Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream

by Bernadine Fagan

  I nodded, but I wasn’t sure we were on the same page. I was annoyed because my uncles had snubbed me. I didn’t care about the rest of them and their ways.

  “That’s like a sacred spot,” she explained. “No women allowed. Just the men, talking politics and such. Bunch of old farts. At least they’re not as bad as my deceased husband used to be. Now there was a real jackass.” She laughed, then yelled to a customer asking for coffee, “Keep your shorts on, Lenny, I’ll be right with you.”

  Laughter greeted her reply.

  I liked Amy. “I’m sorry your husband died.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not. He left me a little something, more than I had when we was together. Where ya from, honey? I know you’re not from these woods.” She looked meaningfully at my violet cashmere sweater and black linen DKNY slacks. “You look so city-like.”

  “New York City. But my family’s originally from Silver Stream.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said slowly, as if just remembering me, which I didn’t believe for a minute. “Ida Lassiter was with you the day good old Al got himself shot. Someone told me you haven’t been here in years. Smart lady.” She checked out my apparel again, craning to look over the counter to see my shoes, which didn’t match the outfit, since I was in stealth mode and wearing sneakers. She frowned. “Nice outfit,” she commented insincerely. “I heard about you. A detective. You’re up here on some case, right?”

  I opened my mouth to reply as she handed me my change, then changed my mind. Instead of answering, I smiled, going for an enigmatic look. I don’t know whether I was successful or not. I’d have to check it in the mirror later.

  “Sort of,” I said.

  “Must be interesting work. Following clues, catching the bad guys.”

  What would Jessica Fletcher say, I wondered?

  “A lot of it is routine. Even boring.” Liar, liar, liar.

  “I hear you’re really good.”

  I smiled modestly. Who had she been talking to? Mary Fran?

  “Are you?” she asked when I didn’t comment.

  What was I supposed to say? “I’ve had my moments.”

  She nodded. “Well, gotta run, honey. The natives are restless. Have to finish up the breakfast crowd.”

  * * *

  Using the smudged, squiggly map from Mary Fran, I got lost and didn’t arrive for over an hour. The house was a large red brick cape cod with two dormers, on a quiet street in a small cleared area surrounded by woods. It had a detached garage. I pulled behind the garage, nervous as a burglar on a virgin run, which, in a way, I was. Hands shaking, a little like Mary Fran’s had been, I unlocked the back door, opened it slowly and went into the kitchen. It smelled of burnt toast and peanut butter. Breakfast dishes littered the table, a nice sight for Mary Fran to come home to.

  I stood for a few seconds listening to house sounds–a grandfather clock ticking somewhere, a faucet dripping in the kitchen, the refrigerator humming.

  Finally, I headed upstairs, stopping on the third step when it creaked.

  Ba-boom, ba-boom. Who knew a heart could pound so loudly without bursting through the chest?

  I wondered what I’d say if I were discovered. Foolish thought. I was here alone and would remain alone. I continued up, found the computer and turned it on, remembering when the desktop screen flashed on that I’d left the computer paper in the car. Where was my head today?

  While the computer was warming up, I ran out to get the paper. More time lost. It was almost eleven already. When I returned, I tried the easy way first. Searched the desk drawers for evidence of passwords. Nothing. I checked under the keyboard, around the monitor, on the tower, beneath the lamp, the telephone, the pen holder.

  Under the desk. Randy215. That had a certain ring to it.

  My guess was that randy Percy had met his lady love last February fifteenth. I would soon see. I opened his email program, typed in the password, hit Enter, and waited. Like magic, I was in.

  This was easier than I thought. If Mary Fran knew anything about computers and was able to find the password, she could have done this herself. I checked the folders, opened one named Marla, the only one with a woman’s name on it.

  Good guess.

  My God. He had eighty-three messages stored here, the first one dated July twenty-eighth, about seven weeks ago. Chuck the theory about them meeting in February.

  I began reading her mail to him and some of his to her that was on the same page. My face grew hot, and I do not consider myself a prude. Randy was a fitting password for both of them.

  Wow.

  Penned porn. No detail too small, too insignificant, too disgusting, to be mentioned. Why not just send the Karma Sutra back and forth, for God sakes? They included clothes, no, more like costumes, to be worn at the onset, descriptions of equipment to be utilized and a step by step on what the utilization entailed. I barely noticed the poor spelling and creative punctuation.

  Dates were mentioned. No times or places though. Perhaps they always met at the same time, same place. I was looking for an email that mentioned a motel or some other destination.

  Fifty-two emails later I decided to stop looking, and begin printing. I should have done that immediately. Not thinking. Too nervous. I pulled the dust cover off the printer. Omigod. An antique. One of the slowest printers HP ever made.

  I pressed the On button and froze.

  I heard a noise. In the next room. I stopped breathing and listened. A shuffling sound. Panicky feelings worked their way into my throat and I had trouble swallowing.

  Like a big sissy, I grabbed my purse, bolted into the closet and yanked on the bifold doors, no easy task since I was off balance and immediately got entangled in long plastic dry cleaner bags and dropped my purse. A plastic bag caught my nose as I tried to turn. Dear God. I couldn’t breathe. More panic as I tried to remove it, and, at the same time, keep myself from falling through the louvered bifolds.

  Get a grip, Nora.

  The noise came again. I pressed an ear to the closet wall, this time circumventing the bags.

  A scraping sound. No, not quite scraping. It was like someone digging. They had sand in the bathroom?

  Peeking through the slots, I could see the computer screen and the last email I’d read. I had to get out of this damn closet, turn it off, and quit this stupid stuff. Nick Renzo was right. I was no detective.

  Just then, the Toreador March blasted from my purse. Oh, my God. I groped around the floor, hit my head on the partially opened door, but managed to snag the damn purse. I grabbed the damn phone and shut it off. I figured the jig was up now for sure. I was as good as dead. If anyone had not heard that damn music or the thump on the door, they were deaf.

  Resigned to discovery, I stepped out, rubbing my head. That’s when it suddenly hit me. The scraping sound. A cat in a litter box? Did Mary Fran have a cat? The thought was sunshine, even though I am severely allergic. Sneezing beats death by a Maine mile.

  I tiptoed to the bathroom and glanced in just in time to see a fluffy white feline stepping primly from a litter box. I laughed with delight. Well, it was more like giddy relief, I suppose.

  The snooty little cat spared me a brief glance as it strolled past with a get-out-of-my-way attitude that had me stepping aside.

  For the next two hours I ran off emails on the slowest printer this side of the Rockies. I probably didn’t have to run them all off, but I wanted to be efficient. Earn my fee.

  I checked my watch. It was already two-ten. I was in that movie again saying hurry up, hurry up to the heroine.

  Restless, waiting for the pages to print, I prowled the small office, then stopped to look out the back window. They had a lot of property. A tire swing hung from a tree and I imagined a child playing on it. I imagined swinging on it myself.

  I heard the car before I saw it. Mary Fran? No, not in that big SUV. Possibly a neighbor. But why?

  My throat went dry, my heart began a wild ba-boom, ba-boom, and I had to pee.

 
SIX

  With unsteady hands, I cancelled the print and shut down the computer.

  Outside, a car door slammed.

  I grabbed the papers I’d run off, stuffed them into my tote, and, knowing it was too late to exit the house, desperately looked for a place to hide. The closet? Been there, done that. Where would he not notice me? Hall closet? Daughter’s room? Under a bed? A bed.

  It was almost two-fifteen. In a flash of insight that came too late, like a lot of my brilliant flashes, I understood the password. Not a date, not February fifteenth, but a time. His dates with Marla were at two-fifteen. Here. The nerve.

  Hide, hide, hide.

  I quelled the urge to head for the stairs. Instead, I ran to his daughter’s room across the hall from the master bedroom, a pink frilly place with an unmade bed and toys and clothing scattered from here to kingdom come and back again. The daughter was a messy kid. I shoved my tote under her bed and scrambled after it. The only plus was the dust ruffle that touched the floor. I was hidden. The mattress was low, making it a tight fit. If I’d had breakfast or lunch I might not have made it. For a panicky moment I pictured getting stuck under the bed, having to call 911 and explain the situation. Calling Nick. No, I’d stay here before I’d call him.

  The place was dust-bunny heaven. I wondered whether the cat spent any time under here. I couldn’t see too well. Could there be dangerous cat hairs lurking?

  Something smelled sour.

  When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I made out a bowl in front of me. Something awful was in that bowl, something worse than dust bunnies or menacing cat hairs, something that might have been milk a long time ago. I slid the bowl to the side, out of nose range.

  I heard footsteps on the oak stairs, heard Percy whistling a song I couldn’t identify, not some mushy love song, but something hot and heavy, almost menacing.

  I lifted the bed skirt a tiny bit and peeked out. I watched his black leather shoes march into the master bedroom. I dropped the bed skirt quickly. I felt nauseous. My head started to ache. And, of course, I still had to pee. I hadn’t gone to the bathroom since before I had that cup of coffee at Hot Heads Heaven hours ago. Dear God, how long would he take? Did he and Marla do ‘quickies?’

  More shoe noises. I chanced a peek. A pair of black patent leather stilettos with ankle straps clicked on by. Queen Marla had arrived.

  The session from hell began.

  I wished I were in a position to take photos, but I couldn’t chance it. I had the camera in my tote.

  “You’re very naughty,” Percy said in an unctuous voice that sent a chill through me. “Coming this late? When I hired you as my maid I warned you not to be late, didn’t I?” His accent had morphed from Maine-ish to German-ish, or I was hearing things? It was hard to tell under this bed.

  “Yes, sir,” came a high-pitched, meek voice.

  He was walking around, each step smacking the floor loud enough to make me think Gestapo boots. Had he changed his shoes? I wished I could see. I risked another peek, lifting the bed skirt higher this time. He was walking around her. Inspecting her? He had a riding crop in his hand. I saw the bottom of it rap his boots. When his toes turned my way, I dropped the bed shirt. I heard sharp raps against leather. I think it was leather. I couldn’t tell for sure. I could only imagine. And under this dark bed, my imagination took wing.

  “At least your uniform is properly ironed.”

  I didn’t have to see her to know she was in costume. I wished I could get my hands up to cover my ears, but the space was too confining to cover them comfortably for any length of time. Lifting the bed skirt was challenge enough.

  I also wished I could get to a bathroom. If I could just cross my legs …

  Time moved at a snail’s pace. So much for the wish for a quickie. Marla was laughing one minute, bouncing on the bed the next, oofing and aahing and such. What was he doing to her? The pictures running through my head rivaled things I’d seen on the Playboy Channel. Not that I’m a big fan, but every now and again …

  Then it began, the familiar symptoms that I had come to dread, the ones that signaled the presence of cat. My eyes began to tear. And itch. I had to rub them. I just had to. Despite the cramped position, I managed to get my hands near my face. Good thing, because I felt a sneeze coming, trying to work its way up and out.

  While my hands were nearby, I held one over my mouth and nose and gave forth with an almost silent, but spitty, a-choo. In reflex my forehead struck the floor, and my arm upended the sour milk bowl.

  “Ow.”

  No time to wallow in self-pity. Another sneeze was waiting in the wings, a slow moving one, the absolute worst kind. Think pressure on magma, building, building. Think volcano. I wished I could force it and get it over with, but no.

  Ah … . aah … .aaah …

  It wouldn’t come. The blockbuster sneeze was gathering force for eruption.

  What came was the damn cat, in person, nosing around, rubbing up against my leg. I tried to push him away. No such luck. He thought I was playing with him. I now had both hands guarding my nose. No way was I going to pull them away from nose detail and risk the escape of a loud sneeze. Some of my sneezes are sound-barrier-breakers, not cute, not genteel. I used to wish I had a cute and delicate girlie sneeze. I still wished that.

  Body sounds from the other room got more interesting, but I was too busy trying to control my own body to imagine what Percy and Marla were doing.

  The sneeze finally broke loose, a rip-snorter, and I pressed both hands tighter to cover the noise. I almost blew up. My head smacked the floor again, a real hard wallop this time. I’d have a bump for sure. The cat approached to investigate. Damn cat.

  I had to get out of this hellhole. I really had to get to a bathroom fast. This detective business was getting old. I decided to risk sneaking out before the happy couple was finished. I prayed they would be too busy to notice someone scuttling along on the floor. From the sounds they were making, I figured they were very busy. My one regret was that I couldn’t peek in. Not that I’m a voyeur or anything, but God, they were going at it.

  Percy’s different from most folks around here. He’s … tougher. Can be ruthless.

  Nick’s warning ran through my head as I squirmed to the side of the bed. The need to sneeze was working its way up again, and each sneeze increased my chances of discovery, along with the lumps on my forehead. I had to stop moving.

  When the sneeze arrived, it was a winner, the champion of all sneezes, a hall of famer.

  Aaa-choo!

  Aaa-choo!

  Thwack. Bang. Two more lumps for a grand total of four. Wonderful. How attractive, Nora.

  Marla moaned in ecstasy. “Oh, Percy.” Her voice still had that phony, high-pitched quality. “There’s no one like you. No one, my love.”

  “Marla, Marla, I can’t get enough of you.”

  Well, I’d had enough of both of them. I rubbed my eyes again and shifted my leg in an attempt to get the cat to move. He did. Right next to my face. Soon I’d be a candidate for the Emergency Room.

  I pushed my tote, then myself, out from under the bed, not an easy task with the cat positioned where he was.

  I squeaked as the cat’s claw snagged my sweater, caught, penetrated, and scratched my shoulder. I went into a holding pattern until I was sure no one had heard. It gave me time to be thankful I had chosen to wear sneakers instead of leather-bottomed shoes or boots. True, they didn’t go with the outfit, but Mary Fran equals sneakers. Hadn’t I learned that years ago?

  With great care, I inched toward the door on my belly, sweeping the floor with my cashmere sweater and good slacks. I wanted to go to the bathroom. No chance. I crossed my legs for a second, took a deep breath, then uncrossed them and slithered into the hall like a recruit in basic training crawling under barbed wire. The damn cat followed. Cats love me. Once, a long time ago before I found out I was allergic to cats, I loved them, too. Maybe they sensed that. It’s like I’m the Pied Piper of felines.
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  After I successfully passed the bedroom door, I stood, and tiptoed to the stairs.

  I remembered to skip the creaky third step on the way down.

  When I finally reached the car, I was a wreck. Gasping for breath, heart slamming like a jackhammer, I started the engine and took off like I was shot from a cannon. I almost clipped a pickup truck stopped at the end of the driveway, a newspaper guy delivering papers.

  * * *

  Title me Desperate Detective. I was lost. I recognized this little bridge ahead since I’d been over it three times already. I looked around. Woods, woods and more woods, and a little stream. Where was I? I wondered, wriggling in my seat, seriously in need of a bathroom, considering getting out and peeing by the side of the road. The way things were going today, I’d probably squat in a patch of poison ivy.

  Groping for Mary Fran’s map on the passenger seat, I drove over the bridge and pulled to the side of the road. I hoped no one I knew would drive by and see me. I was a mess. My hair. My clothes. I smelled of dust and sour milk, and if I didn’t find a toilet soon …

  It was five minutes to four. I had to be at the lawyer’s for the reading of the will in five minutes. That wasn’t going to happen. I hated being late.

  From the X that was Mary Fran’s house, I ran my pinky along the chicken-scrawl route that led to Main Street in town. It veered to the right after the bridge. Well, I’d done that. Then a quick left. Yes, I’d gone left. Or was that left made by the smudge on the paper? Which way had I gone when I was coming? Right. No, left. No, maybe right was right.

  I needed a GPS.

  An SUV with a red blinking light on top pulled along side of me. The flutter of my foolish heart was matched only by my rising panic. I needed a hat, or even better, a paper bag to cover my head. No, I needed not to be here. Instead of wildly trying to adjust my appearance, I took the high road and acted as if nothing was amiss.

  “Parked to enjoy the wicked good view of Hunter’s Creek?” Nick asked.

  I looked at him and smiled as if my hair stuck up this way every day. His expression was hard to read. And that was because he had no expression. He just stared. God, he was cute. Too bad I’d sworn off men for the rest of my natural life.