Murder at the Lobstah Shack

Confidential: Tulia found Annette DiCicero murdered in her walk-in. Yes, like in FOGGED INN. Det. Haskins on the case. Meet tonight?

I sent the text to the Cozy Capers book group. I was frankly surprised the grapevine hadn’t already kicked in, that one or more of the other book group members—all shopkeepers or town officials—hadn’t dropped in to ask me about Tulia.

The wall clock showed ten thirty, and Mac’s Bikes was temporarily empty except for Orlean and me. I filled the watering can and headed out front to water the window boxes. We hadn’t had a frost yet, so the white and pink geraniums continued happy and healthy in their red boxes. We were still a week away from Columbus Day, and the first cold snap crept later every year.

Over at the Lobstah Shack, someone in uniform fixed yellow police ribbon across the front door. Poor Tulia. She could lose a lot of money if they forced her to close for a few days. A police van rolled out of the alley and down Main Street with Annette’s body in the back, I suspected.

A dark blue Westham PD cruiser followed it. Oh, no. Tulia emerged from the alley wearing a terrified expression. Officer Kimuri walked next to her, both headed toward the police station. At least Tulia hadn’t been stuffed into the back seat of a cruiser like a criminal. Lincoln must want to be able to show she went in voluntarily.

Tulia hadn’t asked Lincoln if she should get a lawyer, at least not in my hearing. Did I even know a criminal defense lawyer? None of my friends or family, fortunately, needed to have that kind of professional on speed dial. I wished I could talk to my boyfriend, Tim, about what had happened, but as a baker, mornings were his busy time. That conversation would have to wait.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Zane King, proprietor of Cape King Distillery across the street, had responded to the group text.

Just saw Tulia walk toward police station with Nikki Kimuri. Arrested?

Not while I was there. Probably want to talk to her more. Anybody know a good lawyer?

I picked up the watering can and gave all three boxes a good drink. A thin woman trudged along the sidewalk across the street, her dark hair scruffy under a watch cap, her pants and sweater equally as scruffy. She carried a tattered backpack and a plastic sack. My friend Gin and I both volunteered at the soup kitchen and free food market my father’s Unitarian Universalist Church sponsored in the church basement several days a week. I’d served this woman, one of the Cape’s homeless population. Her name was Nora or Nia, I thought.

Gin, who owned Salty Taffy’s candy shop, and I had been talking about ways to really help the people who desperately needed food and housing rather than merely trying to alleviate the symptoms. Find people jobs? Provide mental health counseling? Make better lodging available than a shelter did? No one could easily fix the problem. And the contrast glared between the Our Neighbors’ Table patrons and the well-off tourists and tidy shops and homes of Westham.

My phone buzzed again. Flo Wolanski, head librarian in Westham, had added to the thread.

I’ll find her a counselor. Yes, let’s meet tonight. Derrick’s?

My brother and his daughter lived in a lighthouse as the caretakers, and the book group usually met there. I replied:

Not at the shop yet. Will ask him when he gets here.

Zane chimed in.

Maybe Norland will know something.

Zane was talking about Norland Gifford, the retired Westham chief of police and now a member of the book group. In the past he’d sometimes been able to find out information the rest of us didn’t have access to.

Two fit-looking older men paused on the sidewalk. One pointed at my Rentals sign. A young couple rode up on a tandem. A car with a bike sticking out of the trunk pulled into the lot. Time for me to get back to work. Before I could, I spied my little grandmother, my abo—otherwise known as Reba Almeida—who hurried toward me.

“Querida,” she called. She lifted a knobby hand in a wave. Her signature rainbow-colored Rasta hat flopped with her exertions. Her late husband, my father’s father, had been from Cape Verde. Reba had been born and raised in Boston, but she’d adopted a few Kriolu words like the rest of the family.

“Abo Ree, come on in. I’m just getting busy.” I bent down to kiss her soft-as-new-flannel cheek.

“I heard some news about a body,” she murmured. She followed me into the shop clad in her usual pink track suit.

“I’m not surprised. It was Annette DiCicero’s. Can you hang around for a few? Derrick isn’t here yet and—”

“And you have customers. I’ll wait. Better yet, I’ll handle sales.” She set down her big bag behind the counter and hopped up onto the stool. She’d helped me out in a pinch before and knew how to operate the register. Despite having reached the ripe age of eighty, she had a still-sharp mind, and she stayed in good shape with aqua aerobics, lots of fast walks, and regular rides on her red adult tricycle up and down the Shining Sea Trail with my mom. “Hello, Orlean,” Abe Reba called into the repair area.

My abo—Kriolu for both grandmother and grandfather—was a sunny treasure, and I adored her. She also happily acknowledged being a nosy old lady. She loved using the spyglass we’d given her as a gag gift to keep track of the goings on in town. She might have information about Annette and, with any luck, maybe she knew who would have wanted to murder her.

The two fit seniors had struck up a conversation with the young couple, who’d left their tandem outside. A few minutes later I’d rented the gentlemen a tandem for the day. I filled out a repair ticket for the couple, as well as for the flat tire on the bike that had arrived in the car.

“Thank you.” Abo Reba beamed at a customer in tan desert fatigues, who had bought a new helmet. “You come on back any time.”

“I certainly will, ma’am.” The young man, probably stationed at the nearby Otis Air National Guard base, had a crisp military haircut and impeccable posture. He spoke with a bit of a Southern accent. “I sure do love your pretty little town. It’s so peaceful.”

Between murders, that is.

“I’ll bet you never get a lick of crime here, am I right?” he asked.

How had he missed the crime scene tape next door? I opened my mouth, but my grandmother beat me to it.

“We’re as all-American as anywhere.” She beamed. “Have a fun ride.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will.” He strode out, secure in his fantasy.

“What?” Abo Reba said to me. “America has murder everywhere you look. It’s sad but true.”

I glanced around to confirm we were again empty of customers before I spoke. “Did you know Annette?”

“Not well. Her husband fixed up a chair of mine a few years back. Nice man if you like that type.”

“What type is that?” I leaned an elbow on the counter.

“He’s not a person of tall stature, you see. Some short men feel like they have to act like a bantam rooster, all cocky and bluster. Phil’s like that. But he does good work restoring furniture.”

“Do you know anything about his relationship with his wife? A guy like that might not do too well in a marriage.”

“No, honey, I don’t know a thing about how the two got on. They have the cutest little daughter, though.”

“Tulia mentioned that. How long has Phil had the business?”

“Long time. Has a business partner, a Quaker gentleman.” She tilted her head. “Why all these questions about Phil?”

I took a deep breath. “Annette didn’t simply die. Someone murdered her.”

“I wondered about that. And you’re hot on the case.” She gazed at me. “The husband is always the first suspect, am I right?”