The Lies that Bind, page 8
“Yes, that’s right. What was your impression of him?” I asked.
She cut off the tap and set my ale down on a coaster in front of me. “He seemed like he was trying to prove something,” she said. “Working hard to impress people. I guess maybe I got that feeling from the fancy classic car he liked to drive. But it was more than that.” She shrugged. “He wasn’t someone I would have wanted to spend much time with.”
“Did he come in here with anyone else?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Just his son.” She sighed. “Denise has really had a rough go of it. I just hate all these corporate entities taking over the town. There’s supposed to be yet another big new building going in down by the shorefront soon. There’ll be nothing left by the time they’re done.”
“I guess the only constant is change,” I said. “As long as I can still get my fried clams here, I’ll be happy.”
“And as long as you keep stocking the new releases in the True Crime section, I’ll be happy, too.”
“I’ll do it as long as I can,” I promised, although I didn’t feel particularly sanguine about the whole making-a-living-as-a-bookstore-owner thing today. I probably shouldn’t be spending money in a restaurant, either, but you can’t live your whole life denying yourself.
“I’ll go get that order in,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. “Let me know if you need anything else!”
“Thanks, Sylvia.” As I sipped my beer, I heard a voice I recognized from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder; it was Amanda, with a young man I hadn’t seen before. They were leaning in toward each other, oblivious to the rest of the world.
“Are you talking to an attorney?” I heard the young man ask.
“I probably should,” she said. “It wasn’t an accident. Someone cut the brake lines of his car. What if they think I had something to do with it?”
“Did you?” he asked, point blank.
“What? You think I’d do something like that?”
“No, no, of course not,” he said quickly. “I just… I worry about you, is all.” I raised myself in my seat a little; I could see the couple reflected in the mirror behind the bar. Her hand was in his, and they were looking at each other intensely, unaware that I was watching them… and listening.
I thought about Amanda’s upset over “lying men” earlier that day, at the bookstore. Now that I saw this, it confused me. Had she actually been two-timing Charles, instead of (possibly) the other way around? Had he found out about her extracurricular activities and threatened to kick her out or change his will? Had she taken action by cutting his brake lines to protect herself?
And where had he been going in the middle of the night in Snug Harbor, anyway? The town closed down at around ten at the latest.
“What are you going to do now?” the young man asked, bringing me out of my thoughts and back to the bar.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I got a few books on contesting wills, but I don’t know any lawyers. Not that I have anything to pay them with, anyway. I can’t go back to the house. I just… everything is just falling apart.” She stifled a sob, and he made a gentle hushing sound.
“It’ll be okay, Amanda. I’ll take care of you.”
“How?” she said, her voice edged with bitterness.
“I don’t know yet, but we’ll find a way,” he said, squeezing her hand.
She sighed. “I can’t eat,” she said, poking a fork at her tiny Caesar salad. “Let’s get out of here. I need some air.”
“I’ll ask for the check,” he said. A moment later, as Sylvia set a basket of luscious-looking fried clams in front of me, the young man behind me flagged down a waiter and paid their tab with a credit card. They lingered for a few minutes after he tucked his card into his wallet, then got up and walked to the entrance; he held the door open for her, then gave her shoulders a squeeze as they turned right and started walking down toward the waterfront.
When they were out of sight, I slid off my bar stool and hurried over to their table, glancing at the name on the check. John Stanton.
Back at my table, I chewed on the first clam, barely tasting it as I thought about all I’d heard. Who was this John Stanton?
And was Amanda responsible for what had happened to Charles?
I was replaying their conversation in my head when Sylvia came to check on me. “How are the clams?”
“As delicious as always,” I said as I swallowed one of the golden-fried shellfish. “Hey… did you recognize the two young people sitting at the table behind me a few minutes ago?”
“Amanda Duncan? She’s been in from time to time; we talked once or twice.”
“Did she ever say anything about Charles?”
Sylvia cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Do you think maybe she did it?”
“I’m just wondering,” I said with a shrug.
“I’d be wondering pretty hard if I were you,” she said. “I know you and Denise are close, and I didn’t want to say earlier… but I’m worried she might be arrested soon.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“It’s all over town.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling like someone had dashed me with ice water. I knew a few customers had been rude at Sea Beans, but I had no idea the Snug Harbor court of opinion had convicted my friend so thoroughly.
Sylvia shrugged. “I heard she hung around to see it happen. You know her ex was a mechanic, right?”
“Denise had nothing to do with what happened to Charles,” I said. “I know her. She’s fiery, but she’s a good and moral person. She would never hurt a fly.”
“You and I know that,” she said. “But there’s actually a precedence for her getting violent. She punched a guy in the face at Sea Beans last year.”
“What?”
“I don’t like to talk out of school,” she said, a little embarrassed. “Ask her about it. I’m not sure if he pressed charges, but from what I heard, he could have.”
“Again, I’m sure she had nothing to do with Charles,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Not really, aside from the fact that I didn’t like him much,” she said. “He and his son came in to watch games from time to time,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the TV in the corner.
“Did they seem to get along?” I asked.
“They did,” she said. “I only heard them argue once. Something about having to leave California.”
“California?” I asked.
She nodded. “His son told him he’d been ’sloppy.’ Charles turned bright red and told him his ‘sloppy’ business practices were what paid for his car, his college, his fancy clothes, and the rest of it. And that he hardly had a leg to stand on.”
“What was he talking about?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but that sure shut Junior down. His dad stormed out of the place, and Junior paid the bill and scuttled after him.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago,” she said. “The Patriots game was on. It was much more exciting than the game itself; that was a low-scorer, as I recall.”
“Huh. Have they been in here since?”
She looked up for a moment, considering. “Not that I can think of,” she said. “I saw Junior in here a week ago or so, with a pretty young lady in a dress. She had a southern accent, and seemed completely into him. But I never saw Charles again.” She wiped down the bar and rearranged a stack of menus. “It’s a sad thing. Money can’t protect you from everything, can it?”
“No,” I said, eating a clam contemplatively and thinking about everything I had just learned. “It really can’t, can it?”
My belly full of clams and Snug Harbor Ale, I stepped out of the Salty Dog and into a bright, clear afternoon. I walked down the quaint, tree-lined street, glancing over at Sea Beans and wondering how things were going for Denise, although if my conversation with Sylvia was any indication, I had a feeling I already knew.
I headed down the main street a block, catching a whiff of balsam fir as I passed a gift shop and resisting the urge to get a double scoop of black raspberry ice cream on a waffle cone at Scoop’s Ice Cream then turned down a leafy residential street I knew led back to the shore path. Within minutes, I had the Gulf of Maine at my feet, the deep blue water lapping at the shore, the emerald green trees on the outer islands sprouting up from granite bluffs, and seagulls wheeling overhead. A cool breeze riffled the waves and caressed my face, and I felt something inside me release a little bit. One of the things I treasured about Snug Harbor was the proximity of nature and the wild, rugged beauty of the coastline; I’d missed that living in Boston during the girls’ childhood. Being here connected me to my own childhood, too, and the girl I had been before I took on the roles of wife, then mother. It was easy to forget who you’d been when you were ten and barefoot and scampering along the rocks looking for crabs, no worries but whether or not you’d have enough pocket money for a bit of fudge or ice cream and whether you’d find a shard of rare purple sea glass at low tide.
It was thirty years later, but I still got excited when I caught the gleam of sea glass among the mussel shells and bladderwrack, and the shock of the cold water on my toes never grew dull. I had all the worries of adulthood—my children, my foundering business, and not least the threat to my dear friend Denise—but just being here reconnected me to the girl I had been, with hopes and dreams and a wild streak that felt raw and true.
It was probably that reconnection that had spurred me to follow my old childhood dream of one day owning a bookstore of my own and buying Seaside Cottage Books. I reached down to pluck a piece of pale blue glass from beneath a rock, feeling a twinge of fear that that dream might soon come to an end.
I pushed that defeatist thought away. Worrying wouldn’t help anything. I needed to dig down and find the grit and creativity to keep my dream alive… and keep my friend Denise out of jail.
12
My phone rang just as I was strolling down the shore path, past the spot where I’d heard a suspicious conversation a few days earlier; it was Denise.
“How did it go?” I asked, sliding onto a bench tucked along the shore path against the back fence of one of the mansions that stood here. The wooden bench was flanked by rosebushes and had a sweeping view of the gulf and a smattering of off-shore islands, whose dark green trees contrasted with the sparkling blue water, and a cool breeze riffled my hair as I leaned back with the phone pressed to my ear.
“Margaret suspended me,” my friend said, sobbing.
I sat up straight. “What? Why?”
“Too many customers complained about me; the whole town thinks I murdered Charles Carsten, apparently. She’s afraid it will be bad for business.” She choked back a sob. “Everything went south for me the moment that man stepped into Sea Beans. My whole future, which I’ve been working toward for years, has evaporated. Instead of owning my own coffee shop, I’ll probably end up spending the rest of my life in jail for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“Hey,” I said, feeling my heart ache for my friend. “We can’t control what happens with Sea Beans, but we don’t have to sit around and do nothing. I’m betting there are lots of folks who may have had a lot more motive than you.”
“Like who?”
“Where there’s money, there’s motive. His girlfriend came into the store looking for books on contesting wills this morning,” I said. “I got the impression she thought she was going to get a nice chunk of change when Charles died; she was really upset and told me that all men were ‘liars.’ That’s worth pursuing, don’t you think?”
“Huh.” Her voice was changing… she sounded closer to her normal, perky self.
“And I overheard her talking with a young man at the Salty Dog at lunch. They seemed… intimate.”
“Like, dating intimate?”
“Maybe,” I said. “His name is John Stanton.”
“How do you know that?”
“He paid for lunch with a credit card and I peeked at the receipt,” I confessed.
“You’re a regular Nancy Drew,” she said. “How do we find out more about these people?”
“I plan to do some googling this afternoon,” I said.
“Need any help at the store?” she asked.
I hesitated.
“I’ll work for free,” she said. “I know you’re stretched, too.”
“Why don’t you just come hang out for a bit this afternoon?” I suggested. “I’d love to see you. And maybe we can do a little online sleuthing.”
“Do you really think it will help?” she asked, sounding unconvinced.
“You never know until you try,” I said.
She sounded much better when she hung up a moment later. I called Nicholas to see if he might know any way to find out more about Amanda Duncan or John Stanton, but he wasn’t answering, so I left him a voicemail asking him to call when he had a chance.
As I hung up, I heard voices behind me again.
“When is it, again?” It was the same voice I’d heard the other day. It came from the garden of the mansion behind me.
“Friday,” the other voice responded. “Are you sure you’re up to this? You’re not going to choke again?”
Choke? Were they talking about killing someone? I turned around and quietly stepped up on the bench, trying to peer over (or through) the fence.
“Of course not,” the first voice replied. “Last time was a special circumstance. I’ve got this time covered.”
“I hope so,” the other voice warned as I scrambled to peek over the fence. The voices were drifting away, and I still hadn’t seen who was speaking. I jogged along the fence line until I found a plank with a knot in it. I peered through the hole, but there was a line of bushes right on the other side of the fence that made spying difficult. I caught a glimpse of a woman’s dark hair and a red sweater, and a man with graying hair, but then they disappeared behind a hedge and were gone.
I watched to see if they would come out again, but there was no sign of them, and I couldn’t hang out peering through the fence forever; I’d already gotten a few looks from tourists. I walked away from the fence and toward the store, wondering what to do. I could find out who lived or was staying in the house, but who would I tell? I could hardly call the police to say I thought I’d heard someone plotting a murder for this Friday. I didn’t know who was plotting it, how it was supposed to take place, or who the intended victim was.
What could I do?
Bethany and Caroline were on opposite sides of the bookstore when I got back to the store, still thinking about the conversation I’d overheard. I was glad to see my daughter up and about, but I could tell from the icy atmosphere in the cozy, book-lined space that things at the store were far from harmonious.
“Everything okay?” I asked Bethany, who was sitting behind the register peering into her computer screen.
“Fine,” she said in a tone of voice that indicated that wasn’t exactly the case. “But could you take a look at this before I post it?”
I glanced at the image on the screen. It was a headshot of a brunette author in her forties, along with the cover of her most recent release, a book I didn’t recognize but that looked, based on the attractive couple gracing the cover, like a historical romance. The blurb above named the time and had a little about the author’s work. “Looks good,” I said, glancing over at Caroline, who was shelving books rather loudly in the children’s section.
“I’ll put some flyers up, too,” she said. “Devin and I are going to walk around town and put them up this evening. And he agreed to put the event in the library newsletter.”
“That’s great!” I said. “Tell him I really appreciate it. Things with you two going well?”
“We’re helping each other work out some plot problems in our books,” she said, blushing a little bit.
“I’m so glad,” I said. “He seems like a great guy.”
As I spoke, over in the children’s section, Caroline set a picture book on a shelf with a thud that made me wince for the book.
“Easy, Tiger,” I said. My daughter shot me a glare that could have burnt a hole through any of the paperbacks on the shelf behind me.
“Nicholas came by a few minutes ago,” Bethany said as I turned back to the register. “He wanted see if you were still on for this evening.”
Ah. That could explain things. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll give him a call. I’m going to head upstairs for a few minutes; if Denise comes, could you send her up?”
“Got it,” Bethany said, and she gave me a shy smile. There was another loud thunk from the children’s section. I’d have to talk with Caroline later, I decided; I wanted to do a little googling before Denise arrived.
“I’ll be up in the apartment,” I reiterated, and scurried up the stairs, hearing yet another thunk as I closed the door behind me.
I scanned my living room and kitchen and sighed. Caroline and I were going to have to have a conversation about domestic responsibilities soon, as well as about her slamming the books around in the store. Among other things I’d been putting off addressing. I had been trying to go easy on my daughter—divorce was hard—but that didn’t mean it was okay for her to treat me as a maid.
I tossed the dishes in the dishwasher and tidied up the couch, then sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out my computer.
I typed in the name I’d gotten from the receipt at the Salty Dog. The top results were for people who were too old, so I switched to “images” and scanned until I found a picture that looked like the young man I’d seen at the restaurant.
I clicked on it, and was taken to an Instagram page. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much there—just a profile picture of John smiling with the ocean behind him—but I was able to glean that he lived in Framingham, Massachusetts. I did another search with this new information and found a LinkedIn profile that gave me a little more to work with.
