Mr. P. turned to the internet to look for information about the break-in. Rose and Charlotte turned to their version of the information superhighway—town scuttlebutt, specifically all the gossip around town that their various friends and contacts were privy to. Since this wasn’t a task I had the skills for, I went out to the garage to do some work on my mantel.
Mac had gotten the glass for what I had started calling the ice cream table and was working on attaching it to the top of the metal frame when Rose came across the parking lot. She stopped by the door and looked over the two pink garden benches. “Well. They would certainly get your attention,” she said. She smiled at Mac. “I just came to let you know that you’re having lunch on Monday.”
He looked at her a little uncertainly. “I have lunch every day,” he said.
“I know that,” Rose said with just a touch of irritation in her voice. “I mean you’re having lunch at Sam’s.”
“I am?” Mac still looked clueless.
Rose looked at me and gave her head the slightest of shakes.
I pushed my dust mask off of my face. “What time does Cassie Gibson’s shift start?” I asked. I had a lot more experience than Mac did with the conversation veering off on a tangent.
“Eleven thirty,” she said.
“Are you sure I should be doing this?” he asked, twisting the screwdriver he was holding between his fingers.
“Of course,” Rose said. “All you have to do is talk to her. I’ve never seen you have any trouble talking to women here in the shop.”
Rose was right. Mac was personable and friendly without being smarmy.
“You can do this,” I said.
He blew out a breath. “Okay, I’ll take a shot at it.”
“Splendid!” Rose said. “If you need any tips, just talk to Alfred.” She gave us a sly smile. “He’s got game.” She turned and made her way back to the shop.
Mac was struggling not to laugh. “He’s got game?” he said once Rose was out of earshot.
I sat back on my heels. “One Saturday morning I came back from a run to see Mr. P. getting the newspaper wearing Rose’s bathrobe and slippers and when he opened the door to her apartment I could hear her singing ‘Sweet Emotion.’”
Mac shook his head. “That did not happen. “You’re making it up.”
“It happened and I’m scarred for life,” I said. I wasn’t sure which had been more traumatizing: seeing Mr. P. in a pink ruffled bathrobe and quite possibly nothing else or hearing Rose sing “Cause the backstage boogie sets your pants on fire.”
Mac couldn’t stop laughing. I pointed a finger at him. “Alfred Peterson’s got the computer skills of a teenager hacker, he quotes Shakespeare like an English professor, and he’s a pretty good dancer. I promise you, he’s got game.”
Although Mr. P. and I both wanted to see the piece of property that Christopher Healy owned, getting there seemed to take as much planning as Hannibal crossing the Alps. We were both in agreement that the terrain might be a bit too much for Rose—although neither one of us would have dared say so to her. I was secretly concerned it might be too much for Mr. P., too. In the end, we enlisted Nick’s help and decided not to tell anyone else about our little field trip.
Nick picked me up right after supper, Mr. P. riding shotgun in the SUV.
“I feel a little guilty deceiving Rosie,” Mr. P. said as Nick backed out of the driveway.
“I can stop at Mom’s and you can tell her what you’re doing and why you think she should stay home,” Nick offered. He was obviously enjoying someone else potentially being in the hot seat with Rose since it was often him getting the third degree.
I smacked the back of his head. “Alfred said he feels a little guilty, not a little crazy,” I said.
Nick just laughed.
The sky was low, heavy with dark clouds and the water was rough and angry, crashing against the shore below when we reached Christopher Healy’s land. I could smell the salt in the air. The wind pulled at my hair. I pushed it back from my face and pulled the sleeves of my sock-monkey sweater down over my hands as I folded them across my chest.
“It’s so beautiful,” I said to Nick. It was, even with the clouds and the wind and the rain not that far away. There were some patches of grass and low stunted bushes on the sand and rocks, but much of the area was bare.
Nick picked up a smooth, flat rock and turned it over in his fingers. “Don’t tell Liam, but I hate the thought that this place could end up as some kind of a hotel. Do you remember when we used to sneak down there to swim?” He pointed at the shore below.
I smiled and leaned against his arm for a moment. “I remember.” They were good memories. I looked around. “And I think Christopher Healy was right. This place should be left alone.”
Mr. P. was standing between us, one hand on the top of his head to keep his hat from blowing away. He had made his way carefully across the windy, uneven terrain and I mentally chastised myself for wondering if he would be up to it. I should have known better than to underestimate him. “I agree,” he said. “There are some places that just need to be.”
I nodded. There was a wildness to the stretch of land that made me think of huge sailing ships and adventures.
“I understand why Healy was fighting so hard to protect this piece of land,” I said. I glanced down at my feet and then looked up again to see Nick watching me. “What?” I asked.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?” he said, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “This land is the reason Healy is dead.”
I pushed my hair behind one ear, but the wind tugged it free again. “I can’t come up with any other reason.”
Mr. P. nodded in agreement. “Neither can I.”
“So what now?” Nick asked.
“You know what Rosie would say.”
“Time for a cup of tea?” I said.
Mr. P. smiled. “She probably would say that, although that wasn’t exactly what I was thinking of.”
Nick tossed the rock he’d been holding out over the water. “Rose would say follow the money.”
“‘For the love of money is the root of evil,’” Mr. P. said softly. Most people misquoted the line as Money is the root of all evil—something Rose always gently corrected. Whether the line was stated exactly right or not, I knew she believed in the sentiment.
“So where do we start?” Nick said.
“McNamara’s,” I replied.
He frowned. “What does Glenn have to do with any of this?”
I pulled a strand of hair away from my face. “Nothing. But he does have hot chocolate. And if I’m going to follow the money, or the people with the money, or the people without the money I’m going to need a cup of hot chocolate. A big cup.”
“Splendid idea, my dear,” Mr. P. said, patting my arm. He and Nick started back to Nick’s SUV. I took one last look around before I followed. Now that we understood Christopher Healy’s passion for this piece of land maybe we’d be able to figure out who killed him.
Mac was helping a couple of his friends bring in their boats on Sunday. Jess was having brunch with Liam to continue the dating subterfuge. And Elvis had disappeared into the backyard. I called Michelle and invited her to lunch.
“I’m sorry for the late notice.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “Believe it or not, I was just about to call you and suggest the same thing.” She hesitated for a moment. “Can we declare a moratorium on talking about the Healy case? At least for today.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
We ended up going to McNamara’s. Most of the lunch crowd had cleared out so we lingered over our coffee and dessert—tiny chocolate lava cakes—regaling Glenn with stories about our not-exactly-misspent youth. I laughed until my stomach ached. I hugged Michelle when she dropped me off and we both agreed we needed to do it again soon.
Rose was working Monday morning so we drove in together as usual. Mac had the coffee made and came down the stairs with a cup for me when we walked into the shop. Rose stopped, put her hands on her hips and eyed him. “You’re not wearing that shirt to Sam’s, are you?” she said. He was dressed in jeans and a green-and-blue-plaid shirt. He looked good to me. Then again, he always looked good to me.
“I’m guessing the right answer is no?” he said, somewhat uncertainly.
She pressed her lips together. “Well, it’s not that there’s anything wrong with your shirt.” Her tone of voice said there definitely was something wrong with the shirt. “It’s just that it doesn’t showcase your assets.” She thought for a moment. “Where’s that long-sleeved black T-shirt?”
Mac held up a hand. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘showcase my assets’? Why does what shirt I wear to lunch matter?”
“Why does it matter?” Rose said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “If you were pounding in a nail, would you use the end of a screwdriver when you had a perfectly good hammer in your toolbox?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’d use all the tools in your toolbox. That’s what we’re doing here.” She started for the stairs. “You don’t have to change until it’s time to leave.” She stopped on the second step from the bottom. “And put on your black jeans.” She disappeared up the stairs.
Mac turned to me. “I’m already starting to regret this.”
“I’m not,” I said. “It’ll work out. They know what they’re doing. Don’t panic. Rose won’t do anything stupid.” I counted off on my fingers all the things he’d said to me about the Angels’ other cases.
He gave me a sheepish smile. “Okay, I deserved that. Anything else you need to say?”
I gave him the same kind of appraising look he’d gotten from Rose. “Nope. Just that she’s right about the black jeans.”
Mac came downstairs about eleven thirty, trailed by Rose, who wore a self-congratulatory smile. He was wearing the long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans and he looked great. I was waiting on a customer interested in Mac’s refurbished postal sorting table and it was hard not to get distracted—just to be absolutely certain he looked great from all sides. By the time the customer had decided that he wanted the table and I’d helped him wedge it in the back of his hybrid SUV, Mac had left in his old truck. Charlotte was just coming up the sidewalk. I waited for her and we walked inside together.
“We’re going to have to wait a bit longer to talk to Stella,” she said. “She’s staying an extra day.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” I said. “She’s a bit of a long shot anyway. I’m still not clear on how she and Robb Gorham are related.”
“Second cousins once removed,” Charlotte said. She frowned. “Or maybe it was first cousins twice removed.”
I laughed. “Let’s just say cousins and go with that.”
“I saw Mac go by,” she said.
“Are you sure this whole sending him to charm Cassie Gibson thing is a good idea?” I asked.
“Well,” she hedged for a moment. “I won’t say it’s a good idea, but it’s not a terrible one, either.”
I sighed. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”
Charlotte gave my arm a squeeze. “Mac will be fine. He’s a smart man and what’s the worst that can happen?”
“Oh I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe she’ll hold Mac at knifepoint and I’ll have to rush her while Mr. P. hits her over the head with a mixing bowl.” I was referring to a previous case that had gone a little off the rails.
She smiled. She had obviously caught the reference. “Well, lucky for Mac, if that happens, both you and Alfred have already had some practice.”
We stepped into the shop, where Rose was circling a wire mannequin torso that was taller than she was. A long striped scarf was wrapped around its neck. Charlotte walked over to join her.
I went upstairs thinking I’d get another cup of coffee, but instead I detoured into my office. Elvis was stretched out in the middle of my desk. He looked like he was doing a yoga corpse pose.
I caught sight of the guitar case beside my desk. It held a Seagull S6 that I’d bought a week ago from Cleveland, who had scavenged it from the contents of an old basement he’d been hired to lug to the landfill. I knew the Canadian company made good instruments—it had a cedar top and maple neck—but the guitar had only had three strings so I couldn’t judge its tone. Still, it had seemed like a good buy and so I’d said yes to Cleveland’s price. I needed to get to the music store and buy a new set of strings so I could be sure, as Liam had said when we were talking about Joe Roswell, that I hadn’t bought a pig in a bonnet.
“I should just run down to the music store now and get the strings,” I said to Elvis.
“Mrrr,” he said. It could have meant “yes, you should” or it could have meant “whatever.” I decided to go with the former.
I went back downstairs. It was quiet in the shop. Charlotte was watering the teacup gardens, a perennial favorite with tourists. Rose was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m going down to Herbie’s to get a set of strings for that guitar up in my office,” I said to Charlotte.
“So you think it’s in good shape?” she said.
“I don’t think it spent very long in that basement.” I reached down to turn one of the teacups a half circle so all the handles were pointing in the same direction. “The neck is straight and the body is in very good shape. There’s no sign of mold or warping.”
“Do you think Nick would like it?”
I tucked my hair behind one ear. “Maybe,” I said. Nick was a very talented musician although he tended to downplay his ability. “Why? Did he say something about it?” Nick had stopped by the day I’d bought the guitar from Cleveland. He’d tuned the three strings and told me I’d gotten a good deal.
“No.” Charlotte shook her head. “I just noticed how completely focused he was when he was playing with that guitar. I thought maybe I’d surprise him with it for Christmas. What do you think?”
I remembered watching Nick with his head bent over the instrument. “I think it’s a great idea,” I said.
“Are we going to argue about the price?” she asked.
“Probably,” I said.
She smiled. “Good to know.”
I drove down to the music store and bought the guitar strings. Sam had offered to restring the guitar for me and I thought that I should probably stop by the pub and make sure the offer was still open. The fact that Mac was there trying to get information out of Cassie Gibson was just a happy coincidence. At least that’s what I told myself.
I stepped inside The Black Bear hoping that there were enough people around that Mac wouldn’t spot me. He was seated at the bar, back to the door, waiting for his lunch, I was guessing. Cassie Gibson was hanging wineglasses on the rack above her head. There was no indication they were having any kind of a conversation. Maybe he’d already gotten all the information Rose needed. Maybe he was waiting for the right moment to start talking to her. Maybe she wasn’t going to tell him any more than she’d told me.
I heard an insistent sound, like air coming out of a punctured tire. I looked around. Liz was at a table across the room, where she could watch what was happening at the bar, but for the most part stay out of Mac’s line of sight. She jerked her head to one side. I knew that meant “get over here.” I went.
I slid onto the chair to her left.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“The same thing you’re doing here,” she said. “Spying on Mac.”
“I’m not spying on Mac.” I self-righteously squared my shoulders and sat up very straight in my seat. “I came to see Sam.”
“Oh please!” Liz pointed a pink-tipped nail at me. “The way you came skulking in the door, all you needed was a cape and a mask covering half your face and you could have passed for the Phantom of the Opera.”
“I wasn’t skulking,” I said. “I was being discreet.”
“Well, whatever it was you were doing I don’t think he saw you.”
I leaned to the right a little so I could see the bar. “Has he talked to her yet?” I asked.
“Other than to order, no.”
We watched for a couple of minutes. Mac tried more than once to start a conversation with Cassie Gibson, but it wasn’t working.
“He’s going down in flames,” Liz muttered. “Enough of this foolishness.” She got to her feet and headed across the pub. I scrambled after her.
Liz stopped next to Mac at the bar. His eyes widened in surprise. I stayed back a little. Cassie Gibson turned around, gave Liz a polite smile and said, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I believe you can,” Liz said. “My name is Elizabeth French. You were tending bar at a reception Thursday night in my boardroom.”
Cassie nodded. “Yes. I was there.” She swallowed as though her mouth was suddenly dry. Liz could be intimidating without even trying.
“Did you poison Christopher Healy?”
I winced. So much for subtlety.
“No, I didn’t.” The bartender stood her ground and her gaze stayed fixed on Liz’s face.
I believe her, I thought.
“You broke into the clinic at the health center,” Liz said. She tapped her nails on the bar. She was getting impatient.
“No, ma’am, I did not,” Cassie said. Something flashed in her dark eyes.
“But you did take something from it, from the office where your sister works.”
Cassie didn’t answer. Her eyes darted away from Liz for a moment. We were getting somewhere.
“I’m a pretty good judge of people, young lady,” Liz said. “I do believe that you didn’t kill Mr. Healy. But you planned to do something.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Cassie blurted. “I just wanted to make him miss court on Friday, that’s all. I swiped something that I knew would make him sick to his stomach.” She swallowed again like there was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away. “The day after I took it, I saw him just down along the boardwalk and I couldn’t help it. I told him what he’d done by messing up Joe’s deal. I wasn’t the only one who was out of work. He didn’t care. I yelled something stupid and I walked away before I punched him and got in real trouble.” She was sliding her plain gold wedding ring up and down her ring finger. “I was ashamed of myself. I went home and dumped the stuff I’d swiped down the sink and I took my husband to his physiotherapy appointment. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who was out for revenge. The only thing I gave Christopher Healy that night was coffee, ma’am. I swear. That’s all.”
Liz took a card out of her purse and handed it across the bar. “Come to my office tomorrow.”
Cassie picked up the card and looked at it before looking at Liz. “Why?” she asked.
“You’re looking for a job, aren’t you?”
The younger woman nodded.
“That’s why,” Liz said. She turned around, elbowing Mac as she did. “You’re done, bucko,” she said.
He turned halfway around, realizing for the first time that I was behind him. “Sarah, what are you doing here?” he asked.
“Long and embarrassing story,” I said.
He smiled, gesturing at the bar. “I have a short and embarrassing story. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
I nodded. “Deal.”
He looked at Cassie. “Could I get my check, please?”
She was still watching Liz. She gave her head a shake. “Uh, yeah, no problem.” She hesitated for a moment. “Do you know her?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Is she legit?”
“She is.”
Cassie looked a little shell-shocked. “So I might have a job?”
“As long as you’re willing to work hard, yes.”
She smiled, a genuine smile that lit up her face and I smiled back because what the heck, I like a happy ending as much as the next guy and this looked like a happy ending for Cassie Gibson and her family.
Mac paid his bill and I grabbed part of his sandwich because I hate to see food go to waste and because I had a feeling this was the only lunch I was going to get.
Liz was already gone. Mac and I stepped outside.
“Well, that went well,” he said.
I started to laugh.
“Liz was spying on me, wasn’t she?” he asked.
“Well . . .” I couldn’t think of any other way to put it. “Yes, she was.”
We started walking. “And so were you.”
I shook my head. “No. I came to buy strings for the guitar that’s up in my office.”
Mac gave a long look. “And you ended up at Sam’s because?”
“I needed to double-check that Sam was going to be able to put the new strings on.” I could see Mac struggling not to smile out of the corner of my eye.
“And is he?”
“I didn’t exactly get to ask him. Liz sidetracked me.” I pressed my lips together and tried to look serious. I was pretty sure it wasn’t working. We were walking past Cooks, which was a kitchen products store, owned by Marleigh Cook, who had been a chef in San Francisco for years before coming back to Maine. I loved the layers of meaning in the shop’s name. I pointed at a red stand mixer in the front window. “I’m thinking of buying a mixer,” I said, mostly to change the subject.
“I’m thinking of buying a house,” Mac replied.
“Oh,” was the only response I could come up with.
We walked in awkward silence for maybe a minute.
“Why do you want a mixer?” Mac finally said. I gave him a sideways glance. He seemed genuinely curious.
“I want to make cakes the way Rose does.” I felt my cheeks get warm at the admission. Now that Rose had taught me how to cook without a visit from the fire department, I’d discovered I actually enjoyed it.
“I like the sound of that,” he said.
“Why do you want a house?” I asked. “I’m assuming it’s not because you want to build a boat in the basement.”
Mac grinned at the reference to our previous conversation. “I do want to build a boat, just not in my basement. I’m thinking about a house because I want to put down some roots.”
I smiled at him. “I like the sound of that.”
We walked for another few feet without talking.
“Do you believe her?” Mac suddenly asked. I knew he meant Cassie.
“I do,” I said. “I watched her body language. She looked Liz in the eye. She didn’t shuffle her feet or play with her hair. I think she was telling the truth.”
He nodded. “So do I.” He kicked a rock and sent it skittering along the boardwalk. “So now what?”
I shrugged. “So now there are two.”