A Zen For Murder (Mooseamuck Island Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) (5 page)

BOOK: A Zen For Murder (Mooseamuck Island Cozy Mystery Series Book 1)
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“Whatcha all gawkin’ at?” Norma’s raspy voice came from behind and Claire’s heart flooded with relief. Norma hadn’t
fled
the island—she’d probably just gone for painting supplies or something. Even though the island had a small grocery store and hardware store, some things just couldn’t be purchased there—including some of the paints and supplies Norma used for her artwork.

Claire turned to Norma and smiled, despite the older woman’s grouchy demeanor. Norma looked from Claire to Jeremiah, her wide-brimmed hat casting a sinister shadow over her face, which was pulled down in an unpleasant scowl.
 

“Norma, I thought you were over at the mainland,” Claire said.

“Oh, and
who
told you that?” Norma glared at Jeremiah.

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret,” Jeremiah stuttered, wilting under her gaze. “It seemed like it was right important that you get there.”

“Now, Jeremiah Woodward, you be minding your own business.” Norma rapped her cane on the ground loudly and Jeremiah jumped. Then, she whirled on Claire. “And what do
you
want?’

Claire wasn’t fazed by Norma’s seemingly harsh treatment. She was used to the artist’s gruff exterior and she didn’t let that upset her, because she knew somewhere inside was a heart of gold. Sometimes you just had to look really hard for it.

“I came to talk to you.” Claire slid her eyes over to Jeremiah, the movement negating the necessity for her to add the word ‘alone’.

“Hrmphh. Well, be quick about it” Norma hung the cane on her arm. Its ivory bull-dog faced handle stared out at Claire through its red, garnet eyes while Norma fished for the key to her studio. “I have a commissioned painting I need to finish and don’t have time for idle chit-chat.”
 

“Ahh ... well ... I’ll leave you ladies to it,” Jeremiah backed away from them. Claire got the impression he was happy to be escaping.

Norma shoved the door open and gestured for Claire to precede her into the cramped studio—which Claire did, deftly avoiding the stacks of canvases that leaned against the walls as her nose adjusted to the smell of turpentine and oil paint.
 

“So, what do you want?” The old, wooden floor creaked as Norma walked the perimeter of the studio, looking at her paintings and ignoring Claire.
 

Claire was glad to see that Norma was acting normal—not at all like someone who had beaten another person to death just hours ago. But what else had she expected? She already knew Norma didn’t do it.

Claire gave a mental head shake and looked up to see Norma assessing her with intelligent, dark eyes, the brows of which were slightly raised in question.

“You haven’t heard about Zoila?”

Claire saw Norma flinch just slightly. Probably not enough that anyone else would have noticed, but Claire was trained to watch for those tell-tale flinches. The mention of Zoila’s name had hit a nerve.

“What about her? No one should pay attention to what she has to say. The woman is mad.” Norma stabbed her cane into the floor to accentuate the last word.

“Really? Why do you say that?”

Norma narrowed her eyes at Claire. She was too sharp to be tricked into giving anything away. “Why do you ask about her, anyway?”

“She was murdered this morning.”

Norma’s eyes widened. “Murdered? By whom?”

Claire noticed that Norma’s reaction seemed to register genuine surprise. At what,exactly, Claire didn’t know—the murder itself or the fact that Claire was asking. “They don’t know who did it.”

Norma let out a sigh and lowered herself onto the wooden chair behind the old metal desk, the only piece of furniture in the room.
 

She rested her cane against the side of the desk, then leaned her elbows on the surface, steepling her hands in front of her. Claire noticed her hands were dotted with red paint … at least she hoped it was paint. She stepped closer to get a better look and noticed there was blue, white and brown dots, too. It wasn’t unusual for Norma’s hands to be dotted with paint—she was, after all, a painter.

“So, you came all the way here to tell me?” Norma asked.

“Well, yes.” Claire didn’t know what she had been expecting. Maybe she was hoping Norma would tell Claire how her and Zoila had fought about some benign matter that would obviously have nothing to do with her murder.

But she didn’t. Instead, she said, “Why come all the way here? You thought finding out about it from someone else might be too much for a fragile old lady?”

“Well, no.” Claire hesitated. Norma was anything but fragile. “I saw you fighting with Zoila this morning.”

“And you think
I’m
the one who killed her?”

“No! Of course not. I just thought if you explained what it was about, then I could make sure Zambuco ruled you out as a suspect.”

“Explain it to you?” Norma’s eyebrows crept up to her hairline. “I don’t think I need to explain myself to you. And what were you doing spying on me, anyway?”

“I wasn’t spying. I could hardly avoid it. I could hear you from my garden.”

“What were you doing up at the crack of dawn?”

“I always get up for sunrise. Anyway, if I heard you, someone else might have heard you, too, so it’s best if you tell me what you were fighting about.”

Norma’s face hardened. “Well, if you heard us, then you must know what it was about.”

“I only heard shouting. I couldn’t make out what you were actually saying. Then I looked down and saw Zoila waving some kind of paper in your face. What was on that paper?”

“That’s none of your business,” Norma huffed.

“Look, I’m not trying to pry into your business,” Claire reasoned. “Zambuco is looking for people to put on his suspect list—people who had an argument with Zoila. I’m just trying to get our ducks in a row, in case he starts looking in your direction.”

Norma crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Claire. “Well, it was personal. I can’t say what it was about.”
 

Claire sighed. “So you can’t tell me what you argued about or what was on that paper. Not even a hint.”

“It’s not for me to say what we talked about.”
 

“Well, if you could just tell me the general subject—“

Norma shot out of her chair. “This is getting tiresome. I don’t have to tell you what we talked about and I’m not going to.”

“Yeah, I get that. But if you don’t tell me, I can’t help. And where did you run off to—“

“Enough!” Norma came out from behind the desk, took Claire’s shoulders and turned her toward the door. “Now, I need you to leave. I have business to tend to.”

Norma opened the door and pushed Claire out. Claire turned to face her friend. “But I’m only trying to help.”

“I don’t need any help. Now, shoo.” Norma made shooing motions with her hand, shut the door in Claire’s face and snapped the lock.

Claire stood on the steps, boiling over with anger, a seed of doubt sprouting in her gut.

What was the big secret Norma had with Zoila?

She stared through the glass window at Norma, who stood with her back to Claire, apparently inspecting a piece of art she had hanging on the back wall. Claire’s fists clenched in frustration. She didn’t know what the big deal was, but she knew Norma hadn’t killed Zoila, and if her friend wouldn’t help clear herself by telling Claire what the argument was about, then Claire had only one course of action.

She’d have to find the real killer before Norma ended up in jail for a crime she didn’t commit.

Chapter Six

Dom laid down his fork with a satisfied sigh as he finished the last bite of a small sampling of Sarah’s ricotta pie. It was creamy and sweet—just the way he liked it. He leaned back in his chair, remembering how his Nonna would sometimes add lemon or chocolate chips to the batter.

He closed his eyes, an excitement building inside him as he reflected on the morning’s events. The fact that he wasn’t on the police force or being called in as a consultant didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. He felt more alive than he had in a long time—he had a real case to work on, and he knew exactly how to go about finding the killer.

Opening his eyes, he absently watched Romeo and Juliet twitter and preen in their cage while he mentally constructed a ‘to-do’ list. First off, he’d have to compile a list of suspects. But how would he do that without the authority of the police behind him? He couldn’t very well commandeer Zoila’s customer list to find out who she spoke to yesterday.

Romeo flew to the side of his cage to sharpen his beak on the cuttle-bone Dom had clipped inside. He peeked over the oval, chalk-like bone at Dom and let out a loud squawk.

“Squabin!”

“Good thinking.” Dom nodded at the small bird. Zoila had talked to both Kenneth and Shane about renovating the cabin yesterday. Even though they weren’t clients, Dom figured that was as good a place to start as any. Over the years, he’d learned to never leave any stone unturned. Even the most routine interview could reveal a vital clue.

A tap at his back door interrupted his thoughts, and he looked over to see Mae Biddeford, holding up a jar filled with something green.

Dear Lord, not another jar of jam
. Dom glanced at his cupboard, already full to the brim with the jams that Mae forced on him almost every day. He pasted a smile on his face and opened the door.

“Hello. I thought I would bring you a jar of my famous zucchini relish.” Mae shoved the jar toward him hopefully.

Not jam. Relish. As if he didn’t have a dozen or so jars of those, too.

“Why, thank you.” Dom took the jar, then upon noticing how Mae was hovering in the doorway, he opened the door and gestured to his kitchen. “Won’t you come in?”

“Okay.” Mae practically sprinted over the threshold. “I won’t stay but a minute.”

Dom hoped she would only stay a minute—he had lots to do.
 

He put the jar on the counter and turned to her expectantly. After a long career as an investigator, Dom knew when someone wanted to tell him something, and he could tell Mae Biddeford had something she was dying to get off her chest.

“It’s been quite an exciting morning.” Mae glanced sideways up at Dom, who nodded but didn’t say anything while he waited patiently for her to get to the point.

Mae worried her bottom lip, then glanced at the back door. She leaned toward Dom conspiratorially, and in a low voice asked, “Will you be investigating it?”

Dom smoothed his eyebrow and pretended to think about it. “Do you think I should? Detective Zambuco is already on the case.”

“Pshaw.” Mae waved her hand. “What does he know? He’s from the mainland. We need an islander here to do the case justice.”

Dom was surprised at how proud he felt to be considered an ‘islander’, but he wondered if Mae was just buttering him up. He sensed she had something she wanted to tell him about the case, so he decided to give her the perfect opportunity. “Well, I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t think Zambuco will share Zoila’s client list with me.”

“I may be able to help.” Mae’s eyes twinkled with excitement.
 

His bushy brows crept upwards. “Really?”
 

She nodded. “Yes. Well, I don’t know if this means anything, but I happen to know that Velma and Hazel were seeing Zoila quite regularly. Their appointments were on Tuesdays.”

“And yesterday was a Tuesday,” Dom added. He pressed his lips together, picturing the elderly spinsters, Velma and Hazel, Who ran the
Gull View Inn
. They were sweet, gentle souls. “You don’t think they had something to do with Zoila’s death, do you?”

“Oh, no. But they might know something. Those two might seem dotty, but they don’t miss a trick. And I know they were there yesterday because they stopped by Tom Landry’s for eggs after and I overheard them talking from my garden.” Mae looked at him sharply. “I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything. I was tending to my raspberry bushes and their voices carried.”

Dom chuckled to himself and turned toward the door. “Well, that certainly is helpful information. I will pay them a visit and see if they can shed any light on things.”

Mae puffed up, satisfied she’d done her duty. “Glad to be of help. I’ll just be on my way, then.”

Dom opened the door and bid her goodbye. As he closed the door his excitement in the case turned to a pang of insecure doubt. What if he had lost his investigating skills?
 
What if he was too old, or couldn't remember the right way to go about it?
 

It had been years since he'd investigated anything, and if he screwed up and his information sent the wrong person to jail, he'd never forgive himself.
 

Then again, if he didn't investigate and the wrong person went to jail because he wasn't there to give his input, he'd never forgive himself, either.

It was better that he investigate, Dom decided. He hurried to clean up the plate from his ricotta pie. He had four places to visit and he didn’t have a minute to waste if he wanted to fit them all in today.

Chapter Seven

Even though the police were no longer there, the meditation garden still bore the mark of a violent crime. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the area where the body had left an unmistakable impression in the sand.
 

BOOK: A Zen For Murder (Mooseamuck Island Cozy Mystery Series Book 1)
12.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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