A Murder in Mohair Page 10

  Then again, just as Edie had pointed out, there were probably many in Plum Harbor who held the same low opinion of Cassandra. If her killer was among her clients, the police would be working overtime to sift through the long list of possible suspects.

  Lucy walked Maggie back to the shop and grabbed her bike.

  With no customers in sight, Maggie lingered on the sidewalk. “Nora is taking it hard. Edie has good reason to be concerned,” she said.

  “Yes, she does,” Lucy said. “Nora really depended on Cassandra.” Lucy had not realized just how much until this morning. “She was Nora’s lifeline. I didn’t feel one way or the other about Cassandra, though I certainly didn’t trust her. But even if she was a faker, maybe she did consider her profession a form of therapy for people like Nora. Or even entertainment, for customers like us? It’s still awful that she was killed. She was so young. I think it’s very sad.”

  “I feel bad, too. No matter what you thought of her—a phony baloney, or the real thing—no one should meet their end in such a violent way. I hope Cassandra’s spirit is at peace,” Maggie said sincerely.

  Lucy felt the same. She adjusted the strap on her helmet, then looked back at Maggie. “I have to admit, it was hard to watch Richard and Nora. I feel even worse about seeing him at Cassandra’s house the other night. It makes me feel so . . . responsible. As if I know this big secret. When the visit could have been perfectly innocent. My brain isn’t set to ‘auto-smear’ like some people we know,” she added quickly, meaning Suzanne. “But what if he had been fooling around with Cassandra? I don’t think Nora would be able to stand that. She’s already so fragile. I definitely don’t want to be the one to topple their entire marriage. It looks like a balancing act already.”

  Maggie nodded, her gaze sympathetic. “I don’t envy you. You’re in a tough spot. But I do know it will do no good for anyone if you withhold this from the police. You have to trust that they won’t damage the Gordons’ marriage unnecessarily. If he was being unfaithful to Nora, well . . . it certainly isn’t your fault. You can’t worry about protecting him. Or Nora. We have to give the police their best shot at catching Cassandra’s killer.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lucy set her helmet squarely on her head and closed the clip under her chin, then glanced at Maggie with a small smile. “But can I ask you something totally random? When you and Charles went sailing last weekend, did he offer you any cold beverages . . . that looked like Kool-Aid?”

  Maggie looked confused a moment, then smiled and tapped Lucy’s helmet with her knuckles. “No, he did not. And that was pretty fresh, Queenie.”

  “Just sayin’.” Lucy shrugged and swung up on the bike, pausing to wave goodbye as she pedaled away.

  Secretly, Lucy was sure that her good friend had been as surprised as anyone to hear herself touting the official line about cooperating with the police, “letting them do their job . . . blah-blah-blah . . .”

  Jimmy Hubbard was one thing, poor fellow. No one had known him very well, and his death, though violent and a bit of a shock around town, had not been all that interesting. Most likely it was just what it appeared to be, a robbery that had gotten out of hand. Even the local newspaper and TV stations grew bored with the event very quickly.

  But Cassandra Waters, a professed psychic, whom they had met with only days ago and who had been such an important figure in the lives of people they knew well . . .

  That was another box of crackers entirely, as Edie might say.

  Not taking anything away from Maggie’s powers of self-discipline, Lucy doubted Maggie would be able to keep her promise and avoid poking around in this investigation.

  Lucy hoped so, anyway. She and the rest of her friends had no such scruples and she knew it would be hard to avoid speculating and even sniffing around the Internet.

  In fact, once she got back in her office, she decided to do an online search on Cassandra and see what came up. The inspiration gave her a sudden jolt of energy as she pedaled hard to climb back up the dreaded hill on Main Street.

  No pain, no gain, she reminded herself.

  Chapter Six

  Maggie had expected to hear from Charles at some point in the day, but his visit to the shop surprised her. It wasn’t even lunchtime, though it might have been for him, she realized. He sometimes started a shift at 6 a.m.

  She was standing by the counter and met his gaze as he walked in. He looked around, concerned about interrupting her with customers. He was very considerate that way.

  “The coast is clear,” she said with a smile. “There was a class this morning but they’re all gone and it’s too nice outside for much traffic today, I think.”

  “I guess that’s to be expected, when you’ve got sort of a seasonal business?”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “Unlike your line of work. Now the police have two murders to investigate.”

  “You heard about Cassandra Waters.”

  Maggie shrugged. “It was all over town by nine this morning. Suzanne happened to be on Ivy Street and saw the police cars and even spoke to the neighbors.”

  “So you know the full story already. As usual,” he teased her.

  “I wouldn’t call it the full story. But a few of the gruesome details. Suzanne just happened to catch the husband of the woman who found the body. A neighbor who had been returning Cassandra’s dog . . . or something like that.”

  She shrugged again, acting nonchalant and playing down her interest.

  Charles saw right through her. She could tell instantly by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, suppressing a laugh.

  “Something like that,” he echoed.

  “Would you like a cold drink? Iced tea, or cold water?”

  “Sounds great. Yes, I would.”

  He followed her to the back of the store and watched while she rummaged around the storeroom. He leaned on the counter and smiled at her.

  Charles wore a suit or at least a sport coat and tie, no matter the weather. He looked very handsome in a jacket and tie, too, she’d always thought. Perhaps it was the department dress code for detectives on duty, but Maggie had a feeling he would have dressed up anyway. He didn’t even look uncomfortable, or bedraggled by the heat, though he did slip his jacket off and neatly drape it on the back of a chair when they stepped back out to the worktable.

  Maggie handed him a glass of iced tea and took a seat nearby.

  “Are you on this case?” she asked quietly.

  He nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “We had her here Thursday night. For a reading. Cassandra, I mean,” Maggie reminded him.

  “Right. You mentioned that she was coming.” Charles nodded, still smiling at her. “We’ll be talking to everyone who’s met with her since she came to town. She kept records. They look very complete.”

  “Records of appointments, you mean?” Maggie suddenly wondered if he meant notes on the people Cassandra met with, research she did before the meeting in order to sound clairvoyant.

  Charles nodded again. “That’s right, her appointments. What did you think I meant?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she kept notes about her clients. She must have done a little research before appointments when she could. Just to sound like she was really tuning to the spirit messages.”

  “So you don’t believe she was really psychic?” Charles seemed amused. He squeezed the slice of lemon on the top of his tea and took a long sip.

  “Of course not . . . do you?” Maggie stared at him, sure he must be teasing now.

  He sighed and set his glass down. “I don’t believe in that sort of thing. Though a lot of people do. Her profession does complicate the situation.”

  “I’d think so.” Maggie paused, wondering what questions she could ask.

  She’d found out the hard way there was a fine line between interest in Charles’s job and being a pesky snoop in police investigations. She’d crossed that line a few times too many . . . with unhappy consequences.

  “Do you think
her murder is related to Jimmy Hubbard’s death?”

  Charles shook his head. “Not likely. Of course, we have to consider that possibility. We’re looking at her client list first. But I’m sure you already guessed that.”

  “Yes . . . I did.”

  He waited a moment, wondering how freely he should talk about the case with her, Maggie suspected. But she was going to be officially interviewed and he was investigating the event. And he had already admired, many times in fact, her amazing powers of observation and memory. What else would a detective want in a witness . . . or a girlfriend, she secretly assured herself.

  “What did you think? Aside from suspecting she was a fraud? Do you know any reason why someone would want to kill Cassandra Waters? Have you heard any gossip?” he added, more to the point.

  Maggie set her tea down, the ice cubes tinkling against the glass. “No . . . not really.”

  Charles smiled. “What does ‘not really’ mean?”

  “The way she was killed . . . someone must have been very angry with her, very upset. Disappointed or feeling betrayed, perhaps? If you plan to kill someone, you don’t just grab the first heavy object in the room and bash their head in. You find a more methodical, premeditated method. A gun maybe, or even poison. But of course, you know that,” she added quickly.

  He nodded. “Do you know of anyone who might have been angry at Cassandra Waters?”

  Maggie shook her head. “The only person I know of who met with Cassandra on a regular basis truly idolized her. Believed in her powers totally. She’s very distraught over Cassandra’s death.”

  Charles lifted his chin, his brows drawn together—his alert look, Maggie secretly called it. “And who is that?”

  “Nora Gordon. She owns the Gilded Age Antique Shop, down the street. I’m not telling you anything you won’t find out quickly, or maybe already know,” Maggie added. “You’ll see from the appointment list that Nora visited Cassandra several times a week. And I’m sure Nora will tell anyone who asks her, how she felt about the psychic—absolutely devoted. She called Cassandra a beautiful soul and believed that she was channeling messages from her son Kyle. The boy died in his sleep about two years ago, from a brain hemorrhage. He was a senior in high school, just eighteen years old.”

  Charles pursed his lips. “That’s rough. I can understand how she got drawn in. But this Cassandra wasn’t such a sweetheart, was she, to take advantage of a grieving mother?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, she was not. Although Edie Steiber, who’s Nora’s aunt, says that Nora was so depressed before she met Cassandra, she would hardly get out of bed. Her husband was afraid to leave her alone, afraid she might harm herself. The ‘messages’—if that’s what you want to call them—were like therapy for her. The only kind that seemed to do her any good.”

  “I get it. Complicated. This phony psychic did some good while lining her pocket.”

  Charles had an amazing way of boiling matters down to the bone. It was really a gift. “Exactly. A conundrum, you might say.”

  “You might say. Though I would be laughed out of the station house if I used that in a report. I’ll save it for Scrabble,” he said.

  “Thanks for the warning.” Maggie laughed.

  Charles liked to play Scrabble on his boat. He had a special set with ridges around the boxes on the board, so the tiles stayed in place if the sailing got rocky.

  When the water got rough, she couldn’t focus on the board anyway. But they’d had fun.

  “Any good Cassandra did was an unexpected by-product of her tricks. I don’t think that sort of do-gooding counts.”

  “Probably not,” Maggie conceded. “If there really is anything ‘out there’ or ‘up there’ that eventually holds us to account.”

  “No one ever came back to say for sure. No matter what people like Cassandra Waters claim.” Charles drained his glass, set it down, and smiled. “I’d better get back to the office. Probably a million calls coming in on this one.”

  “No doubt.” And he’d be working late or even double shifts, until Cassandra Waters’s killer was found. Maggie knew by now. “Don’t worry about Wednesday; we’ll figure something out,” she said, following him to the door.

  Wednesday night had become their midweek date night as the relationship had advanced. Maggie knew she would miss him. She had planned a special dinner, too. It was funny how she’d been so adept at living alone when they’d met, satisfied most of the time with her own company. And now, one canceled night together seemed a big hole in her week.

  “I’ll be in touch. It may not take us long to find the guilty party.”

  “You sound very confident. I guess you have a good lead or two.” She was fishing a bit. Sheer reflex. She had to get a grip on that. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  “Oh, we do. Ruiz went to the toy store and bought a Ouija board. We’re going to give it a full interrogation after lunch.”

  He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and slung his jacket over his shoulder. Maggie, still smiling at the silly joke, watched from the window as he walked down to the street.

  She saw Charles pass Phoebe on the path and tip his head hello. Phoebe bobbed her head back but kept walking. She liked him well enough, Maggie thought, but didn’t like that he was a police officer. Phoebe did have a thing about authority figures, and the experience of being a person of interest in a case a few months ago, when her best friend from school disappeared without a trace, was still fresh in her memory.

  “I guess Charles came to talk about Cassandra Waters—and make sure you are not sticking your nose in his case again.” Dressed for the hot weather in a long gauzy skirt, tiny tank top, and rubber flip-flops, Phoebe slid behind the counter and set down a cup of frozen yogurt, which was covered with strawberries and granola.

  Maggie thought the food choice was just an excuse to eat dessert instead of a real lunch, but Phoebe claimed it was perfectly nutritious. Maggie didn’t argue; her assistant could certainly use some flesh on her bones. The ceiling fan turned on high was likely to lift her right out of her seat.

  “We did talk about Cassandra. But he didn’t mention a word about my nose. Do you have to eat that messy thing at the counter? It’s going to drip on something.”

  “Oh right . . . sorry. I just wanted to get back in time. So you can go out if you want to,” she explained, retreating to the table in back.

  “Thanks, but I’m in no rush.” Maggie did want to check on Edie but knew the diner was packed right now and Edie would be too busy to chat.

  She also expected a uniformed officer to drop by at some point to ask questions about Cassandra, and she didn’t want Phoebe to deal with that situation alone. “He said some officers would be coming by to take statements. They’re talking to everyone who had sessions with Cassandra. We expected that,” she reminded Phoebe.

  Phoebe was twisting herself in a pretzel shape in the chair, still spooning up her yogurt. “Yes . . . I know. But I hardly said a word to her. I just sat there and listened. I don’t really have anything to say to the police.”

  “Just tell them that. We’ll all back you up. Your interview will be short and sweet.”

  “Not so sweet . . . all things considered,” Phoebe murmured. Maggie knew what she meant. Cassandra was dead. Still hard to believe.

  Maggie stood at the counter and leafed through a new pattern book. It was only late June and the fall patterns were already coming out. She would be ordering her fall and winter stock soon.

  Something to look forward to.

  “Do you think Cassandra will come back and haunt her killer?”

  Maggie’s head popped up; she stared at Phoebe over her reading glasses. “You have an amazing imagination, Phoebe. You ought to write novels, or movie scripts, or something. Not that your knitting patterns aren’t wonderful, too.”

  “I’m serious.” Phoebe had finished her lunch and wiped her mouth on a napkin, then dumped the drippy container in the trash bin near the stockroom. “
She knew all about that realm. She knew how spirits operate. How they get in touch with living people. I think she could do it.”

  Maggie laughed and shook her head, setting the pattern book aside. “You have a point. I never thought of it like that. I just hope she doesn’t appear in the shop and ask us to help her bring her murderer to justice. Now that would be a spooky plot for a story, don’t you think?”

  Phoebe froze in place. She stared at Maggie, bug-eyed. “Don’t even say that. Now you really scared me.”

  “I’m sorry . . . you started it.” Had she really said that incredibly childish thing? Maggie was appalled at herself. But Phoebe didn’t seem to notice.

  She really hadn’t meant to frighten her assistant. She’d forgotten the poor girl spooked so easily.

  “I’m so sorry, Phoebe. I was only making a joke. That could never, ever, possibly happen in a million years. You know that, don’t you?”

  Phoebe clearly did not; her gaze remained locked with Maggie’s, her cheeks pale. Finally, she swallowed hard and took a breath.

  “I hope not.”

  “Absolutely not. As in never ever,” Maggie said, relieved to see some color return to Phoebe’s complexion.

  But before Maggie could offer any more assurances, a basket of yarn flew off the top of the oak cabinet and bounced on the table, balls of lavender mohair unraveling in all directions.

  Phoebe screamed and covered her head with her hands. “OMG! She’s here. . . . It’s Cassandra. . . . She heard us.”

  Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. She forced herself to look up at the top of the cabinet, staring at the empty spot left by the basket.

  Then she shook her head and nearly laughed out loud. “Don’t worry. Cassandra is not back. Unless she’s returned as a cat. But I think we know this one.”

  Phoebe looked up, too. “Van Gogh . . . bad cat. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  Phoebe’s unmistakable, tattered alley cat had been strolling daintily along the top of the cabinet, but now stopped in his tracks and sat, peering down with vague interest, though not the least bit impressed by Phoebe’s scolding. Phoebe looked back at Maggie.