Chapter 10
Flo insisted we move on to the case at hand, which was precisely what we needed to do if we were ever going to clear her name. I would try to circle back later in the evening to the part of my earlier conversation with her that had been cut short by Lincoln arriving at the bike shop. And maybe to what she knew about the mysterious Sita Spencer, too.
Now fortified with a few sips from a glass of white wine, Flo’s vibrating leg quieted. She set down the glass and put pen to paper.
“What do we know?” she asked.
“Yvonne seemed evasive with Lincoln about Mr. Byrne this morning,” I began. “She said he wasn’t a regular at the pub but that he’d been in recently. I felt like she was keeping a secret, a piece of information unsaid.”
“Yvonne Flora is noted,” Flo said. “Do we have anything else on her?”
People either shook their heads or said they didn’t.
“Who wants her as an action item?” Flo glanced around. When Norland raised his hand, she scribbled on her pad.
“Byrne taught English, right?” Tulia asked. She lived in nearby Mashpee, not in Westham, but she owned and operated the Lobstah Shack nearly next door to Mac’s Bikes. She was pretty tied in with town affairs.
“Yes, and he was chair of the department for years,” Gin said.
“He could have alienated fellow instructors as well as students and parents,” Zane pointed out.
“Does anyone know any current or former Westham High English teachers?” Norland asked.
“The department had quite the turnover while Bruce was chair,” Flo murmured. “I remember a Mr. O’Connor some years ago who made a big stink about not having his contract renewed.”
I stared at her. “Carl O’Connor?”
“Yes, I think that was his first name.” Flo cocked her head. “Do you remember that incident?”
“No, but a man by that name owns the Rusty Anchor,” I said slowly. “When Yvonne told Lincoln she needed to notify Carl about the murder, the name rang a tiny, far-away bell in my brain, but I couldn’t place it. Lincoln asked who Carl was and she told him. The dude himself marched into the pub’s kitchen while Detective Johnson was interviewing me, and the bell rang again. I didn’t remember his face, though.”
“Well, he was laid off, or fired, or downsized, I don’t know which. He didn’t go happily,” Flo said.
“When was that?” Norland asked.
“About twenty years ago,” Flo said.
“I recall that the pub changed hands about then,” Norland added. “Maybe that’s when he bought it.”
“I had Mr. Byrne for freshman English twenty years ago,” I said, “but I wasn’t ever in class with Mr. O’Connor. In fact, his name isn’t familiar at all.”
“If he taught a higher grade and left before you were in the upper classes, you wouldn’t have known him,” Gin pointed out.
“True, but I might have heard or seen his name and forgot because it wasn’t important to teenage me,” I said. “I can ask Derrick if he remembers. Although, he’s five years older than me and might have been in college by then.”
“What does this O’Connor look like?” Tulia asked. “If he owns the pub, he’s probably a member of the Chamber of Commerce, right?”
“You’d think so,” I agreed. “But I’m sure I’ve never seen him at meetings or events.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell at all for me,” Zane said.
“Nor for me,” Gin, who owned the Salty Taffy’s candy shop, chimed in. “He could be an absentee owner.”
“His face is tanned,” I said. “He could live anywhere warmer than New England.”
“We need to research him. Who wants to take that action item?” Flo asked.
“I will,” Gin said. “I’m curious about his story.”
“We might want to shift to looking at opportunity,” Norland said. “Who could have lured the victim inside after hours?”
“Like, who has a key to the pub, or access to a security code, you mean?” I gazed at Norland.
“Precisely.”
“Yvonne is the manager, so she does, for sure,” I said. “Uly Cabral does all the baking. I’ll bet he has a key, too.”
“Are there other managers?” Gin glanced around the room. “Head bartender?”
Tulia laughed. “Don’t look at me. I don’t even drink alcohol.” She was a member of the Wampanoag tribe and had explained early on that she lacked the enzyme to digest alcohol. She’d said the few times she’d had a couple of drinks, it hadn’t been pretty.
“I’ve seen Edwin Germain behind the bar a couple of times,” I said. “He’s Orlean’s brother-in-law, or he had been before she divorced his brother.” The multi-talented twenty-something was also Pa’s accountant for the church and my occasional substitute bike mechanic. “He works for me once in a while.”
“Do you think he killed Byrne?” Flo asked.
“What?” I gave my head a hard shake. “No. Definitely not. But he might know something.”
“Edwin Germain is your action item, then, Mac” Flo said. “Who wants to check out Uly?”
Zane raised his hand. “I can.”
“This is for Mac or Norland.” Tulia leaned forward. “Do we know how Byrne died? That seems like it would be important in terms of who could do it. Right? I mean, for certain murder methods, the killer has to be taller than the victim, or strong, or whatever.”
“I haven’t heard a word,” Norland said.
I grimaced. “And I don’t know except by exclusion. I didn’t see blood. Or a gunshot wound. Or evidence of choking. What I really don’t know is why Lincoln seemed to think Mr. Byrne had died from a homicide and not a heart attack or stroke or any other kind of natural death.”
“How old was he?” Zane asked.
“Mid- to late-sixties,” Flo said. “He’d either recently retired or was going to next year.”
“Health conditions?” Norland asked.
“I got nothing.” Flo poised her pen on the pad. “But I can take him on as an action item. I’m friendly with the school academic admin. She’ll tell me if he was ill at all.”
I gazed at Flo. “That Sita woman you saw in my shop today. You seemed surprised to see her. I think you said something about her being back in town. Which happens to coincide with the murder. Would she have any connection with Mr. Byrne?”
Flo pulled her mouth to the side. “Maybe. She taught for a year or two and then left town.”
“Did she teach English?”
“I don’t know.” Flo shrugged.
“I don’t have an assignment yet,” Tulia said. “I’ll give her a stab.”
“Her last name is Spencer, and she told me she lives in North Carolina,” I offered. “But aren’t you too busy with your business, Tulia? The Lobstah Shack is the most popular fast-food place in town. Wait, I don’t mean fast food like a big chain, but . . .” I didn’t want her to think I was lumping her in with the ubiquitous burger-and-fries joints.
“No worries, Mac,” Tulia said. “I knew what you meant. We offer takeout, and people love it. But you might have noticed the weather lately? Customers have been pretty scarce this past week, mid-July notwithstanding.”
Our conversation turned to low sales and the weather. Flo, the only one present besides Norland who didn’t own a Main Street establishment, drummed her fingers on the legal pad. It seemed she was keeping a past experience with Sita to herself. Did it matter? I had no idea.