“I don’t remember seeing anyone,” she said.
He nodded. “So, nothing unusual has happened lately?”
“Other than finding the mayor stuffed in a trunk, no, nothing,” she said.
“Brenna, can you tell me where you were the night before last?” he asked. “Say, between six o’clock and midnight?”
She felt her heart thump triple time. She wasn’t fooled for one minute by his honey-dipped voice of calm. He wanted to know if she had an alibi!
“I was teaching a decoupage class at Vintage Papers and then I went for drinks at the Fife and Drum with Tenley Morse,” she said. She almost told him he could verify that with Tenley, but she thought that might sound too defensive. Because she couldn’t seem to stop herself, she did ask, “Why?”
“I’m just trying to account for everyone’s whereabouts,” he said. “You know the campaign to save the lake was getting pretty heated. I just have to make sure it didn’t get out of hand.”
“Actually, I had thought it was beginning to calm down,” she said. “I can vouch for everyone who lives here. These people are all artists. They do protests, but they don’t murder. Twyla’s a vegan, for Pete’s sake. She can’t even scramble an egg.”
Chief Barker gave her an understanding smile that did nothing to soothe her flustered nerves. They had reached a small alcove and stopped for a moment to look out at the water. The sun shimmered on its surface as if a fistful of stars had been scattered upon it. While they watched, a fish jumped, making a loud plop as he went back under.
Chief Barker studied the ripples made by the fish as if trying to figure out which way it went and whether or not he had time to go get his rod and reel. He turned back toward the path and Brenna followed.
“Chief, are we suspects?” she asked.
He smoothed his mustache with his thumb and his index finger. Finally, he said, “In a murder, everyone’s a suspect.”
Brenna gasped. “So, it was murder.”
“Well, Ripley didn’t conk himself on the head, lock himself in a trunk, and throw it into the lake,” he said. Brenna thought it spoke well of the chief that he didn’t add “duh” to his sentence.
So, the mayor had sustained a head injury. Her mind flashed on the sight of him in the trunk. She remembered that the left side of his head had been swollen near his temple. At the time, she had just assumed it was bloated from being under water, but an injury made more sense.
“I guess I knew that,” she said. “Did the head injury kill him?”
The chief looked as if he’d recant, but then thought better of it. “Someone clobbered him on the temple,” he confirmed. “But we don’t know yet if it was the cause of death. I’m sorry. This must be bringing back some bad memories for you.”
Brenna tripped over a root, but he caught her by the elbow before she landed on her knees. He pulled her up to her feet and she felt her face become uncomfortably hot, and not because she’d just tripped.
“How long have you known?” she asked. She didn’t even attempt to bluff.
“Since you arrived,” he said. “I make it my business to keep tabs on the big-city crimes, just in case something spills into my town. I recognized your name from a piece in the Boston Globe.”
“You never said anything,” she said.
“It’s not my business,” he said. “You were proven to be a victim, not a criminal. I respect your privacy.”
“So, why mention it now?” she asked. She was unsure of how she felt about anyone knowing what had happened to her in Boston. Other than Tenley, she’d never told a soul.
“Because I don’t want you to think that Morse Point is like that,” he said, looking chagrined. “I don’t want you to think you’re not safe here.”
His gaze was sincere, and Brenna found herself feeling unaccountably choked up. She nodded, and through the knot in her throat, she said, “Thanks, Chief. I appreciate that.”
They walked the rest of the way back to Nate’s house in silence, and Brenna felt oddly better. It was as if Chief Barker had known exactly what she feared, that no place was safe. That Morse Point was just as dangerous as Boston. But it wasn’t.
Someone had murdered the mayor for a purpose of their own. It wasn’t a random act of violence. And if she wanted to feel safe again, then Mayor Ripley’s murder needed to be solved.
And it wasn’t just her peace of mind that hinged on a closed case; it was also Nate’s freedom. The townspeople seemed to think he had the most to gain by Ripley’s death, and given their tiff over the lake, it wasn’t that out of bounds. But Nate wasn’t a murderer. Brenna knew that as surely as she knew the Red Sox were going to be in the World Series again.
“Chief Barker, may I ask you something?” she asked.
“As always, yes, but that doesn’t mean I can give you an answer,” he said.
The path narrowed and they walked single file. When it widened again, Brenna moved beside him and asked, “What happened to the trunk?”
“It went to the state crime lab in Sudbury,” he said. “They’ll be testing it for any trace evidence.”
“What will happen to it when they’re done?”
“Well, it’s evidence, so once they’re done examining it, it will go to the property bureau until the prosecuting attorney releases it to its rightful owner, if we ever figure out who that is. Why?”
“Find the owner of the trunk, find your murderer,” Brenna said.
Chief Barker threw back his head and laughed. “I wish it were that simple, but I have a feeling if you checked every attic in Morse Point, you’d find one or even two steamer trunks just like it. Those babies were built to last and people have them forever.”
“Then maybe we need to look for an attic that’s missing one,” Brenna said.
“And were you wanting me to deputize you right here and now?” he asked with one eyebrow raised.
Brenna felt her cheeks get hot again. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to tell you what to do. I just want the case solved, you know?”
He nodded. “I know. And don’t you worry. This is the first murder to hit Morse Point since the Holbrook murder fifty years ago. I have no intention of letting it go unsolved.”
Brenna believed him. He spoke with the vehemence of someone who took it personally that something so heinous had happened on his turf, and Brenna had no doubt that he wouldn’t rest until the murderer was caught.
As they rounded the bend in the lake, they were within view of the cabins. Brenna started when she recognized the buxom blond standing at the foot of the stairs that led up to Nate’s cabin.
“You are a murderer, Nate Williams!” Cynthia Ripley screeched. “You killed my husband, and I am going to see you pay!”
Chapter 11
To give the cutout a beveled edge, angle the blade of the scissors or knife to the outside of the picture.
Chief Barker broke into a run and Brenna was right behind him. As they reached the cabin, they found Nate standing on the top step of his porch, with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Cynthia with a mixture of chagrin and annoyance.
Upon closer inspection, Brenna noted that Cynthia wasn’t up to her usual immaculate standards. Her hair was flat on two sides as if she’d forgotten to fluff those parts. And her makeup seemed uneven, as if she’d gotten distracted while putting it on and never quite finished.
She was standing beside the chief’s car, wearing purple Capri pants, a flouncy red silk blouse, and white chunky heels. Nothing matched. It wasn’t a good look.
Chief Barker darted forward while Brenna moved to stand beside Nate.
“Everything okay?” she asked out of the corner of her mouth.
“Peachy,” he replied, mimicking her corner-of-the-mouth speech. Brenna suspected he was mocking her, but she decided to let it go.
“Cynthia, what are you doing here?” Chief Barker asked. His voice was soft but stern.
“He killed my husband,” she said. She pointed over the chief�
�s shoulder at Nate. “And I want you to lock him up—now.”
“How about I give you a ride home?” Chief Barker said. “You shouldn’t be driving like this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth thinned, giving everyone a good idea of exactly how wrinkled she’d be if she hadn’t Botoxed herself to a waxy sheen.
“Cynthia, you’re getting all worked up,” Chief Barker said. “Now I don’t have any evidence that Nate harmed Jim. I can’t just haul him in because you’ve decided he’s the murderer.”
“But he is,” she argued. Her jaw was clenched, making it hard to understand her. “I told you he threatened him. He said he was going to kill him!”
“Saying and doing are not the same thing,” Chief Barker said. “Believe me, we’ll find out who did this to Jim and we’ll bring them to justice. I promise.”
Cynthia looked wild-eyed at him. This did not seem to reassure her at all.
“I’m telling you it’s him!” she shrieked. “And if you won’t see that he’s arrested, I’ll find someone who will.”
She stomped away and climbed into her black Cadillac Escalade. To his credit, Chief Barker did try to stop her, but she slammed the door before he could grab it and threw the oversized vehicle into reverse. The chief had to jump clear or risk becoming a speed bump.
“I’d better follow her and make sure she causes no harm,” he shouted over the roar of her engine. He hustled to his squad car and gave Brenna and Nate a wave before he drove off after her.
The April morning had become unseasonably hot, and Brenna pushed the sleeves on her sweater up above her elbows. She could hear the hum of a lawn mower off in the distance and smell the scent of fresh-cut grass in the air.
“Iced tea?” Nate offered.
“Yes, thanks,” she said.
She followed him into the kitchen, thinking this might be the perfect opportunity to tell him what the townspeople were saying, although he had to have a pretty good idea after Cynthia’s tirade. Not that she thought for a moment that Nate gave a damn what anybody thought about him, but still, he should know.
She sat on a kitchen stool and ran her fingertip along the grout groove in the tile, while she tried to figure out what to say.
“Nate.” She said his name and then ran out of air.
How exactly do you tell a person that people think he is a murderer? She was pretty sure Emily Post did not cover this one.
“Yes?” He was pouring iced tea from a pitcher into two glasses on the counter. Then he took a lemon out of a nearby fruit bowl and sliced it into fat juicy wedges. He put one in each glass.
“Um, are you aware … ?” she stalled again.
“That everyone thinks I floated Ripley into the lake?” he asked. He put down the knife and ran a hand through his hair. Brenna noticed it stood up in spots, making him look younger than he was.
“Well, yeah,” she said.
“I figured,” he said with a shrug. He took a plastic bag out of a drawer and began to bag the rest of the lemon wedges. “When I was at the Park and Shop, I noticed it was a little frosty in there, and I wasn’t in the frozen food section.”
Brenna smiled. She had to admire his unconcern, but then he had lived here longer. Maybe he didn’t feel the need to belong as much as she did.
“It doesn’t bother you?” she asked.
“Let me ask you this,” he said. He looked up from the bag of lemons and met her gaze. Again, she was aware of having his complete attention focused upon her. She felt as if the entire world could collapse around them and he wouldn’t even notice because he was so intent upon her. “Do you think I killed him?”
“No, of course not!” she said.
He looked away from her with a small smile. “Then no, it doesn’t matter to me what anyone else thinks.”
She ducked her head, feeling flustered by his gaze and his words. She didn’t know what to make of his answer. Was he saying that he only cared what she thought? When she glanced back up at him, his face was inscrutable. How very annoying.
“Now can I ask you something?” He put a glass of tea in front of her. “Something I’ve been wondering about for a while now.”
“Sure,” she said. She was pleased that her voice sounded calmer than she felt.
“Why did you move to Morse Point?” he asked.
He came around the corner of the counter and sat on the stool beside her, his knee brushing hers. She watched him take a long sip of his tea and wondered if sleep deprivation was beginning to make her delirious, because this was not the Nate Williams she knew. The Nate Williams she had come to know over the past year shared a love of sweets and baseball with her, and they never deviated from those two topics. Ever.
Then again, they had never shared the discovery of a dead body either, so perhaps this was normal. Not having shared the discovery of a dead body with anyone before, Brenna really couldn’t say.
She did know that she was dangling on the ragged edge of exhaustion. Feeling like a frayed carpet, she didn’t have enough reserves to knit herself back to coherency. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to share about her past, so she decided the best defense was a good offense.
“For the same reason as you, I imagine,” she said.
“Really?” he asked. He turned to study her and his eyes were amused. “You found yourself the center of an art scene you no longer believed in with every sycophantic boot licker in town trying to chisel out a piece of your soul to sell to the highest bidder?”
“Is that what happened to you?” she asked. Her voice was soft even to her own ears, as if she didn’t want to scare him off by saying the wrong thing.
“Among other things,” he said. “Mostly, I woke up one day and saw a man in the mirror that I didn’t like very much, so I knew it was time to make a change.”
Ah, so there was more. Brenna considered her words carefully. Obviously, they weren’t going for full disclosure here, but it was the first time Nate had ever mentioned his past and she wanted to reciprocate.
“I didn’t like the person I saw in my mirror either,” she said. “But for me, I was just tired of being afraid. In Boston, I found I was always looking over my shoulder. It was exhausting.”
“Why were you afraid?” he asked. His voice was as soft as hers had been, as if he was afraid of scaring her off as well.
“The crime,” she said, opting to remain unspecific. “There was too much crime.”
“So naturally, you relocated to a place that just suffered its first murder in how long?” he asked with a sideways glance.
“Fifty years, or so I hear. Apparently Louise Holbrook backed over her husband with his powder blue Buick when she caught him cheating. I sure can pick ’em,” she agreed and returned his look.
She took a long sip from her glass. The lemon was tart on her tongue against the tea’s honey sweetness.
She was enjoying these moments with Nate probably more than she should. It would not do for the sanctity of their landlord-tenant relationship for her to develop a misguided crush on him. But even as she thought it, she feared it might be too late.
Chapter 12
Fine cutting is the key to decoupage, making a good pair of scissors the most important tool.
Tenley marched into Vintage Papers the next morning with a coffee from Stan’s Diner in each of her hands and the Morse Point Courier rolled up under her arm.
“Just wait until you see this,” she said. “It’s outrageous.”
Brenna put down the Fiskar scissors she was using to cut out a print of an antique hot air balloon. She was planning to decoupage it onto an old metal letter box, but it could wait if Tenley had news.
Tenley put down the coffees, unrolled the paper with a flourish, and plopped it in front of Brenna. The headline was a scandal by itself but the photo below it made it damning.
MURDER SUSPECT NATE WILLIAMS HAS HISTORY OF VIOLENCE! The bold typeface screamed across the top of the paper. Below
it there was a picture of Nate, looking decidedly angry and several years younger.
He appeared to be walking out of a New York City police precinct with a stunning blond beside him. Unable to stop herself, Brenna scanned the article. After a few paragraphs, she felt dirty and it wasn’t just the black newsprint residue on her fingers. And yet, she read every word.
Several sources, from self-proclaimed friends of Nate’s to maids working at hotels where he’d once stayed, reported to have seen his notorious artistic temper. The photo of him leaving the precinct was purported to have been taken after he and the blond were arrested for trashing their hotel room after a wild party. Lovely.
The reporter for the Courier, Ed Johnson himself, speculated that Nate Williams suffered from anger issues. The article went on to speculate that perhaps when Mayor Ripley had crossed him, Nate Williams had finally given in to his violent ways. Ed Johnson ended the piece by declaring that he, too, had suffered at Nate’s hands while trying to interview sources for this story. Brenna shoved the paper away, disgusted.
It was her fault. If Nate hadn’t tossed Ed off her front steps, Ed wouldn’t be coming after him like this. Her stomach twisted at the thought.
The bells jangled on the door and in walked Cynthia Ripley. She looked more put together today than she had in front of Nate’s cabin, but just barely. She wore jeans and a pink hooded sweatshirt. Her hair, which was usually shellacked to perfection, was pulled back by a wide black headband, as if she couldn’t be bothered to style it.
Although she did seem calmer, Brenna flipped the newspaper over just in case the sight of Nate’s photo set her off.
She was carrying a large box, and Tenley hurried over to take it from her.
“Cynthia, how are you?” she asked as she placed the box on the worktable.
“Managing,” Cynthia said. Her voice was subdued and Brenna found herself feeling sorry for her. Like her or not, Brenna couldn’t imagine how horrifying it must have been to have her husband’s dead body found in a trunk in the lake. Poor Cynthia.
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