Clara had the uneasy feeling that once more she’d let her cousin down, but before she could answer, Stephanie hung up.
Molly had Mondays off, and when Clara arrived at the Raven’s Nest late the next morning, it was to find Stephanie red-faced, her arms full of books and her bangs sticking to her forehead.
“I just got a big delivery,” she said, hoisting the heavy pile in her arms, “and I need to get them in the stockroom and get the shelves restocked. We haven’t put any new fantasy books out since . . . before Dan closed the store.”
Clara held out her hands. “Here, I’ll take them.”
“No, you watch the counter. I’ll be quicker. I know where everything goes.”
She tore off, and shaking her head, Clara moved behind the counter and stashed her purse. There must have been a rush of customers that morning, as sales slips lay scattered on the shelf instead of filed away in the drawer, and a couple of plastic bags had drifted to the floor.
Clara bent over to pick them up, grunting as she straightened. She tucked the bags into the slot where they belonged and turned back to the counter, coming face-to-face with the amused gaze of the man from across the street.
Suspect number two. Clara sent a frantic glance down the aisle, but could see no sign of Stephanie. “Er . . . good morning. Can I help you?” She swiped back a chunk of her hair and tucked it behind her ear.
“Well, technically it’s afternoon,” Rick Sanders said, glancing at the grandfather clock. “But I guess if you haven’t had lunch yet, it must feel like it’s still morning.”
She stared at him, trying to figure out if he meant anything by all that. “Yes,” she said at last. “I suppose you’re right.”
He stuck out a hand. “Hi. I’m Rick Sanders. I own the hardware store across the street. You must be Stephanie’s cousin.”
His smile made her feel a little less defensive. She tentatively gave him her hand, and it was immediately swallowed up in his. His strong grasp hurt a little, but strangely, it was a pleasurable kind of pain. “Yes, I’m Clara Quinn.”
“Home from New York.”
“Yes, I am.” She seemed to be saying yes a lot. She struggled to think of something halfway intelligent to say, but it was hard to think with her hand still clasped in his.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Clara. Stephanie talks about you all the time.”
Really. She would have to ask Stephanie what she’d told him. “I hope she wasn’t too explicit,” she said, then wished she hadn’t said that. It sounded a bit racy.
Rick’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Don’t worry. It was just general stuff.”
He really did have nice eyes. Dark brown and soft, like a puppy’s. Nice mouth, too, especially when he smiled. Thick dark hair, cut short. She wondered if he colored it, then dismissed the thought. Strong men didn’t color their hair.
She curled her fingers as, without warning, the voices started whispering in her head. Wait! What was she doing? He was on their list of suspects. A very short list. Dragging her hand out of his grasp, she shut the voices down. She didn’t want to hear what they had to say. She would far rather suspect John Halloran of murder than this man with the quiet voice and the pleasant smile.
“So, what’s the verdict?”
Confused, she frowned at him. “Sorry?”
His grin widened. “Well, you’ve been sizing me up pretty good. I was just wondering if I passed the test.”
Oh, help. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.
“Oh, sorry. I was just wondering if we’ve met before. It’s hard to keep track when I’ve only been here on short visits for the last ten years.”
“I think I would have remembered if we’d met. I—” Rick Sanders turned his head as Stephanie’s voice rang out behind him.
“Oh, hi, there.”
Stephanie came forward, an odd expression on her face. She gave Clara a meaningful look that meant absolutely nothing to her, then turned to their customer. “I hope you found what you were looking for?”
He looked back at Clara. “I sure did.”
Clara felt her cheeks growing warmer. She was reading far too much into a casual remark. What the heck was the matter with her? Hadn’t she learned a hard enough lesson to be immune to this kind of phony charm? The man could have killed Ana Jordan and left her to die. She’d better remember that.
Rick laid a cookbook on the counter. “Never could resist a good recipe. This looks like it has some good ones.” He tapped the cover. “Italian cooking at its best. What more could you ask for?”
“What, indeed,” Clara murmured. She rang up the purchase, bagged his book and handed it to him. “I hope it meets your expectations.”
“I’m sure it will. I know what I like, and I don’t usually go far wrong.” His smile faded, and the intense look in his eyes unsettled her. “By the way, I’m sorry about what happened in here. That must have been a terrible shock. Not a very good welcome back to our peaceful little town.”
Stephanie answered for her, walking forward with a determined expression that alarmed Clara. “Yes, it was. Quite a shock for all of us. I can’t imagine who would want to hurt Ana like that.”
Rick’s mouth set in a thin line, changing his entire face. “Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but I’d be lying if I said I’d miss Ana Jordan. She was not a good person by any means. Some might even say she got what she deserved.” With that he lifted his hand, gave them both a farewell wave and strode out of the store.
Clara finally felt as if she could breathe again.
Stephanie joined her behind the counter and gave her a hard stare. “Well? Why weren’t you asking him questions?”
“Like what?”
“Like finding out what he was doing on the night of the murder? You heard him. He hated Ana.”
Clara threw her hands up in disgust. “Why don’t I just come right out and ask him if he killed her?”
“You can’t do that.”
“Exactly.”
Stephanie leaned her back against the counter and rubbed her forehead. “There has to be a way to get information without insulting people.”
“I told you. We’re not lawyers, cops or reporters. They’re the only ones who can go around asking questions without someone telling them to mind their own business.”
Stephanie pouted, drawing her brows together in an effort to think. “Wait! I have an idea.”
“Oh, good. Do tell.”
If Stephanie recognized the sarcasm, she gave no sign. “You have to go out with Rick.”
Clara gasped. “I what?”
Stephanie beamed. “He likes you. I can tell! You have to go on a date with him, make sure he has a glass or two of wine so he’s nice and relaxed and casually bring up the subject of Friday night. You don’t even have to mention Ana. We just want to know if he has an alibi.”
Clara leaned her face into her cousin’s. “I am not going out with him. You go out with him.”
“I can’t. I’m married.” Stephanie half closed her eyes. “Though if I weren’t, I wouldn’t mind—”
“Cut that out!” Clara pulled in a deep breath. “Let Molly go out with him.”
“He’s too old for Molly. He has to be at least thirty-five or so. You have to do it.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
“You promised to help find the murderer. How can we do that if you turn down the first opportunity to get some important information?”
“Listen, I questioned John Halloran, didn’t I?”
“And found out exactly nothing.”
“That wasn’t my fault! I can’t force him to tell me something he doesn’t want to tell me. Any more than I can force Rick Sanders.”
“You don’t have to force him into anything. Just make casual conversation. If you’re shy about asking him out, I’ll drop a broad hint or two for you.”
“Don’t you dare!” Thoroughly flustered, Clara wagged a finger in her cousin’s face. “Listen to m
e. I’m not going to throw myself at a man just to get information out of him. That’s not fair to him or to me.”
“I’m not asking you to sleep with him for pity’s sake; I just—” Stephanie broke off as a quiet cough sounded from across the store.
Clara swung around to see Frannie standing in the doorway, eyes blinking behind her glasses and her hands dug deep into the pockets of her brown cardigan.
Neither one of them had heard the doorbell. Feeling foolish, Clara smiled at her. How long had the woman been standing there? How much had she heard? She started backtracking the conversation in her mind while Stephanie left the counter and hurried forward.
“Frannie! How are you?”
Frannie sent a worried glance from her to Clara then back to Stephanie again. “Is this a bad time?”
“Oh, goodness, no!” Stephanie laughed and waved a hand at Clara. “Don’t take any notice of us. We argue back and forth like that all the time, and we’re still the best of friends.”
“That’s good.” Frannie pulled her hands out of her pockets. “I was afraid . . . It’s just that we’ve had enough bad things going on around here. I can’t stand hearing people arguing.”
“I promise you, no more arguments.” Stephanie grinned at Clara. “Right, Cuz?”
“Right.” Clara grinned back. “Is there something we can get for you, Frannie?”
As if just remembering why she was there, Frannie nodded.
“I’d like a copy of the Wayne Lester book that just came in.”
“Sure. I’ll get it for you.”
Stephanie darted off, and Frannie shuffled closer to the counter, her thin face looking even more pale as the sunlight fell across her. “It’s a nice day outside.”
“Very nice.” Clara sought for something to say that didn’t include a mention of Ana’s murder. Before she could come up with something, however, Stephanie had returned with the book.
“I haven’t read it yet, of course,” she said, as she laid it on the counter, “but I’ve heard it’s every bit as good as his last one.”
“I’m looking forward to reading it.” Frannie peered at the cover. “He’s very good at forecasting the future, you know. He always gives me hope.”
Clara scanned the book. “That’s something we all need.”
“Have you been looking for a new job?” Stephanie asked.
Clara thought for a moment her cousin was going to offer to replace her.
Before she could analyze how she felt about that, Frannie answered, “I’m still working at Jordan’s. We’re opening up again next Monday. The new owner just moved into town today.”
Stephanie pounced on that at once. “New owner? Already? Who is it? Anyone we know?”
“You might. She’s been in and out of town a lot lately. Her name is Roberta Prince.”
Stephanie wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know the name. What’s she like?”
“I don’t really know her all that well.” Frannie’s expression suggested she was okay with that. “She’s from New York.” She said it as if that explained a lot about the woman, and none of it complimentary.
Clara wondered if the comment was somehow directed at her, then decided Frannie was not that subtle. “Have you met her?”
Frannie rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes. She looks like one of those skinny models on magazine covers. You know, fancy blonde hairdo, lots of makeup, expensive clothes. I wouldn’t have thought someone like her would ever want to live in Finn’s Harbor.”
“Oh, I know her!” Stephanie nudged her head at the window. “I’ve seen her going in and out of Rick’s store.”
Frannie followed the gesture with a scornful glance. “Yes, she seemed to spend a lot of time over there. Maybe she was trying to buy his business, as well.”
Clara raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
Frannie shrugged. “All I know is, she sure wanted Jordan’s real bad. She knew Ana was having financial problems, and she was bugging Ana for months to sell the business. I overheard them talking about it in the office. Arguing, I should say. Ana even threatened to sue her for harassment if she didn’t leave her alone.”
Stephanie exchanged a glance with Clara. “That is weird. I wonder why she wanted Jordan’s.”
Frannie sniffed. “Whatever it is, it was real important to her. She acted like she’d go to any lengths to get what she wanted. Maybe even . . .” she gulped, then muttered, “. . . murder.”
Clara balled her fingers into fists. The voices were back. Whispering, insistent. “Are you saying,” she said more loudly than she intended, “that you think Roberta Prince killed Ana to get her business?”
Fear flashed across Frannie’s face. “I’m . . . not saying anything. I don’t know what happened. I don’t want to know.” She snatched up her book off the counter and practically ran to the door. “The best thing all of us can do is forget about the whole thing and let the police take care of it.” The door closed behind her with a loud snap.
“Well,” Stephanie said softly. “What do you make of that?”
Clara cleared her throat. “I think that Frannie’s afraid of Roberta Prince and thinks that she killed Ana to get her hands on the business.”
“Which is nonsense, of course.”
“Of course.”
They laughed in unison, though Clara got the impression that she wasn’t the only one who wondered if there was a grain of truth in Frannie’s ambiguous remarks.
The afternoon seemed to drag for Clara once Stephanie had left. Business was quiet, and she had plenty of time to browse the bookshelves in between customers.
Stephanie’s love of all things Poe was obvious. The shelves were stuffed with books by him and about him, and on the wall hung pictures of the author, his house in Philadelphia and his final home in the Bronx.
By the time Clara was ready to close up shop, she had a pretty good idea of where to find everything and was feeling quite pleased with herself as she stepped out into the quiet street and locked the door.
Warmth still rose from the sidewalk, even though the sun had disappeared behind the hills. The breeze from the ocean lifted her hair, cooling her face as she started down toward the parking lot.
She had only taken a few steps when she heard heavy footsteps pounding behind her. Whoever it was, he was catching up fast. Remembering Ana’s dead eyes staring up at her, Clara quickened her pace.
The footsteps drew closer.
Voices started whispering in her head. She was tempted to listen, wondering if it was a warning. Surely the killer wouldn’t attack her out here on the street, where a car could come along any minute?
The next streetlamp was a few yards away. She probably couldn’t outrun him. She’d have to confront him. Wishing she had a gun in her purse, she hurried up to the lamp, then swiftly turned on her pursuer.
Rick Sanders came to a screeching halt just a few yards away, then walked toward her, an odd expression on his face.
Clara let out a shaky breath. The jolt she’d felt when she’d recognized him wasn’t entirely fear. Again the voices whispered. Louder this time. Don’t believe anything he says.
Was that the Quinn Sense, or her own natural instincts kicking in? Before she could make up her mind, he’d reached her.
“Training for the marathon?”
She blinked up at him. He didn’t look like a killer. His eyes, gleaming in the light from the streetlamp, held only amusement and something that made her pulse tick a little faster.
“I’m sorry?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The way you were hustling back there, I thought you were in training for something.”
“Oh, that.” She managed a smile. “I was just in a hurry to get to my car. It’s been a long day.”
His expression changed to one of concern. “Sorry; did I scare you? It must have shaken all you ladies up quite a bit to find Ana Jordan that way. I don’t blame you for scooting down the hill. I should have called out.”
At the m
ention of the dead woman’s name, Clara felt a chill. “It wasn’t a pleasant experience, by any means.” In an attempt to change the subject, she quickly added, “Are you on your way home, too?”
His pause unsettled her. Finally, he said, “As a matter of fact, I was going to stop in at the Pizza Parlor. Care to join me?”
He’d thrown out the invitation casually, as if he’d just thought of it. Clara wasn’t fooled for a minute. Stephanie.
In spite of everything she’d said, her cousin must have said something to him after all.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “But my mother will have dinner waiting for me at home.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and sped down the hill.
Safely inside her car, she thumbed Stephanie’s number on her cell phone.
Her cousin answered almost right away. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Clara waited for her temper to cool. “At least, not with the store. I thought I told you not to say anything to Rick Sanders about my going out with him.”
“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” She paused, then added with growing excitement, “Why? Did he ask you out? Really? What did you say?”
Clara closed her eyes. She didn’t need the Quinn Sense to know that Stephanie was telling the truth. She knew her cousin far too well to mistake that tone of voice. “He asked me to go for pizza. I turned him down.” She briefly laid her forehead on the steering wheel. He must have thought her a total idiot. “I thought you’d put him up to it.”
“Clara! You missed a golden opportunity!”
“No, what I missed was potentially embarrassing myself by asking dumb questions. I’m sorry, Stephanie. I’m not going out with Rick Sanders even if he asks me again, which I seriously doubt after the way I left him tonight.”
Stephanie’s sigh seemed to hang on the line forever. “I don’t see how we’re ever going to catch Ana’s killer.”
“Well, maybe we should just let the police do their job.”
“If only you’d use the Quinn Sense—”
“I told you, I can’t.” Clara softened her tone. “I’m tired. I’m going home. See you tomorrow.” She closed her phone and started the engine. She’d told the truth. She was tired, and maybe there was just a little tinge of regret mixed in there as well. It might have been nice to share a pizza with Rick Sanders.
Mind Over Murder Page 6
