Murder at the Lobstah Shack

The line to the ladies’ room upstairs stretched out way too long. I trotted down to the basement to use the auxiliary facilities there. Most people didn’t know about this restroom. It was never crowded. Back upstairs, I stepped outside and unwrapped the sandwich I’d brought. I wasn’t alone in a need for fresh air, but I headed for the edge of the parking lot so I could think. The list of people I’d like to corner and talk to was long as a heron’s beak. Phil, about his donation and where the money came from. Ogden, to learn why he had attempted to prevent Phil from a turn at the mike. Doris about her gambling. And more. But I couldn’t just come out and ask. “So, I hear you’re a gambler,” was not an opening Doris would take kindly to.

When Flo hurried up to me, I greeted her. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be here? I’m a citizen of Westham, aren’t I? And I closed the library for the afternoon. I wanted more people to head over to the meeting, including my employees. But Mac, why haven’t you responded to the thread?” Her words rushed out. “Did you see what Norland uncovered?”

“Slow down, Flo. I didn’t respond because I dropped my phone in the marsh this morning. It’s gone.”

She gaped. “So you are incommunicado for a while. Out of commission.”

“Not exactly out of commission, but I definitely don’t have a phone. Do me a favor and tell everyone?” I would have thought Gin might have. “And yes, Derrick showed me what Norland wrote. We need to get more information about that.” I took a big bite of my ham and cheese while I could.

Flo blinked. “Because if Doris is hard up for bucks, she might have, what? Killed Annette? But why?”

“Mmm.” I swallowed. “What if Annette had blackmailed Doris about the beauty pageant stuff Elenia accused her of? Maybe Doris had fixed the results, influenced the judges, whatever.”

“If she was paying off Annette, it wouldn’t have been only gambling that used up her money.”

“It’s worth investigating, anyway.”

“What did you think of Phil’s donation to the senior center?” Flo asked, eyes bright. “Who knew he had money?”

“That seems fishy, but I’m not sure why. You know Gin knew Annette in New Bedford. We need to grill her about the family. Maybe Annette’s parents were well off.” I popped in the last bite of lunch. I’d dug out my old watch before coming over here, and I checked the time. “Fifteen minutes until we start up again.”

“I have to run talk to the head of the library’s board of directors. We have a funding article coming up.”

She waved and bustled off. I spied Silas Carter, the very man I wanted to talk to. He stood gazing up into a big maple tree.

“Hello, Silas,” I began when I reached him. “What are you looking at?”

He turned. The smile wrinkles around his eyes deepened. “An eastern screech owl lives in this tree. See there?” He pointed. “It’s perched about halfway up at three o’clock near the trunk.”

“Wow.” Not even as big as a robin, an owl with complex gray bands and spots perched on a thick limb. “I never would have seen that. Thank you.” The wind had picked up and the little bird swayed on its branch, but it kept its eyes closed.

With another gust, Silas clapped his hand atop his hat. “We have quite a storm coming. Blessedly, our meetinghouse has weathered many a gale over the centuries.”

I hadn’t thought about the tall windows of the old building and the effect gale-force winds could have on them.

He gazed at me. “I should like to continue our conversation from yesterday.”

“Ogden served on our finance committee recently. He did not serve as Clerk.”

“You have a finance clerk?” I pictured an image out of Dickens, a man with garters on his sleeves bent over a paper ledger.

“It would be what you would call the committee chairperson. We Friends use all kinds of archaic terminology, I’m afraid, sometimes to our own detriment. At any rate, the finance committee oversees all monies going in and out of our congregation. We own a historic building, we rent the basement to a Montessori preschool, and some of our members are exceedingly generous with their funds. We have quite a bit of banking to oversee and outlays to manage.”

“I hear you.”

“The clerk came to several of us elders and expressed her concern that the accounts showed several discrepancies. She feared Ogden had been responsible.”

Aha. I glanced around to make sure nobody had an ear cocked. “You told me his son’s care is quite costly. Is Ogden unable to fully pay for it on his salary alone?”

“I believe so. Our nominating committee relieved him of his position on the finance committee without telling him why. One of the guiding principles of our faith is integrity, you understand. We did not want to publicly shame our Friend, but we couldn’t abide fiduciary mismanagement with an eye toward personal gain.”

Stealing, in other words.

He cleared his throat. “I bring this to your attention primarily because I am aware that the murder victim served as accountant for Ogden’s and her husband’s furniture business. I worry that . . .” His voice trailed off.

“That he did the same with the business accounts, and Annette discovered it.” The same thought had occurred to me.

“Yes. I pray this is not the case, that her murder was at the hands of another, perhaps a stranger.” He bowed his head and gazed at his still-clasped hands.

Or maybe he wasn’t gazing. Had he closed his eyes? Maybe he was actually in prayer.

For Ogden’s sake—and his son’s—I also hoped Silas’s musing wasn’t true. “For the record, I do think you should tell Detective Haskins of your church’s suspicions about Ogden.”

He gazed into my face. “Would he attempt to investigate a past crime?”

“Maybe. And if it leads to a resolution of a current one, you’d want that. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would.”

If ever sorrow was written on a person’s face, I saw it right here, right now, on this thoughtful Quaker’s.