Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (11 page)

“You think he did it?” I asked when I finished. “Did you question him yet?”

Nick didn’t answer immediately. “Right now I don’t know what to think. I’ll talk to him after I get rid of the press. Look into his business dealings with Collins.”

“Get rid of the press? Gonna shoot them, are you?”

He shrugged, smiled. “We’ll see.”

I liked his smile. Broad. Warm. He had a dimple that showed up when he smiled. I felt the urge to kiss his dimple.
Geez
.

“I have to go to Percy’s house again,” I said. “Maybe I’ll find out more this time. Do you want me to check a few programs on his computer? Like Quicken? Or Microsoft Money?”

“No. Stay out of it. Stay out of his house. I told you Percy’s no one to mess around with. Besides, it’s none of your business.”

He was right. But it didn’t change my mind. The determination must have shown on my face because he said, “I want to be very clear about this, Nora. I’m in charge of this investigation. I don’t want you involved, especially where Percy Kendall is concerned.”

“I promised Mary Fran I’d get photos.”

His mouth thinned. “All right. Take your damn photos. Of him coming out of some motel, or out of his house with this woman, but that’s it. That should be enough.”

“Of course.”

As we headed back to the station house, he said, “The first murder in Silver Stream was back in 1855. Some guy shot another guy for horse theft. Then about twenty years ago we had a real brutal murder.”

“Percy, senior.”

“So you heard. Guess it’ll be talked about now. He was bashed with a baseball bat.”

“What an awful way to die.”

“Yes. A crime of passion, for sh-ur. It was the bat the Auto Mart guys used when they played on the local softball team. Very handy weapon.”

He stopped and looked at me. “I only have book knowledge of this type of investigation. I wish you really were a hotshot New York Detective. I could use the expertise.”

The admission surprised me. Not many men would admit they needed help. I was impressed. This was a notch above asking for directions.

“Sorry,” I said grimly. “Maybe I could help anyway.”

“No.”

“How soon did you check me out?”

“I didn’t have to.”

“But you did?”

“Within a hour of meeting you.”

“No grass growing under your feet.”

We spotted the reporter and the video guy waiting on the station steps.

“I’ll head home now,” I told him. “Good luck with the sharks.”

He reached for my hand and gave it a slight squeeze. “Thanks.” Then he added, “I’ve had your statement about the murder typed up. You can read it over, make any corrections and sign it later.”

“Okay. I know you think you don’t want my help, but you saw my résumé, so you know … my areas of expertise.” Nora, Nora, Nora.

He raised his brows, and grinned at me. “It caused quite a stir among the boys, you know. I don’t think they bothered to read it. Never got past the picture.”

“I’m guessing Trimble enjoyed it.”

“Hell, I enjoyed it. If your “detective” career doesn’t pan out, you could try modeling for
Sports Illustrated
.”

I felt so pleased I wanted him to say more. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Oh, yes ma’am.”

TEN

I couldn’t get Percy out of my head. Mary Fran didn’t think he was capable of killing his partner, but I thought she might be wrong. Had she ever heard his Gestapo boots stomping on the floor?

I stopped the car in front of the library, and called myself ten kinds of a fool for even letting my thoughts run in this direction. What dreamland had I mentally moved into? I was going home in a day or so, and I had no business even thinking about what Ida overheard here. That was the sheriff’s business. I stared at the library building. I should not go in. Should not. There were three pickup trucks and a red Honda Civic parked out front. It wasn’t crowded.

The Silver Stream Public Library did not look like most libraries I’d been in. It was a small, one-story wooden building with a steeply pitched metal roof, one of those special roofs you see in Maine that the snow can slide off of easily. I guessed the building would fit into a ladies’ room of the New York Public Library with a few cubicles to spare. Since I was here, I might as well check it out, for nostalgia reasons, if nothing else. My lifelong love affair with books had begun here. I was at home here.

I should return the overdue library book I found when I unpacked my books in my new apartment about two years ago. I wondered what the fine was for twenty years. I had a book about Abraham Lincoln that I used for a fifth grade history report. We’d moved before I had a chance to return it.

Feeling a little guilty about the book, I walked up to the librarian’s desk, solid oak, from another century. The years vanished in an instant as I closed my eyes and breathed in the place. Even after all this time, I could identify
my
library by scent. Warmth and books and a hint of lemon oil polish.

A woman around forty years old, dressed in a green skirt, a severe gray blazer and cream-colored blouse, and looking tidier than any woman should ever look, unless she was in a convent, greeted me with a perfunctory—and a neat, I must say—smile, when I entered. Every hair on her head was in place. I immediately guessed she was a customer of that mad sprayer, Mary Fran.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?”

If I said I was just snooping, I suppose she would have asked me to leave, so I said, “I’d like a library card.”

She handed me an application. “Just fill this out, in pen, and add a reference at the bottom. That’s essential. Without a reference, you cannot take out books. When the application is complete, I’ll approve it and give you a number.”

Approve it? Was it possible that I wouldn’t be approved? And I needed a reference?

They still used numbers here instead of computer-read cards. I already had a number. I figured after all this time it was not on record. Good thing. They could open up a new wing if I paid my fine. Ms. Efficiency would not like to hear about that book.

“I need a reference?” I asked, wondering if I’d misheard.

“Certainly.”

“Sounds like an exclusive club. What people are you trying to keep out?”

“We like to know our patrons.”

I reached across the desk to shake her hand. “My name is Nora Lassiter.”

She took my hand hesitantly. “Related to the Lassiters in town?”

“Ida, Hannah, Agnes, Ellie, JT.  Well, I could go on.”

“No need. They’re a wonderful family. One of their ancestors founded this town.” She flashed a smile as big as Alabama. “But I suppose you know that. My name is Margaret. Happy to have you as a new library member.”

There was a possibility that one of the people Ida overheard that day had returned a book. Not likely that they stopped to take one out, of course, but that could be checked, too. I wondered if the sheriff had looked into that.

For now, I filled out the application, turned it in and got a number.

“Each time you check out a book,” she explained, “I’ll stamp a date on the card and you’ll write your number on the card and in the book.”

Very high tech, I almost said, wondering where they kept the files that matched up the names with numbers. I asked about it and she indicated a drawer beneath the desk. “We keep all our lists on file here. When a book is overdue, we call the person. If that doesn’t succeed, we mail out a card.”

I thought about that, then asked, “Margaret, if a person returns a book, do you keep a record of the date it was returned?”

She nodded. “Naturally. But only for a week or less. No need to collect unnecessary paperwork. That’s what garbage cans are for. Efficiency is my watchword. Every Monday, the previous week’s returns’ list is tossed. Anything still owed is noted.”

Since today was Tuesday, last week’s returns were already in the garbage. I was a little disappointed.

Could you have heard the librarian?
Ida had been asked.

Oh, no. This woman had a harsh voice. Not soft like Margaret’s.

Margaret, sweet though she appeared, and soft-spoken as she was, could not be eliminated as the woman Ida overheard. Almost any woman could make her voice harsh, I figured, if she were angry enough.

“Was there something else you wanted?”

“No. No, thank you.” How foolish to be wandering off mentally. Margaret looked like a good and decent woman. What was I thinking!

I poked around for a while, checked out the Ken Follet section where Ida had been, sat on the foot stool she had probably sat on, and decided she was right about the guy being tall. At least six feet, maybe more, I’d guess, if his voice came through that Follet shelf. I tried to think of all the men around here who were six feet or over. Uncle JT, Percy, Al Collins, Nick. Too many to mean anything.

There wasn’t much to do here, so I picked up a Ken Follett book and brought it to the checkout desk. I tried to think of what else to ask the librarian.

“I know Ida Lassiter overhead people talking in here about a week ago. Do you know–”

“Deputy Trimble was here with your aunt,” she interrupted, as she stamped my card with a thump. “I answered all his questions. I saw nothing.”

She picked up some books, put them on a cart and headed away. I had been dismissed. Interesting. I thought she liked Lassiters.

* * *

I arrived back at Ida’s to absolute chaos. The family had gathered in the kitchen. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. “What happened?” I asked. “This about Collins?”

“Worse,” Hannah said with a heavy sigh.

“What could be worse? Collins was murdered.”

“JT is missing,” Ida said. “He never came home last night. Sheriff Nick was just up to the house looking to question him and Ellie, but Ellie hasn’t seen him since yesterday noon.”

Ellie, wearing a silver-gray warm-up suit, sat dabbing her eyes, sniffling, taking in great gulps of air. 

“Nick called about twenty minutes ago asking again to speak to JT and I had to tell him the truth,” she said between gasps. 

The truth? I looked at everyone here—Hannah, Agnes, Ida, Hannah’s son and daughter-in-law. Just to be clear, I asked, “Do you think he–” I stopped short, backtracked. “What truth? That he’s missing?”

Everyone ignored the three children, ranging in age from four, or so, to about ten, as they raced through the kitchen, dragging what sounded like a load of tin cans.

Ellie sobbed into her tissue. “He’d been acting strange lately. Nervous. Drinking more. Something’s going on, that’s for damn sure. He wouldn’t tell me what. We’ve been fighting for the past few months. More than usual, and that’s saying something. That’s why he left.”

Her angry words the night of the party came back to me.
You ass. Better watch your step. I have a key to that rifle cabinet.

“You can’t think he murdered Collins.” I said.

Ellie grabbed another tissue to sop up a new flood of tears. “I don’t know.”

That set me on my heels.

Aunt Agnes passed Ellie a handkerchief. “Use this. Much better than a tissue. I wouldn’t give you two cents for those tissues. They fall apart.”

“I agree. We should all go back to handkerchiefs,” Hannah said.

“Hear, hear,” put in Ida.

“Oh, but they get so dirty. Better to throw them away,” Hannah’s daughter-in-law chimed in.

“They’re wasteful,” Agnes said. “‘Course, nobody cares about being wasteful any more. Throw this out. Throw that out. They don’t care.”

Handkerchiefs? Tissues? My uncle was missing. A man had been murdered on his property, or maybe my property, and they were talking about the best way to blow your nose.

Something crashed in a back room. Nobody even flinched. I felt a headache coming on.

“Does the sheriff think he killed Collins?” I asked Ellie, determined not to be sidetracked by the tissue debate, or distracted by the children who were now—judging from the noise—wrecking one of the back rooms.

No one answered. Ida finally nodded, and said softly, “He’s a suspect.”

ELEVEN

I called Howie and told him everything. The business about Mom and the sexual harassment at her job just about shocked him out of his shorts. Like me, he wondered why our parents never told us. He said he’d talk to Mom about it, in person, and let me know the results. I was glad about that. “Better you than me.”

He laughed when I told him about the buried box.

“A buried treasure, Nora.” He laughed some more, then said, “And you have to hunt in the woods for this?”

I smirked. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Howie. This is exactly why I called, you know. To add a bit of amusement to your otherwise dull life.”

Then I told him about JT.

“Oh, God. Taking off right after the murder? The guilty have a tendency to run, Nora. The law will be hot on that trail.”