Stuck on Murder (3 page)

Brenna shook her head. If she was considered the expert on Nate Williams, then they were really reaching. Nate was a man of mystery as far as she was concerned. Their “friendship” was based upon their mutual love of baseball and his sweet tooth.

Shortly after she had moved into her cabin, she had begun bringing Nate tins of brownies, cookies, or what have you whenever her weekly baking urge hit. It was her way of repaying him for the ludicrously low rent he charged her.

What she did know about Nate, she had learned from her time working in a gallery in Boston. There had been a tremendous buzz about him in the art world ten years prior. His large canvases had used abstract lines of colors reminiscent of the Color Field paintings of the early 1960s. He was considered the next genius, but then he had abruptly dropped out of the New York art scene and gone into seclusion. No one knew why.

Nate didn’t say as much, and she knew better than to ask, but she suspected he moved here to leave that world behind him. In the year she had known him, she’d never seen him pick up a brush or heard him talk about his former life.

Figuring she’d better head the mayor off at the pass, she said, “He’s my landlord, and that’s as far as it goes.”

“Still, you can’t deny he talks to you,” Mayor Ripley insisted.

“Well, no, but I hardly think a dialogue on the Yankees versus the Red Sox is an opening to tell him that he should sell some of his property to the town.”

“But of course it is,” he said. He patted her shoulder as they stopped in front of Vintage Papers. “He’ll listen to you. I’m sure of it.”

“Why would he listen to me?”

“You’re his tenant. He’ll value your opinion.”

To her credit, Brenna didn’t laugh out loud.

“But what if I don’t want a bunch of vacation town houses in my backyard?” she asked.

“You need to think of the greater good,” the mayor said in what sounded like an overly rehearsed campaign speech. “How long do you think your friend can stay in business in a specialty shop without a broader client base?”

Brenna opened her mouth to protest, but the mayor spoke over her. “Now, here’s what you need to tell him. He should consider selling half of his property around the lake to the town, at market value, of course. Then if he would consent to spearheading the campaign to bring tourists and new homeowners to Morse Point, why, that would be the cherry on top. He’s our biggest celebrity, after all; he could bring them in by the busload.”

“Spearhead the campaign?” Brenna repeated dully. “Have you discussed this with Nate?”

Mayor Ripley gave her a pained look, and Brenna gathered that he had and it had not gone well.

“You can do this,” the mayor insisted. “It’s quite simple; just tell him what I told you. Now, I’ll be back tomorrow to hear about your progress.”

“Tomorrow?” Brenna repeated. “But I haven’t—”

“Time is money,” he said, interrupting her again. “Speaking of which, your class is waiting for you.”

Brenna looked through the window and saw her class still watching them. The Porter sisters were craning their necks, each trying to be taller than the other without actually rising out of her seat, while Cynthia Ripley was glaring at her. Lovely.

When she turned back, Mayor Ripley was gone, leaving her feeling as flattened as a decoupage cutout under a brayer.

 

 

Brenna spent the rest of the class distracted and under the scrutinizing eye of Cynthia Ripley. She hoped Mayor Ripley had told his wife why he wanted to talk to her; otherwise she could only imagine what Cynthia must be thinking. Judging by her scowl, the mayor had not enlightened her.

The Porter sisters had tried to find out what the mayor wanted, but Brenna dodged their queries by giving a long-winded monologue on how important it was to use a sharp pair of cutting scissors. She showed them how to check that the points matched up, and by the time she’d finished her cutting demonstration, most of the class wore glazed expressions and seemed quite happy to call it a night.

“I can’t believe he asked you to do that.” Tenley was indignant on her behalf.

Brenna shrugged. She put the half-finished birdhouses on a shelf to dry while Tenley packed up the scissors, brayers, and glue.

“What are you going to do?” Tenley asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “You know the mayor better than I do. How annoying will he be if I don’t do this?”

Tenley rolled her eyes.

“That bad?” Brenna asked.

She nodded. “Let’s put it this way: He was elected mayor because he literally went door to door and badg ered everyone to vote for him. Frankly, we elected him to shut him up.”

“Wonderful. So, I have to choose between alienating the mayor or my landlord.” She gathered up the paper cutouts and stored them in a box for the next class.

“Looks like it,” Tenley agreed.

“Well, there’s only one way to settle it,” Brenna said. She fished a coin out of her jean pocket and said, “Heads, I talk to Nate. Tails, I blow off the mayor.”

“The coin toss!” Tenley laughed. “I haven’t thought of that in years. We used to use that to decide whether to date someone or not.”

“It worked then,” Brenna pointed out. “Remember that cute frat boy who asked you out and you couldn’t decide? The coin said tails and you said no, and then we found out he had a pregnant girlfriend.”

“Oh yeah, what a creep,” Tenley said with a shudder. “And when you flipped it, it said heads and you dated James for four years.” Brenna made a face and Tenley said, “Oh, bad example. Sorry.”

Brenna put the quarter on her thumb and flipped it. It landed on the table with a thunk and a spin and finally wobbled onto its side.

Tenley leaned over it. “Heads. Looks like you have a date.”

Chapter 3

Brenna had not done any baking since she’d felt the need for a batch of butterscotch squares, which had sorely depleted her flour supply. She scrounged the cupboards in her kitchenette for a quick idea but could only come up with teddy bear-shaped graham crackers, several squares of bittersweet chocolate, and a bag of mini-marshmallows. The bribe-ability factor of a s’mores casserole was questionable, but she was going to have to give it a go. She greased a small glass dish, made layers, like a lasagna, of teddy bears, marshmallows, and chopped-up chocolate. Then she broiled it until the marshmallows on top turned golden brown.

She glanced through the window by her front door, and saw that Nate’s lights were still on. His was the largest cabin and it sat directly across the inlet from hers. It was only eight thirty, so she figured it wasn’t too late to go visit him.

She set the dish on her porch railing while she locked her front door. Then, using her red-checked potholder mittens, she carried the dish with both hands as she followed the well-worn path along the water’s edge.

She took in the signs of early spring. Crickets and tree frogs sang their nightly symphony, and the chilly evening air made a fine mist rise from the hot dish in her hands.

She climbed the three steps to Nate’s porch and knocked on the front door with the toe of her shoe. Instantly, there was an explosion of canine proportions on the other side of the door as Hank, Nate’s golden retriever, went into a frenzy of barking.

Brenna moved to stand in front of the window, so that Hank would see her and settle down, but she was distracted by her own disheveled reflection and frowned. Her hair had come out of the band at the nape of her neck and was now hanging in her face, making her look as if she’d spent a hard day scrubbing toilets. Fabulous.

Why hadn’t she thought to run a comb through her hair or put on some lipstick? Darn it. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, they were just landlord and tenant. Still, it would have boosted her confidence, given that she was about to become a huge buttinsky.

Nate opened the door with one hand on Hank’s collar to keep the dog from launching himself at Brenna. He, too, was dressed casually in jeans and sneakers and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His brown wavy hair was messy, as if he’d recently run his fingers through it, and there was a shadow of stubble on his chin as if he had opted not to shave that morning.

“My dentist is going to love you,” he said. His mouth tipped up to one side and she knew he was teasing her.

“Maybe I’ll have him put me on retainer,” she said.

“You keep this up and he’s going to put me
in
retainers,” he retorted.

“You’re right,” she said. She glanced at the dish in her hands and back at him and schooled her features into one of grave concern. “I really shouldn’t unload this s’mores casserole on you. Maybe I have some broccoli that I could steam and bring that over instead.”

“Hey, I never said I minded if my dentist loves you.” Nate let go of Hank and reached to take the dish from her.

“It’s hot,” she warned and held it away from him. Hank took the opportunity to jump up, and she turned so his paws landed on her hip while he gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Down, Hank,” Nate ordered. Hank ignored him and Brenna laughed as Nate had to grab his collar again and pull him down. “Come on in.”

Brenna followed him into the house as he led the way through the living room and into the kitchen.

Nate’s cottage was exactly like hers but had one more bedroom. Outside they were the same white clapboard with green shudders and a small front porch, and inside they had the same hardwood floors and white plaster walls. But where Brenna had hung prints of her favorite masterpieces on her walls, Nate kept his bare. She often wondered about that but figured it would be rude to ask.

He led her through the living room, which hosted a large-screen TV and several cushy leather chairs, and into the kitchen. She noticed the TV was off.

“Catch the game tonight?” she asked.

“The Red Sox got lucky,” he replied.

“Lucky? Ha! They spanked your precious Yankees,” she said. “What was the final score? I can’t recall.”

“Tentothree,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t catch that.”

He looked chagrined. “Ten to three, as you know full well.”

“Yes, but I just love to hear it coming from a Yankee fan’s lips,” she said.

He squinted at her. “There will be payback.”

“Maybe,” she said, but her voice was doubtful.

She placed the casserole dish on a round cast-iron trivet on the cobalt blue tile counter, while Nate let Hank out the back door and then fetched two plates, two forks, and a large serving spoon.

“S’mores casserole, eh?” he asked. He leaned close over the dish and inhaled. “Smells awesome.”

“I just threw it together,” she said with a shrug. He had no idea how true that was, and she didn’t plan to enlighten him.

She studied him as he dug the big spoon into the dish. With his wavy hair hanging over his brow just so and his rugged features, he was unquestionably a handsome man. But it was his watchfulness that always caught her off guard. He had a way of looking at her, of giving her his full attention, which made her feel as if she were the most important person in the world. She could absolutely see why the art world had gone gonzo for him. He was a genius and a hottie, a lethal combination, for sure.

Nate pushed a plate in front of her. Her casserole appeared to be a gooey mess, but that seemed right, given the sticky situation she found herself in. How was she going to tell Nate what the mayor said? Should she just lob it out there and hope he responded well? Or should she lead up to it slowly, and hope he caught on?

She watched as he spooned a bite of the decadent casserole into his mouth.

“Mayor Ripley thinks you should sell half of your property around the lake to the town so they can develop it for tourism and he wants you to spearhead the campaign.” It all came out in a rush and some of the words blurred together, but judging by his bug-eyed expression, Nate got the gist.

He opened his mouth to speak and promptly began to choke. Brenna looked at him in alarm as he began to cough and splutter. She reached around and thumped him on the back. Hard.

He held up a hand and nodded that he was okay but still he hacked. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. He took a long sip and then shook his head.

“You want to run that by me when I don’t have my mouth full?” he asked.

“Sorry,” she said. She gave him an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to spew it out like that. Mayor Ripley stopped by my decoupage class tonight. Apparently, Ed Johnson told him that you and I are friends.” She found it difficult to meet his gaze at this point and turned her attention to twirling her fork in the dessert on her plate.

“And?” he prompted her. She glanced quickly at his face, but his features were set and she couldn’t fathom what he was thinking. Still, she felt oddly pleased that he didn’t balk at the term
friends
.