Death Takes Priority (4 page)

“We should chat sometime.” Gert rolled her head to take in the crowd. “When it's a little less hectic.” Her voice turned somber. “Terrible thing, isn't it? A murder in our town?”

“Terrible,” I said, and stepped aside as another voter, a man about her age, maneuvered his way in to address Gert.

“I hope you're pushing to get that new betting club for us,” he said to her. “It's the best idea to hit North Ashcot in a long time. We need something else to attract visitors besides a few colored leaves in the fall. These parlors are cropping up everywhere and it's about time we caught up.”

“Now, Coach,” Gert said, a little patronizing to my ear, “is that really the way you want to spend your hard-earned money? Gambling it away on some dumb race horses?”

“Now that should be my choice, shouldn't it, Madame Selectwoman?”

Coach—a name? a title? I couldn't tell—used Gert's designation in a decidedly sarcastic way. I had the feeling this wasn't their first encounter. Then he seemed to notice that I was standing there, too and decided to recruit me.

“What do you think?” he asked, and, without waiting for an answer, began his pitch. “My brother told me about this club out near San Francisco. Three hundred screens. You can watch and bet on horse racing anywhere in the world.” He handed me a color brochure with “all the facts you need before you vote.”

What fun
, I thought. It was a good thing he didn't need a response from me.

“Tell you what,” Gert replied, at the same time taking her own flyer from her tote and handing one to Coach. “Read this and then tell me if you want to attract the kind of people who patronize these clubs. I know you better than that, Coach.”

I knew the voting wouldn't take place until early in the new year—a special referendum off-season, but for politicians it was never off-season for pushing an agenda.

I was impressed at how Gert could disagree with Coach and still maintain a smiling countenance and an air of caring about him and how he spent his money. But the last thing I was interested in was a place to gamble my own hard-earned money—or debating the issue—so I accepted the flyer she held out to me and excused myself. The two, still intensely engaged, hardly noticed as I moved on.

I scanned the crowd again and noted that Derek Hathaway seemed to have beat the cruiser here. Or maybe his
driver did. As short as he was, Derek was conspicuous for his well-cut suit, one that would have done my ex-fiancé proud at a party in Boston. He caught me looking at him and winked. Too bad he'd moved to Albany; we could be friends. Not. There was something off about a guy who drove to a tea shop for a snack and then didn't go in, but instead rushed back to town to gossip about a murder.

I heard conflicting comments being passed off as fact. The only claim that was verifiable: Early this morning the body of a North Ashcot man had been found in the woods near an abandoned glass factory on the outskirts of the town. He'd been shot; his name wouldn't be released until his family could be contacted. The other confirmed truth: Scott James, beloved antiques dealer, was now in the custody of the North Ashcot Police Department.

As for other details, there were more rumors than holiday cards in December. The victim was either early forties or a senior citizen. A longtime resident or a newcomer. Bald or wearing a cap over a mop of hair. Shot with a small-caliber handgun or a sawed-off rifle. Dressed in a suit or a jogging outfit. It was anyone's guess what was what. And concerning the prime suspect, not that anyone had heard that term from an official, I thought I heard volunteers agreeing to sit on his jury.

Even Mrs. Hagan's parrot, Blackbeard, seemed to have an opinion, though we had to take his owner's word for it that he was screeching “Danger! Danger!” The bird and his owner hadn't been expected to arrive until just before closing time, when the pickup truck would be here, precisely to avoid subjecting everyone to chirping that was unintelligible
to most human ears. But who could blame Mrs. Hagan for wanting to be in on the excitement downtown? I was grateful that this bird was not as loud as others, like the squawking pheasants that often passed through the post office on the way to a new home.

The gossip continued, easily drowning out the wildlife. I had the bright idea that all we had to do was take attendance right now, figure out who was not present, and that would be our victim. Or maybe our killer. I stepped back into a corner and surveyed the crowd, keeping out of the way in case the opposite were true of the killer.

“Muffin?” An attractive young redhead in an olive green parka seemed to have followed me to the corner. She held out a paper plate with two small blueberry muffins.

I smiled and shook my head. “Two days old, I presume?”

“You're right, they're left over from the crafts fair,” she said, and tossed everything into a wastebasket under the table with the postal forms Scott had so carefully rearranged only a few hours ago. “What was it like having your lunch interrupted by the police?”

My smile collapsed. “Excuse me,” I said, moving away from her and into the crowd. “I have some business to take care of.”

“I'd just like to talk to you for a minute or two and get your impressions of what happened today.”

“Sorry,” I said, as I kept inching away from her, toward the counter.

She held out a card. “I'm Wanda Cox. Will you call me?”

Too bad I could barely hear her as I was swallowed up by the people who were not reporters. Also, too bad
my hands were in my pockets and not free to accept her card.

When our chief of police entered the lobby, the noise level began to die down, ending with an offering by old Harvey Stone. “I heard the dead guy's fingers were on the other side of the border, all the way into South Ashcot,” he said.

“I wish I could say the case was South Ashcot's responsibility, but it's ours.” The voice of our police chief finally brought the chatter of man and beast to a halt. Sunni used her thumb and fingers to show us just how close the call was.

It was up for grabs whether the townsfolk were enjoying their own stories too much to be constrained by facts as presented by their chief of police.

Most of the border between North and South Ashcot was in the form of a small stream, but a patch of woods at one end, where the body was found, was the subject of many measurements over the years. Especially when it came to zoning issues, it was the North versus the South, all over again.

Responses to the South Ashcot rumor ranged from several who yelled, “Dang,” to others who muttered, “Thank goodness.”

“Everybody back to business,” Sunni said. “Let me and my squad do our jobs and pretty soon you'll have all the facts you need to twist into a good story.” She winked at the crowd in general, then approached me. While the townsfolk resumed conversation, undeterred by the word of the law, Sunni addressed me in a near whisper. “Can you come down to the station, Cassie? A few questions, if you don't mind. We can wait till you close up.”

My throat clutched, as if I weren't just another member of the uninformed, but a person of interest. I tried to focus on Sunni's tone. A request, not a command. Almost giving me a choice—
if you don't mind
—unlike her approach to Scott.

I'd known Sunni only for the three months I'd been home; she'd arrived in North Ashcot about four years ago, long after I'd left for Boston. I'd had to deal with various official protocols regarding my aunt's death, and Sunni either took care of things or directed me toward those who could help. We'd developed a friendship of sorts. Now and then she'd bring her lunch to the post office and we'd rap about politics and world affairs, or our preference in hairstyles. One time we'd met at the farmers' market and gone for coffee together afterward.

I had a feeling that our upcoming conversation would be more of the cop-to-citizen variety than the girlfriend-to-girlfriend variety.

I looked over the heads of the slowly dissipating crowd to catch Ben's eye. In one corner, Selectwoman Gert Corbin was in a huddle with Derek Hathaway. I would have assumed that Derek had little business here, now that he was a star in the New York State capital. It was hard to tell who was pitching to whom when the high and mighty gathered. Was Gert preaching about a gambling-free North Ashcot, or was Derek negotiating a land deal that would bring him more money?

Although he was stuck behind the counter, Ben, my loyal back-up, hadn't missed a beat. He gave me a nod that I took to mean I could leave with Sunni now; he had it covered. I guessed that no matter how sweetly a member of law
enforcement asked you to report to her office, it was best to respond immediately.

I gave Sunni a neutral smile. “I'm ready to go if you are,” I said.

“No one's going to miss me here,” she said.

“That makes two of us.”

T
he North Ashcot police station was across the street and down three blocks from the post office. In the first block, well-kept lawns were spread in front of mostly white or pastel-colored clapboard houses. Various combinations of tricycles, leather-seated swing sets, and the beginnings of what would be Christmas scenes were visible on porches and on the pathways.

I had a flashback to neighborhood tours with my parents when I was a kid, when families competed with each other for the most elaborate decorations in town. Santa and his reindeer on the roof? Easy. Elves in the garden, making motion-activated robotlike gestures? So last year. Metal sleighs, candy canes, giant plastic snowmen, oversized candles, scary-tall wooden soldiers? The bigger, the better.

I'd heard that the custom did not survive the years. Neither had my parents, who'd died in a car crash, their vehicle
loaded with Christmas presents a few months before my sixteenth birthday. It had taken a few years, but, with Aunt Tess's help in the beginning, I finally learned to dwell on the best memories, and how lucky I'd been to have them through my childhood. Still, I hadn't looked forward to Christmas the same way since. Nor my birthday either, in fact.

The conversation, or lack of, between Sunni and me today required little attention, which was handy for my reverie. We walked abreast whenever the broken sidewalk permitted, and chatted about the lovely fall weather, the new shoe shop in town, and the burning question of whether the introduction of off-track betting would be good or bad for us. No hint of the fact that I'd been on an almost-date with someone she brought in for questioning, presumably in a murder investigation; no hint of what were her questions for me that had prompted this walk in the first place.

The second block was perfect for more small talk. Shops and service offices lined both sides of the street. We passed a bank, a salon, a hardware store, a title company, in quick succession on one side, while across the street was my favorite coffee shop, which just so happened to be the only one in town. Café Mahican's owners made no apology for its mixed ancestry name or its spelling, claiming authentic familial links among Native Americans who settled around Albany in the early sixteen hundreds. The décor was part European, part American Indian.

We had no trouble complaining about banking rules and bemoaning the lack of time we had for a mani-pedi or a leisurely cappuccino. Enticing, noteworthy aromas came from the Swiss bakery, but we settled for olfactory satisfaction only. Instead of indulging in cupcakes, we stopped for
a moment to look in the window of a fabric shop next to the bakery. Sunni pointed out a particular bolt of red cloth that was close, but not perfect for her current project: sewing a quilt with each patch celebrating the history and culture of North Ashcot. She was awaiting the arrival of the special shade of red cotton that she'd ordered.

“One of the patches will represent our spring kite festival,” she said. “It's a great event. Lots of them are handmade. You should participate next year.”

I wasn't sure whether she meant I should quilt or fly kites, but it was good to know that she expected me to be free then and not watching the festivities through heavy metal bars. “I don't sew at all. I'd need to take some classes first,” I admitted, feeling as though I'd betrayed my small-town roots.

“I can help. We have a great group of quilters in town. The schedule will be different with the holidays coming up. I'll let you know.”

Uh-oh
. I wasn't sure I wanted to be part of a quilting bee, if they still called them that. I smiled and thanked Sunni anyway. I told myself that once the day was over, she'd forget she'd mentioned it to me. Or she'd remember and be as sorry as I was that she did.

As hard as I tried, I couldn't give my mind over completely to this delightful girl talk. I was on my way to be questioned about a murder I knew almost nothing about and, probably, a handsome lunch date I knew equally little about.

We crossed in front of the elementary school, just short of an abandoned church that was now home to its remodeler, Tim Cousins. Seeing it reminded me that Tim, who'd been friendly to me, might have agreed to come to my rescue and
provided a ride this afternoon. I made a note to make contact with him as soon as things were back to normal. Maybe he'd teach me to scrape paint, which sounded a little more interesting than learning to sew. There was only so much I was willing to do for a little companionship.

Sounds of ten-year-olds at music practice poured out from the schoolhouse and brought shaking heads and chuckles from the chief and me. I hoped I'd be chuckling on my way home.

*   *   *

The journey to the police department building, which seemed to have sapped more energy than an entire day's work, had taken only about ten minutes of real time. I entered the redbrick building behind its chief officer, still with only random notions as to why I was there.

The police force, five officers in all to serve a town of thirty square miles, about one third the size of Boston proper, was housed in a two-story brick Colonial-style structure, not too different from my post office, but much shabbier inside. Except for the state-of-the-art coffeemaker, which stood on its own heavy oak table next to the floor-mounted American flag.

“Surprised?” Sunni had asked the first time she caught me staring at the sleek black appliance. “My little indulgence, paid for it myself, of course. It's fully programmable.” She'd run her finger along the steam pipe. “Espresso drinks, three cup sizes, timer, temperature control. The Cadillac of coffeemakers.”

“Dishwasher safe?” I'd asked.

She'd smiled and told me she was saving up for the newest model in red.

“Cappuccino?” she asked now.

I accepted Sunni's offer and took a seat as she'd indicated. Soon, I was propped in a battered but comfortable chair across from her large oak desk, which bore stains and scratches from unnamed incidents over the years. Old wooden file cabinets, similarly scarred, and a bulky cast-iron radiator completed the look. Altogether, the furniture in Sunni's office was of the kind our local antiques dealer would immediately put through the wringer of restoration. I wondered where said dealer was at that moment. Not downstairs in the two-cell jail, I hoped.

I sipped rich, strong coffee through whole milk foam and waited patiently while Sunni dealt with the crises of the day: a male officer with a flag patch on his sleeve, like his boss's, gave a verbal report on a rabid skunk that was terrorizing Mr. Jayne's backyard; and a female officer told another tale about a vandalized restroom at the high school shared by North and South Ashcot. Sunni checked off a sheaf of paper forms for each officer. Another time, I would have been curious to know what the paperwork was all about.

No one yet had mentioned the murdered man found in our woods. At least, not in front of me. The officers gone and her own steaming cappuccino ready, Sunni took her official seat and readied a pen and notebook. Her look was all business.

“How long have you known Scott James, Cassie?”

And we were off. I was grateful to still be “Cassie” to the woman in uniform. I cleared my throat. “Just since I've
been back, about three months. I met him around the same time that I met you.”

“What do you know about him?”

I swallowed. “Not much. Not as much as you do, I'm sure. I don't know what he did before he came to North Ashcot. I don't even know where he's from. Do you?”
Ramble on, Cassie.

“You were at lunch with him today?”

“Yes, but just lunch. I mean it wasn't really a date.” I hoped I wasn't blushing. Dark hair notwithstanding, I'd been blessed with fair skin that reddened easily, whether I was embarrassed or just thought I might be embarrassed in the future.

“What did you talk about?”

“General stuff. A lot about me. How I came to be a postal employee. A little about his garden. He mentioned Chicago, but I don't think that's where he's from. He said ‘out West' but that could be anywhere. And I have no idea if he was in the antiques business there, or . . .” I shrugged and finally fell silent.

Like all good cops on television, Sunni nodded, wrote a few words on her notepad, and waited me out. She raised her eyebrows slightly, as if to ask, “Anything else?” At first no words came out, but like all good interviewees on television, guilty or not, I couldn't stand the silence. “Can I ask, does this have something to do with the murdered man in the woods? Is Scott under suspicion?”

“Do you have reason to think he should be?”

I threw up a mug-free hand and let it fall onto my lap. “No, no. I'm clueless here.”

Sunni sat back. “Do you have any idea why there would
be a stack of telephone directories in his apartment, a couple hundred of them, addressed to the Postmaster, North Ashcot, Massachusetts?” She paused. “That's you, right?”

My phone books? I gulped. Loudly, I thought. This time there was no doubt that my face was red. I set my mug on a napkin on the corner of Sunni's desk. “I should explain.”

“Uh-huh.”

I told Sunni as much as I knew—emphasizing that it was just this morning that I'd noticed the phone books were missing. I infused my narrative with numerous excuses as to why I hadn't notified her office immediately about the theft: I'd thought maybe Ben had moved them; I wasn't sure I hadn't simply misplaced about two hundred pounds of paper; I'd had a flood of Monday morning customers; I didn't want to bother her with something so trivial; I was going to do it right after lunch, but then . . . blah, blah, blah.

Sunni let me go on. When I was out of excuses and nearly out of breath, convinced that the theft was connected to the murder in the woods, I pulled the scrap of green plastic from my pocket. I placed it on her desk, smoothing it out while I explained how I came to have it.

“I should have known when I found this in Scott's car,” I said, rubbing my wrists in anticipation of the handcuffs I was sure were coming. I needed to tell Ben I might never be back. I gave Sunni an apologetic look. “I'm sorry. I should have—”

“Okay.” Sunni took pity and stopped me, holding up her hand. She ignored the slippery green evidence. “Scott, or Quinn Martindale, as he's also known, would like to talk to you.”

My eyes widened. A different name. Who uses an alias?
A fugitive? Or just someone needing a change? Maybe I should have done that last spring. What would I have chosen?

I snapped to the present. “Scott has another identity? Is he in Witness Protection?”

“No, not WitSec, but we're still checking out other possibilities.”

“Is he in jail?”

She shook her head. “We're just holding him for now. The victim had Scott's names and address on him.”

“A business card for his store or a memo to stop in?” I asked, as if five trained police officers wouldn't have thought of that.

“Not a card, not business. A piece of paper with the names Scott James and Quinn Martindale, and Scott's home address. We ran the names and that's how we found they're the same guy. Then we found the phone books in his home.”

“Addressed to me.” I inadvertently let out a loud sigh.

I thought back. It was more than a little likely that while Scott and I were eating delicate sandwiches and lifting our teacups, Sunni and her officers were going through his house. And probably his shop. I'd been to each location only once, while negotiating about pieces from Aunt Tess's estate. Now I pictured the small blue cottage he called home, and its detached garage, being invaded by uniforms. I imagined the neat shop where he worked, with people carrying radios and clubs and guns marching down its narrow aisles.

“You didn't know him by any other name?” Sunni asked.

“No, I swear.”

“Well, a flag has been raised. We're checking to see if there's maybe a warrant for him under either name in another state.”

I couldn't help thinking how quickly the Boston PD would have had more information on the man I broke bread with. Sunni's office seemed to shrink while I sat there, reminding me how small her operation was. No wonder I'd had to wait so long for transportation home.

Sunni sat back and looked at the cracked ceiling before addressing me again. “He's declined a lawyer, but he's asked to talk to you.”

I'd almost forgotten that part of Sunni's revelation. “I can't imagine why,” I said. Unless he wanted to apologize for taking the phone books.

“Are you willing to see him? There'll be an officer in the room with you.”

“Of course,” I said, though I thought Scott/Quinn would be better off with an attorney. And maybe I would, too. “By the way, am I . . . uh . . . on the hook for not letting you know right away about the directories?”

“Don't worry about it,” Sunni said. “Technically, you had twenty-four hours to track them down yourself. But next time . . .”

“You'll be the first to know.” I mentally wiped my brow, the expression
dodging a bullet
coming to mind.

*   *   *

Officer Ross Little opened the door to a small room in the opposite corner of the building from Sunni's office. Scott/Quinn was staring at the mirrored wall we all knew was also a window, his posture more relaxed than I expected, given that he was here involuntarily. Unless he
had
expected this interruption of his life. I had so many questions. I wondered just what right I had to answers, given that he'd
asked to talk to me. But for all I knew he'd sent for me to ask me for a favor. Not that I could think of a single thing I could do for him, other than forgive him for taking my property, which I wasn't ready to do until I had it back.

He stood and offered me his hand. Ross stepped in to discourage me from taking it, and then retreated to his corner spot once Scott and I sat down. I wondered at the strange circumstances. Scott wasn't cuffed or restrained in any way, yet we couldn't shake hands? Obviously, he hadn't been charged with anything, or he'd have been downstairs, in jail. As it was, he had a plastic cup of coffee in front of him. Across the table, I could see that it was weak. I doubted it had been brewed in the fancy pot I'd been served from.