Murder on Cape Cod Page 3

  “Sorry I’m late,” I called. I would have jogged to her, except the knee I’d blown out a couple of years ago in New Zealand made running pretty much of a prohibited activity. It also prevented me from biking, kind of ironic for a bike shop owner. Power walking was all I could manage, and even that I did with a black brace supporting the joint.

  She waved and waited for me, switching to stretch her other leg. “You ever going to get that knee fixed?” she asked.

  “I don’t have time. And I don’t want to have surgery. Too much could go wrong.”

  “You mean you’re scared of it.” She tied her thick, expertly colored chestnut hair back with a covered rubber band. Gin and I had met when I’d stopped into her candy shop on a visit home ten years ago when I was living in Boston. She was only two years older than me but already had a daughter and a divorce behind her. We somehow got to talking about reading mysteries and struck up a friendship. She now knew me well enough to gently rib me about my weaknesses.

  “Maybe. A little.” When she poked me with an elbow, I caved. “Okay, yeah, I’m scared. The prospect is too messy. Very disorderly, at least from a patient’s point of view. IVs, anesthesia, blood, pain, narcotics, scars? Forget it.”

  “It’s your body. As long as you can still walk with me, I don’t care what you decide. Ready?”

  I nodded and we set off past the two churches that bookended the other end of Westham’s main drag, Catholic on the right, Quaker on the left. The former’s ornate spires, stained glass set into complicated brickwork, and arched doorway contrasted sharply with the other building’s simple design, silvered cedar shingles, and clear windows both tall and wide.

  The cut-over to the bike trail at this end of town was next to the cemetery beyond the Friends Meetinghouse. Gin hadn’t mentioned Jake Lacey, so she must not have turned on the news.

  When I saw her about to pop in her earbuds, I touched her arm. “Can we talk today instead of listening?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  We turned onto the path in the direction of the lower Cape, or as we said, Down Cape, meaning toward the elbow. Cape Cod looked a lot like the classic bicep-flexing pose of the strong man. The upper Cape was the upper arm running west to east. The point of the elbow hit at Chatham, the forearm stretched north, and the hand curled around artsy colorful Provincetown. The appropriately named Westham sat near the western reaches of the peninsula.

  After we passed the log-body models of deer lining the path and the entirely realistic black dog sculpture, complete with red neckerchief, at the back of someone’s property, I cleared my throat. “On my way home last night I found a dead person.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She stopped and faced me. “You did? Who was it?”

  “Jake Lacey. I tripped over him on the trail behind my house. It was so foggy I didn’t see him.”

  “And he was dead?” This time she whispered, her mouth pulled down in a horrified look.

  “Definitely. I called 911. But it was awful, Gin.”

  “Geez, I’ll say. He wasn’t that old. Did he have a heart condition or something?” By unspoken agreement we resumed walking.

  “No.” I pictured Derrick’s knife again. “Somebody had stabbed him.”

  “Right here in Westham? Crap.”

  A bike bell dinged behind us. “On your left,” a voice called out a few seconds before three women pedaled by us on the other side of the yellow center line. They rode bright red Schwinn reproductions that looked like rentals, maybe from Joe’s in North Falmouth. My seven-speed rentals were sunflower yellow and baby blue. Not a helmet among the ladies, but as long as they stayed off the roads, the trail was level enough that they were probably safe.

  “But you shouldn’t tell anyone about that particular detail,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t have revealed it, actually. The police asked me not to talk about the scene.” Oh, well. What was done was done. Except, even though Gin and I had been friends for years, I decided not to tell her I’d thought it was my brother’s fish-gutting tool. I trusted her completely, but the knife thing was just too personal. “I cleverly managed to tell Victoria that I’d had a disagreement with Jake at Our Neighbor’s Table earlier in the day.”

  “You mean Chief Victoria Laitinen.”

  “Yep. She insinuated I might have killed Jake myself.”

  “You?” Gin hooted. “That seems pretty extreme. And talk about messy.”

  “I know. Tim said maybe Jake was blackmailing somebody, and that person got fed up and murdered him.” The trail opened up to a marshy area, with a bridge leading over what looked like a pond but was really an inlet from Buzzard’s Bay. A fragrant clump of coastal roses were in new bloom, and purple martins darted over the water, catching bugs mid-flight. I voiced the thought that had been top on my mind since last night. “I obviously didn’t kill Jake. So the question is, who did?”

  Gin stopped again, grabbing my hand. “You know what this means, don’t you? We’re going to be in the middle of our very own cozy mystery. You’re the protagonist. Or we both are.” Her eyes gleamed. “Maybe the book group can help us figure out who the murderer is.”

  “Gin, get real.” I shook my head, hard. “That’s why we have police, and real detectives. It’s their job to solve crimes, not ours. What do we know about real-life murder? Nothing!”

  Chapter Five

  I took a moment before I left for the shop to call Derrick, but he didn’t pick up. I’d see him at work soon enough but in case a lot of people were around, I wanted to talk with him about his knife in private first. No such luck.

  By a little after nine I’d already set my OPEN flag in its holder, wheeled out two blue and two yellow rentals to the front, and paused to admire the shop I loved so much. I took great satisfaction in running my own business, a huge change from the stressful world of finance and working for a boss that I’d been immersed in previously. The left half of the shop was devoted to repairs, and the right half to rentals and retail, with shelves and displays full of bright biking jerseys, gloves, shorts, tune-up kits, and the bicycles themselves. Everything was in its place, just how I liked it. But now it was time for me to get to work.

  Within minutes I’d returned a tuned-up recumbent bike to a local lawyer, and rented bikes to a German family of four.

  “No, we don’t need helmets.” The mother had pooh-poohed the idea in slightly accented English.

  The European way.

  “Children under sixteen have to wear them, though,” I pointed out. “State law.”

  She agreed with a frown, and I had them sign the standard disclaimer.

  “We heard about the crime.” The father lowered his voice. “Will it be safe for us to ride on the Shining Sea trail?”

  I winced inwardly. It seemed mercenary of me, but I hoped Jake’s murder wouldn’t turn people off biking. However, the path where I’d found Jake was still closed off with yellow police tape. “Yes. You can’t use the closest access path, but you can get to the trail just down beyond the big white church.” I pointed on the map.

  A minute later I watched them pedal happily away, the adults’ hair ruffling in the breeze. Last week a Danish couple had explained that because so many people in their country bicycled on lanes separated from auto traffic, helmets weren’t necessary. I’d urged them to use extra caution on our streets and roads, since the only exclusive lanes here were the bike-and-pedestrian paths, and they were separate from where cars and trucks traveled.

  Now where was my brand-new mechanic? I’d hired a local woman, Orlean Brown, to help me with the bike repairs. I’d realized last summer I couldn’t handle running both sides of the business plus have anything like a personal life without help. Operating Mac’s Bikes included ordering parts, buying new bicycles and accessories to sell, doing the books, keeping up the building, and dealing with the public besides the basic repair and maintenance work.

  Derrick had agreed to work on the rental and retail side, but he hadn’t shown up this morning
, either. Where could he be? I really needed to talk with him about the knife. I texted him but my phone remained silent in return.

  I stood still for a moment, gazing out the open door. Trees had leafed out and the swamp azalea was blooming, its pink-and-white blossoms fragrant. A salty breeze floated in, tangy and fresh. An oriole warbled from a branch. A carpenter hammered away at a project somewhere in the distance, and visitors in bright shorts and relaxed expressions moseyed toward Tim’s bakery for a breakfast pastry. All up and down Main Street shopkeepers were opening doors, hanging out flags, expecting a profitable day. Westham, the town where I’d spent my childhood, appeared nothing short of an idyll.

  Except this morning it was nowhere near idyllic. A man had been murdered. A killer wandered around free. And Gin was nuts if she thought we were going to solve this crime. Still, my brain was already in high gear trying to put the facts into some kind of order. The best way I could facilitate that was to put my hands to work and let my brain crank away on its own in the background.

  The most urgent repair ticket was another tandem, and all it needed was a simple tune-up. I’d tied on a repair apron, hoisted the bike onto the arm of the workstand, and selected the wrench I needed from the blue cylindrical tool caddy on top of the stand. I was about to set about my checklist when Orlean hurried in. She was a taciturn woman with tired straw-colored hair peeking out of her Orleans Firebirds cap, the headgear worn by fans of the summer Cape Cod League baseball team. I’d never seen her flustered until now.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mac. It’s my . . .” She finished with a stream of swear words ending with “ex.”

  An ex. I knew nothing about her home life. As far as I knew, she lived alone. Nobody needed a rotten ex. I’d had a couple—not husbands, but long-term boyfriends—and was relieved to have finally found Tim, who was, at least so far, both easygoing and self-sufficient.

  Orlean shook her head, eyes aflame. “I can’t believe I ever married him. The no-good—” She cut herself off. “Well, you don’t want to hear about that. Anyway, I’m here.” She shoved a paper lunch bag in the little fridge in the corner and pulled a Mac’s Bikes apron off the hook. She finally looked at me. “Hey, are you okay? I heard you found a dead guy last night.”

  “I did.” I scrunched up my nose. “Yes, I’m all right. I—” A flushed-cheeks, hand-holding couple looking very much like newlyweds strolled through the door. “Tell you later,” I murmured to Orlean, then approached the couple. “Can I help you folks?”

  And they were only the beginning. A steady stream of tourists and cyclists of all sorts ambled in and wheeled out. The sun was shining and people wanted to see the sights by bicycle. I was glad we were that busy on a Thursday while school was still in session, but, man, did I ever need Derrick. Orlean was working as fast as she could, too. A woman who had rented for a week brought her bike in with a flat. A white-haired gent wanted to buy matching pink bikes for his six-year old granddaughters. A competitive cyclist needed a new tube and a CO2 inflator cartridge.

  I was working my way through a powdered-sugar donut during a brief customer lull when a big group of motorcyclists rumbled through town, most riding double, many trailing fringe. The sight made me wonder what the group adjective was, like a clutch of hens or a murder of crows. An assault of motorcycles? A rumble? A pack, a roar? After they passed I spied a van pulling up out front, a white van plastered with the local television affiliate’s logo and call letters. Uh-oh. This day was about to get worse. A lot worse.

  The reporter from last night’s broadcast slid out of the van. A man holding a digital tablet fussed around her, and a tough-looking woman in black hoisted a big camera to her shoulder.

  How I wished I could snatch away the OPEN flag, lock the door, and disappear. No such luck. But did I have to talk to these people? Maybe I should. It could be good visibility for my business. They wouldn’t get much from me, though, since Victoria had said not to talk about the crime scene. I looked down. Store polo shirt, check. Reasonably clean blue Bermuda shorts, check. My usual Keens sandals. I could never do anything with my hair, which is why I wore it an inch long all over. I’d gotten my tight curls from my father, who was a light-skinned Cape Verdean-American, and my light green eyes from my mom, who had pretty much one hundred percent Celtic-European genes. I glanced at Orlean, brushing powdered sugar off my cheeks and shirt.

  “Do I have food on my face?” I ran my tongue over my teeth.

  “Only sugar on your nose.” She pointed.

  “Jeez. Can’t take me anywhere.” I brushed off my nose, too, and took a deep breath before heading to the open door. I kind of loved schmoozing with my customers, but didn’t care a bit for public speaking. And if talking to a television reporter wasn’t public, I didn’t know what was. “Can I help you?”

  * * *

  The television interview hadn’t lasted long, since I had to keep saying, “I’m not at liberty to talk about that,” in response to the reporter’s questions. I did say I had known Jake Lacey, and thought it was a terrible tragedy that he’d died so young. She’d left with a frustrated look on her face and I went back to work. What a relief. I loved breaking news as much as the next guy, but not when I was the subject of its crazy-intense focus. Thanks, but no thanks.

  No sooner had the reporter and gang left when a beaming middle-aged man strolled in. He looked like he’d just gone down to his local Vineyard Vines store and commanded, “I’m going to the Cape. Clothe me.” His lime-green shirt was tucked neatly into pressed light khakis, and his bare ankles peeked out from deck shoes. Above a thick gold chain around his neck, florid cheeks shone under a full head of pale hair. Well-outfitted he might be, but he didn’t strike me as a bicycler. I’d been surprised before, though.

  I smiled and stepped forward. “Welcome to Mac’s Bikes. I’m Mac. How can I help you?”

  He greeted me effusively. “In this get-up, miss, you might think I was something of a sportsman.” He swept his hands down his clothes. “But I’m afraid I haven’t been on a bicycle in many years.” He rubbed his hands together, flashing more than one gold ring. “I am looking to purchase property in the area, though, and thought talking to the shop owners might bring more leads than simply going to a real estate broker.”

  Really? Didn’t real estate agents have a handle on all the properties before they even went on the market? I gave a little mental shrug. “I don’t think I can help you, Mr . . .”

  “Farnham. Wesley Farnham. Are you sure you haven’t heard of an elderly aunt moving to a senior residence, or perhaps a family looking to get out from under coastal property taxes?”

  I shook my head. “Not a one.” I wasn’t sure I’d let this man know about them if I did.

  “Shame. Here’s another question for you. I’m trying to find a man I knew growing up in the Providence area. I heard he was living around here somewhere. Lacey? Jacob Lacey?” Wesley Farnham’s confident smile wavered just the slightest, his eyes narrowed a hair.

  I opened my mouth and shut it again. Did I tell him Jake was dead, apparently murdered? Did this person never turn on a television or radio, not see news online anywhere? He was watching me. I had to say something.

  “I don’t know where you can find him, sir.”

  A boisterous foursome of young adults sauntered in. “We want bikes, we want bikes,” two arm-in-arm guys chanted. The women with them grinned and murmured the same words.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Farnham,” I said. “Good luck with your property search.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mac,” he said.

  I turned to my customers, but after Farnham had left the shop I glanced out the door. He stood looking in at me, arms folded on his chest. What was that about?

  Chapter Six

  At noon I prodded Orlean to take a lunch break. She scrubbed her hands and removed the apron, then grabbed her lunch bag and disappeared out the back door. I kept a picnic table under the shade of a big old swamp oak for our break use, and sometimes for an after-w
ork beer or three.

  When Orlean was done and we swapped out, I sat munching on the same kind of sandwich I brought to work every day. Two slices of honey ham, one slice of white cheddar. Dijon on one piece of eight-grain bread, mayo on the other, never to be mixed. I also always brought a small bunch of grapes, and I kept a bag of small dark chocolates in my desk drawer. Why vary a good thing? And even though I lived only a few yards away, I always brought my lunch to the shop so I could eat on the premises in case a crowd came in that Orlean couldn’t handle.

  I texted Derrick again but he hadn’t replied. I couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten himself to. Maybe my father would know, but he didn’t like to text, so I either had to call him or drop by after work. Derrick was now a single dad to his little girl, Cokey, ever since her French mom had decided she didn’t want to raise her daughter once she was no longer a baby. Our parents regularly helped out by taking care of Cokey. Dropping by the parsonage where my folks lived often turned into dinner, which was fine with me. Cooking was too much like work. I didn’t get much joy out of preparing my body’s fuel, even though I loved to eat the results of other people’s efforts.

  I pressed Pa’s number and greeted him when he connected. Calling him “Pa” always sounded like something out of a Laura Ingalls Wilder story, but it was how you say “father” in Kriolu, the Cape Verdean creole my father still spoke when he called his dad’s relatives back home on the islands off the coast of West Africa. I didn’t grow up speaking the language, but I knew a few words.

  “Is Derrick with you, by chance?” I asked. A bird of prey with striped tail feathers lit on the branch of a tall dead tree nearby. I watched as the snake in its talons stopped wriggling.

  “No, Derrick’s not here,” Pa said. “He dropped off Cokey and I thought he was heading your way.”