Murder at the Rusty Anchor

The kitchen clock read six fifteen by the time I got home and inside with my bags. But the house felt empty.

No answer. He hadn’t left a note on the table. He was always either home by six or had left me a message.

“Tim?” Belle echoed. “Hey, handsome.”

“Ssh, Belle, be quiet, okay?”

“Okay. Okay. Treats?”

I made my way into the living room, but the door to our room was open and the bed was made and empty. I ran upstairs to check. No Tim. I trudged back down.

Where was he? Oh. I pulled out my phone. Sure enough, he’d left a text. I hadn’t glanced at the phone since before I’d left my shop, and it was on vibrate.

Sorry, rain check on dinner. OT baking tnight for big event tmrrw. Isaac out sick. Be home late. Love you. XXOO

I studied the message. OT must be overtime, even though he was the owner. Too bad his assistant baker, Isaac, was ill. Should I go over and offer to help? No, I should not. I was Ms. Fumbles in a kitchen, and I’d never baked even a potato in my life. Baking fine breads wasn’t my thing. I tapped out a message.

OK. See you when you get here. Love you oodles.

That news changed my evening entirely. I’d cook tomorrow instead. Not spending the evening with Tim meant one more day of not fully knowing what was bothering him, which was disappointing. Tomorrow, I’d coax it out of him if I could.

Selfishly relieved not to have to prepare dinner and face all that could go wrong with such a plan, I stashed all the cold groceries in the fridge, swapping out an open and mostly full bottle of chardonnay. I left the chicken on the counter. A thigh and a drumstick with a thick slab of Tim’s bread sounded like a perfectly good solo dinner, and it would still leave plenty of meat for tomorrow’s meal.

Hands washed, I gave Belle her dinner and poured myself a generous glass of chilled white. I sank onto a chair at the table and sipped. And thought.

So much had happened today, including hearing about my own parents’ experience with infertility, an ordeal I’d never heard a word about from anyone. Right now I decided to organize my thoughts about the murder.

Did I have a handle on all of it—or even any of it? I sorted through the people I’d spoken to. Nothing really had gone on between Sita and me, except that I might have made her suspicious of me at the market. I certainly hadn’t learned anything from her. For that matter, I hadn’t learned much from Carl, either. On the contrary. He hadn’t clarified how he’d known Byrne nor why he wouldn’t be at the next Chamber event.

Thinking of Carl reminded me of Zane’s slightly odd behavior when I’d asked him about checking into Uly. I’d never known Zane to be evasive. But he’d certainly acted that way in his store this afternoon.

And then there was what Norland had mentioned about Byrne’s wife possibly having an affair—and possibly with Yvonne. The wife was dead, as was Byrne. Did it matter after all this time if he’d tampered with his wife’s car and caused the crash? It did if Yvonne had been waiting for her chance to exact her revenge. But I couldn’t question Yvonne. That wasn’t destined to go well.

I thought back to what Edwin had told me about pushing back against Byrne. My eyes widened. Gin had said nearly the same thing about Uly, that he’d challenged the teacher and spent plenty of time in detention. Edwin had gotten in trouble for a different matter and had repeatedly landed in the vice principal’s office, but the behavior was the same.

Yet Gin’s daughter had been friends with Uly but apparently not with both of them. Were the two guys buds or not? No, Edwin had said they hadn’t hung out. And he’d made a point of saying they didn’t hang out now, either.

“What do you think, Belle?” I stroked the head of the oddly quiet parrot perched on the back of the chair next to mine. “Is that significant?”

She perked up. “Alexa, is that significant? What do you think? Belle’s a good girl.”

I laughed. “Belle’s a very good girl. I’ll get your dinner, and then it’s nighty-night for my favorite bird.” Once again I was glad we kept the smart speaker switched off when we left the house. Belle had a bad habit of asking Alexa to start a shopping list, and once she’d even succeeded in placing an order. I arrived home to find a box on my stoop containing grapes, peanuts, and anything labeled Snack. I now called the device the “spy speaker.”

“Nighty-night, Mac. Belle’s a very good girl. Snacks?”

After she’d eaten and was on her perch in a covered cage, I dwelt for a moment on my chat with Hal Byrne. Our investigation might be helped by an interview like that with a sibling or old friend of the various persons of interest. Maybe we could dig up a relative of Carl’s or a classmate of Yvonne’s. A person’s difficult background didn’t excuse criminal behavior, but knowing about it could shed light on the why behind their actions. And sometimes the acquaintance or loved one had information about the person in the present.

Asking in-person questions of a dead man’s brother, however, was entirely different from inquiring about a potential murderer. The Cozy Capers had a pact not to put ourselves in physical danger, and I planned to abide by that.

For now, I put away my thoughts and enjoyed my simple dinner, contemplating nothing more than diving into A Very Woodsy Murder as soon as I was finished eating. I would have started right here at the table, but eating was too messy to mix with the pages of a book, no matter how good that book was.

My phone jangled me out of my reverie.

“Okay if I bring those yearbooks over?” Gin asked without preamble.