Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream (19 page)

“He was a cop,” I said when I finished chewing. “Like my Dad. But not quite like my Dad.”

Nick nodded. “So you’re cop-shy.”

“And you’re city-girl shy.”

“Nora Lassiter, we should never talk to each other again.”

“We absolutely should not, Nick Renzo.”

“Good thing this isn’t a date.”

“Truer words were never spoken.”

“We should toast to that.”

We raised our glasses and toasted.

The noisy table broke up and most of them went home. Three remained. They argued with the waitress about the bill.

During dessert, a chocolate mousse that was better than anything I’d tasted in my whole life, there was a loud crash. Nick stood abruptly, jostling the table, which jostled my spoon, which sent chocolate mousse blobbing down the front of my blouse. He didn’t notice.

“Stay,” he called over his shoulder.

Stay?
Is that anything like
sit? Stand? Heel?

I think not, mister.

I got up and followed him, mumbling a few choice expletives about my blouse. Two of the former
Eh, Cumpari
singers were duking it out. Maybe someone should change the present tarantella and put
Eh, Cumpari
back on.

Nick was attempting to separate the brawlers. Some guy, I think he may have been the manager, came running, followed by the Pillsbury Dough Boy in one of those bouffant chef’s hats.

“Call nine-one-one.” the manager yelled to the entire room, which consisted of me, the chef, and an elderly couple who may have been hard of hearing since they didn’t seem disturbed by the racket, or perhaps were pretending it wasn’t happening. Who knew? I didn’t count the drunk with the paper hat who was now clapping his hands and rolling his shoulders in rhythm to the tarantella.

I grabbed my cell. Before I could dial, Nick and the two men fell to the floor in a big heap with Nick in the middle, kind of like a sheriff sandwich. I dropped the phone. What to do, what to do. Stay calm.

“Nick.” I yelled in my calmest voice. He turned to look at me, and a fist clipped his chin.

Okay, calm didn’t work. I needed a weapon.

I scanned the room. Knives. Not a good choice. I hate knives. Desperate, I grabbed a bowl of spaghetti with clam sauce from the old folks table. Now they were paying attention. Aiming for the guy on top, I flung the contents. Hit him square in the face. Faster than you can say linguine pescatora the guy was off the floor, sputtering, spitting, wiping. I thought he was going to kick Nick, so I sent the chocolate mousse his way, too, a sad waste, but you do what you have to do.

Mouth pressed into a straight line, chocolate fists raised, spaghetti dangling every which way, the bull charged. I grabbed a chair, and shoved it. Drunk, wobbly on his feet, he fell into it head first.

Seconds later, Nick had the guy’s arms behind his back, and was cuffing him.

The tarantella ended, and
O Sole Mio
drifted through the speakers. The music seemed to match the action.

Nick escorted the two prisoners to the SUV and secured them in back. Just before we drove off, he reached for my hand, leaned over and whispered, “Lady, you are something else. You can be my wingman any time.”

Pleased, I smiled. “I used to play Wonder Woman,” I whispered, lifting my wrists to ward off imaginary bullets.

He brushed my lips, a feather-light kiss that I felt all the way down to my toes.

“Ah, shit. We gotta watch this crap.”

Nick spun around, yanked the prisoner forward by the collar, and said through clenched teeth, “Shut ya mouth. Hear me? You ruined my meal, plus, I gotta put up with your stink. You reek of weed.”

“Marlboro Lights,” he declared.

Nick released him and shoved him back. “The hell it is.”

Hunky Miller with the twitch was on duty when we walked into the station house. He assisted with the prisoners, then gave us both the once over, his brows shooting up a notch.

“Spaghetti, I see,” he said to Nick, nodding toward a stand dangling from his shirt pocket. “If you’d asked, I bet they would have given you one of those take-home bags.”

NINETEEN

I half-expected the aunts to be peeking out a window when we drove up, but Hannah’s car, a huge thing that was many years old, was gone and Ida never stayed up beyond ten, so I figured I was safe. To my chagrin, I was nervous when he stopped. Felt awkward. And I haven’t felt nervous or awkward around guys since college. No, make that high school.

I expected to sit in the seat a while, perhaps say a few words, maybe fiddle with my purse.

No such thing. Nick leaned over, cupped my neck with his palm and pulled me to him. The man wasn’t one for preliminaries, and that’s a fact. He kissed me, right smack on the mouth, a no-nonsense kiss that set my senses spinning. Now, I’m not saying that rockets went off or anything like that—I’m a realist—but the man did know how to kiss. It was one of those wet, smoochy affairs that you want to go on and on until it leads to other things. That thought made the sensible me pull back, but not too far, not too fast. I may be sensible, but I’m not a masochist.

“This doesn’t mean anything more than friendship,” Nick murmured, his lips skimming down my neck.

“I agree. We toasted to that,” I mumbled as I turned my head, giving him better access to my lips. “Platonic friends,” I murmured into his mouth.

“Two buddies,” he agreed. “Out for an evening on a non-date.”

“Yes,” I breathed.

After a few minutes of this, my sensible side kicked in and I reached back for the door handle.

“Good night, Pal,” I muttered, as I got out and stood on jello legs.

* * *

It was a clear September day, a perfect day, warm, deep blue, the kind of day that makes a person feel blessed to be alive, the kind of day that makes you want to stop by the side of the road, hop out of the car, and run through a field, arms wide, face to the heavens.

It was not the kind of day a person wanted to go to a funeral.

Yet here I was, driving the three aunts in Hannah’s 1965 dark teal Pontiac GTO with the black leather interior. She insisted I try it out. It was a boat of a car. But power. With a touch of the gas pedal I threw everyone back in their seats, rocket-takeoff style. G-forces at work. Not being the best driver on the road, I was super cautious.

“V-8 engine,” Hannah explained before I asked. “They called it a muscle car. It was my husband’s favorite.”

I was shaky by the time I braked to a stop in front of the funeral home. I’d made it without incident, hadn’t hit a tree, a person, or an animal.

The aunts were in black today, traditional mourning clothes. As I got out of the car, I saw the Collins family, also in black.

“I’m glad to see that,” Agnes commented as she huffed and puffed her way out of the back seat. “It’s only proper. In the old days, widow’s weeds were common.”

Ida must have seen my questioning look, so she explained, “That’s what we used to call the mourning clothes that widows wore. Some widows would dress in black for years after their husbands died.”

Agnes finally made it out. Straightening her dress, she commented, “I wore this dress when my husband passed away a few years back. I’ve had to let the seams out since. Dry cleaning shrinks things, you know.”

“You should sue.” Hannah advised, adjusting her black knitted shawl.

“Blue?” Agnes questioned. “Why should I wear blue? Black is for mourning.”

“Agnes, that hearing aid works best when you take it out of the drawer,” Ida said, brushing a speck of lint off her black polyester dress.

I listened without comment, my thoughts on the people around us. It looked as if the whole town had turned out. Percy and Mary Fran stood with two salesmen from the Auto Mart, all dressed in their Sunday best. Percy checked his watch and looked around. I followed his gaze, wondering if he was looking for Marla. Maybe he’d give himself away and I’d be lucky enough to find out who she was.

Michelle Gray, 8011a0920. Phil Clinton, 401p0925
.

The names and numbers were committed to memory. Percy was up to something bad, and I suspected it paled beside his unfaithfulness to his wife.

Mary Fran saw me and nodded. Percy looked right through me, pretending, I suppose, that I didn’t exist. I’m sure he wished I didn’t. It made me a little nervous to think he suspected I was up to something in his office. I’d put the paper back exactly where I found it. He probably didn’t buy the idea that I hadn’t realized my cell was charged. Or maybe he had. To reinforce the idea, I tossed my head, sending my streaky blond locks sailing around. I selected one lock, and twirled it, twit-like, of course, as I gazed around.

Aunt Ellie arrived alone and parked across the street. She wore a black warm-up suit. Amy from the luncheonette pulled up in back of her. She wore an ecru blouse that scooped low enough to show hills and valleys. Her skirt was black, in deference to the occasion, I figured.

I didn’t want to feel excited about all this, but I couldn’t help it. Such intrigue. And I was going to catch some of it on camera. I was certain all would go smoothly. I hadn’t told Nick what I intended to do. No reason to alarm him.

As the aunts chatted with neighbors, I smiled and nodded at the appropriate moments, while continuing to check  the new arrivals. I fingered the compact Canon PowerShot in my pocket, the one with the powerful zoom lens. The big Canon was too obtrusive to use.

“Ida, I’m going to the ladies’ room,’ I announced. “I’ll meet you inside.”

I strode purposely across the lawn, and into the funeral parlor. Once inside, head down, I dodged the mourners, and found the door that led to the back parking lot.

No one here. I skirted the hearse and checked out both sides of the building. On the left, I spotted a broad-trunked tree, one big enough to hide behind. If I could get there without being seen, I’d be okay. I waited until I thought no one was watching, then dashed to the tree. Puffing from nerves more than physical exertion, I pulled out the camera and started snapping. After a while I sprinted to another tree, another angle, and got more people. The whole town must be here.

I watched Nick watching people. He looked sharp in his uniform with the razor-creased khaki slacks, the dark brown jacket with the transmitter clipped on the shoulder, and the sun glinting off the six-pointed star on his chest. Naturally my thoughts flew to last night, but I quickly diverted them as more people arrived. I needed to concentrate.

The funeral parlor was crowded when I finally went inside, standing room only. I stood next to the door where I could see everyone. Since I was a visitor to Silver Stream, I figured this looked okay. Natural, in fact.

From his seat across the room, Percy gazed around, nodded ever so slightly at someone. I followed his line of vision. Four women sat together, their backs to me. I couldn’t tell which one he’d made eye contact with. Librarian Margaret, Waitress Amy, Vivian the Pomeranian lady, and Aunt Ellie. Ellie? Good God. I think not. She was too old. But the others? What was going on? Was he having an affair with someone besides Marla?

“Snap one more picture and I’ll confiscate that damn camera,” Nick whispered. I’d never heard him come up behind me.

“It’s a free country,” I whispered back, feeling a chill of excitement race up my spine. “You can’t take my camera.”

“Want to bet?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Try me.”

“I was well hidden,” I whispered. “How did you make me?”

“Make? That cop talk?”

I smiled, but still didn’t turn around. “How?”

“You were going from tree to tree like the Roadrunner. I’m a trained observer. Do the math.”

“You were looking for me,” I said smugly.

“Could be.” He poked me in the back.

The minister began to speak and the room quieted, became eerily silent. About two minutes into his eulogy, the
Toreador March
blasted from my purse and a hundred heads swiveled my way. Eyes wide, the minister paused. He stared in my direction. So did all the mourners, every last one of them. I rummaged in my sack of a purse for the cell as tinny march music filled the room. I used to be organized. What happened? I came to Maine is what happened. Where was that damn phone?

Behind me, Nick sighed. “Maybe I should take a picture of this,” he whispered.

I finally found the cell, and turned it off.

I saw Hannah roll her eyes, and Ida shake her head. Aunt Agnes probably hadn’t heard.

“Lori calling,” I whispered over my shoulder when the minister resumed his talk.

At the grave site I stood back by the cars. Good thing I had a four-gigabyte disk in my camera. More people here than at the funeral parlor.

For the most part Nick ignored me, but I saw him glance my way off and on, a faux-threatening look on his face. I smiled back.

Before it was over, Mary Fran grabbed my arm. “I can’t stand this. Knowing Percy’ll see his slut this afternoon … I want to say something, tell him I’m on to him.” She shook her head. “No. Let me be totally frank. I want to mash his freaking head with a hammer.”