Olive and Let Die (3 page)

“What about Dolly's gift?” Roger said.

“Have somebody deliver it to her in the kitchen, would you?” Dolly would enjoy the surprise, even if she had no idea what it was for.

Dusk was settling over Bonaparte Bay as we exited the store. I walked Melanie quickly down Theresa Street and up the walk to what had been the Sailor's Rest, a restaurant that was closed for remodeling. “Follow me,” I ordered, and Melanie complied as I led us around to the back, where I knew there was a small outdoor table and chairs. I sensed that she was falling behind me and turned to see her appear several inches shorter, her ridiculously high heels having sunk into the grass. “Oh, come on,” I snapped.

“I'm older than you are, and better dressed, remember?” she shot back, disengaging herself from the turf.

“Yeah, and I'll bet you've got a personal trainer keeping you fit, so don't give me that.”

We sat down on opposite sides of the table, Melanie facing the restaurant. There were several Dumpsters out here full of construction debris, as well as some piles of building materials under the covered porch. The new owners of this place were my husband, Spiro, and his partner, Inky LaFontaine. They were transforming it into a nineteen-fifties-style diner. How they planned to do that to a late Victorian house was a mystery yet to be revealed. But they were hoping to have the place open in time for Columbus Day, and then close it up until spring.

A cool breeze blew up off the St. Lawrence River. On
the one hand, I was grateful because it kept the mosquitoes down. On the other, it stirred up a funky odor, which I couldn't quite place. But I wished I'd brought a fleece. Melanie tugged the sleeves of her jacket down and folded her arms across her ample chest.

“All right,” I said. “Why are you here?”

She opened her purse and stuck in her hand, coming out with a silver compact. She opened the compact and studied herself in the mirror. “Would you believe it if I told you that I missed you? That I wanted to get to know the woman you've become? Get to know my granddaughter?”

“After twenty years?” I snorted. “Spare me.”

She smoothed an errant lock of hair back into place. “I know I've made mistakes. I'm trying to make up for them now.”

“You left me. I was just a kid.”

She sighed. “You were born when I was only eighteen, just a kid myself. I did the best I could for you while you were growing up. When I knew you could handle it, I left to try to make something better for myself. For you.”

“For me?” Of all the self-serving statements I'd ever heard, that took the cake. “You know at the end of that summer, when the town shut down, I had nowhere to go? Thank God Sophie took pity on me and let me stay here while I took some college classes. On scholarship.”

“And if I hadn't left,” she said gently, “you'd never have married Spiro . . .”

“Yeah, thanks for that. I had a great marriage. He's gay, you know.”

“And you never would have had your daughter.”

The air rushed out of my lungs and I felt suddenly deflated. She was right, of course, not that I was going to admit it. Every moment of that sham marriage had been worth it, when I thought of how my Callista had turned out.

“She's not here. She's in Greece visiting Sophie's relatives and working on an archaeological project at the Parthenon.”

“I know. I had Caitlyn do a little research before I came.”

What else had been researched? I wondered if she knew about the Bonaparte table and the jewels I'd found a few weeks ago. Was she looking to get a piece of that pie? I gave an inward chuckle. The jewels were probably going to have to be returned to the Spanish government. Whether there would be a finder's fee remained to be seen. And the table, though worth close to half a million dollars according to Christie's, technically belonged to Sophie. The chances of my seeing a penny of that money were slim to none. “So why all the secrecy? Caitlyn doesn't know about me?”

“She does. But I wanted to see you first before it goes public.”

Something about this just wasn't ringing true. Oh, I had no doubt she wanted to find me and Cal. What mother wouldn't, even if she was the one responsible for the separation? But there was something more to this visit. I was sure of it. I was also quite sure she wasn't going to tell me until she was good and ready.

“Are you happy, working at the restaurant?” She dropped the compact back into her purse and picked up a twig that had fallen on the table, poking it in and out of the holes in the metal mesh table.

I considered. “Yes, I guess I am. I love the history of the old place, I love the people I work with, and I love the job.” A little twinge of discontent surfaced. It was no longer enough for me to just manage the Bonaparte House. I wanted to own it, make it mine.

“Do you have money of your own?” She picked at the stick until a piece peeled off.

“Not that it's any of your business, but I have some saved up. I draw a regular salary, and I don't have a lot of expenses. I'm not a big spender.”

Melanie looked me up and down, at least the half that was visible over the table top. “You don't spend much on clothes, that's apparent.” She wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell? It's disgusting.”

“Uh, Melanie, you ever work in a restaurant? We serve
food
, and sometimes the food spills? Clothes have to be practical. It's hard work.” I swatted at a fly. There seemed to be a lot of them buzzing around.

“How much do you need? I could help you out. That old lady can't be planning to work there forever.”

I bristled. “That ‘old lady' is only a few years older than you are, M-O-M.” She looked around to make sure we were still alone. Then her words registered. Melanie had offered to help me buy the Bonaparte House. I was sorely tempted.

“I visited a lawyer recently,” she said. “I've made Callista my beneficiary. I didn't think you, my only child, would want my money, but I knew you wouldn't turn it down for your daughter.” I breathed a small sigh of relief. Not that I hadn't sometimes wished I had a sister to hang out with or confide
in, but it was a relief to know that I wouldn't be receiving any more surprises. “Well, thank you. I'm touched.” And I found I really was. A little. I looked at my watch. “Looks like you missed your ride.”

“Damn. That's the last one, isn't it?”

“That's the last water taxi ride.” I offered to call Liza at the Spa and have her send a boat. “Wait, I have a better idea.” I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and speed-dialed a number.

He answered on the first ring. “I was hoping you'd call,” he said. A thrill raced through me when I heard his voice. I got up from the table and walked a few steps away. “Did the restaurant close early? Am I gonna get lucky tonight?”

I sucked in a breath. Getting lucky with Jack would be better than catching a thousand leprechauns, superior to an infinite number of rabbits' feet. Not that it had happened yet. “Maybe,” I teased. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Is it
that
kind of favor? The kind where I do something for you, then you do something for me?”

“Sounds like a win-win to me.” I grinned stupidly. “Listen, I have a friend here who needs a ride out to Liza's. Are you busy?”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Where are you?”

“I'm out in back of Spiro and Inky's new place. See you then.”

When I returned to the table, Melanie was gone. I squinted in the darkness and made out a humanoid shape over by the small toolshed where the lawnmower and gardening equipment were kept. “Melanie,” I said. “Don't go over there in those shoes. You're liable to step on a nail . . .”

I heard a gasp and saw the shadow of her arm fly to her mouth. I ran over, nearly gagging as the smell intensified. An odd braided rope—was it made of plastic wrap?—lay on the ground. And crumpled between a pile of two-by-fours and some sheets of insulation lay a body.

THREE

Based on the incredible stench and the number of flies buzzing around, I knew there was no hope for this poor person. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. I had an unsettling rush of déjà vu as Cindy answered, just as she had the last time I'd discovered a body.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” she trilled.

“Cindy, it's Georgie. Send the police over to the old Sailor's Rest. I'm out back.”

“What have you got, another body?” She giggled.

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Cindy? I need you to send Chief Moriarty over, okay? It's too late for an ambulance.”

“Maybe you should put the cops and the coroner on your speed dial and call directly next time,” she said.

I hung up. I hadn't ever really liked her.

Melanie was still standing over the body, breathing through the front of her jacket, which she'd pulled up over her mouth and nose.

“Melanie, come away from there. The police will be here soon.”

She looked up at me, her eyes sad and scared at the same time. “I know who this is.”

What? She hadn't lived in this town in twenty years. How could she possibly know?

She had produced a small penlight, which she shined on the face. “It's my cousin Doreen. I'd know her anywhere. In any condition.” She shuddered.

My mother had a cousin? Which meant I had a cousin? Or used to have one anyway. I felt a wave of sadness wash over me and my eyes threatened tears. My grandparents had died when I was small, not that I'd ever met them, and as far as I knew, we had no other family. If Sophie hadn't taken me in and given me a home and eventually a husband, I would have been completely alone.

Melanie still had the light trained on the woman. I forced myself to look at the face. Bloated purplish flesh, dry, frizzy dark hair fanned out on the grass. It was impossible to tell how old she might be, but she was wearing a nylon windbreaker, capri-length jeans, and flip-flops with some sparkly jewels on the straps. Her toenails were professionally pedicured in a hot pink shade and looked freshly done.

“Hand me that light, Melanie.” She complied, and I did a quick search around the body. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, and I didn't find it. A sudden thought struck me. “Melanie, let's go out front until the police get here. We might be in
danger. What if she was murdered? Why else would her body be here?”

She had the sense to take off her heels as we ran across the soft lawn out to the sidewalk and the relative safety of the small crowd of bar-hoppers congregated under the streetlights. I was relieved to see the flashing blue lights of one of the two cruisers owned by Bonaparte Bay. The driver double-parked and I heard the door click closed. Tim Arquette, second in command of Bonaparte Bay's finest, walked over toward us, in no particular hurry.

“What's up, Georgie?” His jaw was working as he rolled a piece of gum around in his mouth. A whiff of artificial watermelon wafted over. At least it smelled better than the corpse.

“There's a body out back.”

Tim froze. “I thought Cindy was kidding!” He put his hand on the butt of his gun. He pulled out his Mag flashlight with the other hand and switched it on. “Show me,” he ordered.

“You first.” I didn't want to lead the parade. I walked a step behind Tim, who was sweeping the yard with his light. “Over there, by the tool shed. She's on the ground.”

Tim reached the body, scanned it, and pulled out his radio. “Call in Rick and the sheriff,” he told the dispatcher. “We're going to need the crime scene techs and the medical examiner from Watertown. Over.”

He turned to me and Melanie. “Now, ladies, suppose you tell me what you're doing in back of a closed-up restaurant at this time of night. Georgie, who's your friend?”

“She's not my friend.” The words were automatic, and I
hardly had time to regret them before a sharp elbow jabbed into my ribs. She really, really needed to stop doing that.

“I'm Melanie Ashley,” she purred. Tim ran the flashlight up from her feet to her cleavage, where he let it rest. “Georgie is just showing me around town.”

Tim seemed mesmerized by her boobs, then finally looked up to her face. Recognition dawned. “My God!” he exclaimed. “You're Belinda Mallory! We watch your show at the station. You're even more beautiful in person.”

Melanie smoothed her hair, then fingered the neckline of her tank top. “How nice of you to say so.”

“Uh, Tim?” I felt compelled to bust up this little love fest. “There's a dead woman here.”

“She's not going anywhere.” He continued to stare at Melanie, who was smiling at him.

“There are marks around her neck. I've seen enough
CSI
to know that's strangulation, not a natural death. What if the perp is still here?” Goose bumps rose on my arms and I shivered.

“Naw, she's been here at least a day, based on that smell. The perp is long gone. So, Melanie, what brings you to town?” He blew a big pink bubble, then sucked it back in, licking his lips.

“How's your wife?” I asked.

At that moment a warm hand touched mine and I wheeled around. Strong arms wrapped around me. “Are you all right?”

I buried my face against a hard chest, returned the hug, and pulled back to look up. Jack Conway's familiar face was
chiseled against the night sky. He planted a small kiss on my forehead. “I saw the cruiser out front and I was worried.”

He was worried about me. For so many years I'd been strong, in charge, and taking care of things for so many people. And now someone was taking care of me. His eyes searched my face.

“I'm okay.” He smoothed my hair, looked into my eyes, then gave me a real kiss, soft and warm, on the lips. A delicious tingle raced through my body. I kissed him back.

“Ahem.” Melanie coughed.

I pulled back, the moment broken. Temporarily, I hoped. “This is Jack Conway. My . . . friend.”

She looked him up and down. “Where do you get a friend like that? I wouldn't mind one.”

I bristled. Jack laughed. “I'll keep my eyes peeled for one for you. I'm taken,” he said, and I felt instantly better. I was new to being kind-of-in-love, and it was taking some getting used to. In a good way. “And you are?”

She held out her hand. “Melanie Ashley.”

“Nice to meet you, Melanie.” No flicker of recognition. Melanie seemed a bit miffed.

Tim shone his light on the body with one hand and plugged his nose with the other. “You're right, Georgie,” he called. “She's got ligature marks on her neck.”

Jack raced over. “Can I help? I've got first aid training.” He pulled up short. “Oh. Do we know who it is?”

“It's Doreen Webber. I knew her years ago,” Melanie said. Her agitation level was creeping up, based on the increasingly edgy quality of her voice.

“Webber,” Tim said. “There were some Webbers over in Clayton. Is she from that family?”

“They're all dead now, as far as I know,” Melanie said. “If she was married and changed her name, I can't say.”

Tim eyed Melanie. “How exactly do you know the victim, Miss Ashley?”

The backyard suddenly lit up, bright as the sun. I blinked, then shaded my eyes with my hand. My soon-to-be-ex-husband, Spiro, stood on the back porch, his hand on the light switch. His partner, Inky LaFontaine, stood nearby, surveying the situation, before they both approached, their strides matching.

“What the hell is going on?” Inky demanded, the tendons in his neck making the snake tattoo that wound its way up and onto his shaved head undulate realistically. I don't have any tattoos, and never intend to get one, but that was some beautiful, creative artwork, I had to admit. Despite the temperature, he was wearing a tight white tank top and dark wash jeans, both of which showed off his impressive physique. His black boots gleamed in the artificial light as did the chain looping off his black leather belt.

Spiro looked from me to Jack, where his eyes lingered a bit too long.
Pity
, they seemed to say. Fortunately for me, Jack did not play for the other team. “Shouldn't you be at work? The restaurant isn't closed yet. The neon is still on.”

I bristled. “Your mother's been closing the restaurant for years. She knows how it's done. I decided to go for a walk. I have a headache.”

He cut his eyes to Jack. “I'd like to have that kind of headache.”

“Uh, I'm right here, kids,” Jack said. He hugged me.

“You've got a problem, guys,” I said. Actually, Bonaparte Bay had a problem. A second murder in just a few weeks? A knot formed in my stomach. Sure, we had our share of crime, especially since we were situated right on the Canadian border. But smuggling drugs across the river was a far cry from murder. Our little town was no longer insulated from the harsh realities of the world. “There's been another death.”

Inky looked from me to Spiro and then they both turned toward Officer Arquette. “Looks like Fred is going to have to add another stop on the Thousand Islands Ghost Tour,” Spiro said matter-of-factly.

Leave it to Spiro to come up with a way to make money off someone's death. Still, in theory I couldn't really blame him. The tourist season is very short so far north and we business owners need to make money any legal way we can. But the Bonaparte House would not be naming a drink or a sandwich after poor Doreen anytime soon, if I had anything to do with it. Which I did.

Melanie stood there, shivering. Her bravado had disappeared, and she didn't look well. I scrutinized her face. This harsh light did nothing for her complexion, highlighting every flaw and surgical alteration, and she appeared to be nauseous. She might have been acting, but it seemed real enough. I made a decision. “Melanie, you can't go to the Spa tonight. You'll be sick on the boat ride. Let's go check you in at the Camelot Inn and you can leave in the morning.”

She nodded weakly. “Is there a bar at the Camelot?” she whispered. “I'm going to need a martini. Maybe two or three.”

“Jack, do you have your car? I don't want to go get mine
at the Bonaparte House.” The last thing I needed was for Sophie to start asking questions. There'd be plenty of time for explanations tomorrow.

“Your carriage awaits, milady. Or should I say, miladies.”

“I'll just check in with Tim and tell him we'll be available for statements in the morning,” I said. Déjà vu all over again.