Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream Read Free Page B

second or two. Maine was not for me. I belonged in the city.
    I followed the trail to where it forked. On the right, it sloped slightly toward a deadfall, and on the left it evened off and ran closer to the stream. Except for the softly rippling water, it was quiet here. No bird chatter, no small critters scurrying through the underbrush. I imagined I could hear my heartbeat. Strange, this stillness.
    A ways down the path I spotted what looked like a brown alligator boot sticking out from behind a boulder.
    “Hello?”
    I stopped and waited.
    No reply.
    “Hello. You behind the rock.” I took a deep breath, grabbed the mace in my bag and stepped closer, my heart picking up speed like a semi on a downhill run. I was hoping, hoping, hoping that someone was just sitting here, leaning against the boulder, enjoying the stream. But somehow, I didn’t think so.
    I should check. Take another step.
    Or, I could run the other way.
    I finally looked behind the rock. Even prepared as I was to find something awful, like a dead body, I gasped when I saw him. I knew he was dead. I knew him . Omigod. There was blood, so much of it. He’d been shot in the head, and I think an animal had nibbled on his fingers. Several of them were chewed to mere stubs. I hoped he was dead when that happened. I began to shake.
    Suddenly, I couldn’t look another second. I scrambled backwards, stuffed the mace in my pocket, and ran like all the animals in creation were on my heels. Breathing hard the whole way, feeling a wild hysteria that about choked me, I finally stopped and yanked out my cell phone. I dropped it twice. Butterfingers. When I had a firm grip, I hit 9-1-1, gave the operator a brief rundown and continued to Ida’s at a fast clip.
    Minutes later, the Toreador March played on my cell, and I answered.
    “Nora Lassiter?” a man’s voice said.
    “Yes, it’s me. Is this the police?”
    “Yes. I’m Sheriff—”
    “Help!” I yelled before he finished. “There’s been a murder. I’ll meet you at my aunt Ida’s. That’s Ida Lassiter in Silver Stream.” I gave him Ida’s address.
    “Where are you now?”
    “In the woods.”
    “Can you be more specific?”
    Specific? What was wrong with this man? “Not even if I had a GPS,” I replied, making no attempt to keep the sarcasm from my shaky voice.
    “Are you near Ida’s?”
    “Not too far. Going back the way I came.” My voice cracked as I skirted a snake and yelped.
    “What happened?”
    “I almost got attacked by a snake.” I looked back at the snake to make sure it wasn’t preparing to strike. “Cancel that. Just a dead branch.” I took a deep breath, and continued running. “An animal chewed on his fingers.”
    Which reminded me of the mace. Better to be safe than sorry. I yanked the canister from my pocket.
    “Do you know the victim?”
    “Yes. It was…”
    I stepped in a pothole and twisted my ankle. Yelped again. The phone went flying as I struggled to keep my balance.
    “What happened? Nora. Nora Lassiter? Are you all right?”
    Biting my bottom lip, I dropped to my knees, reached into the underbrush, retrieved the phone, and tossed it in my bag. I was not going to carry on a conversation with anyone while I negotiated this minefield.
     
    * * *
     
    Back at the house, I picked out a crummy-looking, old-lady sweater I found in Great-grandma Evie’s closet and slipped it on. I was too distressed to care about my appearance, or the fact that I now smelled of moth balls. I was still shaking. I can’t recall this ever happening before–not caring about my appearance, or how I smelled, or shaking like this.
    Her hand on her chest, Ida listened to me, nodding the whole time, her face a mask of distress. Tears in her eyes, she said, “I hate to be one of those people who says ‘I told you so,’ but Nora, I did tell them. I warned them. Tried to tell that Renzo kid. He’s a nitwit.”
    “The Renzo kid? Who’s he?”
    “Sheriff Nick Renzo.”
    “The