The Lies that Bind, page 5
“I thought I recognized you,” I said, studying his face; he was young, with wire-rimmed glasses and a hopeful, bright look in long-lashed brown eyes. “Two books on learning WordPress, right?”
“How did you remember?”
I shrugged. “I’m always curious about what books people pick. Thinking of switching careers?”
“Don’t tell the boss, but I’m hoping to learn to do website design. I’m Brendan, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Brendan… I’m Max. And once you do put out a shingle, please let me know. Apparently the store needs a website, and I have no idea where to start.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I said. “Anyway… what did you want to tell me?”
He glanced back at the shop. “The guy who was planning to buy the shop from her? The one who died?”
“Charles Carsten,” I said. “What about him?”
“He was a real jerk. I heard him and his son talking to Margaret the other day; he said some things about Denise that I’ve never heard before and said his son had promised to double whatever she offered to make sure she didn’t get the shop.”
“What kind of things?” I asked.
“That she’d been arrested for a DUI a few years back. And that she had a history of fudging bank accounts to get loans she couldn’t afford.”
“How would he even know any of that information… assuming it’s true? I’ve never heard anything about it.”
“I don’t know, but when the police came by today, she told them everything he’d told her about Denise. And now she’s decided she’ll never sell to her… in fact, she’s thinking of firing her. Says she doesn’t want a killer on the staff.”
I groaned. “And she’s telling the whole town?”
“Of course she is. Poisoning the well.” He glanced back at the store again. “She used to be different. She slipped on a step last winter and got a concussion, and ever since then, she hasn’t been quite the same.”
“Traumatic brain injury?”
“I’ve heard it can affect your personality. Unfortunately, in this case, it doesn’t seem to be for the better.”
I sighed. “Anything else?”
“Oh, one thing. I heard the guy who died on the phone with someone the other day. He was kind of upset about something… said he’d never heard of anything called ‘safest life,’ and that whoever it was should stop calling.”
“I wondered about that too. I don’t know if it means anything, but I know you’re friends with Denise and want to help her, so I thought you should know.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Denise really got the shaft, didn’t she?”
“The younger Carsten guy really wanted to buy this business,” Brendan said. “I don’t know why, since he wasn’t going to keep the name or anything. I mean, why not just open a new store and compete?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It is kind of weird.”
“I thought so too.” He glanced down at his phone. “I’d better get back in there.”
“How can I reach you?”
“I’ll drop my card off by the bookstore later,” he said. “I don’t have them on me. Tell Denise I said hi!”
“I will,” I said. “And thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, and scurried back to the store.
I reached down to pet Winston and took another sip of latte, then we headed over toward the village green to meet Nicholas and Denise, still thinking about what Brendan had told me… and how Denise was going to react when I shared the news with her.
The town green was lined with classic cars in a rainbow of colors when I turned the corner a few minutes later. Aqua Cadillac convertibles, bright yellow vintage VW Beetles, a pumpkin-orange Corvette from what I was guessing was the 60s… and even what appeared to be an old hearse, painted dark purple with orange flames.
Denise and Nicholas were inspecting the license plate of the hearse, which read “DTHTOGO,” when I walked up behind them.
“Interesting take on the station wagon,” I said as Winston sniffed a wheel and began to cock a leg on a whitewashed tire. “No, sweetie,” I said, leading him to a nearby lamp post instead.
“It is, isn’t it?” Nicholas said.
Denise wore jeans and an Acadia National Park T-shirt; her hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and from the dark circles under her eyes, I was guessing she hadn’t slept. She bent down to pet Winston, who jumped up to lick her face, and then stood back up and glanced at my cup. “Still patronizing Sea Beans?”
“I wanted to see Margaret,” I said. “She’s not happy… but I did find out why she’s refusing to sell to you.”
“Because she thinks I’m a murderer,” Denise said with a sigh.
“Maybe,” I allowed. “But apparently Charles told her you had a DUI and falsified documents to get a loan.”
She colored. “How did he find that out?”
“It’s true?” I asked, blinking.
She sighed. “I had a bit of a drinking problem in my late twenties. I wasn’t quite an alcoholic, but I hung out at bars in the evening because it was too lonely to be at home. I got stopped one night on my way home.”
“And the falsifying documents?”
“I don’t know about that,” she said, but her eyes darted downward. I glanced at Nicholas; he’d seen it too, but I gave him a brief head shake not to pursue it.
“And then there’s the whole double-your-offer thing.”
“That… that…”
“I know,” I said, touching her arm. Her face was flushed red, and her eyes were hard. “Let’s see what we can find out about him while these people are here, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath and scanning the area.
“What kind of car did he drive?” Nicholas asked. He was looking handsome in a red T-shirt that clung to his pecs a little bit and a pair of faded jeans that fit him just right. I tried not to stare.
“A Pontiac Bonneville,” she said.
“So let’s start there,” Nicholas suggested, pointing toward a car at the far end of the row.
“Good thinking,” Denise said. “Start with a fellow Bonneville enthusiast. But what do we ask him?”
“If he knows Charles Carsten,” I suggested. “And if so, did he see him recently, or know anything about his personal life.”
“That seems a little direct,” she said.
“We’ll work it out. Say we talked with him the other day, and he told us about the car meetup.”
Together, we meandered over to the aqua Bonneville convertible, which was gleaming in the Maine sunshine. To my surprise, the person leaning against the back of the car was not a man, but a woman in a leather jacket and bright white hair cut and gelled into spikes.
“Is this yours?” I asked her.
“You mean Petunia? One hundred percent,” she said, patting the top of the car affectionately with one hand. Her nails were painted the same color as the car, I noticed with a smile, and she wore lipstick to match. “I restored her myself.”
“Where did you learn to do that?” Denise asked.
“My dad ran an auto shop,” she said. “I was always more interested in the garage than the kitchen, so he taught me everything he knew, and I picked up his obsession with classic cars.”
“I picked up some of that from my ex,” Denise said. “I get it.”
“Are there a lot of Bonneville enthusiasts in the area?” Nicholas asked.
“There are a few,” she said. “Well, one fewer today, unfortunately. And one fewer Bonneville.”
“I heard about that,” I said. “Awful… some local coffee shop mogul… he went over a cliff or something?”
“He owned a chain of coffee shops, yes,” she said. “They must have done pretty well… that car was worth a mint. A few of us went to his house for dinner once, too… he had money from somewhere. Waterfront property isn’t cheap up here. I got the impression he’d been in other businesses before the coffee thing, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”
“That sounds like an interesting evening,” I commented. “Was it just a dinner for car owners?’
“For Bonneville owners,” she said. “There are only four of us in town, so we all know each other. Well, three, now,” she said, her pink lipsticked mouth pulling down a bit. She reminded me a bit of Ann Richards, the former governor of Texas, right down to her slight southern accent. “I’m Max Sayers, by the way,” I told her, proffering a hand. “I recently bought Seaside Cottage Books. These are my friend, Nicholas and Denise.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, taking my hand and giving it a firm shake. “Kathy Dunst.”
“Now I’m curious about what happened to Charles. Do you think maybe he was depressed or something, and drove himself off a cliff?”
She laughed. “He never seemed depressed to me. Rather full of himself, actually. Like he’d gotten away with something big, but wasn’t going to tell you what. I didn’t really know him that well, though. But he was big in the car community. I’ve never met such an enthusiast.” As she spoke, a little girl came up and touched the shiny back bumper of the car. Kathy turned toward her, then bent down to ask if she liked cars.
Denise, Nicholas and I glanced at each other.
“Love your car, Kathy,” I said. “Thanks for talking with us.”
“Of course,” she said, looking up at us as the little girl touched the bumper a second time. “Enjoy the day!”
As we walked away, Denise said, “Well, that wasn’t very helpful. We learned squat.”
“I’m curious about Carsten’s business background,” Nicholas said. “We should look into it and see if he had other associates in Snug Harbor. Maybe a deal went wrong?”
“Maybe,” I said. “And I wonder if Chad’s in line to inherit the estate?”
“I have a contact who can do a quick background check on both of the Carstens,” Nicholas offered.
“That would be terrific,” I said, taking another sip of my latte. “What do you two want to do now?”
Denise sighed. “I don’t see any other Bonnevilles here. I made some Blueberry Boy Bait. Want to walk to my place for breakfast?”
I’d already had a giant blueberry muffin, but I’ve never been one to say no to baked goods. “Sounds great,” I said, then looked at Nicholas with a grin. “We’ll see if it works. As long as you don’t switch allegiance to Denise!”
“I like Denise, but she’s not you,” he said, giving me a kiss. “But I’m happy to be a test subject,” he said. “Let me just text my contact to get started on the background check and then I’m good to go!”
7
By the time Nicholas, Winston and I walked back to Seaside Cottage Books, we were both full of Blueberry Boy Bait, which Nicholas had declared a winner.
“I’m going to have to get baking,” I told him with a sly smile as we walked up onto the store’s front porch. “Don’t want to lose you to Denise.”
“No chance,” he said, giving me a look that sent a zing shooting right through me. He had just leaned in when my mother’s voice sounded from behind me.
“There you are!” she said. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she added as Nicholas and I sprang apart.
I turned, my face coloring. My mother stood at the end of the porch, hand over her eyes to shade them from the sun. “Caroline is going to be in in a little bit, but I wanted to talk to you about her.”
“I’ll head out,” Nicholas said with a rueful smile.
“Thanks for joining us this morning,” I said. “Let’s touch base later?”
“I’ll let you know when I hear back from my contact,” he said. “And we still need to set up a time to check out the next place on our list.”
“You two still going after that buried treasure?” my mother said.
“I’ll call you later,” I told him. He gave me an amused smile and ambled down the front walk as I turned to unlock the shop door and addressed my mother. “So what’s up with Caroline?” I asked.
“She’s a mess,” my mother said. “It’s like having you as a teenager again, only she’s glued to her phone all the time, too.”
“She’s trying to get some social media going for the store,” I told her as I opened the door and walked inside, relishing the scent of books and old wood floors and balsam and blueberry candles from the display in the souvenir section. Maybe we should add a few more non-book items, I thought.
“I don’t think she’s on her phone doing social media for the store,” she said, then hesitated. “I wanted to tell you she invited Ted to come out for a few days.”
My ex-husband was coming into town? “What? He’s not staying with you, is he?”
“It’s summer, and everything was booked. Caroline asked, and you know I can’t resist her…”
“What about his girlfriend?”
“I think she’ll be here the second night.”
“Oh my God. Really, Mom? You agreed to this without checking with me?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. She just kind of sprang it on me. I didn’t know what to say.”
“The word ‘no’ leaps to mind,” I told her sharply. “Are you really hosting my ex-husband’s girlfriend at your house? You’re not giving them my room, are you?”
“Of course not,” she said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I was thinking that if you’d like to come to dinner…”
“With her?”
“No. Just the four of us. Like it used to be.”
“We’re divorced, Mom. It’s not going to be like it used to be.”
“You know.” She shrugged. “You’re still family.”
I sighed. “I’ll think about it,” I said.
“I was thinking maybe the two of you could talk to Caroline,” she said. “About her future. Maybe if she knew you two were a united front…”
“Mom, we’re on it, okay?”
“Just trying to help,” she said, picking a piece of lint off her impeccable linen blouse and looking through the books on the front display; we’d picked a series of natural history books focused on Maine and New England. She wore bright white Capri pants that she always managed to keep clean, and wedges that set off her summer coral toenails. I looked down at my own grubby nails. Manicures and pedicures were pretty low on the list right now.
“How’s business?” she asked, picking up a field guide to local birds.
“It could be better,” I said.
“You could ask Kirsten to come back,” she suggested. “She brought quite a crowd in last time. I’ll bet they’d do an article on her at the paper, too.”
Kirsten, better known to the rest of the world as K.T. Anderson, was a bestselling novelist who my assistant Bethany had arranged to have sign books at our grand opening. Which was when I’d discovered that her boyfriend was none other than my ex-husband Ted—now Theodore, at least according to K.T. In addition to changing his first name, since meeting her he’d suddenly acquired an interest in travel, books, lectures, museums… pretty much all the things I begged him to try while we were still married. I hadn’t asked if she’d managed to break him of his Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday night football habit. I was afraid she’d tell me he now took art and wine tasting classes with her instead.
“You’re ruminating,” my mother remarked.
“You think?” I said. “I’ll consider talking to her,” I conceded. “But I’m not having dinner with her.”
“Understood,” she said. “It’ll be just the four of us. It’ll be fun!” she said.
“Fun” wasn’t the word that leapt to mind, but I grudgingly agreed. How bad could it be? I thought.
Ha.
I had just finished ringing up the purchases of a family of tourists when the phone rang.
“They came to ask me questions again,” Denise said. “At work.”
“Oh, no.”
“I had to leave my shift. And then they told me again not to leave town.”
My heart squeezed. “Oh, Denise. I’m so sorry!”
“It was so embarrassing. Everyone’s looking at me now like I’m a murderer.”
“I’m doing some research on Charles Carsten right now,” I said, pulling up Google on my computer and typing in his name. To my surprise, I got a hit on social media; I clicked on the link, and found a picture on a Bonnevile classic car club, with Charles cozying up to a young woman. “He may not be on Facebook, but a woman who looks like she must be his girlfriend is. Someone tagged her in a post and named him, too; apparently he belongs to a Bonneville classic car club that has a Facebook presence,” I said.
“What’s on her profile?”
“Let’s see. Lots of car pictures, of course,” I said; the woman’s name was Amanda Duncan, and her cover photo featured her and Charles lounging against a red convertible that was older than I was. And, sadly, was probably at the bottom of the cliff next to his house.
“What’s her name?”
“Amanda Duncan,” I said. “She’s pretty cute,” I said. She had raven hair cut into a bob, and the kind of figure that indicated she had a regular Pilates habit and no more than a glancing acquaintance with carbohydrates. I gazed longingly at the cookies on the plate by the register and then steeled my resolve, instead focusing on the picture on my computer. Charles and Amanda looked so alive. And now one of them was gone.
I scrolled through the pictures and then went to the “about” section of Amanda’s profile. She was in her forties, was a physician’s assistant, and lived just outside of Snug Harbor. Several of her photos showed her with Charles; they dated back at least six months.
“What did you find?”
“His girlfriend, I think,” I said.
“I’m looking her up, too,” she said. “Amanda Duncan?”
“That’s the one.”
“Wait,” she said. “Short, dark hair, right? I know her! She comes into the shop every morning. Double skinny venti latte.”
“Can you try to talk to her?”
“I’ll give it a shot tomorrow morning,” she said. “Assuming she comes in after what happened… and assuming they let me come into work or I haven’t been arrested.”
