“She was murdered this morning.”
Norma’s eyes widened. “Murdered? By whom?”
Claire noticed that Norma’s reaction seemed to register genuine surprise. At what,exactly, Claire didn’t know—the murder itself or the fact that Claire was asking. “They don’t know who did it.”
Norma let out a sigh and lowered herself onto the wooden chair behind the old metal desk, the only piece of furniture in the room.
She rested her cane against the side of the desk, then leaned her elbows on the surface, steepling her hands in front of her. Claire noticed her hands were dotted with red paint … at least she hoped it was paint. She stepped closer to get a better look and noticed there was blue, white and brown dots, too. It wasn’t unusual for Norma’s hands to be dotted with paint—she was, after all, a painter.
“So, you came all the way here to tell me?” Norma asked.
“Well, yes.” Claire didn’t know what she had been expecting. Maybe she was hoping Norma would tell Claire how her and Zoila had fought about some benign matter that would obviously have nothing to do with her murder.
But she didn’t. Instead, she said, “Why come all the way here? You thought finding out about it from someone else might be too much for a fragile old lady?”
“Well, no.” Claire hesitated. Norma was anything but fragile. “I saw you fighting with Zoila this morning.”
“And you think I’m the one who killed her?”
“No! Of course not. I just thought if you explained what it was about, then I could make sure Zambuco ruled you out as a suspect.”
“Explain it to you?” Norma’s eyebrows crept up to her hairline. “I don’t think I need to explain myself to you. And what were you doing spying on me, anyway?”
“I wasn’t spying. I could hardly avoid it. I could hear you from my garden.”
“What were you doing up at the crack of dawn?”
“I always get up for sunrise. Anyway, if I heard you, someone else might have heard you, too, so it’s best if you tell me what you were fighting about.”
Norma’s face hardened. “Well, if you heard us, then you must know what it was about.”
“I only heard shouting. I couldn’t make out what you were actually saying. Then I looked down and saw Zoila waving some kind of paper in your face. What was on that paper?”
“That’s none of your business,” Norma huffed.
“Look, I’m not trying to pry into your business,” Claire reasoned. “Zambuco is looking for people to put on his suspect list—people who had an argument with Zoila. I’m just trying to get our ducks in a row, in case he starts looking in your direction.”
Norma crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Claire. “Well, it was personal. I can’t say what it was about.”
Claire sighed. “So you can’t tell me what you argued about or what was on that paper. Not even a hint.”
“It’s not for me to say what we talked about.”
“Well, if you could just tell me the general subject—“
Norma shot out of her chair. “This is getting tiresome. I don’t have to tell you what we talked about and I’m not going to.”
“Yeah, I get that. But if you don’t tell me, I can’t help. And where did you run off to—“
“Enough!” Norma came out from behind the desk, took Claire’s shoulders and turned her toward the door. “Now, I need you to leave. I have business to tend to.”
Norma opened the door and pushed Claire out. Claire turned to face her friend. “But I’m only trying to help.”
“I don’t need any help. Now, shoo.” Norma made shooing motions with her hand, shut the door in Claire’s face and snapped the lock.
Claire stood on the steps, boiling over with anger, a seed of doubt sprouting in her gut.
What was the big secret Norma had with Zoila?
She stared through the glass window at Norma, who stood with her back to Claire, apparently inspecting a piece of art she had hanging on the back wall. Claire’s fists clenched in frustration. She didn’t know what the big deal was, but she knew Norma hadn’t killed Zoila, and if her friend wouldn’t help clear herself by telling Claire what the argument was about, then Claire had only one course of action.
She’d have to find the real killer before Norma ended up in jail for a crime she didn’t commit.
Chapter Six
Dom laid down his fork with a satisfied sigh as he finished the last bite of a small sampling of Sarah’s ricotta pie. It was creamy and sweet—just the way he liked it. He leaned back in his chair, remembering how his Nonna would sometimes add lemon or chocolate chips to the batter.
He closed his eyes, an excitement building inside him as he reflected on the morning’s events. The fact that he wasn’t on the police force or being called in as a consultant didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. He felt more alive than he had in a long time—he had a real case to work on, and he knew exactly how to go about finding the killer.
Opening his eyes, he absently watched Romeo and Juliet twitter and preen in their cage while he mentally constructed a ‘to-do’ list. First off, he’d have to compile a list of suspects. But how would he do that without the authority of the police behind him? He couldn’t very well commandeer Zoila’s customer list to find out who she spoke to yesterday.
Romeo flew to the side of his cage to sharpen his beak on the cuttle-bone Dom had clipped inside. He peeked over the oval, chalk-like bone at Dom and let out a loud squawk.
“Squabin!”
“Good thinking.” Dom nodded at the small bird. Zoila had talked to both Kenneth and Shane about renovating the cabin yesterday. Even though they weren’t clients, Dom figured that was as good a place to start as any. Over the years, he’d learned to never leave any stone unturned. Even the most routine interview could reveal a vital clue.
A tap at his back door interrupted his thoughts, and he looked over to see Mae Biddeford, holding up a jar filled with something green.
Dear Lord, not another jar of jam. Dom glanced at his cupboard, already full to the brim with the jams that Mae forced on him almost every day. He pasted a smile on his face and opened the door.
“Hello. I thought I would bring you a jar of my famous zucchini relish.” Mae shoved the jar toward him hopefully.
Not jam. Relish. As if he didn’t have a dozen or so jars of those, too.
“Why, thank you.” Dom took the jar, then upon noticing how Mae was hovering in the doorway, he opened the door and gestured to his kitchen. “Won’t you come in?”
“Okay.” Mae practically sprinted over the threshold. “I won’t stay but a minute.”
Dom hoped she would only stay a minute—he had lots to do.
He put the jar on the counter and turned to her expectantly. After a long career as an investigator, Dom knew when someone wanted to tell him something, and he could tell Mae Biddeford had something she was dying to get off her chest.
“It’s been quite an exciting morning.” Mae glanced sideways up at Dom, who nodded but didn’t say anything while he waited patiently for her to get to the point.
Mae worried her bottom lip, then glanced at the back door. She leaned toward Dom conspiratorially, and in a low voice asked, “Will you be investigating it?”
Dom smoothed his eyebrow and pretended to think about it. “Do you think I should? Detective Zambuco is already on the case.”
“Pshaw.” Mae waved her hand. “What does he know? He’s from the mainland. We need an islander here to do the case justice.”
Dom was surprised at how proud he felt to be considered an ‘islander’, but he wondered if Mae was just buttering him up. He sensed she had something she wanted to tell him about the case, so he decided to give her the perfect opportunity. “Well, I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t think Zambuco will share Zoila’s client list with me.”
“I may be able to help.” Mae’s eyes twinkled with excitement.
His bushy brows crept upwards. “Really?”
>
She nodded. “Yes. Well, I don’t know if this means anything, but I happen to know that Velma and Hazel were seeing Zoila quite regularly. Their appointments were on Tuesdays.”
“And yesterday was a Tuesday,” Dom added. He pressed his lips together, picturing the elderly spinsters, Velma and Hazel, who ran the Gull View Inn. They were sweet, gentle souls. “You don’t think they had something to do with Zoila’s death, do you?”
“Oh, no. But they might know something. Those two might seem dotty, but they don’t miss a trick. And I know they were there yesterday because they stopped by Tom Landry’s for eggs after and I overheard them talking from my garden.” Mae looked at him sharply. “I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything. I was tending to my raspberry bushes and their voices carried.”
Dom chuckled to himself and turned toward the door. “Well, that certainly is helpful information. I will pay them a visit and see if they can shed any light on things.”
Mae puffed up, satisfied she’d done her duty. “Glad to be of help. I’ll just be on my way, then.”
Dom opened the door and bid her goodbye. As he closed the door his excitement in the case turned to a pang of insecure doubt. What if he had lost his investigating skills? What if he was too old, or couldn't remember the right way to go about it?
It had been years since he'd investigated anything, and if he screwed up and his information sent the wrong person to jail, he'd never forgive himself.
Then again, if he didn't investigate and the wrong person went to jail because he wasn't there to give his input, he'd never forgive himself, either.
It was better that he investigate, Dom decided. He hurried to clean up the plate from his ricotta pie. He had four places to visit and he didn’t have a minute to waste if he wanted to fit them all in today.
Chapter Seven
Even though the police were no longer there, the meditation garden still bore the mark of a violent crime. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the area where the body had left an unmistakable impression in the sand.
Dom could see evidence that they had taken a cast of the lone footprint. Something about it bothered him. It looked out of place, marring the pattern of the concentric circles that had been traced in the sand.
It was hard to believe a violent murder had happened in such a peaceful place. Dom had never meditated the regular way, much less by the use of a zen garden, but he could see how immersing oneself in the repetitive motion of drawing patterns in the sand could be relaxing. Especially up here, where the air was filled with the fresh smell of the forest and the chirping of birds. It was a quiet place—a good place for reflection.
Dom doubted it had been this quiet earlier in the morning. The condition of the body told him that Zoila had struggled. Had she cried out? She must have … but why had no one heard her?
“Can’t go in they’ya.”
Dom turned to see the gardener, Banes, standing beside the trash barrel, a scrunched up Coke can and an empty white bag in his hand. “I know. I was just looking.”
Banes squinted at Dom. “Hey, ain’t you that famous detective form Boston?”
Dom straightened with pride and preened his tingly left eyebrow.
“Well, I could hardly claim to be famous,” he said modestly.
“Well, I heard about ‘ya.” Banes nodded toward the crime scene area. “I bet you got some ideas on who killed her.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Not yet, anyway.” Dom raised a brow at Banes. “What about you?”
“Me?” Banes took a step backward. “Why, I have no idea.”
“And you didn’t see anyone up here or hear anything this morning?” Dom ventured.
“No, sir. I was on the other side and I’m a little hard of hearing. I was actually a bit late on my rounds this morning. Had to clean up horse poop on the trail.” Banes scrunched up his face. “Otherwise, I might have been here when ... well, you know.”
Dom nodded. “So, just what are your tasks here?”
“Well, I usually come up and rake the garden.” Banes pointed toward the sandy area. “I make sure there are no leaves or pine needles on the sand.”
“Do you make these circles?” Dom indicated the intricate series of circles that radiated from the stones that seemed to be placed at random in the zen garden. It reminded him of the waves that radiated from a rock tossed into a pool of water.
“Yep. To start. The way it works is the people come and make their own circles with the rake. That’s part of the meditation. But each morning, I come up and rake them out to start the day. It’s kind of fun, really.”
“And the rakes. Do you supply those?" Dom asked.
Banes sighed. “Yes. We have to keep a supply of them, because sometimes people walk off with them.”
“And this morning, the rake was missing.”
“Yep.” Banes looked over at the crime scene and shuddered. “I guess it might have been the murder weapon.”
“Could I see one of these rakes?”
“Sure, just let me throw this out.” Banes indicated the trash he held in his hand. As Dom followed him to the trash can, he noticed the white bag was a take-out bag from Chowders.
“Do you get a lot of trash up here? You’d think the islanders would respect it more,” Dom said.
“Didn’t use ‘ta, but it’s happening more and more now.” Banes tossed the trash in the can and shrugged. “Kids.”
Dom frowned at the trash. He could see the crushed soda can being tossed out by reckless kids, but he wondered if kids would be bringing take-out bags from Chowders up here. He didn’t think so.
He tore his attention from the trash and joined Banes at the small storage shed. The gardener unlocked the door and reached inside, producing a strange-looking wooden rake.
“There's a couple of different kinds of rakes for zen gardens, but this here’s the kind of rake we use.” Banes handed it over for Dom to inspect.
It wasn’t too heavy and of simple construction. A handle with a metal piece at the end. One side of the metal was flat and the other had a series of short, sharp tines protruding from it.
“The flat end is used to smooth out the sand, and the end with the tines is used to make the swirls and patterns around the rocks in the garden,” Banes added.
Dom fingered the tines thoughtfully. With enough force, they could have caused the injuries that had killed Zoila.
Had the killer used the zen garden rake for his murderous act? And, if so, what had he done with it afterwards?
***
The Barrett family had settled Mooseamuck Island back in the 1600s and had once owned most of the land. Over the years, parcels had been sold off, and even the old family hunting camp—the first structure on the island—had been sold by Kenneth to Zoila, less than two years ago.
The Barretts had kept the best piece of land for themselves, which included a mansion—the largest house on the island—situated on a point of land that was surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean on three sides.
Dom pulled his Smart Car around the circular drive and got out. A fountain splashed melodically in the middle of the driveway as Dom walked to the home's impressive, double-wide oak doors. He rang the bell.
After a few seconds, the door swung open and a man in a black jacket looked out at him.
“Yes?”
Dom stared back. A butler, in this day and age? People still have them?
“Hi,” Dom said. “I’d like to see Kenneth Barrett, please.”
“Master Kenneth is in the stables around back.” The butler leaned out onto the step and pointed around the left side of the house, where Dom could see a fancy carriage house.
“Okay. Thanks.” Dom turned and headed toward the stables, enjoying the view of rolling hills giving way to the cliffs and the Atlantic below. As he neared the carriage house, he heard a loud clatter and then cursing. Peeking his head in, he saw Kenneth in one of the stalls, standing amidst a messy pile of wooden-handled stall mucking tools.
“Ah
em.” Dom cleared his throat and Kenneth snapped his head up.
“Oh. Hi. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“You muck out the stalls yourself?” Dom asked incredulously. He couldn’t picture Kenneth, who looked like a male model with his swoop of blond hair, blue eyes and Kirk Douglas chin doing this type of work.
Kenneth shrugged. “Sometimes. I find this type of work keeps me grounded.”
Dom nodded, inhaling the earthy scent of leather, hay and horse manure. He noticed that even the stables had the air of the ‘well-to-do’. The saddles and bridles neatly hung on the walls were of the finest quality. Even the barn implements piled in front of Kenneth had matching gold and maroon adornment on the handles—a color combination that was repeated in the rosettes on the bridles and the coat of arms that hung over the doorway.
“What can I do for you?” Kenneth worked his way out of the stall and motioned for Dom to follow him down the aisle. A palomino snickered as they passed her stall, her blonde mane swaying like corn silk as she bobbed her heard up and down. Kenneth stopped for a minute to stroke her velvety nose. Dom noticed the horses were in tip-top shape. This one was freshly groomed, her saddle shined and polished.
“In the diner, you mentioned that you talked to Zoila yesterday and she seemed agitated. I wanted to ask you more about that,” Dom said.
Kenneth stopped and frowned at Dom. “Why? The police have already been here.”
“Of course,” Dom replied. “But I’m not with them.”
“Oh, no? Then why are you asking?”
“Let’s just say I want to make sure us islanders get a fair shake. Zambuco isn’t from the island, so …” Dom let his voice trail off, taking a moment to glance down at Kenneth's shoes. They were square toed—not a match to the footprint at the zen garden. Then again, this surely wasn't his only pair of shoes.
Kenneth stared at him for a few seconds, then Dom saw something change in his eyes. He nodded and spread his arms. “I don’t know much. Like I said, Zoila lived in my family's old hunting camp. She was doing some minor renovations and found some pictures she wanted to give me. She also wanted to keep the history, so she asked me to come out and go over the various additions to the camp. She was interested in what year each room was added ... that sort of thing.
A Zen For Murder Page 4
