A Zen For Murder (Mooseamuck Island Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) (2 page)

Claire didn’t know what the secret was, but she knew Sarah thought she was keeping it well-hidden. She was probably right, for the most part. If not for Claire’s training, she wouldn’t have suspected it, either. She’d tried to draw it out of Sarah on a few occasions, but it seemed Sarah wasn’t ready. That was okay, Claire wanted to help, but she knew from experience that a person had to be ready before they could be helped.
 

Claire sat at the usual speckled Formica table by the window, where, on most mornings, her regular crowd gathered to start the day. These were the people she was most close to on the island—people she’d grown up with as a kid. They were more like family to her than mere neighbors … well, most of them were.
 

The exception was Dominic Benedetti. Dom was a fairly new addition to their ‘group’ and Claire didn’t know if she was happy about this. She’d known him in her previous life as a criminal psychologist in Boston, where they’d often been called in to consult on the same cases. Back then, they'd had a working relationship she could only describe as grudgingly respectful.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Dom—he was a nice enough guy, on a personal level. But on a professional level, the two of them had gotten along like water and oil. Oh, sure, he was an excellent detective with uncanny skills of deduction, but their methods were so different that they often found themselves butting heads.

Claire had spent most of her life studying human behavior, so when called in on a case, that was what she used to solve it—the behavior of the people involved. Dom, on the other hand, insisted on using only facts. It had caused a lot of professional arguments between them, yet they’d always seemed to get their man in the end.
 

But that was a lifetime ago. They were both retired now, and Claire had vowed to forget about their professional disagreements and try to make friends with the man who now sat across the table from her.
 

Claire watched a swirl of steam curl up from her cup of red rooibos tea as she listened to the others at the table chat about island gossip. Claire’s thoughts drifted to the argument she’d seen between Norma and Zoila just a few hours earlier and her chest tightened with anxiety.
 

Her eyes slid to the doorway. Where
was
Norma?

Usually, the ornery artist joined them here when she was done with her morning painting. Claire glanced at the clock over the counter—it was almost ten o’clock. Norma should be done painting by now, but if she wasn’t here—

“What do you think, Claire?” Tom Landry’s question pulled Claire from her thoughts and she looked up to see Dom scrutinizing her, which only heightened her anxiety.

She quickly looked away from Dom and addressed Tom. “Think of what?”
 

“I was saying how egg production on my free-range chickens is way up this spring,” Tom said. “They say increased egg production is a prediction of good summer weather.”

“Well, hopefully it doesn’t mean your chickens are going to be running around my garden again,” Mae Biddeford admonished him. “Last year, they nearly ruined my blueberry bushes and I need those berries for jam.”

Tom tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “My chickens provide good fertilizer for your berry bushes and you know it.”

Mae huffed and Claire suppressed a smile. Tom Landry and Mae Biddeford were both past eighty. They’d grown up next door to each other and each now lived in the very family home they’d grown up in. Tom’s was a small working farm with goats, chickens and a few cows. Mae’s property boasted acres of fruit trees and bushes. The two of them had an ongoing feud, rumored to have started in kindergarten. They bickered constantly, but Claire suspected they secretly had the hots for each other. If only she could get
them
to realize it, too.

“Besides, it looks like you have plenty of berries.” Tom pointed to a large bag sitting on the floor beside Mae’s seat. “I assume that’s filled with jam.”

“Yes, I’m trading it to Florence Ryder for a permanent,” Mae huffed.
 

Claire cringed and caught her best friend, Jane’s, eye. The islanders often traded goods or services instead of paying money. It was an old tradition started by their grandparents and, since most of the regulars were from families that had been on the island for generations, they continued the tradition. But Mae went a little overboard with her jams and most everyone had more jam than they could possibly use. Claire and Jane had a running joke about it and Jane winked back at Claire in acknowledgment.

“I see Crabby Tours has opened up early this year,” Jane said, changing the subject from jam to more seasonal matters.

“Probably trying to get a jump on Barnacle Bob’s fleet this year,” Alice James said, her knitting needles clacking together with a metallic beat as she stitched furiously. Alice was always knitting something … most of which she traded as eagerly as Mae traded her jams.

“Seems like those two are opening earlier and earlier.” Tom referred to the rivalry between the boat lines, who both ran whale watches, lobstering cruises and pleasure cruises in the summer.
 

They’d had a rivalry going on for decades and for the past several years, it seemed each had tried to get a jump on the other by opening for business first. Not that there was any shortage of customers for the cruises. Mooseamuck Island was a popular tourist destination, and soon the population of the island would quadruple. And a favorite tourist pastime was going on one or more of the cruises.
 

Jane sighed. “I suppose so, but that means tourist season is just around the corner and my job is going to get a lot busier.”

As postmaster of the Island, Jane had it relatively easy from September to June, when it was just the locals. But handling mail for all the summer residents and tourists could be a lot of work. Jane usually had to hire temporary help.

“True. But it is good for the economy,” Alice pointed out.

“Still, I just wish Crab Cove didn’t get so crowded,” Mae complained.

Claire’s attention drifted over to the doorway as the others discussed the pros and cons of the upcoming wave of tourists. Still no sign of Norma.

“Waiting for someone?”

Claire jerked her attention back to the table to answer Dom’s question. “What makes you ask that?”
 

Dom shrugged, his dark eyes looking at her curiously. “You keep looking at the door is all.”

“Oh, no. My mind was just wandering.” Claire’s eyes narrowed at him. Just what was he getting at, anyway? He was staring at her expectantly, as if he knew something. And then it hit her—somehow, he must know about the fight she’d witnessed.

Claire remembered that he had a view of the cove from his condo at the top of the hill. Had he seen Norma and Zoila fighting? No, he couldn’t have. She'd been on his patio before and knew he could only see as far as her garden from his place—her cottage blocked the scenic vista. And, since she could barely hear the two women, she was sure he couldn’t have heard them, either.

He’d probably seen her straining over the railing, though. But why would that pique his interest? It wouldn’t pique the interest of a normal person, but then Dominic Benedetti wasn’t exactly what Claire would classify as a normal person. He was a born investigator with keenly honed instincts, and his instincts were probably kicking in right now.

Somehow, Claire knew it wouldn’t do to have him digging into whatever was going on with Norma. Dom didn’t
know
Norma like she did and he might misinterpret things. What those things were she didn’t know, since she had no idea what was going on herself.

She couldn’t help but glance at the door again. This time, much to her surprise, it flew open and ten-year-old Gordie Glenn skidded inside, his cheeks flushed with excitement.
 

The hubbub of noise ceased and everyone in the diner turned expectantly toward the door where Gordie stood, his eyes darting from one patron to the next.

“Gordie? What is it?” Alice prompted.

Gordie’s eyes lighted on Alice. His mouth opened and then closed. Claire’s heart filled with worry. Was something wrong with Gordie or one of the other kids? And then Gordy finally blurted it out.

“There’s been a murder at the zen garden!”

Chapter Three

The zen garden was part of the meditation area in Mooseamuck Island’s public gardens—a twenty-acre tract of conservation land with an ocean view. It was startling to hear about a murder in the most peaceful place on the island. There hadn’t been a murder on Mooseamuck Island in over twenty years. Everyone in the diner was shocked … and interested.
 

So, naturally, most of them headed on out to the garden to see for themselves. Some rode bicycles—a normal form of transportation on the island—and others carpooled.

Claire hitched a ride with Tom and sat quietly wedged in between him and Jane in the front of his pick-up truck.

Would it be Norma lying dead up there?

Gordy hadn’t known who the victim was—he’d only heard about it on the ham radio. Robby Skinner, current chief of police and Claire’s nephew, had called in to the mainland, requesting help. By Claire’s estimation, it would take about thirty minutes before the mainland police could get their boat out, so they had some time before they would inevitably be shooed away from the crime scene.

They jumped out of Tom’s truck and headed down the path where she could already see her nephew flapping his arms, trying to keep people away from the scene.
 

“Hey, Robby. What happened?” Dread clutched at Claire’s heart as she craned her neck to peek over her nephew’s shoulder.
 

“Murder is what happened.” Robby's eyes reflected desperation and she felt a tug at her heart. She knew he’d never secured a murder scene before and she felt bad for him. But not bad enough to stop straining to see who it was lying in the sand. Her eyes raked over the body and relief washed over her.
 

Then concern.
 

The body wasn’t Norma. It was Zoila.

Robby tried to block her view “You know you shouldn’t be here.”

Claire tore her eyes away from the body and looked at her nephew. He was a decent cop, but he
was
a small-town cop, which was perfect for their little island where most of the crime consisted of minor infractions. Even then, he sometimes consulted with her on cases and she figured she’d helped him solve a good number of them.
 

“Sorry, Robby. This is big news, though, and you can’t keep the regulars away.” She glanced behind her at the small crowd that had gathered. It was mostly the regulars from the diner, but a few others had straggled in. “I figure it was better to come up and see if I could help out.”

“Thanks.” Robby's cheeks flushed and he kicked the dirt with the toes of his shiny, police-issue boots. “I had to call back to the mainland for the homicide crew. I’m not trained to investigate a homicide on my own. Until then, I gotta keep the scene secure.”

“Of course. No one expects you to have that kind of expertise,” Claire soothed. “I’ll help keep the others back.”

Her eyes drifted over his shoulder again and she took in the murder scene. The contrast of the still body lying in the peaceful circles of sand was startling. Not to mention the bloody mess that was Zoila’s face. She’d been beaten, not shot or stabbed. But with what? Claire noticed the blood soaking into the sand beside the body, which was wearing the same outfit she’d been wearing during her fight with Norma.

And where was Norma?

Claire glanced around but didn’t see her anywhere in the crowd.

“My word!” Mae gasped. “Who would do such a thing?”

Claire turned to see Mae’s face had gone pale, her hand covering her mouth.
 

“That’s a very good question.” Dom raised a brow at Claire, as if she might know something.
 

Claire narrowed her eyes at Dom. “Yes, it is.” She put her arm around Mae and walked her over to a bench out of view of the scene.
 

Why had he looked at her that way? She didn’t know who would kill Zoila. Well, she had seen Zoila fighting with Norma, but Norma wasn’t a killer. She wrinkled her brow, remembering the piece of paper Zoila had been waving in Norma’s face … she didn’t have that paper in her hand now.
 

Maybe she’d delivered the paper before her meditation. Or maybe the killer had taken it.

Claire watched Dom as he walked around slowly, just outside the confines of the yellow crime scene tape. At the edge of the zen garden, he squatted and tilted his head, studying the scene from a lower angle. He nodded, his lips pursed together in a thin line. Then he smoothed his eyebrows, stood and continued his walk to the other side of the garden.

Claire handed Mae over to Jane and wandered to where Dom and been. She squatted in the same spot. What had he found so interesting? The body lay crumpled, the legs at an impossible angle. The circles had been raked in the sand recently and were still almost perfect … except for one smudged area.
 

A shoe print!
 

She looked closer. The print was distorted, but it looked large. Probably a man’s shoe. One of the rocks was out of place, too, and—