Death Takes Priority (16 page)

Uh-oh. Tim was going to pitch his position on the betting parlor. “Why do you ask?” I tried to keep my voice light. “Last I heard, voting was a private matter.” If anything could be private in North Ashcot.

“Just wondering. I see that you've become a force in town.”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Could it be that I felt defensive? “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you hang around with the chief of police, and then I see you having lunch with Derek Hathaway.” I'd started in on a verbal defense when Tim interrupted me. “I'm sorry, Cassie. I definitely started out on the wrong foot here. Again. I'm a little jumpy. I'm trying to avoid getting snared into one of Derek's schemes, and, frankly, looking to see who can help me. It's my roundabout way to ask if he's approached you also.”

The perfect segue. “You're asking me if Derek invited me to join him in some new opportunity?”

Tim looked around my living room as if he thought it might be bugged. “Not so new. Derek approached me last year, when I first started my home project. He was careful not to be too specific, but he told me not to make too many commitments to the phone company before he talked to me.
Said he had connections and could get me a good deal. Did he offer you the same thing?”

I reread the e-mail in my mind. I was sure it was headed by “new opportunities,” not something a year old. But maybe the people on the list were new, not the venture itself. I didn't feel comfortable sharing the e-mail with Tim at this point. To what extent could I trust him? For all I knew, he'd been sent by Derek. Was I being asked to be a partner in some scheme? Being tested? Or was I the next victim?

“Not exactly,” I answered, finally. “But I've heard about a new venture. I'm too confused to have an opinion. What else do you know about it?”

“Not a lot, but you know when you have the feeling someone is recruiting you? Like, ‘Boy, have I got a deal for you,' but you know if you get involved, it will come back and bite you at the end.”

I did know what Tim meant, and I was beginning to think that Wendell had been an important part of the deal, helping Derek disseminate it. Whatever “it” was. The e-mail after all was from Derek to Wendell. Was Wendell one of the schemers, or was he trying to get out of a deal when he was shot?

“As my dad always said, ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is,'” I offered.

“Words to live by,” he said.

My best bet was to stall on telling Tim what I knew until I talked to Wanda, who was scouting out a former barber and a librarian in South Ashcot.

Time was on my side. I looked at the clock. “Let's chat about this another time, Tim. I have to get ready for work.”

He frowned. “Okay. You're not just blowing me off, again?”

I crossed my heart. “I'm not.”

He zipped his jacket and added hat and gloves. “Thanks for the coffee.” He headed for the door, turned, and said, “You'll tell me if you hear anything?”

I nodded but didn't cross my heart.

*   *   *

What Tim didn't have to know was that I was already dressed for work, and had only to drive the few miles down the road. But I had some things to figure out before I continued the conversation with him. I sat for a few minutes thinking about his visit and what I'd learned. Not a lot, considering we were talking in circles. He wanted to know what I knew and vice versa. The only thing that seemed certain was that the deal Derek had going—whether a legitimate business enterprise or a scheme that wouldn't have a happy ending for others—involved telephone lines.

I did the math. Derek's “opportunity” involved telephone lines. Wendell's job was about telephone lines. Like the Hollywood-type workman I'd talked to, Wendell installed or deinstalled lines for the phone company. Wendell was shot. I had a flashback to chemistry word problems when I never knew what to put on the two sides of an equation to make it balance. Just like now, when I had no idea where to put the equals sign among all the characters.

One thing that seemed sure was that all the bits and pieces were consistent with Ben's hesitation to sign off on flying our flag at half-mast for our telephone lineman.

I
arrived at the post office parking lot in time to meet Natalie, Ben's niece, who'd come to pick him up. Even bundled into a thick gray parka on one of the coldest days this season, Natalie looked like a model for winter clothing at a classy ski resort. Her short, trendy boots seemed to perfectly match the turtleneck peeking up from her jacket; her gloves matched the band around her head. I, on the other hand, looked like a woman who'd wear anything to keep warm, happy if my accessories didn't clash too badly with each other.

From her devotion to her uncle, I knew that Natalie was as nice a person as she was a beautiful young woman.

“We're going to Pittsfield for dinner,” she said, after we shared a friendly hug. She gestured toward the post office building. “I called Uncle Ben to tell him I was on the way. He'd been reading something about privatizing the post
office and couldn't contain himself.” She continued in a deep, Ben-like voice. “‘It threatens our mission to provide service to every citizen, no matter where they live.' You'd think he wouldn't care that much anymore. But he loves the postal service, and can't stand the thought of complete retirement.”

“He's been a huge help to me. I mean, he's the boss, but—”

Natalie put her hand out to stop me. “It's very nice of you to let him think that,” she said.

“No, I meant—”

She patted my shoulder and we continued walking toward the building, heads down against the nasty wind and the beginning of a rainstorm. “Really, thanks, Cassie. It means a lot. To both of us.”

I entered my building with increased faith in those at the younger edge of the millennial generation.

*   *   *

The lobby had been empty when Ben and Natalie left the building for their dinner date, but quickly filled up with customers trying to meet the deadline for express delivery and special handling packages. I processed more than the usual number of international money orders, vacation holds, and bulk and business mail material. Plus, I had a shipment to Boston to prepare for myself, a box with one of my scales that needed maintenance. My short workday flew by.

The office was bird- and animal-free for the first time this week—I'd hoped for another visit from the baby llama named Llarry, but his owner, Vic, told me the little guy was under the weather. I wondered how one could tell when a llama was not feeling well.

To my disappointment, Fred, Quinn's boss at the antiques shop, stopped in with a tub of mail. I remembered that Quinn was essentially on leave from his job, however, so this was to be expected. On the plus side, I had a visit from Gigi, our local florist, who often stopped by on a Friday with a mason jar of blooms. Today's was bigger than usual, with white Asiatic lilies, carnations, and snapdragons.

“A customer called to cancel a wedding shower arrangement,” she said.

“Too bad. I guess?”

“I didn't ask.” She shrugged. “You never know what can happen to engagements.”

I kept from her the fact I did know, only too well, what could happen with engagements.

Gigi continued, “But I'd already put this together and thought you might need a little something this weekend. I know Wendell Graham was a friend.”

I took them gratefully, moved by her thoughtfulness. I was a customer of hers in that I'd had flowers sent from her shop to friends in Boston, but I barely knew Gigi and was all the more thankful for the gesture. Sometimes it paid to be so easy to find.

The workday ended with a visit from Wanda, who appeared just in time to stand at attention as I lowered the flag. Her hometown elementary school training had served her well. Even before she spoke, I could tell by Wanda's demeanor that she hadn't fared much better than I had as far as interviewing the people on the Derek-to-Wendell e-mail list. Nippy as it was, it hadn't started to rain yet and we decided to walk to Café Mahican.

Wanda got us started on the way. Like Natalie, she was
well put-together and I felt more like her dowdy mother than her brother's friend, barely ten years older.

“First, Barry the barber sort of captured me and talked about his new retirement routine, meeting some of his old customers for lunch, watching sports on TV at any time of day, not worrying about new environmental rules.” She stuffed her gloved hands in her pockets. “He went on about how more and more regulations about brushes and towels appeared every day, and the last inspector dinged him for tossing a used paper towel in an open container. Or a closed container. I forget which is forbidden. Who knew there were so many rules for cutting someone's hair? Especially a guy's.” She removed one hand from her pocket and used her index and middle finger to mimic cutting motions through the air in front of her. “Easy peasy,” she said.

“Did you have a chance to ask him if he knows Derek?”

“Oh, yeah, a couple of times. He said he used to cut Derek's hair and his father's, who's also Derek, but now that the son was a big shot, Barry never saw him anymore. He figures Derek the son goes to some artsy—his word—salon in Albany.”

“It sounds as though he had no clue why he'd be on anyone's list in an e-mail like the one you found.”

“That's what I felt. I was kind of sorry to decline his invitation to have a beer with him, but I'd had enough.”

“You did well,” I said.

“I had some better luck with Margaret Phillips. She's the reference librarian at the South Ashcot library.”

“Great,” I said, really cold now, and wishing we'd driven the few blocks.

“No, not great. Sorry, didn't mean to get your hopes up.
But at least I got a response from her. She was very defensive and said things like, ‘I'd never get involved with that man.'”

“Nothing about what she wouldn't get involved in? Or why she called him ‘that man'?”

Wanda shook her head, and shivered at the same time, from the cold, I decided, and not from something Margaret had revealed.

“She wouldn't even step away from the desk for a minute to talk to me. We had a few words between customers, but I don't think we even made eye contact. So, I was a bust. Oh for two. What about you?”

As we entered the coffee shop and began removing layers of clothing, I told her about Tim Cousins's visit, feeling almost guilty that he'd come to me, sparing me the burden of having to track him down, while Wanda had had to commute to her assigned suspects.

“I don't trust him one hundred percent,” I admitted. “But he intimated that something funny was, or is, going on with Derek.”

“The only person left is Gert,” Wanda said. “Shall we toss a coin for who gets to confront her?”

I scanned the seating arrangements in the room, most of them occupied with patrons, laptops, and piles of winter clothing. I spotted a few people I knew, then gasped in surprise at a couple in the back. I nudged Wanda and nodded my head toward a corner of the café, where Gert and Derek were engaged in animated conversation. “We may not have to toss that coin.”

Wanda followed my gaze. “Whoa. Problem solved.”

Or just beginning, I thought.

Café Mahican, with its high ceiling and large open
architecture, was big enough to accommodate individuals or pairs of people who might come and go without seeing each other. Wanda and I seemed to be in sync with the idea of being one of those inconspicuous pairs. We took seats near the front of the café, as far as possible from Gert and Derek, realizing we'd opened ourselves to cold currents every time someone entered or left. We needed time to strategize.

“Now what?” she said, before I could ask her the same thing.

“I don't know. I can't decide whether I'm happy or unhappy that they're right there.”

“Me either,” Wanda said.

“Some detectives, huh?” We gave each other silly grins, partners in crime, bonding. I looked toward the back of the room, where, in the short time that we'd been sitting at our table, digging our wallets out in preparation for ordering, Gert and Derek had spotted us and begun a show of smiling and waving us over.

“We need a plan for how to approach them,” said Wanda, who didn't have the advantage of facing our targets.

“Maybe not,” I said.

Derek, with a long stride for a small man, was on top of us before Wanda could say “soy latte.” He went straight to her and offered his condolences.

“Your brother was one of a kind.” He tsk-tsked. “We all loved him,” he said, giving Wanda a hug. “I have business in Albany tomorrow, or you know I'd be the first one at his memorial service.”

Business on a Saturday? I supposed it took a lot of work to become rich and successful. Maybe the poor guy never got a day off. I wondered if Wanda, only nine or ten at the
time, remembered how incompatible Wendell and Derek were in high school when Wendell was a sports figure, a star, and Derek was a runty nerd. As I'd always maintained, high school is a predictor of nothing.

Without asking permission, Derek gathered up our coats and scarves. “You don't have your drinks yet,” he said. “Let's get you settled over there with Gert, and I'll take your orders.”

I felt my face flush. I wanted nothing more than to reject this enforced meeting with a pushy man, just on principle, but I thought of the telephone-line e-mail Wanda had found, and told myself that this might also be the best opportunity I'd have to clear up a few things, get some answers. If I dared ask the questions, that is.

*   *   *

Passersby might have thought we were the best of friends, perhaps members of the same bridge club, who met every Friday. The four of us chatted, shared a plate of pastries that Derek had brought over with our drinks. I saw a few people I knew from their post office trips, and nodded to them while allegedly participating in the alleged conversation with alleged friends Derek and Gert.

“I don't remember a colder November,” said one of us.

“Uh-uh, I don't either,” said another.

“I'm looking forward to the holidays,” said the third.

“News says it's going to stay cold another few days,” said the fourth.

“The fund-raising auction for the middle school starts next week,” said one.

“I hope they have those wonderful ornaments the children make,” said another.

“Wendell Graham left some strange e-mails behind,” I said. “One of them is from you, Derek. Something about telephone lines?”

Wanda stared at me. My comment had put an end to the smaller-than-small talk. I wasn't sure where my courage came from. Or was it stupidity? It was definitely disobedience as far as my instructions from Sunni—my sort-of friend but very real chief of police.

What was I thinking? Was I finally fed up with being pushed around? Starting with Adam in Boston, continuing with Derek. I knew that guilt had been part of my makeup ever since I learned that Wendell had been murdered. I could have been nicer to him, reached out to him as soon as I came back. Maybe he would have confided in me about any difficulty he was having. Maybe I could have helped him. Maybe, maybe. Now it was too late. Whatever combination of confusion and anger and frustration in me had built up, it had burst out now and was staring everyone at the table in the face, and they were all staring at me.

Derek and Gert looked flustered, unbelieving. Wanda did, too, but she came to my aid.

“That's right, Cassie,” Wanda said. She turned to Gert Corbin, who was trying to swallow her recent bite of Danish. “And I believe you were copied on it also, Ms. Corbin?”

Thanks, Wanda
. Gert recovered quickly. I imagined people in the political limelight had a lot of practice at hardball questions. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth and rolled her eyes. “Really, if you had to remember every detail
of every e-mail you received or sent . . .” she said in a too-loud voice. She put her hand to her forehead as if trying to stem the tide of an oncoming migraine at the very thought of all that remembering and all those pesky details.

I was aware that some of the conversations around us had come to a halt. I heard no more clanging silverware, shuffling feet, or lighthearted laughs. Even the background music seemed to have decreased in volume, making everything we said that much louder. I felt all eyes on our table and heard the unspoken questions. A lot of them were mine.

“Indeed,” Derek said. Not as impressive.

A cell phone rang, and people at two or three other tables near us checked their pockets and purses, seeming glad to get back to life as normal in Café Mahican. Lucky for him, it was Derek's phone that rang. “I'd better take this,” he said. He gave us the look he might give if we were standing in his office and he was asking for privacy.

Gert made a move to leave, setting a good example, and Wanda and I followed suit and gathered our things.

“We'll pick this up another time,” I said to Derek, nudging him slightly as I made my way past him. I wondered if I'd have been so brave if we hadn't been surrounded by a roomful of patrons, many of whom were young, looking like they'd just come from the gym or a martial arts class.

Derek covered the mouthpiece on his phone and addressed me: “I thought we understood each other,” he said.

“Thanks for the drink,” I said.

*   *   *

Before I could get my bearings, Gert slipped out the back door. Wanda and I retreated to the restroom, where I
noticed her hand was shaking as she tried to manage the water faucet. “I can't believe you did that,” she said.

“I can't either. Thanks for your support. I have no idea what I would have done if I'd been left hanging there.”

We took some deep breaths and even managed a sort of victory smile, or at least, a starting-gun smile.

“What do you think will happen now?” she asked.

“We wait,” I said, wondering what condition my car would be in tomorrow morning. Or if either of us would see tomorrow morning.