A Zen For Murder Page 2

  “Waiting for someone?”

  Claire jerked her attention back to the table to answer Dom’s question. “What makes you ask that?”

  Dom shrugged, his dark eyes looking at her curiously. “You keep looking at the door is all.”

  “Oh, no. My mind was just wandering.” Claire’s eyes narrowed at him. Just what was he getting at, anyway? He was staring at her expectantly, as if he knew something. And then it hit her—somehow, he must know about the fight she’d witnessed.

  Claire remembered that he had a view of the cove from his condo at the top of the hill. Had he seen Norma and Zoila fighting? No, he couldn’t have. She'd been on his patio before and knew he could only see as far as her garden from his place—her cottage blocked the scenic vista. And, since she could barely hear the two women, she was sure he couldn’t have heard them, either.

  He’d probably seen her straining over the railing, though. But why would that pique his interest? It wouldn’t pique the interest of a normal person, but then Dominic Benedetti wasn’t exactly what Claire would classify as a normal person. He was a born investigator with keenly honed instincts, and his instincts were probably kicking in right now.

  Somehow, Claire knew it wouldn’t do to have him digging into whatever was going on with Norma. Dom didn’t know Norma like she did and he might misinterpret things. What those things were she didn’t know, since she had no idea what was going on herself.

  She couldn’t help but glance at the door again. This time, much to her surprise, it flew open and ten-year-old Gordie Glenn skidded inside, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

  The hubbub of noise ceased and everyone in the diner turned expectantly toward the door where Gordie stood, his eyes darting from one patron to the next.

  “Gordie? What is it?” Alice prompted.

  Gordie’s eyes lighted on Alice. His mouth opened and then closed. Claire’s heart filled with worry. Was something wrong with Gordie or one of the other kids? And then Gordy finally blurted it out.

  “There’s been a murder at the zen garden!”

  Chapter Three

  The zen garden was part of the meditation area in Mooseamuck Island’s public gardens—a twenty-acre tract of conservation land with an ocean view. It was startling to hear about a murder in the most peaceful place on the island. There hadn’t been a murder on Mooseamuck Island in over twenty years. Everyone in the diner was shocked … and interested.

  So, naturally, most of them headed on out to the garden to see for themselves. Some rode bicycles—a normal form of transportation on the island—and others carpooled.

  Claire hitched a ride with Tom and sat quietly wedged in between him and Jane in the front of his pick-up truck.

  Would it be Norma lying dead up there?

  Gordy hadn’t known who the victim was—he’d only heard about it on the ham radio. Robby Skinner, current chief of police and Claire’s nephew, had called in to the mainland, requesting help. By Claire’s estimation, it would take about thirty minutes before the mainland police could get their boat out, so they had some time before they would inevitably be shooed away from the crime scene.

  They jumped out of Tom’s truck and headed down the path where she could already see her nephew flapping his arms, trying to keep people away from the scene.

  “Hey, Robby. What happened?” Dread clutched at Claire’s heart as she craned her neck to peek over her nephew’s shoulder.

  “Murder is what happened.” Robby's eyes reflected desperation and she felt a tug at her heart. She knew he’d never secured a murder scene before and she felt bad for him. But not bad enough to stop straining to see who it was lying in the sand. Her eyes raked over the body and relief washed over her.

  Then concern.

  The body wasn’t Norma. It was Zoila.

  Robby tried to block her view “You know you shouldn’t be here.”

  Claire tore her eyes away from the body and looked at her nephew. He was a decent cop, but he was a small-town cop, which was perfect for their little island where most of the crime consisted of minor infractions. Even then, he sometimes consulted with her on cases and she figured she’d helped him solve a good number of them.

  “Sorry, Robby. This is big news, though, and you can’t keep the regulars away.” She glanced behind her at the small crowd that had gathered. It was mostly the regulars from the diner, but a few others had straggled in. “I figure it was better to come up and see if I could help out.”

  “Thanks.” Robby's cheeks flushed and he kicked the dirt with the toes of his shiny, police-issue boots. “I had to call back to the mainland for the homicide crew. I’m not trained to investigate a homicide on my own. Until then, I gotta keep the scene secure.”

  “Of course. No one expects you to have that kind of expertise,” Claire soothed. “I’ll help keep the others back.”

  Her eyes drifted over his shoulder again and she took in the murder scene. The contrast of the still body lying in the peaceful circles of sand was startling. Not to mention the bloody mess that was Zoila’s face. She’d been beaten, not shot or stabbed. But with what? Claire noticed the blood soaking into the sand beside the body, which was wearing the same outfit she’d been wearing during her fight with Norma.

  And where was Norma?

  Claire glanced around but didn’t see her anywhere in the crowd.

  “My word!” Mae gasped. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Claire turned to see Mae’s face had gone pale, her hand covering her mouth.

  “That’s a very good question.” Dom raised a brow at Claire, as if she might know something.

  Claire narrowed her eyes at Dom. “Yes, it is.” She put her arm around Mae and walked her over to a bench out of view of the scene.

  Why had he looked at her that way? She didn’t know who would kill Zoila. Well, she had seen Zoila fighting with Norma, but Norma wasn’t a killer. She wrinkled her brow, remembering the piece of paper Zoila had been waving in Norma’s face … she didn’t have that paper in her hand now.

  Maybe she’d delivered the paper before her meditation. Or maybe the killer had taken it.

  Claire watched Dom as he walked around slowly, just outside the confines of the yellow crime scene tape. At the edge of the zen garden, he squatted and tilted his head, studying the scene from a lower angle. He nodded, his lips pursed together in a thin line. Then he smoothed his eyebrows, stood and continued his walk to the other side of the garden.

  Claire handed Mae over to Jane and wandered to where Dom and been. She squatted in the same spot. What had he found so interesting? The body lay crumpled, the legs at an impossible angle. The circles had been raked in the sand recently and were still almost perfect … except for one smudged area.

  A shoe print!

  She looked closer. The print was distorted, but it looked large. Probably a man’s shoe. One of the rocks was out of place, too, and—

  A flurry of activity behind her broke her concentration and she turned to see the crowd parting, as if Moses were coming through.

  Except it wasn’t Moses. It was Detective Frank Zambuco, and he did not look pleased.

  ***

  If there was one word Claire would use to describe Detective Frank Zambuco, it was overbearing. Or maybe annoying. Probably both. The man exuded an amount of energy unusual for his age, which Claire guessed to be about sixty—though it was hard to tell, given the ever-present scowl that normally contorted his face.

  He whirled onto the scene, barking instructions, tapping his sausage-like fingers and whistling under his breath. His rumpled, blue, button-up shirt and stained, tan chinos were evidence he had no one at home to dress him. She was not surprised. She figured no woman would be able to put up with him for very long.

  “Out of the way. Out of the way,” Zambuco bellowed as he swatted his way toward Robby. “Don’t you people know you are interfering with a crime scene?”

  The crowd shrank back from him and he eyed them with beady, dark eyes. “N
ow, don’t go too far any of you. You might all be suspects. At any rate, I’ll want to question some of you.” He turned to Claire. “Especially you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yep, you seem to be the ringleader often enough.”

  “Well, I just came up with the others. I don’t—“

  “Right.” Zambuco put his hand up to silence her and turned to Robby. “What have we got here?”

  “Looks like she’s been dead a few hours.” Robby turned to look at the body. “It’s Zoila Rivers.”

  “Rivers?” Zambuco’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t she some kind of fortune teller?”

  “Psychic,” Jane cut in.

  Zambuco’s left brow ticked up and he glanced at Jane. “Right. Psychic.”

  Zambuco walked over to the crime scene tape, lifted it and slipped under. He spent the next few minutes wandering around the scene, whistling to himself as he looked things over. His actions appeared to be aimless, but Claire knew they were anything but. Detective Zambuco might come off like a goof, but he was actually a very good detective. Which made her nervous because if Norma was somehow involved in this, he would find out.

  Claire shook her head to clear her thoughts. What was she thinking? Of course, Norma had nothing to do with Zoila’s death. She was sure once she talked to Norma, the argument would be explained and it wouldn’t have anything to do with this.

  Suddenly, Zambuco turned sharply toward the bystanders. “Which one of you found her?”

  “I did.” The tremulous voice came from the corner and Claire looked over to see thin, gray Sam Banes, head gardener, raising his hand tentatively.

  “And what were you doing here?” Zambuco asked.

  “I’m the gardener. I came to make sure the rakes were out. People are always taking them.”

  Zambuco looked around, presumably for the rakes. “And were they?”

  “Oh ... I don’t ...” Banes looked around. “I guess not. I forgot about them when I found Ms. Rivers.”

  “Ms. Rivers? You mean you knew her?”

  “Of course. She comes here most mornings to meditate.” Banes's face crumbled and he looked down at the ground. “Or did, I should say.

  “And did you see anyone else this morning?”

  “No, sir, but I was on the other end of the gardens, tending to the annuals. I just drove over in my truck.” Banes pointed to the white and green Moosamuck Islands Public Works truck visible at the end of the path.

  Zambuco nodded, then whirled around, his eyes scanning the small crowd. “And what about the rest of you? Did anyone see anything amiss up here?”

  They shook their heads, almost as one.

  “Okay. We need to get you people out of here and process this scene.” Zambuco pointed at one of the detectives that he’d brought with him. “Smithfield, you get their names and numbers. Oh, and I want you to halt all boat traffic leaving the island, including the ferry.”

  “Whyever would you want to do that?” Mae asked.

  Zambuco stopped what he was doing and glared at her, then stabbed his finger in the direction of the body.

  “Judging by the coagulation of the blood, Ms. Rivers was murdered only a few hours ago. It’s early in the season and I happen to know there’s only three ferries a day right now. The first one doesn’t arrive for another twenty minutes … which means the killer is still somewhere on this island and I don’t want him to get away.”

  Chapter Four

  Dom went back to Chowders with the others, his mind mulling over what he’d observed at the crime scene. The method of murder had been brutal, which indicated there was an emotional element.

  But why chose a public place like the zen garden?

  It must have been the only opportunity that presented itself to the killer. Dom was certain the killer must have needed to silence Zoila right away—Zoila Rivers knew something and someone else didn’t want her to talk.

  Dom had observed the crime scene closely and noticed a few things that seemed strange. He had them catalogued in his photographic memory for future inspection. He’d also observed Claire’s odd response to the body. She had seemed shocked, which would have been appropriate for a regular person, but with Claire’s training and the number of crime scenes she’d attended, it was out of place. Dom was certain Claire had found something startling about the body—whether it was something on or around the body or the mere fact that it was Zoila, he didn’t know.

  Even now, Claire was acting strangely. He noticed her slight hesitation when Tom and Jane got out of the truck in the parking lot. Almost as if she were reluctant to join them in the diner.

  “Surely, he can’t stop us from leaving the island!” Alice said as she pulled a skein of light blue yarn out of her tote bag.

  “Or the tourists from coming to the island,” Tom added.

  “That’s right,” Jane said. “I doubt the town council will allow that, and I think they have the final say.”

  “A killer on the island.” Mae shivered and turned her wide, brown eyes to Dom. “Who do you think it is?”

  “It must be a tourist. A stranger,” Alice cut in, directing her words at Dom. “I mean, it couldn’t be one of us islanders, could it?”

  Dom preened his left eyebrow as he felt an ember of excitement start to glow in his chest. Just like the feeling he used to get when he was an active consultant. Before Sophia got sick and he retired. When life was exciting.

  “It could be anybody,” Dom replied. “Does anyone know if she had any enemies?”

  They all looked at each other and shrugged.

  “None that I know of,” Tom said.

  “Me, either.” Jane added.

  “Perhaps she became privy to sensitive information through her work,” Dom suggested. “She was a psychic, so she might have discovered information someone didn’t want known.”

  Mae’s brows shot up. “That’s true. Maybe she had a vision about something bad that someone did.”

  Dom nodded wisely. “Yes, it could be. The police will probably want to check her latest clients. If she had sensitive information on someone, it stands to reason that person might be mad or upset. Can you think of anyone who has been acting strangely?”

  Another round of shrugging occurred between everyone. Everyone except Claire, that is. Dom noticed that she kept glancing toward the door while she fidgeted in her chair.

  Dom pressed his lips together. “It could be an old feud, too. But Zoila wasn’t from the island, right?”

  “Oh, no,” Alice said to Dom. “She moved here about two years ago. Not long after you did. Bought old man Barrett's cabin up, near the conservation land.”

  “She said the old hunting camp had the perfect ambiance for her psychic readings,” Jane added.

  “And was she well-liked?” Dom asked.

  Tom shrugged. “Well enough. She kind of kept to herself. Though I’m told plenty of townsfolk snuck up to the camp for a reading or two, at times.”

  Dom smoothed his eyebrow. An old hunting camp? Secret meetings? This was getting better and better. But if Zoila lived in a remote camp, why wouldn’t the killer just kill her there?

  There was only one reason—the killer must have not had time to wait until Zoila went home to that cabin. Which probably meant something had happened earlier in the morning. Something unusual.

  He stole a glance at Claire. Maybe even something that would cause Claire to lean over her railing for a better look.

  He didn’t have time to think about what that might be, though, because just then, the door opened and Detective Zambuco stormed in.

  ***

  Zambuco’s brows zoomed up when he spotted the crew at the table. He strode toward them, grabbing an empty chair and pulling it across the floor, then shoving it in between Dom and Jane before folding his tall frame into it.

  Everyone at the table scooted their chairs around to make room.

  “I’ll have a root beer. Lots of ice,” Zambuco said to Sarah, who had come over to take his
order. Then he turned his sharp eyes to the rest of the people at the table. “So, what do you people think? Got any ideas who did it?”

  “Us?” Jane’s brows rose. “How would we know who did it?”

  Zambuco tipped back in his chair and looked at Dom. “What about you, Benedetti? I know you’ve investigated quite a few crime scenes in your day. You must have an opinion.”

  Dom smiled patiently. “True. But I’m retired now.”

  Zambuco snapped his chair back to the ground, accepting the glass Sarah handed him.

  “Let’s hope you stay that way. I don’t need you people meddling.” Zambuco looked pointedly at Claire. “Especially you.”

  “Me?” Claire looked at him innocently.

  “Yes,” Zambuco said as he crunched an ice cube. “I know how you like to give your opinion even when it’s not wanted.”

  Dom’s lips curled up in a smile. He agreed with that. In fact, he had to stop himself from nodding so as not to hurt Claire’s feelings.

  Zambuco continued on. “Seeing as I have you all here, I’d like to get the ball rolling with some questions.”

  “Okay,” Claire answered, and the others nodded their assent.

  “Did any of you notice Ms. Rivers acting out of the ordinary this week?”

  His question was met with silence. In fact, the entire diner was silent as the other patrons were carefully eavesdropping on the conversation. Dom figured that by now, word had spread about the murder, and everyone knew Zambuco was here to investigate it.

  “So, no one noticed anything?” Zambuco persisted.

  Everyone at the table shook their heads. The customers at other tables bent their heads together, whispering, probably asking each other the same question.

  “Did she take on any new clients or have a falling out with any regular clients?”

  Claire pressed her lips together. “I don’t think any of us know much about her client list.”