She lifted back her hair and showed him the small scar at her hairline.
“Ouch,” he winced. “What happened?”
“They stole every single piece of Jean Depaul’s work,” Brenna said. “And I was left in a pool of blood and wasn’t found until the next morning when the owners arrived to open the gallery.”
“You could have died,” he said. His voice was tight with anger and somehow that made Brenna feel better.
“There were days that I would have preferred that ending,” she said. He frowned. “The police fingered me for the robbery.”
“What? But that’s ridiculous,” he said.
“The burglars had done their homework,” she said. “They stole my identity and started offering the works on the black market using my name. No one believed me. Not the police, not my bosses, not my clients. My reputation in the art world was destroyed.”
Chapter 17
A brayer is a hand roller used in decoupage to help remove wrinkles and excess glue.
Nate let out a hiss of pent-up breath. “Good God, Brenna, I am so sorry. I remember hearing about that robbery.”
She nodded. She could feel a lump in her throat and tears sting her eyelids. She blinked them away and swallowed, forcing the knot down.
“It’s okay,” she said, although it wasn’t and it never would be. “They finally caught the thief and I was proven innocent, but the damage done to my reputation was irreparable.”
Nate put his hand over hers. His palm was warm against the chill that engulfed her.
“So that’s why you didn’t want your name in the paper when you discovered the mayor’s body,” he said.
“Yeah, I’ve seen my name in print enough to last a lifetime,” she said. “My parents were appalled. Millers are only supposed to be listed in the society pages, not the police blotter.”
She glanced at him and saw his frown deepen.
“But you were a victim,” he said. “I mean, you could have been killed.”
“Hmm,” she said.
There was no way she could explain. Her mother had spent her entire life cultivating her reputation as the perfect high-society wife and mother. To have her daughter fingered as a felon, even mistakenly, was too much for her to bear, no matter how innocent Brenna had been.
Her mother had yet to forgive her for embarrassing them by being attacked, and if that weren’t bad enough, Brenna had taken the witness stand and sent the real thief to prison, giving her mother even more to be embarrassed about.
“I didn’t do very well after the robbery,” she said. “I couldn’t function. I was afraid of my own shadow, and everyone else’s for that matter. It was devastating.”
He squeezed her hand in an almost painful grip that she welcomed. The pain brought her back to the present. She pulled her hand out of his and pushed a stray lock of hair off her face.
“Of course, it got worse before it got better. I spent my days coming up with reasons why I couldn’t leave my apartment. I had lost my job at the gallery after the burglary and then my boyfriend James dumped me.”
Nate looked empathetic, as if he understood. She appreciated that, but of course he couldn’t understand what it had been like between her and James after the robbery. She hadn’t been much of a girlfriend. She hadn’t been much of anything.
“I knew I needed to get out of Boston,” she said. “So, when Tenley called and told me about her shop and that she was looking for help, I jumped at the chance.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
His gaze was warm, and again Brenna wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but it felt good nonetheless.
“Now, the reason I told you all this was twofold. One, you can’t just leave things to the police. They make mistakes. I mean, they actually believed I’d lie in my own blood all night and then use my own name to market stolen pieces of art. Ridiculous. And reason two is to show that I can handle it,” she said. “I’m not a fragile little flower.”
“No, never that,” Nate said dryly.
“Is that sarcasm?” she asked.
“You think?” he retorted.
“Listen,” she said. “I’m going to the Courier’s offices, and I’m going to see what I can find, because I like Morse Point, and although it’s taken me a year, I feel like I belong here and I don’t want to leave.”
“Why would you leave?” he asked.
“Because I can’t live in a town with an unsolved murder,” she said. “I’ll become all paranoid again and have to move.”
“The murder isn’t going to go unsolved,” Nate said. “Chief Barker will figure it out.”
“By arresting you?” she asked.
“I’m a natural suspect, given the very public disagreements the mayor and I shared,” Nate said.
“Yeah, just like the Boston PD tried to make me out to be the art thief,” she said. “They actually tried to make people believe that I gave myself a concussion to make myself look innocent. They never considered that maybe I was innocent.”
“This isn’t Boston,” he said. He tilted his head as he studied her and his eyes were kind. But Brenna was too full of the demons from her past to let it go.
“What’s your point?” she countered. She crossed her arms over her chest and sank deeper into the cushy suede of her couch.
“That whoever floated the mayor did me a favor,” he said.
She gave him a wide-eyed look.
“Oh, not like that,” he said. “I am sorry the mayor is dead, but whoever dumped him, thinking to pin me, made me look more innocent than guilty. Ray can’t believe I’d be that dumb and neither can the judge. So you see? You need to stop.”
“Stop what?” she asked.
“Stop investigating,” he said. “Don’t search the newspaper office or anyplace else that might put you in harm’s way.”
Brenna opened her mouth to protest, but he put up his hand to stop her.
“Promise,” he said.
She sighed. “I promise not to put myself in harm’s way,” she said. There. That was nice and loosely stated.
His gaze was fierce. “There is a murderer out there, Brenna, someone who had no problem bashing the mayor’s head in, stuffing him in a trunk, and tossing him into the lake. Now what do you think he’d do to you if you find him before the chief does?”
“All right, all right,” she said grudgingly.
Nate sat back into the couch, relieved. It was nice that he cared, Brenna thought, but he didn’t understand. She was positive if the chief didn’t find the real murderer and soon, Nate would find himself heading right back to jail, only next time he might not get out.
Brenna knew what it was like to be wrongly accused. She didn’t want to watch Nate go through that, and she simply couldn’t live in a town where a murderer roamed free.
It wasn’t that she was disregarding her promise to Nate, Brenna told herself. It was just that a girl had to run errands and if, in the course of those errands, polite conversation included the murder, well, that couldn’t be helped.
Brenna decided to stop by Stan’s Diner to see who was out and about. She hadn’t had the chance to chat up Marybeth DeFalco, and she knew from the way the Porter sisters frothed at the mouth at the mention of her name that she was their main competition as gossip conduit of Morse Point.
She entered Stan’s Diner to find it relatively quiet at midday. Usually she ordered her coffee to go, but today she decided to sit in Marybeth’s section and order her latte in-house.
Marybeth was young and pretty with curly brown hair and big blue eyes. She was tall and thin, which was amazing because as Brenna watched her, she noticed that Marybeth nibbled constantly at the food she kept in her polyester apron pockets. It looked like she had a cache of mixed nuts in there, and she reminded Brenna of a squirrel as her eyes darted around the diner before she reached into her pocket to fish out another nut.
“Hi, what can I get for you today?” Marybeth asked with her pad in hand. Brenna noticed she had sw
allowed before approaching.
Brenna met her gaze over the newspaper she’d been pretending to read and she saw Marybeth’s eyes widen in recognition.
“May I have a latte?” she asked.
“Sure,” Marybeth said. “Can I offer you some pie as well? We have a freshly baked coconut custard.”
“Oh, I’d like that,” Brenna said. “Thank you.”
Marybeth hesitated as if she wanted to say more but instead she nodded, leaving Brenna’s table to go fill the order.
Brenna had spent enough time around the Porter sisters to know that Marybeth was formulating her next run at the table. If she was the gossip everyone claimed, she wouldn’t be able to let this opportunity pass, which suited Brenna just fine.
In five minutes, Marybeth was back with the coffee and pie and a winning smile.
“You work over at that paper shop with Tenley Morse, don’t you?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Brenna said. “I’m Brenna Miller.”
“Marybeth DeFalco,” she said and pointed to her name badge.
“You’re married to Officer DeFalco,” Brenna said.
“Going on two years,” she confirmed. She seemed quite proud of her catch.
“Your husband is very nice,” Brenna said. She glanced at the froth on her latte. Today Stan had shaped it into a butterfly.
“He said the same about you,” Marybeth said. “He felt just terrible the night that you found the mayor stuffed into that trunk. He said, ‘Why did it have to be nice Ms. Miller who found that trunk?’ ”
“Oh, that’s kind of him,” Brenna said. “I just wish they’d catch whoever did this.”
There, she’d cast her line and now she just had to be patient and reel Marybeth in.
“You don’t think it’s Mr. Williams?” Marybeth asked.
She glanced over her shoulder to see if Stan was watching them. He was. She began to fuss with the sugar bowl. Brenna didn’t want to get her in trouble, so she hurried.
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m quite sure it isn’t.”
Marybeth looked impressed with her certainty.
“I mean there are lots of people who had issues with the mayor, not just Nate,” Brenna said. “Why there is …”
“Roger Chisholm,” Marybeth supplied. “He was hopping mad the day they put that strip mall over the old school. He threatened to chain himself to the school’s crumbly old foundation and everything.”
“He did?” Brenna encouraged her.
“Oh, yeah.” Marybeth nodded. “Until his wife showed up. She scares Roger more than the wrecking ball. She made him put the chains away and go home.”
Brenna felt a surge of hope. Just as she had suspected, there were other people with a bone to pick with the mayor.
“And then there is …”
“Bart Thompson,” Marybeth said. “He found out the mayor was trying to have him put under house arrest on the Fourth of July to prevent his annual streaking problem, and Bart went nuts. He called Ripley a fascist pig and threatened to fill his car with raw bacon.”
“Ew,” Brenna said. Marybeth shuddered in agreement. “There certainly are a lot of folks who had issues with the mayor.”
Marybeth studied her. “Morse Point is a pretty tight community. I think people would rather believe it was a stranger than one of their own. Mr. Williams is still a stranger.”
“So am I,” Brenna said.
“Yes, but you have Tenley Morse to back you up,” she said. “Who does Mr. Williams have?”
“Chief Barker for one,” Brenna said. “And me for another.”
Marybeth reached into her pocket for a nut while she mulled that over.
“You know who probably has the most information is Ed Johnson,” she said. “He’s in here all of the time, trying to dig up dirt. I heard he has files on his computer for everyone in town. He even asked around about Cynthia in the beginning, but Phyllis said she was with her, so he let that one go.”
“I heard Phyllis was Cynthia’s alibi,” Brenna said.
“Yeah, those two are like sisters,” Marybeth said. “Especially since Phyllis’s husband died a few years ago. She’s taken Cynthia under her wing.”
Brenna was quiet for a moment, considering her words. She decided to be direct. “Do you think Ed knows who killed Mayor Ripley?” she asked.
“No, he’d print that story as soon as he had the proof,” Marybeth said. “But I’d be willing to bet he has a good idea about who did it.”
“Hmm.” Brenna took a bite of her pie. It melted on her tongue in a rich burst of coconut. Yum.
“Let me know if I can get you anything else,” Marybeth said. She looked a little disappointed that she hadn’t gotten more information out of Brenna. That was okay. Brenna was getting used to letting the gossips down.
She had a bigger problem. She needed to get close to Ed. She needed to know what he knew. She needed to see his files. And the best way to do that was to get him on his home turf, or better yet, get on his home turf when he wasn’t there. The question was how?
“You’re kind of phoning it in tonight, aren’t you?” Marie Porter asked.
Brenna looked up from the box of photos she was sorting. Her decoupage class at Vintage Papers had started fifteen minutes ago, but only four people had shown up.
The Porter twins, of course; Lillian Page, the librarian at the Morse Point Library; and Sarah Buttercomb, who owned the bakery on the corner. They were always happy when Sarah came to the class because she brought leftover baked goods from work. Tonight she’d brought chocolate-filled, cinnamon-dusted cream puffs, which the Porter twins had been going one for one on all evening.
Conspicuously absent were Cynthia Ripley and Phyllis Portsmyth. Brenna had decided that everyone could just be self-directed on their own projects tonight as her brain was too busy trying to plan how to bust into the Courier’s offices.
So far, all she had come up with was trying to bribe the employees in the newspaper office by bringing a box of doughnuts with her and hope they were so distracted by the sugar glaze they didn’t notice when she wandered off to snoop. Now, however, she was leaning toward making it a bundt cake. Who could be suspicious of someone bearing a bundt? The dilemma now was what flavor?
“Hello?” Ella waved a hand in front of Brenna’s face. “Anyone in there?”
“Huh?” Brenna said. She forced her attention off chocolate with fudge icing versus orange with vanilla icing and focused on the gray-haired woman in front of her, who was giving her a seriously annoyed frown.
“I’m sorry, I’m distracted,” Brenna apologized. “I need to get this plaque done for Cynthia Ripley, and it’s just not coming together.”
It was only a partial lie—given that she was consumed with how to sneak into Ed Johnson’s office, she hadn’t been able to give the plaque her full attention.
“Well, why don’t we make a class project out of it?” Ella offered.
Brenna glanced at Tenley and she shrugged. Brenna took this as a “Why not?” gesture and nodded.
“All right,” she said, and she upended the box onto the table. “Let’s start by sorting these smallest to largest.”
Ella, Marie, Lillian, and Sarah each took a handful of photographs and newspaper clippings and began to organize them.
“How big is the plaque supposed to be?” Marie asked.
“Eleven by seventeen,” Brenna said.
“Humph,” Ella sniffed.
Brenna ducked her head to keep from laughing. She figured that was Ella’s way of saying that Cynthia thought pretty well of herself. She had to agree. In going through the photos, it was impossible not to notice that, other than the picture Ms. Sokolov had given her, Cynthia was in all but one headshot of Mayor Ripley.
“What were your plans for the layout?” Tenley asked.
“I would love to take all these photos and clippings and go totally Warhol with primary colors, et cetera, but I’m thinking Cynthia would be unhappy.”
“You think?” Marie asked. Her sarcasm was thicker than the Mod Podge adhesive she’d used on her last project. “Not a lick of artistic ability in that one. Just look at her birdhouse.”
Brenna glanced over on the shelf where it sat, looking forlorn. Cynthia had decorated it in fluffy pink kittens wearing big blue bows.
“Well, she did drop it,” she said.
“It’s still butt ugly,” Ella whispered. “Denting the corner just gave it some sorely needed character.”
Tenley burst into a coughing fit, no doubt to cover her laughter.
“Yes, well, I promised I’d fix it,” Brenna said. “Cynthia wants to hang it in the tree near Mayor Ripley’s grave.”
“But there aren’t any trees near his plot in the cemetery,” Lillian, the librarian, said.
She glanced at Brenna through her narrow black-framed glasses. She was in her mid-forties, had five rambunctious boys, six if you counted her husband, and was the most well-read person Brenna had ever met. She wasn’t very good at decoupage, and she came to the classes mostly to escape her masculine brood. No one blamed her.
“Really? No trees? I could have sworn that’s what she said.”
“You must have misheard,” Marie said. “Everyone knows all of the mayors are buried on the top of the hill, so they can overlook the town. There aren’t any trees planted there; otherwise they couldn’t see the town, now could they?”
Brenna frowned. “Maybe Cynthia is having him buried someplace else.”
The Porter twins looked at each other and then at her as if she were too stupid to live. Then they looked away, as if it were just too painful to deal with her city-bred ignorance. Brenna sighed. As always, fitting in with the residents of Morse Point was a toe-stomping waltz of one step forward and twelve steps back.
“Back to the collage,” Tenley said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, for which Brenna was grateful. “If you’re not going Warhol, what are you thinking?”
“Honestly, I’m just hoping we can fit all of this onto the plaque.”
“Some of these are too big,” Tenley agreed. She was examining an eight-by-ten of the mayor and Cynthia in formal attire. “We could take them to the copy store and have them reduced.”
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