Fillet of Murder (3 page)

At least that was the plan.

By the time she was through scribbling out her notes, her mind was frazzled. She stuck the pad into her purse so she wouldn't forget it in the morning, and then changed into a flannel nightshirt. After that, she watched a few of her favorite sitcoms. Finally, she snuggled under the covers in Nana's bed and picked up the romantic suspense novel she'd started reading the night before. It had gotten off to a roaring start, so she was anxious to get further into it.

At eleven, Talia closed the book and watched the highlights of the late news. When her eyelids began to droop, she turned on the nightlight and flicked off her bedside lamp. As she lay in her grandmother's bed, she spied a shaft of moonlight beaming around the edge of the shade. “Oh, Nana, I wish you were here,” she murmured, feeling her eyes grow moist. “Or at least . . . I wish I knew you were okay, that you were at peace.”

With a sigh, she floated her gaze over the darkened bedroom, smiling automatically at all the familiar shapes. She saw her grandmother's mirrored dresser with the lacy bureau scarf draped over it. Nana's favorite felt hat—the mauve one that she always wore to church on Sundays—hanging on the post of the dresser. The reading lamp resting beside Nana's puffy pink chair, where she always took care of her sewing repairs.

After a while Talia yawned, and her eyes closed. She was teetering on the edge of sleep when an odd scent tickled her
nose. It smelled like . . . lilies of the valley. Nana's favorite dusting powder.

She opened her eyes. Something was different. Slowly, she sat up. She looked around, shifting her eyes from one object to the other until she realized what it was.

Nana's mauve hat was no longer hanging on the post.

It had fallen to the floor.

Talia felt refreshed the next morning, ready to take on whatever the day had to offer—even a confrontation with one Phil Turnbull. The sense that Nana had been with her the night before still clung to her. Had she only imagined the scent of Nana's dusting powder? At the time, it had seemed so real. Either way, the memory helped strengthen her resolve. And while she didn't relish the idea of paying Turnbull a visit, it had to be done. His days of badgering Bea and Howie were about to die a very quick death.

She'd already decided she wouldn't let Bea in on her plan until it was over. She wanted to accomplish her goal quickly, quietly, and without fanfare. Bea would only fret, and that was the last thing either of them needed. Talia had already rehearsed what she would say to Turnbull. She only hoped her preplanned speech wouldn't devolve into a nervous babble.

Avoiding the main drag, Talia maneuvered her Fiat along
the tree-lined residential streets of Wrensdale—a circuitous route that would bring her to the rear of the arcade. So familiar she could navigate it with blinders on, the route brought her past the town's older, well-tended homes, many with pumpkins, cornstalks, and other Halloween accoutrements staking claim to the front yards. One homeowner had created a graveyard of sorts, with “headstones” poking out from the lawn at odd angles, their skeletal occupants clinging to the slabs as if trying to escape their fate. Although she'd driven past this display nearly every day for the past month, it never failed to give her a giggle.

When she reached Birch Street, which ran parallel to Main behind the arcade, she spied a diagonal parking space that few vehicles other than her own would've been able to squeeze into—mainly because of the big car hogging the adjacent space. It was a Cadillac CTS, she noted, its wheels plunked carelessly over the painted line. Yet another reason Talia was grateful she drove a Fiat—it made parking
easy breezy
.

Talia slid her car into the vacant slot and shut off her engine. She scowled at the Caddy parked beside her, wondering briefly if it belonged to Turnbull. She grabbed her purse off the front seat and hopped out of her car. She leaned closer to the big car and peeked through the tinted window on the passenger side. Sure enough, a white towel was draped over the front seat—this had to be Turnbull's Caddy.

From where she parked, Talia could see the rear entrance to Turnbull's shop. To the right of the shop was the cobblestone walkway that led to the front of the store and to the plaza that formed the heart of the arcade. Now that she was so close, the prospect of facing Turnbull was beginning to unnerve her.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she hoisted her purse onto
her shoulder and strode toward the cobblestone walkway. As she made her way toward the arcade, a cool October breeze rustled the trees, sending a flurry of dried leaves skittering across the plaza. When she reached the corner of the lighting shop, she stopped short and gazed across the expanse of cobblestone. All at once five centuries fell away, leaving her in sixteenth-century England.

The storefronts were Tudor in style, with herringbone brickwork painted white and the upper sections graced with cross timberwork. Above the door of each of the shops, a sign proclaiming the name of the establishment dangled from a scrolled iron bar. She grinned when she saw the sign jutting out from the entrance to Lambert's Fish & Chips. The eatery's name had been engraved in a whimsical script, below which was the image of a toothy blue fish popping a crispy fry into its mouth.

She smiled and continued over the cobblestone. Today she'd worn her lilac sweater under her maroon, 1950s-style flared jacket, along with a polka-dot scarf. Thick and woolly, the sweater protected her from the morning chill. By lunchtime, when slabs of battered haddock and chunky, hand-cut fries would be sizzling in the deep fryers, she'd probably be rolling up the sleeves. For now she was glad to have something warm to shield her from the stiff wind.

A sudden gust blew across the plaza, sending the tails of her scarf flying into her face. She pushed them back with her fingers, her heartbeat kicking up a notch. She wasn't sure why, but the feeling that her practiced sermon was going to backfire ripped through her like the stomach flu she'd endured this past winter. She hated to admit it, but Turnbull frightened her.

Which was ridiculous, when she thought about it. Turnbull
was a bully, and bullies were cowards in disguise. Besides, even if her ultimatum bombed, what could he do? Scream? Wave his arms? Toss her out?

Oh, for pity's sake, get it over with. You'll feel so much better after it's done.

Talia hitched her purse straps securely onto her shoulder and, with her head high, marched up to the front entrance of Classic Radiance. Her legs felt shaky, as if her kneecaps had been suddenly removed and replaced with dollops of Bea's mushy peas. Cupping her hand over her eyes, she peered through the diamond-patterned glass ensconced within the top half of the wooden door. The store was dark, but she could see the myriad outlines of the lamps and chandeliers that populated the showroom. A faint glow emanated from somewhere in the rear of the store. If a light was on in one of the back rooms, then Turnbull must be there.

Talia swallowed back the knob of dread that was forming in her throat. She was about to bang on the door when she decided to try the handle. To her surprise, the curved iron bar that served as the doorknob turned easily. She pushed open the door and stepped inside to a musical, tinkling sound. “Mr. Turnbull?” she called out. “Are you here?”

No answer.

Talia closed the door behind her. She skimmed her gaze over the showroom. The room wasn't pitch dark, but the low level of ambient lighting made everything look murky. For a few moments she stood there, motionless, fearful that if she moved in the wrong direction, she might knock over an expensive lamp. She hated to think of Turnbull's reaction if she were to break something.

“Mr. Turnbull?” she called again, a bit louder this time. “It's Talia. Talia Marby.”

Still no answer.

Frustrated, she blew out a breath. After mulling her choices, she decided she had two. She could slink out of the store and pretend she'd never been there. Or she could head on down to the back of the store, find Turnbull, and have a little confab with him. It suddenly occurred to her that he might be in the bathroom. Which meant that even if he'd heard her yelling his name, he might not be in a position to—

The musical sound of the door made Talia jump.

“Talia?” The loud whisper came from behind her.

Talia knew that voice. She whirled around. “Bea! What are you doing here? You scared the liver out of me!”

“A better question is, what are
you
doing here?” Bea stuck her hands on her hips and gawked at Talia. “I'd just poked my head out to see what the weather was doing when I saw you open the door and come in here! How did you know the door would be open?”

“I didn't. It was sheer luck.” By now Talia's eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkened showroom. With a sigh, she quickly laid out her plan for Bea. “I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd want to come with me, and you have enough on your plate as it is.”

Bea shook her black-tinted curls and grinned. “You crazy girl.” The last word came out
gehhllll
. “Well, now that I'm here, there's no need for you to go in there alone. Let's go find Turn
bully
and give him a piece of our collective mind. Or is it minds?”

“If he's heard us,” Talia said wryly, “he's probably already called nine-one-one.”

Bea peered toward the rear of the store. “Is that a light on in the back?”

“I'm not sure. It's awfully faint. I called out Turnbull's name a few times, but he obviously didn't hear me.”

Talia now saw that they were standing in a central aisle, about four feet wide, covered with a plush oriental runner. The runner led from the front of the showroom all the way to the rear of the store. With any luck, if they kept their feet on it without straying over the edges, they could avoid knocking over a lamp or tripping over a table leg. “Wait a minute, I just remembered something,” Talia said. She slid open the zipper on her purse and dug out her keys. Her key ring had a mini-flashlight built into its ladybug design. She pressed the button that triggered the device, and a thin pinpoint of light flickered on.

“Hey, that's cute,” Bea said.

Talia aimed the beam at the floor, hoping to illuminate their way to the back of the shop. “It doesn't give out much light, but it's better than nothing.” Talia sighed. “All right, it's now or never. But stay behind me, okay? And for heaven's sake, be careful!”

Talia called out Turnbull's name again, feeling suddenly ridiculous. Regardless of their innocent intentions, she and Bea were intruding. Why didn't they just wait until ten o'clock, when the store opened? Why skulk around like a pair of burglars? If Turnbull heard them, he'd have every right to call the police.

Or, maybe he'd cut out the middleman. Maybe he'd come blazing out of his office with guns blasting. Did Turnbull even own a gun? He seemed like the type who would enjoy packing heat, if for no other reason than to give the appearance that he was a tough guy. Talia rubbed away the shiver that was crawling up her arms. “Bea, I'm having second thoughts.
Maybe we should leave and come back later, when the store's open. I just got this eyeball-searing vision of the two of us in orange jumpsuits, strolling around the yard at the women's prison in Framingham.”

Bea snickered. “Orange is definitely not my color. Still, we're here now. Why don't we just see if he's back there? He's probably not even in the store. I bet he went to Queenie's for a latte and a jelly doughnut. Every time I go in there for the paper, he's standing at the coffee station, chatting up that cute college girl who works behind the counter.”

“Eww,” Talia said.

“Eww, indeed. The poor girl always looks like she's trying to make a mad escape while the fool just stands there with a stupid grin, blathering on about himself.” Bea pressed her fingers lightly to the small of Talia's back. “Come on, let's trot our bums back there and get this over with. If he's not there, we'll come back later.”

“All right,” Talia said glumly, “since it was my dopey idea in the first place.”

Of course she hadn't counted on having a sidekick. With a sense that she was sticking her neck straight under the blade of a guillotine, Talia held out her ladybug light and began picking her way carefully along the fancy runner. The slender beam barely illuminated a few inches of space at a time. Bea at her heels, she made her way closer to the back of the showroom, eventually spying the open doorway from which the pale light was dribbling. It had to be Turnbull's office. Talia was ten or twelve feet from the doorway when her foot skidded on something.

“What happened?” Bea asked her.

“My foot slipped on something. Hold on a sec.” Aiming
her beam downward, Talia spotted a slip of paper sticking out from under her sneaker. She bent low and retrieved it, and saw that it wasn't a slip of paper at all—it was a photograph. “It's a photo,” she told Bea. “It probably fell out of someone's purse while they were lamp shopping.” She held up her mini-light and shined it on the photo. She smiled as her light caught the face of the child in the snapshot—a little girl of about four or five with tight red curls and wearing orange plaid boots.

“What a darling creature,” Bea said, peering at the picture over the crook of Talia's arm.

“I'll leave this with Turnbull, if we ever find him,” Talia said. She moved toward the open doorway, which was now only ten or twelve feet away. All at once, she had a vision of Turnbull rushing out of the bathroom—wherever it was—and aiming a gun at their faces. Her insides felt liquid as she called out his name again. This time it came out like a squeak.

“The rotter isn't even here,” Bea said with disgust, after no response from Turnbull came. “All this anxiety for nothing. We may as well leave.”

Talia wrinkled her nose. “Bea, something's off.” A bad feeling was beginning to nibble its way up her spine. Her first instinct was to grab Bea and flee, but a stronger one told her someone might need help. She moved to the open doorway of what now revealed itself as Turnbull's office. The light source, she realized, came from the large luminescent clock that hung on the wall opposite Turnbull's massive desk.

“See if there's a light switch,” Bea suggested.

With her free hand, Talia reached around the doorframe and explored the wall. Her fingers landed on a switch, and
she flicked it on. Fluorescent lighting flooded the room. She was so grateful to be able to see that she was tempted to do a dance of joy.

Or maybe not.

Talia stumbled backward onto Bea's toes, eliciting an “ouch” and a few other creative curses from her friend. She felt her knees wobble. The photo fluttered from her fingers. With a shudder, she turned and grasped Bea's arm. “I . . . think I know why Turnbull didn't hear us.”