Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 02 - Murder in the Maine Woods (3 page)

I felt it now, the gut feeling.

Nick joined Lenny and told him what we knew, which wasn’t much.

Minutes later Stan returned. He hitched up the jeans that looped under his big belly and shook his head. “Terrible thing. And him in such good shape, and all. Always took care of hisself. Uncle Buster exercised and lifted weights. He never ate ice cream that I seen. Wouldn’t even have it in the house. Raises the cholesterol, you know. He didn’t want to have a heart attack like his father, but I guess he did.”

“Shut up, Stan. Who cares about that now?” Lenny muttered as he toed an embedded stone with the tip of his alligator boot. “The thing is he’s gone and we’re sad about that. Period.”

I tried not to stare at the boots. I’d never seen an overlay of red and gold flames on alligator boots before. I’d never seen boots with attitude and a truck to match. Hunh. He turned slightly and I noticed his heels were flaming, too. Double hunh.

No tears were shed by either man.

“He loved his home,” Stan said, shifting from one foot to the other. “It’s sad he has to leave it.”

“It’s a very nice house,” I said, trying for a connection. “I love the way the deck wraps around.”

“The body will go to the morgue for autopsy,” Nick informed them. “It’ll probably be a few days before you can pick it up and arrange the funeral.”

“Military funeral,” Stan said. “He was a Marine, you know.”

By early afternoon I was on my way to Vivian’s house, less than two and a half minutes away. I called my brother Howie, a Miami-Dade cop, and presented a thumbnail sketch of the latest from Silver Stream.

“Nora, you’ve been in Maine two months and this is the second body you’ve found. Do you notice a pattern here?”

“Oh, gee, not at all.”

“Maybe it’s my law-enforcement background that enables me to zero in?”

“You have a keen sense of the obvious, that’s for sure.”

“I hope you intend to stay out of this.”

“Absolutely,” I promised as I negotiated the turn into Vivian’s driveway with only one hand on the wheel. Quite a feat, if I do say so myself. With that thought I swerved a little too far and ran over a cluster of dead flowers in her garden.

“You’re talking on you
r cell phone while you’re driving, aren’t you? That’s against the law. You’ll have an accident. You, especially, need both hands on the wheel.”

“Honestly, Howie. We’re discussing me finding a dead body and you’re critiquing my driving skills. What does that reveal about you?”

“Your driving needs more than critiquing.”

“Excuse me, but I never claimed to be a Junior Gale Bernhart, that’s for sure, but I manage. Besides, I’m only driving to the house next door.”

“Dale Earnhardt, junior,” he corrected, raising his voice. “The man’s one of the top race car drivers in the country. Everyone knows that.”

“Not everyone.”

I pulled to the top of Vivian’s driveway. The dogs were barking like crazy. Naturally, I was tense. It was more than my animal allergies, which are not to be taken lightly. I mean when I start sneezing, look out. I’ve endured marathon sneezing bouts that should be entered in the
Guinness Book of World Records.

“Hear those dogs, Howie?” I held the phone out the window. “It’s enough to give a person a headache.”

“I hear them. Go home and forget all this stuff. Pack up and return to New York.”

“Thanks for the advice. I certainly couldn’t have figured that out on my own.”

“Nora—”

“You know, Howie, if I’d followed your advice when I was checking into that other murder, I never would have uncovered all the information about Dad.”

“I know, I know. That was good work.”

I smiled at the acknowledgement.

Vivian appeared on the front steps and I hung up. Red sweatshirt, jeans, brassy hair. Had she changed out of her gold sweatshirt?

I wondered what she would have to say about Buster’s death, whether she would be relieved or not. One had to assume she wasn’t all that sad, even though the man had been a neighbor for many years. I wondered if she were the one I’d seen running away, and if so, what she’d been up to. All I could think of was that she might have done something to Verney before I arrived. But what? He was a man in tiptop condition, she an overweight, middle-aged woman. Overpowering him was out of the question.

If by some miracle or trickery, she’d managed to murder him, how would she react to me, a possible witness? Sic the dog pack on me? Maybe I should invest in special body armor clothing. Or a bulletproof vest. From what I’ve seen on those crime shows, the vests are bulky and make you look as if you’re packing on the pounds. Very unattractive. Someone should work on that. Slim the profile.

I wondered what Vivian might have been doing at Buster’s place. The more I thought about it the more certain I was that I’d seen her running away.

Maybe there was a good and natural explanation for his death. I hoped so.

Vivian stood on the steps and shushed the Pomeranians again. They paid no attention.

“Tootles. Dandy. Behave now. This here’s Nora. She’s a friend.”

Friend. Oh, like they understood that.

“Vivian, I guess you saw the ambulance and police vehicles over at Verney’s?” I said as we walked into the house amid a chorus of barking dogs bouncing at my heels. “Buster Verney is dead. Not sure about the cause.”

Vivian shrugged. “I know. I went over when I saw the police cars and the ambulance. Some ambulance guy told me he was dead.”

She seemed so unemotional it gave me a bad shiver.

“I didn’t see you.”

She shrugged as if that didn’t matter.

One dog, it might have been Toodles, nipped at my heels with more gusto than the rest. I tried to sidestep him, but he was persistent, and fast. Fortunately, I didn’t have my best boots on today. Again, this goes to being prepared
. I’d been here before and I planned to visit her when I finished interviewing Buster. I should have skipped the long skirt I’d worn to impress Buster. I’d mended the hem with a strip of velcro—I avoid needle and thread whenever possible—and now one of the dogs was scratching at it. In another minute it would be loose. I eased him away with my foot.

He returned.

“Sugar Bottom. Button Nose. Scoot now. Go play with Toodles while Mama chats with Nora.”

Vivian led me into the living roo
m where she shooed an exceedingly chubby Pom from a scruffy upholstered chair and indicated I should sit. Hopping down, the dog passed gas. As it ambled away, it let loose with another loud, odorous one. Vivian didn’t seem to notice.

I didn’t want to sit in this chair. I hesitated,
looked from the chair to Vivian. Her red sweatshirt? If  she changed from the gold one, she must have pulled this one out of the dirty clothes. It certainly had enough stains on it.

Vivian motioned for me to sit.

The chair was littered with dog hairs. Smiling a lip smile that enabled me to keep my mouth closed and eliminate the possibility of pet hair entry, I sat. A cloud of hairs and fur took to the air, no doubt floating along on the gas currents.

I sneezed. Good thing I wouldn’t be staying long.

I hunted for a tissue in my hobo handbag, pushing aside my shiny red L.L. Bean Swiss Army knife, mace, makeup case, slim digital camera, cell phone, rubber bands, plastic bag of crushed cheese doodles, gum wrappers, toothbrush, hairbrush. I found one small wrinkled tissue. I blotted my nose, sniffled up and tried to ignore the problem. Unfortunately, a floater hair found it’s way in. Rather than cause a scene, I rubbed my nose, blew out just a bit, carefully, discreetly. I’d be out of here soon.

First, I ask
ed the million-dollar question.

THREE

“Vivian, when I went to Buster’s to talk to him earlier today, I thought I saw you running through the woods, away from the house. This was before I found him. Before the ambulance and police cars arrived.”

Silence and a stoical expression greeted that statement.

I waited.

She said nothing, so I asked, “Was that you? Were you over there?”

“Why would I go to Buster’s?”

A non-answer.

“I don’t know. Did you go?” I asked again.

She stared at me, waited a beat, then said, “Too bad he died. Even though I didn’t like him, I didn’t want him to die.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

I wasn’t sure how to handle Vivian. What would those
Law and Order
folks do? Or the
CSI or NCIS
guys? Great-Aunt Ida collected DVDs of old crime shows and played them in the kitchen every morning. I was becoming familiar with them, and a closet-fan of a few.

I stayed silent, hoping Vivian would continue. Finally, she said, “Another dog, little Nutmeg, was poisoned. She died in the early hours of the morning.”

My heart went out to her. “I’m so sorry, Vivian.”

“Buster did it,” she said before I had a chance to ask what she thought.

“You have proof?” I asked.

“My gut tells me the truth.”

Oh, boy.

“Did you confront Buster?”

“No.”

“Why not? You must have been very angry when you found Nutmeg.”

Vivian stood up, her face pinched with anger. “Are you working for me or the cops?”

I had given her the benefit of the doubt and she was accusing me. “Why would I be working for the cops?” I asked calmly, feeling my allergies about to kick in as I picked white cat hairs off my black skirt.

The touch of hysteria in her voice alerted the troops. Like a clarion call to arms, four bouncy Pomeranians came tearing through the house, barking up a storm. At me.

Two cats, acting as backup, came sashaying in, snooty as all get-out. They rubbed against my legs, leaving markers, I suppose. Can cats sense when a person is allergic? The dogs pranced all over my feet, jumped at my legs. Vivian did not shoo them away. I tried to pretend nothing was happening. I sneezed twice.

“Do you have a tissue?” I asked politely, holding the damp tissue to my nose.

Ignoring me, or maybe she just didn’t hear above the racket, Vivian looked out the window. While her bac
k was turned, I blotted my nose. Then I opened the tissue, held it with both thumbs and index fingers like a sheet pinned on a clothesline and fluttered it, hoping by some miracle it would dry. How low I had fallen since my sophisticated days in the city such a short time ago.

“Why are you asking me all these questions? Do you think I had something to do with his death, Nora?”

I was annoyed about the tissue. She heard me, just like she heard me when I called to her earlier this morning. I was now positive. It didn’t take a summa cum laude detective to figure she was the one running through the woods with a convenient attack of deafness.

“I saw you running away.”

There, that was plain enough.

I stood, felt a sneeze working it’s way up, paused and put the damp tissue to my nose. Four-three-two-one
… detonation.

Aaa
-chooo.

The dogs jumped back.

Aaa-chooo.

“Did you?” I asked, discreetly blotting my nose with the damp, no, the soggy tissue. Pretending it was on a clothesline had not worked.

“Did I what? Kill Buster?”

“I didn’t say anyone killed him.”

Aaa-chooo.

“It’s what you implied.”

“Why were you there?” I asked.

“I wasn’t.”

She stood and headed for the door, Sugar Bottom, Button Nose, Tootles and the Flatulent One all at her heels, forming a pompous parade, curly tails bobbing away. The cats leaped to the window sill to watch.

“Since he’s dead, I guess the case is over. Send me your bill.”

I sneezed three more times, rapidly, and wiped my nose with tissue remnants as I followed the line of march. Low didn’t begin to cover how far I’d come in my fall down the ladder of chic. I was going to find that lace-tatted hanky Great-Grandma Evie left me and carry it always. That and a box of tissues would help. I decided I’d get several different brands, line them up and sample each. I’d choose the softest and stock up.

At the door, I made one more try. “Vivian, can’t we talk?”

“Talked enough for one day,” she replied, looking somewhere over my head.

I expected her to say shoo as I went out the door, but she
gave a
humph
instead. And I stayed in Maine to hunt for her dogs’ killer? Try to be nice, and this is the thanks you get.

Once in the truck, I grabbed a roll of paper towels I’d left on the passenger se
at to clean the windshield, and blew my nose. Super absorbent trumped big and bulky by a mile.

In her driveway I made my famous three-point turn in about nine maneuvers, not caring that I flattened more flower stalks, not caring that she was watching, probably
with a huge smirk on her round face, and most of all, not caring that the dogs in the pen were creating noise pollution, carrying on like their territory was under siege by a Delta Force unit.

If I didn’t get lost, and speeded a bit, I should be home in about half an hour, maybe forty minutes. Everything was so far apart in Maine.

The sun dropped below the horizon when I pulled in front of Great-Aunt Ida’s pale yellow Victorian with the blue gingerbread trim, my home, for now. I loved it in a way I’d never loved any place I had lived.

My apartment in Manhattan was the exact opposite—modern and sophisticated with designer touches, lots of white leather and black fabric with a sprinkling of color here and there. Considering that, it was surprising that I felt so at home here where the furnishings harked back to a time when lace and large prints held sway. I loved the creak of the porch swing as it shifted in the breeze; loved the chipped paint on the railing and the clumps of withered mums in the garden.

I noticed we had company. Great-Aunt Hannah’s muscle car, the ‘65 teal blue Pontiac GTO that had been her husband’s pride and joy, was in the driveway, parked in the birdbath dish she had obviously knocked off it’s pedestal. Before he had died she promised him she’d keep it always.

It didn’t surprise me that Hannah was here, or that she’d crashed into the birdbath.
Great-Aunt Agnes probably came with her. My three aunts were a team, women who had known each other forever, were in constant contact, and for some reason loved me like crazy, a combination that’s hard to resist. I loved them back.

The door opened as I reached for it. Shaking her head in dismay, Aunt Ida grabbed me and pulled me close for a hug. I think
I’ve gotten more hugs since I arrived here than I have in my whole life. My mother was not a hugger and neither was my father.

“How awful for you, finding Buster dead.”

“Oh, indeed, yes,” Hannah said, her voice filled with sympathy as she flipped her red shawl around her petite frame in an artful, well-practiced move as she came down the hall. With her flair for the dramatic gesture, Great-Aunt Hannah should have been a model or an actress.

“Our poor Nora,” big Aunt Agnes boomed, shuffling down the hall behind Hannah.

After hugs all around we went into the front room.

“Start at the beginning and don’t leave a thing out. We can take it, every nasty detail. We’ve all watched the
CSI
shows,” Ida declared when we were finally seated.

Gray heads bobbed in agreement.

“Before you start, Nora, I notice you’re wearing a dark sweater. You should wear a brighter color when you’re near the woods at this time of year. Hunting season, you know,” Hannah said. “Now tell us all about your morning.”

I gave a detailed account of the scene and finished up by saying, “There’s one more detail that you have to promise to keep quiet for a while.”

“Absolutely. Tell us,” Ida said as Agnes made a zipping motion across her lips, and Hannah leaned forward.

“I may have seen Vivian running away be
fore we found Buster, but I haven’t mentioned it to Nick yet. I’ll tell him when I see him. I wanted to check with Vivian first. She got angry when I asked if she’d been to Buster’s earlier.”

“Oh my,” Agnes said. “You
mean you think there’s a chance she murdered him?”

“He probably died a natural death,” I said.

“Probably?” Ida asked, her hands gripping the raspberry-colored cabbage roses imprinted on the slip-covered arms of the chair. “You mean you think Vivian may have murdered him?”

“I don’t think so, but I
felt she was hiding something. Maybe she has knowledge about his death that she didn’t want to tell me.”

“Remember what we saw,” Agnes said, lifting her brows meaningfully.

I looked to Hannah who hadn’t said a word, but was shaking her head, her expression difficult to read. Finally, she said, “That was years ago, maybe five or six years.”

“What, what, what? Tell me.” I demanded.

“I don’t think it was that long ago. Less, I think,” Ida said.

“A lot less,” Agnes boomed. “It was the
same year I had my gallbladder out. I’m sh-ur of it.”

“That was only three years ago,” Ida said.

“I’ll have to think about the timing,” Hannah said.

“We don’t like to gossip,” Agnes said, reaching for a wheat cracker on the tray. “That would be gossip, wouldn’t it? The pastor gave a nice homily this Sunday past about the evils of gossip. What I heard of it before I dozed off was impressive.”

“I’m not sure this qualifies as gossip,” Ida said, wrinkling her brow.

“Gossip?” I questioned in a calm voice that belied my impatience.

“Did you see any blood?” Hannah asked. “You never mentioned blood.”

“No blood that I could see. I would have told you. Now, please share the gossip.”

“So bullets and knives are out,” Hannah said to Ida and Agnes with a decisive nod. “Unless the blood was hidden by the covers. Were there covers?”

“Yes.”

“Could be a gun,” Ida said.

“A bun might do it,” Agnes said. “Did you taste those buns she made for the pot luck supper? Even I couldn’t eat
them. I think she used motor oil instead of canola oil. Imagine the headlines: Murder by Bun.”

“A gun,” Hannah corrected. “Maybe she used a gun. You’re not wearing your hearing aid.”

Agnes tilted her head. “A gun. Well, that would have been my first choice, too. Certainly easier than cooking.”

“She’d never use a knife
,” Ida said. “Too close. Too iffy.”

Did they see me? Was I not sitting here?

“Natural causes then,” Hannah decided. “Most likely a heart attack or stroke. So it’s safe to tell Nora.”

All three looked at me. Finally.