Murder on Cape Cod Read online

“What about the woman Stephen and Tim saw?” Gin asked. “How can we find out more about her? If we had a picture of her, we could search on that.”

  “But we don’t have one.” I thought. “Maybe she’ll come in to get some candy from you, or hit up Tim’s bakery. I told him last night to look out for her and he said he would.”

  Ahead the trail took a gentle curve where it led out toward Westham Point. Our normal route was to stride to where the Point extension branched off and head out on the branch. The extension ran first on a boardwalk over the marsh and then up the sloping Point Hill. We normally spent a few minutes stretching at the bay overlook before retracing our steps. A road led to the Point, too, and there was a parking area for a dozen cars. It was a perfect vantage point from which to watch the sun set over water.

  The boardwalk over the marsh in the morning was also a perfect vantage spot for bird watching, and this morning didn’t disappoint. A clutch of teals paddled serenely until one at a time they darted underwater, while a marsh hawk tilted above and red-winged blackbirds buzzed a twee call. A great blue heron stalked a fishy prey, which reminded me that a human murderer might be stalking his—or her—next victim, too. Even though I wanted the crime solved and the criminal locked up for life, part of me wished the killer would just get out of town and never come back.

  Gin pointed to the tall, long-necked bird. “Do you think that’s what Jake’s killer is doing? Looking for the next victim?”

  “I was thinking the exact same thing.” I shivered and hugged myself. “Come on. Race you to the top.” I started up my best speed walking form, rolling my hips, pumping my arms.

  For Gin’s part, she just walked faster in her usual gait, and swung her arms high, forward and back. When our race ended in a tie at the end of the path where it opened up to the vista and an empty parking lot, I pointed.

  “Looks like rain later.” Thick clouds were massing in the west, and the wind came from that direction, too. “I bet it’ll be a quiet day at the bike shop, at least on the rental and retail side. Which is good, because I have a big touring group of Dutch riders bringing their bikes in for a quick mid-ride tune-up while they take the day off.”

  As we stretched, a sleek silver sedan pulled into the lot. First a pair of black three-inch heels slid out of the driver’s seat, then the woman they belonged to, phone in her hand. The car dinged to signal that the keys were in the ignition while the door was open. The woman strolled to the edge of the lot overlooking the bluff to our left. She held the phone in front of her and apparently hadn’t seen us, since she didn’t lower her voice. The onshore breeze carried everything she said straight to us. More important was her outfit.

  “Blazer,” I whispered.

  “Heels,” Gin murmured.

  “Mystery woman,” we said in unison under our breath.

  * * *

  “The deed checked out. And I’ve handled the other matter,” Blazer said. Her narrow skirt was black, and she wore a red scarf draped around her neck.

  A tinny voice came out of her phone’s speaker but I couldn’t make out any of the words. Gin also strained to hear but shook her head in frustration.

  “Yes, Mr. Wu.” The woman sounded impatient.

  Deeds. Mr. Wu.

  “I told you, things are moving apace,” she went on. “I foresee no issues moving forward. The only obstacle has been . . .” The wind shifted and a gust of air took her last words out to sea.

  I fixed my gaze on my friend. “An obstacle,” I whispered.

  “Was Jake the obstacle?” Gin murmured in return.

  When the tinny voice resumed I grabbed Gin’s elbow. We edged sideways a few paces to get closer. “Keep stretching so it doesn’t look like we’re listening.” I kept my voice to the quietest whisper I could manage. I got close enough to see a small decal on the back window that read, “Cape Luxury,” which was a luxury car rental place in Bourne.

  Gin nodded and reached for her feet. I set my legs wide and tilted an arm over my head in a side stretch. My eyes pointed toward the water, my lungs inhaled the salty air, but I kept my ears tuned to the stranger.

  “I’ll contact you as soon as things are settled,” Blazer said to her phone. “You’ll be staying in the country until we can sign papers?”

  Staying in the country.

  A moment later she said, “Fine. Talk to you then.”

  In my peripheral vision I saw her jab at the phone and turn. She stopped in her tracks when she saw us. Her nostrils flared.

  “Were you—” she said at the same time as a smiling Gin called, “Good morning.”

  I looked over, abandoning my pose. The woman stood about my height and wore the streaked reddish hair of a mature woman who had it professionally tended. She had small eyes and a thin nose. Her profile was thin, too.

  “Nice spot, isn’t it?” I asked in a cheery voice. “Do you come to the Point often?”

  “Yes, it’s very scenic.” She shook her head slowly. “But no, I don’t come here often.” She glanced at the phone in her hand and slid it into the jacket pocket, then took a few steps toward us. “So it’s called the Point, is it?”

  I nodded. Funny. I knew the sign at the beginning of the road clearly said Westham Point Road. Maybe she’d missed it.

  She drummed her fingers at her side like she was impatient to be somewhere other than trapped by a couple of talkative women in a parking lot. “Do you live around here?” she finally asked.

  If she wanted to leave, why continue the conversation? It was fine with me, though. The longer we kept her, the more we might learn.

  “You bet,” Gin said. “Best town on the Cape. I’m Gin Malloy, owner of Salty Taffy’s, and this is Mackenzie Almeida.” She waved a hand toward me.

  “But please call me Mac.” I extended my hand to the woman. “I run the local bike shop.”

  Blazer hesitated that brief second that indicates distrust of either people or germs, but finally shook my hand. “Katherine Deloit. Nice to meet you both.” Her red-painted smile was perfunctory. She shook Gin’s hand after mine.

  “Is this your first time to Westham, Katherine?” I asked as a gull lit on the bluff with a plaintive cry.

  “Yes. Well, I arrived a few days ago. It’s a charming town. Little shops and restaurant. Lovely. It must be popular with tourists starting about now.”

  “It is, as long as it doesn’t rain too much,” I said.

  The woman cleared her throat. “You people hit the news hard this week. Do you get many murders around here?”

  Gin laughed. “Thank goodness, no. First one I’ve ever heard of, and I’ve lived here for years.”

  I watched the woman. I don’t know what I was expecting, but she acted perfectly normal. The distant thrum of a fishing boat’s engine floated on the air before another gust of wind swept it away.

  Gin wiped the smile off her face. “And the killing was a terrible thing to have happen. Jake was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Very sad indeed.” Katherine knit her brow and shook her head a little.

  “Had you ever met him?” I asked. Stephen thought he’d seen this woman and Jake together at the courthouse. “Jake Lacey?”

  She stared at me as if I’d recently been released from the loony bin. “Did I ever meet someone from here named Lacey? Why would you even ask? I’ve only been here three days.”

  I shrugged. “Just wondering. It’s a small town. Where are you visiting from?” I asked, shoving my hands in my shorts pockets. I’d worked up enough of a sweat speed walking that I was getting cold standing around in a sea breeze.

  “Actually, I’m located in Westwood. California.”

  “From Westwood to Westham,” Gin said. “That’s a long trip.”

  “It is, but I’m here to visit an old college friend, and to do a bit of business, too. Now, if you ladies will excuse me?”

  Gin nodded. I waved. Katherine Deloit walked briskly back to her car, her heels tapping on the pavement. We watched he
r drive off.

  “What do you think?” Gin asked. “She said she’s here on business.”

  “Right. But notice she didn’t say what kind of business. I think she was about to ask if we’d been eavesdropping when you greeted her. She looked upset, or angry, more so.”

  “And then she covered it up and got polite in a superficial kind of way.”

  “Stephen must have been wrong about seeing her with Jake at the courthouse,” I said. “Maybe she was only asking a random stranger for directions. Although, why would Jake be at the courthouse? Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  I tilted my head. “What if Jake owned land somewhere? That nobody knew about, that she wanted to buy for her client.”

  “Jake Lacey?” Gin’s voice went way up on the question. “If he owned land around here he’d be a rich man. He wouldn’t be eating at the soup kitchen and living in a flea-bag room or a campground.”

  “You’re right, of course. Or maybe this Deloit woman was lying. Right? Suspects in our books lie about everything.”

  Gin pointed a finger at me. “True. Too bad we couldn’t ask her what the obstacle had been, and what happened to it.” She gazed down the now-empty road.

  “Or who Mr. Wu is.”

  Chapter Twelve

  If I’d thought I would have some time to think about murder this morning, I was wrong. Actually, all I could think about was murdering my brother.

  Twenty touring bikes showed up at nine o’clock sharp as I was unlocking the front door. Today I had no moment to pause and enjoy my shop before the rush hit. The visit was by prearrangement, but once again Derrick hadn’t showed for his shift. Where was he now, and why wouldn’t he talk to me last night? I’d both texted and called him after my walk with no response. Orlean was late again, too, and also unresponsive to my text, so I had to do everything on both sides of the shop. I pasted on a smile.

  “Good morning.” I swiped back through my hair with one hand, not sure I’d even combed it after my shower. “Let’s bring the bikes around the side and I’ll check them all in.”

  The tour leader and his helper wheeled the first four bikes out of the back of the trailer. The European riders were taking a day to be walk-around tourists in town before hitting the next leg of their trip. The bikes, which had been on the road for a week, were in for light tune-ups, tire checks, and general cleanup. Why the riders themselves weren’t responsible for wiping down their own bikes I couldn’t say. If they wanted to pay me to do it, more power to them. I was often amazed at how much so-called disposable income some people had. Back in my biking days I more than once rode a few hundred miles with no support vehicle. I hauled my own tent, gear, food, and toolkit in the zippered panniers slung across the back of my bike. I guessed it was good that these older folks from across the pond wanted to get out on bikes, see the sights of the Cape, and spend some considerable number of dollars along the way. I was sure the tour company facilitating the trip didn’t mind, either.

  The men were gone fifteen minutes later, with a promise to return by four-thirty. I finished my shop-opening procedure, grumbling at both Derrick and Orlean under my breath as I did. The weather was staying breezy and cool, but when I peered to the west it looked like the rain clouds had tracked south of us. I’d bet on not getting too many new rental customers today, although sometimes I was surprised. After I found Haskins’s card in my desk, I sent him a text about Farnham staying with Gin. Responsibility to pass on information accomplished.

  Once the flag was snapping in the breeze, I parked the sample rentals out front, watching as four big motorcycles putted loudly down the main drag. They were the kind of bikes where the driver had to stretch out his or her arms to hold the wide high handlebars. If they were on a bicycle they’d be called hi-rise apehangers. I didn’t see how holding onto them could possibly be comfortable, but hey, I didn’t have to ride a bike like that, motorized or not. I restocked the register with starting cash and took a minute to press Derrick’s number, with no expectation of him actually answering. Sure enough, he didn’t, so I phoned Pa.

  “Hey, querida,” he greeted me.

  “Hi, Pa. I’m going to be quick, since the shop is open, but—”

  “But you’re wondering if I’ve talked to your brother.”

  “Yeah, pretty much. He answered his phone last night and was home, but he wouldn’t say a word to me. And he’s not here working. What did he tell you? Anything?”

  My dad kept silent for a too-long moment. “Honey, it’s his story to tell. I’m sorry.”

  Rats. “What about Cokey? Do you have her again today?”

  “We kept her overnight, and today is her morning at preschool. Your mother has committed to take Cokey for the afternoon, because I have pastoral calls to make.”

  “Sheesh. Can you at least tell me if Derrick talked to the police?”

  “I don’t believe he has yet, no.”

  “Does he know they’re looking for him?” I was the one who had told the detective about the knife kinda sorta looking like Derrick’s. My brother avoiding the police would only make him look guilty. Which he couldn’t be. No way. A half-dozen college-age-looking women in shorts and windbreakers or hoodies approached my store. “Customers are here. Gotta run.”

  “I’ll try to arrange some help for you this afternoon,” Pa said. “I know somebody who might be interested.”

  “Really? Thanks. I’ll owe you.”

  He disconnected. Who could he shanghai at such short notice? Did the UU congregation harbor spare bike mechanics? I shook my head. I’d meet that bridge when I crossed it.

  What I really wanted to do was go to the courthouse and see what I could learn about Jake. But I had a business to run and not a spare minute to drive across the peninsula and spend a few hours in the files. I didn’t even have a minute to spare to let Mr. Google help me.

  I fixed up the six young women, who were Boston College undergrads, with a rental each. After I lowered the seat for a petite girl wearing two chestnut-colored braids, she peered at the bike.

  “How can it be a seven-speed with no gears?”

  I pointed to the thick hub on the rear wheel. “It has internal gears in the hub. That way nobody gets grease on their right leg, and the gears don’t get sand in them.”

  “Cool.” She clicked her helmet straps together and slid onto the thick, comfy seat. “Thanks.”

  I watched them ride off, pleased with the women’s smiles and excitement at being on vacation on Cape Cod. I slipped on a store apron, and wheeled in the nearest tour bike. I lifted it onto the workstand that supported the bike on an arm at a comfortable working height but still let the wheels spin free. I had a checklist for this procedure, too, one specific to the requests of the tour agency. But I hadn’t even gotten through the first item when Orlean hurried in. I glanced at the clock. Almost an hour had passed since the touring bikes were dropped off.

  “Sorry, again, Mac.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re going to think I’m chronically late.”

  “You weren’t late at all last week. But in full season—”

  “Which hasn’t even started yet, I know.” She had the grace to hunch sheepish shoulders and wince.

  “Right. I’m going to need you here promptly.” I set my hands on my waist but I cushioned my words with a smile. “Are you sure you want to work full-time? Maybe I should look for a part-timer to help out.”

  She gave a quick, alarmed-eyes shake to her head. “No, I’m good. I need the hours, and I won’t be late again—barring an act of God, that is. I promise.”

  “Good. Right now we have twenty bikes needing a full check-over before four-thirty.”

  Orlean might have been late a couple of times, but when she did work, she was orderly and thorough. She worked reasonably fast without cutting corners, too.

  “Can I leave them to you?” I asked.

  “You got it, boss.”

  An hour later my cell phone buzzed as I spoke on the store phone w
ith a family wanting to reserve ten bikes for the Fourth of July weekend. Yes, they could, and yes, I had trailers for small children. No, I didn’t give discounts for multiple rentals. Yes, I provided helmets and yes, I sanitized them between users. No, they shouldn’t take the bikes on the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. Yes, they had to return the bikes by closing time or I charged a late fee. All my policies were written clearly on the rental agreement, of course, including the final item: IF YOU’RE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO BLAMES EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN THEIR LIFE ON SOMEONE ELSE, DON’T RENT THIS BIKE. OUR INTENT IS FOR YOU TO HAVE FUN WHILE RIDING. TO THAT END WEAR A HELMET, ENJOY YOURSELF, AND PLEASE BE CAREFUL.

  It was ten minutes before I could pay any attention to the cell call. Tim had left a message, saying the woman from the Point was in the bakery. A text from him two minutes later said she’d already left, coffee in hand. So much for surveillance. Anyway, she was probably a regular person here in Westham for a few days doing exactly the business and visiting she’d come to the Cape for.

  And it would behoove me to quit thinking I was some sort of private investigator all of a sudden. Hadn’t I told three different friends a day or two ago that this wasn’t a cozy mystery, that we weren’t living in a book? We had no business pretending to be Sarah Winston from the Garage Sale Mysteries, a woman who paid her bills by organizing yard sales and solved crimes on the side. We weren’t even Kinsey Milhone from Sue Grafton’s long-running series, although at least that character was actually a licensed PI, not some amateur.

  * * *

  My stomach wasn’t only growling, it was yelling at me. After my walk with Gin and our encounter with Ms. Deloit early this morning, I’d run out of time to make my lunch, and the eleven o’clock energy bar from my emergency snack stash was no longer making it. Orlean and I were too busy for me to even dash home and assemble a sandwich so I was just grinning and bearing my hunger pangs. And not even grinning that much.

  But when my mom, Astra MacKenzie, walked in the front door at one o’clock carrying a paper bag smelling suspiciously like lobster rolls, I knew I was saved.