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

by Bernadine Fagan

  “Nick, I give you valuable tips. You said so yourself.”

  “Why are you asking about surveillance if you’re only interested in a radiator?”

  I hesitated, more for drama than from reluctance to share what I’d found.

  “JT signed the purchase orders in the book,” I said.

  After some silence, I said, “You still there, Sheriff?”

  “How did you happen to see the purchase order book?” Nick asked, a sarcastic edge in his voice. “I can’t picture anyone saying, ‘Here, have a look at our Purchase Orders.’”

  “The smoking guy left me alone and I had nothing to read. I flipped through a few things.”

  “For most people that would involve magazines.”

  “The thing is, I think you should have surveillance here during the day, too.”

  “I don’t have enough men. I’m stretched thin as it is.”

  “I could watch for a while.”

  “No,” he said in his no-nonsense sheriff’s voice.

  “Why not?”

  “I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

  “Where does the surveillance guy watch from? I don’t see much around here,” I said, checking the woods on either side.

  Silence again.

  “JT signed the purchase orders,” I repeated. “All of them.”

  “I heard you the first time. But his signature could be forged.”

  “You won’t have too much trouble checking the signature.”

  I heard him groan. “You snatched one?” There was a hint of despair in his voice. I imagined he closed his eyes, too.

  * * *

  I drove to Aunt Ellie’s. When I pulled into the driveway, that same rush of nostalgia washed through me. Like the last time I was here, I remembered bits of my childhood. Running through the sprinkler on a hot summer day, catching fireflies, riding on the tractor with Dad as he plowed a trail through the woods. So many happy things. Before everything changed.

  I stopped the car and took the photo from the seat beside me, wondering whether Ellie would be shocked that her husband had been so close that day. Or, had she known?

  The day was warm and crystal clear, like so many September days, so many back-to-school days. I had loved going to school here.

  I felt again the sadness of separation that I’d felt all those years ago, sadness at the injustice of it all. Why hadn’t Great-grandma Evie just called Dad? Or other members of the family? I would never understand that. All those years, wasted.

  I knocked on the door to Ellie’s house. Once, I wouldn’t have knocked, I’d have breezed right in.

  Did I want to live in Silver Stream again?

  A troubling consideration. I was a city girl.

  I made a strong effort to shrug off the nostalgia. I was here on business today.

  “‘Morning, Nora. Come in,” Ellie said as she held the door for me. She was dressed in a yellow warm-up outfit with a gray turtleneck underneath. Her hair was done up and sprayed stiff enough to resist a nor’easter. I didn’t care for that shade of green eye shadow, but hey, it’s a free country.

  We stood in the foyer. She didn’t ask me to come in for coffee. After an awkward moment, I said, “I came to show you one of the photos I took at the funeral.”

  She stepped back as if I had a communicable disease, her face a mask of disgust. “You took pictures at a funeral? No one takes pictures at a funeral. How ghoulish.”

  I held the picture out. She refused to look. I guess she needed time for the impact of my barbarism to ease. I waited, my hand still extended. Finally, with all the enthusiasm of someone looking through a mug book for a serial killer, she glanced at the photo I’d blown up.

  No disgust now. Just annoyance.

  “The man’s a fool. Showing up there,” she said as she stared at her husband’s picture.

  “Why did he run, Ellie?”

  “I told you. Besides, what’s it to you, anyway?”

  The animosity in her voice took me by surprise.

  “He’s my father’s brother,” I replied.

  “I think this is none of your business. You’re here for a short time. Don’t get involved.” She looked at her watch when she spoke, not at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Did he kill Collins?” I finally asked, my voice a harsh whisper.

  “You’d better leave,” she said, pushing the door open for me.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Everyone I’d met in Silver Stream, plus a few hundred folks I’d never seen, were at the lake for the bean-hole supper, an event I was sure I’d miss. But I was still in Maine, still in Silver Stream.

  It was close to dusk. The sun was dipping in the western sky. It was cool. In the open tent with the aunts, all the folks wore wool sweaters or light jackets. Being a cautious woman who doesn’t like the cold, I wore the natural wool fisherman sweater I’d ordered from L.L. Bean, and jeans. Tied at my waist was the deep red Norwegian-inspired snowfield fleece pullover that had just arrived this morning. Not in my color palate, I admit, but necessary. Not that it was cold at the moment, but the sun was sinking in the west, there were woods all around, and we were heading into the tail end of September in Maine. Do the math.

  Huge tent-tops dotted the meadow with folks milling around each one. The delicious aroma of baked beans wafted across the fairgrounds from the bean hole. I could smell the molasses they put in the beans.

  Local talent livened up the place with piano, banjo, fiddle, accordion and washboard, playing music from a different era. If I were home, I wouldn’t waste my time listening.

  When they segued from the Maple Leaf Rag into Down By the Old Mill Stream, I sang along, my voice lost in the impromptu chorus that rose up around me. Why didn’t I ever listen to this kind of music? I should. I would.

  I sang along. “by the old mill stream … where I first met you … dressed in gingham, too … croon loves tune … dah-da-da-dah.”

  I got a few amused looks. Not sure what that was about. After all, other people were singing, too.

  I did a little soft-shoe shuffle as I set out the plastic forks Ida handed me. I remembered a few steps. I wasn’t bad, not that I had a career in the dance field, or anything. My mother made me take tap as a kid. That lasted two months, only because my mother said the teacher said I had no discernible sense of rhythm, which was not true at all. I had liked dance class.

  Along with Hannah, Agnes and Ida, I helped set up the section for the church’s pot luck supper. We arranged bowls of clam chowder, corn & pumpkin chowder, baked wild duck breasts, lobster salad, brandied pumpkin soufflé, fiddlehead ferns, strawberry-rhubarb pie and blueberry pie, those last two baked and frozen this past spring and summer for this occasion.

  As the song ended, Mary Fran walked into the tent. “Someone around here was singing off key. Did you hear it?” She shuddered. “Enough to send chills up my spine.”

  I looked around. “No, I didn’t hear anyone singing off-key.”

  The aunts barely glanced at Mary Fran. I guess they didn’t want to appear too interested in her business.

  “I have to check his computer,” I told her quietly. “See when they plan to meet again.”

  “It’s getting harder and harder to be civil to him,” Mary Fran whispered as I watched Nick approach. “Last night I lost my temper and tipped a bowl of hot chowder into his lap. Ruined his new pants. Too bad I didn’t ruin anything else. Next time I’ll make sure it’s scalding hot.”

  When Nick entered the tent, many women, young and old, swarmed around him, sort of like teens around a rock star. It was ridiculous. They wanted him to try their specialty? I had a feeling a few were offering more than food. Tastefully, of course, no pun intended.

  I raised my brows and gave him a tight smile.

  “It’s not amusing,” Mary Fran said, misinterpreting the direction of my thoughts. “I want to murder Percy. Really, I do.”

  “I know,” I repl
ied, pulling my attention back to her instead of Himself and the infatuated ladies of Silver Stream. “I understand how you feel, Mary Fran, and I’m working on it. Is Percy here now?”

  Who cared what women were nuts about Nick? Didn’t matter to me. I wished them all well. I was leaving in a few days.

  “He’s over by the bean hole with our daughter,” Mary Fran said as she gestured with her head in that general direction.

  At the same time, Nick laughed at something one of the women said. Then they all laughed at something he said. They were having a wonderful time. Good. People should have fun at the festival.

  “I had to get away,” Mary Fran was saying. “It was either that, or get arrested for sending him ass over teakettle into the damn bean hole. The temptation was strong, Nora. Very strong.”

  “I’m glad you showed restraint,” I said. “Remember your objective.”

  “Right. By the way, he’s going to a car auction this weekend. Leaving tomorrow morning. Do you suppose he’ll meet her there?”

  “Could be. I’ll check his email. Where’s the auction?” I wasn’t really interested, but I felt it was only polite to ask.

  “Gray.”

  Gray? Gray.

  Michelle Gray, 8011a0920. Phil Clinton, 401p0925.

  My heartbeat kicked into overdrive. Tomorrow was September twentieth. Gray, 0920.

  Normal as you please, I asked, “Gray is a place in Maine, right?”

  She looked at me as if I were not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. “It’s just about half an hour west of Freeport. Years back, Percy would take me to the outlets in Freeport and drop me off and travel to Gray. Then Lard Ass took over the job.”

  My heart started palpitating with such gusto I thought it might show. I put a hand to my chest to cover my excitement. Gray was a place, not a person. Omigod. I had to tell Nick. Wait till he heard this. It could be the breakthrough we needed. We?

  Two of the women I’d seen at Hot Heads Heaven interrupted to talk to Mary Fran. I went back to setting up the plastic flatware, ignoring the stupid scene with the sheriff and the ladies of Silver Stream, annoying though that was.

  The aunts surrounded me like so many mother hens, eager to hear the latest on the Mary Fran case.

  “Has Mary Fran found out anything new?” Hannah asked.

  “Has Marla met with Percy again?” Ida whispered.

  Nick shot me a wide grin over the heads of his fan club. I smiled back politely and bumped into a stack of paper cups. About five-hundred cups went rolling. So graceful. My mother should have insisted on ballet instead of tap.

  “Told you,” Ida said quietly, watching the commotion as I gathered up the cups. “All ga-ga over him, the lot of them. ‘Course he is wicked good looking and such a manly man, if you know what I mean.”

  “They call it sexy today, Aunt Ida,” I snapped, blowing the dirt off one of the cups and putting it back in the pile.

  “A rose by any other name,” she said.

  “About Mary Fran?” Hannah persisted.

  “Nothing new,” I said, deciding it was high time I investigated the damn bean pot. It was an interesting process, right? I should learn about it. When I got back to New York and my friends asked me what I did in Maine, I would describe this bean-hole business. Besides, it would give me a chance to chat with Percy.

  I passed the folk art tent with only the briefest glance. Same for the quilt tent. My thoughts cut back and forth between Nick and a place called Gray. A group stood around the bean hole listening to the bean-hole maker. Margaret was standing next to Percy. His head was bent toward her, listening. On the opposite side, his daughter tried to get his attention. His face stern, he spoke to the child and she ran off looking unhappy. Margaret looked up at him. Touched his arm. A lovers touch? I wished I could hear their conversation. Nick should be watching this. But no. He was busy wallowing in the adulation of the Silver Stream singles.

  I circled around and came up in back of Percy. Margaret turned immediately. It was enough to make me believe the woman had ESP.

  “Margaret. Percy. Hello.”

  “… use about twenty-five pounds of yellow-eyed beans,” the bean-hole maker was saying, “and the onions and molasses…”

  Percy gave a reluctant hello. Margaret smiled and said hi.

  “This is wonderful, isn’t it?” I said, with a wave of my arm to encompass the whole area.

  “Umm.”

  “Will you be back tomorrow for the games?” I asked them.

  “No,” Percy said.

  “No,” Margaret said, glancing at Percy, then back at me.

  “Oh?”

  “Car auction,” Percy supplied.

  “Business,” Margaret said. “And you?”

  “Getting ready to go back to New York.” I thought of my Abraham Lincoln library book, but decided, again, not to mention it.

  To see what he’d say, I asked, “Where’s the car auction?”

  Instead of replying, he said, “Heard you were over to JT’s, nosing around.”

  “Well, I–”

  “And taking pictures at Al’s funeral?”

  I controlled the gasp. How had Percy seen me? I had been so careful.

  “Pictures?” Margaret looked at me as if she were looking at something smelly stuck to her shoe.

  “There are worse things,” I fired back. “Let’s see. Like lying or stealing, murdering, cheating, philandering, blackmailing, selling drugs. The list goes on. Funeral shots are down near the bottom.”

  Several other people joined the bean-hole watchers, and we shifted to give them room. During the shift, Margaret and Percy swung around quickly to leave. I took a step, and felt a sharp pain in my right ankle. I was not sure how it happened, or even what happened. Next thing I knew, my arms were pin-wheeling, grabbing at air to keep from falling into the smoldering bean hole. I didn’t even have time to yell.

  Two men grabbed at me, one got hold of my L.L. Bean natural wool fisherman sweater, the other grabbed at the deep red Norwegian-inspired snowfield fleece pullover tied at my waist. The pullover came off in his hand, and I dipped to the side, stretching the wool sweater to its fullest. I was like ammunition in a slingshot. In my peripheral vision I saw Percy and Margaret walking away, not even looking my way.

  One foot slid over the edge and knocked loose one of the rocks that lined the hole.

  “Hold her, man. Those rocks are heavy enough to crack the cover.”

  The man’s grip held. Two guys grabbed hold of him to keep us both from falling onto the cover below and crashing into the pot.

  “Get her up, quick!”

  “She’ll get dirt in the beans!” someone shouted.

  Dirt in the beans? The heat was curling around my legs, for God sakes.

  The sweater slipped, looped under my arms and dug into my chin. Slipped to my neck. I could see tomorrow’s headlines: Woman hung by L.L. Bean sweater.

  I dangled over the bean hole. I was a coat hanging on a peg. I was a side of beef swinging from a hook. I was a woman being choked by her sweater.

  Omigod, omigod, omigod! Get me outta here!

  Hands snatched at me. Caught my hair, my collar.

  “Ow!”

  “Get her before she ruins the beans!” Same guy yelling as before. The self-appointed bean protector.

  When I got out of here, I was going to smack him good.

  My feet scrambled for purchase. Knocked another rock loose. Would they tar and feather me if I ruined the damn beans?

  “The pot’s still covered! The beans are protected.”

  My arms flailed wildly in the air.

  “Hold still,” someone ordered.

  “Grab her arm!”

  “Watch out!”

  Someone caught my arm.

  “Get her feet up. She’s knocking more rocks down.”

  Someone caught my other arm. Seconds later I was on solid ground, Nick in front of me.

  “You okay?” he asked, taking hold of my hand.
>
  “Yes. Fine. Never better.” I brushed hair from my eyes as I stepped away from the bean hole. Straightened my natural wool fisherman sweater, which was now stretched large enough to accommodate a whole other person. I took a few deep breaths. Stuck my shaking hands in my jean pockets.

  “You sure?”

  Someone held out my red sweater. Nick took it and that was fine with me since I couldn’t steady my hands enough to get them out of my pockets. I looked around, listening for the bean protector.

  All eyes were focused on me.

  “You all right, lady?”

  “I don’t think she’s from around here,” someone whispered.

  “I’m fine. Thank you all for your help.”

  “Take care, dear,” an older woman said, patting my shoulder. “It could happen to anyone.”

  Chin high, I walked away, hands still jammed in my pockets.

  “Hey, that lady almost fell in the bean hole,” some dopey kid announced, pointing.

  “Yeah. Did you see that?”

  “… the mustard is every bit as important as the onions,” the bean man continued as if a person hadn’t almost died a horrible death in his stupid bean hole.

  “What happened?” Nick asked as we walked toward the tent where the three aunts and other members of the Lassiter clan had gathered.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. One minute I was talking to Percy and Margaret, the next I felt pain in my ankle and it gave way. I don’t know whether someone kicked me, or not. Next thing, I’m swinging over the damn bean hole.”

  “You think Percy or Margaret did this?”

  “I don’t know. He said he saw me taking pictures at the funeral, and he also knew I’d been to JT’s repair place. I felt threatened.” I paused, biting my lower lip. “But he didn’t actually say anything threatening. Maybe it was all in my head because I spied on him. Maybe I feel guilty. Anyway, when he walked away … all of a sudden, there I was. Swinging in the breeze. I don’t know what happened. I really don’t. But I have strong suspicions.”

  “And Margaret?”

  “She doesn’t like me.” I stopped before we reached the tent. “I have to get presentable.”

  I headed to the porta-potty, Nick beside me.

  “Did Percy trip you? Kick you?” he asked again.