A Zen For Murder (Mooseamuck Island Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) (9 page)

Dom settled back on the bench. He remembered that in the cases they’d worked together in the past, he could always count on Claire’s assessment of the suspects as being spot on. He respected her opinion in that area, but he wondered if her judgment was clouded by her friendship with Norma.
 

“How can you be so sure that Norma didn’t kill Zoila?” Dom asked.

“I
know
her. She’s not the type. Plus, she seemed shocked when I told her how I’d seen them fighting and that Zoila had been murdered hours later.”

Shocked about the murder, or shocked Claire had witnessed the fight
? Dom wondered.

“We can’t go on emotion. We must go with the facts and solid clues. Of which we have very few,” Dom said. “We need to find out what the police know about this footprint.”

Claire chewed her bottom lip. “Maybe I could get my nephew to tell us. He owes me for all the cases I’ve helped him with.”

“And we should try to reconstruct Zoila’s morning, and probably the prior day.”

Claire smiled. “Just like old times.”

“Exactly. Except we don’t have the benefit of the police badge and associated clout.”

“That makes it more challenging. But we have an advantage in that we know the people involved. We might be able to get more information than the police because they trust us.” Claire settled back on the bench. “So, let’s see. We know Zoila argued with Norma and then went to the meditation garden. But we don’t know if she had a stop in between.”

“We could ask Norma if she knew where Zoila went after the argument,” Dom offered.
 

Claire tilted her head. “We could, but she might not tell us. For some reason, she is being exceedingly closed-mouthed. We should ask around to see if anyone was up at the zen garden that morning, and if they saw anything.”

“I talked to Banes.” Dom told Claire about his conversation with the groundskeeper and the bag from
Chowders
.

“It sounds like you think the bag from
Chowders
could be significant? Why is that?”

“Banes said the kids leave trash sometimes, but I don’t think kids would have a take-out bag from
Chowders
. They usually eat junk food.”

Claire scrunched up her face at him. “So, you think the killer ate at
Chowders
?”

“Not necessarily. I talked to Shane and Sarah after Kenneth, and they acted very strange when I asked about Ben.”

 
“Why would you ask about Ben?”
 

Claire had shifted in her seat to face him and Dom knew she was going to be upset, but he had to mention the clues as he saw them.
 

“Kenneth said he was at Zoila’s yesterday and I know he does delivery for
Chowders
. There was a
Chowders
bag up near the crime scene…” Dom shrugged, letting his voice trail off.

“Ben wouldn’t leave trash up there!”
 

“Not normally … but if he was fleeing a murder scene, he might.”

Claire’s cheeks burned. Her face turned incredulous as she stared at Dom. “You can’t seriously suspect Ben? You know he couldn’t kill anyone and I can assure you from a psychological standpoint, he’s not capable. Besides,
why
would Ben want to kill Zoila?”

“That’s the big question. Why would anyone. If we could answer that, we’d have our killer. Besides, it seems that Ben has an alibi.”

“He does?”

“Yes, Sarah said he visits his mother on the mainland on Wednesdays and I don’t think he would have been on the island when she was killed.”

That's right
, Claire thought. How had she forgotten that? Of course Ben could not have done it.
 
She felt a pang of worry—she'd noticed herself getting more and more forgetful and hoped it was just a normal sign of aging and not something more sinister.

“Right. Well, I can assure you it wasn’t Ben or Norma,” Claire said in a clipped tone. Then, she calmed down and gave the situation some thought. It was better to act professionally, not emotionally. “We need some more leads to follow. Are you sure Banes didn’t see anyone else up there or hear anything? You’d think Zoila would have screamed.”
 

“No. He was cleaning up horse poop on the trails and he said he doesn’t hear very good,” Dom said. “As far as I know, no one else has come forward to say they were there that morning.”

“Meow!”

Dom looked down to see a large Maine Coon cat weaving in between Claire’s ankles. Claire reached down to pet the cat’s head.

“Is that your cat?” Dom asked.

“No. She’s a stray, but she comes to my garden sometimes, and I always leave something out for her. I call her Porch Cat.”

“Oh. I’ve seen her on my patio. I wondered who owned her. She seems to stroll by in the afternoon, most days.” Dom tossed a pistachio to the cat. She looked up at him with suspicious green eyes, sniffed the pistachio disdainfully, then rubbed the side of her head on Claire’s calf while she presented Dom with her back end.
 

Claire laughed. “I guess she doesn’t like pistachios. I think most of the neighbors feed her—she’s well fed. I think she makes the rounds, and I’ve seen her sunning herself in the gardens up at the conservation area.”

“Near the zen garden?”

“Yes. Too bad she can’t talk,” Claire said. “She probably knows a lot about what’s going on around the island. She might even know who killed Zoila.”

“
Meow!
” The cat looked up at Claire, then glared at Dom before continuing on her path along the length of the dock.

“That’s exactly what we need. Someone who might have seen something but didn't realize it was important, so they didn’t come forward,” Dom said.

“Yeah. But preferably someone who can actually talk,” Claire replied.

Dom watched the cat amble lazily down the wooden dock toward the shops, thinking what a great source of information it would be, with the run of the island and noone censoring their conversations around her. The cat would be privy to all sorts of information.
 

A light blinked in Dom’s brain, and he thought of someone else who might be in a similar situation but could actually communicate with them. “Kenneth said the Flannery kid rode his bike past Zoila’s yesterday on his way through the conservation area. Do the kids ride through there a lot?”

“I think so. I remember Robby saying he has to give them a talking to a lot because the bikes are wearing down the paths.”

“Maybe one of them saw something and was too scared to say so, or didn’t realize it might be significant,” Dom suggested.

“Could be. We should definitely ask around,” Claire agreed. “If I was being called in as a consultant, I’d know exactly what to do next. But now that we aren’t with the police, things need to be handled differently. What do you suggest we do?”

Dom was glad Claire was asking his opinion instead of dictating the tasks. Maybe this partnership would work out, after all. “I say we talk to Norma and find out just what Zambuco is up to. We might be able to figure out what he is thinking and anticipate his next move by the questions he asked her. Maybe you can talk to your nephew and see if he will give us any insider information on the case.”
 

“Sure, I can do that. I don’t know what he’ll share with me, but every little bit helps and I feel like we better get to the bottom of this ourselves before Zambuco comes up with the wrong conclusion and arrests the wrong person.”

“And the real killer gets off scot-free.” Dom glanced over at the shops in time to see Mae coming out of the fish store with a brown paper package in her hand. Apparently, she’d traded jam for fish. Life was going on as normal here on Mooseamuck Island—the islanders seemed to be unconcerned that a killer was running around loose.
 

An icy finger danced up his spine, causing an involuntary shiver as Dom wondered if Zoila would be the only victim, or if the killer was already busy planning his next murder.

Chapter Twelve

“And what do you two want?” Norma glared from her desk at Dom and Claire, who stood just inside the doorway of her studio.

“We’re trying to help you,” Claire said softly. “Zambuco’s coming by. He found out you had a fight with Zoila.”

“Already been by,” Norma snapped. “Asked a lot of annoying questions, just like you did.”

Dom stepped inside the small studio and Claire followed behind him, then shut the door. The sun filtered in from the large window in the front, highlighting the bright colors of Norma’s paintings that hung on every inch of wall space. The closed-in space intensified the smell of oil and turpentine, and Dom stifled a sneeze. “What, exactly, did he ask?”

Norma waved her hand in the air dismissively. “Oh, you know. Where was I this morning? What did I fight with Zoila about? Did I kill her? The usual interrogation stuff.”

“And what did you tell him?” Dom asked.

“I told him it was none of his business, just like it’s none of yours.”

Claire flapped her hands against her sides in frustration. “We’re just trying to help. If you tell us what this is all about, we can try to figure out who the killer is and get Zambuco off your back. But when you remain silent like this, you’re making it seem like you
did
kill Zoila.”

Norma pushed herself up from her desk and took a few steps toward them. Dom looked down at her feet and noticed she wore men’s work boots with round toes. The image of the footprint left in the sand at the zen garden drifted to his mind.
 

“Is that what you think?” Norma thumped her cane on the floor loudly. “That I killed her?”

“No, of course not,” Claire soothed.

“Well, I didn’t.” Norma crossed her arms over her chest. “But I’m also not going to tell anyone what the argument was about or where I went. That information is confidential.”

Dom and Claire exchanged a frustrated glance.

“Can you at least tell us what you think Zambuco was getting at? Did he mention any evidence or what he thought a motive might be?” Dom asked.

“He seemed to think that Zoila might have seen something in one of her readings. Some sort of premonition, and whatever it was, someone didn’t want her talking about it.”

“Is that what you were arguing about? A premonition she had?”

Norma shook her head. “No. And I’m not exactly sure Zambuco is barking up the right tree. See, Zoila had made a strange discovery, and if it was true … well, let’s just say there’s someone on the island who might not like it very much.”

Dom’s eyebrows tingled. “Enough to kill her?”

“Maybe.” Norma glanced out the window and Claire’s heart twisted as she noticed Norma’s eyes were moist. Was she about to cry? She’d never known the older woman to shed a tear before.

Claire reached out and rubbed Norma’s arm. “Then why don’t you tell us what it is? We can help.”
 

Norma pressed her lips together, then looked at Claire with clear, determined eyes. “I wish I could, but sometimes one has to honor their word above all. Even if it means becoming a murder suspect.”

***

“Well, that wasn’t very helpful,” Dom said as they walked down the sidewalk past the quaint Crab Cove shops after leaving Norma’s studio.

Claire chewed her bottom lip. “Why won’t she tell us? It doesn’t make sense. Is she covering for someone?”

“Maybe she is trying to throw up a smoke screen.”

“You mean like to throw us off track? Why would she do that if she wasn’t guilty?” Claire stopped walking and looked over at Dom. “You don’t really think it
is
her, do you?”

Dom looked up. Two gulls flew overhead, their raucous cries piercing the air. “A lot of the clues do point to her, but still, I can’t see it. And there’s too many unanswered questions. We need to find out what was on that paper and where it is now.”

“Not to mention the murder weapon.”
 

“And the footprint. I couldn’t tell what kind of shoe it was, but it looked like a large boot with a rounded toe.”

“A man’s boot?” Claire asked hopefully.

“It could be either, and let’s not forget some women wear men’s boots.” Dom glanced back at Norma’s studio.
 

Claire’s phone burst out in eerie science fiction music, and they both jumped. Cell phone reception was spotty on the island and they weren’t used to phones blaring out at random times. She pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. “It’s Robby. I’d better answer it.”

Claire walked away a few paces, and Dom stared out at the harbor. The scene usually calmed his nerves, but it wasn’t very calming now. Too many thoughts were clamoring for attention in his head. And a murderer was on the loose. He noticed the ferry pulling up to the dock. Just as they had suspected, Zambuco wasn’t able to stop the ferries for long, which meant the killer could have easily slipped off the island. That might make finding him harder unless the killer was an islander, because if it was, their absence would soon become suspicious. Everyone knew everyone else's habits on Mooseamuck Island, and if someone deviated from the norm, there was sure to be talk about it.