After a moment, Carson said, “Maybe you used a silencer.”
“Where would I get a silencer? I’m not a hitman. I don’t even own a gun, let alone a silencer.”
There was something odd about Carson’s expression. Ellery’s theater experience meant he was pretty good at reading facial expressions, but he couldn’t interpret that particular blankness on Carson’s face.
“What you’re saying is, no one can corroborate your claim that the shop was still open until six thirty.”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying I can’t think of anyone. But someone could have noticed. One of my neighbors or maybe someone walking past.”
Ellery wasn’t sure if he was more scared or more exasperated. How could Carson think he had anything to do with this? Did he have no instinct for people?
“This is such a ridiculous scenario. You’re suggesting I killed someone and then calmly went to dinner and then came back here and pretended to find the body?”
“It’s not as far-fetched as you might imagine.”
Oh brother. And Carson had gleaned this from all his years of policing the mean streets of Pirate’s Cove?
“The forensics people checked my hands. Wouldn’t they have seen the gunpowder residue or whatever you call it?”
Carson was giving him that odd look again. He said finally—almost growled it, really, “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Well, how does it work?”
“I’ll ask the questions.”
“I don’t think that’s very fair!” Ellery protested. “When I might be able to come up with something that helps my case?”
Carson scribbled into his notebook, muttered, “Pretty unlikely.”
“No, it’s not. What’s my motive? Tell me that?”
He kind of wished he hadn’t asked because Carson’s expression grew more closed, his eyes turning as bleak and chilly as the winter shoreline.
“I’d say your motive for getting rid of Maples is the same as his for wanting to buy you out. You’re both struggling to survive in a town that can’t support one of you, let alone both.”
It was almost funny.
“You think I killed Trevor to wipe out my competition?”
“Did you?”
“No! That’s…” The words dried in Ellery’s throat at the expression in Chief Carson’s fierce eyes. “No.”
“But you admit Maples was your main competition?”
He was serious. Ellery’s eyes widened in alarm. “No. Trevor sells books, but they’re all antiques, first editions and that kind of thing. He considered himself an antiquarian. I’m not—I’m just a guy running an ordinary bookstore.”
The chief said nothing.
“Besides, most of Trevor’s business was antique furniture. We weren’t really competitors.”
“According to Maples, you were.”
It was Ellery’s turn to keep silent. He was pretty sure he already said way too much.
One of Carson’s deputies stuck his head in the office. “We’re wrapping things up now, Chief.”
Carson nodded. “Thanks, Martin.”
Ellery pushed to his feet, ignoring the wobble in his knees. “Is that it? Or am I under arrest?”
A lifetime seemed to pass waiting for Carson’s reply. When it came, it was almost disconcertingly prosaic.
“That’s it for now.” Carson laid his pencil on his open notebook. “Thanks for your cooperation. You can go.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town?”
“Are you planning to leave town? Fifteen minutes ago, you told me you planned to stay in Pirate’s Cove.”
“I am. Planning to stay, I mean.”
“Good. This is an ongoing investigation. The expectation is you’ll keep yourself available for further questioning.”
Ellery swallowed. He suspected it looked and sounded like a gulp.
Carson nodded at the door in dismissal. Ellery headed out of the office, his knees nearly giving out as Carson said, “One other thing.”
Ellery turned, unspeaking.
“I’ll need you to inventory the store and let me know what, if anything, is missing.”
Ellery nodded.
“And I’ll need that as soon as possible.”
“Yes. Of course,” Ellery got out.
Carson nodded again, and turned back to his notes.
The medical examiner had already come and gone, collecting Trevor’s body for the morgue and subsequent autopsy. Ellery’s queasiness returned at the thought.
He couldn’t help feeling that the uniformed officers and crime-scene investigators were staring at him accusingly as he quickly gathered his coat and other belongings, heading for the front door.
Maybe he would sell the shop.
He was pretty sure he would never be able to think of it the same way. Never look at the place where Trevor’s body had lain without forever seeing that ghastly, bloodstained image. He risked a quick look, expecting to see a chalk outline, but his uneasy peek revealed nothing more than a couple of plastic markers and a pool of stomach-churning crimson staining the floorboards.
Here was a problem. Who would he sell the shop to, now that Trevor was gone?
One of PCPD’s finest began to turn off the lights, row after row of bell-shaped lamps going black.
Another uniformed officer pushed open the front door for Ellery. The little bell tinkled with almost sinister good cheer, the sound cutting off as the door swung shut behind him with a curt bang.
Chapter Five
Sunday morning found Ellery prying loose cracked and peeling moss-colored linoleum from his kitchen floor—and trying to wipe the image of Trevor Maples’s sightless eyes from his memory.
There was always a chance the 18th Century architect of Captain’s Seat had not been on crack when he drew up the plans for the sprawling Dutch Renaissance style mansion. But how likely was that?
In Ellery’s opinion, not very.
But then again, maybe it wasn’t the architect’s fault. Maybe the skewed artistic vision had belonged to the original owner, Captain Horatio Page. Back in the 1700s, Page had been a famed hunter of pirates, eventually retiring to this quiet little corner of Rhode Island. Maybe he had liked remembering his glory days. Maybe he just had a taste for architectural bling.
In fairness, a couple of centuries ago, the house had probably been a bit of a showstopper with its distinctive curved gables, stained-glass windows, and twin conical-shaped rooftops. The exterior was made of slate-colored locally quarried granite. The interior was paneled in white oak, the lower level windows were arched segmental ones like on a pirate galleon, the mismatched flooring reportedly came from the timbers of ships crashed to pieces on the jagged coastline.
Quaint, yes. Cozy… Captain’s Seat had six bedrooms and seven baths. The bedrooms were large. Large enough for every single one to have its own fireplace. Along with all the bedrooms came a grand foyer, a great hall, a gallery, a drawing room, a library, a game room—that had been a thrill to the former reigning Scrabble champion of the Manhattan Scrabble Meetup Group—a pantry and a wine cellar. No doubt it had required a fleet of servants to keep everything shipshape and Bristol back in the day.