Murder at the Rusty Anchor

By one thirty, Lincoln and Flo had both left. She’d emerged from the office looking unhappy. She said only to read the text thread before she hurried off to the library down the street. Lincoln had thanked me and ambled away. What had transpired during their meeting was anybody’s guess.

The afternoon so far in Mac’s Bikes wasn’t crazy busy with customers. My brother, Derrick, who usually worked here at least half of the day, was away until Thursday with his daughter, Cokey, and Nelinda Lavoie, his girlfriend of a few months. I’d sent them off with my blessing, saying I could bring in one of our occasional part-timers if I needed to. With four days of rain and counting, Orlean and I had so far been able to handle the business.

I’d opened Mac’s Bikes three years ago after returning to my hometown. I had a Harvard degree and an MBA under my belt, plus five years working in Boston finance, a two-year stint in the Peace Corps in Thailand, and a couple of failed relationships. I’d missed my family and Westham, and my prudent money management had enabled me to buy and renovate the building and to equip my shop.

Bicycling had been a favorite pastime. Over the years I’d learned to repair and maintain cycles. A bad knee kept me from biking or running these days, but I’d retained my skills with the tools and parts needed to keep a bicycle in tip-top running condition. If Orlean ever had to be away, I knew how to do the mechanical side of the business. And I certainly was able to talk about it and navigate ordering parts and equipment.

The shop was popular with locals and tourists alike. The business’s bottom line had been in great shape for most of the time I’d owned it, even in the offseasons like winter. I’d have thought the rain moving out would have brought in a flood of customers. So far, today wasn’t at all normal.

I grabbed the opportunity to check the Cozy Capers text thread. It was mostly full of shock, question marks, and suggestions that we should meet soon. We should. I added a message.

We can meet at my house tonight. Seven?

I hit Send. And then cringed a little. I should have checked with Tim first. He was so easygoing, I doubted he would have a problem with the group taking over the living room. But I’d better ask him.

His text came back almost immediately.

The house is yours, sweetheart. Dinner at six?

Thank you. XXOO

He really was the best. I didn’t cook at all. When it was my night to put dinner on the table, the meal invariably involved takeout containers or pizza boxes. I always assembled my own cold breakfast and lunch. I could put together a couple of offerings to take to parties, such as avocado deviled eggs. Beyond that, I’d never learned to cook and didn’t have the desire to. Nor the need, especially ever since Tim and I had joyfully joined our lives.

That man could bake bread and delicacies to make you drool, and he was also a talent in the dinner department. I had totally lucked out in love.

I peeked in at Orlean. She was tightening the brake cable on a women’s Sora, a sweet alloy road bike.

Without glancing up, she said, “Heard about the death at the Rusty Anchor. You were there.”

“I was.” Westham was such a small town, the mouse at Town Hall had probably heard, too.

“You okay?”

“I am, thanks. I wish I knew more, but it’s early for that.”

“Yeah.” She straightened. “Be careful. Byrne made a lot of enemies.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You knew him?”

“After a fashion.”

I waited. The taciturn mechanic didn’t add anything.

“Where did you know him from?” I asked. “You don’t live in Westham.”

“I volunteer at the school. Tutor reading.” She shook her head. “Think of it. High school kids who can barely read. Messes ’em up, big-time. I try to help.”

“That’s wonderful, Orlean.” It was. And once again she’d surprised me. She’d never breathed a word about her volunteer activities.

She lifted a shoulder and dropped it before turning back to her work. I was dying to ask more about Bruce, but she might have exhausted her conversational quota for the day.

“How’s your sister doing, by the way?” Her sister, Sandy, had worked here for a little while in the spring. She’d had a few issues, and being employed by me hadn’t turned out to be the best fit.

“She’s real good. Thanks.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The outside door opened. “I’ll let you get on with that.” I made my way toward the door and was surprised once again. Joseph Almeida—otherwise known as my father, as well as the minister of the Westham Unitarian Universalist Church—stood backlit in the doorway.

“Pa.” I smiled and held out my arms. His tall, strong, gentle hugs were better than Tim’s only in that I’d had several decades of them before I’d met my husband.

“How’s my favorite daughter?” He stepped back.

“Your only daughter is okay.” I tilted my head, gazing at him. Yes, he knew. I’d bet hearing that I’d reported the murder was why he’d stopped by. “Been better, been worse. You know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Poor Mr. Byrne,” I said. “Did you ever have dealings with him?”

“You mean other than when I had to go in and straighten him out on how he coached young students like yourself in the art of written self-expression?”

I’d forgotten about that. Pa had listened to my bitter complaints about undeserved low grades. He’d heard out my friends. He’d reviewed the writing in question. And he’d arranged a conference with Mr. Byrne. After that, the grades weren’t quite as unfair, although, if anything, the teacher had grown even more unpleasant to be around, at least from my fourteen-year-old perspective.

“To answer your question,” Pa continued, “Bruce and I interacted on several occasions. He was a member of our congregation, you know.”

“He was?” I shut my mouth before the flies got in, as my grandmother often admonished.

“Indeed, querida. That was after you had declined to participate further in services. You even quit the youth group, as you might remember.”

I gave a nod. I did remember becoming disenchanted with organized religion.

“You are always welcome back.” He gave me a gentle smile. “Now I’d best continue on my rounds. Several of our elders at the old folks’ home look forward to my Monday visits.” He winked.

He knew very well it was the Westham Village assisted living and retirement community and not the old folks’ home. Although, truthfully, it was where a collection of the town’s old folks lived.

His expression sobered. “You’ll be careful, sweetheart?

We made our farewells. I knew how lucky I was in family as well as in love. But right now I wondered what other surprises lay ahead, what other secrets might surface.