Chapter 12
“And then Edwin said he’d tell me today when he comes in to work,” I said to Gin at seven thirty the next morning. We strode, swinging our arms and talking, along the rail trail on our usual morning power walk. We went every weekday unless it was pouring rain, which today it blessedly wasn’t. The weather report had been correct. The rain was gone, at least for a day or two.
“That’s kind of a bombshell,” she said. “No clue what the dude thinks he knows?”
“Not a bit.” When a gust nearly swept away my ball cap, I clapped a hand on the hat. The wind that had swept away the rain was still with us. The official temperature might get to eighty today, but it wouldn’t feel that warm, not with such a strong breeze. “Hey, I know the murder took over last night’s discussion, but have you made any progress with A Very Woodsy Murder, the actual book for the group?” It was the Cozy Capers’ choice for this week.
“No, and I’ve never read anything by Ellen Byron so far. I’m looking forward to it, but we might have to postpone talking about the book for a week.”
“Agreed.”
“Exciting news about Zane and Stephen, isn’t it?” Gin asked.
“I know. Two for the price of one.”
She glanced at me. “How does hearing they’re going to be parents make you feel?” She knew about our so-far fruitless efforts to conceive.
“I’m fine. I don’t think Tim knows yet. We didn’t get a chance to talk last night or this morning. He’s the one who might be crushed.”
“He’s such a teddy bear, isn’t he?”
I nodded. “With a big heart to match. We’ll figure it out.”
We strode in silence for a few minutes. I pumped my arms to get my heart rate up. Gin and I were near each other’s height and could match our steps like we were sisters. I mused for a moment on what my childhood would have been like with a sister in the family along with a half brother. Would we girls have been closer than I was with Derrick? Or maybe we’d have fought more. It was a moot point, but interesting to imagine. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever asked my mother why she and Pa hadn’t had more children.
Today we headed north instead of south. This section of the trail ran through woods instead of over salt pools and marshes. With trees and undergrowth fully leafed out, I spied only quick glimpses of birds feeding and flitting about. Instead of salt air as the trail’s cologne, here it was pine needles and leaf mold with a whiff of cut hay.
A few paces before the path opened up to a stretch of pasture, a loud hammering sounded. I glanced at the side of a big dead tree and grabbed Gin’s arm to stop her.
“A pileated woodpecker,” I whispered as I pointed.
A crow-sized black-and-white bird pistoned its red head and powerful pointed beak into the trunk, over and over, paused, and started up again.
“It looks like Woody Woodpecker.” She suppressed a giggle.
“Almost, especially the crest. Isn’t it gorgeous? I hardly ever see them.”
The bird must have noticed us, because it flew off in a giant, silent swoop, revealing big white patches on the undersides of the wings.
I shivered. “I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that beak.”
“No kidding.”
“Let’s get going.” I was struck by a thought. “This might sound odd, but the point on the woodpecker’s beak made me think of something. What if Mr. Byrne was injected with a kind of poison? I wouldn’t have noticed a needle mark yesterday morning.”
“And maybe Lincoln did?”
“Yes. Except he must have seen or smelled something else that made him think the guy didn’t simply fall over dead.”
“Speaking of the murder, I did a little digging into Carl O’Connor last night.”
“Do tell.” As I glanced at her, I caught my toe in a strip of buckled pavement. I began careening forward, arms windmilling. Luckily, I caught myself and turned the near-fall into several jogging steps. “Close one.”
“You all right?”
“Yes, thanks. So, what did you learn?”
“Carl seems to live in Raleigh, North Carolina.”
“An absentee business owner, as we conjectured last night.”
“Sure looks like it,” she said.
“Is the Rusty Anchor his only source of income?”
“No. He’s also listed as an employee at an arboretum down there.”
“Like, landscaping?” I asked. “That’s quite a departure from teaching English.”
“So’s owning a pub. I couldn’t find out what he actually does at the arboretum. Maybe he writes promotional copy or does advertising for the place.”
“Or he could have wanted a change of pace from working indoors in a classroom.”
“True,” she said.
“Were you able to learn why Mr. Byrne fired him from the Westham High English department? I suppose fired isn’t the right word, but he was let go, right?”
“He was. And I wasn’t successful in finding out why. I ran out of time, because I needed to go to bed. Some of us need our beauty sleep, Mac.” She elbowed me.
“You are a lot older than me, after all.” I elbowed her in return. My friend wasn’t even ten years older than me.
“But get this.” Gin held up her index finger. “Back to North Carolina for a moment. The staff page of the arboretum’s website also lists a Sita Spencer. How many people with that name could there be?”
I slowed. “She did say she lived in North Carolina. If they’re a couple, they could have come up here together. She told me she was putting together a grab bag of bike stuff for her boyfriend’s birthday.”
Gin stopped and faced me. “And they both have a history with Bruce Byrne.”
I gave a slow nod. “So they do.”
A red-tailed hawk beat its wings as it flew over the pasture. It looked intent on spotting field mice or baby bunnies for lunch, or even an unlucky sparrow. Westham once again had a human predator prowling the streets, who might be seeking out another unlucky victim.