"When you opened the door and stepped inside, did you hear anything in the house?" I asked. "Did you see anyone at all in the vicinity?"
Seymour shook his head. "No. And that's nothing new. Larchmont's like a ghost town when I deliver the mail in the late morning. The hotshots are already at work, their kids are either in school or at some exclusive horsey summer camp, and the ladies who lunch don't exactly do their own yard work. Sometimes I'll see a maid or a gardener, but there wasn't anyone on the street during my rounds today."
"So what happened after you left Miss Todd's house?"
Seymour scratched his head. "Well, I didn't leave right away. I was really hungry by then, and that delicious pizza smell was driving me nuts, so I sat down under that big oak tree in her front yard and ate my lunch. And then I ate the cheese off of one of Miss Todd's slices—waste not, want not, right?"
"You said you were really hungry?"
"Starving."
"Then you must have been in a hurry to eat, right?" "Right."
"Were you in enough of a hurry to neglect latching Miss Todd's door properly?"
Seymour closed his eyes. "Oh, damn. I did that once before."
"Okay, so that's why the doors were opened. The wind must have blown them in and knocked down the mail and overturned the little table."
"That's a stretch, Mrs. McClure," Ciders said.
Tell him, doll.
"There wasn't any blood in the foyer—not on the mail or the floor leading up to the corpse. So the 'signs' of a struggle are suspect if there's another explanation, right? Wouldn't a defense attorney argue that?"
Ciders scowled. "You're reaching."
I turned back to Seymour. "What happened after you ate your lunch?"
"I was full and it was a hot day " Seymour said. "I kind of nodded off. When a squirrel ran across my chest, I finally woke up."
"And that sauce on your uniform?" Eddie prompted.
"The squirrel spooked me, and I rolled over Miss Todd's two slices. Got the sauce all over me. But that isn't why I was running—"
Bull McCoy snorted. "What? You're afraid of squirrels?"
"When I woke up, I realized I was late making the rest of my deliveries. Real late. Last month, I got slapped with a reprimand, and I didn't need another one on my record."
Seymour looked at his Wonder Woman watch, then openly glared at Bull McCoy. 'I’m still not done with my deliveries, thanks to Deputy Dawg here."
Bull's face flushed. "Watch your mouth—"
Seymour smirked. "Bite me, Bull!"
Bull stepped forward—and suddenly there I was again, mashed between two angry men. This time the ghost wasn't cursing. He was laughing.
"You're not helping, Jack!"
Oh, yeah? Watch this—
A brisk, cold breeze suddenly banged the dining room window so hard the two men started. I heard another bang and realized Jack had blown in the front doors, too. (Nothing like making your point!)
"Calm down!" I shouted, taking advantage of the momentary surprise. I pushed against them until I held the two at arm's length. "You have to get a grip, Seymour." Then I shifted my gaze to Bull McCoy and Chief Ciders. "And you both know Seymour's innocent. Why don't you let him go?"
Chief Ciders shook his head. "Pizza sauce or no pizza sauce, he's still my prime suspect in this murder—" "Sorry, Chief, but I don't think so." The deep voice that interrupted was new to the gathering.
All eyes shifted to the doorway, where Dr. Randall Rubino was now standing.
A divorced Bostonian, Rubino had moved to Newport to start his life over. A few months back, he'd agreed to remain on-call for Ciders whenever the town of Quindicott needed an official medical ruling on a death. Then just a few weeks ago, Rubino decided to make another move— to Quindicott itself. Now he lived on the other end of Larchmont Avenue, where he was preparing to take over the practice of our local GP, who was retiring to the Florida Keys in another month.
Rubino wasn't anything like the town's longtime physician, a short, lean, balding sixty-eight-year-old. The young doctor was more like one of those physicians you saw on the daytime soaps—tall, fortyish, with darkly handsome features and a toothpaste-commercial smile. Between his good looks and impressive profession, he'd become a pretty popular guy with some of the locals (most of them female).
Today Dr. Rubino was dressed in wrinkled, salt-stained khakis and scuffed deck shoes. The man had a private boat and a passion for fishing, so I wasn't surprised when Eddie mentioned picking him up at Mullet Point, which had some of the best ocean fishing in the state. Rubino's tanned face had just the right amount of weathering, and his wavy brown hair had been raked by the wind.
Whoa, I thought, the man even smells like the sea.
You mean he reeks of fish?
"Easy, Jack. Don't go getting jealous on me."
Jack grunted—and got a whole lot colder. With a little shiver, I rubbed my bare arms.
The chief turned to Rubino. "Okay, Doctor, I'm listening. Explain what you mean."
"I mean Miss Todd wasn't murdered."
"Go on," Ciders said.
"It's simple," Rubino said. "Miss Todd died of natural causes, not foul play. In my opinion she suffered a massive and instantly fatal cerebral hemorrhage. I can't be certain, of course, until I conduct an autopsy, but—"
"What about the blood?" Ciders broke in. 'The victim was covered with it. Blood was all over the place."
"Well, it was a hemorrhage, Chief, and that means there's bound to be some blood. When the vein in her neck ruptured, Miss Todd started to bleed from her nose and ears. This is not an uncommon occurrence."
You notice Doc Heartthrob still isn't saying what caused the old dame to pop a pipe.
"You're right!" I told Jack—but it was Rubino who answered.
"What's that, Mrs. McClure? You agree?"
"Uh ..." I stared at the man. "Did I say that out loud?"
Dr. Rubino frowned. "Say what?"
Now everyone turned to stare at me. "Actually, Doctor, I have a few questions."
Atta girl. Baby Ruth. Swing away.
"What questions do you have, Mrs. McClure?" The tone was mildly patronizing. I pressed on.
"The expression on Miss Todd's face," I said. "She appeared to be positively terrified?
"You would be, too, if you felt a twinge in your neck and blood began to pour from your nose and mouth. You must understand that Miss Todd suffered a sudden, terrible trauma before she died."
I thought of that cold spot and the strange noises she'd reported. "But there could have been something else that may have frightened her, right?"
The doctor folded his arms. "The only explanation I can offer for her frightful expression is medical."
"I have a question," Ciders said, glancing at me, then back to the doctor. "We've had several complaints from the deceased in recent weeks. Miss Todd claimed she heard noises inside and outside her home."
Thank you, Chief! I thought.
"I see," Rubino said. "And did you find the source of these noises?"
Ciders shook his head.
"Well then, Miss Todd was probably suffering from some form of mild dementia," Rubino replied. "She was quite old and very reclusive. On top of that, I doubt she'd had a medical checkup or a psychological evaluation in decades."
"Not everyone gets a psychological evaluation as a matter of course," I noted.
Rubino nodded. "True, but living alone like this ... her physician probably would have ordered one. She could have been experiencing paranoia. Delusions. The onset of audio hallucinations—"
Audio hallucinations! Jack laughed. Hear that, doll? That's what you thought I was!
"Excuse me," Seymour interrupted. "But Miss Todd wasn't suffering from any sort of delusions, audio or otherwise. I spoke with her nearly every day."
"And I spoke with her over the phone earlier today," I added. "She sounded perfectly normal to me."
"Selective observations are far from conclusive,"
Dr. Rubino said. "Neither of you are medical professionals."
"But still..." I paused. "Don't you think it's at least remotely possible that Miss Todd was frightened to death?"
Dr. Rubino gave the notion about two seconds' worth of consideration before laughing out loud.
I shifted with embarrassment.
You got nothing to be embarrassed about, baby. You asked a question. You deserve an answer. So tell him!
Jack was right. I cleared my throat—loudly. "Isn't it true, Doctor, that under certain circumstances strong emotions like fear or stress can initiate the onset of a stroke, a heart attack, or a hemorrhage?"
Ciders stared expectantly at the doctor and so did everyone else in the room. Now it was Dr. Rubino's turn to shift uncomfortably.
"It's possible, Mrs. McClure. Yes, I suppose. But dying of fright..." He shook his head. "That's far from an official cause of death. Do you understand my meaning? It's not something I'm going to rule."
Seymour loudly exhaled. He'd obviously heard enough. "I'm out of here!" he announced. "This is a bummer, you know. I was Miss Todd's friend... and anyway I still have mail to deliver, too—if I'm not fired already!"
Ciders stared at the mailman through furrowed brows. "I still suspect you, Tarnish."
"Of what?!"
"Of causing those noises Miss Todd reported. I don't know why you'd want to scare the old woman to death, but I'm keeping my eye on you."
"You're crazy, Ciders. Why would I want to scare a nice old lady like Miss Todd?"
"Who knows why you do anything, Tarnish. You've been a bad seed since I hauled you in for setting Montague's Woods on fire—"
"I was in the eighth grade! Me and Keith Keenan were shooting off bottle rockets. One of them got away from us!"
"You started an illegal fire, drank beer while you were still underage, and you were in possession of pornography—"
"Porno? It was a Playboy magazine me and Keith found in the trash, for cripes' sake!"
"Plus you were cutting school."
"Just gym class," Seymour said. "It sucked, and do you know why?" He stepped up to Chief Ciders and poked his finger into the man's barrel chest. "Because it was full of a-holes like your Neanderthal nephew over there! And that's the problem with bullies like him—and you—more brawn than brains. Just think about this logically for a second. What possible motive would I have for frightening poor old Miss Todd to death?"
Ciders's face reddened. He didn't have an answer. The room fell silent. No one moved. And then the doorbell loudly buzzed. We all tensed. Ciders gestured to the front door with an angry jerk of his thumb.
"Eddie! See who that is!"
He did. And a moment later he reappeared with a small, middle-aged man at his side.
Ciders faced the newcomer with zero patience. "Who are you and what do you want?!" he roared.
"My name is Emory Philip Stoddard, Esquire," the little man said, clearing his throat. "I am, or rather... I was Miss Todd's legal representative. I received a call from your dispatcher to come immediately—"
Ciders cursed. "Sorry, Mr. Stoddard. Sorry about the yelling there. My bark is worse than my bite sometimes. I forgot I told Joyce to call your office."
Seymour rolled his eyes. "I get strip-searched, falsely accused of murder, and prevented from doing my job, but the lawyer gets a formal apology over a little harsh language?"
Ciders shook the lawyer's hand, and introductions were made all around—though the chief pointedly neglected to introduce Seymour.
As I greeted the man, it occurred to me that Mr. Stoddard was the polar opposite of Dr. Rubino. Where the doctor was a tanned, toned GQ-type clad in rough-looking outerwear, Mr. Stoddard was a rough-looking character swathed in a GQ package.
About five-foot-two, he had a ruddy complexion with a receding blond hairline, a hawkish nose beneath smallish light eyes, and a pudgy body immaculately wrapped in a tailored cobalt suit. His Windsor knot was perfect, the thin silver bar gleaming as it held his Italian silk tie firmly in place along his opalescent dress shirt. He wore matching cuff links, too, with which he continually fidgeted.
"I guess Joyce explained the situation," Ciders said.
Mr. Stoddard nodded. "I understand that Miss Todd has passed. Can you tell me what happened?"
"Yeah, Chief," Seymour piped up. "Tell the man what happened."
Ciders scowled. "Mr. Tarnish here was just leaving"
"Tarnish?" Mr. Stoddard repeated. "Are you by any chance Mr. Seymour Tarnish?"
Seymour nodded. "The one and only. What's it to you?"
"It so happens that you're mentioned in Miss Todd's last will and testament," Mr. Stoddard replied.
Seymour's jaw went slack. "Huh?"
"You're a beneficiary, man."
Chief Ciders's eyes widened for a moment before narrowing down to tiny pinholes. 'Tarnish here is inheriting something as a result of Miss Todd's death?"
Mr. Stoddard nodded. "And so is Mrs. McClure and her aunt. I'll be holding a meeting in my office forthwith."
"What exactly is this man getting?" Ciders asked with naked suspicion.
"Oh, I am sorry, Chief, but for now that's confidential."
Ciders folded his arms and smirked. "Well, whatever the hell Miss Timothea Todd left her mailman, it better not be valuable. Because if Mr. Tarnish here winds up inheriting anything more than a souvenir ashtray and some dusty old books, I'd say that's a motive for murder."
CHAPTER 6
Beneficiaries
I loathe these dives ... They look as if they only existed after dark, like ghouls.
—Raymond Chandler, "Blackmailers Don't Shoot," Black Mask, December 1933 (Chandler's debut short story)
AFTER LEAVING MISS Todd's mansion, I'd watched clouds roll in all afternoon. Now it was twilight and darkness descended with more murk than usual for a warm June night.
Heeding Mr. Stoddard's official request to appear in his Millstone office at eight P.M., Aunt Sadie and I closed the bookshop early, leaving the Community Events room in the trustworthy hands of the Yarn Spinners reading group as well as our young part-timer, Bonnie.
Seymour Tarnish picked us up in his pristine, vintage 1975 lime green "breadloaf" Volkswagen bus. We piled in, dropped off my son, Spencer, at the home of his best buddy, Danny Keenan (the son of Seymour's old friend, "Bottle Rocket Keith" Kennan), and then headed for the highway.
Seymour didn't say much as he drove us to Millstone, which was unusual for the loquacious mailman. Wearing a slightly wrinkled blue suit, white shirt, and Mighty Mouse tie wide enough to double as a lobster bib, he stared at the road ahead, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Your postal pal looks nervous, Jack said.
"Can you blame him?" I whispered in my head. "Given the day he's had?"
Back at Miss Todd's mansion, Chief Ciders had wanted to continue detaining and questioning Seymour, but with Dr. Rubino refusing to rule the scene a homicide and Eddie calmly suggesting that they wait for autopsy and forensic results, and Seymour threatening to hire Emory Stoddard on the spot to represent him, Ciders finally backed off.
Seymour stormed out of the mansion, and I followed, eager to smooth things over. He let me drive him over to Cooper Family Bakery, where I treated him to coffee and a few of Milner Logan's lighter-than-air doughnuts. Once he calmed down, Seymour assured me (through gulps of Mocha Java and soothing mouthfuls of glazed fried dough) that I was forgiven for my part in the ugly incident, though he refused to give Chief Ciders and Bull McCoy, "the Boy Moron," a pass for the nasty way they'd treated him.
"There's the turnoff for Millstone," I gently told Seymour, pointing to the ramp ahead.
"Oh, yeah ... Thanks, Pen."
Seymour was more than familiar with the way to Millstone, but he was looking so spaced-out I thought he could use the reminder. He drove his VW Bus up the steep ramp and turned at the top of the high hill. Skirting the back end of Prescott Woods, we continued to ascend the two-mile grade that led to the
town's center. Millstone's main street was called Buckeye Lane, but it projected a substantially different atmosphere than Quindicott's Cranberry Street.
The grand reopening and expansion of our Buy the Book shop a few years back had sparked a real boom in our little town. The new customers we'd attracted with reading groups, author signings, and book events came from all over the region, and before or after their visit with us, they began patronizing stores close by. Soon Napp Hardware, Cooper Family Bakery, Franzetti's Pizza, Mr. Koh's Grocery, Donovan's Pub, the Seafood Shack, and a half dozen other shops were able to invest in new awnings, improved interiors, and local advertising, which helped spur even more commerce.
The Finches became successful enough to convert the condemned Charity Point Lighthouse into an extension of their bed-and-breakfast business. They'd even fulfilled a longtime dream of opening the town's first and only gourmet French restaurant, Chez Finch, next to Quindicott Pond.
Our town's latest story of commercial resurrection involved the (formerly) broken-down, boarded-up Movie Town Theater. Its grand reopening was just last month. Not only did the restoration of the old theater's Art Deco façade and plush interior earn it landmark status from the local historical society, but its weekend film-and-lecture series were also drawing huge crowds of students from nearby St. Francis College.
The increased sales taxes had allowed the city government to upgrade the public commons, paint and repair the band-shell, and reinstitute Sunday summer concerts.
Sadly, however, all of this burgeoning new capitalist life had yet to benefit the dead little burg of Millstone— "the Hinterlands," as some in Q had dubbed it. More than a decade ago, Millstone's major employer, a textile plant, had shut its doors. A handful of politicians had attempted to revive the town with fresh ideas; but like a depressed neighbor who no longer sees much point in getting out of bed, the people of Millstone were unwilling to rally. No one wanted to take a chance, to invest in anything, not even their own businesses.
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