by Josh Lanyon
“Get out of my face, Sue,” Ellery warned.
She must have seen he meant it. Sue drew back, her expression wary.
“Are you sure you want to take that attitude? With or without your interview, I’m running the story—” She jumped nimbly out of the way as he slammed shut the door. From the other side of the wooden planks he heard her muffled, “Are you sure you want to do this? This is your one chance to have your side of the story heard!”
Ellery ignored her, mentally replaying his conversation with Police Chief Carson the night before. Had Carson specifically told him he was a suspect? Ellery didn’t think so. But at no point had Carson told him he wasn’t a suspect. What if the lies Sue was spreading got back to the police chief? What if Carson started to believe there was more to Ellery’s final conversation with Trevor? Who was this eyewitness?
Ellery stepped back from the door, listening for the hoped-for sounds of Sue’s retreat. He couldn’t hear anything, so hopefully she had given up and was not circling the house, peering through windows.
This was unbelievable. All of it. The fact that Trevor would be murdered. The fact that Ellery would be suspected of that murder. It was like a book. Like a book he sold in a shop he had inherited from an eccentric aunt he’d never even known existed until she died and left him this crazy house in a crazy town where people dressed up like pirates and got themselves murdered in other people’s bookshops.
Was he dreaming?
Ellery considered this possibility but was forced to concede he was not dreaming. So, then, what did people do in this kind of situation?
Okay, silly question.
But what should he do? What could he do?
He could call a lawyer, but that was bound to look guilty.
He could pretend this wasn’t happening and carry on as normal. But normal seemed like a long time ago. He wasn’t sure he still knew how normal worked.
He could do as Chief Carson asked and get him that inventory, and then he could ask Chief Carson man-to-man whether he was the only suspect in Trevor’s death. Given how obnoxious Trevor had been, that seemed hard to believe. But maybe.
He would talk to the chief and figure out where things really stood. Maybe the situation wasn’t as grim as Sue made it sound. Maybe it was. Either way, when he finished talking to Chief Carson—assuming he wasn’t under arrest—he would call some kind of biohazard service to clean up the bloodstains in the store—Ellery paused to give his stomach a moment—and then he would call a security company to install an alarm system in the Crow’s Nest, and then…
And then…
Well, he’d burn that bridge when he came to it.
Chapter Six
The first stumbling block was the unwelcome news that Chief Carson was not in.
“Not in to me, or not in at all?” Ellery asked.
The baby-faced officer, whom Ellery vaguely remembered from the night before, looked puzzled. “Chief’s attending the autopsy of Mr. Maples. We don’t expect him back until after lunch.”
Lunch and autopsy. Two words that really didn’t go together. Ellery shuddered inwardly. “Right. Of course.” He considered, said awkwardly, “I don’t mean to be crass, but do you know when I’ll be able to open the bookstore for business again?”
Officer Martin shook his head. “No idea. That will be the chief’s call.”
“Right. I just wondered what’s usual in these cases.”
“We don’t have cases like this,” Martin said tersely. “There is no usual.”
“Sure, sure,” Ellery said quickly, and then probably made it worse by adding, “Could you tell him I stopped by?” As though this had been a social call.
But after all, none of this was usual for him either.
Officer Martin gave him a look that communicated serious doubts about Ellery’s solid citizen status, and Ellery headed off to put together a list of what, if anything, had been disturbed at the Crow’s Nest.
He had already verified the night before that the cash register was untouched. Trevor’s murder had not been part of a robbery gone wrong. But there was a slight possibility that the killer had entered the shop searching for something. The ending to a half-read mystery novel, perhaps? Yeah, no. But it didn’t hurt to try and come up with a reason for someone to enter the shop after-hours. Otherwise, Ellery was liable to remain Police Chief Carson’s one and only suspect.
It was probably Ellery’s imagination, but the tinkle of the bell on the front door sounded almost subdued as he let himself into the building. His nose twitched at the unpleasant and unfamiliar scents of a crime scene. He glanced automatically at the red-stained floorboards where Trevor’s body had lain, and then quickly away.
He dreaded the idea of being alone in the shop. Not that he imagined he was in any danger, certainly not in broad daylight, but there was no question the atmosphere felt different now, strange and unsettling.
Maybe that would change with time, but he didn’t have time. The Crow’s Nest hadn’t exactly been bustling with business before it had been the scene of a homicide. Trevor’s death was bound to be the death knell for the shop.
Maybe that was a selfish way of looking at things, but he had invested a lot in this little dream. And now his dream was turning into a nightmare.
“I thought it was you,” someone said loudly from behind him.
Ellery jumped and whirled around. Dylan Carter, the owner of the neighboring Toy Chest, stood in the doorway. Dylan was about sixty. He was small, slim, and always impeccably dressed—today in breeches and one of those white, blousy sometimes-I-feel-like-a-pirate-sometimes-I-feel-like-a-poet shirts. His eyes were blue; his silver hair was buzzed short on the sides, and the top—when not tied back in a bandanna—fell in a stylishly long swoop.
“What does that mean?” Ellery protested. Dylan was the closest thing Ellery had to a friend in Pirate’s Cove, so this accusation cut deeply. “I had nothing to do with it!”
Dylan looked taken aback. “Of course not. No one thinks that. I meant I recognized you going past the window of my store.”
“Oh.” Ellery flushed. Nothing like a guilty conscience—especially when you weren’t guilty. “I just… The editor of the local paper practically accused me to my face of murdering Trevor. I’m a little touchy.”
“Sue? Sue did that? That’s terrible.” Dylan seemed genuinely shocked. “That doesn’t sound like Sue.” His gaze moved past Ellery to the stained floor. His tanned face seemed to lose color. “Is that where it happened?”
“I don’t know where it happened, but that’s where I found him,” Ellery said.
They stared in silence at the gruesome brown-red patch in the center of the floor.
Dylan shook his head. “It’s unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“Do the police have any theories?”
“I’m just a suspect. Chief Carson didn’t share his theories with me.”
Dylan’s eyes widened. “But you can’t really be a suspect.”
“I kind of think I am,” Ellery admitted.
“But that’s ridiculous. You barely knew the man. There are plenty of better suspects than you in this town.”
“Like who?”
Dylan hesitated just long enough for Ellery to wonder what his relationship with Trevor had been like. Dylan said, “Tommy Rider for one.”
Ellery was taken aback. “The real-estate agent?”
“The same. And Janet Maples. Trevor’s ex-wife. That was a very ugly divorce. Oh, and let’s not forget Cyrus. He and Trevor fought about everything from zoning permits to signage—and that was before Trevor decided to run for mayor.” Dylan’s smile was wide and without guile. “For that matter, I won’t be shedding any tears over Trevor.”
If Dylan was trying to cheer Ellery up with this list of people who might have wanted Trevor out of the way, he was succeeding. “Why’s that?”
“The theater where the Scallywags perform goes up for sale next month, and Trevor had already
told me he intended to bid against me.”
In addition to owning next door’s Toy Chest, a tiny but charming toys and games shop, Dylan ran the local amateur theater guild known as the Scallywags. He kept trying to get Ellery to join, but Ellery was only too aware of his limitations as an actor. He had the reviews to prove it.
“That’s a relief. I was starting to get the feeling everyone believed I was—I had—”
“Of course not,” Dylan said staunchly. “Anyone who knew Trevor knows perfectly well there’s a mile-long list of suspects.” His gaze returned to the stained floor as though he couldn’t help himself. “Are you open today? Because you’ll probably want to do something about…that…”
“Ugh. No. I’m supposed to make a list of anything that’s missing or damaged for Chief Carson.”
Dylan looked thoughtful. “The chief thinks someone broke in here and Trevor spotted them and came to investigate? That does sound like Trevor.”
No, it didn’t. Not to Ellery. Granted, he hadn’t known Trevor that well. And the opposite scenario was equally unlikely. If Trevor or someone else had wanted something out of the Crow’s Nest, they would surely have taken it after Great-great-great-aunt Eudora died and before Ellery had taken possession. There would have been ample opportunity.
Speaking of opportunity.
“You didn’t happen to see anything out of the ordinary yesterday evening?” Ellery asked. “The police think Trevor was killed between five and seven, so…”
Dylan winced. “No. The police already questioned me about that. The thing is, with it being the start of Buccaneer Days, I decided to close early and get over to the theater.” He looked apologetic. “From what I understand, Sandy closed early too.”
Sandy ran the small art gallery on the other side the Crow’s Nest.
Ellery said, “I thought Buccaneer Days was supposed to boost business for all of us?”
“Maybe eventually. Right now, it’s mostly for the village’s own amusement.”
That was certainly how it had looked in the Salty Dog last evening. And it was probably one reason Chief Carson hadn’t even seemed to consider the possibility Trevor had been killed by a non-resident.
Ellery said, “Speaking of village amusements, do you have any idea who I could call to get these bloodstains out?”
“Out Damn Spot,” Dylan replied promptly. “Their motto is: Your secrets are our secret. Tell them I referred you.”
At first glance, nothing appeared to be missing from the Crow’s Nest.
Ellery checked the locked case with first editions by Elizabeth Peters and Ian Fleming. Undoubtedly the most valuable items in the shop. The books sat undisturbed and already slightly dusty again, behind glass.
He checked the small collection of vintage bookends—great little ready-made murder weapons sitting all in a row—but every single bookend was unbloodied and accounted for.
He checked the erotic mystery section because, hey, you never know.
After that, he got distracted by phoning the cleaning company and then phoning the alarm company.
The cleaning service turned out to be co-owned by Dylan and run by his niece, which, in Ellery’s opinion, explained the whimsical company name. Pandora promised to be at the Crow’s Nest first thing Monday morning, mop in hand. The folks at the alarm company were equally helpful—news of murder in Pirate’s Cove had already reached them—and they answered all Ellery’s questions and then set up an appointment for Monday to quote new security systems for both the Crow’s Nest and Captain’s Seat.
By then it was after one, and Ellery felt a little more on top of things than he had that morning. He had spoken to Sandy next door, and she had reaffirmed Dylan’s assurances that no one seriously believed Ellery was a suspect in Trevor’s murder.
He wanted to believe her. Maybe he had misread Chief Carson’s tone the night before? Maybe Chief Carson treated everyone to that brusque, skeptical manner.
Anyway, the good news was his neighbors did not believe him capable of homicide. The bad news was that for all he knew, the bookshop might have to remain closed for the duration of the investigation. With the Crow’s Nest closed, Ellery had no income to keep the store afloat or himself from going broke. He needed the case to come to a quick resolution—one that did not end with his arrest—so that he could make the most of whatever business Buccaneer Days brought in.
Since sitting around worrying never solved anything, he decided to head back to Captain’s Seat and take his frustrations out on the kitchen’s remaining linoleum. He was on the wooden walk outside the shop, trying to get the door to lock, when Chief Carson pulled up in a white SUV with blue and gold insignia.
Ellery waited, trying to quash his unease as the chief unfolded from the vehicle and crossed the pavement. With an expression that unrevealing, Carson was probably a wiz at poker. Heck, he was probably a wiz at Russian roulette.
“Hi,” Ellery called.
“I understand you stopped by the station earlier,” Carson said. Not one for idle chitchat, clearly.
“Yes. I did.” He still wanted to ask Carson if he was the main suspect in Trevor’s murder, but even a few months in Pirate’s Cove had taught Ellery the walls had ears. Possibly also the doors, windows, and flower boxes.
Speaking of doors, he was still having trouble getting this one to lock. He pulled his key out, turned the knob, and the wretched thing swung open again. He felt vaguely flustered—and irritated by his reaction—as Carson reached him.
Carson looked just as grim up close as he did from a distance. Or maybe grim wasn’t the correct word. Stern? Stoic? Severe? He did not look like someone who smiled much, put it that way. Of course, being a cop was bound to be serious work, especially a cop with a murder to solve, but the pre-homicide Carson hadn’t been noticeably cheerier.
“Were you able to determine if anything’s missing from the store?” Carson asked.
The wind off the ocean ruffled his sun-streaked hair. Ellery caught a hint of manly scents: soap, shampoo, and single-mindedness. Also possibly a splash of Jack Black Post Shave Cooling Gel and Aftershave. Todd had worn it too, and the familiarity of the fragrance triggered an unsettling Pavlovian response in him.
What was the term for that? Psychic secretion? Yikes. And why was he thinking about secretions, psychic or otherwise, at a time like this?
Ellery said quickly, talking himself away from his wayward imagination, “I didn’t notice anything missing. I mean, I didn’t conduct a full inventory, but I checked all the obvious things.”
He jammed the key back in the lock, twisted it impatiently, tried the knob…and the door opened. He exhaled sharply.
Carson watched him without comment. Or rather, his only comment was, “What are all the obvious things?”
“No money was missing, no first editions…” Ellery shoved the door shut, jammed the key in, twisted left, twisted right—
“Is there a problem with the door?” Carson asked, which was a rhetorical question if there ever was one.
Ellery huffed his exasperation, straightened, and glared at the chief. “Why no. Why do you ask?”
Sarcasm bounced off Carson like bullets off Superman. “Let’s step inside,” he said.
Ellery opened the door, pushed it wide for the chief, who stepped past him. He got another whiff of aftershave. The old floorboards creaked beneath the chief’s boots. Once again Ellery felt obliged to fill his uncomfortable awareness of the other man—the other married man—with chatter.
“I called a local company this afternoon, and tomorrow they’re going to rekey and give me a quote for installing a security system. Hopefully, they’ll fix the door while they’re here.”
Carson turned to face him. “I hope you’re joking.”
“About what?” Ellery asked warily.
“This is still technically a crime scene.”
“I know that.”
“You know that…”
“It’s not like I’m opening for busine
ss. But I can’t leave the building unprotected. Look what happened yesterday. I have to be able to secure the building.”
“The building was secured,” Carson said. “I locked this door myself last night. If there’s a problem now—”
“If there’s a problem now what?” Ellery challenged him. But yeah, of course Carson would have no problem locking up. Even inanimate hardware wouldn’t have the audacity to defy the chief of police.
Carson stared him down with those hard, bright eyes. All he said was, “Let’s take a look at the lock.”
“Be my guest.” Ellery stepped out of the way.
Carson knelt to examine the lock, turning the bronze handle this way and that. “Do you have any graphite?”
“I’ve tried graphite a couple of times. I need a more permanent solution.” He added bitterly, “Maybe an ax.”
“For now, let’s use graphite.”
Ellery went to fetch the graphite. When he returned, Carson had the entire handle dismantled, pieces neatly laid out on the floor.
It was kind of disconcerting seeing someone as dignified and authoritative as Carson was in his navy-blue uniform, crawling around the floor. Well, not crawling. More of a tidy scoot from position to position.
“Okay, I see the problem here.” He pointed a small Phillips head screwdriver because OF COURSE HE WOULD HAVE ONE. He probably had a utility belt like Batman, hidden somewhere on his person. “You’ve got about a decade’s worth of sea salt and grime gumming up the works.” He held his hand out for the tube of graphite, which Ellery handed over.
“So I guess having the bloodstains on the floor cleaned up is also a no-no,” Ellery said, watching Carson’s long, nimble fingers lubricate the lock pieces and then quickly reassemble the handle.
Carson’s lashes flicked up, and he gave Ellery a thoughtful look before directing his attention back to the door handle. “You can have the floor cleaned as soon as we release the crime scene.”
“Which is going to be when?”
“When I say so.” Carson finished turning the last of the screws, fastening the faceplate securely. He closed the door, turned the knob, turned the button, nodded in satisfaction. “That’ll work for now.” He rose, dusted off his knees. “I did tell you to get that lock replaced.”
