Murder on Cape Cod Read online

  * * *

  I’d changed into my walking clothes and was hanging out with Belle by six thirty. “How’s my best bird?” I asked her, feeding her bits of a seed cookie. “Did you party all night, Belle?”

  “Did Belle party?” She cocked her head and eyed me as if she’d been partying so much she couldn’t remember. “Did Belle party?”

  I laughed. “I don’t know. Did you? Maybe you did.”

  She whistled. “What a party!”

  I swapped out the newspapers on the floor of her daytime roost cage with clean ones. African Greys didn’t soil the place where they slept—another proof of how smart they were—so I had fit two cages in my little living room. I sat at my laptop at the table, with Belle standing next to me peering at the screen. A minute later I frowned at a news article from the Dallas News. The headline read, DA STRIKES WHITE COLLAR CRIME CASE PLEA BARGAIN. The story began, Derrick Searle to serve two years in minimum security, says the Dallas County District Attorney’s office. Plea for reduced sentence accepted in exchange for information about company management.

  Sitting back, I searched my memory. I’d almost forgotten that my brother had lived and worked in Texas. I shouldn’t have. It was where my only niece was born. Derrick had been working at a tech company doing IT work. He’d met Genevieve at work, the brilliant but disturbed French mother of his daughter. They hadn’t gotten married when she’d announced the pregnancy, and all I knew was that she’d left him and taken the baby home to Grenoble.

  But where had I been three-four years ago? If, as we’d discussed, Derrick got home from his reputed monastery retreat a few months after me, and if he’d served all two years of the sentence, he’d have gone into prison during my second year abroad. I’d cashed out of the high-power job I hated in Boston’s financial district and had joined the Peace Corps. I didn’t even want to think about the slob of a boyfriend I’d also abandoned at the same time. So I’d been living in a Thai village when my brother had gone in. When my Peace Corps stint was over, I’d headed for Australia and New Zealand. I’d had a glorious year touristing, bicycling, and enjoying the attentions of a high-energy Kiwi cyclist until my knee blew out at the same time the New Zealander blew me off. I’d decided it was time to go home.

  I checked the article again then went back to the search, where I saw only a couple more links, and most regarded the misdeeds of the company execs, not a low-level IT worker. I returned to the article again, the only one mentioning Derrick by name. I was surprised how little coverage there had been, even out West. I’d be willing to bet the news of the case never made it to the Cape newspapers, or the Boston Globe, either. I read the article through and saw no mention of Derrick’s hometown. That must be why it wasn’t public knowledge in these parts. Maybe keeping his name off the Internet was part of his bargain. My poor beleaguered brother.

  But what about Jake Lacey? Derrick had said he’d been in for low-level embezzlement. But who had he embezzled from, and was that his first crime? Googling Jake’s name wasn’t anywhere near as easy as Derrick’s. In fact, it was impossible, whether I switched to Jacob or not. The dead Jake was not a baseball player, a musician, or a marketing whiz. As far as I knew he wasn’t a Rubik’s Cube master nor an economist, and he definitely wasn’t a star cross-country runner at a Catholic college. I had too many possibilities to pore over. I gave up on that line of inquiry right away. I assumed Detective Haskins and his team would already have pursued it, anyway. Probably should have thought of that before I started.

  Leaving Jake to the side, I still needed to talk with Derrick in detail about his own past. But he was injured and sleeping, so that wasn’t going to happen now. In the meantime, I knew exactly the person to call. Pa was an early riser. He wouldn’t mind.

  He answered on the second ring and wished me a good morning. “How’s your brother?” His voice was even deeper than usual, and more gravelly. “Cokey’s up and asking,” he added softly.

  She was probably nearby, playing or watching a PBS cartoon. “He’s going to be fine,” I said. “I think he’ll be over to your place this morning sometime. Can you keep her until then?”

  He wait a moment before speaking. “I can, of course. I’m pondering Sunday’s sermon, and sometimes she’s less a hindrance than an inspiration. But doesn’t Derrick need to work at your shop?”

  “He was still asleep when I left this morning. I left him a message to go get his girl, and come in this afternoon if he can.” I heard the tinny sound of a laugh track in the distance, then the unmistakable reedy tones of Sesame Street’s Bert chastising, “Ernie, Ernie. That’s not how it’s spelled.” Yep, Cokey was watching her favorite show.

  “Mackenzie, was your brother inebriated yesterday?” my father asked. “Is that how he fell?”

  “You’re using big words so she won’t understand, right?”

  “Very perceptive. Please answer the question.”

  “Yes. He was very much inebriated. In fact he was stinking drunk for the second day in a row, apparently. But Pa, after Derrick was checked into the hospital, his name triggered an alert in an accident database. The police had informed hospitals they were looking for him, and Detective Haskins came to Tim’s place late last night.” I told him about the questioning, about Haskins’s suspicions. “Derrick told us about his incarceration and about Jake threatening to expose him.”

  “Mmm.”

  “He said you knew all along.” I waited. When Pa didn’t respond, I asked, “Why did you keep it from me?”

  “He must have told you he’d asked me not to reveal his experiences. Mac, many troubled people have asked me to keep their secrets. I have no choice but to agree, as long as it won’t result in anyone being harmed by my silence.”

  I sighed. “I wish he’d told me, too.”

  “I know, honey.” Pa cleared his throat. “And I ask for your forgiveness.”

  “You don’t have to do that. It’s part of your life, your calling.”

  “I will say I had gently encouraged your brother to stand up to the scoundrel.”

  In the background I heard a tiny high-pitched voice lisp, “Abo Joe, what’s a scoundrel?”

  “It means a bad guy, Coquille.”

  I smiled. Pa was one of the few who called Cokey by her full name. “Derrick said he was going to confront Jake,” I said. “But Jake didn’t show up, and when Derrick saw him on the path, Jake was already dead.” I glanced at the time display on my mini-microwave. “Shoot. I’m late for my walk. Talk to you later, Pa. Love to Coke.”

  “Love you, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks for talking. For being there for all of us. You’re the best.”

  * * *

  I could tell by the way Gin was stretching in front of her shop that she was figuratively tapping her foot at my being late.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, breathless from rushing over. “I lost track of time. Ready?”

  “I’ve been ready for ten minutes, girlfriend.” She raised one eyebrow at me. “It’s not like you to lose track of time. What were you doing, anyway?”

  We set off toward the walking-biking-running trail as I thought about how much to tell her. I didn’t want to fill her in about Derrick’s past. As my father had said, that was his story to tell. But she might hear about his accident around town, so I wanted to give her some kind of explanation. “I was checking up on Derrick. He had a little accident yesterday. Tim and I took him to the hospital to get stitches and I wanted to be sure he was doing all right this morning.” That would have to do.

  She gazed at me. “That’s terrible. Was it a car accident?”

  “No, he was being careless. He’s fine.” I winced inwardly at the lie of omission, but it couldn’t be helped. And if—or rather, when—his past came out, she’d understand about my not breaking his confidence.

  “I’m glad. He’s a nice guy.”

  A little wheel started rolling in my brain after we turned onto the path proper and passed the first tenth-mile marker se
t into the pavement, this one recording MILE 4.2. Derrick was a nice guy. He was a great guy, when he wasn’t relapsing. Gin was single. He was single. They were close to the same age and I loved them both. Maybe I should work on the tiniest bit of matchmaking. The thought made me smile. On the other hand, Gin’s daughter was out of the home. Would she even want to get involved with the single dad of a four-year-old? Or with a recovering alcoholic? I mentally scolded myself for that leap. They weren’t even dating. Yet.

  “Have you started reading Cracked to Death for next week?” she asked.

  “No. I’m too busy trying to learn stuff about Jake’s murder.” And my brother’s criminal past, I didn’t add. “Have you?”

  “Not a word.” She laughed. “I did poke around downtown. Suzanne closed the Book Nook early that day, at five thirty. And not because she had a special event scheduled for the evening, either. She easily could have killed Jake.”

  “That would explain how she knew he was stabbed. But how would Suzanne have gotten Derrick’s knife? And more important, why would she kill Jake?”

  Gin pulled her mouth to the side. “That’s the tricky part. I’ll see what else I can find out about her past. Maybe she knew Jake from somewhere else.”

  Like from prison? Like Jake and my brother. My brain was full of what I’d learned about Derrick’s crime and his sentence, so I walked in silence for a few minutes. I barely saw MILE 4.3 and MILE 4.4 disappear under my feet, and I jumped a little when Gin spoke.

  “Did you find out about the fog bank?” She smiled. “Or as Lucy used to say, the frog bank?”

  “I did. Flo said the lighthouse was already socked in when she arrived for book group at around six. Funny I didn’t remember that.”

  “We’re so used to it, we probably don’t even notice.” She didn’t speak again until we’d walked over the section crossing the marsh. “So I’ve been watching Wes, the rich guy from New York. The one staying at my place.”

  I elbowed her. “And we’re on a first-name basis with the guests now, are we?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Mac, I always tell my guests to call me Gin, and they always reciprocate. So yeah, I don’t address him as Mr. Farnham.”

  “And what have you learned from watching him?”

  “Not much, to tell the truth. I keep expecting him to act suspiciously, but I’ve only seen one odd thing.”

  I raised my eyebrows and waited.

  “I was freshening up his room. And I saw a brochure for custom-made fish-gutting knives on the floor next to the wastebasket. As if he threw it away but missed.”

  “Custom-made? Like somebody could have copied Derrick’s? That’s creepy.” The thought was almost as creepy as the thick vines twisting down from the trees we passed, looking like an alien being was trying to choke the life out of the arboreal specimen. Other trees featured gray-green scales on their trunks, a color matched by the hairy tufts of usnea lichen lining the branches of their neighbors. The lichen looked for all the world like disembodied gnome goatees.

  “He’s not exactly the fisherman type. At least not that I’ve seen.” Gin pursed her lips.

  “Was the place that makes the knives somewhere here in town?”

  “I think it was a shop in Chatham called Sharp Stuff. The name was something like that.”

  “Maybe he bought a knife from the shop.” If he did, Wes Farnham might have been faking it about asking where he could find Jake. He might be the killer with a knife identical to Derrick’s. That would prove my brother’s innocence. “We should call them and ask.”

  “Good idea. I’ll do that when I get home. After I saw the brochure, I asked Wes if he wanted information about going out on a fishing boat for the day. I thought there was a chance he might be interested, especially since he seems to want to buy property here.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “He kind of looked at me funny. And—”

  The telltale whir of a well-tuned bicycle in motion approached behind us. It was getting louder way too fast. I twisted my head.

  “Hey, careful,” I yelled, pulling Gin to the side of the path. A lean person in black and orange, including helmet, shades, and gloves, whizzed by us head down on our side of the yellow line. The rider was astride a Cannondale CAAD 12. He or she—I couldn’t tell which it was—would have knocked Gin over if I hadn’t grabbed her.

  Gin swore. “He cut that way too close.”

  I shook my head. “Some riders think they’re better than us mere pedestrians. Didn’t even call out or ring a bell to warn us.” I shivered and couldn’t help but wonder if the close call hadn’t been accidental. Maybe it wasn’t just Rude Rob from Revere. Maybe somebody was out to get us on purpose.

  Gin gazed down the path after the cyclist, too, until the bike and rider disappeared around a bend. “Too bad bikes aren’t required to have license plates,” she muttered. “I’d have called it in.”

  “Agree. I mean, the rules of the road are posted at every entrance to the trail, right? And they include Audible signal before passing as well as, Keep right, pass left. On the right is exactly where we were.” I flipped the rider disappearing into the distance an obscure Thai hand gesture that no American would recognize but was a definite insult in East Asia. “Back to your Mr. Wes. He had information about custom knives and you asked him . . . what did you say you asked him?”

  “I asked if he wanted to know about going out fishing for a day. He looked at me like I suddenly had a purple horn growing out of my head. I guess he doesn’t like fishing.”

  “Not everybody does. Or maybe he gets seasick. You haven’t seen him doing anything else suspicious, have you? Other than being in possession of a brochure, that is.”

  “No. I feel something odd about him, but I can’t put my finger on it,” she said.

  “He looked at me oddly when he left my shop after asking about Jake, too. Almost as if he knew I wasn’t telling the truth about Jake being dead. I didn’t lie, but I didn’t say, ‘Don’t you know he was killed last night?’ Gin, you know what we should do?”

  “What?”

  “I want to share information with book group, but I don’t have time to have another meeting in person. We could start a group text. Each of us could add what we’ve learned.”

  She tilted her head. “That’s a good idea, Mac. But maybe a group e-mail would work better. Do you think everybody texts?”

  I pictured each member of the group. “Does Norland?”

  “Sure. He’s texted me since he retired. I gave him a ride to his car once when it was in the shop.”

  “Otherwise Flo is the oldest in the group, and she certainly texts,” I said. “I think texting would be better. With e-mail, if you forget to hit Reply All, it only goes back to the sender. With a group text, it’s automatic.”

  Gin nodded. “But what about Suzanne? What if she picks up her mom’s phone and reads the text?”

  “We’d have the same issue with e-mail,” I pointed out. “We’ll have to leave our thoughts about Suzanne out of the discussion. We’re the only two who know she shouldn’t have been aware of the stabbing.”

  “You’re right. Group text it is.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Today was turning out to be a Fine Weather Friday. At a few minutes before nine I hung out the OPEN flag at Mac’s Bikes. I wheeled a few rentals to the front, then examined my flowering annuals in their window boxes. Judging from the limp look of the pansies and geraniums, watering was my first task of the day. That accomplished, I leaned on the wall next to them for a moment, enjoying the morning sunshine and the prospect of a profitable weekend, no matter what was going on in the fraternal and criminal departments.

  My mood was almost unreasonably optimistic, due largely to finding Derrick and our clearing of the air yesterday. Even Detective Haskins’s threat of detaining my brother couldn’t dampen my mood. A cardinal chirped happily in one of the many maples that lined Main Street, and I was determined to have an equally positive day. When I
saw the slow-walking man with the lame leg head by across the street, I raised my hand in greeting, and got a nod of recognition in return. He wasn’t carrying flowers today. Maybe one of these days we’d actually exchange a few words.

  After Gin and I had agreed that I’d start the group text, I told her I had to get home a bit early. I craved a long shower and had to put in more bonding time with Belle. African Greys were very social creatures and needed a lot of interaction or they’d pluck their own feathers. I’d neglected my own Grey far too much this week. I also needed a decent breakfast. Before heading to the shop, I’d composed and sent a text to all of the Cozy Capers except Derrick, listing some of the questions we still needed answers for. I’d encouraged others to add their own questions—and answers.

  Now, much revived with bacon, a bran muffin, a delicious ripe pear, and two scrambled eggs in my belly, I headed inside, ready for whatever this glorious day might bring. But I apparently had that thought too soon. Way, way too soon. Five minutes later Orlean texted me that she was sick and wouldn’t be in. No other explanation, no prognosis for the future. Being my grandmother’s progeny I cursed her under my breath, but only after I’d made sure nobody had wandered into the shop.

  Derrick’s text was next.

  Thanks for offer of late arrival, Sis. Now back home with the Coke. Feeling pretty good. In to work after lunch. Love you.

  Okay. I’d offered, he’d taken. Except I’d counted on Orlean being here. I knew I couldn’t handle the shop solo. It was worth a try to see if my grandmother could help out again. I didn’t know what I’d do otherwise. One of yesterday’s rental customers had gushed over what great service Mrs. Almeida had provided, and how delightful it was to have senior citizens in the work force. All true, and I had smiled and agreed, of course, but I knew Abo Reba had plenty of other things going on in her life. Senior yoga, water aerobics, her bridge group, and a tutoring gig for starters.