A Zen For Murder Page 3

  “Do any of you use her services?” Zambuco asked.

  The diner was filled with more silence. The only sound was the clinking of ice cubes as Zambuco chugged down his root beer while everyone at the table looked each other over. Even though the people on Mooseamuck Island were like family, they still liked to keep their private lives private. Dom wondered if anyone at the table had used Zoila’s services and was afraid to mention it.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t,” Mae said finally.

  Tom shook his head. “Not me.”

  Alice’s knitting needles clacked faster. “Nope.”

  Claire, Dom and Jane shook their heads.

  Zambuco studied them with intelligent, bird-like eyes, then waved at Sarah and pointed to his glass for a refill. “Banes said Ms. Rivers meditated there every morning. Was that well-known?”

  “Oh, yes, I would say so,” Mae said. “Everyone knows everyone else’s habits here on the island.”

  Sarah appeared at Zambuco’s elbow and filled up his glass. He looked down into the glass thoughtfully, swirling the ice around. “So, then most anyone on the island could have done it. Even someone at this table.”

  Mae gasped. “Well, it certainly wasn’t one of us!”

  “No?” Zambuco chugged down the second root beer. “So, no one here had a beef with Ms. Rivers?”

  “No.” Claire spoke for all of them.

  Zambuco tapped his fingers on the table. “And no one has anything to add?”

  “No,” they chorused.

  Zambuco rose out of the chair and turned to address the rest of the diner patrons. “What about the rest of you? Does anyone know who might have wanted Zoila Rivers dead?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, then.” He turned back to Dom’s table. “I want you to all stay accessible. I might have more questions.”

  “Well, we can hardly go anywhere, since you’ve stopped the ferries,” Mae huffed.

  Zambuco screwed up his face. “I may not be able to get that to stick. But at least for now, we have everyone contained here on the island. If we figure out who the killer is, it will make it easier to catch him … unless he’s already fled on a private boat.”

  Don watched Zambuco march toward the door, practically knocking over Kenneth Barrett who was on his way in. Kenneth shrank back from the detective, who nodded a half-hearted acknowledgment before disappearing out into the parking lot, leaving the entire diner staring in his direction.

  A blush of pink tinged Kenneth’s neck as he noticed everyone still looking in his direction. “So, I guess you’ve all heard.”

  “Yep.” Several people answered.

  “It’s scary thinking there’s been a murder here.” He said the word ‘murder’ gingerly, as if the very word coming off his tongue might mar his cleft-chinned, preppy good looks.

  As Dom watched Kenneth make his way to the counter, the din of the diner slowly came up to its normal volume. Now, everyone was talking at once—asking the same questions.

  Who could have killed Zoila?

  And why?

  Kenneth pushed a glass pie plate aside and leaned over the counter, directing his next words to Sarah. “I came over as soon as I heard. I hope this doesn’t spook you too much. Our little island doesn’t usually have any violent crime.”

  Dom noticed Sarah’s lips curl in a smile, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was being polite, though Dom suspected Kenneth wanted more than a polite smile from the pretty diner owner.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Where I come from murders happen all the time. Besides, from what I hear, it sounds like the killer had a reason to target Zoila. It’s not like there’s a maniac around randomly killing people.”

  “I should hope not!” Alice’s knitting needles stopped in mid-purl.

  "Yeah, I heard that, too. Anyway, I was wondering if you could send Ben down with an order later today," Kenneth said.

  Sarah's face puckered into a frown. She glanced toward the back. "Ben's not in today."

  "Oh?" Kenneth frowned.

  "He took the day off."

  Dom noticed Kenneth looked put-out. Like most wealthy people, he was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted. But on Mooseamuck Island, options were limited. Especially those for take-out delivery.

  Ben Campbell worked for Sarah doing dishes, light food prep, cleaning and delivering food that he carried in the basket of his bicycle. Dom smiled at the thought of Ben, and Sarah's kindness toward him. Ben was a grown man, but not mentally capable of holding a 'regular' job. Sarah had trusted him and taken the time to train him, and he had flourished with his new responsibilities which turned out to be incredibly important seeing as Ben's mother, Anna, who had cared for him his whole life now lay dying in the hospice center on the mainland.

  Dom's stomach tightened as he thought of Anna. He hoped Ben hadn't taken the day off because his mother had taken a turn for the worse. But if she had, he knew the islanders would rally around Ben and make sure he was taken care of. Most everyone on the island seemed to think of the sweet-natured young man as an extended member of their family.

  Kenneth leaned sideways on the counter, so he could see both Sarah behind the counter and the others seated in the diner.

  “I saw Zambuco leaving. Does he have any leads?” he asked, apparently not sharing any of Dom's concern about Ben's welfare.

  “He didn’t seem to,” Jane answered.

  “Sounded like he thought it might be a client,” Mae added.

  “Oh. A client,” Kenneth nodded. “Right. Maybe someone got mad at one of her readings. She doesn’t always see pleasant things.”

  “How do you know that?” Claire asked. “Did you use her services?”

  “Who? Me? No.” Kenneth waved his hands. “But I’ve heard from others. In fact, now that I think of it, she did seem upset yesterday when she called me out to the hunting camp.”

  “Why did she call you out to the camp?” Claire asked.

  Kenneth shrugged. “She wanted to renovate it. She was asking me some questions about it yesterday. As you know, that camp had been in my family for generations and she wanted some history on how it had been added to over the years. Anyway, she seemed a little off, but I didn’t really think much of it at the time.”

  “Off?” Claire looked at him with interest. “How so?”

  “Anxious or upset, I guess.”

  “Did she say that anyone or anything in particular had upset her?” Dom cut in.

  “No. Like I said, we didn’t talk about that. So, I’m afraid I don’t have any clues as to what would have upset her.” Kenneth leaned back over the counter to address Sarah. “You be sure and call if you need anything.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be fine,” Sarah assured him.

  Kenneth nodded, then pushed off and headed toward the door which opened, revealing Shane McDonough, fourth generation islander and local handyman.

  “Hey, Shane might know something,” Kenneth said as the two men passed each other. “Didn’t I see you heading out toward Zoila Rivers’ place yesterday?”

  “What? Yeah, I was out there. Why?” He looked around the diner, obviously confused as to why everyone was looking back at him.

  “She was murdered this morning,” Mae blurted out.

  “What?” Shane’s handsome face scrunched up in surprise.

  Dom watched Shane’s reaction carefully. It seemed genuine enough, but then human nature was more Claire’s department than his. Dom preferred to stick to hard, cold facts, and one fact was that Shane had seen Zoila yesterday. He stole a glance over at Claire and noticed that she, too, was studying Shane’s reaction.

  Shane walked to the counter. “Wow, that’s crazy. Anyone know why she was killed?”

  “Nope,” Jane answered.

  “What were you doing out there?” Claire asked.

  “What?" Shane looked confused at her question, then his face cleared. "Oh, she asked me to give her an estimate on fixing that s
tone fireplace. Some of the mortar is loose and a few stones fell out. I can’t imagine why anyone would kill her. Are they sure it was murder?”

  “Absolutely,” Dom said.

  Shane leaned over the counter, concern on his face as he looked at Sarah. “You okay?”

  Sara smiled at Shane. A genuine smile this time, Dom noticed.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” She produced a paper lunch bag from behind the counter and handed it to Shane. Shane reached for his wallet, but Sarah held up her hand to stop him. “Nope. It’s on the house. Repayment for helping me fix the oven yesterday.”

  Dom smiled to himself. It seemed that all the eligible bachelors in town were falling over themselves with concern about Sarah. He could see why they would want to protect her. She had a vulnerable quality about her. But he could tell Sarah White was a woman who could take care of herself.

  Dom himself had become very fond of her. Not as a suitor—those days were long gone for him and he was too old for Sarah. His interests were more of a fatherly nature. She was alone, with no family on the island, and so was he.

  Which reminded him. At his insistence, Sarah was trying her hand at Italian pastry baking. She prided herself on her dessert selection and wanted to broaden her horizons. Dom had shared some of his Nonna’s recipes with her. He wanted to help her out, but he also had a selfish motive—he normally had his pastry shipped from Boston’s north end and it was getting rather expensive. Having a source that would help feed his Italian pastry addiction right on the island would be convenient and economical.

  The first dish she was trying was one of Dom’s favorites—ricotta pie—and she had promised to have a test pie ready for him today. With all the excitement, he’d forgotten.

  Dom got up and went to the counter just as Shane was leaving with his paper bag.

  Sarah turned her attention from Shane and flattered Dom with a smile—a real one that reached her sparkling, hazel eyes. “I bet you’re expecting your pie, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been holding my breath waiting for it,” Dom teased. He stepped closer to the counter and felt something gritty under his feet. He looked down to see sand, which was odd, because Sarah kept the place spotless. That was one of the reasons he liked the diner so much. His gaze went to the door that Shane was just now closing. The carpenter must have tracked the sand in.

  “Here it is.” Sarah was holding up a vanilla-colored pie. The edges were perfectly golden brown and it looked dense and firm.

  Dom took the pie from her. It was heavy, just as it should be. He lifted the plastic lid and delighted in the sweet vanilla scent that wafted out. “This smells delizioso.”

  Sarah fixed him with a stern look. “Now, I’m expecting you to tell me the truth. No lying to spare my feelings. If it’s good, I’ll think about offering it to my customers.”

  “I will give it my full attention tonight and you will have my honest opinion tomorrow,” Dom promised.

  Another customer caught Sarah’s attention and Dom turned back to the table.

  “Well, I gotta take off,” Claire said, just as Dom slid his pie onto the table. Then she stood, pulled a ten out of her pocket and slid it under her mug. “This should take care of my part plus a tip, but I’m sure you all will let me know if I owe anything.”

  Dom watched Claire hurry out of the diner.

  “Well, she certainly rushed off abruptly,” Mae said as she sipped her tea.

  “Yeah. I guess she had somewhere to be,” Tom added.

  Dom glanced out the window in time to see Claire’s little brown Fiat whip out onto the road. She did seem to be in a hurry, which made Dom wonder … just where was Claire rushing off to?

  Chapter Five

  Claire had patiently waited for the right time to leave the diner, and finally she was on her way to the harbor. She had to talk to Norma, but she didn’t want to just rush off and raise anyone’s suspicions … especially Dom. For some reason, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching her.

  Detective Zambuco had clearly been looking for someone who had a problem with Zoila, and she wanted to get to Norma and find out what was going on between the two of them before Zambuco did. She just hoped she was the only one who had seen them fighting.

  A pang of guilt stabbed at her as she pulled her car into the small parking lot in the quaint shopping area next to the Crab Cove harbor. She wasn’t used to keeping information from people, and it had been difficult to keep quiet about the fight she’d seen between Norma and Zoila earlier that day—but her loyalty to Norma had won out. The woman had been almost like a mother to her when Claire’s own mother had died when she was a teen, and she couldn’t give up any information that might incriminate her. Especially since Claire knew Norma would never have killed anyone.

  Claire felt certain Norma would have a good explanation—maybe even one that would help reveal the identity of the real killer.

  Claire hurried past the shops, with their weathered clapboard siding. The cove, with its selection of stores, was a big tourist mecca and, even though it was still early in the season, there were quite a few tourists browsing. Claire paid them no mind as she breezed past the Harbor Fudge Shoppe, Mim’s Boutique, and Sandy’s Beach Jewelry.

  She stopped in front of Norma’s studio, Hopper Gallery, her stomach plummeting with disappointment—the lights were off and the studio was empty.

  She stepped closer to the large, glass window, cupping her hand over her eyes to look inside. Norma’s colorful paintings lined the walls, their gold frames adding a rich tone to the room. But Norma wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the small space. Claire adjusted her position to look to the only other room in the studio—the bathroom—but the door was open and that, too, was empty.

  Where could she be?

  “If you’re lookin’ for Norma, she done took off in Bryan’s boat a couple hours ago.” The voice startled Claire, and she turned to see Jeremiah Woodward standing at her elbow.

  “What?” Claire squinted at the old man.

  “Yep, she commandeered Bryan’s boat and sped out toward the mainland.”

  Claire’s heart froze as she thought about Zambuco’s warning—that the killer might flee in a boat.

  “What was she going to the mainland for?” Claire asked.

  “Didn’t say.”

  “When was that?”

  Jeremiah scrunched up his face and looked to the sky. “Well, the sun was over theyah’.” He pointed to a spot left of where the sun was now. “So, I guess that was about eight or nine o’clock.”

  Claire looked at her watch. It was almost noon. They’d discovered the body about an hour ago, and Zambuco had said it was a few hours old. She wasn't sure how reliable Jeremiah's estimation of time was. The timeline was tight, but Norma taking off in the boat might actually prove her innocence if she wasn’t on the island at the time of death. But then again, if the death happened before that, it could make her look guilty. Especially if she didn’t come back.

  “Whatcha all gawkin’ at?” Norma’s raspy voice came from behind and Claire’s heart flooded with relief. Norma hadn’t fled the island—she’d probably just gone for painting supplies or something. Even though the island had a small grocery store and hardware store, some things just couldn’t be purchased there—including some of the paints and supplies Norma used for her artwork.

  Claire turned to Norma and smiled, despite the older woman’s grouchy demeanor. Norma looked from Claire to Jeremiah, her wide-brimmed hat casting a sinister shadow over her face, which was pulled down in an unpleasant scowl.

  “Norma, I thought you were over at the mainland,” Claire said.

  “Oh, and who told you that?” Norma glared at Jeremiah.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret,” Jeremiah stuttered, wilting under her gaze. “It seemed like it was right important that you get there.”

  “Now, Jeremiah Woodward, you be minding your own business.” Norma rapped her cane on the ground loudly and Jeremiah jumped. The
n, she whirled on Claire. “And what do you want?’

  Claire wasn’t fazed by Norma’s seemingly harsh treatment. She was used to the artist’s gruff exterior and she didn’t let that upset her, because she knew somewhere inside was a heart of gold. Sometimes you just had to look really hard for it.

  “I came to talk to you.” Claire slid her eyes over to Jeremiah, the movement negating the necessity for her to add the word ‘alone’.

  “Hrmphh. Well, be quick about it” Norma hung the cane on her arm. Its ivory bull-dog faced handle stared out at Claire through its red, garnet eyes while Norma fished for the key to her studio. “I have a commissioned painting I need to finish and don’t have time for idle chit-chat.”

  “Ahh ... well ... I’ll leave you ladies to it,” Jeremiah backed away from them. Claire got the impression he was happy to be escaping.

  Norma shoved the door open and gestured for Claire to precede her into the cramped studio—which Claire did, deftly avoiding the stacks of canvases that leaned against the walls as her nose adjusted to the smell of turpentine and oil paint.

  “So, what do you want?” The old, wooden floor creaked as Norma walked the perimeter of the studio, looking at her paintings and ignoring Claire.

  Claire was glad to see that Norma was acting normal—not at all like someone who had beaten another person to death just hours ago. But what else had she expected? She already knew Norma didn’t do it.

  Claire gave a mental head shake and looked up to see Norma assessing her with intelligent, dark eyes, the brows of which were slightly raised in question.

  “You haven’t heard about Zoila?”

  Claire saw Norma flinch just slightly. Probably not enough that anyone else would have noticed, but Claire was trained to watch for those tell-tale flinches. The mention of Zoila’s name had hit a nerve.

  “What about her? No one should pay attention to what she has to say. The woman is mad.” Norma stabbed her cane into the floor to accentuate the last word.

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  Norma narrowed her eyes at Claire. She was too sharp to be tricked into giving anything away. “Why do you ask about her, anyway?”