Chapter 4
Penelope and I perched on stainless-steel stools in the pub’s kitchen twenty minutes later. The crime scene team had arrived. Lincoln had escorted Yvonne down the street to the police station to interview her there and get her fingerprints on file.
“I didn’t kill him,” she’d protested, her voice quavering, after he told her the plan.
He’d gently coaxed her out the front door saying that recording her prints was for elimination purposes only at this point, and that everyone had to clear the room where the body was found, anyway.
“Thank you for talking to me here,” I now said to Penelope. “I really need to get to work at my bike shop.”
All business, she tapped a few things on her tablet. “Do I have your permission to record this conversation?”
“Yes.” I knew to say it aloud and not simply nod. I continued with the answer to what would surely be her next question. “My name is Mackenzie Almeida, and I live at 85 Blacksmith Shop Road in Westham, Massachusetts. Today is July fifteenth.” I tacked on the year and folded my hands on the pristine stainless worktable between the detective and me. Even though I was a hundred percent innocent, being interviewed by the police invariably made me nervous, and I didn’t want to fidget.
“Please tell me what transpired this morning,” Penelope said.
“I was heading to my place of business, Mac’s Bikes, a scant block beyond the Rusty Anchor pub on Main Street in Westham.”
“You were on foot?” she asked.
“Yes.” I went on to describe a distraught-looking Yvonne bursting through the door and her urgent request that I come inside and help her.
“Did she say why she needed assistance?”
“She couldn’t seem to finish a sentence, but she mentioned a ‘he.’ I didn’t know what she was referring to, so I followed her in.”
“What happened then?”
“She showed me the body behind the bar.” I thought of a mystery our Cozy Capers book group had read recently. It was part of a long-running series by Katherine Hall Page in which every title was something like, The Body in the . . . , followed by the location. I was pretty sure she’d never written The Body Behind the Bar. Maybe I’d shoot her an email. Or not.
“Did you recognize that person?”
“Yes.” A lawyer had once cautioned me to answer only the question that was asked. Seemed like good advice.
“Who was it?”
“Mr. Byrne, an English teacher at Westham High School.”
“Do you know his first name?” she asked.
“I didn’t, but Yvonne mentioned it later, calling him Bruce.” Up to now, what I’d told Penelope was identical with my answers to Lincoln. I continued. “I had him for freshman English more than twenty years ago and hadn’t seen him since.”
“How well do you know Yvonne Flora?”
Her change of subject threw me for a second. “Not very well. We’re acquainted, but we don’t hang out at all.”
“Did she happen to mention any conflicts she had with the deceased?”
“No . . .” My voice trailed off.
“Is there more?”
“I don’t know. She said he’d been in a few times lately. Honestly, I felt like she wasn’t saying everything she knew. I’m not sure whether she was holding back relating an emotion, an experience, or a piece of information.”
“She’s not the bartender, right?” Penelope asked.
“Not as far as I know. She’s the main chef. You’ll have to ask someone else about who tends bar here.”
Raised voices filtered in from outside the back door. It pushed open, and Penelope jumped up, her right hand slipping inside the left front of her blazer.
“Sir, you can’t—” August protested.
“I own this place.” A man, fists on hips, filled the doorway as he blustered. “Who are you, kid, to tell me I can’t go in? And why are two women who don’t work here occupying my kitchen?” He glared down at me.
I pointed to Penelope and kept my mouth shut. I’d never seen the dude before, but if he owned the pub, he must be the Carl Yvonne had mentioned. Somewhere around fifty, he looked both fit and well-groomed. Under an open, knee-length raincoat he wore an ironed, pale-blue square-cut shirt over linen slacks and no socks in his boat shoes. The dark shade of his carefully tousled hair might have had an assist from a box of dye. He was one of the lucky middle-aged men who’d retained what must be his original hairline.
Penelope slipped her left hand into her pocket and flashed her badge at the man. “Detective Sergeant Brown of the Westham Police Department. What is your name, please?”
“Police?” He blinked blue eyes in a tanned face. “What are you doing here?”
“I’d like you to answer me, sir.” Penelope’s steely tone made it clear he had no choice.
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a little smirk. “My name is Carl O’Connor and always has been.”
He looked good, but his voice didn’t match. It had a reedy quality that grated on my nerves. A little bell again rang in my brain as if he was familiar, except hearing him didn’t make the name or the face any clearer in my memory.
“I’m afraid your restaurant is currently an active crime scene,” Penelope said.
“It’s a what, now?” He headed for the swinging door into the pub proper.
“Sir, stop where you are.” Penelope stepped in front of the door. “You can’t go in there.”
“Says who?”
She crossed her arms and spread her feet wider than shoulder width. “The Westham Police Department, along with the Barnstable County District Attorney and the Massachusetts State Police. That good enough for you?”
“I guess it’s going to have to be.”
Penelope made a rolling gesture with her hand.
“Ma’am,” he added, narrowing his eyes as if thinking. “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn, ma’am.” His tone had changed to heavy cream. Emphasis on the heavy, which matched the insincere smile he now wore. “It was the shock of hearing that my beloved pub has had a crime committed in it.”
Had he also layered on a touch of a Southern accent? Just . . . no.
“Might I inquire as to what sort of crime, Detective?” he added.
“Not at this time.” She gestured at the stool she’d vacated. “Mac, I think we’re done. You’re free to leave.”
I stood. “Thank you. You know where to find me.”
“Likewise,” Penelope said.
I slid past O’Connor. He showed no interest in who I was. Instead, he’d whipped out a phone. I decided not to introduce myself. Maybe another time. We were fellow Westham business owners, although I’d never seen him at a Chamber of Commerce event. Or anyplace, for that matter, as far as I remembered. Maybe he seemed familiar because he reminded me of another person. Who, I couldn’t say.
As I headed outside, I heard Penelope continuing to take charge of the situation.
“I need you to stop what you’re doing and lay your phone on the table, sir. Yes, now.”
She was doing her job. Lincoln was doing his. I was off to do mine.