Murder on Cape Cod Read online

  Now I was in the middle of my own whirlwind. Orlean looked frazzled as two customers waited with increasingly impatient body language for her to fix a flat and a slipped chain. I would have jumped in to help her, but we had only the one workstation. Which was possibly poor planning on my part.

  “We’ll be right with you, folks,” I said in my most reassuring owner voice.

  Over on the rental/retail side, Edwin looked like he’d always worked here, talking up customers and demoing bikes. Derrick, on the other hand, perched atop the high stool behind the counter and worked his phone.

  “How’s it going, bro?” I asked, sidling up next to him.

  “Mac.” He glanced at the phone in his hand and pressed something before sliding it into his back pocket. “I was checking on Cokey. She’s been invited to stay for dinner at her little friend’s. I told the mother it was fine.” He smiled a little wistfully. “That’s a first, her being asked to dinner. What’s next? The prom? Her moving out? This childhood thing is racing by way too fast.”

  I punched his arm lightly. “And you’re enjoying every minute of it.”

  “Doing my best.” His eyes looked haunted, but his shoulders were squared and he looked ready to take on the world. “She’s the number one reason I have to stay sober, I’ll tell you.”

  I was gladder than glad to hear him say that. “For sure. So has it been this busy the whole time I was gone?” I vaguely gestured at the room and the family Edwin was currently engaged with.

  “Pretty much.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Were you out being Girl Detective?”

  I scrunched up my nose. “A little. Until a big-ass motorcycle tried to run me down.” I kept my voice low so I didn’t scare off the customers.

  “Mac, are you all right?” The alarm on his face was obvious.

  “I am. I only scraped my elbow.” I held it up in evidence. “Later I met with the detective for a little bit, too.”

  “Haskins?”

  “The very one. He basically told me—the whole group—to cease and desist investigating. He said next time I could be hurt a lot worse. I agreed. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I can’t seem to help myself. I stopped into Yoshinoya to get a couple appetizers for dinner. I asked the waitress about a young woman Stephen saw eating there with Jake on Monday. The same one who looked devastated a few days later. Turns out her name is Wendy, and she addressed Jake as Dad.”

  Derrick’s eyebrows zoomed up. He whistled. “Wait a second.” He tapped the counter. “What does she look like?”

  “Slim, long light hair. I didn’t see her up close so I don’t know her eye color or anything. I don’t think she was wearing glasses.”

  He nodded in slow motion. “I think I saw her talking to Pa yesterday.”

  “To Pa?” My voice zoomed up almost as fast as Derrick’s eyebrows had. “Why?”

  “I suppose in his role as pastoral counselor. You know, all kinds of people come to him with their concerns.”

  “True. People who aren’t interested in going to confession at Our Lady of the Sea but still need somebody wise to talk to. And Pa’s nothing if not both wise and a good listener. I wonder if he’d talk to me about her.”

  Derrick gave me one of his “Are-you-an-idiot?” looks. “Mackie. As if. You know how he holds confidences sacred.”

  “You’re right. Of course he does.”

  A cheerful noisy group of a dozen young adults swept in, helmets in hand, sunburned cheeks and windblown hair all. The smell of beer breath swept in right along with them. They’d each signed my standard form saying they wouldn’t ride a Mac’s Bikes rental while intoxicated, but of course I had no way to enforce the rule. Or any way to discover if they had unless someone got in an accident with the bike and the police got involved.

  My chat time with Derrick was over. He started doing intake on the group’s bikes and I headed over to the other side to help Orlean with repairs. But what I really wanted to do was drop in on my father and convince him to talk with me about Wendy. Or at least tell me how to find her.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  After I locked the shop at five thirty—one of these days I should simply change my closing time on the sign to correspond to reality—I power-walked down the sidewalk toward the UU church and my parents’ house. I’d extracted promises from both Derrick and Orlean that they would run Mac’s Bikes tomorrow, and I’d left it all tidy and squared away.

  Now I had to see if Pa would talk with me about Wendy, despite Derrick’s caution that he wouldn’t. I was pretty sure he would keep her confidences, but I felt driven to give it a try. I could grab the lobster meat from Tulia’s on my way back, and I should have time if I hurried. I’d invited Tim for six thirty. It didn’t matter if everything wasn’t ready ahead of time. Tim was always happy to help me cook, or even take over the meal preparation, which suited me just fine.

  I was forced to dodge tourists right and left. Tourists holding maps. Tourists licking ice cream cones. Tourists laughing as they walked out of the pub. Tourists everywhere. They were key to the success of my business, but they definitely got in the way when you wanted to get somewhere in a hurry.

  I slowed as I approached the big white church. The parsonage occupied the property on the far side, and Pa’s office was in a low building that looked like an afterthought, stuck onto the side of the church between it and the parsonage. On a whim, I trotted up the wide granite steps of the church first. Ever since I was little I’d loved to sit in a back pew of the sanctuary when it was empty. The sounds of the world were muted, distant. The spiritual space had brought me peace and solace on many an occasion when I’d needed it. Even when I didn’t, I still appreciated the solid construction, the scent of antique woodwork, and the little creaks and emanations of a building a hundred and fifty years old. Light flowed in from the tall windows on both sides and from the high windows in the front. In spring and summer the sunlight danced with the leaves outside, and in late fall and winter it was clean and pure with nothing but bare branches to block it.

  Pulling open the heavy door, I slipped into the foyer and closed it softly behind me. Pa always left the front door unlocked during daylight hours, wanting the public to feel welcome. So far that public hadn’t betrayed his trust; the church had never been vandalized. The door to the sanctuary stood open, so I walked in on cloud feet, a term Cokey used to describe walking softly. I gazed up at the balcony that ran on three sides of the church, its floors slanting gently up to the wall behind so all pews had a view of the altar. Derrick and I and our friends had sometimes played hide-and-seek up there while Pa was writing sermons.

  I was about to slide into a pew at the side when I glimpsed movement. My senses went on alert. Had I been I followed here? Was this the next scene of attack, as sacrilegious as that would be? I absolutely did not want to be alone in a church with a murderer. I’d better get out while I could. I grabbed my phone out of my bag. And halted.

  I peered at the front pew. I heard a sniff and saw hair the color of Cape sand. That was no murderer at prayer, no Harley driver pretending to worship. That was Jake’s daughter. Exactly who I wanted to see. I cleared my throat.

  “Hello?” I kept my voice light and friendly as I walked up the center aisle until I came to a slight figure bent over with her elbows on her knees. “Excuse me.” I waited.

  She sniffed again and swiped at her eyes. She gazed over at me. “I’m sorry. Do I need to leave?” Her green-gray eyes were rimmed with the red of a crying jag.

  I glanced down at my Macs Bikes polo shirt and navy shorts. Did I look like a minister? “No, of course not. Are you all right? Can I do anything?” I perched on the end of the pew, twisted half toward her.

  She gazed down. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “Don’t be. We all go through tough times. And isn’t this the best place to be?” I gestured at the sanctuary. “My name is Mac Almeida. I’ve spent my whole life coming in here, sitting alone, finding pea
ce when I needed it. It’s perfectly fine for you to do that, too.”

  “Almeida?” She looked at me as if for the first time. “You’re related to Joseph?”

  I smiled. “His daughter.” Now that I was near her, I could spot ways she resembled her own father. Her slim build, the color of her hair, although she had rounded cheeks where Jake’s had been lean. And on her Jake’s pointy chin was softer, and made her face look heart-shaped.

  “Joseph has been so helpful to me, since . . .” Her voice trailed off and she sniffed again, looking like full-blown tears were about to spill over.

  “He’s like that. Did something bad happen to you recently?” Pretending my way into the conversation wasn’t my finest moment, but it didn’t seem like a huge crime.

  “The worst.” She swallowed. “I didn’t grow up with a father, not like you. I just found him. Only last week. And now he’s dead.”

  “I’m so sorry, um . . . what’s your name?”

  “Wendy. Wendy Rawson.”

  “I’m so sorry, Wendy.” I reached over and patted her hand where she’d rested it on the seat. “A man died here in town this week. Was your father Jake Lacey?” Why did she have a different last name? Maybe her mom had remarried.

  She nodded. “We had dinner together Monday. I’d been looking for him for a long time and finally made contact. I took the bus here from Fall River where I live. We made plans to spend more time with each other.” She blew her nose, and exhaled. Maybe the tears weren’t on the surface, after all. “He made me laugh, and I immediately forgave him for deserting Mom and me when I was a baby. That’s why I have my mom’s last name, not his. But now he’s gone.”

  What a shame. I couldn’t even imagine her pain. As dysfunctional as Jake was, still, he’d met with Wendy, was kind to her, and clearly wanted to establish a father-daughter relationship.

  “He said he’d learned that he’d inherited some wealth recently, enough to get him back on his feet,” Wendy went on. “That was the way he put it.”

  “He’d told me he was coming into some money, too.” But not that he’d inherited it. From whom? And who did he learn about it from? Maybe Jake had been the target of the private investigator hanging around town. “Did you happen to talk to the police yet?” I asked.

  “No. Your father said I should, but . . .” She picked at a thread on her jeans with a ragged nail. “Mac, it’s all so hard.”

  “I know. But I think you’re going to have to. The detective, Lincoln Haskins, is a good guy. He won’t be mean or anything.” He’d better not be. “Would you like me to go with you? Or better, my dad?”

  “I guess. Joseph already offered, too, and he said he knows the guy’s phone number.” She sat up a little straighter. “Joseph said it might help them find the person who, who killed my dad.”

  Should I tell her I was the one who found Jake’s body? I decided to. If she heard it from anyone else, she’d know I’d held out on her. I reached over and patted her hand.

  “I should tell you that I was actually the person who discovered Jake was dead.”

  Her intake of breath was sudden and harsh. She brought her hand to her mouth, staring at me. “You were?”

  I nodded.

  Her eyes searched my face. “Will you, could you, tell me what happened? I think I need to know. All I’ve heard was that he was murdered.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Please.” Her face calmed, and she folded her hands in her lap, giving me all her attention.

  I took a deep breath. “I was coming home that night on the bike trail, and he was lying on the ground. He was already gone.”

  She nodded slowly, now studying her hands.

  Outside the church bell rang six times. Because it was a hundred feet and many layers of building above our head, the sound was muted, but it still said six o’clock.

  Tulia’s closing time. Rats. There went my lobster salad.

  “It’s six.” Wendy stood. “Your parents asked me to dinner. They’re awfully nice, and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Where are you staying?” I knew Detective Haskins was going to want to know.

  “I’m staying at the Seaview Motel. It’s not that great, but all I could afford. I’d better get over to the parsonage now.”

  “Go, then.” I stood, too. “I’m so glad we got a chance to meet and to talk.”

  “Me too, Mac.” She reached out and hugged me. “Thank you. I promise I’ll call the police tonight.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The normalcy of being home with Belle and Tim had never been so comforting.

  By means of a near sprint, I’d managed to snag my lobster meat from Tulia before she closed, so we weren’t going to have to eat hot dogs or some other last-minute dinner solution. I’d taken a minute to text Haskins about Wendy Rawson, in case she chickened out about contacting him. I didn’t want to be accused of withholding information. I set a new personal best in the high-speed-shower event and was in a slim-cut aqua t-shirt and a long Indian skirt chopping celery when Tim arrived.

  Belle, who watched from her perch on a wall sconce, squawked, “Say hi to Belle, Tim. Say hi to Belle, Tim.” A wolf whistle followed.

  Tim kissed the back of my neck and obediently said, “Hi, Belle.” To me he added, “Hi, beautiful.” From behind his back he flourished a fat bunch of red carnations.

  Belle echoed, “Hi, beautiful.” This time her wolf whistle made sense.

  “Ooh, my favorite flowers. Hi, yourself.” I smiled up at him, then focused on my chopping. Losing a fingertip was not on tonight’s agenda.

  From a green cloth shopping bag he unpacked the requested baguette, a glistening bottle of Pinot Gris, and a quart of hand-made Provincetown Pistachio ice cream from Cape Cod Creamery.

  “Shoot,” I said, laying down the knife. “I’m glad you brought the ice cream. I was going to pick up a couple of slices of hangover cake and totally forgot. I would so fail as a caterer.”

  “Westham Market carries Creamery ice cream now, so you don’t even have to drive far to get it. You like pistachio, don’t you?” He looked relaxed and extra handsome tonight, in loose white linen pants and a squared-off cream-colored cotton shirt with embroidery that looked Mexican or maybe from India.

  “Of course. Do you think fudge sauce would work on top of it? I have a jar from Josie’s Fudge.”

  “Worth a try. Now, what can I do?” He stroked my neck.

  Which made it impossible not to drop the knife, throw my arms around him, and accomplish a proper greeting. We pulled apart after a minute when my stomach growled audibly.

  Tim laughed. “I get the message.”

  “Sorry. It was a long day and I think I only had ice cream for lunch.”

  “Gimme some ice cream please?” Belle asked, cocking her head.

  “Later, Bellita.” She didn’t much like my response, but at least we didn’t get a repeat performance of the car alarm adagio.

  By seven we sat at my little patio table outside in the early-evening light, with still an hour until sunset. We’d devoured the appetizers while we assembled the meal. The sea-scented air was mild but starting to cool, so I’d thrown on a sweater. Belle perched on the back of one of the wrought-iron chairs, content to cock her head and watch us eat. A fat candle flickered in a glass chimney that prevented a stray breeze from blowing it out. Our plastic wine glasses were full of the chilled white and the bread was warm and crusty. The salad was full of fat lobster chunks, crunchy celery, minced chives, bits of sweet yellow pepper, and a gourmet mayonnaise sauce. I’d served it on a bed of pre-washed greens and to me it tasted just about perfect.

  “Tell me about your long day.” Tim spread a forkful of salad on a chunk of the crusty bread and popped it into his mouth.

  “Where do I start?” I took a sip of wine before telling him about Edwin, Orlean, and Corwin. “It’s complicated, but Edwin seems to think Corwin means well and that he’s a different person now he’s out of prison.”
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  “Did he say what he was in for?”

  “No, and I didn’t get a chance to ask. But I do wonder.”

  “Funny that you hired Edwin without knowing he was Orlean’s brother-in-law. Or former brother-in-law, I guess.”

  “Right? And you should have seen her face. I guess the last time she’d cast eyes on him he was a young teenager. He hadn’t finished growing, getting facial hair, an adult voice, the works.”

  “That would explain her not recognizing him. Corwin applied for a job at the bakery today.”

  “He did?” I was surprised, but of course he would need a job now that he was out of prison.

  “Yes. He said he learned to bake in prison and has a knack for it.” Tim sipped his own wine.

  “Are you going to hire him?”

  “I’m going to give him a try.” He reached over and stroked my hand. “I’m tired of handling the early shift on weekends. I’d much rather be sleeping in with you, so I hope Corwin works out. I could use a second baker. Plus, he was honest and told me he’d been incarcerated. I think he expected me to kick him out at that point.”

  “So you didn’t ask him why he’d been in prison, either.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care. He did say it wasn’t for murder. And as long as he obeys the law now, that’s all that matters. He’s got quite the ride, though.”

  I cocked my head. “What do you mean?”

  “His hog.” Tim gazed at me and laughed. “You know, his Harley.”

  A chill crept through me that had nothing to do with being outside. “He rides a Harley?”

  “A monster of a motorcycle. Said he was inside so long that now he doesn’t even want to be inside a car.”

  I hugged myself despite my sweater.

  “What’s wrong, hon?” He rubbed my calf with his bare foot.

  “I was nearly killed by a Harley today in front of the bookstore. It came straight at me.”

  “No! Are you all right? You seem fine.”