FIVE 

“Jim MacNamara’s murder? Oh, Dolly. I don’t know what to say.”

I could almost see her pursing up her bright pink lips. “They arraigned him last night. Said his fingerprints were on the murder weapon, you know, the spit where we roast the gyro?”

Wow. That had been fast. Of course, if the police had recovered a print, all they’d need to do would be to run it through the database. At least, that’s what they did on the television cop dramas I watched over the winter. And they must have confirmed that the spit came from my kitchen. My stomach rolled.

“But he was our dishwasher for years. His fingerprints are probably all over the Bonaparte House,” I finally said.

A fit of coughing overtook her, deep, wet, and rattly. Next time I saw her, I was going to insist that she see a doctor. When she recovered, she said, “There’s more.”

I held my breath. “What?”

“Somebody overheard the dope arguing with the lawyer. Russ threatened to shoot him.”

“What were they arguing about?” I couldn’t imagine many scenarios where Russ and Jim MacNamara would cross paths, even in a village the size of Bonaparte Bay. It wasn’t like they played golf at the country club together.

“Oh, hell. You know that property out in back of Russ’s house? Well, it’s been for sale for years. Russ always wanted to buy it, but he could never put together enough scratch, especially after he lost his job with you.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, not accusatory.

“I had to fire him after what he did to Spiro, you know that, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t blame you for that. Sometimes I’d like to fire him from being my son, but it don’t work that way.” She gave a rattly laugh.

“So what does the property have to do with Jim MacNamara’s murder?” I hated saying the word. “Murder.” His death couldn’t have been an accident. Unless he committed some kind of Greek hara-kiri and skewered himself, somebody else must have killed him. But Russ? I could see him getting into a fight or driving drunk and accidentally killing someone. And I knew all too well he was capable of other criminal activities. But I didn’t think he had premeditated murder in him.

“Last week the lawyer put in a purchase offer on the land and it looked like Old Lady Turnbull was ready to sell.”

I pictured the fields behind Russ and Dolly’s house. “But that’s all old overgrown pastures and dense woods, isn’t it? Why would Jim MacNamara want that property? He isn’t—wasn’t—the farming type.” Unless he’d planned to become some kind of preppy feudal lord.

“True. It was the old Turnbull farm. But there’s also close to a mile of waterfront on Silver Lake.”

Now it made sense. “MacNamara wanted to develop it.”

“Yup. And not just put up a few camps either. He was talking about putting up humongous summer houses, like those big camps in the Adirondacks? I heard Murdoch was going to be the builder.”

About the same time as the elaborate mansions were being built on the St. Lawrence in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, huge rustic lodges were being built to the east in the mountains by people who had more money than they knew what to do with. If Jim had succeeded in his plan for Silver Lake, only the very wealthy would have been able to afford his modern vacation homes.

“So why did Russ want the property so badly?” I thought I knew. People who could afford lakefront McMansion-Camps would not take kindly to Russ running his ATV through the neighborhood whenever he pleased, as he was used to doing. But I was only partly right.

“Russ has been hunting that property his whole life. Me too, back when I still hunted. Old Lady Turnbull never cared as long as we brought her a package or two of backstrap and some stew meat for the winter.”

One thing about the North Country. You didn’t get between a man—or woman—and his hunting territory. “And that’s what Russ and Jim argued about?”

“Yup. The lawyer told him he was going to put up ‘Posted’ signs all around the property and he was going to enforce them. I admit it, Russ was madder than a wet bobcat.”

A sharp breeze stabbed at my cheeks, reminding me I was standing outside. “And someone overheard the argument and reported it to the police. Do we know who?”

“Yep, and nope. Don’t know who it was who ratted him out. But I wouldn’t want to be that person when Russ gets out of jail. I just hope that public defender knows what he’s doing.”

Me too. I had no idea what a private lawyer would charge to defend someone accused of murder. Did I have enough saved up to help if Dolly asked? That would make a big dent in my Buy-the-Bonaparte-House-Someday Fund. But I would do it for Dolly. Not for Russ, but for Dolly.

“And no,” she continued. “Don’t offer me money for a lawyer. He got himself into this mess. He can get himself out.”

I wished I could hug Dolly through the phone. She’d been a friend as well as an employee to me over the years. Despite her rough exterior and no-nonsense demeanor, she had to be upset. Having your son on probation, or fined for jacking deer, was one thing. Having him arrested for murder was quite another. And Russ had a temper. If he’d gotten angry enough—and make no mistake, his way of life had been threatened . . . Well, maybe I had to reconsider whether I thought he was capable of killing someone, even though I’d given him the benefit of the doubt.

“Call me if you need anything,” I said. “Oh, and I know this might not be the best time to tell you this.” I bit my lip. The idea had been kicking around in my head for a while now. “If the restrooms are finished, I was thinking about reopening the restaurant, just for one Thanksgiving seating. Of course I’ll find somebody else to cook. You already work all the warm-weather holidays.”

She cut me off. “Don’t you dare. I’d have to cook at home anyway, so we can all just eat at the restaurant.” She pronounced it rest-runt. “Turkey and all the trimmings. Prepping and cooking’ll keep my mind off Russ.”

We’d have to add a few Greek dishes. Some tiropita as an appetizer and a traditional Greek dessert or two, at the very least.

“I’ll let you know when we can go back into the kitchen. And I’m sorry about Russ,” I said, and rang off.

From where I stood on the porch, I could just see the Bonaparte House. I was at odds. What was I going to do with myself until I could go back to my home? Stay in my room at the Camelot? That had already gotten old. I was used to being busy. Take a walk? It was awfully cold and that couldn’t be healthy. I could go visit Liza and Melanie at the Spa, but that would require finding someone with a boat, or having Liza send someone over from the island to pick me up. And that just seemed like too much trouble. If the crime scene people would let me have my car, I could drive to Watertown and have an early lunch after my dismal breakfast, then do a little early holiday shopping. Maybe see a movie.

My heart clenched. It would be so much nicer if I had a friend to go with me. I missed Sophie, my soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law, who was back in Greece for the winter. I missed my daughter, who was due back soon but hadn’t told me yet when she was flying from Europe.

And most of all, I missed Jack Conway. A Coast Guard captain, he was off doing . . . something. Something he wouldn’t, probably couldn’t, tell me about. After twenty years of a marriage of convenience with Spiro, I’d spent the last couple of months learning how to have a relationship with a man who preferred women. But Jack’s job took him away, sometimes for weeks at a time. And it wasn’t clear what exactly he did. And I wasn’t exactly sure how I felt about that. I’d spent a lot of years with a man who was usually present, but not there for me. And now I’d taken up with a man who was there for me, but wasn’t always here.

I descended the steps and walked the few blocks to the parking lot behind the Bonaparte House. The building was barricaded with yellow crime scene tape, but my car sat all by its lonesome. I crossed the gravel, just as a New York state trooper’s car pulled in and rolled to a stop in front of me, cutting off my exit.

A man stepped out of the car, six-feet-plus of bulky muscle encased in a perfectly fitted jacket and crisp-pressed pants. He took off his mirrored aviator sunglasses and let his steely eyes come to rest on my face. I squirmed. This wasn’t my first rodeo with Detective Lieutenant Hawthorne, but it never got any easier. Nor did it matter that I was completely innocent. Given the chance, the man could intimidate the Pope.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he drawled, popping a cherry Life Saver into his mouth. He’d apparently eaten another one earlier, because his lips were a slightly unnatural shade of red. I pictured him interrogating suspects then sucking their blood. For fun.

“Isn’t there somebody else they can send to question me? People are going to start talking.” My attempt at flippancy was not nearly as successful as his had been and I wished I could take it back.

“I asked for this job,” he said with a grin that showed very white teeth. Possibly the first smile I’d ever seen on his face. If I wasn’t already, maybe, sort of in love with Jack, and if the detective wasn’t a little bit, uh, scary, I might have set my toque for this guy. “This address is preprogrammed into my GPS unit. Saves time.”

I unset my toque. “You think I like this? You think it’s my fault somebody died in my restaurant? Think again.” Despite the cold, I could feel heat rush to my cheeks and my blood pressure tick up.

“Settle down, Georgie. We know you didn’t have anything to do with this. At the time of the murder you were at the accountants’ office and then at the hair stylist. Who did a very good job, by the way.”

My knit hat was still on my head, so I knew he was just trying to soften me up. “Let’s just get this over with,” I snapped. “Can I use my car? When is this”—I swept my gloved hand in a semicircle toward the yellow tape—“going to be finished?” Then my ever-present guilt reflex kicked in. No matter what kind of a jerk Jim MacNamara had been in life, he still deserved justice in death.

A flicker of amusement crossed Lieutenant Hawthorne’s face.

“So glad you find this funny.” My guilt evaporated and annoyance came rushing back in to take its place.

The detective reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook. “Do you want to do this here, or shall we go inside where it’s warm?”

“Can we go in? We can use my office, I guess. It should be familiar to you since you’ve been here before.” I sincerely hoped this would be the last time he ever visited me.

He led the way to the door, then lifted the crime scene tape for me to duck under. Such a gentleman.

I’m not sure what I expected to find. A passel of white-suited technicians dusting for fingerprints and inspecting surfaces for hair and fiber samples maybe. But in fact, we passed only a couple of people and I didn’t even have to put on paper booties to get to my office.

Lieutenant Hawthorne explained without my asking. “We’re not really expecting to find much useful forensic evidence. This is a public business and it would be basically impossible to rule out every hair or fingerprint we find from every customer and employee who’s been here.”

They’d found Russ’s fingerprints, though, and that, along with the witness’s account of hearing Russ and Jim arguing, had been enough to make a very quick arrest. Maybe too quick? My gut was telling me there might have been a rush to judgment.

“Sorry I can’t offer you anything while we talk,” I said. “My kitchen’s not available to me.” My tone was probably a teeny bit snarkier than was strictly necessary. Why this man always irritated me so, I couldn’t say. It didn’t seem to bother him.

“No baklava? Then just tell me about the day of the murder and describe what you saw,” he said, pen poised over his notebook.

My eyes closed as I gave him an account of everything I could remember. Which wasn’t much. I hadn’t stayed very long once I saw Jim’s body lying on my ladies’ room floor. An image that was probably burned into my memory banks forever. “Did you look in the kitchen cabinet I told you about? Was it my gyro spit sticking out of Jim’s back?”

“It was. That’s where we got Russ Riley’s prints.” He consulted his notebook. “Anything else relevant?”

Should I tell him about Steve? He’d been pretty angry last night talking about Jim and the affair with Jennifer. I decided to go the indirect route.

“Have you interviewed Steve Murdoch and the guy working for him? Zach Brundage? They were the ones here with Russ.”

He tilted his head to one side, ever so slightly. “Yes, of course.”

Then there was no need for me to put any suspicions in his head about Steve. If the police had done their homework, they would have known about Jennifer’s affair with Jim and come to their own conclusions. It was all over town, even though I was apparently one of the last to learn about it.

“Then I can’t think of anything else.”

“Well, if you do, you’ll be sure to call.” It was an order, not a request. He rose, towering over me. “The techs should be done here by tomorrow morning, so you can come back then. In the meantime, if you need anything upstairs, I can accompany you to get it. And you can take your car.”

If I hadn’t needed clean clothes, I would have declined. “Come on, then,” I said, and led him through one of the three dining rooms, up and around the spiral staircase, and into our living quarters on the second floor.

“Wait here,” I told him, pointing to a couch in our little family room—really just an open landing at the top of the stairs with some seating and a coffee table.

“You’re not going to invite me in?” He folded up his bulky body and sat down on the couch, then picked up a magazine, which he began to thumb through. Funny, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be interested in recipes and housekeeping tips, but then again that was the only magazine available.

I twisted the doorknob. “Nope.” With those red lips from the cherry candy, it would be like inviting in a vampire. And we all know what happens when you do that.

Inside my room I threw fresh underwear, jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweater into an overnight bag. If the crime scene techs had been in here, it didn’t show. Everything appeared to be in the not-quite-neat-as-a-pin state I’d left it.

Lieutenant Hawthorne followed me back downstairs and out to the kitchen. A glance at my prep counter showed Gladys Montgomery’s recipes still in piles on the stainless steel surface. I felt bad leaving them there unprotected, but had to think Gladys would understand. It wasn’t as though I had a choice.

A knock sounded at the kitchen door. The evidence techs both inclined their heads toward the sound, and Detective Hawthorne strode over. He opened the door and said to whoever was on the other side, “This is a crime scene.”

A tremulous voice said, “I know.”

The detective seemed to relent because he held the storm door open and stepped back to allow a young woman to cross the threshold.

“Don’t go any farther than where you are,” he ordered. “What’s your name and why are you here?”