“No … no problem,” he stammered as he hurried back to the safety of the desk.
I knocked on Nick’s open office door, poked my head in and asked, “You talk to Percy yet?”
“I see you got your résumé,” he said, sidestepping my question.
My first thought was: What do you think of me in a bikini? How shallow am I? My next thought was that Mister Big Ears Trimble was nearby, pretending to be busy.
“Yes, I got it. Thanks for letting my friend fax it here.”
Nodding, as if to say touché, he got up and came over. “Trimble, I’m going to the Country Store for lunch. Don’t bother me unless aliens land or the President calls.”
“Ay-uh, Sheriff.”
“You eat yet?” he asked me, grabbing his brown campaign-style hat.
“No.”
“Come on.”
I was going to have lunch with the boss. I should be thinking about Percy who might have murdered his partner instead of picturing myself sitting across from this romantic devil. Good thing I planned to leave Maine shortly. Without another word, I walked beside him, hurrying a bit to keep pace with his long strides.
As soon as we stepped outside, the wind twirled my hair up and around. It still had to look better than it did yesterday.
“I have to ask a few more questions,” Nick began, eyeing my forehead.
Reflexively, I touched my lumps. “The result of an allergy.” At the lift of his brows, I clarified, “I sneezed and bumped my head.”
“So you said on your way back from Kendall’s. On the floor, wasn’t it? And it happened four times?”
“You’re half right.”
“Half right? Two sneezes, four lumps? Okay. Just seems a sensible woman would have moved back before the fourth hit. That’s just my uninformed male opinion, of course,” Nick said.
“Uninformed is your key word.”
“Suppose you explain.”
“Do you think this has anything to do with the murder?” I asked.
* * *
The Toreador March sounded in my pocket. I glanced at the caller’s name. My brother again. I didn’t want to talk to him in front of Nick, but I knew he was worried since I’d never called him back. I figured I owed him a short conversation.
“Hi, Howie. Everything’s okay,” I assured him immediately. I explained about finding the body. He told me to be careful. It’s like a mantra with him: Be careful, Nora. Be careful, Nora. Be careful, Nora.
Howie thought I was a calamity magnet, which was absolutely not true. But I loved my brother Howie, so I accepted.
“Don’t you want to know about the will?” I asked Howie, conscious of Nick beside me.
“Sure.”
“We have inherited about fifty acres of woods around Aunt Ida’s place. She’ll keep a few acres.”
No reaction.
“Howie? You still there?”
“What’s wrong with the land? Is it under water?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is not Florida.”
“Has a huge lien against it, doesn’t it?”
“That depends on how you define huge,” I lied, unable to help myself. Teasing Howie was one of the small pleasures in my life. It takes so little to get him going and it’s such fun to watch.
“I knew it. I’ll sign it over to you. It’s yours, Nora.”
I laughed. “Howie, we have to talk.” I thought of Mom and the sexual harassment business, but I didn’t want to talk about that now.
“Sure, but not about the land. Just mail me the papers. Are you planning to move to Maine?”
“Absolutely not.”
Nick and I reached the steps of the Country Store. “Howie, I can’t talk any more now. I’m going to lunch with the sheriff.”
“The sheriff. Are you sure you weren’t arrested, Nora?”
Smiling, I said, “I won’t even dignify that with an answer. I’ll call you tonight.”
I returned the phone to my purse. “That was my brother. He heard about the murder.”
When Nick’s brows shot up, I explained that Howie was a Miami-Dade cop.
As we climbed the steps, I asked, “Have you got any leads in the murder?”
He held the door. “Nothing much.”
We took a small booth in the back and before I was settled in my seat, he asked, “What did you find at Percy’s house?”
The question caught me off guard, which was a good thing because it kept me from answering immediately, which allowed me to consider the consequences. Could Mary Fran be affected? Could I? Was it illegal to snoop in Percy’s computer even though Mary Fran had given me access to the house? Maybe I should find out first.
“That’s private,” I answered.
Waitress Amy arrived and handed us menus. “Hi Nick.” She nodded at me. “The back room’s been all abuzz. Folks can’t seem to talk about anything else but the Collins murder. You got any leads?”
“None.”
“Such a shame. What’s this world coming to?”
“Amy, this is Nora Lassiter.”
“We’ve met. How you doing, honey? You recovered from your shock?”
Before I could answer, Nick cut in, “Amy, you knew Al for a long time, didn’t you?”
“Years. We were in high school together. He was a year ahead of me. ‘Course we weren’t great friends, but still …”
“He come in here much?”
“Few times a week.”
“When was the last time?”
Amy rested her order pad against her Pam Anderson double-Ds, maybe triple-Ds—I wondered whether there was an E, an F?—and considered the question. “Several days ago he came in with another guy. Don’t think the he was from around here.”
I could see Nick’s cop antenna stand at attention.
“What day was that?”
“Hmm. Let’s see. Maybe last Monday or Tuesday.”
“Have you seen this guy since?”
“Nope. Just that one time. I figured him to be a customer at the car place. Ay-uh. Maybe picking up a car?”
“What’d he look like?”
“Short guy, maybe five-seven or so, dark hair, wore a baseball cap. His hair stuck out. Slim, wore jeans.”
“Anything else? A name maybe?”
“Nothing. Sorry, Nick. Lunchtime we get pretty busy. Don’t leave much time for gettin’ acquainted.” She adjusted her AMY badge as she spoke. What a figure the woman had. I’d have to get triple implants to rival those melons. I tried not to stare.
“Thanks, Amy. It’s a place to start.” He handed her back his menu. “I’ll have coffee and ham on rye, extra pickles, Muenster cheese.”
“A lobster roll for me,” I said.
“Coming up.”
“Since I’ve been in Maine I’ve eaten about seven lobster rolls. I started when I crossed the New Hampshire border. They’re my absolute favorite, after homemade chocolate chip cookies, that is.”
“Interesting,” Nick said, tilting his head slightly as he stared at me. “Easy woman to please.”
A man wearing a suit walked into the place and made a beeline for our table like a hound dog who’s spotted the fox.
“You Sheriff Renzo?” the guy asked.
Nick said, “Ay-uh,” his look, implying he didn’t appreciate being disturbed.
With that, the guy signaled a pony-tailed man with a professional camcorder on his shoulder. Oh, hell. We were about to make the six o’clock news. Furiously, I patted my hair. I grabbed my purse and touched up my lipstick as the guy asked Nick about the murder. Glancing into my compact mirror, I realized I needed a complete overhaul. My national debut was minutes away.
“Can you tell us about the man who was murdered, Sheriff Renzo?
“No.”
The reporter looked stunned. “The camera’s rolling, Sheriff. The world is watching.”
“The world’ll have to wait until I finish my lunch. You going to film me eating?”
Not completely discouraged, th
e reporter turned to me. I was tempted to smile when the camera was aimed at me. I always wanted to be a performer, a singer maybe, or a dancer. I took tap as a kid. I still remember a few steps.
“And you are?” The reporter asked me.
I wished my hair looked better. That wind… .
“Nora Lassiter,” I replied with a smoothness that surprised me. The show must go on.
“Did you know the murdered man?”
I wanted to tell him I’d found the body. Nick stepped on my toe under the table. When I looked at him, he stared back and tapped my foot a few more times. I wondered whether it was Morse code. I sighed and said, “We’ll eat lunch first.”
“Are you two an item?” the reporter asked, taking a new tack.
I laughed. The sheriff rolled his eyes.
“An item of what?” I asked before Nick found my foot again and tapped furiously. Lucky for him I didn’t have my Bruno Maglis on, or he would have felt more than tapping on his own damn foot, scuffing up my shoe like that.
“Are you a couple?” the reporter asked, his annoyance evident.
“We’re a couple of people who want to eat lunch at the moment,” I said. I watched the camera zoom in on me for a close-up. I think it was aimed at my forehead. My lumps would make the news.
“I’ll have a brief statement later,” Nick cut in, the authority in his voice ending further discussion. He checked his watch. “Be in front of the station house around four.”
It was almost three now.
“Sure thing,” the guy said. He made a move to leave, then stopped short as if a light bulb had gone on in his head. It was creepy.
“Nick and Nora?” he questioned. “Like Nick and Nora Charles, the famous detective duo in those old movies? What a coincidence. That’s cool. Do you two crack cases together?” He chuckled. “Do you have a dog named … I forget what their dog was called. My grandfather used to watch those old movies.”
He chuckled again and left, muttering about the dog.
“When I’m in my crossword puzzle mode, I do a puzzle every night. On Sundays I do the New York Times crossword. So I know the name of the dog.”
Nick tapped a rhythmic tattoo on the table. “Should I care about this?”
“Asta. The terrier in the Thin Man series. Nick and Nora Charles’ dog was named Asta.”
The lobster roll was delicious, better than any they served in New York. As we ate, Nick peppered me with questions, most of them routine. Then he asked about Percy again and I decided to tell him about the visit to the Kendall house, leaving out the sexual playacting parts, of course.
“You think he did it?” I asked when I finished. “Did you question him yet?”
Nick didn’t answer immediately. “Right now I don’t know what to think. I’ll talk to him after I get rid of the press. Look into his business dealings with Collins.”
“Get rid of the press? Gonna shoot them, are you?”
He shrugged, smiled. “We’ll see.”
I liked his smile. Broad. Warm. He had a dimple that showed up when he smiled. I felt the urge to kiss his dimple. Geez.
“I have to go to Percy’s house again,” I said. “Maybe I’ll find out more this time. Do you want me to check a few programs on his computer? Like Quicken? Or Microsoft Money?”
“No. Stay out of it. Stay out of his house. I told you Percy’s no one to mess around with. Besides, it’s none of your business.”
He was right. But it didn’t change my mind. The determination must have shown on my face because he said, “I want to be very clear about this, Nora. I’m in charge of this investigation. I don’t want you involved, especially where Percy Kendall is concerned.”
“I promised Mary Fran I’d get photos.”
His mouth thinned. “All right. Take your damn photos. Of him coming out of some motel, or out of his house with this woman, but that’s it. That should be enough.”
“Of course.”
As we headed back to the station house, he said, “The first murder in Silver Stream was back in 1855. Some guy shot another guy for horse theft. Then about twenty years ago we had a real brutal murder.”
“Percy, senior.”
“So you heard. Guess it’ll be talked about now. He was bashed with a baseball bat.”
“What an awful way to die.”
“Yes. A crime of passion, for sh-ur. It was the bat the Auto Mart guys used when they played on the local softball team. Very handy weapon.”
He stopped and looked at me. “I only have book knowledge of this type of investigation. I wish you really were a hotshot New York Detective. I could use the expertise.”
The admission surprised me. Not many men would admit they needed help. I was impressed. This was a notch above asking for directions.
“Sorry,” I said grimly. “Maybe I could help anyway.”
“No.”
“How soon did you check me out?”
“I didn’t have to.”
“But you did?”
“Within a hour of meeting you.”
“No grass growing under your feet.”
We spotted the reporter and the video guy waiting on the station steps.
“I’ll head home now,” I told him. “Good luck with the sharks.”
He reached for my hand and gave it a slight squeeze. “Thanks.” Then he added, “I’ve had your statement about the murder typed up. You can read it over, make any corrections and sign it later.”
“Okay. I know you think you don’t want my help, but you saw my résumé, so you know … my areas of expertise.” Nora, Nora, Nora.
He raised his brows, and grinned at me. “It caused quite a stir among the boys, you know. I don’t think they bothered to read it. Never got past the picture.”
“I’m guessing Trimble enjoyed it.”
“Hell, I enjoyed it. If your “detective” career doesn’t pan out, you could try modeling for Sports Illustrated.”
I felt so pleased I wanted him to say more. “Yeah? You think so?”
“Oh, yes ma’am.”
TEN
I couldn’t get Percy out of my head. Mary Fran didn’t think he was capable of killing his partner, but I thought she might be wrong. Had she ever heard his Gestapo boots stomping on the floor?
I stopped the car in front of the library, and called myself ten kinds of a fool for even letting my thoughts run in this direction. What dreamland had I mentally moved into? I was going home in a day or so, and I had no business even thinking about what Ida overheard here. That was the sheriff’s business. I stared at the library building. I should not go in. Should not. There were three pickup trucks and a red Honda Civic parked out front. It wasn’t crowded.
The Silver Stream Public Library did not look like most libraries I’d been in. It was a small, one-story wooden building with a steeply pitched metal roof, one of those special roofs you see in Maine that the snow can slide off of easily. I guessed the building would fit into a ladies’ room of the New York Public Library with a few cubicles to spare. Since I was here, I might as well check it out, for nostalgia reasons, if nothing else. My lifelong love affair with books had begun here. I was at home here.
I should return the overdue library book I found when I unpacked my books in my new apartment about two years ago. I wondered what the fine was for twenty years. I had a book about Abraham Lincoln that I used for a fifth grade history report. We’d moved before I had a chance to return it.
Feeling a little guilty about the book, I walked up to the librarian’s desk, solid oak, from another century. The years vanished in an instant as I closed my eyes and breathed in the place. Even after all this time, I could identify my library by scent. Warmth and books and a hint of lemon oil polish.
A woman around forty years old, dressed in a green skirt, a severe gray blazer and cream-colored blouse, and looking tidier than any woman should ever look, unless she was in a convent, greeted me with a perfunctory—and a neat, I must say—smile, when I entered. Every
hair on her head was in place. I immediately guessed she was a customer of that mad sprayer, Mary Fran.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?”
If I said I was just snooping, I suppose she would have asked me to leave, so I said, “I’d like a library card.”
She handed me an application. “Just fill this out, in pen, and add a reference at the bottom. That’s essential. Without a reference, you cannot take out books. When the application is complete, I’ll approve it and give you a number.”
Approve it? Was it possible that I wouldn’t be approved? And I needed a reference?
They still used numbers here instead of computer-read cards. I already had a number. I figured after all this time it was not on record. Good thing. They could open up a new wing if I paid my fine. Ms. Efficiency would not like to hear about that book.
“I need a reference?” I asked, wondering if I’d misheard.
“Certainly.”
“Sounds like an exclusive club. What people are you trying to keep out?”
“We like to know our patrons.”
I reached across the desk to shake her hand. “My name is Nora Lassiter.”
She took my hand hesitantly. “Related to the Lassiters in town?”
“Ida, Hannah, Agnes, Ellie, JT. Well, I could go on.”
“No need. They’re a wonderful family. One of their ancestors founded this town.” She flashed a smile as big as Alabama. “But I suppose you know that. My name is Margaret. Happy to have you as a new library member.”
There was a possibility that one of the people Ida overheard that day had returned a book. Not likely that they stopped to take one out, of course, but that could be checked, too. I wondered if the sheriff had looked into that.
For now, I filled out the application, turned it in and got a number.
“Each time you check out a book,” she explained, “I’ll stamp a date on the card and you’ll write your number on the card and in the book.”
Very high tech, I almost said, wondering where they kept the files that matched up the names with numbers. I asked about it and she indicated a drawer beneath the desk. “We keep all our lists on file here. When a book is overdue, we call the person. If that doesn’t succeed, we mail out a card.”
I thought about that, then asked, “Margaret, if a person returns a book, do you keep a record of the date it was returned?”
Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream Page 8
