Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (12 page)

* * *

At two in the morning, my eyes popped open. Instantly awake, my thoughts flew to the library’s returns’ list, and I wondered where the library garbage went. Was there a dump around here somewhere? The more I thought about it, the more important the list seemed. The killer might be on the list. Any six-footer on the list should be checked out. How many men went to the library around here? Tall men. Without wasting another second, I grabbed my cell phone and hit Nick’s private number, which I’d programmed in after all.

The rough sound of his voice told me he had been sleeping.

“I think the returns’ list at the library is important. I can feel it in my bones,” I said without bothering with niceties like “Sorry I woke you,” or “This is Nora.”

“Damnit, Nora. It’s two in the morning. I didn’t get to bed until after midnight and I have to be up by five.”

I noticed he never asked who it was. Either he recognized my voice or looked at the caller ID.

“Sorry,” I said to appease him. “Did you ever check that list?”

“No. It had already been tossed.”

“Where does the library garbage go?”

I heard a groan. “What the hell’re you talking about?”

I could tell he was having trouble focusing. Some folks, like me, wake and hit the ground running, others are sluggish, grumpy even. Plain to see which category Nick fell into.

“The library garbage?” I repeated. “Where does it go?”

“You’re conducting an environmental survey? That’s why you called at his hour?”

“Where?” I persisted, ignoring the escalating annoyance in his voice.

“I already thought about that angle and dismissed it. What would the list prove? Besides, you probably couldn’t read it after it’s been slopped over with garbage.”

“Where?” I said again.

He made an odd sound, a cross between a groan and a roar, then used a few expletives that I didn’t think were very nice at all. Finally, he said, “The garbage from the Main Street businesses and from the library go into the Dumpster behind the Country Store. They’ll be picked up this morning, near five A.M.”

“It’s still there. Great. Don’t you think we should go look for that list? It might be helpful.”

“We? No. Not you, not me. Once and for all, no. No one should look. And in case you need to be reminded, again, you are not part of this investigation.”

I held the phone away from my ear. Did the man think I was hard of hearing? He hung up without even saying goodbye.

Silver light from a fat moon lit up the far wall of my bedroom. The rosebuds on the wallpaper seemed to shift back and forth as I stared at them. I should get up and close the shade.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Dancing rosebuds. I was being hypnotized.

Of course, that wasn’t why I couldn’t get back to sleep. My head was filled with thoughts of Uncle JT and Ellie, Collins and Percy. Mary Fran, too. And cranky Nick who had a sexy phone voice when he was half asleep.

I’m no expert, but it seemed to me that this whole murder business could be solved more easily if Nick had the library list. We needed it. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became. If Ida’s two plotters met in a library, they had to have a reason to choose that location. Otherwise, why not a store, or a side road, or a gas station? Millions of choices existed, so why the library? The answer? Obvious. It would appear natural for them to be there. They had been there before, both of them. At least one of them was a reader, or had a family member who was a reader. It annoyed me that Nick couldn’t see this. He’d regret it in the morning when his mind was firing on all cylinders. Too bad the garbage would be gone by then.

I watched the rosebuds some more.

I had just found my family after years of separation. I liked them, all of them. If JT were arrested for this murder, I believed it would wound them as much as my father’s leaving had wounded them and me. I had to help Nick find out who had murdered Collins. Had to help him prove it wasn’t JT. No big deal time-wise since I had to hang around until I got those pictures for Mary Fran.

Suddenly, unable to remain passive another second, I hopped out of bed, rummaged through the closet and dug out some clothes of questionable origin, jeans that were way too big and a sweatshirt with paint stains. I found old clodhopper shoes. It was dark. Who would see me? While I laced up the shoes, I hummed a song I used to sing as a kid when I wore my Wonder Woman outfit.
Won-der Wom-an. Ta-da, Ta-da!
I finished tying the shoes and stood up. With a flick of my shoulders, I resettled my imaginary cape. Ta-da, Ta-da! I was ready to go.

Shortly after three in the morning, I drove into the lot behind the Country Store and pulled next to the Dumpster. The damn thing had to be about seven or eight feet high and maybe ten feet long, a behemoth. Who ever heard of such a big Dumpster! I stood on the bottom lip and grabbed hold of the rim. I could barely touch the plastic top that covered this section, so I hopped down. I beamed my flashlight around and found a pile of wooden crates. I was in luck.

This was going well.

I piled the crates up, climbed on top with great care, and lifted a section of the plastic top. “Oof!” The odor almost knocked me over. I should have brought a scarf for my nose. I wondered if there were rats or mice or worse inside.

I passed the light around the garbage. Over to one side I saw a bunch of papers. Could it be this easy? I moved the crates and aimed the flashlight at the papers. If I hadn’t been gagging on the smell, I would have hooted when I saw the words Silver Stream Library on one large envelope.

Piece of cake! Oh, this was going so well.

To make matters easier, I spotted several wooden crates at the far end that I could use to get out. Perfect. I had all bases covered, all facets of the mission lined up. What surprised me was that the Dumpster wasn’t totally full on pick-up day. What a waste of space.

I stepped down, flipped my imaginary cape and began to hum as I added another crate to my pile to make entry easier. Once up, I stood on tiptoes, swung my right leg over like I was mounting a horse, and rolled in, quite smoothly, I thought. The landing wasn’t as smooth. I fell forward into what might have been rotten egg salad. I gagged, got up, and assured myself all was still going well. I groped around for my flashlight. I’d wash when I got home. Scrub myself. Throw these clothes out.

I fought my way to the library papers. They were soggy. With what, I didn’t want to know. I picked up a pile, discarded the lettuce leaves and skimmed through the papers, the flashlight braced between my neck and shoulder. A few minutes later, gagging, close to puking, I found the returns’ list. Hallelujah! The takeout list was here, too. A bonus. I could compare the two. The bad guys may have returned books that day, without taking anything out. Too busy plotting a murder.

I headed for the boxes in the corner, more than ready to leave, and grabbed the nearest box.

Not wood. Cardboard.

Omigod.

I grabbed the others. All cardboard. Someone had painted wood-like stripes on them. Who? What demented person painted wooden slats on a cardboard box? I flashed my light around, inspecting the rest of this section. I stared at what was probably scenery discards from a school play or something. Lots of painted stuff.

Frantic, I beamed the flashlight over every foul-smelling inch, looking for something solid to stand on. Two little beady eyes glowed back.  I whimpered.

Determined to find a way out, I set my flashlight down and angled it so I could see what I was doing. Then I began to pile garbage next to the wall—cardboard boxes, milk cartons, potato peels, pizza crusts. I skipped the dirty diapers. Why hadn’t I thought to wear gloves? When the heap was knee-high I picked up my flashlight and papers, and climbed on the pile.

I sank.

Knee deep in garbage, but refusing to admit defeat, I folded the paper, stuffed it in my pocket, then stepped out of the pile. I needed more solid garbage. I added more stuff, period. Then I climbed up, slid down, fell, gagged. Tried again.

Finally, I slogged to the opposite side and took a running leap, hands extended for a grab at the lip.

Shh-woosh.

I slid down the greasy wall and landed on my rear end in the dirty diaper section. Oh, shit. I even dropped my flashlight. I stood quickly and snatched up the flashlight. Breathing hard, thinking about how to get out, wondering where the beady eyes were, knowing they were monitoring my every move, made me feel like crying. I bit my bottom lip instead.

It was hard to tell how long I’d been at this, but I needed to stop before I contracted the E-bola virus, or was attacked by that rat and his relatives. I did the one thing I’d been resisting. I yanked out my cell phone. Hit a number.

“I’m stuck in the Dumpster behind the Country Store. I’ve tried, but I can’t get out.”

* * *

“Damnit all, Nora. I should leave you in there,” Nick yelled from the bed of his pickup truck. “Where’s your head? Didn’t it occur to you that you’d want to get out at some point?”

“I found the papers,” I announced as he lowered a ladder. I was too tired to argue with him, and besides, I was really glad to see him. Maybe I’d give him a kiss. And a hug. I smiled in the dark Dumpster as I kicked aside some garbage so I could settle the ladder firmly.

“This Dumpster stinks more than usual,” he said. “You’ve stirred it up.”

“Some of that smell is me.”

“There are probably rats in there. Did you ever think of that?”

I peered up at him as I climbed the ladder slowly, my legs wobbly from all the jumping. I hadn’t jumped in years. I was never good at jumping or hopping, especially hopping. In kindergarten pre-screening, I failed left-foot hopping. My mother used to tell everyone that. I never thought it meant much, but here I was stuck in a Dumpster, a hopping failure. A better hopper might have made it out. I should have taken remedial hopping. Maybe it wasn’t too late. I could get one of those mini trampolines and practice.

“I saw rat eyes,” I told him as I stepped on the top rung. “I was scared. I don’t care much for certain animals. Mind you, I have nothing against them and I would never harm one, but I’m not a big animal person. Mainly, because of my allergies.”

“Psheeew!”

Although it was dark, I could see him shake his head in disgust.

“Move it,” he said. “I want to get out of here before someone comes along.”

Minutes later, I was standing in his truck bed. Thank God. It felt wonderful. Sometimes happiness is as simple as a garbage-free spot to stand on.

“My hero,” I said quietly, meaning it so much I decided not to hug him.

He ignored the praise, at least outwardly.

“I’ll get you a blanket. If you sit on my seat, I’ll never get the stench out.” He jumped down. “That may happen anyway. God, you smell awful.”

He passed me a small plastic bag with damp paper towels in it.

He’d thought to bring me something to clean myself with? He had dampened his paper towels for me.

Mute, I wiped my hands and face.

Clean again, the pleasure was intense. He opened the tailgate and tossed me a blanket. “Wrap up. I’ll drive you to my place so you can shower before you go home. No need to let Ida in on your possible insanity. I have old sweats you can use. There’s no way you can put those rags back on.”

He paused, hands on hips. “You know what surprises me?”

I shook my head.

“That this doesn’t surprise me. I’ve known you less than a week and I’m not surprised that you pulled this stunt. Not at all. I should have known. Really should have known. I’m slipping up.”

Shaking his head, he walked to the driver’s door. “Let’s go, Sherlock. Move it. Dawn waits for no one.”

I didn’t say a word. I figured he was entitled to blow off a little steam. I hopped down and wrapped the blanket around me. Even though he was annoyed, I sensed the concern in him. He had gone out of his way, done more than just rescue me. Nick Renzo was a thoughtful man. Kindness is a rare thing in my life so when it happens I have the strangest reaction. I become a big baby. My eyes fill with tears and my throat closes. For the first time tonight, I felt both those things happening. I turned my head to keep him from seeing too much.

Being stuck in a Dumpster hadn’t made me cry, neither had falling into the dirty diaper section, or spying a rat’s eyes, or feeling desperate and desolate. In most ways I’m a strong woman. I can handle adversity. But kindness… .

As I sat in the front seat, I used the last of his damp paper towels to wipe away my tears. I was glad it was dark.

“Are you crying?”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t want to make you cry,” he said softly.

Turning toward the window, I sniffled as quietly as I could. If he heard, he refrained from mentioning it.

TWELVE

Heaven is a warm shower when what you need most is a warm shower. I lathered up and rinsed, lathered up and rinsed again. The nicest part was the water stayed hot, unlike Ida’s shower. Face to the spray, I let the water cascade over me, rinsing away every trace of garbage, wishing I could rinse away every trace of sadness as easily. Ever since my life in New York had fallen apart, first with the loss of my job, then the loss of my fiancé, the sadness lingered deep inside regardless of what I did to uproot it. I concentrated on positive thoughts, like what I’d accomplished tonight.