Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 02 - Murder in the Maine Woods Read Free Page A

I get lost in the woods, on some of the roads, too. I belong in the city with exhaust fumes and blaring horns, taxi drivers and bulky bu ses, and streets numbered in order.
    “About time you got here,” Mary Fran complained.
    “Mornin’ to you too, Mary Fran. I did hurry … but first I called Lenny and Stan and told them about their uncle before they found out on the news or from someone else.”
    He put his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me to his side for a quick hug that made me feel better instantly, or maybe it was just his presence.
    “Take it easy,” he said.
    “I’m good.”
    “You shouldn’t have risked staying,” he said. “Or risked hanging up on me. I’m the sheriff, you know.”
    His last words, meant to make me smile, were whispered in my ear and had the desired effect.
    “I’m fine,” I lied, locking my rubbery knees into place.
    “I know you are,” he lied back, giving me another squeeze.
    Deputy Miller nodded and winked or twitched, it was hard to tell which, as he hurried by. Skinny Trimble with the pointy features in the oval face paused in his rush to the house, gave me a nod that included the once-over. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? I smirked at him and narrowed my eyes threateningly. Trimble took a step back , then continued on.
    “I’ll be right there,” Nick told Trimble as an ambulance rocketed up the driveway. “Let the EMTs check him, then secure the scene.”
    Mary Fran followed the deputies into the house.
    Nick slid his hand to my neck and pulled me to him again. I wanted to melt right into him, so I distracted myself by telling him, “I saw someone running away when I first got out of my truck. Don’t know who it was.”
    “Man or woman?”
    “Not sure.”
    “Which way was the person running?”
    “Just back.” I waved my hand in the general direction. “No special direction.”
    “Southeast?”
    I studied him a moment, annoyed.
    “You think I know which way is south or east? Ask me Uptown or Downtown in New York City and I can point you in the right direction. South in these woods? East? I’d need a compass.”
    “Of course. What was I thinking.” He kissed my temple and hurried off, calling, “Trimble. Cordon off the woods. No one goes back there.”
    Cordon off the woods? The yellow tape. Cops overreact sometimes. Buster Verney probably died from a heart attack or a stroke.
    Later, I’d tell him I thought I saw Vivian. Since I was working for her, I figured I owed her a certain loyalty. Not much though. I’d see what she had to say first. Maybe she wasn’t the person running away.
    Mary Fran came bounding out of the house.
    “See what I mean. Nothing like this ever happens in the beauty parlor. This is where it’s at. You have to hire me as your assistant. You have to.”
    “Mary Fran, you don’t listen. I do not have another case. This was it. So I don’t need an assistant. Sorry about that.”
    “Leave it to me.”
    I shook my head. She could be so obstinate.
    Nick ducked under the yellow police tape about ten minutes later.
    “The EMTs think it was a heart attack. We’ll know more after an autopsy. He hasn’t been dead all that long.”
    A snappy black truck with red and gold flame detailing shooting along the sides, flew up the driveway and skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust beside the ambulance. Two men in their early thirties jumped out.
    “Buster’s nephews,” Nick said, heading in their direction.
    “Stan. Lenny. I’m so sorry about this.” Nick shook their hands. “This is Nora Lassiter. She was supposed to meet with your uncle this morning. She found the body.”
    Lenny tipped his baseball hat with Boston Bruins imprinted in yellow on one side. He wore jeans that would have fit an elephant. If a guy favored an underwear display these were the perfect choice.
    Stan ignored me, tossed his cigarette, and took off toward the house, his unbuttoned camouflage shirt ballooning around him as he wailed, “Uncle Buster, Uncle