“He’s one of half a dozen local men we call on when Eric needs help loading or unloading a truck or moving heavy furniture,” I said. “I’ve never worked with him myself.”
“Still … what’s your gut tell you? Could he be a killer?”
Chief Hunter signaled the turn into the Rocky Point police station parking lot.
“I’ve got to go, Wes.”
“Answer my question first.”
My father once warned me that the only people to really worry about were the people you trusted the most—no one else could get close enough to do much damage. I took a deep breath. “What does my gut tell me?” I repeated. “My gut says sure … it’s possible.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Rocky Point police station had been designed to fit into the upscale beach community. It looked like a traditional ocean bungalow. Its wooden shingles had weathered to a soft dove gray. The front door and shutters were painted ice white.
I ran through pounding rain that pricked my skin like shards of glass until I reached the gabled overhang. I was drenched and shaking by the time I got inside.
Chief Hunter called to someone behind the counter named Daryl. “Please escort Ms. Morse to Room One,” he said.
Ashley shook wetness from her slicker, then followed Daryl down a long corridor that led, I knew from past experience, to a small interrogation room with a human-sized cage in the corner.
“You’re shaking,” he said to me. “You might be in shock. I’m going to have you looked over.”
“No—please,” I said. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me that a hot shower and dry clothes won’t cure. First I need to talk to Zoë, though.”
He stared at me searchingly for several moments, then nodded and asked me to wait for just a minute. “I won’t be long,” he said.
He followed Daryl and Ashley down the hallway.
I looked around. Cathy, a big blonde, a civilian admin for the department, was behind the counter typing something. I sat on a wooden bench. Across from me was a bulletin board labeled COMMUNITY NOTICES. I got up and stood in front of it. A poster for the upcoming Harvest Festival was tacked up next to an announcement from the Rocky Point Community Center about winter hours at the pool.
“How are you holding up?” Chief Hunter asked when he returned.
“I’m okay. Sort of.” I shrugged and added, “You’re having quite a first day.”
“Yeah … I thought I was moving to a quiet community—tourist-based, you know?”
I laughed, and it felt good. “Where are you from?”
“New York. I’m retired NYPD.”
“Me, too. From New York, I mean. I moved up here about five years ago to start my own business.”
“And? What do you think?”
“I like it. I like it a lot, actually. Of course, it’s way different from New York.”
He gestured toward the bench. “Let’s sit down for a minute.” He skewed around to face me. “We checked with the Whitestones. You were right—Mr. Winterelli listed his aunt, Zoë Winterelli, as his next of kin. Are you certain you want to come with me to talk to her?”
“Yes, absolutely. My being there may make it a bit easier for her.”
“Okay, then. I’m hoping we’ll get to her before she sees it on the news.”
“We don’t have much to worry about on that front,” I said, smiling. “Zoë will tell you that as a single mom with two small children, she doesn’t see the news—all she sees is directions on packages of mac and cheese.”
Chief Hunter smiled, stood up, and said, “Got it.” Before he pushed open the heavy front door, he added, “Let’s ride together. You need to come back here and give a statement anyway.”
“Can’t I do it tomorrow? I’m going to want to stay with Zoë.”
“You could, but it would be best if it were to night. I want to get as much information as possible as quickly as I can.”
His unspoken message came through loud and clear: A killer was on the loose.
“What did you think of Mr. Winterelli? Were you close?” he asked as we drove.
I took in a bushel of air. “Sort of. Not really. But I liked him. He lived next door to me for a while. He was doing so well.”
“He was at your office when, exactly?”
I pursed my lips, thinking. “About quarter to eleven. Maybe ten fifty. Something like that. Eric saw him after that. They cleaned the gutters.”
“I’d like to talk to him directly. Can you reach him?”
“Sure.” It was five fifteen. Eric would have left for the day. Chief Hunter turned on the speaker function of the hands-free phone built into his vehicle, and I dialed Eric’s cell phone from memory.
“Eric,” I said when I had him on the line, “I’m putting you on the phone with Chief Hunter, the new Rocky Point police chief. It’s about Frankie.”
Chief Hunter inserted his earpiece and pushed the button to take Eric off speaker.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Chief Hunter said after introducing himself. “Frankie Winterelli is dead, and I’m investigating the circumstances of his death. I’m hoping you might answer a few questions … Yes, that’s right … No, not yet … Thank you. What time did Mr. Winterelli leave Prescott’s today?” He listened for several seconds. “Are you sure it was right at noon? … During the time you were working together, what did you talk about? … What else? … Anything personal? … No mentions of music, sports, girls, or what you did over the weekend, nothing like that?” He glanced in the rear-view mirror, listening some more, then thanked him and ended with a brisk “Okay, then. I’ll be in touch.”
“Was he able to give you any useful information?” I asked.
“Hard to say.”
“What do you do now?”
He glanced at me. “We look for inconsistencies.”
“What kind of inconsistencies?”
“Timing, relationships, details, anything.”
Inconsistencies in facts regarding means, opportunity, or motive, I thought. It was a safe bet that the rolling pin was the murder weapon—I recalled the blood-colored stains. If so, the means was known. Opportunity was apparent: Someone could have crawled in the open window, walked in the unlocked back door, or been invited in by Frankie.
“Who opened the window?” I asked.
“It’s one of the things we’re looking into.”
“How about the door? Do you think it was left open by the killer? Or do you think the killer entered that way?”
“We’re checking with everyone involved,” he replied, giving yet another vague answer.
Regardless of how the killer got in, opportunity was, evidently, no problem. Motive, on the other hand, was less apparent. I’d thought of one possible reason why Frankie was killed: He’d interrupted a burglary. It was possible, I supposed, yet it didn’t seem real to me. Then again, nothing would. I couldn’t imagine anyone killing Frankie.
Ty called. “I got your message,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“I’m in the car with Chief Hunter. We’re on our way to tell Zoë what happened.”
“Then I’m betting you’re going back to the station to give a statement.”
“Right.”
“How about if I go to your place? That way, in case you’re stuck there and Zoë wants some company, I’ll be handy.”
What a guy, I thought. “That’s great, Ty. I know she’ll appreciate it.” I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was just after five thirty. “Do you know when you’ll be back?”
“By eight, I should think.”
“Okay. I’ll tell her.”
“I know you can’t talk openly. Here’s a yes or no question. Do they have a suspect?”
“No, not that I’m aware of.”
“You sound upset.”
“I am. Incredibly.”
“Yeah,” he said, and from the way he spoke that one word, I understood that he wished he could be with me to hug and comfort me. “Soon. I’
ll see you soon.”
We ended that way, and I closed my eyes for a moment. Simply hearing his voice was reassuring beyond mea sure.
I called my office, and Fred answered. He filled me in on the news of the afternoon, and I was relieved to be thinking about something other than murder.
Eric and Gretchen had analyzed sales of the Lenny Wilton’s Leon brand scrimmed barrettes we sold for five dollars from a basket near the cash register at the weekly tag sale. The barrettes were one of only a few items we offered that weren’t either antiques or collectibles. They were selling so well, Gretchen had ordered more for the holidays.
I wasn’t surprised at the strong sales numbers. Lenny was more than just an award-winning scrimshander. He was also an astute businessman and a genius at production. He’d patented a scrimming machine that both etched designs into resin and applied permanent ink. It allowed him to price the barrettes low enough so we could position them as an easy impulse buy; five dollars was a perfect price point for an affordable luxury, a little treat, or a stocking stuffer.
“Lenny said he’ll bring over a gross of mixed designs in a day or two,” Fred said. “He has some new seasonal ones.”
“Terrific,” I said, somehow succeeding in hiding my grief and sadness.
We discussed the essay he was writing for our cobalt glassware auction catalogue, and I found the conversation soothing and distracting. In times of strife, work has always seen me through.
“Should we stay on Ocean or turn onto Main Street?” Chief Hunter asked after I was off the phone.
“Turn onto Main, then take Route 95 north for one exit.”
“It’s dropped six degrees in an hour,” he remarked, nodding toward the temperature display on the dashboard. “Fifty-nine. Is it always this cold in September?”
“Pretty much. There’s a saying that there are two seasons in New Hampshire—winter and July.”
“Yikes.”
I looked out over the ocean. Through the steady rain I could see that most of the green-blue surface was white with windswept froth. “It looks like it’s going to storm for hours.”
“How can you tell?” he asked.
“There are whitecaps as far as I can see.” I squinted. “Not that I can see all that far in this downpour.”
He took a look and nodded. “The wind is strong.”
“Very much so.” After a moment, I added, “You said you were with NYPD. Were you a detective?”
“Captain. Homicide.”
“Why’d you move up here?”
“I like Norman Rockwell, and I thought I’d check out whether I’d like small-town living, too.”
“Really?”
“Why are you surprised?” he asked.
“You don’t look like a Norman Rockwell sort of guy.”
“What’s a Norman Rockwell sort of guy look like?”
“Good question. I don’t know.”
“Well, then, what kind of guy do I look like?”
“Not someone who’s much into nuance.”
“Norman Rockwell is nuanced?”
“Very.”
“You’ve piqued my interest … but it’s a conversation for another time. Right now, tell me about Zoë Winterelli.”
I held my hands up to the vent while I considered how to communicate her special qualities. Zoë was a pistol, an Italian firecracker with a heart of gold and smarts up the kazoo. I felt completely at ease in her company. “She’s a really good friend—considerate, I mean—and fun to be around. She’s informal and loose about most things, and not at all loose about the important things. Even though she grew up in New Hampshire, she’s a nut about the Yankees—watches as many games as possible and takes her kids to see them whenever they’re in Boston over a weekend to play the Red Sox. She’s a good cook and a better baker.” I shrugged. “What specifically do you want to know?”
“How did she and Mr. Winterelli interact?”
“After that rocky start I told you about, they got along well. Better every day.”
“Who did he hang out with?”
I repeated what I’d told Wes about Curt.
“What about Eric?” he asked.
“I think Frankie really admired him. After he started at the White-stones’, I overheard him telling Eric that now they both had great jobs. Frankie thanked him for putting up with him when he first started working for Prescott’s. That was Frankie’s phrase, ‘putting up with me.’ I thought it was kind of sweet … humble, I mean.”
“Any romances that you know of?”
I shrugged again. “He never brought anyone over to Zoë’s.”
“How did he and Ashley Morse get along? They’re co-workers and neighbors. Were they also friends?”
I thought about Ashley. She was an artist to her toenails. Her drive to create defined her very essence. She hated it that she had to sell or even promote her work herself, believing that it should stand on its own, and that somehow marketing or promotion was beneath her. I didn’t understand it, but I’d observed that attitude over and over again in all sorts of creative people at college, during my years in New York, and here in New Hampshire—they despised and condemned the business imperatives of their work. Ashley lived, breathed, and slept scrimshaw. Most of the time she was aloof and brusque, seemingly unengaged and uninterested in anything going on around her. Only when she talked about scrimshaw or fossil materials or artisan techniques did she show any animation. I couldn’t imagine Frankie caring enough about scrimshaw to have become friends with her.
“I don’t think so. They got along fine, I guess. I mean, I don’t think they hung out or anything. They’re pretty different sorts of people.”
“How so?”
I directed him off the interstate, then said, “Part of it is age. To a twenty-three-year-old man, a woman of Ashley’s age—I’m guessing she’s in her mid-to late thirties—she’s got to seem more like an older sister than a peer, you know? And vice versa. Also, they just didn’t have a lot in common. They worked for the Whitestones, but for different reasons. For Ashley, it was a means to an end. She took the job because she needed the money to fund her scrimshanding passion. For Frankie, it was a career. I don’t think he ever would have left the light house. He loved his work. He loved living by the ocean. He loved having his own house. Landing this job fulfilled every dream he’d ever had—and some he hadn’t even aspired to.”
Chief Hunter nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “What can you tell me about his friends?”
“Curt Grimes seems to be a happy-go-lucky handyman type, doing a little of this and a little of that. If he has a regular job, I don’t know it, but if he wants one, I don’t know that either. My impression is that he’s content doing pickup work. I mean, he’s not a transient or anything. He’s worked for my company for a couple of years. I know he works on installations at Sea View Gallery—that’s where I met him—and he helps … helped … Frankie at the light house on two-man jobs.”
“Can you give me his address and phone number?”
“Sure. They’re in our personnel files.” I pointed to the left. “That’s our driveway—Zoë and I share it. Her house is on the left. The little one on the right is mine.”
“They look alike, except yours is smaller.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of cute, isn’t it? Mine was built as an in-law residence. It’s like a dower house in En gland.”
“Look up. You left a light on.”
“Always,” I said, smiling as I saw the soft golden light that glowed behind sheer curtains in my bedroom. “I hate walking into dark houses, so I leave a lamp on.”
“You’re a practical woman. You don’t try to overcome a minor fear—you do a work-around.”
“’Tis true, ’tis true,” I said, thinking that Chief Hunter was definitely more astute than the average bear.
Chief Hunter pulled into the driveway, parking behind Zoë’s car. “Before we go in, I just want to take a minute and jot down that name.” I watched as
he flipped to a fresh page in his notebook and wrote down Curt’s name. “What’s Sea View Gallery?”
“An art gallery owned by Greg Donovan.”
“High-end?”
“Not so much. He targets tourists. He has some nice stuff, modern crafts, but he also has some, well … less nice stuff. More in the category of souvenirs than art, if you know what I mean.”
“He sells a lot of schlock.”
“That’s too harsh. I wouldn’t say he sells any schlock. Rather, he sells art that’s easy to understand and pleasing to the eye. Nothing wrong with it.”
“Like Norman Rockwell.”
“Not a bit! Norman Rockwell’s illustrations are layered with social commentary. That they’re pleasing to the eye is a bonus.”
“Someday you’re going to have to explain some of them to me so I can see what I’ve been missing, not being a nuance sort of guy.”
I smiled again and punched the button to unlatch my seat belt. “Chief, I hope you won’t think I’m sassy to contradict you, but I have a feeling there’s very little that you miss.”
He grinned. “Glad you noticed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Uh-oh,” Zoë said as soon as I introduced her to Chief Hunter. “This can’t be good news.”
We stood by the couch in her living room. I could hear Jake, age seven, and Emma, age five, squabbling somewhere out of sight, in the kitchen probably.
Zoë was thirty-one, tall, a hair over five-ten, and slender. She’d clipped her long black hair into a loose French twist. Her eyes were caramel, flecked with gold. She wore a fitted, olive green V-neck sweater that barely reached the top of her low-rider jeans. She looked like a model. When Zoë had inherited her uncle’s estate three years earlier, she’d decided to jettison a bad marriage out west and return home to New Hampshire, and we’d been friends ever since.
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