The Crime That Binds, page 8
The pad that she’d been pulling out of her apron pocket slid back home. “You’ve had breakfast?”
“You realize you’re acting like my mother.”
She snorted and filled my mug. “You realize that you need one? Even if you had breakfast, it wasn’t enough to keep a bird alive. A blueberry muffin should be just about right.”
When Sabrina was in this kind of mood, it was best to accept the inevitable. “Sounds good,” I said.
“Anyone joining you?” she asked.
“Not as far as I know.” Since she didn’t move, which could only mean that she was waiting for an explanation, I added, “With Graydon gone this week, Kelsey’s been in early to make coffee. I’d really rather have yours.”
She smiled and nodded. Now my solo presence on a Wednesday morning made sense. All was right with the world. “I’ll bring you a to-go cup with the muffin.”
The muffin I didn’t want, didn’t need, but would enjoy to the last crumb. “Thanks!”
I busied myself with cream and spoon and tried to make myself invisible to the group at the nearby table. It was my theory that every small town had a place where men gathered in the morning to have breakfast and coffee and to pat one another on the back for how much better the world would be if only it would listen to them. In Chilson, this group gathered around the restaurant’s round table and was a blend of retired and not, farmers and not, locals and not. Given that I’d seen Pug, every once in a blue moon, sitting with this group of self-appointed wisdom dispensers, it stood to reason that his death would be a topic of discussion.
Of course, being men, they didn’t talk about Pug at all. They talked about the weather, the new city manager, the hockey playoffs, the upcoming baseball season, and circled back to the weather.
I dawdled over my coffee as long as I could, but there came a point when I had to abandon my plan and get to work. In theory it was possible for me to break into the conversation, but in practice I lacked the courage to breach the broad backs that faced me.
Internally grousing about men and their reluctance to talk about anything resembling an emotion, I grabbed my check and to-go cup and headed to the front counter. I waved the check at Sabrina, who was taking the order of an elderly couple. “I’ll leave cash at the register,” I said.
“Tip big,” she called. “Bill and I want to go to Hawaii.”
Shaking my head at such a comment from a person who not so long ago had declared that only boring people traveled, I murmured, “Who are you and what have you done with Sabrina?”
“But she’s happier,” a large male voice said.
Blinking, I looked up. “Hey, Cookie.” As far as I knew, the name of the Round Table’s longtime chef was indeed Cookie. When the kitchen was slow, he often came out front. “You think marriage makes Sabrina happy?”
Cookie shrugged and took my money. “When it’s marriage to the right person, sure. Marriage to the wrong person will make your life seem ten times longer.”
I watched as he counted out my change, thought he was probably right, and then, on a sudden impulse, asked, “Did you know Pug Mattock? He and his wife were married more than thirty years. Losing him is going to be hard on her.”
“Sure, I knew Pug.” Cookie handed over my change and put his elbows on the counter, crossing his arms. “He was in here just last week, buying something for his wife.”
That was odd. “Everyone loves the Round Table,” I said, “but unless he was buying the restaurant, I’m not sure gift cards would be super great for a present.”
Cookie grinned, revealing a small dark gap in his upper teeth where an incisor should have been. “I ain’t selling until I can’t cook. What would I do with myself all day, eh? Sit around and watch soap operas? No, Pug was meeting somebody. The guy was selling and Pug was buying.
That made more sense. “Buying what?”
Cookie shrugged. “An artsy-fartsy sculpture by some guy. Sounded Italian.”
“Italian?” The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “Do you remember his name? The sculptor’s I mean?”
Another shrug. “First name started with a V is all I remember. Last name was Cottey, or something like that.”
“Conti?” I asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. Why, is he somebody famous?”
Not to me, but apparently to lots of other people. I hurried to the library, trying to keep from being late, my head suddenly spinning with information overload. First, how was it that I hadn’t known Cookie actually owned the Round Table? But mostly I was wondering if there was any connection between Herb Valera’s missing Conti sculpture and Pug’s murder.
* * *
* * *
Rafe, Kristen, Scruffy, and I were at the long shiny wooden bar in Hoppe’s Brewing, waiting for a group of late-season skiers to vacate the table of choice, which according to Rafe and the Scruff was the one table equidistant from the dart board, pool table, bar, and restrooms. I’d made the comment that any table would be fine, really, but I’d been ignored and here we were, perched on high chairs, awkwardly trying to have a conversation among four people sitting in a long row in a space where sound bounced around in ways so odd that it was sometimes easier to hear the conversation at adjacent tables than the voice of the person next to you.
“You have got to be kidding.” Kristen glared at her husband, at me, at Rafe, at her mug of diet root beer, which hadn’t done a thing to deserve it, and back at the Scruff. “You have seriously lost your marbles if you think I’m going to do that!” Her voice had increased in volume, and at the end of the sentence, she was in full-on Diva Chef Mode.
“Do what?”
The four of us turned. Ash was standing behind us. I nodded a hello to his companion, his buddy Tank, and Ash, Tank, and Rafe exchanged fist bumps.
“Excellent timing,” I said. “We need law enforcement on our side.”
Ash, sadly, did not immediately agree with me. “What side is that?” he asked, and once again I thought he was starting to sound way too much like Detective Inwood. Couldn’t he, just once, agree with me on something without needing every single fact? Couldn’t he, just once, trust that I was intelligent enough to be right about something?
“The dumb side,” Kristen said. “These three think I need to stay out of the restaurant until the end of this.” She slapped her huge belly. “What am I going to do, sit around and eat bonbons all day? I’m already as big as a car. You want me to get even bigger?”
Ash, having known Kristen for some time, murmured that he saw someone on the other side of the room he needed to talk to, and beat a hasty retreat.
“Coward!” Kristen called after him.
Tank shrugged. “See you guys later,” he said, and followed Ash.
There was a moment of non-conversation. Then: “Don’t,” Kristen said. “Just don’t. I am fine. There is no earthly reason for me to stop working.”
I could see Scruffy start to open his mouth, to start listing all the reasons—fatigue, back pain, swollen ankles, foot pain, et cetera—and leapt into the breach, sacrificing myself to save their marriage.
“Please think about it.” I wanted to add, We just want what’s best for you and your baby, but left that part unsaid. In her present mood she would take that all wrong, and an irritated Kristen was never a good thing, let alone an irritated and very pregnant Kristen.
She gave me a mulish look and laid a hand across the mound of future baby. “Fine. I’ll think about it,” she said as she looked at the three of us. “I promise I will.”
If Kristen promised something, it was as good as done.
“Thank you.” Scruffy reached out, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. “I love you, you know.”
“Whatever,” Kristen muttered, but the look she was giving him was filled with love and much, much more.
“Get a room, you two.” Rafe rolled his eyes and picked up his beer mug.
“We did,” Scruffy said, putting his own hand on Kristen’s stomach. “That’s what got us into this situation in the first place.”
Rafe laughed, spitting beer across the bar in the process. While he and Scruffy used their napkins to clean up the small mess, I leaned over to Kristen. “Let me guess. You’ve thought about it already and decided that you’re going to keep on doing what you’re doing.”
The corners of her mouth curled up in a slow, Grinch-like smile. “Let’s just say it may take some time to think it all through.”
And by the time she was done thinking, the baby would be long born. I was about to commend her on her cleverness when the thunk of a dart hitting a dart board caught my attention. In the back corner of the room, Ash and Tank had started a game.
“Darts,” I said out loud.
“What’s that?” Kristen asked.
“Hunter said he played darts here with Ryan. I wonder if he was in a league.” I made a come-hither gesture to the bartender, who’d just filled a tray of beer mugs and was wiping her hands with a towel. She bustled over, polite smile on her face, and asked, “What can I get you?”
Something that didn’t taste like beer. “Do you have dart leagues here?”
“Sure. Tuesday nights.”
Last night. Timing was not my friend. “My fiancé there is thinking about getting into a league”—unlikely to be a complete lie, as I was sure he’d considered it at some point—“but I want to make sure my ex-boyfriend isn’t on a team, if you know what I mean.”
The bartender grinned. “Boy, do I.” She reached under the bar, pulled out a three-ring binder, and slid it over. “The names of all the people on the teams are listed in here. Don’t tell anyone I showed you, okay? Someone might get uptight.”
“Promise,” I said, and thanked her. It didn’t take long to see that Ryan’s name wasn’t in there. I slid the binder back across the bar and it disappeared from whence it came. So much for finding Ryan—or even for finding out more about Ryan—through one of his dart team buddies.
Rafe bumped my elbow. “What was all that about? You have a sudden interest in darts?” After I explained, he said, “Good idea. Too bad it didn’t work out.”
I glanced back at the dart board. Ash was laughing uproariously. Trying a little too hard to have fun and not think about Chelsea, perhaps?
“You’re doing that thinking thing, aren’t you?” Rafe tapped my forehead. “There’s a moral dilemma going on in there. I can tell.”
I made a face. “Can everyone read me so easily, or is it just you?”
Kristen, who’d been talking to Scruffy, said over her shoulder, “Everyone,” then went on talking to her husband.
“Everyone who knows you well,” Rafe said, patting my hand in an avuncular manner. “What’s up?”
I told him what Cookie had said, that he saw Pug buying a Conti sculpture, and that Herb Valera thought his family Conti might have been stolen. “But he wasn’t sure,” I finished. “So is this important enough to tell Ash? Maybe there’s a tie between Pug’s murder and the sculptures.”
Rafe took a swig of beer to help him think, then said, “You know what, I’d leave it until we know whether or not the Valera sculpture was really stolen. If it wasn’t, if his sister did send it out to get cleaned, then there’s nothing to tell, right?”
I nodded. “So obvious when you say it out loud.”
“Captain Obvious, that’s me.” He slapped his shirt front. “Besides, do we know if Pug ever finished buying the sculpture?”
It was an excellent question. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to get the answer.
* * *
* * *
Thursday was a bookmobile day, one of Hunter’s. The roads were clear and dry, so after our normal preflight check of the vehicle, I summoned all the courage I possessed and told Hunter he could drive.
“You sure?” He asked the question casually, but the inside of his skin seemed to twitch with excitement.
I laughed. Sort of. “You know and I know that you’ve been ready since the day you started. It’s me who has a little problem letting go.”
“Mrr!”
“Didn’t ask you,” I muttered, settling into the passenger’s seat and buckling up. “Hunter, start her up. Let’s roll.”
And roll we did, smoothly and confidently. After a few miles, the muscles in my shoulders started to relax. A few miles later, the rest of me started to relax, and a few miles after that, I began to enjoy myself.
Because when you weren’t driving, you could look around and take in the rolling, forested, and lake-strewn countryside. You could look through the trees, still winter-naked of leaves, and see things you’d never see in summer. Ponds. Houses. Trails. And, off in the distance, deer gathering in their spring herds.
“Should have done this ages ago,” I said, peering at a fieldstone barn I’d never noticed before.
“What’s that?” Hunter asked.
“You’re doing fine,” I said happily, and sat back for the ride.
The day went quickly, as most days did on the bookmobile. During our drive time, we exchanged thoughts on Ryan’s whereabouts—Hunter figured Ryan was long gone, but I had the feeling he was still close by—and spent a lot of time talking about Pug.
“Wish I’d known him longer,” Hunter said, looking left and right past the empty intersection of two lightly traveled roads before proceeding past the stop sign. “I only met him that one time last week. He seemed like a good guy.”
Had it really been just a week ago? I ticked off the days in my head, and sure enough, it had been exactly seven days.
“Do you know Pug’s wife?” Hunter asked.
“Sure. Not as well as Pug, but Sylvia always came north for a month every summer. Pug would always bring her to a stop.” I smiled, remembering. “And every time he’d tell her there was nothing like the bookmobile where they lived downstate, and when she moved north she could visit it all the time.”
“Do you think she’s going to move up now that Pug’s gone?” Hunter asked.
“No idea.” And Sylvia probably didn’t know yet, either.
“Are you going to the visitation?”
I turned to look at him. “It’s scheduled already?”
“Saw it online this morning. Set for tomorrow, I think it was.”
Huh. I pulled out my phone and ran a search for Scovill’s Funeral Home. After a few taps and some scrolling, there it was. Visitation for David “Pug” Mattock was scheduled for the next afternoon. Paying my condolences to Sylvia was the important thing, of course, but maybe, just maybe, I could also learn something about the sculpture.
And so, the following day, I took a late lunch and arrived at the funeral home just before the visitation started. Signs directed me to a large room to the right, so I went that way, my feet noiseless on the deep carpet. Inside, a fortyish man I recognized as one of the Scovill brothers was talking to Sylvia. Her white-blond hair was cut in a short pixie, and she was wearing a dark navy blue dress that looked almost military, with brass buttons down the front and at the cuffs. From the ankle up she looked poised and elegant, but her shoes told another story. She wore scuffed tan loafers that might have been older than I was.
Of course, there was the possibility that the shoes had some sentimental meaning, but I’d never seen Sylvia anything but perfectly attired, even on the hottest day of summer.
“Minnie?” She’d seen me and was coming across the room, arms outstretched. “It’s so good of you to come.”
We embraced, and as she released me I said, “Sorry I’m early. If you’re not ready, I’ll come back later.”
“Don’t be silly. We’re all set here.” Sylvia glanced at the Scovill brother, who nodded and glided away. “And I know what you’re going to ask: why are we having a visitation now, when Pug . . . when he won’t be released for some time.” She sighed. “I’m in town, some of his relatives are in town, and it just seemed to make sense. We’ll have a big memorial service this summer. You’ll come, won’t you?”
I promised to do my best, and gently maneuvered her to a smoothly upholstered couch and sat us both down, as up close, she looked pale and trembly.
“Pug was at the bookmobile last week,” I said. “He tried to explain turkey-hunting season to me.”
She managed a small smile. “He did that to me, too. I just wish . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I was sure she wished many things, but I was mostly wishing that whoever killed Pug had never been born.
We sat quietly for a moment, then I said, “I heard Pug was giving you a fantastic present.”
She gave me a startled look. “Where did you hear that?”
Uh-oh. “Um, well, at the Round Table. Pug was in there a couple of weeks ago, meeting with a guy to finalize the details.”
“Details of what?” When I hesitated, she leaned forward and spoke with low urgency. “Minnie, you have to tell me. You know Pug, he’d been trying to convince me to move north for years. Last month he promised me a wonderful present when I ‘did the deed,’ as he kept calling it. But I don’t know what it was.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “This is secondhand information, you understand. You should really talk to Cookie. But it sounded like Pug was buying you a sculpture by Vittorio Conti.”
Sylvia’s hands flew to her mouth. “A Conti? He was buying me a Conti? That man, that dear, dear, man.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, followed quickly by another. And another.
I reached for a box of tissues I’d already spied on a nearby table and pulled one out for Sylvia.
“Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her face.
I murmured that she had no reason to apologize. “I’m the one who should say sorry. I assumed you knew.”
“Pug liked to surprise me.” She took another tissue and blew her nose. “He could keep a secret better than anyone. If only I’d moved north last year, but I kept saying I wasn’t ready. Why was I so stupid? Why did I think work was more important than spending time with my husband?”
