Death Takes Priority (8 page)

I felt compelled to ask why on earth I would want to keep the cash from her. Instead I thought of all my training in “Dealing With Difficult People,” so seldom used until this moment. A small line had formed and I was eager to settle the matter. I pulled out an empathetic smile, suggested that she could visit the bank two blocks away, which would surely have the cash, and offered to call them for her to confirm that they were adequately supplied to meet her needs. As she continued to rail against my management abilities, I handed the unhappy woman a sheet with information on filing complaints. I explained that she could call, fax, send a letter or an e-mail, expressing her displeasure.

She grabbed the form, turned on her heels, and nearly ran down the next customer.

The best part of the incident was that every customer after her was sweeter than sweet to me and sympathized with what I had to deal with.

“You were so patient with her. I'd have clocked her,” said a male customer.

“Poor dear. You didn't need that,” said a female customer.

And so it went, down the line, with more praise for my management skills than I could have hoped for. In all my years interacting with customers of the post office, the number of such incidents was negligible and the support that followed was always heartening.

The rest of the workday was not as exciting. There were no more questions about my part in the big news feature, just a few expressions of surprise and regret at the death of someone they knew. I assumed that everyone who could had watched the broadcast and heard Sunni's announcement.

Still, when it was time to close up, I wasn't looking forward to leaving the building, lest I be accosted by reporters.

*   *   *

I made it to my car, which was parked around the back of the building. No sign of stalkers, or well-meaning “friends” like Tim Cousins or Derek Hathaway. Given yesterday's town-meeting atmosphere, I wondered where everyone was today. Either they no longer cared about the murder victim in our town, or they'd heard his identity and lost interest. Neither option was one to be proud of.

It also occurred to me that the citizens might be staying home, behind their lace curtains, in case the killer was out and about, seeking his next victim. I locked my car doors and drove off.

I still had Quinn's letter in my purse, all my fuss over what to do with it futile. But now that Quinn was free of police custody, and the whole town, in Ben's words, knew his identity, things were less complicated in a way. I didn't have to worry about sneaking correspondence in to a virtual
prisoner. If I could find him, that is. I'd tried his cell phone but it went to voicemail each time.

A few blocks past the police station, I took a sharp left and slowed down as I approached Ashcot's Attic, the antiques store where Quinn worked. The store was dark, a
CLOSED
sign in the window and their distinctive distressed blue delivery truck in the driveway. I guessed it wouldn't be good advertising for an antiques shop to own a shiny new vehicle.

A small white-panel van with a telltale satellite dish on its roof was parked under a maple tree a few yards from the front door of the shop. The streetlights and the leaves and trunk of the maple made a strange pattern of shadows on the lawn and the storefront. Creepy, almost. Maybe Ben's Halloween story had affected me in more ways than he had in mind. Or maybe it was the young redheaded nag. Or the strange run-in with Derek Hathaway.

I drove on by.

I considered going to Quinn's home, but figured there'd be a news crew there also—everyone but Quinn himself. They didn't have a lot to do, reporters Erin and Rick. The show kept them busy with a book group; sports coverage of local teams; reports by reps from the water district board; civic events and announcements. A murder trumped them all, even off-track betting, and I had to remember that news was their job—we loved news people when we needed them, dissed them when our sensibilities were offended. Not too different from other professions, now that I thought of it.

I made a U-turn and headed to my home. I parked down the block and walked the rest of the way. I figured I could
slip between neighboring houses and enter my own through the back door. Time to find out how smart reporters were.

At the end of my street, I saw a familiar white van with a satellite-bedecked roof. Either Channel 30 had a fleet of vans, or the same crew was following me. For a minute I considered knocking on the panel door and confronting them.

Then mental exhaustion kicked in, and instead, I ducked behind an old clapboard cottage and made my way through the two backyards before mine. I entered my home, found my glide rocker with the help of only a hallway night-light, and plopped down on its seat. Safe, at last. One would think I was the one who had spent twenty hours in jail.

It didn't take long for intense curiosity to overcome my low energy, and I ventured farther into my living room. I approached the front windows, pausing at each step to listen for sounds of outdoor activity. I pushed my fingers through slats in the blinds to separate two of them, wondering if the van had moved closer to the house.

No van. No redhead on the loose. Something worse. A man, in shadows, sitting on my front steps, just below the porch.

I pulled back my fingers and stepped away from the window so quickly I nearly fell backward over a small footstool and knocked my black UMass captain's chair against the wall. I took a breath, and moved to the other side of the bay windows, peering through a lower set of slats, to see if anyone had heard what seemed like a commotion inside my house.

My visitor hadn't moved. I studied his shape. Broad shoulders, slightly hunched over, hands between his knees, a ball cap on his head.

Scott James. Quinn Martindale.

I sat on the chair and leaned against the college seal on its crown, as if all the wisdom and learning in the generations of alumni at UMass could come to my aid and help me decide what to do about the man on my stoop. He'd committed fraud at least, possibly murder; he'd stolen from me and, technically, every post office box holder in town. Yet he'd helped Ben clean up a Halloween mess and had been nothing but a perfect lunch date. Until the police had come for him.

I weighed the pros and cons. And opened my front door.

*   *   *

I took one look at Quinn and knew what he wanted most. I couldn't do much about the slump in his shoulders, but I could at least help him wash away a night without sleep.

“Let me get you some towels,” I said. “The bathroom's back there on the left.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Bad enough.”

I dug out the largest sweatshirt I owned, a gray XXL with a maroon UMASS MINUTEMEN logo on the front, and added it to the pile of towels. Pushing the limits of the extent to which I could accommodate a male guest.

“Can't tell you how much I appreciate this,” he said. “I'll be out in ten.”

Quinn emerged on time, presenting a whole different picture. I'd turned up the heat, poured two mugs of coffee, and placed a plate of cookies on the coffee table in the living room. “Slim pickings,” I said.

“I'm the one who barged in on you.”

“I opened the door.”

“I know you want some answers,” he said.

“It's not my business, really.”

“I'd like to make it your business, if you don't mind.”

I gulped. As a pickup line, that wasn't too bad, especially from a guy who was freshly showered.

H
ere was my chance to ask Quinn, the former Scott James, all the questions that had been nagging at me: about his mother's status as a murder suspect; about his own connection to the murder of Wendell Graham, my onetime boyfriend; about the first-class letter staring at me through leather every time my gaze landed on my purse.

I seemed frozen by his offer to give me some answers. I invited him to have a seat across from me, the coffee table between us, while I prepared my queries.

My first question should have been, “Who are you?” but instead, I came up with what seemed to be the most trivial incident, but had been the beginning of the weirdness of the last two days.

“Why did you go to all that trouble to steal my phone books?” I asked. I could see that Quinn was as surprised as I was at my choice of opening, but he jumped right in.

“It was stupid, Cassie.”

“I'm all ears.”

“I've been trying to keep a low profile. Actually, to erase all evidence of Quinn Martindale. For now. I took the identity of someone who died decades ago. You'd be amazed how easy it is, once you start clicking around the Internet. You just find someone deceased, with no family, get a new phone, and start there. I thought it was going to be for a short time, so I didn't have to bother building a whole background. Ever wonder why I keep to the speed limit so carefully? I don't want to get pulled over and have to show my Quinn Martindale license.”

“I hadn't noticed.”

“Sorry, of course not. You've never asked to see my license. And you've only ridden with me once.”

“And that wasn't even a round-trip,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, put him at ease.

“Thanks for reminding me how that trip ended.”

“Now I'm sorry.”

He waved away my apology. “A couple of weeks ago, I found out that Fred, my boss at the shop, without asking me, put my photo in an ad he took out in the new directory, the issue that was going to be delivered to the post office last week.”

“Without running it by you first?”

“He thought he was doing me a favor, and complimenting me. Said he needed a new cute face”—here Quinn blushed, I was relieved to see—“someone that might appeal to the younger generation. He'd taken a few pictures with his cell phone at an open house we had, and apparently I wasn't vigilant enough and he caught me smiling at a customer.”

“At least he didn't put it on a supermarket cart,” I said, and hoped I wasn't being overly frivolous.

“It's a good thing there aren't any bus stops in North Ashcot, or I might have found myself on a bench,” he said, adding to the humor.

“Or on the bus itself, big as life.”

Quinn took a long breath; I felt he was reliving the last week or so of anguish. “I thought if I took all the directories, well, no one would really miss them, and I'd have my anonymity a little while longer. At that point I should have taken off, left town instead. Another new name, whatever, but I was getting settled here, feeling comfortable. And I'd just met you.”

I could feel a hard ball of suspicion forming in the pit of my stomach, a frown taking shape on my face. I may even have shaken my head at the part about meeting me, flashing back to the lovely feminine penmanship on the letter now in my purse. Quinn leaned forward, his arms on his thighs, one hand grasping the other. I sat back and folded my arms across my chest, protecting myself from his sincere look, wrapped in my sweatshirt. He pulled back, sat up straight.

“Cassie, I'm not trying to play you. I know you're smart. I did a selfish thing. There was no real excuse.” Quinn's voice started to crack. “The worst thing was all the trouble it caused you. I didn't think it would, but, like I said, I was stupid. And I wasn't thinking of anyone but myself.”

The doorbell rang and both our heads snapped up. I seldom heard the ring at my home in the evening. Once Aunt Tess was gone, I'd had no visitors other than delivery people.

Quinn stood. “I know who that is. I hope you don't mind. While you were getting the coffee, I ordered a pizza.”

“You're kidding. Pizza delivery in North Ashcot?”

“From South Ashcot, actually.” He smiled. Not too symmetric a grin; just crooked enough to be interesting. “I found this place that will deliver across the border for an extra couple of dollars. They're very good, made right on the premises.” As if that were the most important issue we needed to address at the moment. He got out his wallet, put two twenties on the table, and stood. “That should cover it. If you don't mind, I'm going to make myself scarce.”

What kind of alternate universe had I fallen into? Then and there I had a mind to call the police. How could I be sure there was a pizza on the other side of my door and not an accomplice? A hit man. The real Scott James. The real Quinn Martindale. Wendell Graham's killer. All of the above.

I wrestled with a shiver of fear as Quinn walked away from me, crossed the living room floor, through the small dining room, and settled himself at my kitchen table, out of the line of sight of the front door. I picked up the cash and engaged my slat-opening fingers again at the window. I had no view of anyone standing close to my door, but I could make out a red SUV at the curb. I squinted at a logo on the side and an enormous, plastic slice of pizza on the roof. It looked benign, if not classy. I couldn't imagine a hit man going to all that trouble.

I opened the door. The aroma of tomato, sausage, and cheese hit my nostrils and I knew I'd made the right decision.

“Extra-large pizza, four sections of toppings.” The announcement came from a pimply-faced kid in a red company parka that matched the truck. He looked past me at the
empty (he thought) house and down at the huge box. “Is this the right place?”

I nodded. “I'm having a party later.”

“Cool,” pronounced “kewell.” He seemed happy with his tip and bounded down the stairs two at a time.

Quinn carried the unwieldy box to the kitchen table and I sat there with my mystery guest. In the short time it took me to say, “This was a great idea. Thanks,” Quinn consumed an entire slice of pizza from the first section, the “everything” topping. I would have bet that he hadn't had a normal meal since our tiny cucumber sandwiches yesterday. Neither had I, come to think of it. I took a slice from the second section, the extra cheese and mushroom quadrant.

I wanted to hear more. We still hadn't gotten to the part where his mother may or may not have killed someone. I allowed Quinn one more slice and a coffee refill before asking him to continue.

“I'm from Northern California, where I was born—Quinn Martindale's my birth name, by the way—in a town north of San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge. My mother lived in the middle of the city. She's had a rough life, starting with my father, who died a long time ago, killed by his own reckless driving.” He took a swallow of coffee before continuing. “Enter my stepfather, I guess you'd call him, even though it was a good thing he had no fathering to do. He married my mother about three years ago and turned out to be just another version of my father, with the added attraction of being a gambling addict. Then last year, he was found murdered—stabbed so many times, they were sure it was a crime of passion, and my mother was charged.
She's now in custody, awaiting trial. I ran away to avoid testifying. If they can't find me, they can't call me.”

My facial expression was out of my control. I tried for an empathetic look; a supportive smile; a kind, patient attitude. But I was sure my eyes or the muscles around my mouth gave away how upset I was. I wanted to know why he wouldn't testify. Wouldn't he be eager to help clear his mother? Or did he know something to the contrary?

“Which ‘they' are you trying to avoid? The prosecution or the defense? And why?” I asked, before I could stop myself. “Why won't you testify?” I hadn't meant for it to come out so much like an accusation.

Quinn pressed his palm against the side of his head, as if trying to keep it together. I wished I could help him. “You know what? I shouldn't even be talking to you about this. In fact, can we move on? Can you trust me for now, until I can figure out the best course of action for my mother?”

“But . . .”

“Please?” He put his hand on mine and pulled it away immediately, even though I'd made no attempt to move it. Unless my mental waffling showed outwardly. “Let me just say that I need to keep you out of it, for everyone's sake, including yours.”

I took a deep, frustrated breath. “Can you at least tell me what this has to do with Wendell Graham?”

Quinn threw up his hands. “I wish I knew. I swear. I'm telling you straight out; I'm not holding back. I have no idea why they questioned me about Wendell Graham. I'm not sure I ever met the man, unless he was in a line with me getting coffee or, you know, crossing in front of me while I was at a stop sign.”

“He was found with a piece of paper with both your names on it. Why? How would he know your real name?”

He took a breath, sounding equally frustrated. “I. Have. No. Idea.” His knees bounced in a nervous way with each beat, each word of the sentence. He didn't speak in an angry tone; it was at a slow pace, as if trying to find the answer. He looked at me. “Do you believe me on that?” he asked, his eyes pleading.

“I do. And I guess the chief of police believes you, too. Otherwise she wouldn't have released you.”

Quinn reached for his third slice of pizza; I was finished eating, having practically inhaled my slice.

“She's okay with it as long as I stay in town, but that's fine,” he said. “I'm grateful to that lawyer, wherever he's from. Edmund Morrison, I think he said.”

“You didn't hire him?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Me? From what the cop told me, his watch cost more than the monthly budget for the whole force. He's from some big firm in New York.”

“Did he interview you?”

Quinn shook his head. “He came in for, like, five minutes, gave me his card, which I have to locate, now that I think of it, and told me not to talk to anyone without him present, and left.”

“Did that seem strange to you?”

“More than strange, but here I am, instead of in jail, so I'm not complaining. I should have called him immediately when I got out, but in a way I'm afraid to. What if it was a mistake and they put me back in custody? On the other hand, I don't want to be slapped with a bill that will require me to sell my car, if I can head it off.” He finished his coffee and started on
the cookies. I'd forgotten how much men as big as Quinn and my dad could put away in one sitting. “I plan to call him as soon as I find the card. And catch my breath,” he continued. “These two days have been a roller-coaster ride. Or maybe a crazy trip to one of those carnival fun houses.”

I knew what he meant.

My phone rang, making this one of the busiest evenings of the season that didn't involve work. Was more pizza on the way? Dessert? I checked the caller ID, excused myself, and walked into the living room with the phone. I said hello to the chief of police. Alas, no gelato delivery.

“Hey, Cassie, just checking in. Sorry again that you had to make the trip to the station for nothing.”

My gaze fell on Quinn, sitting a few yards away in my kitchen, one leg resting on the other knee, sipping from a mug of coffee. “No big deal. It gave me a chance for a nice little walk.”

“Did Ross tell you about the fancy lawyer who got him out? Very top tier.”

“Uh, yes, he did.” Why did I feel I was withholding information?

“You sound like you have some company. I'll let you go.”

“Well . . .”

“It's okay. Just wanted to check in. Mind if I stop by with my lunch tomorrow? My coffee's better but your place is quieter. At least at noon.”

“That would be great, and I'll start with a fresh pot, I promise.”

“Just kidding about the coffee. See you then. Have a good evening.”

I hung up, as nervous as if I'd lied under oath.

*   *   *

Quinn and I moved back to the living room and took the same easy chairs across from one another, the coffee table between us. The street outside was quiet. Not that it was ever as busy as traffic on the Fenway in front of my Boston apartment, but on some nights here teens turned out to cruise the neighborhood. Reveling, North Ashcot–style.

We shared a little more of our lives beyond phone books and murder investigations, and Quinn became the first person in town to learn about Adam.

“Looks to me like you miss Boston more than you miss Adam,” he said, after sharing one innocuous back-home anecdote of his own.

“What makes you say that?”

He looked around, pointing here and there. I followed his direction, from the paperweight on an end table—a glass encased rendering of the Swan Boats on the Charles River—to a framed certificate verifying that I'd bought a brick for the courtyard at the USS Constitution Museum to a coffee table book on the collection at the Museum of Fine Arts.

“And then there's the mirror in the bathroom.”

“With the Plymouth lighthouse scene across the top.”

“And the pens, the Old North Church magnet on the fridge, the mugs—”

“I get it,” I said, laughing. “And”—I pointed to a small bowl of red candy-covered nuts—“you forgot the Boston Baked Beans.”

He popped a couple of “beans” in his mouth. “Always loved these. Didn't know they were really from Boston.”

“A lot of the things you're pointing out were gifts,” I
explained, bordering on defensive. “I'm showing my appreciation by displaying them.”

“Are they from Adam?”

“No. Good point.”

From what I'd told him, Quinn had deduced correctly that my home now reflected my taste and not Adam's. In fact, most of the Boston paraphernalia had been hidden away in my apartment, since the items only contributed to Adam's disapproval of my touristy décor, which was even worse in his mind than my college-dorm taste. More grist for my “Letting Go” mill.