TWO
Aunt Ida and I had stayed in contact mainly though letters. My father tolerated this. I suppose he felt he had little choice. In the beginning, I’d given him Aunt Ida’s letters to read, but he handed them back immediately. Not interested, he’d say. Eventually I stopped offering. He must have been curious though. He had such a large family in Silver Stream—parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, his brother.
But only Ida wrote to me.
Ida loved to write. I tolerated it, especially as I got older. I tried to talk her into email a few years back, but she considered that in the same league with intergalactic travel, so at some point we’d switched to monthly phone calls. I decided not to mention texting.
Ida lived in my great-grandmother’s house, an old Victorian set back in the woods, with original gingerbread trim, and a wide front porch with a hanging swing. The whole thing looked like it wouldn’t be out of place on a birthday cake. I loved it. The rooms were large, with overstuffed furniture, dark wood tables freshly lemon-oiled, lace on every available surface, and a definite hint of lavender in the air.
Ida had put me in Great-grandma Evie’s old room. Said she’d cleaned it especially for me. Evie, my father’s grandmother, had married the oldest Lassiter brother. Her room was frilly, a girly room from long ago with lace curtains, knick-knacks, and a ruffled, flower-patterned bedspread on the double bed. Great-grandma Evie had crocheted the lace canopy that draped over the top of the dark mahogany frame, and it had been carefully mended over the years.
It was Friday, my second day in Silver Stream. I planned to leave Monday after the reading of the will, or maybe early Tuesday morning. In the short time I had, I wanted to see the house I used to live in, the one Uncle JT now owned, visit as many relatives as I could, see if I could find out why Dad left, and get a few shots of Mary Fran’s husband and his lady friend. Feeling better than I had in weeks, I hopped into the shower. It was a short shower. The water went from lukewarm to cold after a minute or two. I toweled off quickly, shivering the whole time. September was chilly in Silver Stream.
I put on my only pair of Laurel Canyon jeans, an extravagance I will never allow myself again, and a blue ribbed turtleneck that matched my eyes, then hurried downstairs, following the scent of something wonderful baking in the oven. One of the CSI shows that Ida’d recorded was playing on the small kitchen television. I had a feeling Ida wouldn’t approve of the job I’d taken for Mary Fran, but I’d have to tell her anyway.
“Ida. Blueberry muffins.”
I threw my arms around her as she set the last muffin in a Tupperware container. “You treat me like this, I may never leave.”
“Wicked good muffins, just for you.” She smiled and hugged me back, then put her show on Pause. At eighty-four, Ida was still going strong, a little overweight with grey hair secured in a bun at the nape of her neck, wearing coral polyester slacks and a flowered blouse in the same color family.
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave. You could live here with me. This is a big house for one woman. What’s holding you in the city?”
“My life is there, Aunt Ida. Everything I know.”
“But you have no job. You were fired, something I don’t understand at all.”
“I wasn’t fired. I told you I was excessed. It’s called downsizing. Big difference.”
She looked doubtful and I didn’t blame her. I was a little doubtful, too.
“You were their best computer analyst, weren’t you? Didn’t you get that Employee of the Month plaque a while back? I seem to remember you telling me.”
“Yes. All past history.” Unfortunately.
“Like your fiancé? Or do you think you’ll get back with him?” Her brows shot up in question. “Reconcile, maybe?”
“That’s not happening.” I shook my head, more to dislodge the last awful scene with him and his bimbo in my shower, than to deny the likelihood of a reunion. “He’s history. Let’s not spoil this beautiful day by talking about any of this. I want to walk through the woods and see my old house this morning, then go with you to see Aunt Hannah and Aunt Agnes.”
I sat down at the table. “Have you seen any moose in the woods around here lately?” I asked casually.
“There was one around back about a week ago. Haven’t seen him since. Nothing to worry about. Mating season doesn’t start for another few weeks.”
I was about to ask what mating season had to do with anything but decided to let that go.
Over breakfast, Ida said, “The old logging trail you kids used as a shortcut is still there. JT plows it from time to time to keep it open. Not sure why. He hardly ever comes here to visit anymore. Anyway, you won’t get lost. Just take the bridge over the stream. You’ll remember the way.”
She glanced at my feet. “Wicked smart boots you got on. Chic, I guess you’d call ‘em. Maybe you’d better change into something a little more substantial for trekking through the woods. Help yourself to anything in the closet upstairs.
I thought my knee-high Bally boots were sturdy, but perhaps she was right. Didn’t want to scrape these.
I went back upstairs, pulled on a pair of heavy socks and found ankle-high walking boots that probably belonged to some long-dead uncle, dusted them off and yanked them on. Unattractive, and definitely too large, but necessary.
Woods are dangerous. You need heavy boots.
I was careful on the trail. I walked head down, conscious of each step, knowing there were things here to be avoided at all costs, things like moose droppings and deer stuff. Scat, they called it.
There were even animal potholes. Of course, I knew they were not called potholes. I scared myself with the thought of animals waiting to pop up and get me, so I walked cautiously. Ever alert. It goes without saying that I was continually on the lookout for moose. Didn’t want to run into any of those. How scared I was as a little kid when my brother Howie told me he’d seen a moose lurking around our driveway, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up as moose meat. Of course, I later found out they were plant eaters, but still… .
Unbidden, came mental images of skunks and weasels and porcupines. Getting shot with a quill could probably kill a person. At the very least, it would hurt like hell.
Snakes? Could there be snakes? More vigilant, I stepped over broken branches and around small trees, on guard for any threat. I took my mace canister out of my bag and shoved it into my pocket for easy access. Like a gunslinger, I was ready.
The sun was visible through the burnished leaves fluttering above my head. Birches. I knew birches, the ones with the white bark. The morning frost had long since vanished, but bad weather was on the way. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
I wasn’t sure where the property lines were, probably the stream off to my left. I could cross it ahead. Some of this land belonged to JT, some to Great-grandma Evie or Great-aunt Ida. What a feeling. Family woods. Once, Indians roamed here, hunting, making camp. As I stepped around a fallen branch, I pictured an Indian gathering firewood. My mind leaped from the Indians to my ancestors and I pictured Lassiters walking these same woods, maybe even this same trail, over a century ago. The sudden feeling of connection I experienced was so unexpected, I stopped dead in my tracks. But only for a second or two. Maine was not for me. I belonged in the city.
I followed the trail to where it forked. On the right, it sloped slightly toward a deadfall, and on the left it evened off and ran closer to the stream. Except for the softly rippling water, it was quiet here. No bird chatter, no small critters scurrying through the underbrush. I imagined I could hear my heartbeat. Strange, this stillness.
A ways down the path I spotted what looked like a brown alligator boot sticking out from behind a boulder.
“Hello?”
I stopped and waited.
No reply.
“Hello. You behind the rock.” I took a deep breath, grabbed the mace in my bag and stepped closer, my heart picking up speed like a semi on a downhill run. I was hoping, hoping, hoping that someo
ne was just sitting here, leaning against the boulder, enjoying the stream. But somehow, I didn’t think so.
I should check. Take another step.
Or, I could run the other way.
I finally looked behind the rock. Even prepared as I was to find something awful, like a dead body, I gasped when I saw him. I knew he was dead. I knew him. Omigod. There was blood, so much of it. He’d been shot in the head, and I think an animal had nibbled on his fingers. Several of them were chewed to mere stubs. I hoped he was dead when that happened. I began to shake.
Suddenly, I couldn’t look another second. I scrambled backwards, stuffed the mace in my pocket, and ran like all the animals in creation were on my heels. Breathing hard the whole way, feeling a wild hysteria that about choked me, I finally stopped and yanked out my cell phone. I dropped it twice. Butterfingers. When I had a firm grip, I hit 9-1-1, gave the operator a brief rundown and continued to Ida’s at a fast clip.
Minutes later, the Toreador March played on my cell, and I answered.
“Nora Lassiter?” a man’s voice said.
“Yes, it’s me. Is this the police?”
“Yes. I’m Sheriff—”
“Help!” I yelled before he finished. “There’s been a murder. I’ll meet you at my aunt Ida’s. That’s Ida Lassiter in Silver Stream.” I gave him Ida’s address.
“Where are you now?”
“In the woods.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Specific? What was wrong with this man? “Not even if I had a GPS,” I replied, making no attempt to keep the sarcasm from my shaky voice.
“Are you near Ida’s?”
“Not too far. Going back the way I came.” My voice cracked as I skirted a snake and yelped.
“What happened?”
“I almost got attacked by a snake.” I looked back at the snake to make sure it wasn’t preparing to strike. “Cancel that. Just a dead branch.” I took a deep breath, and continued running. “An animal chewed on his fingers.”
Which reminded me of the mace. Better to be safe than sorry. I yanked the canister from my pocket.
“Do you know the victim?”
“Yes. It was…”
I stepped in a pothole and twisted my ankle. Yelped again. The phone went flying as I struggled to keep my balance.
“What happened? Nora. Nora Lassiter? Are you all right?”
Biting my bottom lip, I dropped to my knees, reached into the underbrush, retrieved the phone, and tossed it in my bag. I was not going to carry on a conversation with anyone while I negotiated this minefield.
* * *
Back at the house, I picked out a crummy-looking, old-lady sweater I found in Great-grandma Evie’s closet and slipped it on. I was too distressed to care about my appearance, or the fact that I now smelled of moth balls. I was still shaking. I can’t recall this ever happening before–not caring about my appearance, or how I smelled, or shaking like this.
Her hand on her chest, Ida listened to me, nodding the whole time, her face a mask of distress. Tears in her eyes, she said, “I hate to be one of those people who says ‘I told you so,’ but Nora, I did tell them. I warned them. Tried to tell that Renzo kid. He’s a nitwit.”
“The Renzo kid? Who’s he?”
“Sheriff Nick Renzo.”
“The sheriff’s a kid?” He hadn’t sounded like a kid. “And a nitwit?”
“Anyone under fifty is a kid.” She sniffed into her lace-tatted handkerchief. “The worst was the family. That hurt. Only Hannah and Agnes believed me. At least I think they did.”
“Your pals.”
She nodded.
I hugged her.
“And now someone’s dead because they wouldn’t listen to you, wouldn’t investigate what you overheard in the library.”
“Just because I didn’t hear anyone say outright that they were going to kill someone they figured I was reading into it.” Ida sniffled again. “Phsew. Reading into it, my foot. They could all stand to do a bit of that. Too bad you don’t know who it was, but we’ll find out soon enough.”
“Actually, I know who it is. I saw him when I went to see Uncle JT. His last name was Collins.”
What I didn’t say was that I’d seen him yelling at JT and I knew JT was afraid of him or maybe afraid of his partner. I wasn’t sure.
“Oh, my. Collins works with Percy Kendall at the Auto Mall. I think he owns half of it. Bought into it years back when there were some financial troubles.”
A short time later the sheriff drove up in an SUV, hopped out and raced onto the porch. I opened the screen door and stepped out to meet him. My heart gave a little jolt, just a small tremor, but completely out of character for me and my heart. This man was not a kid, and intuition signaled he was probably not a nitwit either.
“By the boulder next to the stream, just before you come to the bridge,” I told him before he had a chance to ask. “Right along the path to JT’s house. You can’t miss him.”
“Who is—”
“It’s the guy who works at the Auto Mart. Al Collins, I think his name is.”
“You all right?”
“Fine,” I replied, still shaking like I was standing naked in a high wind at the North Pole.
He reached out his hand and I took it. “I’m Nick Renzo, sheriff of Silver Stream,” he said.
The strangest thing happened. The shaking stopped. Suddenly. It’s not that I was attracted to him, or anything crazy like that. I am a sensible woman, after all. He was a good looking man, no question about it. Not movie-star handsome, but there was a certain quality I couldn’t put a name to. Well, maybe I could. I think the word was masculine with a capital M.
I didn’t say anything as he held my hand. Couldn’t think of a thing, not even my name, which would have been appropriate. It must have been the shock of seeing a murder victim that made my vocabulary dry up.
“You must be Nora Lassiter, the detective your aunt Ida told me about. The one who came up from New York to look into the murder she predicted?”
He let go of my hand. With the connection broken, I finally thought of something to say. “Yes, I’m Nora.”
I didn’t add the rest, the lie about being a detective. In fact, I should have taken this opportunity to straighten that out. My conscience danced around a bit. I thought of Mary Fran and the money she was paying me to get the skinny on her husband. If she knew the truth, I’d lose her business, and I needed the money.
I was a dishonest person.
“I need to talk to you. Get a statement. From Ida, too. Can you both meet me at the station house in a couple of hours? I’ll let you know when. Or would you prefer I come here?”
“Here,” I said. “My aunt wouldn’t want to go to the sheriff’s office.”
“Nonsense,” Ida said as she came up in back of me. “I want to do my duty and go. The sheriff has to debrief us.”
Debrief?
Nick nodded to me. “I’ll call you. I have your cell phone number.”
He took off. Minutes later Ida was on the phone to Great-aunt Hannah with the news of Collins’ murder. I wasn’t ready to call anyone, not even my brother Howie who’s an officer on the Miami-Dade Police Department.
Shortly after noon, Sheriff Nick called from the murder site and said he’d be wrapping up soon. The forensics team was almost finished. He’d meet us at the station house.
THREE
There were so many vehicles parked in front of the sheriff’s office that I had to park across the street by the Country Store. A big-breasted woman in a lime-colored sweater stood on the steps puffing a cigarette. I guessed she was in her mid-thirties. As I helped Aunt Ida out of the car, the woman said, “You hear what happened? The Collins’ murder?”
“Yes. I’m the one who found him in the woods up by JT Lassiter’s place. Shot to death.”
“I heard.” She took another puff of her cigarette and came down the steps. “I’m Amy. I waitress at the counter here. News travels fast in this
town. How awful for you.”
“Yes. Big shock.”
“Certainly was,” Ida put in as she smoothed the fresh orange flowered polyester blouse she’d changed into for this occasion.
“Maybe he committed suicide. No one gets murdered in Silver Stream. This here’s always been a safe place to live,” Amy said.
I knew that wasn’t exactly true. Mary Fran’s father-in-law had been murdered, but Amy obviously didn’t remember that.
“Didn’t someone get murdered around here about twenty years ago?”
Ida seemed to freeze. It was obvious that she remembered and was upset by it.
Amy wrinkled her brow. “Oh, yeah. Where’s my head. I was in high school at the time. Had other things on my mind, I guess.” She shrugged. “Someone out at the Auto Mart, I think it was.”
“Did you know him?”
“Everybody around here knew Al.”
I meant old Percy, but I let it go.
“Did people like Al?”
“The guy wouldn’t have won no popularity contest, but he wasn’t a bad sort. If he was murdered, maybe it had something to do with a car he sold that turned out to be a lemon.” She dropped her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of her navy Nike sneaker. “What’s the sheriff saying? He got any clues?”
“I don’t know.”
“Got to get back to work.” Amy nodded and went back inside. I took a few steps after her, wanting to ask more questions. Such an odd thing for her to say, that someone would murder a man because he sold him a lemon. I hesitated. She must have been joking. I guess I didn’t get Maine humor. When the screen door clapped shut, Ida and I headed to the sheriff’s office.
“Did you know that old guy who got murdered about twenty years ago?”
Ida shook her head. “Not really. I guess I met him once or twice, this being a small town and all. Don’t remember much about what happened though.”
“And you a crime show enthusiast? Must have been a big thing in this town. A murder. I’m surprised you didn’t go out and investigate yourself,” I joked.
Aunt Ida didn’t smile.
“Ay-uh, a big thing. The town was buzzing for weeks.”
Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream Page 2
