by Zara Keane
I pressed the bell and waited. No response. When I was about to press a second time, an elegantly dressed dark-haired woman exited the door of the legal practice. She looked me up and down. “Good morning. You work at The Movie Theater Café,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“That’s right. I’m Noreen Doyle’s niece, Maggie.” I eyed her more closely. “Have we met? You look familiar.”
She extended a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Jennifer Pearce. I was at the Movie Club the night Sandra Walker died.”
“Ah,” I said. “I thought I’d seen you around. Nick Sweetman’s girlfriend, right? The lawyer?”
“I’m a solicitor, yes.” She gave a tight smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “The sign is misleading. Old Mr. Nesbitt retired years ago. It’s only me and Aaron now.”
I had the impression that Jennifer would have preferred the sign to read Nesbitt & Pearce Solicitors, but hadn’t gotten her way.
“I’m still in shock over what happened to Sandra,” I said, dropping my voice in a confidential manner.
Jennifer’s smooth forehead creased. “It was simply awful. And now Nick tells me you found codeine in her cocktail.”
News traveled fast in a small town. “Yeah. Any idea who might have wanted to kill Sandra?”
Jennifer’s hand fluttered to her neck, giving the impression of a schoolgirl who’d finally won the lead role in the school play and was determined to wring every ounce of emotion out of her performance. “No, not at all,” she said, eyes wide. “I’m hoping it was a horrible accident.”
I treated her to my most ingratiating smile. “Is Nesbitt & Son taking care of Sandra’s estate?”
Jennifer gave an elegant one-shouldered shrug. “We’re the only solicitors on the island.”
Which wasn’t a direct answer, but was good enough.
“I suppose Sandra’s children inherit everything,” I mused. “Must be a decent chunk of change after she sold their land to developers.”
Jennifer pursed her lips. “I can’t discuss my client’s private affairs.”
In other words, not only was Nesbitt & Son responsible for handling Sandra’s estate, but Jennifer was the solicitor in charge. Given the woman’s wary expression, I decided it was time to change tack. I nodded at the Gazette’s offices. “I’m looking for Sean Clough, but no one is answering.”
Jennifer’s guarded expression softened. “Oh, Sean won’t be back until tomorrow. He’s covering a story on the mainland.”
“Is no one else in?”
The other woman shook her head. “Apart from a few freelancers, he’s a one-man show.” She preened a little. “I write a monthly legal advice column.”
“If you and Mr. Nesbitt are the only solicitors on the island, you must be kept busy.”
“Let’s just say business is brisk. Speaking of which—” she consulted her watch, “—I’d best be going. Have a good day, Maggie.”
“Bye, Jennifer.”
After the solicitor had left, I stared glumly at the locked door of the Gazette. Sergeant O’Shea must have spoken to Sean already. Maybe I could cajole him into leaking information. My mind made up, I squared my shoulders and marched back to the main street.
I didn’t have to go as far as the police station before I bumped into the sergeant—literally. He was coming out of the Movie Theater Café, clutching a takeout coffee in one paw and a muffin in the other. He leaped back when he saw me, spilling hot coffee over his hand in the process.
“Ouch,” I said cheerfully. “That had to hurt.”
“You.” His mustaches did a dance of indignation.
I waited calmly for him to continue. I didn’t need to wait long.
“What’s all this about you poking around asking questions?” His nostrils flared. “You have no right to interrogate people.”
I schooled my features into an expression of innocence. “Who, me? I can’t help it if I overhear gossip in the café.”
His jowls wobbled. “I don’t appreciate busybodies interfering in my investigation.”
“Sandra’s death is big news. People talk. And the recurring topic is the gossip column Sandra is alleged to have written. A column that apparently included a blind item about you.” I paused to let him digest this information. “Do you happen to know if Sandra really did write that column?”
“I do know, but I’m certainly not telling you.” Sergeant O’Shea got up in my face, jabbing a chubby finger against my chest in an aggressive fashion. “I’m warning you, Ms. Doyle. Mind your own business. And don’t you dare spread rumors about me.”
I gave him my most serene smile. “If you don’t stop poking my boobs, the next person you’ll be arresting is me. Only you won’t be in any position to handcuff me once I’ve finished with you.” I hadn’t decked anyone since I’d let my ex have it, and I hadn’t been in the habit of hitting people before that. I was willing to make an exception for O’Shea if he didn’t keep his paws to himself.
He leaped back as though I’d struck him. His fleshy lips compressed. “Are you threatening me?”
“Merely letting you know that I don’t like men poking at my chest without an invitation. Stay out of my cleavage, and I’ll consider staying out of your case.” I winked at him and added in my best customer service voice, “You have a nice day now, Sergeant.”
14
I left Sergeant O’Shea incandescent with rage and sauntered down the street to my next destination. When I stepped inside McConnell’s Pharmacy, Mack was behind the counter, selling an elderly lady what seemed like a crazy amount of Metamucil.
“Whoa,” I said after she’d left. “Is she a Metamucil pusher?”
Mack gave me one of his easy smiles and ignored my dig at his customer. “Hey, Maggie. What can I do for you today? Any more tests on suspicious substances?”
“Not this time, but I do need your pharmaceutical expertise.” I drew the sandwich bag containing the medicine bottle I’d found in the movie theater out of my jacket pocket and held it up to the light.
“I’m intrigued. What have you got there?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.” I handed the bag to him. “Never mind where I found it. I’d like to know what those pills are. They look like Ambien to me.”
Mack donned a pair of disposable rubber gloves like a pro and unscrewed the cap. He examined a pill on his gloved palm. “Yeah, that’s Stilnoct all right. It’s sold as Ambien in the U.S.” He fingered the ripped label. “Did you do this?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know who the prescription is for, or who dropped this bottle where I found it. Do you fill many Stilnoct prescriptions in your pharmacy?”
“A few. Like all sleepers, they’re highly addictive. The doctors at Whisper Island Medical Centre err on the conservative side and are cautious about prescribing Stilnoct.”
“Can you tell from the leftover label if you might have filled the prescription at your pharmacy?”
“Highly unlikely.” Mack opened the door to a back room and ushered me inside. He unlocked a medicine cupboard and took out a package of pills. “This is what a prescribed packet of Stilnoct looks like. The bottle you’re holding might have come from a hospital dispensary, or it was obtained from a black market source.”
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned black market prescription drugs. How common is it in Ireland?”
Mack’s lips twisted into a grimace. “In the days of the internet, all too common. Black market prescription drugs are easier to come by than some of the harder stuff, and people fool themselves into thinking they’ll be fine because they’re taking real medicine.”
“What drugs are popular on the black market?”
“Opioids like codeine, oxycodone, morphine and their friends. All kinds of sleepers and chill pills. Steroids. Viagra. Anything that’ll make a person high.” Mack sighed. “There’s no limit to the human race’s zest for self-destruction.”
“I’m going to ask you a question, an
d I’ll respect your decision not to answer it.”
Mack grinned. “Sounds ominous.”
“I heard a rumor that Lenny deals in prescription drugs. Is this true?”
Mack’s expression darkened. “That old story again? Back when we were in school, people used to say Lenny dealt in street drugs. Absolute rubbish, then and now.”
“I remember Lenny not being averse to the odd joint,” I reminded him.
“But that’s as far as it ever went with him. And he was never a dealer.”
“Okay. I had to ask.”
He inclined his head in what might have been a nod if he wasn’t still irritated by my question. “Fair enough, Maggie. I know you’re trying to look out for your aunt.”
“But not at Lenny’s expense. He’s a good guy and he’s been a friend to me since I arrived on the island. I hated hearing that rumor, and I’m grateful you’ve given me your take on the situation.”
“My take is pretty succinct—there is no situation. Lenny’s no saint, but has neither the inclination nor the street smarts to deal in black market product.”
I eyed Mack thoughtfully. Lenny might not have the street smarts, but I’d bet good money Mack had them. And he had the expert knowledge, not to mention access to prescription drugs.
My stomach gnawed painfully. I’d defaulted into suspect-everyone mode. This had been fine back in San Francisco, where I’d never been obliged to investigate a crime that involved anyone I knew. There was no reason to suspect Mack or Lenny of dealing prescription drugs.
The pharmacist put the pill container back in the sandwich bag and handed it to me.
I slipped it into my jacket pocket. “Thanks for your help, Mack. I’ll see you around.”
“See you. And Maggie?”
I paused in the doorway and looked over my shoulder. Mack’s expression was inscrutable.
“Be careful, okay? Word on the street is that Sergeant O’Shea isn’t the only person unhappy about you asking questions.”
I forced a smile, unnerved by his bland expression. “Sure. I can look after myself.”
After leaving McConnell’s Pharmacy, I walked down to Smuggler’s Cove Harbor. Past the promenade, the library was located at the back of a small park. In summer, the park would be resplendent with flowers of all colors. In January, it appeared as bleak as the gray sky. To undo some of the damage caused by my third portion of scrambled eggs, I took the steps up to the library’s entrance two at a time.
When I stepped inside, Philomena was behind the desk, her trademark horn-rimmed glasses perched on her head. She glanced up at the sound of my footsteps across the creaky wooden floor. “Hello, Maggie. Are you here to collect Noreen’s books?”
“Yes, but it’s not my main reason for stopping by. I decided to take you up on your offer to search back issues of the Whisper Island Gazette for blind gossip items. I called by the Gazette in the hope they’d have digital copies, but Sean Clough’s away.”
My aunt’s eyes twinkled. “We’re behind on the digitalization of our catalog, but we’re not total dinosaurs. The library has digital copies of the Gazette going back five years. Prior to that, we only have paper editions, but you won’t want to look that far back. Sandra only worked at the Gazette the last two years.”
Philomena led me over to a table with a stack of books on each side and a computer in the center. After I’d divested myself of my jacket and other outdoor gear, I slung my bag on the floor and got to work. The digital back issues of the Whisper Island Gazette were stored in a folder on the library computer. There was no way to search through all the issues at once, but given that the Gazette was a weekly paper, and the blind gossip column appeared once a month, I only had to read through twenty-two issues to be up to date.
The gossip column was cringeworthy bad. I didn’t know the residents of Whisper Island well enough to identify most of the blinds, but the heavy-handed approach of their author made me suspect that any islander with two brain cells could figure out who the item was directed at. For the next couple of hours, I noted dates and blind item topics, only pausing to drink the coffee Philomena brought me from her office.
“Only because the library is empty,” she said with a wink. “I trust you not to spill. You’re not clumsy.”
I gave her a weak smile. Either word of my disastrous career in the café hadn’t reached her, or she was choosing to ignore it. “Thanks. Hey, Philomena?”
“Hmm?” She stopped mid-stride and looked over her shoulder at me. “Have you found something interesting?”
I squinted at my notes. “I’m not sure. It’s more a sense of what’s not there than what is. I mean, sure, I can imagine some of the islanders were upset or embarrassed to be featured in the column. On the other hand, I don’t see anything that would point to a motive for murder.” I pointed to an item on my list. “Do you know who she’s referring to as ‘an influential man with a penchant for drink’?”
“‘Influential’ covers a lot of ground,” Philomena said. “It could refer to any number of men.”
“A doctor, a lawyer, or a politician?” I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t know any of these people well enough to guess.”
“Any other items you want my opinion on?”
I consulted my notes. “There’s one about a baby, but it’s vague. It implies that it’s not its father’s biological child.”
My aunt smiled. “That could apply to any number of families. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, love.”
I perused my notes. “There are a couple of items about infidelity, one about a farmer and his sheep that I suspect is the Paddy Driscoll blind, and an ugly item concerning a widow having an affair with her stepson.”
“The Paddy Driscoll rumor is absurd. The widow is either Joan Sweetman or Patty Davis, but I don’t believe it of either of them. As for the affairs—” she shrugged, “—there are a number of contenders, unfortunately.”
I chose my next words with care. “Another blind refers to someone who works with books who was having an affair.”
My aunt’s face stiffened and an angry flush stained her cheeks. “Absolute nonsense,” she snapped, forgetting the library’s rule to keep our voices down. “Yes, I know people thought it referred to me. I’d never cheat on John.”
“It mentioned you sneaking around at night. What could that mean?”
The color drained from my aunt’s face. “I…have no idea.” She gave a weak laugh. “Why would I go out at night this time of year?”
Her denial was too hasty to be credible, but I didn’t push her. If I did, she’d crawl deeper into her cave, and I’d never get the truth. Even if she wasn’t cheating on her husband, she must be up to something late at night. But what?
I sighed. “Looks like I’m no closer to figuring out who killed Sandra than I was two hours ago. Anyone mentioned in the gossip column had a potential motive, depending on how upset they were over it.”
“We don’t know that any of the items in that column are true,” Philomena said with force. “They might be all made up to sell papers.”
“True. And we haven’t confirmed Sandra was the pen behind the column.”
My aunt pursed her lips. “We all assumed she was, and Sandra basked in the attention.”
“But she never told you that she wrote it?”
“No.” My aunt’s expression hardened. “Very coy, she was. She loved the idea of people worrying that she’d write about them next.”
I examined my aunt’s face closely. “Did Sandra ever write anything about your family? Apart from the blind that appeared to refer to you?”
Philomena’s neck snapped back. “No.” The word was uttered too quickly to be convincing.
I sifted through the various blind items in my mind. Apart from the librarian blind item, I could think of none that could fit my aunt, her husband, or my cousin, Julie. But after so many years away, how well did I know them? In truth, how well had I ever known them? I was the American niece who came to sta
y summers. Of course I’d been made a fuss of. I’d seen both my relatives and the island in their summer months. If they had a dark side, I wouldn’t know. Was the closeness I felt for them based on shared DNA and nostalgia?
“Are you sure you don’t know more than you’re saying?” I asked gently. “About the blind items referring to other people and the one about the librarian? If it’s nothing relevant to the case, I promise I won’t breathe a word about it outside this room.”
My aunt fiddled with her rings and tugged at the cardigan that was at least two sizes too small for her round frame. “I… No. If there were anything important, I’d tell you, Maggie.”
She was lying, but if I pressed her, she’d shut me out. The smart move was to give her time to think it over and hope she’d confide in me soon.
The afternoon trade at the café was slow as molasses. Apart from the Spinsters and the Two Gerries, no one came near the place. For a Friday afternoon, this wasn’t the norm.
Noreen was visibly distressed. “Fridays are usually my best weekdays. How can the people in this town think I had anything to do with Sandra Walker’s death? I couldn’t stand the woman, but I wouldn’t have killed her.”
“Anyone who’s your friend knows that.”
My aunt rubbed at her eyes. “I haven’t been able to sleep since it happened. Miss Flynn offered me one of her sleeping pills, and I was sorely tempted to take it. Usually, I won’t touch the things.”
My ears pricked up at the mention of sleeping pills. “Which ones is she on?”
“Something called Stilnoct. At any rate, I didn’t want them.”
So one of the Spinsters had a prescription for the same pills that I’d found wedged between Julie and Lenny’s seats. Interesting. But not conclusive. As far as I knew, the sleeping pills had had nothing to do with Sandra’s death and could have been in the cinema for months.
