Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream by Bernadine Fagan
Authors: Bernadine Fagan
Tags: Mystery: Cozy - Maine
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destination.
Fifty-two emails later I decided to stop looking, and begin printing. I should have done that immediately. Not thinking. Too nervous. I pulled the dust cover off the printer. Omigod. An antique. One of the slowest printers HP ever made.
I pressed the On button and froze.
I heard a noise. In the next room. I stopped breathing and listened. A shuffling sound. Panicky feelings worked their way into my throat and I had trouble swallowing.
Like a big sissy, I grabbed my purse, bolted into the closet and yanked on the bifold doors, no easy task since I was off balance and immediately got entangled in long plastic dry cleaner bags and dropped my purse. A plastic bag caught my nose as I tried to turn. Dear God. I couldn’t breathe. More panic as I tried to remove it, and, at the same time, keep myself from falling through the louvered bifolds.
Get a grip, Nora.
The noise came again. I pressed an ear to the closet wall, this time circumventing the bags.
A scraping sound. No, not quite scraping. It was like someone digging. They had sand in the bathroom?
Peeking through the slots, I could see the computer screen and the last email I’d read. I had to get out of this damn closet, turn it off, and quit this stupid stuff. Nick Renzo was right. I was no detective.
Just then, the Toreador March blasted from my purse. Oh, my God. I groped around the floor, hit my head on the partially opened door, but managed to snag the damn purse. I grabbed the damn phone and shut it off. I figured the jig was up now for sure. I was as good as dead. If anyone had not heard that damn music or the thump on the door, they were deaf.
Resigned to discovery, I stepped out, rubbing my head. That’s when it suddenly hit me. The scraping sound. A cat in a litter box? Did Mary Fran have a cat? The thought was sunshine, even though I am severely allergic. Sneezing beats death by a Maine mile.
I tiptoed to the bathroom and glanced in just in time to see a fluffy white feline stepping primly from a litter box. I laughed with delight. Well, it was more like giddy relief, I suppose.
The snooty little cat spared me a brief glance as it strolled past with a get-out-of-my-way attitude that had me stepping aside.
For the next two hours I ran off emails on the slowest printer this side of the Rockies. I probably didn’t have to run them all off, but I wanted to be efficient. Earn my fee.
I checked my watch. It was already two-ten. I was in that movie again saying hurry up, hurry up to the heroine.
Restless, waiting for the pages to print, I prowled the small office, then stopped to look out the back window. They had a lot of property. A tire swing hung from a tree and I imagined a child playing on it. I imagined swinging on it myself.
I heard the car before I saw it. Mary Fran? No, not in that big SUV. Possibly a neighbor. But why?
My throat went dry, my heart began a wild ba-boom, ba-boom, and I had to pee.
SIX
With unsteady hands, I cancelled the print and shut down the computer.
Outside, a car door slammed.
I grabbed the papers I’d run off, stuffed them into my tote, and, knowing it was too late to exit the house, desperately looked for a place to hide. The closet? Been there, done that. Where would he not notice me? Hall closet? Daughter’s room? Under a bed? A bed.
It was almost two-fifteen. In a flash of insight that came too late, like a lot of my brilliant flashes, I understood the password. Not a date, not February fifteenth, but a time. His dates with Marla were at two-fifteen. Here. The nerve.
Hide, hide, hide.
I quelled the urge to head for the stairs. Instead, I ran to his daughter’s room across the hall from the master bedroom, a pink frilly place with an unmade bed and toys and clothing scattered from here to kingdom come and back again. The daughter was a messy kid. I shoved my tote under her bed and scrambled after it. The only plus was the dust ruffle that touched the floor. I was hidden. The mattress was
Fifty-two emails later I decided to stop looking, and begin printing. I should have done that immediately. Not thinking. Too nervous. I pulled the dust cover off the printer. Omigod. An antique. One of the slowest printers HP ever made.
I pressed the On button and froze.
I heard a noise. In the next room. I stopped breathing and listened. A shuffling sound. Panicky feelings worked their way into my throat and I had trouble swallowing.
Like a big sissy, I grabbed my purse, bolted into the closet and yanked on the bifold doors, no easy task since I was off balance and immediately got entangled in long plastic dry cleaner bags and dropped my purse. A plastic bag caught my nose as I tried to turn. Dear God. I couldn’t breathe. More panic as I tried to remove it, and, at the same time, keep myself from falling through the louvered bifolds.
Get a grip, Nora.
The noise came again. I pressed an ear to the closet wall, this time circumventing the bags.
A scraping sound. No, not quite scraping. It was like someone digging. They had sand in the bathroom?
Peeking through the slots, I could see the computer screen and the last email I’d read. I had to get out of this damn closet, turn it off, and quit this stupid stuff. Nick Renzo was right. I was no detective.
Just then, the Toreador March blasted from my purse. Oh, my God. I groped around the floor, hit my head on the partially opened door, but managed to snag the damn purse. I grabbed the damn phone and shut it off. I figured the jig was up now for sure. I was as good as dead. If anyone had not heard that damn music or the thump on the door, they were deaf.
Resigned to discovery, I stepped out, rubbing my head. That’s when it suddenly hit me. The scraping sound. A cat in a litter box? Did Mary Fran have a cat? The thought was sunshine, even though I am severely allergic. Sneezing beats death by a Maine mile.
I tiptoed to the bathroom and glanced in just in time to see a fluffy white feline stepping primly from a litter box. I laughed with delight. Well, it was more like giddy relief, I suppose.
The snooty little cat spared me a brief glance as it strolled past with a get-out-of-my-way attitude that had me stepping aside.
For the next two hours I ran off emails on the slowest printer this side of the Rockies. I probably didn’t have to run them all off, but I wanted to be efficient. Earn my fee.
I checked my watch. It was already two-ten. I was in that movie again saying hurry up, hurry up to the heroine.
Restless, waiting for the pages to print, I prowled the small office, then stopped to look out the back window. They had a lot of property. A tire swing hung from a tree and I imagined a child playing on it. I imagined swinging on it myself.
I heard the car before I saw it. Mary Fran? No, not in that big SUV. Possibly a neighbor. But why?
My throat went dry, my heart began a wild ba-boom, ba-boom, and I had to pee.
SIX
With unsteady hands, I cancelled the print and shut down the computer.
Outside, a car door slammed.
I grabbed the papers I’d run off, stuffed them into my tote, and, knowing it was too late to exit the house, desperately looked for a place to hide. The closet? Been there, done that. Where would he not notice me? Hall closet? Daughter’s room? Under a bed? A bed.
It was almost two-fifteen. In a flash of insight that came too late, like a lot of my brilliant flashes, I understood the password. Not a date, not February fifteenth, but a time. His dates with Marla were at two-fifteen. Here. The nerve.
Hide, hide, hide.
I quelled the urge to head for the stairs. Instead, I ran to his daughter’s room across the hall from the master bedroom, a pink frilly place with an unmade bed and toys and clothing scattered from here to kingdom come and back again. The daughter was a messy kid. I shoved my tote under her bed and scrambled after it. The only plus was the dust ruffle that touched the floor. I was hidden. The mattress was
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