal. I didn’t know the stats of the NYPD, but in my former job, I did interact with the BPD’s postal needs and recalled that there were over two thousand officers and nearly one thousand civilians in the department, all together about the entire population of North Ashcot.
While I’d been doing the math, Cliff had continued. “When I went down there this morning, there was Ross—Officer Little, that is—playing solitaire or poker or something on his computer.”
I felt a great urge to defend my friend and her staff. “They’ve all been working overtime since the storm on Monday. What if Ross worked all night and finally took a twenty-minute break?” I asked Cliff, tentatively, conscious of his vulnerability at the moment.
I knew this couldn’t have been the first time Sunni had to deal with a distraught family member of a victim of crime, and I was sure she had the skills and temperament to handle the job, but a little support couldn’t hurt.
“You’re right, you’re right, Cassie, but it’s, like, I’d just convinced myself that Daisy was one of so many victims of storms and natural disasters over the years, and I was going to have to deal with it, and then I hear that she was”—he seemed to be holding his breath—“that someone deliberately . . . I’m sorry if I just lose it.”
I put my hand on his, gave it a squeeze, and offered to get refills for both of us. While I waited at the counter in the sparsely populated café, Sunni’s words came back to me.
“Do you know what Sunni meant when she said ‘stick to our jobs’?” I asked when I returned to our table.
Cliff shrugged. “I guess she figured I was asking you to help with the investigation.”
“But you’re not.”
“Well . . .”
Uh-oh. I realized Cliff still hadn’t asked for that favor he’d mentioned on the phone. I shook my head before he could utter the words. “No, Cliff. I can’t do that. I’m not a cop.”
“But you’ve done this before. Everyone knows you helped Sunni last year in that murder investigation.”
And almost lost Sunni as a friend, I remembered.
“I’m a postmaster; you’re a security guard. That’s certainly closer to being a cop than I am. Isn’t investigation considered part of your job?”
“Not unless the school was set on fire, and even then, it’s the local agencies that take the lead.”
“My point exactly.”
“This is Daisy we’re talking about, Cassie. My wife. You can’t ask me to sit around and watch. You know, the whole town knows, that I couldn’t get into the police academy. My eyesight doesn’t meet their standard”— he removed his eyeglasses and held them out, as if to prove his point, then wiped the lenses with his shirt while he was at it—“but I have good instincts. And security guards have high-quality training.” He took a deep breath, then continued, this time pointing a finger at me, albeit unobtrusively. “Did you know that it was a private security guard who alerted the police to the break-in at Watergate in the seventies?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, the guy was only twenty-four years old, making his rounds in the building, and he noticed a door had been rigged to stay open. He dug around a little, reported it to the local police, and they found out what was going on and eventually arrested five guys who weren’t supposed to be there.”
“And the rest is history,” I said, fascinated.
“The guy was pretty famous for a while, even got a mention from one of those Watergate scandal reporters, either Robert Redford or Dustin Hoffman, I forget which, but then he came upon some hard times.”
I felt his confusing of Woodward and Bernstein with the actors who played them in the movie was understandable, given the circumstances, and let the reference stand. I could tell that this tidbit of history was important to him, and probably in the annals of security firms and personnel everywhere.
“You’re just making a case for going off on your own, Cliff. Not that I recommend that. But I have absolutely no training along those lines, except to hit an emergency button if an armed person comes into the post office.”
“You’re being modest. I know better. I think if we worked together, you and I, we could . . .”
I held up my hand. I was doing a lot of that lately. Cliff continued anyway.
“We could claim you’re just helping me clean out the shop.”
I’d already shaken my head so much my neck hurt. I stood to leave, which seemed to be the only way to end this conversation. But that didn’t work, either. Cliff put his fingers on my wrist, and locked my hand in place. I was amazed that I felt no pain, just a steady, gentle pressure. But one that didn’t leave much room for fleeing. His expression registered nothing but pleading.
“Please, Cassie. Will you at least let me tell you some of my ideas?”
I sat back down. I thought about the risks. That we’d get nowhere, but Sunni would find out we were working on the case and cut me off her list of friends, thus shortening my list considerably. That Cliff and I would actually make progress in uncovering Daisy’s killer and be killed ourselves. Either way it wasn’t a good outcome. The chances that we would discover Daisy’s killer and be alive and well at the end, in good standing with the police, were near zero.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
* * *
Cliff and I decided to move to more comfortable, private quarters, and drove separately toward my house. While he made a detour for ready-made chicken dinners, I ran around my rooms brushing crumbs off my chairs and stuffing stray clothing into closets or hampers.
My mind raced along with my body as I tried to organize what was known about Daisy’s murder. That it was not premeditated was obvious—the convenience of a downed tree branch couldn’t have been built into the crime scene ahead of time. It seemed most likely that, as the post office gossipers theorized, her murder was the result of an argument that went bad and got physical in the heat of the moment. I wondered if Cliff had come up with the same scenario, and could put a face to the other person.
I remembered the tale of antagonism between Daisy and several merchants along Main Street, especially Liv Patterson, the owner of the card shop next door to Daisy’s Fabrics. I nearly laughed at the idea that a quilter could be a killer. But there was nothing funny about what had happened in the backyard of Daisy’s Fabrics.
Once Cliff returned with dinner, we wasted no time putting the food on the table and getting to the matter at hand. Although Cliff had chosen top-of-the-line for a precooked meal, and the aroma was appealing, we picked at the servings, neither of us taking dinner too seriously. Somewhere in the last hour, my appetite had left the building.
“What if this was a complete fluke, like a stranger drifting through?” Cliff suggested, clearly struggling with the idea.
“It’s possible,” I said, though I figured we both knew the unlikelihood of a random killer passing through town during a severe storm, looking for a shop owner to attack, or, finding her hurt, shoving a tree limb across her body.
Cliff rested his forehead in a steeple formed by his arms. He looked defeated already. “Otherwise, I have to believe that someone in this town, someone I may have known for years, killed my wife. Deliberately. Someone who might have been to our home.”
Someone whose packages I’ve processed, I added to myself. “We have to start somewhere,” I said. “Is there anyone in particular that Daisy was upset with lately? Or vice versa?”
“Sure. If you deal with the public at all, there’s bound to be someone unhappy with you at any given time.
”
“Absolutely,” I said, remembering a few nasty notes I’d received in my career at all levels of postal service.
“I feel awful saying this, but my Daisy could rub a lot of people the wrong way.” He blew out a breath, as if trying to gather the courage to say anything negative about his deceased wife. “A few months ago, she had it out with Pete at the hardware store. She said the lightbulbs he sold her didn’t last as long as the package claimed they would. Pete tried to make her see that the package had some weasel words, like ‘up to’ a certain number of hours, not guaranteed. But she wouldn’t quit until she got her money back.” He smiled. “And if you know Pete, you know he was no match for someone looking for a fight.”
I did know that about Pete, the contrast of his sister, Andrea, having been brought home during our quilting session when she showed herself to be the fighter in the family.
“Daisy was a strong person,” I said, for lack of a better response.
“That she was. These days, as you know, it’s Olivia Patterson she was having trouble with, but truthfully it was Liv who started this little feud.”
“Over the greeting cards.”
Cliff nodded. “Daisy’s been over-the-top angry lately because Liv attacked her decision to branch out into cards and gift items in the shop. You simply can’t run a one-item store in a small town. Unless it’s auto parts, or bikes. Even then, Mike has started to carry a few toys in his shop. But Liv kept yelling how she wouldn’t think of selling fabric in her card shop.” He took another breath. “Then Daisy pointed out that Liv did sell fabric in a way—she had some tea towels for sale. And on it went.”
“But Gigi carries greeting cards in her florist shop, too, which is not unusual,” I noted. “Is Liv going to go after every merchant in town?” I asked.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Daisy tried to be a responsible merchant, you know. She purchased the cards we carried from an independent artist over in Springfield. But most of Liv’s card were from a huge chain. Sure, Liv made a bigger profit, but how is that helping the local economy?”
I saw that although it was now a moot point, it was important for Cliff to run through his defense of his wife’s choices. I felt he was trying to rewind recent history to see what could have been done differently. I was no stranger to that mode of dealing with a highly charged emotional experience.
“Surely it wouldn’t have been that hard for them to come to an agreement,” I said. “Even if Daisy agreed to limit the number of cards she carried, or offered to maybe carry only cards with fabric themes.”
“Yeah, that might have worked,” Cliff said, brightening, as if it could still happen, as if it weren’t too late.
I noted how easy it was in the abstract to settle a dispute that had cost two businesswomen their mutual support and friendship and, possibly, one of them her life.
As for me, I was almost ready to close the case. I pictured what might have started as a verbal confrontation between Daisy and Liv, and then the two women ending up, in the middle of the storm, pushing each other around. I could see Daisy falling, perhaps hitting her head, and Liv, frantic, seizing the chance to cover up the unfortunate result with a tree branch that had already fallen. Too easy a solution? It was not for me to say.
The business issue was so much more complicated than a cursory glance would indicate. I wondered, for example, if I’d ever parked in front of Liv’s store and gone in to buy a card in Daisy’s shop, thus keeping someone who wanted to shop at Liv’s from easy access. My head hurt with the possibilities. There was also the impulse buy. I, for one, never bought just one greeting card. While I scanned the rack for something for Linda’s nephew’s graduation, I might remember another friend’s upcoming birthday or the need for a get-well card. And so on. Almost as bad as my Internet shopping patterns—I’d go online to buy pads for my kitchen chairs and end up with a new flannel nightgown and surely a book or two.
Investigating the card-buying habits of North Ashcot citizens was one thing, but it was another entirely to link the local feud to the murder of Daisy Harmon, making Olivia Patterson the chief suspect. If that was all there was to police work, we probably wouldn’t even need a chief.
I returned my focus to Cliff. “Maybe there was something else going on between Daisy and Liv, some issue bigger than greeting cards.”
“If there was, I don’t know,” Cliff said.
I thought about the altercation at the quilters’ meeting. “I heard about the farmers’ market proposal and a hint that Daisy vocally opposed it.”
Cliff nodded. “Right. That was Daisy’s beef with the Harrises. Reggie and Andrea. Daisy went at it a few times with both of them. But it wasn’t personal. It’s not like they’re farmers themselves who’ll profit from the new business. They just want the produce readily available, I think.”
It occurred to me that Daisy might have thought otherwise, with the interests of local businesses in mind.
I looked at our dinner plates, both still untouched. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls—it had sounded like a good idea at the time, but all either of us had had for nourishment so far was a bite or two of a roll and an entire pitcher of ice water between us.
“Why don’t I box this up again?” I said, already into the process. “You might want it later, or tomorrow.”
Cliff looked doubtful, but he agreed to accept half of everything.
I stored my half in the fridge, already knowing what I’d have for dinner instead. I planned to dig into a box of candy Quinn had sent me from a specialty shop in Ogunquit, Maine. I tried to focus on the sweet message that accompanied it, pushing away all the nasty, vengeful thoughts that had filled the day and evening.
5
With no dishes to wash, and three truffles—one vanilla cream, one chocolate toffee, and one raspberry (they were small) under my belt—I settled down to work on my quilt. I started to sew together the pieces of my block depicting the 9/11 HEROES stamp, the most recent design the late Daisy Harmon had found for me in her efforts to help with my patriotic theme. She’d been thrilled when she tracked down the special fabric for me. When too many thoughts of her generosity as an instructor and her unthinkable end came to mind, I put the sewing aside.
I turned to my pile of local newspapers. The top story of the last couple of weeks was the controversy over the farmers’ market proposal, submitted to the town governors for review, by Reggie Harris, quilter Andrea’s husband and the town’s biggest contractor. Cliff had made little of the animosity between the Harrises and Daisy, but I noted that Daisy was not so dispassionate. Daisy’s Fabrics had taken out an ad inviting everyone to come to the shop and sign a petition against Reggie’s proposal. Not as trivial a difference of opinion as Cliff thought.
Here I was, not just reading the newspaper, but looking for suspects. Sunni would not be happy with me.
I read on. The pros for a market were clear: fresh fruit and vegetables for all, increased revenue for the town. And who could be against healthier North Ashcot citizens?
No one objected to organic veggies. The main problem seemed to be the proximity of the proposed location to the regular downtown merchants, and the redundancy of items already being sold by established shops. The farmers’ market would carry products like honey, special teas, candles, and, as noted in a letter to the editor from our florist, Gigi, even plants and flowers. I imagined Gigi, a somewhat shy young woman, mustering the courage to put her thoughts in writing and air them to the public. Clearly, this was a sensitive issue for all concerned.
I saw the dilemma: On the one hand, the farmers wanted their stalls close to where people usually shopped; on the other, the local merchants had some rights to a buffer zone between them and the competition.
I sometimes journeyed to the farmers’ markets in surrounding towns with somewhat larger populations than ours. They’d managed to find space far enough away
from their main shopping area that no one complained. Not loudly, anyway. I wondered how they got their plan to work.
Figuring it out was a job for the selectmen of the town, I decided, and perhaps the Reggie Harrises of the area. I abandoned the issue for the night, doubly glad I had no political aspirations. Why anyone did was beyond me.
* * *
I adjusted my reading pillow and climbed into bed, hoping to lose myself in a thriller. But it was hard to focus when my mind was off on a tangent, replaying the real-life drama of Daisy Harmon’s murder. No need for spies, international intrigue, or hijacked fictional vessels when North Ashcot itself was the center of captivating theater. Was it possible that what I saw as a minor problem—working out fair business practices in a small town—could have led to murder? It was difficult to accept, no matter how many similar stories fiction and history might provide.
At eleven o’clock, my computer, waiting on my bedside table, pinged. Quinn checking in. I put my book aside and replaced it with my laptop. Though we texted frequently during the day, we’d gotten into the habit of a voice-to-voice or electronic face-to-face good-night chat.
Tonight Quinn was staying in a suburb south of Boston. Behind his handsome, ruddy face was a typically drab motel bedroom in oranges and browns, long past their primes. I felt I could smell the dust mites nestled in the drapes and carpet. It occurred to me how challenging it must be to live with furniture put together from a kit while you were seeking out hand-carved pieces from master Philadelphia cabinetmakers. Poor Quinn.
“Did you find any hidden treasures for the shop today?” I asked him.
Big smile over the wires. “I got lost for a while in a cool antiquarian bookstore in downtown Boston. It’s huge, and offers all these special services.”
Quinn spoke in excited tones, as he always did when talking about his passion. I often thought how much Aunt Tess would have enjoyed him. I urged him on. “What’s a special service for books?”
