Thread on Arrival (18 page)

“For you, always,” Captain Moe said. He stepped to the counter and asked his manager to handle things for a little while, and then he directed me through the kitchen to his office.

As you might imagine, Captain Moe’s office was very nautical. There was even an eight-spoke ship wheel on the wall behind his desk. Instead of sitting at his desk, however, he ushered me over to the sofa on the other side of the room.

“What’s on your mind, Tinkerbell?” he asked.

“I sort of followed Susan Willoughby here,” I said.

He shook with suppressed laughter. “How do you sort of follow someone?”

“Well, you follow them, but then you feel badly about it because it was kind of a creepy thing to do,” I explained.

“I see. Why are you sort of following Susan Willoughby?”

I took a deep breath and told Captain Moe about my new theory that Susan might have been or be having an affair with Adam Cantor. “My theory is that if Chester found out and confronted them, then Adam might’ve lashed out at Chester and . . . you know . . . accidentally killed him.”

“Sorry, Tink, but I believe you’re barking up the wrong tree with this one. Susan comes in here fairly often, but she’s always meeting Ed Harding.”

“He’s the guy she’s sitting with right now, isn’t he?” I asked.

Captain Moe nodded. “That’s the one. Don’t ask me what she sees in him, though.”

“What can you tell me about him? Have you known him long?”

“No, I don’t know that anyone here in Depoe Bay has known him long. He only showed up here about eight months ago,” he said.

“I’ve only been here that long, and you know me.”

“Ah, but you’re easy to know. That one tends to keep to himself.” He stroked his beard. “I’m not particularly keen on the man. . . . I get a bad vibe from him. He’s rude—as you and Ted saw the other night—and he doesn’t seem to do much.”

“You mean he’s lazy?”

“I get the impression that he either can’t or doesn’t want to hold a job. He’s in here all hours of the day and night, which is contrary to someone who has a schedule to keep,” he said. “Oh, and he never pays. If Susan isn’t with him, he requests that his meal be charged to her. Then the next time they’re in here together, she pays it.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked.

He smiled. “Not this time, Tinkerbell.”

Chapter Nineteen

W
hen I came ou
t of Captain Moe’s office, Susan and Ed were gone. Captain Moe walked me out to the parking lot, afraid that the couple might “waylay” me if Susan was indeed certain I’d followed her here. Thankfully, we didn’t see them. Nor did I see Susan’s car. I got into the Jeep, waved good-bye to Captain Moe, and went to Ted’s apartment.

I knocked on the door, and while I waited for Ted to answer, I thought I should probably have called first to let him know I was stopping by. He answered the door fresh from a shower with a wet head, bare feet, and dressed only in fleece lounge pants. When he saw that it was me, he removed the safety chain from the door to allow me to come in.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, placing the nine millimeter handgun he held in his right hand onto the table by the door.

“I’m glad it isn’t an
un
pleasant one.”

He laughed as he closed and locked the door. “Given my line of work, I can’t be too careful.” He pulled me to him, and I ran my hands up his muscular arms to his shoulders.

“My goodness . . . you”—my mouth suddenly went dry—“you sure do take excellent care of yourself.”

He chuckled—a deep, rich sound that sent goose bumps down my spine. “Thank you. I like the way you look too.” He lowered his mouth to mine, and I was glad Angus wasn’t here to interrupt us this time.

I eventually came out of my Ted-induced stupor and remembered what I’d stopped by to tell him. “You’ll never guess who Susan Willoughby met at Captain Moe’s tonight after the domestic abuse victims’ support group meeting.”

“Adam Cantor?” he asked.

“No. That would be the obvious answer,” I said. “It was Ed Harding, that weird guy who interrupted when we were talking with Captain Moe last Saturday evening.”

“I remember Ed. We had him brought into the station, and he provided one of our officers with an alibi for the time of Chester’s death,” he said.

“Did the alibi hold up?”

He waffled his hand. “It could neither be confirmed nor denied. He said he was at the library, but no one recalled seeing him at the time of the murder.”

“But he was seen there before and after the time of the murder, right?”

“You got it, Inch-High. But what motive would Ed Harding have for murdering Chester?” Ted asked. “He’d seen the tapestry, and he didn’t buy Chester’s claim that it was a treasure map.”

“Or that’s what he wanted us to think,” I said.

“If he’d believed Chester, then why didn’t he simply agree to help him? Why did Chester have to turn to Jack Powell to enlist his aid in the treasure hunt?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “Jack did say Chester wouldn’t show him the map. He said Chester was paranoid. We’ve already speculated that Chester’s paranoia could’ve been because of something Ed did. What if Ed attempted to get Chester to give him the map? Or what if he tried to steal the map, and Chester caught him?”

“If that was the case, wouldn’t Ed have killed Chester then?”

“I guess I’m grasping at straws, huh? It was so strange to see that Susan was having some sort of clandestine meeting with Ed Harding that I thought there had to be more to the story than a lurid affair.”

“And how’d both Susan and you come to be at Captain Moe’s after the meeting?” Ted’s lips were twisted into a wry grin that told me he was already pretty sure he knew the answer to that question.

“I might’ve tailed her . . . a little.”

“You know, that could be considered harassment or stalking or some other crime for which I’d have to lock you up and throw away the key,” he teased.

“Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh.” He spread his hands. “I could possibly be persuaded to look the other way this one time if you offered the proper leverage.”

“Then, by all means, let me see if I can persuade you.”

* * *

Friday morning, I went to the library to talk with Reggie. She was manning the front desk when I went inside.

“Hey, there,” she said. “We’re shorthanded today, so I’m helping out up here. What brings you by?”

I looked around to make sure there was no one standing near enough to overhear us. “Last night after class, Susan Willoughby drove to Captain Moe’s and met with Ed Harding.”

Reggie wrinkled her brow. “And?”

“Well, don’t you think that’s odd? She was meeting with someone who also had a connection to Chester Cantor.”

“In a community the size of Tallulah Falls, that’s not uncommon,” she said. “
I
had a connection to Chester . . . as did you, Audrey, Jack Powell, and I’m sure many other people.”

“But, Reggie, Chester showed Ed the tapestry. And Ed’s alibi for the time of Chester’s murder is that he was here,” I said. “That can’t be verified, but it can’t be disputed either unless someone saw him outside the library during the time in question.”

A patron came in and put a stack of books on the desk.

“Thank you,” Reggie said. She turned back to me. “I’m not sure how to help you with this one.” She looked back at the patron, a tiny older woman with a crooked spine, who’d returned to ask a question about a current bestseller.

“Just tell me what you think of Ed . . . you know, the author we were discussing,” I said.

To the patron, Reggie said, “I’ll see if the book is currently in the library or if it’s checked out.” She typed some data into the computer and waited for a response. “Personally, I don’t care for that particular author,” she told me. “I think he’s sloppy and unfocused. That doesn’t make him a
bad
author . . . I just don’t like his stuff.” She smiled at the patron. “Ms. Beasley, that book is out but is due back on Tuesday. Shall I reserve it for you?”

The patron confirmed that she would like the book reserved before tottering away from the desk.

“I can see how busy you are,” I told Reggie. “I’ll talk with you later.”

I went home for Angus, and we went on to the Seven-Year Stitch. We were earlier than usual, but I knew I could make good use of the time dusting, going over my inventory, and taking out the trash. I started with the least attractive chore—the trash.

I gathered the garbage from the small bins in the shop, the office, and the bathroom and placed it all into a large bag. Leaving Angus in the shop, I slipped out the back to put my bag into the Dumpster in the alley behind the store.

I was nearly to the Dumpster when I felt someone’s arm snake around my neck. The person had a strong hold on me, and I was unable to turn my head to see who it was. I was beginning to feel light-headed. Fearing I’d never survive the assault without a fight, I brought my heel up into my assailant’s shin while simultaneously driving my elbow into his sternum. When he’d loosened his grip just enough, I went limp and tried to drop to the ground. My hope was to get out of this person’s clutches and then get up and run. Instead, he caught me sufficiently to turn my fall into a push. I lurched forward, hitting my head on the Dumpster.

* * *

The next thing I knew, I was floating . . . and my head hurt like the dickens. I tried to open my eyes. It took too much effort. But the floating feeling was beginning to bother me. Since when could I float? I tried again and succeeded in opening my eyes. And I saw Blake . . . specifically, his chin. I noticed there was a tiny patch of hair on it that he’d missed when he’d shaved that morning.

“Chin,” I mumbled.

“Be still until I get you in here to the sofa,” he said.

I realized I wasn’t floating after all . . . which was good because if I had been floating, I was probably dead. Blake was carrying me. “You’ve got me,” I said to him.

“That’s right, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

“My trash . . . did I get it put into the bin?”

“I’ll take care of it later.” He placed me gently onto the sofa and leaned close to my face.

There was that patch of hair again. I raised my index finger and placed it squarely on that hairy patch and said, “Not by the hair of your chinny, chin, chin. Get it?”

I thought that was a funny joke. Blake apparently did not. Instead of laughing, he dabbed a tissue to my head.

“Ow!” I slapped his hand and began crying. Despite how loud my weeping sounded in my own ears, I could hear Angus whining.

“Shoo,” Blake said. “Not now, Angus.”

“Let him see me. Y-you’re mean.” I sobbed harder. “Are you the one who pushed me?”

“Sadie, help.” Blake was talking on his phone. Angus came to my side and licked my face.

“Something’s happened to Marcy and we have to get her to the hospital,” Blake said. He put his phone in his pocket and put his face close to mine again. “Here. Let me see your eyes.”

“Did you push me?” I asked again.

“You know I’d never hurt you.” He was staring into my eyes—actually from one to the other—and I believed him. And I was sorry I doubted him.

“I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” My eyes drifted shut.

“Marcy . . . Marcy, stay with me, babe.” His voice was coming from far away. “Come on. Look at me. Is that what happened? Did someone attack you?”

“It’s okay. I know . . . you didn’t. . . .” I was so sleepy. I just wanted him to be quiet and let me sleep.

“Sadie, thank God you’re here,” Blake said. “I don’t know . . .”

That’s all I heard. I was vaguely aware of people trying to wake me up. I mean, there were a bunch of voices. I later learned that in addition to Sadie and Blake, Todd, Ted, and Manu had arrived after Sadie had called them.

Ted and Manu took me to the hospital, with Ted in the backseat with me talking, soothing, and trying to keep me conscious. They told me that during my periods of lucidity—and they used that word loosely—I was concerned with two things: whether or not my bag of garbage had been left in the alley instead of placed into the Dumpster where it belonged, and why nobody else seemed to think it was funny that Blake had missed a spot while he was shaving.

Todd took Angus over to the Brew Crew, and Sadie locked up the Seven-Year Stitch before returning to MacKenzies’ Mochas to mind the coffee shop while Blake followed us to the hospital. Since Blake had been the first to arrive on the scene, they knew the doctors would want to talk with him.

Fortunately, my injuries were all concentrated above the neck, and I was able to remain clothed during my examination because all three men stayed in the room with me once we got to the emergency room. A nurse bandaged the cut on my head and recorded my vital signs. Not long afterward, the doctor came in. I wondered if the hospital staff was normally this efficient or if my being escorted by the Tallulah Falls Police Department’s sheriff and head detective had factored into my speedy treatment.

“Did you lose consciousness at any time?” asked the ER physician, a youngish man with curly black hair and a full beard.

“No,” I answered. “I don’t think so.”

“She was unconscious when I found her,” Blake said. “And then she drifted in and out.”

“Can you—any of you . . . all of you—tell me what happened?” The doctor shone a tiny light into my eyes. “Let’s begin with you, Ms. Singer, and then someone else can fill in any blanks you might have.”

“I got to work early and decided to do some housecleaning,” I said. “I always take out the shop’s garbage on Friday because the sanitation truck comes by first thing Saturday morning.”

“All right, Ms. Singer,” he said. “And what were you doing immediately prior to your accident?”

“I was taking the garbage out.” I was sleepy. Maybe if I could tell this guy what he wanted to know, he’d let me go home and take a nap. I closed my eyes and tried my best to remember. “I went out the back door and into the alley with my trash bag. Someone must’ve been waiting on me because he grabbed me in a choke hold.”

“Did you see who it was?” Manu asked.

I shook my head. “We fought, and he pushed me.” I opened my eyes. “That’s all I remember.”

The physician turned to Blake. “You said you found Ms. Singer?”

“Yes. I always park behind the building. When I arrived this morning, I saw Marcy lying against the Dumpster.”

“What time was that?” the doctor asked.

“About nine thirty,” Blake said.

“And, Ms. Singer, what time did you take out the garbage?”

“Probably around nine fifteen . . . something like that.”

“Blake, did you see anyone leaving the crime scene?” Manu asked.

The doctor shot Manu a look of exasperation.

“Sorry, but I didn’t notice anything except Marcy lying there on the pavement,” Blake answered Manu. “It scared me half to death.”

I looked at Ted. His face was drained of color and appeared to be as hard as stone. “Please, take me home,” I said to him.

“I will, sweetheart,” he said, “as soon as the doctor says it’s okay.”

The doctor did some neurological tests and reported that I could go home. He said that someone would need to stay with me and monitor my condition for the next twenty-four hours and that it was fine for me to sleep—joy!—as long as my caregiver woke me every two or three hours for the first twelve hours. I guessed that was to make sure I hadn’t died in my sleep. He told them to bring me back if I experienced any of a laundry list of problems that I didn’t feel like listening to and tuned out.

Ted volunteered to stay with me, and Manu said he’d take us by Ted’s apartment so Ted could get a few things to take to my house.

“Reggie and I will bring your car over to Marcy’s place later this afternoon,” Manu said.

“And Sadie and I can get the Jeep home,” Blake said.

“What about Angus?” I asked.

“We’ll get him home too.” Blake squeezed my hand. “You just worry about getting better.”

“What’s to get better?” I asked with a weak smile. “You know I have a hard head.”

All three men nodded in agreement that I was a hardhead, but I was too tired to pretend to argue with them.

When we got to Ted’s apartment, I stayed in the car with Manu while Ted went in to pack an overnight bag.

“Ted isn’t saying much,” I told Manu.

“The more upset he is, the quieter he becomes. He’ll be all right when he realizes you’re going to be okay,” Manu said. “We’re going to find whoever did this, Marcy.”

“Do you think it was a random act, or that someone targeted me specifically?” I asked.