Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 02 - Murder in the Maine Woods

  MURDER IN THE

  MAINE WOODS

  Bernadine Fagan

  MURDER IN THE MAINE WOODS

  Copyright © 2013 by Bernardine Fagan

  Cover: Kimberly Killion

  Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number

  ISBN-13: 978-1482068764

  ISBN-10: 1482068761

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my family

  who always support me

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to Dominic Carter,

  Madeline Poulin and

  Tim Slack for research help

  And to Brian and Gina

  who give wonderful feedback

  ALSO BY BERNADINE FAGAN

  Murder by the Old Maine Stream

  ONE

  I, Nora Lassiter, who always considered myself a decent human being, one who is honest, law-abiding, good-hearted, warm, friendly, compassionate, kind to children and old people, am an impostor.

  There, I’ve said it straight out, and don’t think for one minute it doesn’t bother me. It does. But I made a promise to Vivian and I have a thing about keeping promises. So as soon as I find out who poisoned one of her Pomeranians, I intend to clear up the misunderstanding about being a detective. Not a plain, ordinary detective, heaven forbid, but a “hotshot New York detective.” Great-Aunt Ida’s words, not mine.

  My good aunt created the misconception before I arrived in these Maine Woods about two months ago for a four-day visit to the huge Lassiter clan, people I hadn’t seen since I was ten years old. I’m now thirty.

  It’s October, a beautiful time around here, but I need to be heading home to New York City where I was downsized right out of my computer analyst position in a top firm. I need to find another job, pronto, or I’ll lose my tiny apartment.

  Shivering, fresh from a cold shower—they don’t have hot water in Maine—I finished toweling dry and began to dress. Black Victoria Secret bra, matching bikini panties, black cashmere turtleneck. As I grabbed a long black wool skirt, someone pounded on the door.

  “Hey, Nora. You outa bed yet?”

  Oh, damn. Not her.

  “What are you doing here?” I fired back, making no attempt to hide my irritation, although I don’t think irritation registered with Mary Fran.

  When I was a child living in Silver Stream, Mary Fran was the bane of my existence. A bigger, stronger, meaner little girl did not exist on the planet as far as I knew back then. I used to hide behind trees when I saw her coming, or run, depending on circumstances. Terror was the name of the game; Mary Fran was the name of the perpetrator.

  “Can I come in, Nora? I have a great idea I have to tell you about. You’re going to love it.”

  I knew for a fact that I was not going to love it. Her last idea involved me getting evidence on her cheating husband. That almost got me killed, so I’m a little leery of her ideas. I rolled my eyes and jammed one leg into the skirt. My toe caught in the hem. I felt it rip, lost my balance and fell backwards onto the bed.

  Geeze, the woman’s not even in the room yet.

  I quickly recovered and rolled into a sitting position, examined the hem, and hopped up. Damn.

  “Do you know how to sew?” I called.

  “Everyone knows how to sew.”

  Not true. “Come in.”

  She plopped her skinny self on my unmade bed, finger-puffed her puffy red hair, and glanced up. Today she wore skin-tight magenta jeans, or maybe they were leggings, a magenta wool sweater and some thick golden beads looped around her neck about fourteen times. It’s a wonder she could walk upright.

  “I don’t think the canopy over this bed suits you,” she commented. “I don’t see you as a lace canopy person.”

  “I ripped my hem. Can you take a few stitches for me?”

  “Why’re you wearing a long skirt?”

  “Going to interview Buster Verney. Vivian swears he poisoned one of her Pomeranians.”

  “And you think he’ll admit that to you? Hah.”

  “Why aren’t you at Hot Heads Heaven today?”

  “That’s what I came to discuss with you. My beauty salon can do without me for a while. Thanks to your super detective work, I’m expecting a ton of money. The way you got the evidence about my husband’s affair and found a murderer in the process was brilliant.”

  She spoke rapidly while I brushed my hair.

  “And not that I’m trying to drum up business, but you could use a touch up. I’ll personally take care of you. Those blond highlights need attention. I see roots. But I digress.”

  “I don’t want an appointment.”

  “I’m a professional hair dresser. I know about these things. Roots.”

  “A few nights ago I had a beauty parlor nightmare,” I told her as I checked my highlights in the mirror. “I was in your salon, Crazy-glued to a chair and someone was seriously compromising my hair. The whole thing had the quality of a Stephen King horror story.”

  I shuddered as I set the brush down and started in on my makeup.

  “You have so many hang-ups. Maybe you should see a therapist. But let me not digress again. What you really need is a detective assistant. You could call me your D-A. Hah. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  I blinked rapidly and a smear of black mascara materialized under both eyes. I grabbed the cleanser.

  “You should wear blue eye shadow,” she went on. “It’d bring out the blue of your eyes. Make you more appealing to men.”

  I blinked again, increasing the under-eye destruction before I had a chance to clean up. “I don’t care about being appealing to men.” Technically, a lie, but true at the moment. Well, sort of true.

  “Before I came here, I broke off my engagement to a guy who cheated on me. I have little trust in the entire male gender. And I don’t need an assistant. Thanks, anyway,” I said, dabbing the mascara dots with cleanser, considering the possibility of blue eye shadow.

  Not one to give up easily, Mary Fran continued. “Let me lay on the pluses. First, I know this area. You wouldn’t get lost as much. Second, I know most of the folks in Silver Stream. I speak their language, if you get my meaning. Third—”

  “Skip third. I’m going back to New York City where I belong, probably this week.”

  “You’re not taking Vivian’s case?”

  “I intend to wrap it up this morning.”

  “How about I meet you at Verney’s?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll call it a test run, Nora. If it doesn’t work, that’ll be it.”

  What difference did it make? One interview and I’d be on my way home. I sighed and went back to my makeup. “Okay.”

  “I can’t go with you now,” she said. “My daughter’s a pumpkin in a school play.”

  Good. I’d be through with Verney before she even got to his place.

  “Fine. Go see your daughter.”

  “Your hem is ripped,” she said as she opened the door to leave. “You should sew that.”

  I sang along to a Kelly Clarkson CD as I drove in my silver Chevy S10 pickup, which I’d named Chevy Charlene, Ce-Ce for short. I liked singing. If I were staying, I might consider joining the choir at Aunt Ida’s church.

  I hoped Buster was still home. I was late. As I approached Vivian’s place, I heard her Pomeranians howl and yap. They were so loud I could hardly hear my
self singing.

  It was fortunate Buster didn’t live too close to this, or it might drive him crazy. Maybe when the wind was right he could hear. Fortunately there was no wind today, just mist and fog.

  Buster’s long driveway arced in front of a gray clapboard house with a wraparound porch and an upper floor with two gabled dormers. On the far side small yellow flags fluttered on sticks that marked off a large section of property next to his house. It looked like he planned to build something.

  As I pulled up, Mary Fran drove up the opposite side. I thought I dodged her, but I lost my lead when I missed that last turn for the third time. My fault.

  With a sigh I pulled past the front door and parked next to Buster’s truck, a big red Dodge. He was still home. Good.

  As I was getting out of Ce-Ce, I saw a flash of something in the woods. I ran to get a better look. At the tree line, I came to an abrupt halt in a pile of dry leaves that crunched underfoot, my gaze following the retreating figure. I strained to see, wishing I had the old binoculars I’d found at Ida’s house. I should invest in a pair. L.L. Bean sells binoculars. I’d check their catalogue. Since coming to Maine, I’d become a closet L.L. Bean shopper. Most of my ultra chic and trendy New York friends would not approve. I hadn’t even told my best friend Lori, forheavensakes. I should tell her. I would.

  Vivian? Was that Vivian running through the woods? Tall, chunky, wearing a gold top and jeans. Might be her. Hair color was hard to tell. From here it looked brassy.

  “Vivian?” I yelled. “Is that you?”

  Whoever was running didn’t turn so I shouted louder, this time cupping my hands around my mouth, megaphone style.

  “Vivian? Viv-eee-an.”

  The runner was fast. You’d think someone that chunky would be slow, but no. Seconds later she disappeared into the foliage and was swallowed by the mist. I was not about to follow. Moose could be lurking around here. You never know about moose. They own the woods. Sometimes they don’t bother people, other times, watch out. They’ve been known to charge, antlers down, hoofs pounding, and that’s a fact. I never want to mess with a moose.

  Mary Fran was standing by the back door, which was ajar.

  “You saw Vivian?” she asked. “What was she doing here?”

  “Not sure. Could have been someone else.”

  I stepped onto the porch and went to the back door. “Mr. Verney?”

  No answer. I called again. No one was paying attention to me today. I pushed the door slightly, peeked in, saw no one.

  “Buster Verney,” I yelled, loud enough to wake the dead.

  I wondered whether the running woman had been inside the house. If it was Vivian, I was surprised she’d come here. I thought she couldn’t stand the sight of Verney.

  I opened the door the rest of the way, grateful I was not alone. I should tell Mary Fran I was glad she was here.

  Buster’s back door squeaked. He obviously didn’t bother with W-2 for the hinges.

  W-2? No, that was the tax form.

  I stepped into a kitchen that hadn’t been updated in years. The worn linoleum was slightly sticky underfoot. He’d evidently spilled something and had done a poor job cleaning it up.

  “This looks like a graveyard for old appliances,” I whispered nervously. “Dull gold. Don’t see much of that.”

  “Verney’s a skinflint,” Mary Fran whispered. “His wife probably wanted to change it and he refused.”

  “He’s married? I thought he lived alone.”

  “Most of the time he does live alone. His wife died two years ago. The nephews, Lenny and Stan, lived with him for a while, but they moved out years before she died. They didn’t get along. Occasionally, different vets stay here.”

  “Vets?”

  “Yeah. He takes them rafting and fishing. Stuff like that. He’s gonna build an extension for them, like a camp for veterans.”

  “Sounds like a noble idea. I like that.”

  “Buster’s not a bad guy.”

  “Mister Verney?” I hollered. To Mary Fran I said, “We don’t want to surprise him. He could be in the bathroom. Some things you just don’t want to see.”

  Mary Fran took immediate action and stomped across the floor yelling, “Hey, Verney, get your ass out here. Ya got company.”

  I called in a more refined tone, “It’s Nora Lassiter. We had an appointment today. I know I’m a little late. Sorry.”

  No answer as I stepped into the main room. Such a gloomy place. Faded plaid furniture, a shag rug, partially closed dark drapes, maple coffee table with paper plates and some magazines. Guns and Amo, Girls Gone Wild, Bullets and Babes. Okay, this painted a picture.

  “He doesn’t sound like a skinflint if he’s building an extension for vets,” I said quietly as I headed toward the hall.

  “I guess not. But he feels they’ve earned it.”

  I paused, considered leaving, then continued.

  VO-9?

  No, that was a shampoo. Alberto VO-9.

  Of the four doors in the hall, three were opened, one was closed.

  I checked for the mace I always carried in my purse, and for my cell phone. I rarely go any place without both. I’ve learned a thing or two about detective work since my first, and only case, over a month ago. Mace in hand, I continued.

  “Maybe we should leave now,” Mary Fran whispered as she grabbed my free hand.

  “You wanted to come,” I reminded her, yanking my hand away. “This is what being a detective is all about.”

  Oh, really, Nora? Woman of vast experience?

  I called Buster’s name again, knocked on the wall like I’d knock on a door. Faced with answering stillness, I mustered my courage and proceeded down the hall slowly.

  “I’ll check upstairs,” Mary Fran said as she spun around jackrabbit-quick, and took off.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw her heading toward the kitchen, and, I was sure, the back door. The staircase was off the living room in the opposite direction. Some assistant.

  Coward, I whispered to her retreating back, the mace canister shaking in my hand. Good thing I hadn’t told her how glad I was she was with me. Waste of breath.

  WD-40. That was it, the hinge lubricant.

  I continued on more slowly until the smell from the bathroom slammed into me with the force of a well-swung baseball bat. Reeling, I gasped, but curiosity got the better of me and I stepped forward. Vomit all over the place.

  With trepidation I looked toward the last room in the hall.

  TWO

  “Mister Verney,” I shrieked, hurrying in. “Are you all right?”

  I froze a few feet from the bed, knowing this man wouldn’t answer, couldn’t answer, and that he would never be all right.

  Although I didn’t know what Buster looked like, I figured this must be him, the same guy I’d spoken to yesterday to confirm our appointment. He’d sounded so robust. He looked robust, what with his military buzz cut and muscular build. He was in good shape. Except, I think he was dead.

  His skin was a mask of faded parchment, his mouth slack, the drool still wet on his chin. I’m not an expert, not a physician or medical person, but some things are obvious. Without taking another step, I stared at his chest, looking for any whisper of movement. At times like this, I wish I were a braver person.

  If I were an Emergency Medical Technician, for example, I might rush to him and try mouth to mouth. The thought made me gag.

  Forcing myself to act, I walked to the bed and touched his bare arm with my index finger.

  “Buster?” I squeaked, as I forced a few more fingers into action and searched for a pulse in his neck.

  No answer. No pulse. His skin was warm. Almost warm. Strange. He must have died a very short time ago. Of a heart attack? Whoever I’d seen running into the woods might have been the last person to see him alive.

  Completely unnerved, I suddenly fled down the hall like a maniac, out the back door, around the house to my truck, grabbed the cell phone, dropped it, sc
ooped it up, dropped it again, sat down in the dirt next to the truck, and hit Nick’s number on my Favorites list, all the while looking around, super alert.

  Had someone killed him, or had he died of natural causes? A murderer could be lurking. No, probably not. No marks or obvious wounds were evident. No blood. I hadn’t looked all that carefully, but still …

  I was breathing hard.

  Mary Fran. Where had she disappeared to? Had someone gotten her?

  “Silver Stream Sheriff’s Office. Nick Renzo speaking.”

  “Nick.” I yelled. “Verney’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t hear me? I’m shouting. You should be hearing just fine. Buster Verney is dead in his bed.”

  “You sure he’s dead?”

  “Am I sure? Am I sure!” My voice went up an octave, into the soprano range. I’m normally an alto. Or at least a mid-alto, if there is such a thing. That’s where they placed me when I was in my high school music class. “Lassiter, go into the alto section. Stand at the end of a row, in back,” is what the chorus director said.

  “Nick, read my lips,” I shouted into the phone. “The guy is dead. Maybe a heart attack. Something quiet. I mean he wasn’t shot or anything obvious that I could see. I touched him. He wasn’t too cold, but I’m not sure how cold a person has to be.”

  I heard him giving orders in the background, something about an ambulance.

  “Did you feel for a pulse? Check for breath?”

  “He’s not breathing. At least, not noticeably. I don’t

  think he has a pulse, but I’m not sure. I checked. Sort of. Who knows whether I had the right spot?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Sitting in the dirt.”

  “At Verney’s?”

  “Yes, this is Verney’s dirt.”

  “I’m leaving now. An ambulance is on the way. Do you know CPR?”