The vet shook her head. “How about you keep me in cheesecake brownies and we’ll call it a deal?”
Beatrice smiled and poked her head into the kitchen. “Zoe, I have to fly. Sheriff just called. Something serious came up but I can’t tell you what. It has to do with the mayor … oh darn, I said too much.”
Zoe was at the industrial mixer, spoon in hand. “I can’t hear you!” she yelled. “Just go.”
Ashbrook was so small that it was as easy to walk anywhere as drive. The mayor’s office was two streets over and so she walked over briskly on foot, Lucky and Hamish trotting at her heels. The two cats had garnered great fame in their town for helping solve crimes and she hoped she could rely on them once again.
The prettiness of Ashbrook made it hard to believe that murder could be afoot. It was your typical New England tourist town—low brick shops with hand-painted signs, cobblestone streets and black wrought iron lanterns lining the wide sidewalks. Reggie Miller, head church volunteer and number one Beatrice Young fan, waved to her from outside the tall white church. She waved back and hurried on to city hall just a block away.
The building was eerily silent. Deputy Parker Smith sat in the foyer with Bernie’s secretary. A plump woman who loved cheerful floral skirts and high pumps, Bridget Miller was Reggie’s sister and a long-time city hall employee. Mascara stained her cheeks but she made no effort to wipe it away with the ball of tissue clenched in her hand.
Beatrice rushed over. “Bridget, I’m so sorry.” She put a hand on her shoulder.
The secretary looked up, eyes red. “Who would do something like this?” she said in a hushed voice. “Bernie never hurt a soul.”
“Don’t you worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this.” As if backing her up, Hamish rubbed against her leg and Lucky head-butted her foot while purring.
Beatrice went on into the mayor’s quarters. There was an outer office and waiting room with Bridget’s desk, which was cluttered with photographs of tawny Pomeranians. She opened another door and stopped short at what she saw. The mayor was slumped face down, over his desk, still seated. She backed away slowly. The sheriff was carefully photographing the scene. He looked up.
“Almost done here, Bee.”
Averting her eyes from the disturbing scene, Beatrice shooed the cats out and then paced the office with its tall rows of beech bookshelves containing volumes on a wide variety of topics from American politics to environmental issues to social justice. There was also a surprising number of true crime novels and, even stranger, books about living off the grid.
Beatrice ran her finger along the spines. How To Forage For Food, Building Shelter in the Woods, and Advanced Wilderness Survival Tactics were some of the titles. She had no idea that the mayor was interested in wilderness survival. After all, he was married to Nancy. They liked golfing, shopping in Portland, and dining in the finest restaurants. She had never heard about them going camping, hiking, or anything like that.
Well, people can surprise you.
Or else Bernie Sullivan knew someone was coming for him and he was planning his getaway.
The sheriff’s camera stopped clicking and he put a gentle hand on her arm. “Let’s go sit in Bridget’s office for now.”
Beatrice felt relieved. She was good at solving crimes. Crime scenes—not her thing.
They sat on the plush couches right outside the mayor’s office. Hamish sniffed diligently at the door, his fluffy tail twitching. The sheriff ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. His craggy face looked even more tired than usual.
“What a day,” he said, putting the camera aside. “I’ve already notified state police. They’re going to be all over this one.”
“So what do we know?” Beatrice asked, leaning in.
“Not much. Bernie came in around 8 a.m. Bridget says he seemed normal, even upbeat. She went out to the deli around the corner to get him his usual coffee and bagel. When she got back, he was dead. No one had seen anything. There were no signs of struggle or forced entry. Someone just walked through the front door and shot him.”
“Bernie must have known the person. Wouldn’t he stand up if it was an intruder?”
The sheriff stroked his bushy moustache. “Maybe. Bee, I got a weird feeling about this.”
“Weird feelings and hunches are my bread and butter. Let’s have it.”
He snapped on a pair of gloves and fetched a zip lock bag out of the mayor’s office. In it was a fine leather wallet. Jake took it out and then removed a card.
Beatrice frowned. “It’s his drivers license. But it’s one of the old ones. Paper.” She peered at it. “I haven’t seen this type in a while.”
“Here’s the thing, I’m as old as all get-out so I remember exactly how these licenses are supposed to look.” He pulled out his own wallet. “In fact, I have my old expired one right here.” He took it out and held both up for comparison.
“Bernie’s has square corners but yours are rounded!”
“Just so. And look closer. The lettering on mine is made of little dots.”
“His looks like something you’d make on a typewriter. But, what are you saying Jake? That this is a forgery?”
The sheriff carefully put the license back in the wallet. “I’m not saying anything yet. Only, don’t you think it’s a little strange for our town’s mayor not only to have an old-fashioned license but one that looks different?”
“I see what you mean by ‘a weird feeling,’” Beatrice said. “So what now?”
“Let’s take Bridget back to the office and do a proper interview. The state police will be here soon enough anyway to properly case the crime scene and deal with the body. Let’s go.”
5
Beatrice didn’t believe in police work without coffee and snacks. She swung by the café first and picked up a fresh carafe plus enough croissants and muffins to feed an army. She also checked on Petunia, who seemed to be responding well to the eye drops. Gunk had stopped leaking out of her eyes and it looked like Dr. Violet had given her a bath too. She looked perfectly content to curl up in a ball and sleep in the café office.
She headed back over to the police station on foot and texted her best friend (and ex-husband) Matthew Thompson to tell him that she had a new—and it was a big one. She had texted him that morning but he still hadn’t replied. Blast him. As if he had something better to do, like his job as a park ranger. Pfft.
Bridget was sitting in the sheriff’s cramped office when she came in. Her face was blotchy but she’d managed to clean it up a bit. The deputy sat on the sofa. Hamish and Lucky settled beside him. Beatrice really had to get them cat beds for this office—after all, they spent so much time in it.
The sheriff sat behind his ancient desktop computer. It had a thin layer of dust on it and stacks of files caged it in. He pushed some of the clutter aside, putting the rest on the floor.
“So Bridget, you’ve been working for the mayor for how long?”
“Seven years while he’s been in office.” She sniffed. “And five years before that while he worked in a support position to the old mayor, Brent Crosbie.”
“Has there been anything unusual going on in his life lately?”
She shook her head slowly. “Bernie was always a private person. He didn’t talk a lot about his life. But he was always a kind man. When he hired me I was nothing but a grocery store clerk. He said I was bright and that he’d teach me everything he knew. And that he did.” Tears welled up in her eyes again.
“What about all the wilderness survival books?” Beatrice asked gently. “I didn’t think he was much of an outdoors person.”
Bridget shrugged. “He started asking me to order that stuff online a few months ago. Mentioned something about retirement. After all, his final term was going to be up next year so I thought he was just wanted to get away from it all for a while.” She blinked. “Though you’re right. Bernie was never an outdoorsy guy.”
“And what can you tell us about Bernie from the time b
efore he arrived here? What was it, about 15 years ago?” the sheriff asked.
“Nancy might be able to help you there. Like I said, Bernie was private. He never talked about his family or his life before Ashbrook. He didn’t volunteer anything so I didn’t ask. I got the sense he was from the south somewhere and that he’d never worked in politics before. And…” she paused.
The sheriff leaned in. “What is it?”
“He did have one strange trait. I mean, I was probably the person he trusted most in the world. Maybe even more than his wife—sorry for saying that but I’m not sure they were especially close. But he always seemed to be testing me or something.”
“Testing you how?”
“Well, there was this time when he told me that he’d … killed someone. In his past. And that if I wanted to, it’d be really easy for me to find out who and when. He asked me not to tell anyone. That it would ruin him. I didn’t say anything for an entire month—I just didn’t think it could be true. I mean, I trusted the man with everything in me. I knew it was wrong, that I should have told you, but I couldn’t…
Bridget looked down at her hands, struggling for words. “And then, after a month, he told me it was all made up. He’d never killed anyone, he just wanted to see if I’d tell people about it. He laughed it off like it was a silly joke. I did too, but now I realize it was mighty strange…”
Beatrice and the sheriff exchanged looks. “First I’ve heard of this,” he said. “He would have had to have a criminal record check before he became mayor. If there was any suspicion of foul play he’d never have been allowed to run.”
Bridget wrung her hands. “Please, don’t think badly of Bernie. He didn’t have a lot of friends. It was a pretty weird way to test me, but I feel he really needed to know that he could trust me.”
“But why?” the sheriff pressed. “Why would he need to trust you so badly?”
“I don’t know. For whatever reason, Bernie didn’t seem to trust anyone. That he ever told me anything at all was a bit of a miracle.”
There was a snuffling and then a loud meow from by her feet. Beatrice peeked over to see Hamish rooting around in Bridget’s handbag like he owned it. After a minute, he deftly picked out a small set of keys with his teeth and placed them on the floor. Bridget went to swat him away but he growled fiercely, his hair standing on end making him look like an angry raccoon.
Beatrice, who was used to the big Maine Coon’s crime-solving help, whispered to let him be for a moment. Hamish rooted about in the keys with his nose before finally stopping at one. He sneezed suddenly and then began to paw at that key. Beatrice scooped it up.
“What’s this key for?”
Bridget peered at it for a moment. “Heavens, that’s Bernie’s key. He gave it to me ages ago. Said to guard it with my life. But what was it for?” She pursed her lips. “Oh yes! A storage container. He said it was in Portland, Maine. Where exactly, he never told me, which wasn’t exactly useful. I thought it was another of his weird tests and promptly forgot about it.”
“He didn’t tell you what was in the storage unit?” the Sheriff asked.
The secretary shook her head. “Not a word.”
The sheriff looked with a pained expression over at his computer. “This is something I’m going to have to look up isn’t it? Storage facilities in Portland.”
Beatrice pulled out her tablet in a flash. “Already on it!” she said, tapping away with her stylus. “I guess we’re going on a road trip.”
6
Hamish sat in Beatrice’s lap in the front seat of the sheriff’s pickup, looking as happy as a clam. He loved riding in cars and even tried to stick his head out the window like a dog before Beatrice grabbed him and rolled up the glass.
Meanwhile, Lucky quaked in his cat carrier—he was terrified of any and all car travel. Beatrice had tried to get Hamish to stay in a carrier but he turned into a feral thing once inside, trashing about and yowling like the thing was trying to kill him.
The sheriff, who was driving, occasionally frowned in Hamish’s direction. He wasn’t overly fond of cats but Beatrice was happy he was making an effort.
About 15 minutes outside of Ashbrook, Beatrice’s phone finally whistled. A text! A text from Matthew! Where the devil had he been all day? Beatrice eagerly opened it up.
All it said was: “I have to cancel tonight. I know we were going to have dinner. Sorry.”
Beatrice quickly thumbed back. “Why????”
“Got a date.”
She immediately felt cold. “A date?” she exploded. “The, the nerve!”
The sheriff looked over, eyebrows raised. “You have a date?”
“Heavens no! Matthew just cancelled our plans tonight because he says he has a date.”
“Well, good for him. Time he got out there.”
Beatrice looked daggers at the sheriff. “Matthew doesn’t need to date. He has me. I make him dinner. We solve crimes together.”
She froze. “And who could he be going on a date with?” She mentally scanned through the list of available women in Ashbrook and surrounding area. None of the candidates seemed appealing, at least to her.
“Bee, we both knew this day would come. Matthew’s a human being. He wants companionship. Love. A partner. Not a best friend.”
Beatrice crossed her arms. “I thought we were too old for all this romance nonsense,” she grumbled.
“Well, apparently Matthew’s not. So are you going to be a good friend and support him or are you going to make him miserable for trying to be happy?”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
Beatrice sighed and looked out the window. She reflexively grabbed Hamish and cuddled him close. He was reassuringly warm and fluffy—a giant teddy bear of a cat—and his purring gave her comfort as it resonated into her body. He nudged his head against her collarbone, as if he knew exactly how she felt.
She picked her phone back up and began calling a list of Portland-area storage facilities to see if any were registered to Bernie Sullivan. They hurtled down the highway, deep in the New Hampshire interior. There were few other cars. The road wound through the mountains and plunged through thickets of fiery sugar maples, golden beeches, and hot orange oaks. Here and there streams spilled out of the forest and sank under the highway, emerging on the other side, frothing and rushing away.
For the first time in a long while, Beatrice wondered if it would be a good idea to rent a cabin in the woods and get away from it all.
They crossed the Maine state line. Beatrice ran through the list of big storage facilities and started reaching out to the smaller ones. Finally, after many frantic phone calls, the owner of a tiny place on the waterfront said it had a unit belonging to Reggie Sullivan.
They rolled into the outskirts of Portland. Initially, there were the usual big box stores and subdivisions but as they entered the center of town urban sprawl gave way to cobblestone streets and low-rise red brick shops with arched windows and dormers peeking out from on top. Beatrice could smell the salty tang of ocean far out, which made her want to eat a lobster roll immediately.
But, they were on a mission. No lobster for her.
The storage facility was in a forgotten corner of the waterfront, away from the ice cream shops, lobster shacks, and strolling tourists. Rusted shipping crates were stacked close to monster boats. Rather quickly, clouds fogged up the harbor and a light drizzle started. The streets soon became slick and the old brick buildings darkened with moisture.
The sheriff parked in front of a squat building at the end of a one-way street. He shut off the ignition. “Now why in the blazes did Bernie choose this little shack to store his stuff?” he said, twisting his moustache with his fingers.
Beatrice’s stomach clenched with excitement. “I suppose we’re about to find out. Hamish, Lucky, you both stay close to me. No monkey games.”
There wasn’t even an on-site proprietor. An ancient bent man in a greasy ball cap waited for them outside.
The sheriff snapped open his badge. “I’m not no one. And Bernie Sullivan’s dead. We’re investigating his murder.”
The man pursed his withered lips. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that. Alright then, let’s get on with it.”
Bernie’s unit was at the very end, inside a brick building that seemed to be crumbling from the inside. The owner opened a rusted lock with the key and pulled up the steel grate.
“I’ll be outside,” he grunted. “Don’t take your time.”
The sheriff turned on his flashlight. At first, it all looked like a huge pile of junk that smelled stale and musty.
“Am I the only one who was expecting dead bodies in here?” Beatrice asked.
“You’d smell it,” Jake said. “Also, Bernie just died, Bee.”
She shrugged. “Creepy storage facility in the middle of nowhere? That no one’s allowed to enter? That only Bridget had a key to? Doesn’t add up to prize stamp collections or rare antiques.”
The sheriff sighed and swiveled the flashlight around. The cats cautiously crept into the dim room. Their bodies were low to the ground and the ends of their tails twitched as they slunk in.
“What’s that? Computer equipment?” Beatrice turned on the flashlight on her phone and focused the dim beam on the jumbled dark contents within.
“Looks like. Files too.” The sheriff’s beam caught stack upon stack of banker boxes, looking full to bursting with paper. Then his flashlight settled on a large object tucked into the back. “What is that—is that a car?”
They carefully picked their way through the mounds of stuff. It was utterly quiet in the unit, with the unmistakable smell of heavy dust. After some careful maneuvering, they managed to make their way to the old sedan.
It was a compact blue-gray car, boxy, and obviously not used for quite some time. They stood by it, puzzled. The sheriff tried the door. Locked. He pulled out a tool in his pocket and began fiddling with the lock.
The Tail of the Secret Identity: A Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mystery (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 3) Page 2
