Murder on Cape Cod Page 16

  Also, what Cokey had said about the lady on the lighthouse tour was bugging me. I gazed out at a cedar branch bobbing in the late afternoon light as if focusing my eyes would also focus my brain. Last night Derrick told the detective he’d led a couple of tours on Sunday, and that everyone signed the book. Haskins had said he would come and get the book today. Had he? I jabbed at Derrick’s cell number.

  “Ya miss me already?” was how he answered.

  “No. I mean, sure. Listen, did the police come get the lighthouse tour book today? Where you said people sign their names? Did Haskins or one of his people stop by and pick it up?”

  “As far as I know they didn’t.”

  I heard Cokey’s high voice in the background, and the clink of flatware on plates.

  Derrick went on. “But I was out all afternoon, as you know. I’m still not home. Having dinner with the parents. Why? What’s up?”

  “When you go home, do me a favor and type those names from Sunday into an e-mail? Names, and any other information, if you have it.”

  He waited just long enough before speaking for me to know he was either suspicious of my motives or reluctant to comply.

  “Please?” I added.

  “I guess. I’d like to know what you want them for, though. And that you’re not trying to do the detective’s work for him.”

  “I’m not, and I appreciate the favor. Glad you’re back among the sober and living, Derrick. Sorry, gotta go.” I disconnected in a hurry. I didn’t want to answer any questions.

  I slouched in my chair. Belle climbed over to her roost and set up a bobbing motion with her head. “I’m happy,” she crooned, extending her wings and swaying side to side. I laughed out loud, always my reaction when she danced to her favorite tune. I found Pharrell Williams singing “Happy” on YouTube and let her rock out for the duration of the song.

  When it was over, she pleaded, “Please? Please gimme a treat. I love you, Mac.”

  Belle could get me out of any emotional darkness I’d ever experienced. Why didn’t counseling centers and psychologists prescribe owning a bird for depression? Apply parrot wisdom, dancing, and questions daily. Pay attention to the bird, including feeding and cleaning. That should remedy any blues on the planet. I twisted to look at Belle.

  “Do you?” I asked. “Do you want a treat? That was good dancing.” I drained my beer.

  Belle hopped down and marched to the kitchen counter where I kept the cookie jar of seed-filled delicacies. I followed her over, of course. It didn’t do much good for one’s self-image to start making a bird happy and then foil their pleasure.

  I’d just handed Belle her treat when my phone trilled.

  She paused with the treat in one claw halfway to her black beak. “Just a sec! Just a sec!” she squawked.

  I suppressed a smile. How many times had I’d said exactly that phrase when the phone rang while I was mid-shower?

  “Telephone, Mac,” she went on. “Telephone for Belle.”

  “It might be for me, you know.”

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Edwin here.” His deep voice resonated through the device. “You called me?”

  How had I not remembered his voice? The man could get a job on the radio, or doing voice-overs for movie trailers.

  “Hi, Edwin. This is Mac, Joseph’s daughter. We met the other day.”

  “Yes, I remember. What can I do for you?” He kept his tone on the formal side.

  And why not? I was the boss’s daughter, after all. “I, um . . . well, I was wondering if you might, sort of, consider—”

  I cut off my words. I was sure I was blowing this, big time. Why was I so nervous? Maybe because the shop was my life and livelihood? And because I couldn’t imagine why he would say yes to the gig.

  My phone rang again. The exact ring tone. I glared at Belle and shook my head firmly. She stopped imitating the tone and marched off to her cage, muttering, “Telephone for Belle. Belle’s a bad bird.”

  “And you hoped I might go out with you, is that what you’re trying to say?” Edwin asked.

  Cripes. He thought I was flirting, trying to get a date with him. Thanks very much, Mr. Edwin accountant man, but no thanks.

  “No, in fact, I wasn’t angling for a date,” I said. “And I’m sure your dance ticket is fully booked. Um, so to speak.”

  “Fully booked. Yes, indeed.” He sounded like he was barely suppressing chest-heaving waves of laughter.

  I swallowed and told myself firmly to get on with it. “No, the reason I called is that I need some part-time help in the bike shop and I wondered if you’d be interested.”

  A moment of silence. Another one, broken only by Belle learning new words in the background, muttering, “Hi, Edwin. Hi, Edwin. Um, hello?” I could listen to her all day, but Edwin’s lack of response was getting odd.

  “Edwin? Did you hear me?”

  He laughed with a low rumbling sound. “Yes, ma’am. I heard you. So you need help in the shop, and you’re not even interested in potential applicants submitting their resumes? Just a tip, hon, but it’s good business practice to make sure an applicant is qualified for a position before you go around offering jobs to people. That said, I’d love to work in the best bike shop up Cape.”

  “Really? That would be such a huge help. How does tomorrow look?” I crossed my fingers, and for good measure, crossed my eyes, too.

  “What time?”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Greta’s Grains was rocking. On Friday nights Tim hosted Brews and Breads, or Bs & Bs, as it had come to be known. He hired musicians, served beer and wine, and made up various whole-grain flatbreads and other delicious baked munchies. It was a big success so far, with every seat taken on Friday evenings and plenty of people standing at the counter, too, the counter doubling tonight as a bar.

  This week the music was provided by a group from Newburyport up in the northeast corner of the state. Also a touristy coastal town, it was friendly to artists and writers, and if Liz Frame and the Kickers were any indication, a whole lot of talent lived up that way. Liz set the style for the women in the group, who wore cowgirl boots with short skirts. A couple of men played in the background, but it was clearly a female-centric group. Liz, tall and energetic with cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a rich contralto, sang lyrics of her own creation and played guitar. A slight woman wearing a big smile worked a stand-up electric bass, and another younger woman played drums with enough energy to light the bakery for a year if it was harnessed.

  I perched on a stool at the end of the bar and sipped from my glass of white, tapping my foot to the beat. Tim was working hard, pouring beverages, serving up slices, and schmoozing. His helper tonight was a multi-pierced high school kid with green hair who also worked in the bakery. She ran her feet off clearing tables, washing glasses, and bringing warm flatbreads out from the back. Tonight’s offerings were an olive-with-caramelized-onion pie and a spicy Southwestern bread topped with chilies and jack cheese. Tim had also made gourmet pigs-in-a-bun and some kind of turnover stuffed with ground lamb and Middle Eastern seasonings.

  Sounded like dinner to me. “I want one of each,” I told Tim. I was definitely not a vegetarian, holding a particular place in my heart for hot dogs. I knew raising meat was not the best way to feed the world’s population, but I justified my preferences by not eating much in the way of meat despite how much I loved it.

  A minute later I had a mouth full of lamb pie when a person angled up to the counter next to me, his tattooed arm sliding onto the counter, fingers tapping a rapid beat on the polished wood.

  “Can I get a Sam Summer?” the arm’s owner asked Tim, referring to Sam Adams seasonal offering, the Summer Ale.

  The deep voice was familiar. I looked up to see . . . almost Edwin. Huh? The extent of the tats on this man’s arms matched Edwin’s, and his face looked similar. He had the same black hair, the same lean build. And yet this wasn’t my father’s brainy accountant. He was older, more worn, in a plaid fl
annel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. But he had to be a blood relative, and likely a brother.

  “Hi. Are you related to Edwin?” I asked after swallowing a bite of the best turnover I’d ever eaten.

  He glanced at me for a second, dark eyes wide, and then looked away. His knee jittered, fast. “Never heard of him.”

  Really? “Sorry. You look a lot like him. I’m Mac Almeida.” I wiped off my right hand and extended it for a handshake, but since the dude wasn’t looking at me, that didn’t happen. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  He fixed his dark eyes on me. “And you can forget you did.” His whole body quivered like he had to get out of there. He slid his arm off the bar, muttering, “Never should have . . .” He pushed through the crowd and disappeared out the front door.

  Tim set a full and frosty Pilsner glass on the bar next to me. “Where’d the ink go?”

  I shrugged. “He left.” I gazed at the door and was about to tell Tim how I thought his lost customer was connected to my dad’s accountant. Instead, someone at the other end of the bar called out for a Sam Summer. My boyfriend flashed me his sparkling smile and whisked the beer away. My encounter with Tattoo was certainly the shortest and oddest I’d had as long as Tim had been running Bs & Bs. Could the guy really not be related to Edwin? If he wasn’t, why did introducing myself make him nervous enough to walk out so precipitously? And if he was related, why deny it? Could any of this be related to Jake’s murder? I didn’t know how, but so many odd things had been happening lately, it wouldn’t surprise me.

  My food was getting cold. I dug in, but my brain kept spinning.

  Tim returned and leaned toward me. “What’d you do to scare that guy away, anyway?”

  I frowned. “First I asked if he was Edwin’s brother.”

  “Who’s Edwin?”

  “He’s my dad’s new accountant. I only met him a couple of days ago. He doesn’t really look the part of a numbers man—he’s got as much ink on his arms as our mystery man had.” Plus a do-rag.

  “Tattoos shouldn’t affect a brain that’s good at working with figures.”

  “Exactly. Pa says he’s good at what he does, and that’s all that counts. He’s right, of course, as are you. Anyway, the dude who was in here denied he was related to Edwin, but they appeared and sounded so similar. And it was funny, he didn’t look at me when he said he wasn’t a relative. Then when I introduced myself—bam, he’s gone.”

  “Maybe it was this Edwin’s doppelgänger. His spirit twin,” Tim said before being summoned elsewhere again.

  Bs & Bs was always like this. My guy and I never got more than a few words together, but I liked to come, anyway. The atmosphere was fun and the eats were always great. Plus, frankly, the interactions were a lot more interesting than talking with Belle all evening. A girl with a vocabulary the size of hers? Conversation could only go so far. Also, I hadn’t heard the word doppelgänger in a long time. But “spirit” twin? I thought it meant more like “evil” twin.

  I was sitting contentedly sipping and munching when Lincoln Haskins appeared at the bar.

  “Yo, Detective.” I caught his eye.

  He made his way toward me through the scrum of thirsty newcomers.

  “Ms. Almeida. Enjoying yourself, by the looks of it.”

  “I am. It’s Friday night. Buy you a beer?”

  He gave me an inscrutable look. I wasn’t sure if he was thinking, Who is this idiot? Can’t she see I’m on duty? or That was sweet of her. Wish I could.

  “Thanks, but no.” He leaned on the wall next to me, shoved his hands in his pockets, and surveyed the crowd. “Did you happen to see a man in here with heavily inked arms? Black hair? Plaid shirt?”

  “I did, a few minutes ago. He looked familiar. I thought he was the brother of a guy who works for my dad.”

  “Is he still here? The one I asked you about?”

  I shook my head. “He left without staying. Actually, he split after I asked if he was Edwin’s brother. That seemed to spook him somehow. It’s just that Edwin has tattoos on his arms exactly like that guy’s, and their voices sounded similar. They looked related in their faces, too.”

  Haskins tilted his head to the side and forward, gazing at me with the intensity of a laser. “Does this Edwin have a last name?”

  “Germain.”

  Haskins’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. I almost missed it. He blew out a breath.

  “I met Edwin at my parents’ place. You know, the parsonage. He’s my father’s accountant.” I twisted in the direction of laughter coming from the area in front of the band. Someone had cleared a bit of a dance floor, and who should be holding beers and rocking out in the middle of it but Gin . . . and Edwin? I hadn’t seen either of them come in, and didn’t realize they even knew each other. I drained my wine, planning to join them. I never wanted to start the dancing alone. Once a group was on the floor I was happy to join in, and I didn’t feel I had to bring a partner with me, either. Maybe Edwin could tell Haskins who his tattooed brother—or not-brother—was, too.

  “See that guy dancing with Gin Malloy?” I said, gesturing with my chin. Abo Reba had ingrained in me that it’s rude to point.

  “See who? I don’t know a Gin Malloy.”

  “That couple. She has thick chestnut-colored hair. The guy is Edwin. He’s wearing long sleeves, but his arms have a lot of tattoos.”

  “Ahh.” He folded his arms but didn’t move.

  “Are you going to talk with him now?”

  Haskins shook his head.

  “Then, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to dance with them.”

  He nodded, but kept his eyes on Edwin.

  * * *

  When the band took a well-earned break, I joined Edwin and Gin at a small table. Edwin, sans do-rag tonight, turned out to have hair about as long as my one-inch style, and as curly. He wore a long-sleeved pressed shirt untucked over jeans and sandals. After I’d hit the dance floor, I’d seen Haskins take a seat at a small table on the far wall. He was still there.

  “Another of the same?” Edwin gestured toward Gin’s bottle.

  “I’d love one, thanks.”

  “Mac?” he asked.

  I felt Gin’s gaze on me, questioning how he knew my name.

  “A Cape Cod IPA, please.” I pulled a twenty out of my bag.

  Edwin held up a palm. “This round’s on me.”

  After he headed to the bar, Gin leaned in my direction. “How does he know you?”

  “He’s Pa’s new accountant. How do you know Edwin?”

  “I don’t. I just started dancing and he appeared.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you think he’s cute?”

  “Uh, yeah, if you like cuties in their twenties.” I wrinkled my nose. “Isn’t he a little young for you?”

  “Relax, Mac. I’m not going to do anything about it. I can look, can’t I? Hey, did you hear about the owl?” Gin, a devoted birder, gazed at me with bright eyes.

  “What owl?”

  “There’s an Eastern screech owl nesting in a dead tree right here behind the bakery. It’s fabulous.”

  “Are they rare?”

  “No, but they usually hide. Their feathers are speckled and they’re hard to spot. This one is sitting in a hollow twenty-five feet up and doesn’t seem to mind all kinds of people walking up and staring, taking pictures, exclaiming about it.”

  “Interesting.” And that must have been exactly what Katherine Deloit had been checking out with her binoculars. Not my shop. The bakery was only four doors down from Mac’s Bikes, after all. Maybe she wasn’t exactly sure where the bird had taken up residence.

  Gin surveyed the room, then leaned closer to me. “Who’s that big guy sitting with his back to the wall? You were talking with him at the bar.”

  I didn’t have to check out who she meant. “That’s Detective Haskins. The one investigating Jake’s death.”

  She nodded slowly. “Don’t look, but he see
ms to have his eye on Edwin.”

  I couldn’t help looking, of course. When I did, Haskins met my gaze. Caught in the act. I smiled and gave a little wave, then turned back to Gin.

  Edwin returned with three open bottles. “Cheers,” he said, sitting. “You ladies are chatting like you’re old friends already.”

  “We are,” I said. “This is Gin Malloy. Gin, Edwin Germain.”

  “Cool to meet you, Gin. I enjoyed dancing with you.”

  “Same here,” Gin replied. “I hope the music starts up again soon so we can get back at it.”

  “Edwin’s also a cyclist, and he’s going to help me out in the shop part-time,” I told Gin. I’d really lucked out with that stab in the dark, asking him if he was interested.

  “That I am,” he said. “I’m a pretty quick study. Shouldn’t take me long to learn your system and what needs to be done.”

  I’d briefly outlined to him on the phone what I needed and why. We’d go into plenty more details tomorrow.

  “I’ll be at the shop tomorrow to walk you through it,” I said. “But I don’t want to have to be working every weekend all summer, and as I said, my employee seems to be a bit AWOL for now. Even if she reappears, I need to have at least two people working, especially on summer weekends.”

  “You got it,” he said.

  “So this band’s pretty good, isn’t it?” Gin asked.

  I spied Suzanne coming in the front door, and turned away from the two of them as they started talking about the music. Suzanne was followed in by a tall, silver-haired woman I thought for a fantasy moment was the uber-bestselling Canadian mystery author Louise Penny. It would be exactly like Suzanne to flaunt a guest of her caliber in public and not tell the Cozy Capers of her visit. Not that Penny’s books were cozies, exactly, despite featuring an enchanting fictional village in Quebec. But she certainly wrote traditional mysteries, of which cozies were a subset. On second look I realized it was only a tall, silver-haired woman with a kind, congenial smile. She’d come in with the bookstore manager, who now took a perch at the bar next to her.