Murder on Cape Cod Page 20

  “Some of us?” His voice rose. “Who else?”

  “It’s this mystery book group I’m in. Tulia at the Lobstah Shack, Gin, Zane King from the distillery, Florence Wolanski, a few others. Oh, and Norland Gifford.”

  Haskins’s expression darkened, quite possibly at hearing that a former police chief was in the book group.

  I swallowed and hurried on “For example, Tulia just told me she learned that Katherine Deloit was at the gift shop at two o’clock on Tuesday afternoon and at Jimmy’s Harborside at seven, but nobody knows where she was in between. Which is when the murder must have been committed, right?”

  Haskins opened his mouth, shut it with a frustrated-sounding exhale, and opened it again. “I can see how you might not think it could ‘hurt’ anything to ask a few questions here and there. But may I remind you an actual murderer is walking around out here? This person has not yet been apprehended, and might be feeling safe, maybe getting sloppy. Imagine this, Ms. Almeida. What if this person sees you and your group going around town making inquiries? Your actions are now threatening a killer—an actual real-life murderer—and he or she decides to do away with you, too. That would hurt a lot. It would hurt you and it would hurt me.” He stared at me over the top of his glasses like he already knew I’d nearly been run down by a motorcycle three times my size. Victoria would have told him when she handed over the letter.

  “When you put it that way, I guess you have a point,” I said. “So what have you and yours figured out so far?” I kept my voice upbeat and cheery, not sure if he’d respond to that approach, but it was worth a try.

  He folded his arms, ignoring my question. “Will you promise you’ll stop this amateurish sleuthing you’re doing? And convince your friends to do the same?”

  “All right.” I doubt this murderer would try to kill off an entire cozy mystery book group, but I had no choice but to agree.

  “Good. We do have a team checking alibis. It’s our job.”

  “I know. I promised, didn’t I? At least let me tell you what else I’ve learned.” I waited for his almost imperceptible nod before continuing. “Corwin Germain was married to Orlean Brown, my bike mechanic. She apparently divorced him after he was incarcerated. He came in this morning and wanted to apologize to her. Edwin came in a little later and talked to his brother. He told me Corwin is staying in Bourne.” I caught the detective briefly raising his eyebrows at that last bit. “I don’t know yet if he was in prison with Jake or not. If he was, he could have followed him here to settle an old wrong or a debt, or get revenge.”

  “Thank you. Anything else?”

  “Do you have that picture my niece drew?” I asked.

  He pulled it out of the envelope and spread it on the desk next to the letter.

  “So Derrick told you he gives tours of the lighthouse on weekends. Cokey—that’s his daughter—was with him on Sunday. She told me a lady lost her purse inside and had to go back in to look for it. Everybody else was outside. The picture Cokey drew looked exactly like Katherine Deloit, at least seen through a four-year-old artist’s hand, it did. Deloit could have gone back in and stolen Derrick’s gutting knife.”

  Haskins stretched out his long legs and clasped his hands behind his head. The big yawn that came next made me wonder if he was planning to nap on my information. Through the open window I spied a gull land on the roof of Neptune’s Ice Cream next door and begin a plaintive rising and falling weow cry.

  “What reason would this Deloit woman have to kill Mr. Lacey?” he finally asked.

  “We haven’t quite figured that out yet.” I hated to admit it, but it was the truth.

  “Maybe your brother did away with Lacey.” He tented his fingers.

  “No! I know he didn’t.”

  “Maybe he fed his daughter that story about Deloit and her so-called lost purse.”

  “No.” I tapped my foot. “Cokey is reliable, I’m sure of it.” On the other hand, four-year-olds could be swayed by suggestions, at least as far as I’d read.

  He glanced sideways at me. “Do you have any other suspects up your sleeve?”

  This was so frustrating. “Not really. I texted you about Wesley Farnham, the rich guy Gin Malloy has staying in her B&B, who was interested in custom fishing knives. The one who knew Jake growing up. And we’ve seen a young woman around town somewhere who looked happy before Jake’s death and devastated afterward. But we haven’t been able to locate her.”

  “Welcome to my life, Ms. Almeida. Investigating a homicide is not safe, easy, or straightforward.” He sat up straight again. “But I beg you, leave the investigation to me and my team. You don’t want the next attempt on your life to be successful.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I trotted down the steps in front of the station. “The next attempt” was definitely a reference to my encounter with the Harley-Davidson. The detective really, really didn’t want me—or any of the Capers—to be poking around. I most certainly didn’t want to be the second murder victim in a week. And yet . . . no, no “yet,” I scolded myself. It was time to take this business seriously. I sat on a step, pulled out my phone, and opened the group text.

  Big Harley almost ran me down in front of Book Nook today. Apparently on purpose. Someone delivered threatening note to my door last pm. Det. Haskins told us to stop investigating. We don’t want a Caper to be next victim, right? Sadly, cease and desist, O sleuths.

  I hit Send, even though I didn’t want to. Leaning against the iron railing at the bottom of the steps, I bumped my scraped elbow. The attack by the Harley raced up to the top of my consciousness and I shivered, as if it was charging at me all over again. My heart jackhammered in my chest, my hands turned sweaty, and I wanted to leap off the steps and hide. I forced myself to breathe deeply. I looked around, admonishing myself. I stood in front of the town police department, after all. I should be safe here, at least from attacking motorcycles.

  When I’d talked myself down, I pictured those orange stripes again. Or were they lines spraying out from something? How could I ever figure out what they were part of? Would it really be so bad if I put the Capers on the case? Not by asking questions in public, of course. It had to be safe, however, to do an Internet hunt for a motorcycle logo with a spray of orange. I returned to the text.

  Saw small spray of orange lines on Harley. Dealer logo? Motorcycle club? Can one of you search? Internet only, tho. Not in public.

  There. That was done. I supposed it was time to get back to the shop. Not pop into the distillery and ask Zane what else he’d learned. Not swing by Gin’s and do the same. Not call Flo again and see where I could meet her. I swore under my breath, but Haskins was right. Public snooping was exactly that—public. If I was being watched, it would be clear what I was doing. At least it would be clear to the person who’d threatened me twice.

  “Ms. Almeida,” a man’s voice hailed me from down the block. I whipped my head in that direction to see Wesley Farnham. Had any of us ever learned anything useful about him? I shook my head. Not our job, not our job. I had to internalize that mantra. I stood and waited for him to approach. He was outfitted in the same vein as the first time I’d met him, except in a traffic cone motif: orange shirt and white pants. When he got close I saw a sailboat logo on his shirt instead of the upended whale.

  “How’s your house search going?” I asked.

  “I believe I have found my cottage.” He beamed. “A modest abode up in Pocasset.”

  A modest abode. With his apparent riches? “That’s great.”

  “I’ll be gutting and adding onto it, of course, but it’s a scenic setting.”

  Of course.

  “It’s just what I wanted.” The smile slid off his face. “I was deeply troubled to hear of my old friend’s death. Poor Jacob.” He shook his head. “And by a violent hand, to boot.”

  “It’s really awful.”

  “The police,” he waved his ringed hand at the building behind us, “somehow discovered my past connectio
n with Jacob and paid me a visit. I didn’t mind a bit, and told them all I knew about my old friend. And I said if there was anything further I could do to assist, they should not hesitate to ask me.” He lifted his chin blinking solemnly, looking like the serious businessman he must be, or at least probably thought of himself as.

  “When were you friends? High school?” Maybe my Google search had missed something.

  His smile was a sad one. “We were next-door neighbors. Inseparable as boys. But we grew apart, had different goals in life. Jacob dropped out of high school, and I went on to Yale.” He gazed up at a small airplane droning by. “You get to my age, Ms. Almeida, and you’re seized with the urge to look up people who knew you when you were young. I missed my chance with Jacob.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t get to visit with him before he died.”

  “I, as well. Good to chat with you. I must be off.” He held out his hand.

  I shook it and watched him head briskly in the direction of Salty Taffy’s. Was he telling the truth? I didn’t have any real reason to believe he wasn’t. On the other hand, there were plenty of great liars out there. And at least one right here in Westham.

  I needed to be off, too. But before I could start walking, the telltale rumbling putts of overpowered motorcycles grew louder from the north end of town. My heart revved up. I glanced in all directions. I could hardly swallow, my throat was so thick. I wiped my hands on my shorts as they grew nearer and nearer. All I wanted to do was dash behind the building, or better, run back inside, lock the door behind me, and cower.

  “Mackenzie, calm down,” I admonished myself out loud. Was an entire club of Harley owners going to race up on the sidewalk and go after me on the steps of the police station? Of course not. The riders came into view, a rumble of ten or more. Black leather vests, bare arms pushed back from Easy Rider handlebars, and sure enough, little Hitler helmets. They rode right on past me. Of course they did. My being attacked once didn’t mean every Harley on the Cape was out to get me. Far from it. Still, I didn’t let myself relax until their backs and taillights were in view.

  I whacked myself on the head. Because of my panic attack, I’d missed a primo opportunity to glimpse any decals on these Harleys, to look for that spray of orange. The motorcycles had been going nice and slow, too. Shoot. I peered down the street. My spirits lifted with my eyebrows when I saw the motorcycles slow and turn off one by one. The noise fell silent, too. I squinted. If I wasn’t mistaken, they’d just filled the parking lot next to the Lobstah Shack.

  It was clearly time for me to go back to my shop. And if I happened to admire a few monster two-wheeled machines on my way, who could blame me?

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Dejected, I turned toward Mac’s Bikes. I’d strolled through the parking lot and casually examined the motorcycles, admiring them, taking a couple of pictures with my phone. But I hadn’t seen a single decal like the one I thought I’d seen on the attack Harley. With any luck, one of the Capers would dig it out of the vast library of images that was the Internet, instead. I glanced across at Zane’s. I really did need to pick up a bottle of wine for dinner. Even if the villain was watching me, it would appear to be a reasonable shopping stop, especially if I actually came out holding an elongated paper bag.

  Once again looking both ways, and keeping my ears alert for any motorcycle noises, I hurried across Main Street. But when my gaze fell on Yoshinoya, the Japanese restaurant, my thoughts fell on the young woman none of us had identified. The one I’d seen weeping. The one Zane’s husband Stephen had seen eating a happy dinner with Jake in this very restaurant on when? Had it been Monday? The idea of including a Japanese appetizer in tonight’s meal occurred to me, so I detoured into the doorway, which stood open to the summery air.

  Blue and white rectangles of curtains that hung down to chin level in the doorway to the back were decorated with bold white slashes of characters. The glass front of the sushi bar showed a dozen slabs of fish, all nestled neatly in crushed ice. The air smelled delectably of seafood, seaweed, and soy, with a tang of vinegar in the background. I definitely needed to get over here for a full meal one day soon. I saw only two customers, a couple at a small table in the front window. By their smiles and mostly empty plates they seemed to be enjoying their late lunch of tempura and fat nori rolls while splitting a liter of Sapporo.

  I strolled up to the sushi bar and waited until a young woman in a kimono-style jacket over skinny jeans ducked through the curtains.

  “Can I help you?” Her features looked like she might be part Asian but her English was a hundred percent American.

  “I wanted to get a takeout order of seaweed salad, one cucumber nori roll, and an order of inari.” I had a real weakness for inari, the moist, slightly sweet pockets of fried tofu stuffed with sushi rice.

  “Certainly.” She jotted down the items on an order pad.

  “How long will the wait be?” I could pop over to Zane’s and get my wine if it was going to take a while.

  “Not very long. It’ll be right up.” She called out something I didn’t understand and started to head to the back.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “My name is Mac Almeida. I own Mac’s Bikes here in town. Could I ask you a question?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  I kept my voice low, on the extremely rare chance that one of the diners was the murderer. “I am trying to find a young woman who ate dinner here on Monday. Were you working that day?”

  “Monday.” She frowned. “Yes, of course.”

  “She’s slender with long light hair, and was with a man maybe twenty years older. Pointed chin, straw-colored hair, also thin.”

  The waitress gazed around the nearly empty restaurant as if thinking. “Yes, I remember them,” she finally said.

  “Do you happen to know who they were?” I asked.

  “I think I have seen him around town. Not her, and I don’t think he’s ever eaten here before. And I heard her call him Dad.”

  Dad? Jake was her father? I didn’t know he even had a family. They certainly didn’t live here in Westham or I was sure I would have heard of them.

  “Did you happen to hear him address her by name?” I asked.

  “Yes, he called her Wendy. They shared a bottle of sake. They both seemed kind of, I don’t know. Happy, but cautious about it. Like they couldn’t quite trust the feeling. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure,” I replied, although I wasn’t sure it did. What did make sense was that this Wendy would be weeping after she heard of Jake’s death. Who wouldn’t weep at learning of their father’s murder? Maybe not Oedipus, but I was willing to bet Wendy had neither the desire to kill Jake nor the strength to actually plunge a knife into him. She was only a little bit of a thing.

  A man in a white chef’s tunic and a white cap hurried in behind the sushi bar, nodded at me, and proceeded to assemble my nori roll with speedy dexterity. Without looking up he barked something at the waitress.

  “Excuse me. I’ll have your order ready in a minute.” She disappeared behind the curtains.

  The chef handed me a small plate holding a single serving of sushi rice topped with tamago, the slice of distinctly Japanese omelet, complete with its tiny nori belt. “On za house.”

  I thanked him and popped the complimentary treat into my mouth, savoring the perfect combination of savory and sweet. As I chewed, I watched the chef without really seeing him. Wendy. Wendy Lacey? Why would she be cautious about seeing her father? Maybe they hadn’t seen each other in a while. Maybe she lived out of state and this was their first visit in years. Or they’d been estranged and finally were able to get beyond whatever the hurt had been. Or had she been given up for adoption and just found her birth father? No matter the reason, the shock at Jake’s death must have struck his daughter doubly hard if she hadn’t seen him in a while and had seemed happy about finally reuniting. I shook my head. I could spin fantasy tales forever but they wouldn’t get me the truth.

  I was
about to take out my phone and do a search on her name, assuming she shared the surname Lacey with Jake, when the waitress reappeared with a paper bag. I abandoned that project, instead paying my bill in cash. I thanked both her and the chef and made my way out.

  I had no idea how Wendy was important to the murder investigation. But it was information, and that had to count.

  A minute later I was inside Zane’s store. I didn’t see him at first glance, so I once again browsed the wine selection. The store seemed empty. Maybe a sunny day like today drew boaters and cookout chefs to the beer store instead of here. I selected an Alexander Valley pinot noir and brought my bottle to the register.

  When no one appeared, I called, “Hello?”

  A woman of about fifty hurried in from the back. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Did you find everything you needed?” Her smile signaled welcome, but she most certainly wasn’t my friend, the proprietor.

  “Where’s Zane?”

  “He takes weekends off.” She lifted the wine. “Will this be all?”

  Darn. I was glad Zane had carved out time for himself. But it meant I wouldn’t be huddling with him to solve the mystery of Wendy Maybe-Lacey after all. Not now, not here, anyway.

  * * *

  I should have cut my sleuthing short earlier. Mac’s Bikes was hopping with Saturday business when I eased in the back door at about three thirty. I’d taken a minute to stop by my house, drop off the wine and Japanese treats, and say hi to Belle. I also washed and bandaged my elbow and hung out at the house long enough to add a note to the Capers’ group message thread. I told them about discovering Wendy’s identity as Jake’s daughter, and asked if anyone had seen her in the last couple of days. None of the group had added any new information, but folks were probably enjoying their weekends or working. I was sure Gin’s candy shop was also a whirlwind today.

  I also dutifully sent Detective Haskins a text giving him the Yoshinoya waitress’s name and telling him what she’d told me about Wendy’s name and her addressing Jake as her father. I mentioned, in an only slight white lie, that the waitress had volunteered the information when I was in the restaurant ordering takeout.