A Murder in Mohair (22 page)

Finally, a female anchor with a helmet of dark red hair said, “The Essex County police are looking for a man in connection with the homicide of a Plum Harbor businessman and resident, James P. Hubbard. Hubbard was found dead two weeks ago in the theater he owned and managed. Investigators are now seeking this man, for questioning. Twenty-one-year-old Quentin Kestler, a counter clerk at the Quik-Stop sandwich shop on Route One.”

A photograph flashed on the screen. Quentin Kestler looked much like Lucy had pictured him, a skin-and-bones build with a white baseball cap on backward, a tattoo swirling down his neck and disappearing somewhere under the collar of a black T-shirt and the edge of a bright yellow apron, his Quik-Stop uniform. He was sticking out his chin, mugging for the camera.

“Police ask the public's assistance in establishing Kestler's whereabouts and have set up an anonymous tip line to receive information.”

An 800 number flashed on the screen. Lucy found it disturbing that Quentin Kestler had disappeared into the woodwork. Disturbing and incriminating.

Maybe Edie's heartfelt wish would come true.

*  *  *

Maggie was thinking
the same thing, having watched the same report. Charles was in the kitchen that adjoined her family room. He'd come in from work a few minutes past eleven and was enjoying a very late dinner; a dish of chicken parmigiana with spaghetti on the side, one of his favorites in her recipe repertoire. She'd just happened to have some in the freezer, along with some sauce, and had eaten just a salad herself, much earlier. She had been sitting with him, though, sipping a glass of red wine.

“I just want to check the weather,” she said, when she noticed that the report about the sandwich shop clerk was coming on. “I'm meeting Lucy and Matt at the beach tomorrow.”

That part was true, though the weather was incredibly clear and dry, with no threat of rain for the next week.

“It's all right, turn it up,” he called after her. “I want to hear how much they decided to give the media about that guy, Kestler, anyway.”

Maggie glanced over her shoulder, listening to the report with interest. Which was scant, she had to say.

She returned to Charles and sat across from him again. “So, there's more known about Quentin Kestler by now. I guess there has to be. That wasn't nearly enough to make him a wanted man.”

Oh . . . dear. She was doing it again. And she had been so good these last two weeks, since Jimmy Hubbard had been found. Even Charles had remarked on it.

She glanced up to check his reaction. He sat back and smiled at her. “Of course there is. That's why we want him so badly for questioning. So far, he looks like our missing link. We can connect him to Hubbard and Waters. There's a ton of phone contact between him and the movie theater owner and visits to the back of the theater. The boy who works there, that Scotty Bailey who found the body, he can verify that and also says he overheard a big argument between the men just days before Hubbard was murdered.”

Maggie tried to dampen down her reaction. Charles was on a roll. She'd rarely seen him this forthcoming about one of his investigations.

“Interesting,” she murmured, just enough to encourage him, she hoped. “What about the psychic? Do you think the three were involved in a drug dealing partnership?”

“That's still a live lead. Kestler is noted in her client log about three times. He visited her cottage the morning she was killed,” he added. “We haven't been able to pin any of the clients, who say they came to her for supernatural advice, as known users of illegal substances. But we're still not wiping that angle off the board. Maybe Cassandra Waters was just buying from him,” he said with a shrug. “Her autopsy turned up negative for any junk like that, but you never know.”

He shrugged and expertly swirled a last few strands of spaghetti onto his fork, then downed it in one bite.

“This is all inside information, Maggie. You know that, right?”

“Yes . . . I do,” she said, nodding firmly. “And I'm honored that you trust me with it. But what in the world has loosened your tongue tonight, may I ask? Was it the wine?” She took hold of the bottle and examined the label, as if it held the mysterious answer.

Charles laughed at her. “Could be. Or something in this awesome chicken parm. Or maybe I'm just tired and grateful to have someone as wonderful as you waiting for me at the end of a very long day.” He took her hand and smiled into her eyes. “And my, dear . . . you've been so good. You've earned it.”

Maggie laughed. “I have been good. I'll try to live up to your trust,” she said in a half-joking, half-solemn tone. Though she wasn't really sure she could.

Maggie was amazed and secretly proud that she had managed to keep her promise to Charles on Sunday, while spending the afternoon with Lucy, Matt, and Matt's daughter, Dara, at Crane Beach in Ipswich.

The beach was crowded with families and Lucy was often engaged with Dara, watching over her in the water, or playing with a big bag of sand toys. The three of them managed to fashion a life-size mermaid out of wet sand and took many pictures for Facebook—and posterity—before the day ended and the incoming tide nibbled on the mermaid's long tail and tendrils of hair.

Maggie was actually relieved that there had been no time to chat one-on-one, or take a long walk to the deserted end of the shoreline, though she hoped to return soon with Charles and do both of those things; it was one of the most beautiful stretches of coastline in New England and definitely her favorite. After their beach day, it was lobster rolls and fried clams at Woodman's in Essex, where they sat at the picnic tables in back.

It was late in the day and a cool breeze from the open grassland and inlets was very refreshing. Everyone was too worn-out from the sun and surf to talk much anyway.

“How is Charles holding up? Working hard, I bet,” Lucy said on the ride back to Maggie's house.

“Yes, he is. Hard to say how long this will last, too,” Maggie added. “So how was school this year, Dara? Happy to be on vacation?” She turned to the little girl who sat beside her in the backseat of Lucy's Jeep.

Dara was happy about that and even happier to chat about the end-of-the-term events, including a pool party at her best friend's house and field day, which her class won. Maggie listened closely, asking a lot of questions, until her house came in sight.

A narrow escape, but she was proud of her willpower. Maybe she could manage this. Just until Quentin Kestler was found, and all the information came out?

But when Maggie spotted Edie, waiting on the porch of her shop on Monday morning, looking as anxious as ever and “practically doing a tap dance”—Edie's favorite expression to describe such a state—Maggie knew her heart was going to overrule her head and her promises to Charles, as well. The information he'd imparted could very well put Edie out of her misery and she so wanted to help her friend.

“So what do you think of this Quentin Kestler character? Have you heard anything? Do the police have any idea where he is?” Edie asked in a wheezy rush.

Maggie unlocked the shop and Edie followed her in. “You'd think with all the gadgets and gizmos they've got, they could track down a measly little deli clerk. The cops on TV do it in two minutes,” Edie added.

“The police are doing the best they can, Edie. But this is reality. Not a half-hour crime drama.”

“I know, I know . . . but did you see that guy's picture? He's no Einstein.”

Maggie agreed on that assessment. If one could judge from appearances. Then again, had Edie ever really looked closely at a picture of Einstein?

“I haven't heard anything from Charles about the search,” Maggie said honestly. “But Charles did tell me a few things that should put your mind at ease about Nora,” she added quietly.

“He did? What did he say?” Edie stood watching Maggie make coffee. Her mouth—lipstick already smeared—hung open a bit.

Maggie quickly related all Charles had told her—about the connections between Jimmy Hubbard, Cassandra Waters, and Quentin Kestler. “Charles reminded me it's all circumstantial evidence and might turn out to be a dead end. But it's more than they've been able to pull together so far on either of these cases.”

Edie released a huge sigh and leaned back. She briefly closed her eyes and touched her chest. Maggie hoped she wasn't feeling heart palpitations again . . . and then hoped Edie didn't ask for a cup of coffee.

“That is good news,” Edie said finally. “I just hope they catch him. He could be in Canada by now. Or Mexico. Or anywhere.”

“True. But let's hope that's not the case. You don't want any coffee, do you?” Maggie asked.

Edie shook her head. “Just some cold water if you got it.”

“I do.” Maggie quickly grabbed a bottle from the fridge. “Let's sit a minute,” she said, leading Edie out to the shop again.

The air-conditioning was kicking in, as well as the overhead fans, and a breeze greeted them as they sat at the oak worktable.

“I have a few minutes, I guess.” Edie glanced at her watch, then took a sip of water from the bottle.

“What happened to your watch, Edie? The gold one,” Maggie asked. She'd noticed, not for the first time, that Edie was wearing an inexpensive digital watch, bright pink, made of molded plastic. Not her style at all.

Edie's expression puckered and she shrugged. “Just having the battery changed and the insides cleaned out. That timepiece is on its last legs. I shouldn't wear it at the diner. All the gunk in the air gets inside, messes up the works.” She looked back at Maggie. “It's a Swiss watch, you know. Patek Philippe.” Edie had mispronounced the brand, but Maggie knew what she meant. “My father's. He passed it on to me, along with the diner.”

“I know. You've told me.” Maggie sipped her coffee. “It's been at the jeweler's awhile now. Where did you bring it? Here in town?”

Edie shrugged again. “Yeah, sure . . . up the street, near the harbor. The Jewel Box or something? I think they called me to pick it up. Just haven't had time.”

Maggie waited a moment, watching her. “Is your watch at the jewelry store, Edie? Or did you give it to Cassandra Waters?”

Edie sat back, looking as stunned as if Maggie had slapped her. She pressed her hand to her chest again and Maggie nearly jumped out of her seat to call 911.

“I'm all right, I'm all right. . . .” Edie raised her hand flat, as if she were a crossing guard in an intersection, directing the traffic to stop. “You just surprised me.” She sat back again and took a deep breath.

“I'm so sorry,” Maggie said sincerely. “But tell me the truth, is that what happened to it? You don't need to be embarrassed, Edie. She had a long history of tricking people into handing over their most precious possessions. You are hardly her first victim.”

Edie sighed. “Hopefully, I was her last.”

“So you gave it to her?” Maggie persisted. Edie nodded sadly. “When was this?”

“Let's see. . . .” Edie squinted, trying to remember. “I saw her one night, right before you and your friends had the session here. I know this sounds crazy but . . . I went again. To her house. For another session.”

That did sound crazy to Maggie, after everything Edie had said about Cassandra. “To help Nora?”

“No, not really. Oh . . . it's a long story, Maggie,” Edie said. She sighed, looking suddenly tired and her full age, or more.

“I'd like to hear it, if you want to tell me.”

Edie looked down at the table a moment, twisting the pink watchband around her wrist. “I've been such a damn fool. But she sure suckered me in. I still don't know how she did it,” she added with an angry edge.

“Did what, Edie? I'm sorry, I still don't understand.”

Edie looked up at her again. Maggie could sense the words forming behind her furrowed brow. But for a moment, she wondered if Edie would simply jump up from the table and go. The ceiling fan gently whirred overhead; the air-conditioning hummed. Edie sighed, staring down at the table again.

What had Cassandra done? How had the psychic been able to pry loose Edie's prized possession—her father's gold watch?

Maggie sat silent, barely breathing, waiting to hear the story. But if Edie didn't say something soon, Maggie thought she might bust.

F
inally, Edie said, “I got into trouble when I was a teenager. First time I ever messed around with a boy. I was so innocent. It was laughable.” She shook her head. “I gave the baby up for adoption. That's what you did in those days.”

“How hard for you,” Maggie replied with deep sympathy. She'd known Edie all these years and had never once expected that, though she had always sensed some distant, deep sadness in Edie's character; some deeper reason her impatient, prickly side rose to the surface so easily.