by Jean Flowers
Cliff opened the tabs on our containers, releasing even stronger aromas of whatever Thai sauces were made of. I felt a pang of guilt as I wished I were sharing it with Quinn, or even Sunni, rather than with a guy who might be leading me into an obstruction of justice charge.
“When is our meeting with Jules?” I asked, now almost eager to be in the condescending moneyman’s presence again.
“Can you make it this evening?”
With Quinn away I had nothing better to do on a Friday night, and I wanted to get all the meetings and investigative tasks behind me and, given a miracle, the case solved, before he returned on Sunday. “As long as it’s after five,” I said.
“Great. I’ll text him.” He pulled out his smartphone and got to work. “I’m just getting used to this, but everybody these days sort of demands it,” he said.
“E-mailing is so yesterday,” I said with a smile.
Cliff struggled with his wide thumbs, switching now and then to his pinkie, while I sampled a tender, flaky chunk of chicken, followed by a perfectly coated cashew. Although his bulky appearance suggested he was the fast food, quick burger type, apparently the man was a foodie, as attested to by his choice of takeout.
“Any news?” he asked when he’d finished the text.
I wanted to tell him about Molly’s fib just to impress him, assure him that I was on the job, so to speak, but I knew that wasn’t a good idea. I had the feeling that he’d jump on any possible lead and take it to a sorry end. I couldn’t do that to Molly, or anyone else, without more information.
“I’m following up with the quilters’ group, but nothing stands out. How about you?”
Cliff opened his folder, his lunch still untouched. “I talked to Reggie Harris about the farmers’ market proposal.”
I’d almost forgotten about the second part of the altercation that had broken out at the quilters’ meeting. Andrea, Reggie’s wife, had been the object of Liv’s ridicule. I had to smile as the image of fabric featuring an overly pink mermaid came to mind. Andrea had escalated the drama by accusing Liv of, at least, being happy about the death of her competitor in greeting cards, and at most, possibly causing it. What had followed was an escalation of insults, including one about Reggie’s sponsorship of the farmers’ market proposal.
Cliff had continued talking, not noticing that my attention had gone elsewhere. I picked up his thread as he was making a confession. “. . . have to admit I feel awful trying to capitalize on sympathy for me as I more or less interrogate my friends. I know I should be in seclusion or something, but I can’t sleep”—or eat, I thought, looking at his full box of Thai chicken—“until I figure out what happened to my wife, the love of my life. And going through her things? I can’t handle it right now.”
His last words were barely audible. It was bound to happen. Cliff broke down, as I should have expected. His head fell to his chest, and his shoulders shook with his sobs. His body seemed to sway from side to side. The lucky thing was that the high school contingent had taken a break and made a picnic scene on the floor of the stage at the front of the room. The kids’ talk and laughter bounced off the walls and drowned out any sounds coming from Cliff’s grief. The last thing to interest them would be two old folks in the back, folks who had at one time been in school, which had started and ended at the same time every day.
I was at a loss for how to respond to Cliff. We’d been sitting across the back table from each other, on folding chairs. Not wanting to draw attention from anyone who happened to be glancing our way, I reached out and put my hands around Cliff’s, which were clasped together. I uttered a word of sympathy—not useful, but I hoped he’d feel my support. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to help him find Daisy’s killer and promised myself to stop wavering.
After a couple of minutes, I handed him a napkin from the pile between us. “I’m so sorry, Cliff,” I said again, and pushed his bottle of water toward him. “You should at least drink some water. You’re not going to be any use to anyone unless you take care of yourself.”
What a surprise. I found myself uttering words I’d heard over and over when my parents died. I wondered if anyone, anywhere, knew what words or actions would have an impact at times like this.
He lifted his head, dried his face with the napkin. I waved away his “Sorry,” and he was ready to continue.
“Daisy was in deeper than I thought,” he said. When I looked confused, he clarified. “The farmers’ market issue?”
“Right,” I said. “Your talk with Reggie Harris.” Which seemed to have been mentioned hours, not minutes ago.
He pulled a printed sheet from his folder. He was back to work. The eight-and-a-half-by-eleven page showed marks that suggested it had been crumpled, then smoothed out for copying.
He placed the sheet in front of me. “Last week, Daisy wrote this letter to the Town Crier for the Letters to the Editor page. There’s pretty strong language here, singling out Reggie, calling him some kind of traitor, saying he didn’t care about local merchants and on and on, even accusing him of profiting somehow if the farmers were allowed to move in.”
“Profiting because it’s his land that the farmers would be using?”
Cliff shrugged. “That and other things not as aboveboard as renting or leasing agreements. It was sort of veiled, you know? Implying that he’d be taking a cut if he got the zoning through.”
Something didn’t seem right. “What kind of payoff could Reggie expect from a group of farmers? Unless the price of beets has gone up astronomically, a cut, as you put it, wouldn’t amount to much.”
“Maybe it wasn’t just beets for sale.”
“Cliff, are you saying the farmers would be coming here selling—”
“I’m not saying anything.” He folded his arms across his wide chest. “I’m just trying to cover all bases, like I told you.”
I moved on, picking up the letter. “This is what Daisy wrote to the newspaper?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. Reggie gave it to me. It was never printed. Reggie and Gordon Brooks, the Town Crier’s editor, are golf buddies, so Gordon showed it to Reggie.”
“And Reggie was obliging enough to offer you the letter Daisy wrote, disparaging him?”
“I might have bullied him a little,” he said, biting his lip. Sheepish?
I doubted the “little” part. After all, Cliff was a big man, trained in physical confrontation; Reggie was short and small framed, a little chunky, like his wife, Andrea. Cliff had a badge and, on some jobs, carried a gun. Even a little bullying would be enough to intimidate an ordinary citizen. But Reggie himself had a lot of clout, big developer that he was. He probably had muscle of his own. Or at least a couple of junkyard dogs.
I expected Cliff to give me a minute to read the letter for myself, but Cliff went on. “I can’t believe Daisy wrote it. She usually would show something like that to me first, but not this time.” He scratched his head. “Never mind. I guess I can believe it. When she was passionate about something, she put everything into it.” Cliff choked up and I was afraid he was going to lose it again, but he took a deep breath and continued. “You can keep that copy and read it later. As I said, it was never printed. Gordon showed it to Reggie to give him a chance to write a response for the same issue if he wanted to.”
“Did Reggie respond?”
“He did write a letter, but then Daisy”—Cliff paused and swallowed—“died.”
“So neither letter was printed,” I finished.
“Right, but here’s the problem. Reggie wouldn’t show me his response letter.”
“Understandable,” I said. “It will never be printed anyway.”
Cliff’s head snapped up. “But it’s evidence, don’t you see? You have to realize the farmers’ market is just part of Reggie’s big plan for the city. He’s been touting it forever.”
I really did need to re
ad local news before checking the Boston scene, I realized. “What if he threatened to kill Daisy in that letter?” Cliff asked.
“He’d hardly advertise it to the public before the fact,” I said.
“You never know. Killers do crazy things.”
For some reason, I balked at the characterization of Daisy’s killer as, well, a killer. Her murder seemed more of an accident, an argument gone very bad. Not part of the master plan of someone who’d done it before or would kill again. I was at least smart enough not to share this conjecture with Cliff.
The students were back to work now and I realized lunch hour was nearly over for me.
“I have to open the office, Cliff,” I said. “Can we talk later?”
“Yeah, sorry. I kind of lose track of time.” He gathered his things, stuffing papers into his folder. “I’m going to follow up on this letter, try to get at what Reggie’s answer was. Maybe I’ll go see Gordon at the paper.”
And bully him? I wondered. “Have you thought of taking the issue to the police?”
He laughed, the first time this week in my presence. So what if it was close to a sneer? “If you don’t think the letter is that important, how do you think your friend at the station will feel?”
I started to defend myself and Sunni: He’d misquoted me; mislabeled Sunni, as if she were my friend only, and not the chief law enforcer in the town, as fair and honest as anyone could want in the police department; and he’d more or less accused her of going by her feelings, not the facts of the case. He called Reggie’s letter of response potential evidence; on the other hand, he wouldn’t trust those whose job it was to process evidence. I looked at Cliff’s face—sad, determined—and I saw that there was no point in further discussion.
I tucked Daisy’s letter in my purse and stood to leave. I’d been picking at my lunch on and off, but most of it was left in the box. I closed the lid, planning to put the meal in the fridge. I wondered if the food would still be there at the end of the day.
“We need to talk about getting alibis from everyone,” Cliff said, walking me to the door.
I took a deep breath, holding back frustration at Cliff’s unwillingness to trust Sunni and her force to do their jobs.
“Good point,” I said. “Let’s check in later.”
“I’ll see you this evening, right? Jules texted that six o’clock will work for him. His office.”
I took Jules’s address from Cliff and let him out through the front lobby doors. I welcomed the customers already in line, accompanied by a cool breeze that had a whiff of the fall to come. I was happy to see people who needed me for what I was good at: post office business.
10
Traffic in the lobby was slow for a Friday afternoon. Many businesses had a regular Friday post office stop and people in general wanted to get mail out before the weekend. But today the weather was more conducive to an early getaway to a beach. When Ben stopped by after lunch and offered to take the counter, I felt comfortable abandoning my spot to him.
“You probably have a lot of paperwork to catch up on,” he said, his blue eyes watery. His way of not admitting that he was bored and looking forward to some interaction of the postal service kind.
When I was first back in North Ashcot, I sometimes took Ben’s frequent appearances in the office as a sign that he didn’t trust me in the job. I soon realized that, while that might have been a small part of his motive, it was mostly about his need to be productive and useful. It didn’t take long for me to acknowledge how lucky I was to have him. Our occasional disagreements about protocol weren’t much of a price to pay for having such a great and willing resource on hand.
Today, I dragged my desk chair to a corner by the side door, out of sight and hearing of the activity as the line of customers moved along, tended to by their former postmaster and friend. I let Ben think what he wanted about my paperwork; I had some non-USPS business to take care of.
No sooner had I sat down, a mug of coffee at hand, than my cell phone rang.
Sunni. Perfect timing. Not. I’d hoped to have time to process the meeting I’d just finished with Cliff. I wanted to read Daisy’s letter and to figure a way to be invited into the investigation by Sunni herself. I could let my phone ring. Sunni used my cell number when she knew I’d be at work and might not answer. She also sometimes used it when she was outside my door or across the street to get my attention. Better not take that chance.
I slid my phone on and accepted the call.
“How’s it going?” Sunni asked.
“It’s a little slow this afternoon. Ben stopped in for a retail fix, so I’m off the counter.” In case you’re out there in my lobby, looking in. See, I’m telling the truth.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Uh-oh. She sounded only half teasing. Was she still following me? Had she seen me having lunch with Cliff? Probably. Maybe I could smooth things over by offering her Thai chicken.
“We should talk,” I said.
“Definitely. I might actually get a dinner hour tonight. Are you free?”
“I have a meeting at six,” I said, choosing not to share the details of my arrangement to accompany Cliff to his accountant’s office.
“With whom?”
Of course she’d ask. “Is this an official interrogation?”
Big sigh. “Not yet. What if I meet you afterward? Give me a call when you’re done with the meeting I can’t know about.”
“Okay,” I said, but the chief of police had already clicked off.
I swiveled around and caught a look at Ben, moderately busy. I had time for one more interaction, one that would be hassle free. I texted Quinn.
Where are u?
Heading for Keene.
He was in New Hampshire. On his way home. Going well?
So well that I may have to rent small trailer. Anything new?
Waiting for you.
Me too. Heading home early as poss Sunday. Skype tonight?
Definitely.
I smiled, my thoughts on Quinn, my gaze at the wall in front of me, next to the side door. A new poster collage commemorating five celebrity chefs smiled back and I felt all was not dark and heavy in my world. I took another minute to go through personal mail for the first time since yesterday when the do your job edict had come through. At one point I’d considered Sunni might be the author of the note. It certainly represented her sentiments—except for the go home part, I hoped. But Sunni was not the kind of person to attack from the side. If she had something to tell me, she would. And did. Often.
When I finished the pile of mail on my lap without incident, I felt my shoulders relax.
I remembered another letter I’d received today. I fished the letter Cliff had given me from my purse. Daisy’s unpublished Letter to the Editor for the Town Crier.
Cliff had summed it up correctly. Daisy hadn’t pulled any punches in expressing her opinion. I zeroed in on the most pointed paragraph.
Does anyone really think that Mr. Harris is working for the good of the citizens of North Ashcot? Never mind the overwhelming competition especially the new crafters will present to us small business people. We should also be worried about how Mr. Harris is lining his own pockets with kickback. And think about it. Where could that kickback money come from? Are his farmers selling only Brussels sprouts and crab apples? I think not.
Daisy had barely stopped short of accusing the farmers of selling illegal substances and Reggie Harris of sponsoring their activities. I couldn’t help wondering if this was Daisy off on some wild imaginings, or if she had evidence to back up her claim.
Even more threatening was Daisy’s closing.
Mr. Harris and Mrs. Harris have profited greatly from our town. They live on the most expensive property and enjoy the perks of the wealthy. They may seem invincible, but remember the old saying: The b
igger they are, the harder they fall.
It hadn’t occurred to me to think of Andrea Harris as more than a member of our quilt group and a hard worker. She helped her brother, Pete, in his hardware store and I’d heard she also managed affairs at the Harris construction offices. I remember being surprised to learn that the offices were a set of trailers on the outskirts of town, not exactly high-rises in the heart of a city, as Boston developers could boast.
Maybe Daisy knew something we didn’t. Or she was wrong. Either way, Daisy was no longer with us and that made me sad.
* * *
When business started to pick up around two thirty, I left my desk to work the counter with Ben. Our conversation between customers shouldn’t have surprised me.
“You’re sure spending a lot of time with Cliff Harmon,” Ben said, straightening the bills in the cash drawer.
Only a parent could get away with that kind of talk, I thought, and gave Ben temporary status as a dad.
“Not you, too,” I answered, using my temporary status as a teenager. “How do you even know? We haven’t gone to a restaurant or anything like that.”
A customer arrived and we both put on smiles and carried out the transaction together, Ben lifting the heavy box onto a dolly.
Alone again, Ben spelled out for me the chain of communication that fed his need to keep tabs on his friends and neighbors.
“The kid who mows my lawn, Kevin, has been helping out in the community room for a few days,” he explained. “I’ve known his mother for years. It turns out she picked him up a couple of times and saw you two back there. Then I met her at the gas station and she mentioned it.” He paused for a smile. “Don’t you love small towns?”
“Is that why you came by today, to quiz me?”
Ben grinned, continuing his self-imposed task of tidying the cash drawer. “It’s just a side benefit.”
With the ebb and flow of customers, Ben was able to sneak in a few gibes and a few probing questions, and I was able to skirt them all.
