Fillet of Murder (12 page)

With that, she shut down and slammed the cover of her laptop. Her cell rang from the depths of her purse, and she fished it out.

“Perfect timing,” Talia said.

“Hey, you're still up.” Rachel's perky voice held a trace of something Talia couldn't quite put her finger on.

“Is that rhetorical?” Talia sucked in a long sniffle.

“What's wrong?” Rachel said immediately. “Your voice is weird.”

“Nothing's wrong, except that I'm a fool and a buffoon.”

“
Not
,” Rachel retorted. “What gives?”

Talia gave her a briefing on Chet's e-mail.

“The gall, the absolute nerve.” Rachel's voice was tight. “Oh, Tal, I finally get it. You are
so
done with his sorry rump. I wish I could go with you on Monday to fetch your stuff.”

“Don't be silly. I'll be fine,” Talia said. “And I certainly don't intend to linger. I'm going to stuff my belongings into my car as fast as I can and then split like a torn seam.”

“Will all your things fit into the Fiat?”

“I'll make them fit,” Talia said, thinking about the candle table. It was about thirty inches tall. If she laid her clothes out flat over the backseat, she could rest the table across them. With a bit of luck, she'd still be able to see through the rear window.

“More importantly, Rach, did you find out anything from Abby?”

Rachel sighed into the phone. “I did. Abby sent me a text a few minutes ago. Here, I'll read it. ‘Prelim report from lab showed victim died from knife wound to neck severing carotid artery. Weapon fillet knife with six-inch blade and molded rubber grip. At base of blade, miniscule traces of whitefish found. Estimated TOD between 7 and 9
PM
.'”

Talia felt her limbs go numb. “Whitefish?” she whispered. “I don't understand. What would whitefish be doing on the knife?”

“I guess that's what the police want to know.”

Talia took her mind back to the crime scene, to that horrible moment when she saw Turnbull sprawled on the floor. She'd seen the knife only briefly, but she remembered the handle had been green.

She tried to remember if she'd ever seen a knife like that among Bea's countless utensils. Bea did own loads of
kitchen knives. Did she have one with a green handle? The report had said fillet knife. Bea didn't fillet her own fish—it arrived “kitchen ready” from the seafood supplier. Still, this was all going to look bad for Bea. Very bad.

“Sorry, Tal,” Rachel said. “I wish I had more encouraging news. Unfortunately, there's one other thing.”

What other bad news could there be? How could it get any worse?

“Someone, an elderly man, called the station late yesterday. He reported that on the day of the murder, he heard Bea threaten to kill Turnbull.”

“But that's crazy! It's—”

And then, like a punch to the abdomen, the memory came to Talia.

Fire up the deep fry, Talia. I'm going to boil Phil Turnbull in oil!

Except for Talia, the only other person who heard Bea utter those words was their loyal customer, Mr. Ruggles.

On Saturday morning, Talia tugged open the creaky door of Queenie's Variety. She pulled it closed behind her—it always stuck if you didn't—and stepped into the warmth of the old place. The scent of brewing coffee and bakery delights drifted toward her from the snack station adjacent to the checkout.

Built in the late 1930s, Queenie's still had the same sagging linoleum and the same glaring lights blinking overhead. In the center of the store, in front of the supporting column, fake wood glowed in an electric version of the ancient potbellied stove that once occupied the same spot. On the post behind the stove was a yellowed photo of old Queenie, his hazel eyes sparkling beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows, his ever-present cigar clasped in his fingers.

Talia took a deep breath and inhaled the mélange of aromas. It reminded her of Saturday mornings when she was a
kid. Her dad always brought her here for strawberry-frosted doughnuts delivered fresh from one of the bakeries in Pittsfield. Dad would put away three with ease, while she and her mom split the other three.

At the moment, even the cozy familiarity of Queenie's failed to cheer her. She was going to have to tell Bea what she'd learned from Rachel. She only hoped Bea wouldn't pull a nutty.

It was beginning to look as if Bea really did need a lawyer. There was only so much Talia could accomplish on her own, although she'd surely do whatever she could to help her friend.

Yeah, right. Like abandoning her for a new job?

She didn't want to think about that now. Besides, why was she already assuming that the job in Holyoke was hers for the taking? How egotistical was that? The company probably had a wealth of qualified candidates to choose from. What made her so special?

Feeling lower than a bear under a bridge, Talia scanned the aisles. She had no idea where the pet foods were located. She'd never had to buy for a cat. Her mom bought Sunny's food from her vet, since the aging cairn terrier had special dietary needs.

She trotted down to the back of the store. In the last aisle on the left, she found a surprisingly wide selection of cat supplies. She grabbed a box of dry kibble and a six-pack of wet food. If her feline visitor decided to show up again, Talia would at least be able to feed her a meal actually intended for cats.

Which reminded her—she'd meant to check the animal shelter's website to see if anyone had posted a “lost kitty” notice. Maybe after the lunch rush was over, she'd use Bea's computer to check it out.

Talia snatched a loaf of wheat bread off the shelf in the baked goods section. Arms now loaded, she headed to the checkout, four deep with customers, where Queenie's granddaughter, Rita, was busy ringing up sales.

While Talia waited, she turned and glanced around the store. She tried to remember if she'd forgotten anything. All at once, she realized who was standing in front of her.

It was Cliff Colby, wearing the same clothes he'd had on the night before. He acted nervous, shifting from one foot to the other, jerking his head all around. In his large hands he clasped several cellophane packs of cupcakes. Talia had no sooner opened her mouth to say hello to him when a bearded man shot out from behind the candy aisle. The man reeked of stale tobacco, and his dirt-brown eyes were glassy. He strode up to Cliff and slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Cliff, my man, fancy running into you here.”

Cliff jumped. “Oh, um, hi. I didn't see you come in.” His voice sounded jittery.

“I've been hoping to catch up to you, Cliffy.” The man's voice was singsong, too syrupy to be genuine. “You're gonna have that
package
ready for me today, right?”

Talia inched backward a few steps. She could see Cliff's face only in profile, but it was definitely ash gray.

“Um, yeah, except it's not quite ready yet. I'll have it tomorrow, though, for sure. I mean, if that's okay with you.”

The man's eyes drilled into Cliff. And then, as if he'd just spied her out of the corner of one glazed orb, he shifted his gaze to Talia. His jaw hardened, even as his scary eyes brightened. “Well, looky here,
cousin
Cliff. There's a pretty lady standing right behind you with an armload of nice treats for her
kitty cat
. Why don't you let her get in front of you?”

Cliff swiveled his head toward Talia, and she'd have
sworn his face went even grayer. “Oh, hi. I didn't see you there. Um, yeah, sure, go ahead.”

“Hi, Cliff.” Talia smiled at him. “But I'm fine, really. These things aren't heavy at all. You stay right where you are.”

The bearded man grinned at her with crooked teeth. “Are you sure, little lady? Because my cousin Cliff here is nothing if not a gentleman. Aren't you, Cliffy boy?”

Talia stifled a shudder. This guy was downright creepy.

“Oh absolutely, I'm sure. But thanks for the offer.”

With a nod, the man tipped his grimy Red Sox cap at her. “I'll be by later,” he said to Cliff. “You can
bet
on it.” He clapped Cliff's bony shoulder once more and then sauntered out.

Talia blew out a breath of relief. Who was that guy? Was he really Cliff's cousin? The way he'd said the words
kitty cat
made her feel as if bugs were crawling up her arms.

She peeked around Cliff and saw that his hands were shaking. “Cliff, are you okay?” she said quietly.

“Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be?” he snapped.

The line moved, and Cliff was next. He plunked his cupcakes onto the counter and mumbled something Talia couldn't quite make out. Rita got it though. Her expression neutral, she nodded and went to the Plexiglas case that housed the lottery tickets. She pulled out a long accordion of glossy orange scratch tickets—five-dollar ones, Talia noticed—and then folded them and gave them to Cliff.

Cliff paid for the tickets and then began mining his pockets for enough change to cover the cupcakes. He was short by eleven cents. Rita took the shortage from the “Need a Penny?” cup next to the cash register. He tore out of the store before Rita had a chance to bag his purchases.

Talia felt something akin to a rock drop to the pit of her
stomach. Cliff had just spent at least a C-note on scratch tickets, yet he could barely scrape up enough to buy his cupcakes.

She'd seen it before. Up close and personal.

It was the addiction that almost shattered her mom and dad's marriage.

“Got yourself a cat now, Talia?” Rita's grin, framed by a wide face and graying eyebrows, was a near perfect replica of the one in her grandfather's photo.

Talia shook away her agitated thoughts. “No, not really. It's just . . . well, there's a stray kitty I've been feeding until I can figure out who her owner is.”

“I see.” Rita's lips gave a slight quirk. “That'll be ten twenty-nine.”

Talia handed her a ten. “Let me see if I can scrounge up twenty-nine cents,” she said, rifling through the change in her wallet. “Oh geez, wouldn't you know, I've got twenty-six.” She plopped the coins on the counter and held up one finger. “Wait a minute.” She stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Sometimes she had a spare penny or— “Ouch!”

Something in her pocket had pinched her. No, not pinched—jabbed. She removed the object from her right-hand pocket and held it to the light. It was a thin shaft of black metal with a pointy tip, about three inches long.

“Looks like an arrow,” Rita noted, taking three pennies from the cup.

Talia shrugged and stuck the thing back in her pocket. And then it came to her.

Whatever it was, she'd found it on the floor in Turnbull's office the night she tripped over the stack of boxes. She'd shoved it in her pocket and forgotten about it.

Rita bagged the order and handed it to Talia. “Or a hand from a clock,” she said.

Talia scurried through the back door of Lambert's at precisely two minutes past nine. “Sorry to be late, Bea. I picked up a few things at Queenie's and I had to go put them in my car.” She stripped off her jacket and hung it on the back of the door. “I'll get started with the—”

“Grab yourself a cuppa and sit down, luvvy,” Bea said softly. She was seated at the corner table, her hands curled around a mug of coffee. Her dark hair looked neat but unwashed, and her face was devoid of makeup.

Talia prepared a cup of coffee for herself and sat down, her heart smacking her rib cage. “Is something wrong, Bea?”

Bea chuckled, and Talia was glad to see even a ghost of a smile from her. She'd abandoned her dreary ensemble of the day before in favor of a forest-green top and brown corduroy slacks. Not exactly a burst of color, but a definite improvement.

“After I left you last night I went straight to the hospital,” Bea said.

“Is Howie okay?”

Bea nodded. “He's getting there, but they won't spring him until the infection's fully gone.”

Talia breathed out a sigh. For a moment she thought Howie had taken a downturn. “Weren't visiting hours over when you got there?”

“They were, but the nurses there are such loves. They let me pop in and see him for a few. Anyway, we got to talking about things. Life. Work. Our health. We've decided we're both getting a bit long in the tooth to keep up with running a restaurant.”

“You're only fifty-nine!” Talia cried.

“I know, Tal, but that's nearly retirement age, isn't it, and my Howie is sixty-three.”

“Where is this coming from, Bea? Is it because of Turnbull's murder? You had nothing to do with that!”

Bea's face fell. She took a sip of her coffee. “Of course I didn't, but the coppers have me pegged for it, don't they?”

“But they're wrong, and when they find the real killer, I'm going to make them all eat crow. Deep-fried crow, at that—and Derek Westlake gets the biggest chunk!”

Bea's tinkling laughter filled the air. “Ah, Talia, you are such a gem. Is it any wonder I love you like my own daughter?”

“Bea, please don't make any sudden decisions. Wait until the murder is resolved and Howie is back on his feet. You'll look at it through different eyes, I promise.”

Bea shook her head. “It's decided, luv. We've tossed around the idea in the past, but this time we're serious. Come next spring, Howie and I plan to be living in one of those
lovely condos in Myrtle Beach. Howie has a chum there, you see, and he's been hounding us for years to move down there. Mild climate, no bloody snow to shovel, the ocean right at your feet.”

“But . . . what about Lambert's?” Talia choked out, feeling her eyes brim with tears. “This wonderful place has been the mainstay of the arcade. I can't imagine the town without it.”

“Well, you see, luv, we've got that all figured out, too.” Bea paused and gave her an enigmatic smile. “Talia, Howie and I want you to buy out Lambert's. You'll take over the lease, buy out all the business assets. If you need a loan, we'll work out something that's more than fair. We've made a good bit of money living our dream, Tal, and you've always loved it here. We can't think of any better hands to leave it to.”

Stunned, Talia sat back and gawked at Bea. “I . . . I don't even know what to say, Bea. Of course I love this place. I always have. It's been a second home to me. But I'm not a restaurateur. At home I live on Cheerios, for God's sake. When I come in here, I just follow your lead.”

Bea looked at her curiously. “You mean like you did yesterday, when you battered and fried those pickles and brought them to the meeting?”

“But Bea, that only happened because I accidentally fried a pickle. I just wanted to see what it would taste like if I fried up smaller slices. End of story.”

“Beginning of story,” Bea said gently. “Just think, Tal. You could rename the place, do whatever clever things you'd like with it. Sometimes, when I look at your face, I know you're cooking up ideas in that lovely head of yours. Why, yesterday, I saw you gazing at that clock in the dining area
for a good five minutes. You were thinking of how that wall would look with a different clock, weren't you?”

Talia opened her mouth in shock. Bea was right. How could she have known?

She'd been picturing a pottery clock shaped like an octopus, each of its eight tentacles curled around a French fry. She'd gone so far as to wonder if Jim Jepson would be able to create something like that in his shop.

Talia gave her lips a wry twist. “I guess you know me too well.”

Bea laughed, and then her expression turned serious. “Tal, all we ask is that you think about it. You studied business at university, didn't you?”

“I did, but—”

“Then you have one leg up already! Howie and I didn't even go to college and we made this business work.” She tapped her hand to her chest. “Success starts right here, Talia. And if there's one thing I know about you, it's that your heart has always been at Lambert's. I see it in your eyes every time you walk through that door. This isn't a job for you, is it? It's what you love to do. For the love of Mike, you came in here at two minutes after nine this morning and apologized for being late.”

“I . . . don't see your point.”

“Talia, luv, your workday starts at ten, remember? I told you that when you first came back, but you've been coming in every day at nine without giving it a second thought. What does that tell you?”

“It . . . I don't . . . I mean—”

Bea laughed out loud.

“I guess I'm just so used to showing up at my office at nine, I didn't even think about it.” She couldn't deny
anything Bea was saying, yet it all seemed so sudden. “But if you and Howie move away, I'll never see you again.”

Bea laughed. “Ah, luv, we'll come back at least twice a year for a visit. We might even plunk our arses at your place—wherever that is—to save on a hotel.” She winked at Talia. “Howie's frugal that way, you know.”

“You'll always be welcome at my place, even if I'm living in a shoe box.” Talia leaned over and hugged Bea, then sat down again. “Seriously, this is a lot to think about. You don't need an answer today, right?”

“Of course not,” Bea assured her. “It's a bit of fodder for the brain mill, is all. But once this silly business with the police is behind us, we'll want to start making plans.”

Talia nodded over the lump forming in her throat. How could she tell Bea she had an interview scheduled, and for a job that sounded perfect for her?

How could she tell Bea the police found traces of whitefish on the murder weapon?

“I promise to give it serious thought,” Talia said, “and I'll give you an answer soon. I need to talk to you about something else, though.”

Bea hopped off her seat and refilled her coffee mug. “Top off?” she asked to Talia.

Talia nodded, and Bea filled her mug. “Bea, I don't like the way this investigation is going. When I chased Westlake out the door yesterday, he told me you should get a lawyer.” She heard her own voice cracking.

Bea patted her hand. “No worries, Tal. I've already called our regular fellow. You know the one I mean—he did our wills for us.”

“But can he handle criminal cases?” As in homicide?

“He's had his share of them.” Bea's face turned grim.
She set the coffeepot back in its slot and sat down. “He's never had a murder case, but he's defended some real rotters in his day.”

Talia stirred a few drops of half-and-half into her mug. “But you're not one of them, Bea,” she said, her voice breaking. “You're one of the kindest people I know, and you're innocent.”

Bea's face fell, and her eyes sprouted tears. “You're right. I never thought of it that way. It's probably harder to defend the innocent than the guilty, isn't it? Oh, Tal, what will Howie ever do if I have to go to prison?”

Talia stared at the ceiling to halt the flow of her own tears. She swallowed and then pulled in a calming breath. “You're not going to prison. Tell me what your attorney said.”

“So far, not very much. He's made an appointment with that state police chap. Liam something, I forget his last name. I might need to leave later for another interview.”

A wave of relief washed through Talia. Not at the interview, but from knowing that Bea was finally getting help from someone who knew the system and could figure out how to protect her. She knew Bea's attorney only by reputation, but everything she'd heard about him was positive. Still, defending a client on a murder rap was a whole 'nother satchel of peas.

They finished up their coffee and began the daily food prep. Talia lugged potatoes out of the storage closet while Bea removed the outer leaves from a large head of cabbage. Allowing her thoughts to meander, Talia pictured herself as proprietor of the eatery. She'd be making all the decisions—whom to hire, how to deal with difficult customers, how to keep the place financially afloat. The idea was overwhelming, and yet . . .

The idea of actually stepping into Bea and Howie's collective shoes sent an odd little zing through her.

Talia was pulling the potato peeler from the utensil drawer when the knives caught her eye. Had Bea ever owned a knife like the one that was used to kill Turnbull? She moved her forefinger over the myriad knife handles. Paring knives, serrated knives, chopping knives . . .

. . . and two fillet knifes with sleek wooden handles. Not a colored handle in sight.

Which meant nothing, Talia admitted to herself. She released a breath and closed the drawer. If she didn't stop obsessing, she'd never get any work done.

Her encounter with Cliff Colby at Queenie's suddenly popped into her head. Watching him buy those lottery tickets had been like opening an old wound and watching it bleed.

She was fifteen when the gambling fever first grabbed hold of her dad. It started with little things. He'd begun coming home late from his job at a tax preparation franchise, using tax season as an excuse. Then his behavior changed. Before her eyes, she'd watched her easygoing dad transform into a short-tempered ogre. He'd snap at her for every tiny thing—even berating her one evening for keeping the television volume too low because she was trying to study for an exam.

Although her mom never said so, Talia knew she suspected an affair. She couldn't count the nights her mom had kept her dad's dinner warm, only to toss it down the disposal and grind it to shreds when he slunk through the back door at ten or eleven.

But if her dad was having an affair, why did he always look so unhappy, so beaten down? Talia knew it was something else.

Then the bill collectors started calling. Rude, insensitive,
demanding. Her mom had tried hiding it from her, until one day the oil company refused to make a delivery. After they'd shivered for two nights in a frigid house, her mom finally broke down and told her.

Talia knew she needed an escape. She'd just turned sixteen when she applied for the part-time job at Lambert's. She began spending every free hour there, doing every menial task Bea and Howie assigned to her. Eventually she learned how to safely operate the fryer, and before long she was serving up fish and chips to the customers as if she'd done it all her life. At the end of every shift, she'd notice that the aroma of hot oil and condiments had clung to her clothes. She'd worn the scent home like a cloak of sanity in her otherwise topsy-turvy life.

It wasn't until her mom threatened to take Talia and leave that her dad faced his addiction squarely in the eye. Once he sought help, everything changed. The credit vultures stopped circling. Things slowly improved at home.

Talia thought about the “arrow” she'd stuck in the pocket of her jacket. Could it really be a broken hand from a clock, as Rita had speculated? If so, why was it on the floor of Turnbull's office? Maybe later, if things got quiet for a few minutes, Talia would pay Cliff a visit and put him on the spot. A nagging feeling was beginning to creep into her bones. She knew she had to check it out.

In the meantime, they needed to be prepared for a very busy Saturday.

“Bea, I just thought of something,” Talia said. “How are we going to advertise our two-for-one deal today?”

“Ach.” Bea stuck a hand on her hip. “We need one of those sandwich board thingies to stick out in front. Do you know where we can get one on short notice?”

“A real sandwich board might be pricey.” Talia tapped a finger to her lips. “Know what? I'll bet we could make our own. We could buy two of those stiff, poster-sized sheets from the crafts store on Elm Street, tape them into a V shape”—she demonstrated by tenting her hands—“and write our own message on it.”

Bea snapped her fingers. “Maybe Whitnee could stop by there and grab them on her way in this morning.”