Addressed to Kill Read online

  * * *

  On the way home, I stopped to pick up some special add-ons to what I knew would be a delicious pot roast dinner, cooked by Quinn, eaten by him and Dyson, with leftovers for me. I doubted Dyson had much of an appetite at this time, but I suspected that food other than a meal prepared for hundreds of college students would be enticing enough for him to accept it.

  I called ahead and cleared my list with Quinn. Bread, ice cream, and an appetizer of my choice.

  “What do college guys like for an appetizer?” I asked.

  “Pizza bites, of course,” Quinn said. “And maybe some barbecue chips.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  With help from a clerk, I found and bought frozen “bites” of pizza, which, along with the barbecue-flavored chips, took a lot of the thrill out of the otherwise classic New England dinner. But it had been a long time since I dated a college boy.

  * * *

  Quinn had stopped in during the day to start the roast in my Crock-Pot. The smell of the thawing pizza bites I’d brought in now lost out against the overwhelming aromas coming from my kitchen. Chuck roast, potatoes, carrots, unidentifiable but pungent spices. It seemed unfair that I had to breathe them in and not serve up a heaping plate for myself. The nutritional effects of Mahican’s boxed salad were long gone.

  Dyson was due to arrive at my house in about a half hour. Quinn took pity on me and threw together a small caprese appetizer plate. Fresh grape tomatoes from somewhere warm, I assumed, chunky mozzarella, and basil leaves. Enough to get my stomach to stop growling.

  As we sat close together in the living room, I noted that the mere presence of Quinn calmed me. Maybe his was the typical antiques dealer temperament. He entered the past every day, a place where restoration was possible, but nothing could really be changed.

  I debated whether to draw Quinn into the investigation by asking him to do more than enjoy Dyson’s company and offer support. I had no idea what Sunni had offered Dyson, or what she’d gotten from him by way of clues to what might have precipitated the end of his father’s life.

  I let Quinn talk for a change and heard about the pluses and minuses of estate sales versus auctions. Quinn and his boss were often in a position to advise executors how to handle sometimes vast amounts of property, the disposal of which has been left to their discretion.

  “This case today was a prime example,” Quinn said. “This guy is the executor for one of those mansionlike homes on the west side. He thought sales and auctions were the same thing.” He chuckled at the idea.

  “Imagine that,” I said.

  If he expected me to join him in the laughter, he was disappointed. Not only had I missed the joke, but my eyes had glazed over as I struggled to maintain interest. I was sure my voice conveyed my attitude. Quinn caught on. He pulled his long arm from around my shoulder and faced me.

  “Is there something you want to talk about, Cassie? Maybe something about Dyson’s visit?” His smile helped relieve me of the burden of pretending I wanted a lecture on tag sales or no tag sales.

  “What might that be?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like, will I ask him if he has any idea why his dad was murdered?”

  “Only if it comes up,” I said.

  The doorbell rang, putting an end to our charade. We both stood to answer.

  15

  I left for Trattoria Cefalu around seven thirty, with no trio of shadowy figures plaguing me on my street or along the road to the restaurant. I recalled that the three burglars who had defeated North Ashcot’s home locks and alarm systems were themselves locked up. Coincidence? I thought not. But that did nothing to explain why they would have been tailing me in the first place. I reconsidered the theory that they thought I was closing in on them as Dennis’s killer, but that was far-fetched in more ways than one.

  I’d stayed home with Quinn and Dyson only long enough to help set the table for two. The three of us had a brief conversation to determine if Dyson had friends coming to stay with him (maybe later, for the service), if there was enough food in his house (frozen pizza and frozen dinners his dad had), and whether he had all our phone numbers, and vice versa, in case he needed anything (we took out our cell phones and filled in the gaps). Quinn asked if he’d like to stay at his place for a few days (no, but thanks for the offer).

  I approached Cefalu’s large gravelly parking lot and saw Sunni’s personal SUV. I was surprised and disappointed that she’d beat me there. I’d hoped for a few minutes with a good cup of coffee to prepare my agenda. Too bad I hadn’t thought to extend the invitation first, and therefore treat Sunni. A certain amount of power was lost when your companion was paying for your dinner.

  Cefalu’s looked like every suburban Italian restaurant I’d ever been to, an elaborate attempt to evoke an atmosphere that was part ancient Rome and part modern Italy, with varying degrees of success. I walked past hanging ferns, “chipped” white columns that served no construction-related purpose, and window boxes on faux-brick interior walls, to where Sunni sat looking at an oversize menu. The music was an eclectic mix of Dean Martin, whom my parents had listened to, and Luciano Pavarotti, whom my ex-fiancé had listened to. I thought of the restaurants and festivals in Boston’s North End, where many of the culinary and cultural traditions of Italian immigrants had been preserved without the questionable benefit of modern influence and marketing techniques.

  I pulled out a chair across from Sunni and sat down. “This is nice,” I said, as if we were on a first date.

  “Thanks for not reminding me of how it’s about time, after all the meals I’ve mooched,” she said. She’d changed from her uniform into corduroys, her casual clothing of choice most of the time. I was in my choice, somewhat dressy jeans with a heavy Irish knit sweater.

  “I don’t look at it that way,” I said. “It’s not mooching when you’re invited.”

  “I hope you’re not expecting more from me than this dinner,” she said.

  I smiled and shook my head. This really was like a first date, except the agenda concerned murder talk as opposed to sweet nothings.

  Over enough food for six, we chatted about a series of unrelated topics, her daughter first.

  “Avery sweats over a B-plus,” Sunni said, obvious pride in her voice. “Also, she might be in love. She mentioned one guy’s name twice in connection with a study group.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  We moved on to what was going on in our quilting group, another three-minute topic.

  “How do you like the new round-robin pattern that Fran suggested?” I asked.

  She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “Too much red, white, and blue, if you ask me.” She paused and smiled at me. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  I contributed the next topic, this one five minutes in length, updating her on Linda’s new job responsibilities, and repeating the lame joke about the value of a book of poetry that had been forced on me at the end of our phone conversation.

  “I’ll bet you’re really busy with valentine mail,” Sunni said. Before I could do much more than nod, she interrupted herself. She put her fork down and sighed. I thought I detected a slight reddening in her fair cheeks. “Is this how it’s going to be?” she asked.

  Could it be that best-ish friends that we were, we were stuck for conversation unless we were discussing a murder investigation? I looked around at the other tables, almost fully populated, mostly with couples, and wondered if their conversations were as bumpy as ours was.

  “Have you read any good books lately?” I asked.

  She dipped a hunk of bread in olive oil, then had a bright thought apparently, because she smiled and wagged her free finger at me. “Aha. I see where you’re going. Books equals literature equals English majors. I knew you’d bring up something related to the Somerville case eventually.”

  I raised my
napkin to my face, the better to finish a mouthful of pasta and laugh at the same time. It was tricky. Like trying to be best friends with the chief of police.

  Sunni had no such trouble and continued without prompting from me. “Even though I warned you, since you brought us Norah Sampson, I guess you deserve a little briefing.”

  I didn’t remind her that I’d agreed to “nothing but dinner” earlier. I was too delighted with this turn in the conversation. And Sunni seemed to be having a great time teasing me. “You’ve already talked to Norah?”

  “You think we’re a bunch of slugs in the NAPD?”

  “No, no offense.” I was on the edge of my seat at the prospect of a briefing. And I hadn’t had to bring it up, except by inadvertently playing into her little game. “How did it go?”

  “We talked to her right after you left. It’s amazing how quickly kids respond to an invitation from the police. They’ll do anything to keep their parents from finding out. Like we’re going to report on their cutting a class or lying about their grades. I’m guessing the kids are afraid of cutting off the money flow, or that they genuinely don’t want to upset their parents.”

  “Did Norah admit to writing the notes?” Not that I was impatient. I was anxious to be able to tell Dyson that his father’s murderer was off the streets. The fact that the murderer might be a giggling young girl wearing a college sweatshirt took away a lot of the satisfaction, however. I tried to picture Norah, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders, training a gun on one of her professors. Even if he’d flunked her.

  It seemed Sunni was having an equally hard time with the vision. She shook her head. “I can’t believe Norah had sufficient reason to write the notes or to commit murder. And two friends confirmed that she was in her room taking a nap on Monday afternoon.” Sunni thoughtfully dropped her voice a few decibels. “Not that roommates are that reliable as alibis, but I can’t break them yet.”

  “So that was it? You let her go?”

  “I had no reason to hold her except for a completely inexpert opinion on her handwriting. But Norah’s definitely hiding something. I told her I’m not finished with her. That was enough to rattle her.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “By now she’s told all her friends and maybe something will shake out.” She raised her hand to signal the waiter. I wondered whether he knew Sunni or if he rushed to everyone’s call as quickly as he did now. When she asked for more bread, he all but bowed. “Then there are the burglars. The feds want to step in tomorrow to claim the case. Apparently, the group all live in Vermont, and hadn’t confined their sprees to Massachusetts.”

  I felt better knowing that the thieves were not from among the citizens of North Ashcot. In my job, especially since we didn’t offer home delivery, probably every one of the three thousand or so citizens walked through my doors, even if only once or twice a year. I met representatives of all groups, from grandparents sending off birthday presents to grade-school kids who came in, sometimes three or four at a time, to access their families’ post office boxes. People trusted me with their packages and their letters and their bill payments; I trusted them not to burglarize my home. Or murder one of my friends.

  “How does that work?” I asked Sunni. “If you want them for murder and the FBI wants them for burglaries, who gets them?”

  “Murder will trump most of the time, and I’m doing my best to keep them until I’m sure, but, honestly, I don’t see this clique shooting someone.”

  I almost asked whether she thought they were capable of stalking someone, but I was reluctant to report to Sunni on my shadowy visitors. I knew she’d either think I was losing it or lock me out of any more investigating. Neither response appealed to me.

  “I’m almost completely convinced it’s not in their wheelhouse,” Sunni continued. “I have another half day to sweat them. I don’t have forensics yet on prints at the scene. That might be ammunition for me, but I doubt I’ll get results that soon.”

  There were times, and this was one of them, when Sunni sounded like all the television cops I loved to follow. Danno Williams, Olivia Benson, Danny Reagan, Kate Beckett. As much as our chief of police claimed to shun them, as much as their forensics was “outlandishly wrong,” television cops had had a great influence on Sunni’s vocabulary.

  “What are the chances that you’ll find a gun or good prints? Wouldn’t that be stupid? Leaving the weapon?”

  “If the bad guys weren’t stupid . . .”

  “The jails would be empty,” I said, waiting for a “dumb criminal joke.”

  I wasn’t disappointed. Sunni smiled and I knew she had a story.

  “Two guys broke into a fast food store and stole the whole cash register, plus a huge bowl of coleslaw.”

  “It’s already funny,” I said.

  “Apparently, they took turns eating it as they made their getaway along a nearby trail. Cops followed pieces of cabbage and carrots to where they were camped out. It might have been the fastest collar in years.”

  “Better to be lucky than good,” I said, before I could catch myself. I switched immediately to the noncomic aspects of law enforcement. “How about Dyson? Does he have any clue about how this happened to his dad?”

  “He told me his dad was having a hard time with some issue or someone at school, but he didn’t know any details. Of course, now he’s suffering from guilt pangs that he didn’t pay more attention to his dad’s moods.”

  “That’s the same thing Mercedes told me,” I said. And aren’t we all? I recalled Dyson’s litany of issues his father had, involving a teacher who’d accepted a bribe and another one who’d been pulled over by the troopers.

  “Maybe it’s your turn to report.”

  I worried that Sunni was trying to trap me into confessing unauthorized snooping. I thought twice about telling her that, as we spoke, Dyson was at my house eating dinner with my boyfriend and settled on “no” the second time. I took a chance and gave her a summary of my interaction with Mercedes a few hours ago, spilling all, emphasizing the breakup and the makeup, hand waving over the part where I snuck around and stole Dennis’s lighthouse.

  “Why was it that you took the snow globe?” she asked. I bit my lip and did a quick eye roll, combined with a pleading look. The facial gymnastics worked: “Never mind,” she said.

  “I think she really loved him,” I said. “Mercedes, I mean.”

  Sunni pointed her fork at me and wagged it up and down. “Now you’ve just stated the world’s strongest motive.”

  “Not what I meant.”

  “I know. And all the musicians have alibis, but none of them are ironclad. Mostly spouses vouching for them. Although Brooke was definitely at her desk at the bank. They have the most decent security footage of any facility. Including ours.”

  That was a relief. Who wanted to think a former Miss Berkshire County could be a killer? “It’s interesting that both Mercedes and Dyson mentioned a problem Dennis was having at school. Do you think Dennis was referring to the student letters?” I asked.

  “Could be.”

  “Or maybe the issue had something to do with Hank Blackwood.” I flashed back to Gatekeeper Gail’s comment that it was Dennis who was responsible for Hank’s having to leave the weekly discussion group held in Patrick Henry Hall. Then the flash faded and I wasn’t at all sure that had been the scenario. I thought I might have been confusing it with Hank’s leaving the Ashcots on account of something Dennis did. Or said. Or didn’t say.

  “I know Hank. What’s he have to do with this?” Sunni asked.

  “Probably nothing,” I said, wondering how cops kept straight who said what, when.

  “Anything else?”

  I sighed, straining to remember another thought that was nagging at me. “Yes,” I said, with more glee than the thought warranted. It was just nice to remember something. “Joyce Blake. She a
nd Dennis had an issue over course scheduling.” I explained how the mere fact of whether one course should come before or after another could spawn a battle of considerable magnitude.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to recheck her alibi. I’ll do that.”

  Sunni took no notes during our discussion, made no to-do list except maybe in her head. Here she departed from television cops who had an endless supply of notepads handy, pulling them out of their pockets no matter where they were, or from a desktop in the station house. They never had to fumble for a pen, either. I wished I felt comfortable taking out my own notebook or using my cell phone Notes app. I was getting a headache trying to keep everything, organized and complete, in my head.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and made a mental chart of suspects and motives. Three thieves because Dennis had interrupted their burglary; Norah Sampson because he’d flunked her; Mercedes Davis because she loved him; Hank Blackwood because Dennis had ousted him from this or that group; Joyce Blake because he was dissing her department and her students.

  It would have been helpful if I could come up with a mnemonic. Which would attract more attention—pulling out a notepad and pen or singing a ditty using suspects’ names and motives as lyrics?

  I chose a third option and finished my gnocchi.

  “Affogatos for dessert?” Sunni asked.

  I began to regret the caprese appetizers and the extra bread and olive oil, but I nodded yes to gelato and espresso.

  “My talk in Mercedes’s class is tomorrow morning,” I told Sunni as we prepared to leave the trattoria.

  “You mean, is there anything I want you to search out on campus?”

  “Psychic—that’s what you are.”

  “Keep your eyes and ears open,” she said as she buttoned up, the biggest, brightest green light she’d ever given me.

  I couldn’t wait to hear how dinner had gone with Quinn and Dyson. Maybe Dyson had come up with something by way of a lead to his dad’s killer. A word remembered, a casual comment that might have been heavy with meaning, a person’s name that none of us had heard before.