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The next morning, an hour before the second day of the fête opened, Di discovered MacBeth on his doorstep. Still in the ridiculous outfit the department had forced upon her, and with an interested Sgt. Peewee on a lead beside her in his uniform, she opened with, “Well?”
It could have meant a hundred things, so Di took a guess.
“Yeah, I’m doing it,” he agreed reluctantly. “But I don’t think any of our leads from yesterday are good ones.”
Her shrug made it clear that Kennedy and the other guys had been right about her intentions there.
“So, who do you think did it?”
Turning, she started to walk with him, after he’d locked his door—the murder making him feel more cautious than he usually was in town. The house he rented was only a few blocks away from Main Street, which made both getting to the fête and to work pretty easy. On a day like today when driving would have been insane, he was grateful for it.
There’d been times he’d considered quitting this job, of course. Honestly, he could have paid the rent with what he made off his crafts alone, but then he’d have had to admit how he was getting the money.
And we crafting men have our covers to keep.
Right now, though, except for the fact that his job allowed him to at least be near Mac on a daily basis, he was sort of regretting that decision.
I am SO not cut out to be a detective.
Up to now, that hadn’t been a problem. There hadn’t been anything resembling an actual whodunnit in his entire time with the department. Usually, even if there were a stolen bike—which was the worst things typically got—it became obvious quickly where it had gotten to.
Trying to focus on the question, however, as he had been all night, he’d only come up with a few options—and none of them made sense to him intellectually. They were more gut reactions.
Deciding he’d better explain this to Mac, he warned, “Look, I’m not trained for this, so this is more a feeling but . . .”
Stopping dead and turning to him, Mac stared. She looked so beautiful in the mountain mists of a June morning, with her brown hair hanging down all around her and her dark eyes seeing into his soul, that he truly wished it were even possible for him to ever have a chance of her letting him kiss her.
“Okay, Di. Enough with the self-doubts. You’re smarter than half this town and probably more intelligent than this murderer, too.”
While part of him wanted to argue that there’d been no declaration of murder, he knew he was only being wishful. Doc MacDougal had made the situation pretty clear already, even if she hadn’t made it public.
As Peewee stared between them in fascination, Mac went on.
“Answer me this for each of these possible suspects: 1) Who are they? 2) What sort of motive might they have? 3) Why are you suspicious of them? And for that third one,” she went on before he could interrupt again. “. . . no preambles or apologies. Just ‘I saw Goody Whemper dancing with the devil at the last full moon’ or whatever the heck it is.”
While he let out a small snort, she stared into him heavily.
“Understand?”
“Yes’m,” he agreed, as they turned to start walking again.
“I’m too young to be a ma’am, thank you very much,” she informed him. “Leave that to your grandma. Now, in no particular order, unless someone really stands out to you, suspect #1 . . .”
Sighing, he gave in.
“In no order,” he agreed. “One, Nora Dugan.”
Mac stared at him.
“Seriously?”
When he was about to give up again, she held up her hand.
“No, wait. Forget I said that. Motive and reason for suspicions, please?”
But this was where Di cringed a bit.
“I don’t have one, really,” he admitted. “Mostly, I just don’t trust her. She makes her whole living off pretending to be someone she’s not.”
“So do actors,” Mac pointed out. “Doesn’t make them guilty.”
Knowing she was trying to push him to make his points clearer, he thought about it.
“No actors around here,” he pointed out, and she nodded.
They’d both seen the town production of Shenandoah at the high school gym, and it was clear that there was no danger of anyone around here suddenly becoming a famous thespian.
Trying to think into the suspicion, then, he sighed. Nora wasn’t even one of the ones he’d come up with while awake last night, but she’d been one of those who kept coming to him in his sleep.
“I have no idea of a motive. There may not be . . .”
When Mac glanced at him, he moved himself on.
“But there’s always been something in her eyes when she’s around the mayor—and when he’s around her. Maybe they just had a fling or something that they’re mutually ashamed of, but I always got the feeling that she knew some sort of secret that he didn’t want to let out.”
“I can see that,” Mac agreed, although she then backtracked. “But an affair? Seriously? He had at least two decades on her and looked like a bald hog, while Nora is probably the most meticulously put-together woman in town.”
“And thus why she’d be embarrassed by it,” Di agreed. “Although I admit it’s a seriously shaky reason to kill someone.”
When Mac was clearly still pondering, he went on.
“And, trust me, that woman’s not particularly choosy when it comes to who’s following her into bed. The sign over it reads, ‘The More, the Merrier.’”
Well, along with the one about wanting money.
For a second, Mac stopped dead and stared at him, and he felt Peewee’s gaze digging into him, too.
“Wait. How do you know what’s over her bed?”
For a moment, he almost thought she might be jealous but then figured she was simply appalled by his supposed tastes. Still, he rushed to defend himself.
“She called into the department a few months ago claiming there was a black bear trying to get into her house. When the sheriff sent me over, there were absolutely no bear tracks or droppings or claw marks or anything, but she was wearing a nightie and showed me into her bear-free bedroom.”
He could feel himself blushing, as Mac’s gaze dug in.
“And you stayed how long for this call?”
“Actually, I think I broke the land speed record getting out of there.”
He looked away.
“That woman gives me the creeps.”
Surprisingly, Mac smiled and patted him on the chest like a good boy, and they continued on toward Main Street.
“Anything else?”
Although he wasn’t certain whether she meant any other attempts to seduce him or any other suspicions, he answered both.
“No.”
“Good. Next suspect?”
Sighing, he pushed himself on.
“Mary Fontaine.”
Mac stared at him.
“Aunt Mary? The owner of Prospector’s Diner?”
It was the only restaurant in town, although there were a couple of chain restaurants nearer the high school they shared with the towns of Ford’s Row, Mt. Temple, and Prospector’s Heights. Everyone in town referred to the owner as Aunt Mary and had for thirty years. While Mac had been raised with this as much as he had been, he knew she was simply surprised.
He nodded.
“Okay,” she accepted. “Why?”
“Because I overheard Mayor Pocket a few weeks ago when he was trying to get Mary to agree to sell the place to one of the billionaires who got rich off of franchises, and I don’t think it was the first time he’d asked.”
“I’m guessing she wasn’t saying yes.”
“I believe her actual words,” Di remembered. “. . . were ‘Go back to Hell where you came from, you old warthog.’”
Mac laughed.
“Ah, a woman who knows her Flannery O’Connor. Or, at least, the one good story she ever wrote. I like Aunt Mary even more.”
Entirely unclear that it was any type of a reference and deciding that it must be a very odd story, Di went on.
“I’ve always liked Mary, but, if the mayor isn’t around to try to force her to sell out . . .”
Mac nodded.
“Yeah, I get it. Anything else on her?”
He shook his head.
“Good. Next?”
“Well, the next one’s a little odd,” he confessed.
“And Aunt Mary wasn’t?”
Nodding, he still found it hard to finish.
“Sooooo?” she prompted. “Why’s it hard?”
“Um, ‘cause he’s my boss? And yours?”
Stopping dead, Mac stared at him.
“You suspect Sheriff Pommelroy?”
For a moment, she pondered this.
“You think he has enough brains to kill anybody?”
Glancing all around to be certain no one could overhear, Di went on reluctantly. Only a few others were heading toward the fête from his neighborhood—most of the town which wasn’t involved in selling stuff keeping well away—and the ones who were headed there weren’t paying him any attention at all.
“I think the mayor threatened to force him to retire, and they had a screaming row about it last week.”
“When?” she wondered, clearly bemused.
“On your day off, when you were rejuvenating that Chevy you found at the junkyard.”
Smiling dreamily, Mac’s eyes were slightly unfocused.
“That’s a good car, yeah.”
Actually, Di had seen it and thought it was a half-rotted piece of junk, but he knew well enough that Mac could rehabilitate anything mechanical, just like he could create something cute out of even the ugliest materials.
Her talent was less embarrassing.
“Anyway,” she pulled herself back, shaking her head slightly. “The sheriff is elected. The mayor can’t just fire him.”
“But he can invoke a law which says that the office can’t be held by anyone over the age of 60.”
“That can’t be North Carolina law,” she marveled.
“No, but it was put on the Prospector’s Rest town books back in 1880, apparently, when the then-sheriff had become a bit doddering.”
“At only sixty?” she wondered.
“Well, people aged a lot faster in those days,” Di agreed. “And died a lot younger.”
“But no one’s paid any attention to that law in . . .”
She seemed to be calculating.
“. . . nearly 150 years.”
“But it’s still on the books, and that’s all the mayor would need to act, if he wanted to.”
Although she didn’t seem to disbelieve him, her eyes narrowed slightly.
“Why? What was Pocket’s angle?”
After all, they both knew that the man had always had an angle.
“Not sure,” Di confessed. “But there seemed to be some lingering bad blood between them. I don’t know about what,” he shrugged at her look.
“Wow. Okay,” she murmured, clearly processing, while Peewee stared at them, as though he were closely following the case. Turning, she started them toward the fête again. “Anyone else?”
“Well, possibly Col. Archer, but . . .”
“But he’s almost too obvious,” Mac agreed.
They—and the entire town—knew that the retired Air Force colonel still held the affair Pocket had had with his wife against him. After all, he’d come to at least the next four months of County Council meetings screaming about wanting the mayor’s head—and other parts—on a platter.
But the colonel was several bottles short of a six-pack and also occasionally railed against tree frogs in the middle of the street—and Di wasn’t even certain North Carolina had tree frogs.
Archer had never actually caused anyone any damage, though. He just liked to yell.
Clearly thinking this, too, Mac sighed.
“Besides, if it were him, he’d probably shoot him and then jump up and down screaming. He’s not exactly into subtle.”
“Agreed,” Di nodded.
“So,” she turned to him, as they were within sight of the fête. “How we gonna do this?”
For a moment, Di’s internal, Gah! Why me? screams went off without him, before he forced them to settle down.
“Well, everyone we need to talk to will be at the fête. And, from time to time, I’ll be expected to make the rounds to be sure everything’s going okay, so . . .”
Mac nodded again.
“Good. And Sgt. Peewee needs a walk every once in a while, so . . .”
For a moment, she looked into him in a way which stole his breath. Then, moving very close, she whispered, “I’m glad you’re doing this, Di. The mayor was no prize, but we can’t let a murderer roam free. After all, you know what my father used to say.”
Having always respected the last sheriff, even if he’d never worked under him, Di remembered, quoting, “Catch someone when they’ve only committed one crime, and you stop them. Let them go, and it will only be the first.”
Granted, around Prospector’s Rest, those crimes tended to be more minor, but there was an entire generation of idiot kids who had learned the difference between childish fun and adult consequences for well and good due to this rule, even if the punishments usually only put the fear of God into them.
Clearly, this was more serious. And, whatever had happened, they had to make sure that there was no chance for this to become only a first murder.