Death Takes Priority (14 page)

“Yeah, I just wanted to find out who sent him and why. But I couldn't reach him. I left messages and a secretary said he'd get back to me when he could, but I'm not holding my breath.”

“He's probably pretty busy.”

“I just don't like loose ends.”

I didn't blame him. I felt I had more loose ends than a tailor's shop. I told Quinn about my lunch with Derek Hathaway, his strange fascination with the betting club, and his near denial of any kind of relationship with Wendell Graham.

The topic we saved for last was the most serious.

“I'd like you to pull back a little,” Quinn said. “In fact, make that ‘a lot.'”

Uh-oh, I sensed that I'd had my last home-cooked meal in a while. “I'm sorry if I've seemed pushy with you.”

Quinn blinked and shook his head, causing a pleasant movement of his longish hair. “I meant, stop investigating. I'm worried that the little message delivered through your wheels today might have to do with the fact that you've been hanging around Wanda, questioning Derek, for starters.”

“It was a Girl Scout,” I reminded him.

“Maybe not.”

“You said you don't like loose ends. Don't you want this all cleared up? Isn't it enough to have one murder trial hanging in the balance, and affecting your life?”

“Of course, I want it all cleared up. But not at someone else's expense.” He looked straight at me. “Not at your expense.”

“Dessert?” I asked.

*   *   *

Quinn left early enough for me to make some calls. I dialed Ben first, and got a woman's voice.

“Is Ben there?”

“Hey, Cassie, it's Natalie.”

I'd met Ben's niece once or twice when I first moved back. She lived in Boston and had just started nursing school near a large hospital. I wondered if her uncle had given her the “Boston-Is-Bad Talk.” Knowing him, he might be accusing her at this very moment of taking the water from under him and his neighbors, just to be sure the big city kept on rolling.

“I didn't know you were visiting. How nice.”

“Just since yesterday. A friend is getting married in town. I'll be staying the weekend. Besides, I have to check up on the old man, you know.”

I laughed. “You'd better not let him hear you call him that.”

“No kidding. Wait a sec. I'll put him on.”

“Sorry to call so late,” I said, when Ben took the phone. “I just want to be sure everything went smoothly this afternoon. Is there anything I should know about before I raise the flag in the morning?”

“Nope, everything's fine. Oh, yeah, except we're out of those hot-rod commemoratives. Put in an order, would you?”

An odd request, and an odd way for him to make it, as if I worked for him and not vice versa. I cleared my throat. “Sure. Anything else?”

“I think that's it. Make sure you're in by about two-thirty tomorrow.”

“What? What are you talking about, Ben? Is there something different about tomorrow morning that I shouldn't go to work as usual?”

“That's correct. Thanks for asking. I'll see you then.”

Now I was really confused. Was nothing normal these days? Was I about to find out that Benham Gentry was a fake name, that he'd burned flags and had been on the run since the seventies?

Then it hit me. His beloved Natalie was visiting. She probably didn't know that Ben was on his way out of the postmaster job. He wanted his niece to think he was still in charge. That was probably why he called yesterday, asking to come in. What other reason for this little dance? I knew he cared a great deal about Natalie, and had had a
lot to do with raising her, so it couldn't be that he didn't want to spend time with her.

“Okay, boss,” I said.

“You got it.”

“I'll see you at two-thirty. Call if you need anything.”

I wondered if I'd find it so hard to leave my post when my time came.

*   *   *

I stopped for a cup of coffee, then made my second call, to Linda, and asked that very question.

“It's sad, in a way,” she said. “I don't see myself hanging around, begging to work more. I've got a ton of things I'm going to do once I don't have to dress in blue.”

“You don't have to dress in blue now. You're in the main office, where no stamps are sold, no services provided.”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

I'd debated about telling Linda that my car had had an adventure today—major surgery on its wheels. “Not now” won over “share everything,” on the basis that I didn't want to give the upsetting incident any more sway over me and my friends than it already had. Besides, it was over.

The last call of the evening was incoming, from Wanda. I thought of ignoring it, since I had no information for her, but she'd just keep trying and I'd never get to sleep. Besides, I did really feel sorry for her. I picked up.

“Hey, Cassie, just checking in, you know.”

“I've been thinking about you and wish I had something positive to report.” Again, I decided to skip the fact that I had new tires.

“I wanted to tell you that we're having a service for my
brother on Saturday and I hope you can come. Nothing big; I'm sure it will be mostly family. Walker and Whitney are flying in tomorrow. I know Wendell would want you there if you can possibly make it.”

“Of course, I'll be there. Just tell me where and when and if there's anything I can do.”

Wanda gave me the details, then broke down. I couldn't help but join her.

*   *   *

I made a tour of my house before going to bed, checking the locks on all the doors and windows. I positioned my cell and its charger on my night table, within easy reach. Nothing wrong with having two phones handy, just in case. I returned to the front windows and peeked out at my driveway one more time. All was quiet and my car seemed to be standing tall.

I caught myself just before saying good night to my Jeep and wishing it well.

I
'd been tempted not to set my alarm, to sleep late, since a little surprise time off for me just happened to serve Ben's needs. I hated to waste the morning, however. I thought of all the things I could do before two-thirty—learn to sew, for example. Failing that, I could read or shop. There was a good-sized mall one town over, where I could browse in person. Imagine actually trying on a skirt before ordering it. Was that what my parents and Aunt Tess had done before the Internet became the worldwide mall?

My favorite photo of my mother came from a shopping trip we took together to New York City when I'd just turned thirteen. I snapped her picture as she was walking down a major avenue carrying three large shopping bags in each hand, all with the store logos facing front. Big smile on her face, though most of the purchases, as I recalled, were for me.

While waking up with my coffee and toast, I scanned
this week's paper for events. I played tourist for a few minutes and checked out the “Things To Do” section. Not exactly what my old Fenway neighborhood would offer, but certainly enough to keep me busy for a morning. It had been years since I'd visited the Susan B. Anthony museum, in her birthplace of Adams, Massachusetts, almost next door. I also considered a walk down our own main street, maybe checking on the progress of Tim Cousins's home-building project and being neighborly for a change.

Finally, I decided what I'd do with my windfall of free time. I went online and found the address of the telephone company's North Ashcot Central Office. For old times' sake, I told myself, to see where Wendell had spent his career. It's not that I was investigating—even though, if Wanda was right about her brother's lack of personal life, it was a good bet that Wendell's murder was tied to his work life. If I happened to meet one of his colleagues who wanted to chat, so be it. You couldn't be arrested for that.

*   *   *

Dressed in my not-blues, lest I be mistaken for a postal worker, I followed the instructions from my GPS to the western edge of town, where a nondescript two-story building was situated among a few other industrial-looking properties. Beige in color, or noncolor, the telephone company building was surrounded by a high fence, except for a small entrance on one short side of the lot. Also surrounding the facility were rows of various-sized conduits, which, I assumed, held myriad strands of wires and cables. The windows were narrow and multipaned, the bottom ones barred and opaque.

I parked on the street, so as not to get involved in the barbed-wire section, and approached what looked like the front entrance, set back from the street. It was not a pleasant walk from my Jeep (the tires of which were the newest things around as far as I could see) to the doorway, past trash, bits of glass, and pockets of mud. Wendell's place of employment was about as unfriendly and unwelcoming as he had become, at least to me.

So this was a central office. If its appearance was meant to discourage attention, the designers had done well. Five steps up from the street level was an entryway with a double glass door, a large
EMPLOYEES ONLY
sign filling most of it. In case that wasn't clear, two other signs were more explicit.
THIS IS NOT A PUBLIC OFFICE
, read one, and
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PAY BILLS HERE
, said still another, discouraging not only visitors but rate-paying customers in no uncertain terms. I wondered if Wanda had ever ventured out to visit her brother at work. I doubted they had a Take Your Sister to Work Day.

Any hope I had of entering the building and chatting with Wendell's coworkers was buried in layers of cement and security. There wasn't even a doorbell, only a keypad and card slot. I wondered why they'd bothered to feature the company logo above the door. In case employees couldn't tell which was their building?

One thing that surprised me was the size of the structure. I would have expected that newer technology would fit into a smaller space. Maybe everything was now accommodated in one corner of the building, and the rest of the area was empty or used for storage. If I could only get a peek inside, I wouldn't have to make up the building's history.

I knew I should be relieved that such an important part of my hometown's communication system was so well protected. I simply wished they were aware that I was no threat and would make an exception for me.

I returned to my car, looking back over my shoulder now and then on the chance that a human would show himself on the property. From the number of cars in an adjacent parking lot, it seemed that a couple dozen people had shown up today. None were hanging out windows or having a smoke outside. No greeter, as in big box stores these days.

I got in my Jeep and drove back toward town. I had come to a
STOP
sign when I ran into an opportunity, figuratively speaking. A telephone company truck was parked in the next block, ahead of me, beside a telephone pole, of course.

Why hadn't I thought of this before? Where there was a utility truck, there were humans. Workers. Telephone company workers. Who needed an entry code to an ugly building when there were workers in the field? I could have saved myself a trip to the rough edge of town and simply cruised the streets until I found a truck. Like the one in front of me.

I drove through the intersection and slowed down by the orange cones, lowering my window on the way.

“Good morning,” I said to the nearest man in an orange vest and yellow hard hat. Not the man who was perched in a red cherry picker at the top of the pole, or the third man, who was shuffling tools around in the back of the truck. I was looking at the poster boy for a telephone company promo. A tall, fit guy with a perfect smile, exactly the right amount of stubble, and clear blue eyes that said, “Trust your important calls to me.” Mr. Comm, I named him.

Once he realized I wasn't moving on, he asked, “Can I help you with something?”

“I just came from the central office, hoping I'd be able to talk to someone there, but I couldn't find a way in.”
Impenetrable
came to mind.

“That's not a public office,” he informed me. Something I'd gathered from all the signs and bars on the windows, but I felt no need to be sarcastic.

“Is there a phone number I could call to talk to someone inside the telephone company?” Oops, the sarcasm escaped.

“Nope.” No smile; apparently Mr. Comm didn't see the irony. “What is it that you need?”

I took a deep breath. “Well, I'm a friend of Wendell Graham. I'm trying to help his sister by getting the word out about his memorial service tomorrow.” I paused. It took all the strength I had to shove thoughts of Wanda and what she'd think of this ploy to the back of my mind. “I assume you knew him?”

“Oh yeah, yeah. Awful that he died that way. Nice guy. He came into the field a lot. When's the service?”

I gave Mr. Comm the details and a big smile. “You know, as long as Wendell and I were friends, I've never understood exactly what his job was.”

He smiled back. “Graham was an installer, like us”—he waved his hand toward his two coworkers—“connecting lines, disconnecting lines, hooking lines to central, unhooking lines to central. The usual.”

“There a problem here?” We'd been joined by a decidedly not camera-ready worker. A heavier, older guy whose orange vest hadn't seen a washing machine for a while, and whose hard hat was dented all around.

“No problem,” I said.

“This here's Jimmy, Graham's replacement,” Mr. Comm said of the newcomer to the conversation.

“That was very quick work, bringing you in so soon after Wendell's death,” I said, pretending to shade my eyes from the sun, when I was really hiding from Jimmy's sharp, dark eyes.

“It's an important job. Can't keep customers on hold no matter what happens.” Even murder, I supposed he meant.

“I guess it will take you a while to get up to speed.”

“Not really,” Jimmy said, in a “what's it to you?” tone.

“He's a veteran,” Mr. Comm said. “He's been in Albany for almost twenty years.”

“What's your interest in all this, anyway?” Jimmy asked, cutting Mr. Comm off.

“Like I told”—I paused while Mr. Comm filled in the blank and said I could call him Kyle—“Like I told Kyle, Wendell's sister asked me to be sure everyone he worked with knows the arrangements for tomorrow's memorial service.”

Jimmy gave me a skeptical look. “You don't say.”

“I can give you the details,” Mr. Comm offered.

“We have work to do,” Jimmy said. At least he touched his hat to me while he waved me on.

With the window down, I was getting cold anyway.

*   *   *

It was clear that I couldn't be trusted with even a little free time. I sat in Café Mahican, distressed at how I'd wasted my morning so far. I couldn't let go of the fact that Wendell's killer was still at large. Even more puzzling was why I thought I could be the one to solve the mystery.

What if the killer was a drifter, now long gone, as some gossipers had theorized in my post office that first day? A stranger, on the way from crime number one, happens to pass through North Ashcot and decides to commit crime number two, with Wendell in the wrong place at the wrong time.

How many murders fell into that category? Random shootings or stabbings, never solved. I smiled as I thought of all the television dramas I'd watched in my lifetime, and how not a single one of them was ever due to a random act or even the cliché “robbery gone bad.” Fifty minutes and the connections were made, the means, motive, and opportunity checked off, and the guilty party nailed.

I had to admit it wasn't just Wanda's plea that had motivated me to insert myself into this investigation. As poorly as I was doing in terms of results, at least I wasn't sitting idly by, and for some reason, that mattered. I wondered how Sunni and the real cops would have handled the boys in hard hats at the utility truck. Would they have asked better questions? Was it just the intimidation of a badge that got them answers where I got nothing? Or did they have special courses in psychology, beyond the management seminars I'd been to? How did they handle dead ends, uncooperative citizens, fortressed buildings? Slashed tires?

I felt sure that Derek was involved in some way, though I couldn't imagine that he himself wielded the gun that killed Wendell. I pictured him stripping bills from a wad in his pocket and paying off a minion. All this, without a shred of evidence. Conviction due to creepiness.

Some detective I'd make, lining up suspects according to whether I liked them personally. In my mental lineup,
developer Derek Hathaway, architect and builder Tim Cousins, and Selectwoman Gert Corbin were on one side, and all my friends—Quinn, Wanda, and Ben on the other.

I thought of another case, across the country in California, and the defendant on trial, Quinn's mother. I had a surge of sympathy for Quinn, unable to imagine my own frustration and anxiety tripled, or more, if someone as close as my mother were involved.

I checked the time on my phone. Wanda had called me while I was driving from the central office and asked to meet me at ten-thirty, which turned out to be almost perfect timing.

At ten thirty-four, Wanda walked through the door of the coffee shop, past several empty tables, made a detour to the coffee bar, then took a seat across from me. She gave one last shiver and rubbed her hands together.

“Freezing, huh?” she noted. “Sorry, I'm a little late. Had to drop off a project for a client.”

Wanda had tucked most of her hair into an olive green knit cap, which she left on, a good choice until she had a hot drink to provide some warmth. “Unseasonably cold,” the weather girls had warned today, as if we'd expect a coat-free stroll any day in November.

I told Wanda about my feeble attempt to garner information at the central office and from the vested boys on the street. “I'm sorry I have nothing to report.”

“I do,” she said, as her name was called from the bar.

I could hardly wait until she returned with her drink. She seemed animated enough that I guessed she had good news. I allowed her time to use her cup as a heating pad.

Once warmed, inside and out, Wanda started in, leaning
as far as possible across the table. “I was going through some of Wendell's things, the ones he left at my apartment. He always stashed a few things there in case he didn't feel like driving home. He'd crash on my couch and . . .” Wanda stopped to compose herself. “Or, like the time they were painting at his house and he couldn't stand the fumes, so he stayed with me for a couple of days.”

I put my hand on hers. “Take your time,” I said. Eager as I was for whatever Wanda had come up with, I understood her need to slow down. It had been less than a week since her brother, and best buddy it seemed, had died.

“Thanks. I'm okay.” She reached into her tote and pulled out a few pages of text. “I found these e-mails he'd printed out.”

She placed the pages on the table, facing me. She'd circled the name at the top, the “from” person. Derek Hathaway. As if I would have missed it. I peered at the message.

The e-mail was to Wendell Graham, copied to Gert Corbin, dated a few days before his murder. The subject was simply: Lines.

The text began with, “New opportunities” followed by a list of names:

Barry Chase

Margaret Phillips

Tim Cousins?

Scott James/Quinn Martindale?

No further text, no other explanation.

Without thinking, I put my finger on the last named
person. I felt my stomach flip and my eyes widen. Wanda was more verbal. “What does he mean by that?” she asked. “Scott's your friend from the antiques store, right? Does he have a partner named Quinn or something? And who are Barry Chase and Margaret Phillips?”

I ran Wanda's questions and my own around in my head. How did Derek know about Quinn's dual identity? Other than that he knew everything, from the first day we met this week, to news of my slashed tires.