Murder on Cape Cod Page 10

  He handed me my change. “Sure, if we actually start chasing after a criminal or something. But I don’t have any intention of doing that. Do you?” He rapped his long narrow fingers on the counter.

  “No, of course not. But you know, sometimes in the books we read the killer gets suspicious of the amateur sleuth asking too many questions, right?”

  Zane nodded slowly, sliding the bottle into a narrow paper bag and handing it to me.

  “And the sleuth gets in big trouble because of it,” I went on. “So we have to keep real quiet about this around town. And any information has to go directly to the detective.”

  “Haskins, you said his name was. The big guy I saw.”

  “Exactly.” But was I actually following Victoria’s directive myself? Had I discovered anything I was neglecting to pass on to Haskins? Something to ponder.

  “I promise. Scout’s honor.” He held up three fingers. “Now, have you learned anything?” He rubbed his hands together, looking eager.

  “Not much.” I told him about how Gin and I met Katherine Deloit, and the conversation we’d overheard. “She must be the person Stephen saw with Jake at the courthouse.”

  “Could be.” His eyes lit up. “Did you ask her about Jake?”

  “Yes. After she brought up the murder in conversation, I asked if she’d ever met him. But she looked at me like I was nuts.”

  “Maybe Jake and this woman simply ran into each other in the hallway.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, too. I wish I had time to go to the courthouse myself and see if Jake conducted any business there recently, but that’s at least a half-day commitment. A half-day I don’t happen to have free.” I switched the wine from one arm to the other. “You haven’t seen my brother in here, have you? Or anywhere around?”

  Zane gazed out the window and then back at me, frowning. “Jeez, Mac. What do I say? He asked me not to tell you.”

  “What? You saw him? You talked with him? Did he say where he’d been?” Light dawned over Marblehead. “Wait a minute. He came in here?”

  “I’m afraid he did. He rushed in as soon as I opened at eleven and bought a bottle of bourbon. He seemed shaky.”

  My heart plummeted. Derrick was drinking. After years of sobriety. “That’s bad. Really, really bad.” A terrible doubt washed cold through me. What would drive him to drink again, and whiskey at that? Was he involved in Jake’s death, after all? I was as sure as I could be that my brother hadn’t hurt Jake on purpose. But what if they’d fought? What if—

  Zane’s words interrupted my thoughts.

  “I shouldn’t have sold it to him. I’m so sorry.” He shook his head.

  I took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s not your fault. He would have gone to the next closest liquor store instead.” I looked down. My feet, the sandals, the floor, it all looked so normal. Derrick’s life was suddenly not normal, and really, none of our lives were. Murder in Westham. Suspicions running rampant. Detectives and investigators everywhere. I looked at Zane again. “Did he happen to say where he’s been hiding out? Did you talk to him at any length?”

  “No. I tried, but he was antsy, like he wanted to get out of here.”

  “To go start drinking before anyone else saw him, I bet.” Or to keep drinking. Maybe he’d been at a bar all day yesterday. Cape Cod offered no shortage of dimly lit bars for the locals with no questions asked, usually located away from the cheery tourist areas.

  “Probably. He nearly threw the money at me, told me not to mention his purchase to you, and hurried out.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Zane. Really.” I cursed under my breath. “I gotta go find him.” Right this minute.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Except I couldn’t go find Derrick right that minute, of course. If nothing else, I was a responsible person, and that included being a responsible business owner. It was both my primary strength and my main weakness. I’d always known I had to follow through on commitments, even though it meant I rarely let myself act spontaneously.

  So I trudged back across the street and down the block to my shop. I’d told both Abo Reba and Orlean I’d be gone about an hour and it had been almost two. That was irresponsible enough. At least neither of them had called with a question or, God forbid, an emergency. And if I was lucky, the tour leader wouldn’t have returned for the bikes yet. It was this outfit’s first time using my services and I hoped for return bookings. I also preferred for me to be the interface with customers rather than Orlean.

  No such luck. The repair side of the shop was clear of bikes. Orlean was wiping down tools and putting them away.

  “Did I miss the pick-up?” I asked.

  “Yep. Came early. But I was all done.”

  “And you settled up with them?”

  “Yep. Needed a few extra parts and whatnot. Slip’s in the draw.”

  Despite being born and raised here, I’d trained myself as an adult to pronounce Rs where they were written and not where they weren’t. Most locals left off the last consonant of drawer entirely.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Sorry I didn’t get back sooner. Take off for home any time you want.” One of these days I ought to offer her a beer, see if she wanted to talk about her personal situation, the rotten ex, or whatever. I hated to pry if she didn’t want to talk, but I wanted her to know I cared. “I’ll cover until closing.”

  In response I got a nod absent of eye contact, Orlean’s modus operandus.

  “Got to clean up first,” she answered.

  I headed through to the rental/retail side. My grandmother sat behind the counter on the high stool perusing her phone, exactly like she had been earlier. I delivered a kiss to her papery cheek. She’d found the radio and tuned it to the classical station, so strains of calming music filled the space.

  “You’ve been gone a while,” she said, lifting a single eyebrow. “Out sleuthing, were you?” Nothing escaped Abo Reba, even when she couldn’t see it.

  “Maybe a little.” Could I hide Zane’s news about Derrick from her? I was determined to try, at least until I located him and talked some sense into the idiot. “How did things go here?”

  She handed me four rental slips and three retail receipts. “Absolutely fine. Not too busy, not too quiet.” She slid off the stool. “I’ve got to go. Millie’s picking me up for bridge at five thirty sharp.”

  “Thank you so much for filling in. I’m sure Derrick will be back tomorrow.”

  She pulled her hat on and paused at the door. “No sign of your wayward brother around town, I suppose?”

  I unnecessarily straightened the slips, and lined up three pencils and two pens in perfect order as if my future depended on it. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t see him anywhere.”

  She gave me one long look, the same look I’d gotten when I was eight and she knew full well I was lying about breaking Mrs. Somerville’s window with an errant baseball. I fully expected my Abo to come back in and start grilling me, but she trundled out, instead.

  “Tell him hello when you find him,” she called back.

  Close one. I busied myself tidying up. I rearranged a couple of shirts and put a pair of gloves back where they belonged. I checked the schedule for tomorrow. One major tune-up, five reserved rentals, and a tandem repair. Nothing we couldn’t handle, as long as my brother wasn’t drunk in a ditch somewhere. Or worse.

  Orlean left a few minutes before five and I locked the back door. I had to admit she was good at leaving things orderly. The repair area was clean with everything in its place, ready for the next day. Exactly how I liked it. I added up the day’s till and credit card receipts, and locked the cash in the small safe in my office. At loose ends, since the store stayed open until six, I paced a little, but all I could think about was the murder. The people acting oddly. The missing one— my dear brother. And the ones we hadn’t even seen yet. The least I could do was write it all down in some organized fashion.

  My next choice was paper or digital file. I ended up fish
ing a piece of clean white paper out of the printer and taking it to the rental counter. Maybe typing information into a file where I could find it again was wiser. But something about the flow of a good gel pen on a nice, smooth unblemished sheet of eight-and-a-half by eleven made my mind function differently.

  I started by writing a big question mark on the left side and drawing a line under it. What didn’t I know? Derrick’s location went first. Next I jotted down, Was Jake blackmailing somebody? Who? Why? I added, Who is happy/sad girl? Abo Reba had told me this morning about seeing the young woman with Jake. Happy when he was alive. I’d seen her after he was killed, as had Zane. Definitely sad. How to find out who she was, though? What does Katherine Deloit want? was next. Then I added, What is Wes Farnham up to? I doubted he was involved, but in business, creativity brainstorming always meant allowing all ideas to be in the running at the beginning of a project, no matter how corny or impractical they sounded on the surface. I included Who is Mr. Wu? and Why was Jake at courthouse?

  On the other side of the sheet I wrote Truth and underlined that. What was truth? I wrote, Jake’s death by stabbing with fish knife. But what else? I added Suzanne knows about stabbing. Did I know anything else for sure?

  I wasn’t sure this was a good exercise. My foot tapped the rung of the stool like it was a metronome. The list of what we didn’t know was going to stretch way longer than what we did know. I blew out a noisy frustrated breath and hopped off my seat. I paced to the exit and back.

  The sign on the door said we closed at six. But I was dying to get out of here, which was not responsible behavior at all. What if a rental needed an emergency repair? Or a Provincetown-bound rider needed a quick tire fix. Or . . . Sighing, I wheeled in the rental bikes one by one from out front. The heck with it. I couldn’t stay any longer. I decided to play copycat and use Zane’s trick. I lettered another sheet of printer paper. I grabbed the wine and my list and locked up, my expression grim as I taped my sign to the front door.

  GONE FISHING

  * * *

  “Belle, where’s Derrick?” I asked my parrot after I fed her a few minutes later. It was all well and good to leave work early, but I still didn’t have a clue where my brother was holed up. And now he had his own bottle of whiskey. Pa had left a message that Derrick wasn’t there. I could go driving around town looking for him, but that didn’t seem like the best use of my time. Not that asking a bird was.

  “Derrick’s going home. Gimme a grape, please.” She whistled, then did one of my least-favorite tricks, the car alarm. Which she reproduced with the din of all its shrieking whoops.

  “Hey, we’re not even outside. Stop it, Belle.” Thankfully, she did, so I doled out a few frozen grapes, one of her favorite treats.

  “Belle’s a bad bird. Give Belle a kiss. Derrick’s going home.”

  Maybe she was onto something. I gave her a kiss and a few peanuts, then looked down at my work clothes. I was due for dinner at Tim’s at six thirty. In case I didn’t get back here, I’d better change now. I washed up and threw on a short-sleeved dress and leggings.

  I took a minute to sit and tap the items from my paper list into a notes app on my phone so I’d be able to access it without hauling around a piece of paper. Then the wine went into a cloth bag with a shoulder strap. I slung on my EpiPen bag and grabbed a sweater. Leaving a light on inside for the bird and one outside for myself, I went out and turned toward the trail to the lighthouse. But, no. If ever it was the right time to lock one’s door, it was when a murderer was at large. Once I had my hand on the door, I thought about my destination tonight. I went back in and coaxed Belle into her cage.

  “Sorry, my friend,” I told her. “I probably won’t be back tonight.”

  “Sorry, Mac. Sorry, Mac.”

  “We’ll play tomorrow, okay?” I smiled and stroked her head, then gave her a couple of chunks of carrot. I kept a bag ready in the fridge for Belle treats, since she loved them almost as much as grapes.

  Door and bird secured, I set out again. Derrick hadn’t been home at all yesterday until last night. My dad had checked. But maybe he was in his house today despite his lack of response. It was worth giving the lighthouse a shot, anyway. Mom had texted that Cokey was still with her and Pa was working. This retrieval was up to me. I hoped it wasn’t going to turn into an intervention, if he was even home, but I was afraid it might.

  I cut through the hedge to see the police tape had been removed from the path to the bike trail. It was the shortest way to the lighthouse and I was determined not to let the memory of finding Jake’s body keep me off it. I hadn’t gone more than a couple of yards when I spied something glinting in a bit of late afternoon sunlight. I squatted to see that it was a button lying at the edge of the path almost hidden by the Rosa Rugosa.

  An inch in diameter, the button was black and unremarkable, and looked like it belonged on a coat of some kind, except that it was clean. It could have popped off anyone’s garment. If the person now wearing a jacket short a button had lost it weeks, months, a year ago, though, the button would be dusty. Soiled. Muddy, even. Dirt might have been ground in from a passing bicycle or sneaker sole. This one looked as fresh as the day the tailor sewed it on.

  And it was right about where Jake had been killed. Maybe it was a clue to his murderer. My heart pounded. Because I’d read about an amateur sleuth doing it, I fished a tissue out of my bag and picked up the disc, feeling a bit like Nancy Drew. The tissue was supposed to protect the button from acquiring my fingerprints or even my DNA, I supposed. I would drop it by the police station tomorrow. I didn’t know how they would go about searching for a coat missing a button, but that was their job, not mine. I carefully folded the tissue around the button and slid it into my bag. Before I stood, it occurred to me that the police might need to know where I’d found the button. I glanced around and found three small rocks. I laid them in a triangle around the spot where the button had been, hoping that was good enough.

  Ten minutes later I was knocking up a storm on the lighthouse door. No answer. I rang the bell and got the same lack of response. I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Derrick,” I called in my best outdoor voice. “Are you home?” But I might as well have been a giant hunk of breakwater boulder for all the good it did. Either he wasn’t home or he was stonewalling me. His car was parked in the drive, though. That was one blessing. At least he hadn’t taken his bottle of hooch out on the road and endangered others as well as himself.

  “Derrick!” I gave it one more shot. I didn’t have to worry about bothering neighbors with my yelling. The lighthouse perched at the end of a road, built on a rock promontory. I’d seen pictures from a century earlier when water had crashed on three sides of the ledge, but over the decades sand had shifted and filled in, with vegetation following. The barrier island nature of the Cape, one of the biggest in the world, meant its geography was always changing. Inlets opened. Passageways closed. People had no business attempting to control the contours of the land, although that didn’t keep them from wanting and trying to. These days one side of this promontory was mostly scrubby dune plants and the other was a bracken marsh, with only a thirty-foot point sticking into the water beyond the land.

  I walked out behind the tall sloping cylinder that went up almost a hundred feet. Wind blew straight across the promontory. A small shed sat a couple of yards behind the lighthouse, but I knew it was crammed full of gardening tools, discarded furniture, a broken lobster trap, and other detritus of a coastal residence. When the wind let up for a moment, I cocked my head. Was that whistling I heard? The wind picked up again and I lost it. Odd. Usually wind caused whistling, not the other way around. Wait.

  Pressing my lips together, I stalked around to the other side of the shed. My brother, whistling an unrecognizable tune, sprawled in an old lawn chair facing the water, legs spread wide. His flax-colored hair flew all which way and his face was flushed. From the open, mostly empty fifth of bourbon in his right hand, no doubt.

 
“If it isn’t my sweet baby sister.” His words came out slow and lazy but pronounced clearly. “Have a seat, Mackie. Isn’t the view pretty?”

  The nickname slapped me with nostalgia. He hadn’t called me Mackie since I was twelve. My anger and worry overrode the sweet memories. “What are you doing out here, Derrie? Don’t you know everybody’s looking for you?” I swallowed when I heard myself screeching. “You’re letting everybody down. Pa, me, the police, not to mention your own daughter.”

  “I’m sorry.” He focused on his knees.

  “And what’s up with this?” I snatched the bottle from his hand and held it in front of his face. “Are you trying to ruin your life?” I used my still-strong high school softball arm to fling the bottle as hard and far as I could. It landed in the waves with a splash and a plunk.

  “Aw, Mac.” He looked after the liquor and shook his head. “Now why’d you go and do that? That was some really nice whiskey.” He squinted up at me, his eyes bleary. “My life’s over, anyway. And now I’ll have to be sober to face it.”

  I stood in front of him. The breeze whipped my skirt around. “What do you mean, your life is over? You have work, you have family, you have friends.” What could he mean? The horrible doubt pierced me again. Had my brother, through some awful accident, killed Jake?

  “You don’t understand.” He choked out a sob.

  I knelt in front of him and took his face in my hands, both my heart and my voice softening. “Then make me understand. I’m your sister, remember? Please? We all want to help you.”

  “They’ll never believe me,” he croaked. “Never.”

  “Believe you about what? About your knife?”

  He groaned and turned away, hanging his head over the side of the chair, swearing. He vomited onto the ground, but the heaves took him and the lightweight chair right over sideways. His head hit a protrusion on the ledge. He lay still.