Murder on Cape Cod Read online

“Mom, you’re an angel.”

  “You know better than that, Mackenzie.” She tilted her head diagonally, half down and half to the side, as was her habit, and raised her light eyebrows. “However, I haven’t seen you in a few days, and your father says you’re a little stressed. Plus, Neptune is in Pisces right now and I figured you’d be extra hungry for seafood.”

  Keeping my face immobile, I figuratively rolled my eyes. Stressed, I was. Affected by Neptune being in Pisces, I hadn’t signed up for.

  “So here I am.” Mom beamed, her flyaway graying curls and equally flyaway rainbow-colored scarves creating an aura around her face. “You have time for lunch?”

  “You bet I do. Thanks.” It was all I could do not to snatch the bag from her hands and stuff the whole sandwich into my mouth with two hands. I exercised admirable restraint, however, both with the food and with her astrological predictions, and followed her toward the back door.

  Orlean was on her way in from her own lunch break—today taken not at the picnic table but elsewhere—so I grabbed two water bottles from the mini-fridge and told her I was taking my lunch.

  “Hey, Edna.” She greeted my mom.

  Ooh. Was this going to cause fireworks? Far as I knew, Mom didn’t let anybody call her Edna anymore. Why change your name to Astra when people refuse to relinquish the first name they knew you by?

  Instead, Mom stiffened a little but waved on her way out. Maybe she was used to it by now. Or maybe not.

  “I hate Edna,” she muttered under her breath once we were outside. “Why does she insist on calling me that name?”

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I whispered. “It’s only a name.”

  I was ten when she’d gotten sick of being a wife of the cloth and had taken a couple of classes in astrology. Later I realized she’d been lucky to have a UU minister as a husband—and my dad, in particular—instead of, say, a more conservative preacher who might demand a lot more hostessing from his woman. Dad knew Mom didn’t care for being his support person in that way, and he was all for her following her dream.

  It wasn’t long before she hung a literal shingle outside the den of the parsonage, which had a separate entrance, painted with the words, “Astra MacKenzie, Astrological Services.” It had caused a few rumblings among the more conservative members of the church as well as three minor defections to the United Church of Christ.

  After a couple of years, though, between word of mouth and some low-key advertising, Mom was actually making money in her new field, and the UUs were still thriving despite her departure. My mother drew up natal charts and interpreted them, consulted on auspicious dates on which to hold weddings or make major decisions, and rented a table at farmers’ markets and craft fairs on the Cape all summer long. Mom was very nearly a modern fortune-teller, but she insisted her practice was not mumbo-jumbo. She used century-old astrological principles, telling people their natal chart might be their path of least resistance but also that they could do whatever they chose with their lives. A certain path might be more difficult for a double Scorpio, for example, than for someone with both sun and moon in the sign of Taurus, but she’d advise it didn’t mean that path was impossible.

  Once we were settled under the shade at the picnic table out back and I’d swallowed my first gigantic bite of the best lobster roll on the East Coast, I relaxed a little.

  Mom glanced toward the shop. “How’s she working out?”

  “Orlean?”

  “Who else?”

  “Remind me where you know her from.” I chomped into another rich, mayonnaisey, delectable chunk of lobster meat on a white hot dog roll.

  “We’re both from Orleans.”

  “Back when you were Edna.”

  She groaned. “Exactly. Orlean doesn’t see the sense of accepting a name change when, as she says, I had a perfectly good one. Anyway, she and Derrick were in a playgroup together when they were little. I’ve known her ever since.”

  “I didn’t realize she was close to Derrick’s age.” I leaned over the table and lowered my voice. “She looks almost as old as you, Mom. Of course, you don’t look sixty-three.” Mom had the loveliest skin, almost ivory. The only lines in her face were fine ones, and her skin wasn’t spotted from sun damage like many women’s. She was always careful to slather on sunscreen, and she wore hats to keep her face unblemished.

  “Thanks.” She twisted her head to gaze at the shop. “I know, Orlean has a face to match her experiences. She’s been through some pretty tough times, which is why I was so happy to see you hire her. Thanks for doing that, sweetie. Orlean means well. She’s stubborn as heck, but a good egg.”

  I hoped she’d get a better egg timer soon, but I didn’t say so. “She’s good with bikes, I can say that. Knows what they need, is careful with the parts, has a light hand with a wrench. She keeps things in order in the shop, too.”

  “Liking things in order. That’s your sun in Virgo talking. But you need to watch it a little, Mackenzie. You should make sure wanting your life orderly doesn’t become an obsession. You’re prone to those, you know.”

  “Whatever.” I could almost recite the “sun in Virgo” traits from the four thousand and twenty-three times she’d described them. Now four thousand and twenty-four. “I’m only saying I couldn’t ask for more in a mechanic.” Except arriving on time. But surely Derrick would be back on the rental/retail side soon and I could fill in on the mechanic side when we were overloaded with repairs. That was how my business model, my plan, was supposed to work. Or would he be back?

  I finished eating my heavenly lunch without speaking. Mom seemed to be of the same mind, because she didn’t say anything, either. Gazing at the street beyond the shop, I peered at a man making his way slowly past on the sidewalk. Despite being at least as old as my mom, he wore his pants as low on his rear end as any teenager’s. His gait wasn’t that of a young person, though. He hauled his right leg along like it wouldn’t bend and kept his eyes on the pavement. In one hand he grasped a beat-up gym duffle, or maybe it was a bowling bag. And in the other he clutched a bunch of mixed cut flowers in a cellophane sleeve.

  Who was he? Where was he dragging off to? Maybe to a job? He definitely wasn’t a tourist. And who were the flowers for? A sweetheart, perhaps. Or maybe his mom. I thought he passed by here most weekdays, but I’d never seen him with flowers before.

  My own mom cleared her throat. “Uh, honey, about Derrick?”

  My attention went boing. Suddenly I couldn’t care less about a random man taking flowers somewhere to someone. “What about Derrick?”

  “He seems to be deeply troubled. Perhaps it’s his Venus transiting Saturn.”

  My nostrils flared of their own accord. “Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s not telling the truth to his family or anybody else! And he’s not coming to work, either. Listen. The police want to talk with him, Mom. The knife I saw in Jake Lacey’s neck?” I waited a beat. I needed to be sure I had her full attention. “It looked exactly like Derrick’s.”

  She fast-blinked those light green eyes at me, orbs identical to mine. She craned her head in my direction. “His fish knife?” she whispered.

  I nodded slowly. She had to understand how important this was.

  “Did you tell the police that?” She still whispered.

  Rats. I now wished I hadn’t revealed that bit to the detective, but I’d been so sure of my brother’s innocence that I’d told Haskins about the knife. I took a deep breath. “Yes. But you can’t tell anyone. The police asked me to keep it quiet.” Although I’d told Gin, and with Suzanne talking about stabbing, by now the news had to be getting around,

  She gasped and brought her hand to her mouth.

  “Mom. I know Derrick didn’t kill Jake. The murderer has to have stolen Derrick’s knife. But the longer Derrick keeps hiding and hanging out in the Valley of Denial, the worse it looks for him.” I reached out for her other hand.

  “It was a custom knife.” Mom’s voice shook. “Nobody owns one identical to
his.”

  I pursed my lips. “Really? How do you know?”

  “I special ordered it for him. I gave it to him for his birthday. It’s one-of-a-kind in the material universe.” She squeezed my hand and reclaimed hers, knitting and rubbing hers together on the table.

  That sounded bad. But I didn’t want to worry Mom. “So what? We figure out who wanted Jake dead and who could have stolen the knife, and voilà. We tell Detective Haskins.” We find that fool brother of mine, too, and make him talk.

  At the name a fond smile crept across her face. “Oh, Linc. He’s a sweetheart if I’ve ever seen one.”

  So Pa wasn’t the only one who knew him. And by the look of that smile, my mom wasn’t only mildly acquainted with him. “What, did you used to date him?”

  “No, honey. I’m nearly old enough to be his mama.” She gazed over my shoulder at a memory. “But he came to a charity gala once when he was a young officer. He was the dreamiest dancer in the whole place. I felt like I was Ginger Rogers dancing with Lincoln Haskins.” The fear was gone from her voice. “You know your father, for all his fine qualities, has two left lead feet. We barely even danced at our wedding.” She kept that dreamy look in her eyes.

  “Daughter to Mom.” I waved a hand in front of her face. “Back to real life for just a little minute? Did you talk to Derrick today?”

  “Only for a minute on the phone. He asked if I’d . . .” Her voice trailed off as she checked her wristwatch. “Oh, for . . . crab sake. I was supposed to pick up Cokey five minutes ago.” She stood and rushed toward the street. “See you, darling.” Both her voice and her scarves trailed after her, plus the end of her lobster roll lay abandoned on its paper wrapper.

  I picked it up and munched. She was my mom, after all. I didn’t care about her germs, and it was criminal to waste such a perfect food. My life today wasn’t perfect at all, though. Derrick a hundred percent incommunicado. His own knife the murder weapon. A strange woman popping up here and there. A girl who seemed to know Jake, first happy, then sad. Why did I feel like I was stranded in the eye of a coastal hurricane? It might seem calm for the moment, but all around me whirled boiling motives, with information and conversations obscured by a rotating cone of windblown sea spray. And quite possibly additional malice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “A bo Ree!” I smiled at my little grandmother, who bustled into the shop a few minutes after Mom left. I came out from behind the rental counter and leaned down to hug her. “Out for your afternoon walk?”

  “No. I’m here to work. That son of mine says you need help, and I happen to be free.” Reba Almeida was nothing if not forthright, despite being barely five feet tall and eighty years old. She tugged off the hat she always wore outdoors, a multi-colored cross between a beret and a Rastafarian cap, and stuffed it into her huge handbag. “I can’t help whatever your brother is up to, but I can surely assist you. Set me up with the rentals price list and information, show me how to use the cash register and what not, and you can go about whatever else you need to do.”

  I knew she’d suffered, growing up African-American in Boston during and after World War II, despite her skin being the color of milky café au lait. But I’d never heard her complain about anything. She’d married my Cape Verdean grandfather and happily become part of his family. They’d raised my dad and four other children not far from here. Her optimism carried enough energy to light up an entire village, or at least my mood.

  I gave her proposal two point six seconds of consideration. “You’ve got a job. It’s pretty easy, and either Orlean or I can help with any questions you can’t answer. Thank you for coming.”

  “Well, you know. I was sitting home with my spyglass minding everybody else’s business when Joseph called. I might as well do it out here in public.” Her laugh was an infectious tinkling sound, and her cheeks pinkened to match her signature hot pink tracksuit.

  I laughed, too. We’d given her the spyglass as a gag Christmas gift a few years ago because she was such a keen chronicler of the town’s goings-on. She kept it next to her easy chair by the window of her senior living apartment a quarter mile down Main Street. And used it daily. My grandma, the village Peeping Reba.

  After I got her set up with the system, I checked in with Orlean. The tour bike tune-ups seemed to be going right along.

  “Think you’ll make the four-thirty pick-up, or do you want me to help?” I asked.

  “Should be good. I only have five left.”

  I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even two o’clock. “Awesome. Thanks.” I slid back to the other side of the shop, where Abo Ree perched on the high stool behind the counter, peering at her smart phone. This was an octogenarian who kept up with technology. She swore mildly under her breath.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know, our fool politicians. Say, I saw Jake Lacey with some young girl last week, don’t you know. They were walking down by the pier. Looked happy.”

  “Really? Somebody else mentioned seeing him with a young woman. She wasn’t from around here, was she?”

  My grandma fixed keen brown eyes on me. “Wouldn’t I have used her name if she was?”

  “Of course. I wonder who she was. I saw a young woman yesterday, too, walking along the sidewalk. Didn’t look a bit happy.”

  “Maybe she was related to Jake and is sad he died.”

  I frowned. “I didn’t think he had a family. But come to think of it, I didn’t really know anything about his personal life.” All these sighting of Jake with strangers. What had he been up to shortly before he died? Of course, he’d had every right to hang out with whomever he pleased. Followed by his brutal murder, though? One of them might be important. How could I find out which?

  A hand-holding couple wandered in wanting to rent bicycles through the weekend. I puttered around the merchandise shelves, straightening and dusting, and let Abo Ree handle the transaction, but I stayed nearby in case she needed help. Which she didn’t. She pulled off the deal as if she’d worked here forever. She answered their questions, gave them the bike trails map, and swiped their card through the reader like a pro.

  “Now, you lovebirds be sure to wear those helmets, you hear me?” she called after them from the doorway.

  I came up behind her to see the customers clip on their helmets. They pedaled off, the woman waving at us.

  “What? Somebody’s got to be sure they don’t hit their heads.” She lifted her chin as if anticipating a criticism.

  “It’s fine, don’t worry. It’s simply that I usually leave wearing head protection up to the adult customer. I do make them take the helmet, but I have no idea if they go and drop it off in their room before heading out to ride.”

  “Got it. So, am I hired?” she asked.

  “At full pay.”

  “Good. Now go do whatever you need to do. The books, the repairs, a nap. I can stay until five thirty.”

  I thought for a minute. A respite from the shop was just what I needed to start following up on some of the questions surrounding Jake’s death. And try once more to find Derrick, too. “I do need to talk to somebody in town, and I should hit the bank, too. Are you sure?”

  “Of course.” She gazed down the street. “But hang on a second. Who’s that man?”

  A fireplug of a man hurried down the sidewalk toward us.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “A potential customer?”

  “The way he’s huffing and puffing, I bet he’s not looking to rent one of your bicycles for a leisurely ride somewhere. He’s not dressed like a tourist, either.”

  The round, squat man wore a loosely knotted tie with a blue dress shirt, its sleeves haphazardly rolled up, and dark cotton trousers that strained at the waist. He must have seen us looking, because he lifted one hand in a wave when he was still two shops away.

  I exchanged a glance and a shrug with my grandma. “Might as well see what he wants before I go.”

  He arrived blotting his high round forehead with a ha
ndkerchief. “Good afternoon.” He swiped the cloth over the top of his balding head, leaving a few strands of a brown comb-over in serious disarray. “Just the ladies I wanted to see.”

  Huh? My heart sank. He must be another reporter. “Hello,” I said.

  Abo Reba smiled at him. “I’m Reba Almeida and this is my granddaughter, Mackenzie Almeida.”

  He held up a meaty hand. “I know, I know.” He gave her a little bow. “Your reputation precedes you, Mrs. Almeida.”

  “But we don’t believe we know you,” my grandmother said.

  He whipped a couple of business cards out of his shirt pocket and handed them to us. “Billy Crump, Private Investigator. I wondered if I could have a word with you both.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I squinted at the PI. “About what?” I asked simultaneously with Abo Reba’s, “Of course, young man.”

  Crump threw his head back and laughed. When he calmed down, he said, “Isn’t that human nature for you? Same question, two different answers.” His smile revealed a considerable gap between his top front teeth, which gave him a goofy, boyish look despite his thick stature and thin hair.

  I nodded to my grandmother, ceding to my elder, as I had been brought up to do.

  “We’re happy to help,” she said. “I assume this is in regard to the murder in our town?” She clasped her hands in front of her waist and waited with sparkling eyes and mouth partly open in anticipation of whatever exciting development was coming next.

  “That it is, ma’am. I’ve been hired to look into his death by an interested party.”

  “Who hired you?” I blurted before Abo Reba said anything more.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” He narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly.

  “But it’s not the police you’re working for,” I pressed him.

  “No, indeed it is not.” He addressed his next remarks to Abo Reba. “I must say I have heard others mention that you would be the go-to woman for information in Westham, ma’am. I’m glad to have found you here with your granddaughter.”