Death Takes Priority (17 page)

*   *   *

I hated the idea of being afraid around my own home. I'd felt perfectly safe in the heart of Boston, New England's largest city, for almost twenty years, and now as I turned the key in my door in North Ashcot, about two hundred times smaller, chills ran through me. I expected—what? A bomb? An intruder lying in wait? A shotgun rigged to go off when I opened the door? Worse were fears that I had endangered Wanda. Or Ben. Or Quinn. I pushed those thoughts as far back in my mind as I could, and forced myself to walk through the door. The icemaker in my fridge chose that moment to kick on. I jumped, then chided myself for my childish behavior.

It didn't help that the rain was now coming down in earnest, beating against my car in the driveway and my front windows. Not until I'd switched on all the lights and checked all the doors and windows was I able to let down my guard. I changed into sweats and looked through my CDs. My favorite country and western ballads wouldn't do: too much sadness and loss, whether of partners, pickup trucks, or dogs.
I wasn't in the mood for classical music, either: not nearly distracting enough. I chose a CD with workout songs from the seventies and prepared my dinner to the sounds of Stevie Wonder, the Grateful Dead, and Creedence Clearwater.

I put together a potpie with leftover chicken and frozen veggies, wondering, of course, where last night's chef was dining now.

When the phone rang, I jumped and nearly tipped over my coffee.

“Hey, Cassie.” Sunni's voice. My stomach clutched.

“Hey,” I croaked. Had she heard about the dramatic end to my coffee klatch with Wanda, Derek, and Gert? I managed a smile as I made up a new practice: the police arresting people by phone.

“Are you in the middle of dinner?” she asked. More fuel for my theory that Sunni's five senses were supernormal.

“Yes, but nothing special.”

“Want some company?”

“Sure,” I said. “If you don't mind leftovers.”

“I'll bring dessert.”

“I'll be waiting,” I said.

I hoped she'd also bring some news. Anything that would allow me to retire from investigating. And feel safe in my hometown and in my home.

*   *   *

I rushed around picking up the clutter in my living room. Scattered gloves and stickie notes here; magazines and folders there. I cleaned up in the kitchen, then changed from my scruffy sweats to clean jeans and a nonlogo sweatshirt. Not that I was concerned that Sunni would be judgmental about
my housekeeping standards, but folding laundry, scrubbing a baking dish, and wiping down the counters had used up my nervous energy. If my North Ashcot life continued at this intensity and rate of stress, I'd have to invest in a treadmill.

Sunni took longer than I expected to get to my house. I guessed traffic could pile up around this time of day, and the heavy rain added to the mess. I heard Linda in Boston laughing, saying, “Yeah, probably three cars at the same intersection, right?” Though she didn't know it, I laughed with her. My own private standup gig.

I'd added enough ingredients to stretch the chicken potpie to two servings and made quick biscuits to fill in the gaps. Nothing to do but wait, and no chance of being able to focus on reading. I sat in my glide rocker and pecked away at a crossword puzzle, trying to guess a five-letter word for the capital of an African country, and what the chief of police might have in mind this evening.

Would Sunni focus on our personal friendship? She might offer to introduce me at her next quilters' meeting or suggest a drive to Springfield for a movie or to the outlets for shopping. Maybe I could offer to show her around Boston on a day trip, for a show or exhibit. We could meet Linda, have girl-time.

Or would there be a heavier agenda? I'd welcome information about the Girl Scout who'd confessed to attacking my tires, for example. Sunni might have a pipeline to Quinn's mother's case in San Francisco. Or news in the Wendell Graham murder case right here in town. Wouldn't that be a thrill?

By the time the doorbell rang (causing another jerky response) I'd imagined that Sunni had heard about and come
to discuss my confrontation with Derek and Gert. I walked to the door, ready to offer my hands for cuffing.

The first good news was that Sunni was in civvies. I took her dripping yellow anorak from her and noted her outfit—turtleneck, black jeans, and a dark blue down vest. Not an official visit, then. I hadn't had to change from my UMASS sweats.

My guest held out a pink box. “From the new line of tiny Bundt cakes the bakery started. I picked out four different flavors.” She pulled out small plastic containers, labeled
Lemon, Red Velvet, Pecan Praline,
and
White Chocolate Raspberry
. Something for everyone.

We were off to a good start.

*   *   *

Dinner talk was a cut above the forced chatter at Café Mahican this afternoon. I felt only slightly guilty not sharing the e-mail Wanda had found and telling her about the resulting outburst in the café. It was much easier to have Sunni relaxed and off the job. She loved the idea of a trip to Boston, and we made plans for a visit to the Gardner Museum in my old neighborhood, which she recalled visiting years ago.

“I hope they still have the Raphael room set up,” she said.

“We can check online.”

“Good idea.” Sunni filled her fork with raspberry cream and uttered a sound of approval. “Boston's not that far away.”

I nodded. “Not even three hours.”

“I don't know why I haven't made the trip more often. I used to do it all the time. I guess it's habit. You get into a rut
and leaving your everyday comfort zone seems to take too much effort.”

“I get that,” I said, regret sneaking into my mood. “It's the reason I didn't make the same trip in this direction all these years. I wanted to visit my aunt especially, and it would have been nice to keep up with old friends”—the picture of Wendell and Wanda came to my mind unbidden—“but when it came to actually getting myself in gear and getting on the road, I could always find an excuse.”

Sunni sat back, tucked her legs under her, and uttered a sigh that seemed to take her far away. Maybe the response was to another bite of white chocolate raspberry cake; more likely from images of her own opportunities whose time had passed.

“I suppose you'll miss Quinn,” she said, coming back to the here and now.

“Miss him?” Did Sunni think Quinn visited every night? Could she even know he'd cooked the chicken she'd enjoyed this evening? “We had coffee this afternoon,” I admitted.

She unwrapped herself and sat up straight. “Uh-oh. You don't know.”

I straightened a bit too and threw up my hands. “You've lost me.”

She took a long breath, and looked up at the ceiling, as if there was a helpful tip written there. “Quinn Martindale went back to San Francisco this afternoon.”

I dropped my fork. It landed at my feet, scattering bits of sugary pecans over my hardwood floor.

It took a long time for me to retrieve it and clean up the mess with my napkin.

W
hen I was ready to come up for air, Sunni was placing a clean fork on my plate. She handed me a glass of water.

“I'm sorry, Cassie. I thought surely . . .” Sunni looked like she was about to slap her own face or, at least, bite her tongue.

“Not a problem,” I said, aware of my shaky voice. “Of course, I can see why you'd think he'd told me. But it's not like we were . . .” What were we exactly? I wasn't clear myself; how could I explain it to someone else? “We weren't that close,” I said. “The first time we did anything socially was that lunch last Monday.”

“You mean the one where Ross and I came and took him away and left you stranded?”

There was no good response to that except to laugh,
which we both did, heartily. It was the perfect way to ease the tension.

I caught my breath, and tried to pay attention while Sunni explained.

“He stopped by the station on Wednesday morning to see how soon he could leave. We were still tracking him, so to speak, digging around for updates on his mother's situation in San Francisco. I was impressed that he didn't just split, but I asked him to wait a couple of days, and he did. He came back again this morning and I told him he was a free man.”

“You said it started Wednesday morning?” It wasn't lost on me that I'd given Scott the mysterious letter in peacock blue on Tuesday night.

“Uh-huh. Of course, I thought you were in the loop the whole time. But, anyway, I've been convinced he's done nothing illegal, technically, and he certainly didn't kill Wendell Graham. There's nothing tying them together except that one slip of paper in Wendell's pocket, and the fact that those phone directories were in Quinn's home. We know why Quinn stole the phone books, and even though we still don't know why Wendell was walking around with Quinn's names, that's not what I'd call evidence of wrongdoing.” Sunni talked at an almost breathless rate, and now paused. “If it turns out there was another connection between Wendell and Quinn, and we learn about that, we'll take it from there. I finally reached that lawyer who came through for him—well, I reached his secretary, that is—so I can always get him back if something shows up.”

My mind flew to the e-mail. Could that be the other,
important connection? Quinn's name was on a list that seemed to be some kind of assignment from Derek to Wendell. What if there had been a confrontation between them when Wendell tried to carry out whatever the mission was?

I tried to recall Quinn's reaction when I showed him the e-mail. Nothing that indicated he was aware of it. It couldn't have been the outing of the e-mail that sent Quinn running; he'd already started the process of splitting. Did he think the e-mail implicated him one step further than that simple slip of paper?

“I'm curious,” I said. “If you don't mind my asking, about what time did Quinn come into the station today?”

“It was around lunchtime. I'd just sent Ross out for sandwiches since I had a lot of paperwork to catch up on.”

Lunchtime. Right after our conversation in the café. Right after Quinn had expressed concern that I was endangering myself by looking into possible motives for Wendell's murder. He'd been so solicitous, even offering to help or at least make sure I came to no harm. And then he ran.

I considered telling Sunni about the e-mail now. Would she reprimand me for not convincing Wanda to turn it in? Would she send for Quinn? Did I want some kind of justice or did I want Quinn back? I had to stop making his exit personal. My head hurt. Every mistake or misjudgment I'd ever made came back, full force, to flood my mind.

In the flood, Adam made an appearance, the ultimate rejection, the clue that something was wrong with me. He'd walked out on me without even a face-to-face. Not that I was shocked, but I'd expected a civilized final conversation.

I flashed back to the last texts between Adam and me. I
received the first one a few minutes after I came home from work one evening and saw that all the things he'd left in my apartment were gone—a spare shaving kit, a few T-shirts, a pile of business magazines, a pair of jogging shoes, even his favorite mug with a large green dollar sign. A faded rectangle on the wall of the entryway was all that was left of a Fenway Park print we'd bought. Apparently he'd always considered that print his own.

I'm sure u agree
, he wrote in the text.
Time 2 call it.

Call what?
I answered
.
This isn't a game.

LOL. It's not working.

Can we talk?

Nothing 2 say.

Still would like a face2face.

I wish u all the best. A.

Thus ended a four-year relationship that included a three-month engagement.

And now Quinn. Without even a text message. Well, it was a good thing I didn't need either one of them. I'd been taking care of myself in one way or another since I was sixteen years old.

Sunni was waiting patiently for me to return. She'd been sipping coffee, taking small bites of her sampler plate of Bundts, allowing me time. I was trying to decide whether to 'fess up about the e-mail or change the subject altogether,
perhaps to the exhibits that would be at the Gardner next month.

“More coffee?” I asked. Stalling was my best talent.

Sunni seemed to misinterpret my offer as a request to her. She took my mug from me, headed for the kitchen, and returned with refills for both of us. Such a thoughtful person deserved more than I was giving her. I'd hoped to have her as a friend without involvement in her profession, but it wasn't working out that way at the moment. I knew if I wanted to keep her trust at all, I had to be forthcoming now. Otherwise I'd lose her for good. Another loss was the last thing I needed.

I took a breath. “I have something to show you,” I said.

I held my breath almost the whole time Sunni was reading the e-mail, contorting her face now and then, and I thought for sure she was going to lash out at me. I braced myself.

“I don't know what to say, Cassie. Wanda must have thought this was significant, or she wouldn't have given it to you. Did it occur to you to suggest that she take it to me?”

I shook my head. “I honestly didn't think of that. I promise. Wanda brought it to me only this morning. If you'd seen this, would you have changed your mind about letting Quinn go?”

“Probably not. It's no better than the piece of paper with his names on it in Wendell's pocket. And it's only peripherally useful to begin with. But that's not the point.”

“I realize that, and I don't know what I was thinking, except I assumed Wanda and I should check it out before bothering you with every little thing.”

“Are there other little things?”

I spilled out everything I'd done today, from trying to
visit the central office of the telephone company to checking out the names on the e-mail list.

“That's it,” I said. I was willing to tell her what I'd had for breakfast, if that would convince her of my willingness to cooperate. One tiny omission was the brief interaction Wanda and I had had with Derek and Selectwoman Corbin. A small voice in my head said it was a bad idea to keep this from Sunni, but in the end, I convinced myself that there had been no real significance to the meeting. It was what Aunt Tess would have called a kerfuffle—a small fuss—plus a sense of underhandedness in the air.

“I hoped we could be friends, Cassie, regular friends, not coworkers on police matters.”

“We can be, Sunni.” I folded my hands together and held them out. A gesture of supplication if there ever was one. “Please, cut me some slack, just for this case. It's not all my fault that I'm involved.” I ticked off the excuses. “I happened to have lunch with Quinn. Once, and it was the wrong day to do it. My phone books were in his house. Wanda came to me and asked for help. For one reason or another, people in town sought me out, either giving or seeking information.” I threw up my hands. “I didn't ask for any of this.” I sat back, feeling like a ten-year-old telling her parents she didn't start the squabble, her brother did. What hope did I have that the chief of police would take me seriously?

I looked over to catch Sunni's smile. “You left out how Wendell was your prom date.”

I hoped the smile meant I was forgiven. Assuming the best, I uttered a weak, “Thanks.”

“Let's look at this again,” she said, picking up the e-mail. “Something struck me when I first read it.”

I moved to the edge of my chair, leaned closer to the table. Sunni ran her finger down the text, stopping at Barry Chase.

“He's a barber in South Ashcot,” I said, not mentioning that Wanda had already interviewed him.

“Yes, I know that, but I've seen the name recently in another context.” She looked to one side then the other, lips tight, foot tapping, thinking. “I don't know. Maybe not. It's one of those names that could just as easily be the name of a new game app on my nephew's smartphone.” She gave me a smile. “Barry Chase, very common. Like Cassie Miller.”

“Not like Sunni Smargon,” I said, continuing the light moment.

“Definitely not like Sunni Smargon.”

We sat back on our respective chairs. Finished for the evening, I thought, until it struck me. I'd also seen the name Barry Chase and seen his photo on a business card. “I think I have it,” I said. “Isn't he one of the named partners in the firm where Edmund Morrison is a lawyer?”

“The lawyer who got Quinn out of my custody. That's exactly right,” Sunni said. “And now I also recall that he was a big contributor to Gert Corbin's campaign for reelection. I couldn't place it until you mentioned his firm. Thank you, thank you.” Sunni pulled out her phone. “And . . . just let me check.” she said, typing madly with one finger. “I know I have it here somewhere. Yes, that's also the firm that represents Derek Hathaway. Derek gave me his card a few months ago for some other legal matter and I stored it in here.”

“Wow,” I said, picturing all the loose ends closing in on each other. “What does it mean that a lawyer from Derek
Hathaway's firm, who helped get Selectwoman Corbin reelected, is also the one who got Quinn freed from your custody?”

“Maybe nothing. It's a small town,” Sunni said.

“Not Albany.”

“Good point.”

“So can you look into this?” I asked.

“You mean instead of you?”

“No, I—”

“I know you mean well, Cassie, and you have actually been a great help, but it's a dangerous pursuit. These people are not players in a ball game. One of them might be a killer. Didn't that tire-slashing party on your Jeep teach you anything?”

“No, because I don't know how it came about, other than a sweet young girl confessed.”

“A subtle reminder that I haven't given you an update?”

“Could be.”

“Okay, it is a little strange. You certainly have a right to know that. The girl who confessed? Her mother is very sick and they don't have a lot of money. A guy offered her cash, told her it was a prank, no one would get hurt, just a little inconvenience to a good friend who liked to play games with him. When we explained that was not the case, I could tell she was really upset, and not just about getting caught.”

“I don't suppose she knows the man.”

Sunni shook her head. “Someone came up to her at a ball game in the park and made this offer. She couldn't resist, et cetera. She described him as medium this and ordinary that; not much help. I'm willing to bet it wasn't Derek Hathaway, by the way, if that's what you're thinking. If he's involved,
he's insulated himself. I can't see him trolling the park for young girls to do his bidding.”

I could, but I decided not to pursue the idea. “I get that you think my tires were slashed because someone thought I was snooping around too much. But isn't that a little juvenile? I mean, why not really threaten me?”

“You'd rather someone put a gun to your head?”

I shivered. “Of course not, but—”

“You know, I took a workshop last summer. A wellness program for cops that they make us attend every so often. They talked about various sources of stress and how to deal with it, but they never mentioned what to do with well-meaning citizens who want to help.”

I gave Sunni an apologetic look.

“So, the sooner we solve this case, the sooner I'll get rid of a lot of stress. Tell you what, let's brainstorm on what this e-mail could mean. We can start by assuming as you did that the ‘new opportunities' has something to do with Wendell's job with the phone company, and probably has to do with new lines being installed.”

I thought back to my ad hoc interview with Mr. Comm, the guy I met on my way back from the central office. “The phrase that keeps coming back to me is ‘connecting lines, disconnecting lines, hooking lines, unhooking lines,'” I offered.

Our brainstorming began, but not before another round of coffee. With my permission, Sunni raided my cabinets for snacks. It seemed a long time since the chicken potpie. She came back with pretzels, corn chips, and small chocolate squares.

“I left the dried fruit behind,” she said.

“Good choice.”

“There's a lot you can do on a phone line that isn't registered properly,” Sunni said, settling back on her chair. She grimaced at the taste of a stale pretzel. Too bad we'd already demolished the miniature Bundt cakes. Too bad they were so small.

Sunni used her smartphone to make notes; I chose the old-fashioned pad of paper and a ballpoint, randomly choosing a pen from a mug. The logo on the pen was ASHCOT'S ATTIC, Quinn Martindale's former place of employment. I stuffed it back in place and took one Linda had sent me from the Boston Public Library.

“Could Wendell have been hooking or unhooking lines to Derek's advantage?” I asked.