Telling Tails

by Sofie Ryan

  “Mac,” I said, “and actually it was two accordions.” I told him the story of Mac helping Glenn move his uncle’s couch and being offered the accordions or the growler of beer.

  Sam laughed. “From what I know of Clayton’s place, you could probably fill your store twice over, with enough stuff left for a good-size storage unit.”

  “I know,” I said. “And it may come to that. I’m putting a proposal together for Glenn and his cousin for us to get the house a little more habitable.”

  “Good luck with that,” Sam said. “Clayton has always been a bit of a pack rat.

  He lifted the accordion out of the shopping bag I’d put it in. I leaned against his desk while he turned it over and examined the instrument from every angle. Finally he looked at me. “So what were you thinking?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Somewhere between four and five hundred.”

  Sam nodded. “I don’t see why you won’t get that.”

  I smiled at him. “Thanks.”

  “Do you have time for a sandwich?” he asked. “Applewood smoked bacon and fresh tomatoes.”

  “That does sound good,” I said.

  Sam pointed at the sofa. “Sit. I won’t be long.”

  I sat. From the couch I could see Sam’s photos from the early days of the pub and the band. My dad was in several of them. It always made me feel good to see them. He’d died when I was five, and both my mother and Gram had worked to keep my memories of him alive, but it was when I was with Sam that I seemed to feel the closest to him.

  Sam came back with sandwiches and coffee for both of us. I groaned with happiness after the first bite of my sandwich. “What is this bread?” I said, my mouth half-full of food. “It’s really good.”

  “Honey beer bread,” Sam said, wiping a dab of mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. “Glenn made it.” His mouth twitched and he started to laugh. “I guess he had to settle for the beer since Mac took the accordions.”

  I laughed. “Well, that worked out well, because I’m not sure Mac can make bread, although Rose would probably be happy to give him lessons.”

  Sam’s expression grew serious. “I heard the police found Jeff Cameron’s body.”

  I nodded.

  “Rumor has it his wife killed herself.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Rumors are usually pretty accurate,” I said.

  Sam reached for his coffee. “I forgot to tell you when I saw you last week. I actually saw him—it would have been Monday—having some kind of heated conversation with someone.”

  “What do you mean by heated conversation?” I asked.

  “Raised voices, mostly,” he said. “Although I wasn’t close enough to make out what was being said.”

  “Was this a male someone he was having the conversation with or a female someone?”

  “Male.” Sam leaned back and draped his free arm along the back of his chair. “My height, bit bigger build, hair cut close to his head.” He frowned. “Why the questions?”

  “No reason, really,” I said.

  “Rose isn’t ready to let this go.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Sam let out a breath. “Just be careful, all right?”

  I nodded. “I will. I promise.”

  The conversation turned to the bands Sam had lined up for the rest of the summer, and then I collected the accordion, gave him a hug and left. I hadn’t said anything to Sam, but the description of the mystery man arguing with Jeff Cameron matched the photo of Mike Vega that Mr. P. had found online. As I drove back to the shop I wondered why anyone ever bothered to commit a crime in a small town like North Harbor. It seemed someone who knew someone who knew you was always watching.

  We made up for the quiet morning with a busload of tourists in the afternoon on their way from Boston to Newfoundland who dripped all over the shop but spent enough that I didn’t really mind. Just before we closed Rose came to find me. I was in the back, looking for a box of dishes.

  “Two things,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said, turning to face her. “What’s number one?”

  “Charlotte talked to Maddie. Maddie said that when Chloe’s parents were out of town someone was staying with her. She has no idea who, but she saw someone getting into Chloe’s car a couple of times. The person was wearing a hoodie with the hood over their face.”

  “Interesting.”

  Rose nodded. “I thought so.”

  “So what’s number two?” I asked.

  “I know why Chloe worked so hard to get the job with Jeff Cameron,” she said, a self-congratulatory, cat-that-swallowed-the-canary expression on her face.

  I pushed a stray strand of hair off my cheek. “It wasn’t because they were having an affair, was it?”

  “Heavens, no!” Rose made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “What happened is, I started thinking, what would make her so eager to have that particular job?”

  “And?”

  “Why do people do anything?” she asked. “Sex, money, power.” She ticked them off on her fingers.

  “You eliminated sex.”

  “I’m not saying Jeff Cameron wasn’t an attractive man, at least physically, but he seemed a little long in the tooth for someone Chloe’s age. And no one I talked to seemed to think she was interested in him in that way. In fact, she didn’t seem to be interested in anyone. Up to the point that she took the semester off, all of her focus was on her studies.”

  I leaned against the workbench. “Okay, so sex is out. What about money?”

  “Chloe turned down a job at the library that would have paid more.”

  “Really?” I said.

  Rose nodded. “She had experience. She worked there during high school.”

  “That leaves power,” I said. “What kind of power did Chloe Sanders get by working for Jeff Cameron?”

  The smile returned to Rose’s face. “I don’t think she was looking to gain power. I think she was looking to use his, or to be more exact, his influence. Chloe wanted to transfer to the BA/MA program in international studies at Johns Hopkins.

  I looked blankly at her.

  “She needed a recommendation from someone with international business experience.”

  “Jeff.”

  Rose nodded. “Yes. And one of the professors on the acceptance committee worked at Helmark at one time. I think Chloe was researching the members of the committee and that’s why she went to Jeff’s lecture. When he mentioned he was going to hire an assistant for the summer, it must have seemed like the perfect opportunity to her. Remember, she did say it was her big chance.”

  “So how is that a motive for her to have killed him?”

  “Because the deadline for all supporting documents is two days from now and the only reference they’ve received for Chloe came from one of her professors.”

  I swiped a hand over my neck. “From Dr. Durand.”

  Rose nodded.

  “I can’t figure out how she’s tied up in all of this,” I said.

  “She does seem to be involved somehow, doesn’t she?” Rose said.

  “So you think what?” I asked. “That Jeff promised to give Chloe a recommendation and then reneged on that promise so she killed him or helped Leesa do it?” I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Chloe Sanders is a very competitive young woman.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. She was on the debate team Charlotte coached.”

  “And Charlotte admitted that Chloe wasn’t always a good loser.”

  I rubbed my neck again. This case was becoming a giant pain in the neck. “It’s a long way from being a poor loser to killing someone,” I said.

  Rose shrugged. “Not nearly as long as you might think.” She bent down to pick up a lag bolt that was lying on the floor.

  “How do you know all this?” I ask
ed.

  “Ardith Cramer.” Rose straightened up and handed the large screw to me. I set it on the bench.

  “Who’s Ardith Cramer?”

  “She was one of my best students. It turns out that she works in the registrar’s office at Cahill College. Wasn’t that convenient?”

  “Very,” I said. Between the three of them—Rose, Charlotte and Liz—it seemed they knew everyone in town. I knew from experience, it was not always a good thing. “We need to talk to Chloe again.”

  “Already in the works,” Rose said. She reached over and patted my cheek. “Try to keep up, dear.”

  At the end of the day I sent everyone home and stayed behind to wipe up the footprint-covered floor.

  “Can I help?” Mac asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s okay. I’ve got this.” I looked at the floor. “It looks like we were giving tango lessons and put the footprints all over the floor for people to follow.”

  Mac squinted at the wide wooden boards. “It looks more like moonwalking than the tango.”

  “Does that mean you know how to tango?” I asked.

  He smiled. “I might.” He took the broom from my hands. “I’ll sweep; you mop. It’ll be faster.”

  We started at the far end of the store by the cash desk. I let Mac get a head start. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you,” he said. “What did Sam say about the accordion?”

  “He agrees with me—we should be able to get four or five hundred dollars for it.”

  Mac grinned. “I really am glad I didn’t take the growler of beer.”

  “Me, too,” I said. I told him about Glenn’s beer bread.

  “Is that the same as making lemonade out of lemons?” he teased.

  “Very funny,” I said, “although I think you’re right.”

  “Did you get the message I left on your desk?” Mac asked. “Nick called again.”

  I dunked the sponge mop in the bucket of hot water and oil soap, used the handle to squeeze out the excess and starting mopping along the baseboard. “I got it. Thanks,” I said. “I called him back but I just got his voice mail. It’s probably just about Thursday night. He’s been meeting Jess and me at the jam.”

  “Are things okay with you two?” Mac looked up from his sweeping.

  “Yes,” I said. “Maybe.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Rose isn’t going to stop until she gets answers that satisfy her. Which means she’s probably going to bang heads with Nick again.”

  “You think she’s right?”

  I scrubbed at a stubborn splotch of dirt on the floor. “Between you and me, yeah, I do. It’s all just too neat, like a present tied up with a bow. Real life isn’t like that. It’s messy. You can’t put all the pieces in a box and close the lid, to stretch the metaphor.”

  Mac lifted a chair to sweep underneath it. “So what’s next?”

  “Rose and Mr. P. are going to talk to Michael Vega tomorrow.” I shook my head. “And I didn’t tell you. When I was down at the pub Sam told me he saw Jeff Cameron arguing with a man a couple of days before Rose was attacked.”

  “Let me guess,” Mac said. “It was Vega.”

  “The description matches him, which probably means it was him.” I dunked the mop again. “You know what really bothers me?” I said. “Why did Leesa Cameron go along with Nicole giving her an alibi?”

  “Because otherwise she didn’t have one?”

  I shook my head. “No. I mean what made her think Nicole wouldn’t back out and tell the truth at some point? Jeff was Nicole’s brother. I’m surprised Leesa didn’t realize the alibi would eventually fall apart. No matter how mad I got at Liam, my first loyalty would always be to him because he’s my brother.”

  “Not all siblings are like the two of you.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.

  For a moment Mac didn’t speak; then he said, “I have a brother. We’re not like you and Liam.”

  “I guess I’m lucky.”

  “So is Liam,” he said. He made it to the stairs and leaned the broom against the railing. “I’m just going to get the dustpan. I think it’s in the staff room.” He headed up the steps two at a time.

  So Mac had a brother. I thought about his apartment upstairs that didn’t have a single photograph of anyone. As far as I knew, no one had visited in the more than eighteen months he’d been in town. What had happened in Mac’s previous life? Maybe that was the real mystery.

  Chapter 17

  “Did you call Michael Vega?” I asked Rose as we walked out to the SUV Wednesday morning.

  She shook her head and opened the door for Elvis, who meowed a thank-you and jumped onto the seat. “I think we should have the element of surprise on our side.”

  “What if he’s not home?”

  “He doesn’t go in to work until twelve thirty on Wednesdays,” she said. “I checked.” She looked rather pleased with herself. “This is not my first rodeo, Sarah.”

  “I can see that, Little Buckaroo,” I said.

  Mr. P. was just coming along the sidewalk as we pulled into the parking lot. We waited by the car until he joined us.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling at both of us and at Elvis. “Isn’t this a beautiful day?”

  “Yes, it is,” Rose agreed, taking the arm he offered her.

  “We could have picked you up,” I said.

  Mr. P. glanced back over his shoulder at me. “Thank you, my dear, but I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy this blue sky and sunshine if you’d done that.”

  I unlocked the back door. Elvis headed purposefully through the workroom, followed by Rose. Mr. P. went into the sunporch. I looked at my watch. “Will about an hour from now work for you to go see Michael Vega?” I asked.

  He set his messenger bag on the table they used as a desk. “Yes, it will,” he said. He patted down the few wisps of hair that he had. “I appreciate you driving us.” He hesitated. “I do have a driver’s license.”

  “I thought you probably did,” I said.

  “I gave up my car a few years ago because it spent more time in its parking spot than it did on the road. I’ve thought about buying another one, but I don’t want to end up becoming one of those old fools who doesn’t know when it’s time to stop driving.”

  I smiled at him. “Somehow I don’t see that happening,” I said. “But I’m happy to take you and Rose anywhere you need to go.”

  Mr. P. smiled back at me. “Thank you,” he said, “for the taxi service and the vote of confidence.

  I found Mac on his hands and knees with his head and shoulders in the storage space under the stairs. “Sarah, is that you?” he said, his voice partly muffled by his head being in the small closet.

  “It’s me. What are you looking for?”

  “That box of vintage Pyrex casserole dishes, the red and yellow ones.”

  I closed my eyes and pictured the inside of the storage space. We had a list on the back of the door of what was inside, but not where it was. “Try to the right under what would be about the second step,” I said.

  Mac grunted, then began backing up, sliding a cardboard box out with him. I leaned over to check the writing on the top: Pyrex dishes—red and yellow, was written in Avery’s angular printing. “Thank you,” he said.

  A dust bunny was stuck to the side of his head above his left ear. I brushed it away with my hand. “The dust bunnies are organizing in there,” I said.

  “I think they’re more like dust elephants,” Mac said, standing up and brushing more bits off his shirt.

  Mr. P. came toward us, headed for the stairs with a round metal tin in his hands. “Good morning, Mac,” he said.

  Mac smiled at the older man. “Good morning.” He craned his neck in the direction of the green-and-gold tin. “Did Rose make coffee cake?”

  “No. I
made date squares,” Mr. P. said. “Would you like to try one?”

  “Yes, I would,” Mac said.

  I leaned sideways into their line of sight. Mr. P. smiled. “Would you like one as well, Sarah?” he asked.

  “Please,” I said.

  “And a cup of coffee, of course.”

  I nodded.

  “Could I help?” Mac asked.

  Mr. P. waved away the offer. “No, no. Finish what you were doing. I’ll be right back.” He headed up the stairs.

  “What do you need the casserole dishes for?” I asked.

  “Remember the guys who bought the armoire?” Mac said.

  I nodded.

  “They’re hosting a wedding—a very small one—next weekend, and they were looking for more of these dishes, and possibly several wooden chairs.”

  “Chairs we have,” I said, thinking there had to be a dozen outside in the garage.

  “I thought I’d get Avery to bring in four or five and make sure they’re dusted, just in case,” he said.

  “Fine with me.”

  Mac glanced over at the stairs. “Are you going with them to talk to the trainer?”

  I nodded.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  “Cross your fingers that we come up with some answers,” I said as Mr. P. appeared at the top of the stairs carrying two mugs, followed by Rose with the date squares.

  Mac and I had our coffee out at the workbench and went over the estimate I’d come up with for getting Clayton McNamara’s house organized. The date squares were excellent and Mr. P. beamed when I told him so.

  Just before nine thirty I went upstairs to get my purse and put on a bit of lipstick. Elvis was lying in the center of my desk, paws curled lazily in against his chest, half on the list of Web site orders that needed to be packed. “No, no, don’t move on my account,” I said. The cat’s response was to roll on his side so he was covering almost the entire sheet of paper.

  “You could take that down to Charlotte later,” I said, tapping the one visible corner of the page.

  “Mrr,” he said, wrinkling his scarred black nose at me.

  I got my keys and my purse and headed downstairs. Rose and Mr. P. were waiting by the back door.