Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (10 page)

I took the card and dropped it into my almost empty tote. “I’ll be in touch, Vivian,” I promised as I headed for the sheriff’s office to pick up the résumé that Lori had faxed.

Seated at the big desk, Trimble peered down his pointy nose at me when I entered the station house. He had a strange look on his face. At least I thought it was stranger than usual. It was hard to tell, but he looked like he was leering. I usually smile when I speak to people, but I made an exception and just asked him if knew anything about my résumé.

“Everyone knows,” skinny Trimble said, smiling his little smirky smile. “Your résumé came in late yesterday, Ma’am.” He moved to another section of the big desk, and with a flourish, scooped up some papers, and instead of reaching over the desk, came down to stand in front of me. “Here it is,” he said, handing the pages to me.

Dumbfounded, embarrassed, I stared at the photo Lori had scanned onto the draft copy. She had a great sense of humor, I had to give her that, and I would have laughed if I’d received this in private. We had both thought a photo would be good and I trusted her to pick a nice head shot from my disks. Hell. I should have told her this would be coming into the sheriff’s office. I wondered if every Silver Stream deputy had seen this picture of me. No use wondering. I knew.

I looked at Trimble standing there, arms folded, grinning like a loon, waiting for me to say something.

In the photo, posing a Playboy-type pose, I stood on the sand at Coney Island in the world’s sexiest bikini, a black number with a few strings and wisps of cloth covering vital spots. I had worn this creation only once, for about six seconds, and then covered up. I must have been possessed to buy it in the first place. It was one of my few purchasing mistakes. I admit to making them. I’m human.

Knowing that Trimble had seen this, probably stared at it, maybe even drooled over it, made me cringe inside. He’d probably made copies of it. Enlarged it. I wanted to slink into a corner and hide. Or stammer that it really wasn’t me. Or explain about Lori’s humor. Of course, I knew all of these things would be wrong.

“Whadda you looking at?” I fired at him, my voice harsh, as close to a bark as I could get it.

Trimble actually took a step back. Good. I remembered how to do this. When he didn’t say anything, I pummeled him again. “You got a problem with this? A problem with me, maybe? Or maybe you’re never seen a woman in a bikini?”

I was back in high school where you never backed down, where toughness counted, where it equated with survival. Trimble was at a definite disadvantage here. He had never gone to a high school that bordered the Bronx.

“Got a problem with me? With my résumé? My picture, maybe?” The last words were pure challenge. I took a step toward him and he took another step back, this guy who wore a badge and carried a gun.

“No … no problem,” he stammered as he hurried back to the safety of the desk.

I knocked on Nick’s open office door, poked my head in and asked, “You talk to Percy yet?”

“I see you got your résumé,” he said, sidestepping my question.

My first thought was: What do you think of me in a bikini? How shallow am I? My next thought was that Mister Big Ears Trimble was nearby, pretending to be busy.

“Yes, I got it. Thanks for letting my friend fax it here.”

Nodding, as if to say touché, he got up and came over. “Trimble, I’m going to the Country Store for lunch. Don’t bother me unless aliens land or the President calls.”

“Ay-uh, Sheriff.”

“You eat yet?” he asked me, grabbing his brown campaign-style hat.

“No.”

“Come on.”

I was going to have lunch with the boss. I should be thinking about Percy who might have murdered his partner instead of picturing myself sitting across from this romantic devil. Good thing I planned to leave Maine shortly. Without another word, I walked beside him, hurrying a bit to keep pace with his long strides.

As soon as we stepped outside, the wind twirled my hair up and around. It still had to look better than it did yesterday.

“I have to ask a few more questions,” Nick began, eyeing my forehead.

Reflexively, I touched my lumps. “The result of an allergy.” At the lift of his brows, I clarified, “I sneezed and bumped my head.”

“So you said on your way back from Kendall’s. On the floor, wasn’t it? And it happened four times?”

“You’re half right.”

“Half right? Two sneezes, four lumps? Okay. Just seems a sensible woman would have moved back before the fourth hit. That’s just my uninformed male opinion, of course,” Nick said.

“Uninformed is your key word.”

“Suppose you explain.”

“Do you think this has anything to do with the murder?” I asked.

* * *

The
Toreador March
sounded in my pocket. I glanced at the caller’s name. My brother again. I didn’t want to talk to him in front of Nick, but I knew he was worried since I’d never called him back. I figured I owed him a short conversation.

“Hi, Howie. Everything’s okay,” I assured him immediately. I explained about finding the body. He told me to be careful. It’s like a mantra with him: Be careful, Nora. Be careful, Nora.  Be careful, Nora.

Howie thought I was a calamity magnet, which was absolutely not true. But I loved my brother Howie, so I accepted.

“Don’t you want to know about the will?” I asked Howie, conscious of Nick beside me.

“Sure.”

“We have inherited about fifty acres of woods around Aunt Ida’s place. She’ll keep a few acres.”

No reaction.

“Howie? You still there?”

“What’s wrong with the land? Is it under water?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is not Florida.”

“Has a huge lien against it, doesn’t it?”

“That depends on how you define huge,” I lied, unable to help myself. Teasing Howie was one of the small pleasures in my life. It takes so little to get him going and it’s such fun to watch.

“I knew it. I’ll sign it over to you. It’s yours, Nora.”

I laughed. “Howie, we have to talk.” I thought of Mom and the sexual harassment business, but I didn’t want to talk about that now.

“Sure, but not about the land. Just mail me the papers. Are you planning to move to Maine?”

“Absolutely not.”

Nick and I reached the steps of the Country Store. “Howie, I can’t talk any more now. I’m going to lunch with the sheriff.”

“The sheriff. Are you sure you weren’t arrested, Nora?”

Smiling, I said, “I won’t even dignify that with an answer. I’ll call you tonight.”

I returned the phone to my purse. “That was my brother. He heard about the murder.”

When Nick’s brows shot up, I explained that Howie was a Miami-Dade cop.

As we climbed the steps, I asked, “Have you got any leads in the murder?”

He held the door. “Nothing much.”

We took a small booth in the back and before I was settled in my seat, he asked, “What did you find at Percy’s house?”

The question caught me off guard, which was a good thing because it kept me from answering immediately, which allowed me to consider the consequences. Could Mary Fran be affected? Could I? Was it illegal to snoop in Percy’s computer even though Mary Fran had given me access to the house? Maybe I should find out first.

“That’s private,” I answered.

Waitress Amy arrived and handed us menus. “Hi Nick.” She nodded at me. “The back room’s been all abuzz. Folks can’t seem to talk about anything else but the Collins murder. You got any leads?”

“None.”

“Such a shame. What’s this world coming to?”

“Amy, this is Nora Lassiter.”

“We’ve met. How you doing, honey? You recovered from your shock?”

Before I could answer, Nick cut in, “Amy, you knew Al for a long time, didn’t you?”

“Years. We were in high school together. He was a year ahead of me. ‘Course we weren’t great friends, but still …”

“He come in here much?”

“Few times a week.”

“When was the last time?”

Amy rested her order pad against her Pam Anderson double-Ds, maybe triple-Ds—I wondered whether there was an E, an F?—and considered the question. “Several days ago he came in with another guy. Don’t think the he was from around here.”

I could see Nick’s cop antenna stand at attention.

“What day was that?”

“Hmm. Let’s see. Maybe last Monday or Tuesday.”

“Have you seen this guy since?”

“Nope. Just that one time. I figured him to be a customer at the car place. Ay-uh. Maybe picking up a car?”

“What’d he look like?”

“Short guy, maybe five-seven or so, dark hair, wore a baseball cap. His hair stuck out. Slim, wore jeans.”

“Anything else? A name maybe?”

“Nothing. Sorry, Nick. Lunchtime we get pretty busy. Don’t leave much time for gettin’ acquainted.” She adjusted her AMY badge as she spoke. What a figure the woman had. I’d have to get triple implants to rival those melons. I tried not to stare.

“Thanks, Amy. It’s a place to start.” He handed her back his menu. “I’ll have coffee and ham on rye, extra pickles, Muenster cheese.”

“A lobster roll for me,” I said.

“Coming up.”

“Since I’ve been in Maine I’ve eaten about seven lobster rolls. I started when I crossed the New Hampshire border. They’re my absolute favorite, after homemade chocolate chip cookies, that is.”

“Interesting,” Nick said, tilting his head slightly as he stared at me. “Easy woman to please.”

A man wearing a suit walked into the place and made a beeline for our table like a hound dog who’s spotted the fox.

“You Sheriff Renzo?” the guy asked.

Nick said, “Ay-uh,” his look, implying he didn’t appreciate being disturbed.

With that, the guy signaled a pony-tailed man with a professional camcorder on his shoulder. Oh, hell. We were about to make the six o’clock news. Furiously, I patted my hair. I grabbed my purse and touched up my lipstick as the guy asked Nick about the murder. Glancing into my compact mirror, I realized I needed a complete overhaul. My national debut was minutes away.

“Can you tell us about the man who was murdered, Sheriff Renzo?

“No.”

The reporter looked stunned. “The camera’s rolling, Sheriff. The world is watching.”

“The world’ll have to wait until I finish my lunch. You going to film me eating?”

Not completely discouraged, the reporter turned to me. I was tempted to smile when the camera was aimed at me. I always wanted to be a performer, a singer maybe, or a dancer. I took tap as a kid. I still remember a few steps.

“And you are?” The reporter asked me.

I wished my hair looked better. That wind… .

“Nora Lassiter,” I replied with a smoothness that surprised me. The show must go on.

“Did you know the murdered man?”

I wanted to tell him I’d found the body. Nick stepped on my toe under the table. When I looked at him, he stared back and tapped my foot a few more times. I wondered whether it was Morse code. I sighed and said, “We’ll eat lunch first.”

“Are you two an item?” the reporter asked, taking a new tack.

I laughed. The sheriff rolled his eyes.

“An item of what?” I asked before Nick found my foot again and tapped furiously. Lucky for him I didn’t have my Bruno Maglis on, or he would have felt more than tapping on his own damn foot, scuffing up my shoe like that.

“Are you a couple?” the reporter asked, his annoyance evident.

“We’re a couple of people who want to eat lunch at the moment,” I said. I watched the camera zoom in on me for a close-up. I think it was aimed at my forehead. My lumps would make the news.

“I’ll have a brief statement later,” Nick cut in, the authority in his voice ending further discussion. He checked his watch. “Be in front of the station house around four.”

It was almost three now.

“Sure thing,” the guy said. He made a move to leave, then stopped short as if a light bulb had gone on in his head. It was creepy.

“Nick and Nora?” he questioned. “Like Nick and Nora Charles, the famous detective duo in those old movies? What a coincidence. That’s cool. Do you two crack cases together?” He chuckled. “Do you have a dog named … I forget what their dog was called. My grandfather used to watch those old movies.”

He chuckled again and left, muttering about the dog.

“When I’m in my crossword puzzle mode, I do a puzzle every night. On Sundays I do the
New York Times
crossword. So I know the name of the dog.”

Nick tapped a rhythmic tattoo on the table. “Should I care about this?”

“Asta. The terrier in the
Thin Man
series. Nick and Nora Charles’ dog was named Asta.”

The lobster roll was delicious, better than any they served in New York. As we ate, Nick peppered me with questions, most of them routine. Then he asked about Percy again and I decided to tell him about the visit to the Kendall house, leaving out the sexual playacting parts, of course.