They stared in silence at the gruesome brown-red patch in the center of the floor.
Dylan shook his head. “It’s unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“Do the police have any theories?”
“I’m just a suspect. Chief Carson didn’t share his theories with me.”
Dylan’s eyes widened. “But you can’t really be a suspect.”
“I kind of think I am,” Ellery admitted.
“But that’s ridiculous. You barely knew the man. There are plenty of better suspects than you in this town.”
“Like who?”
Dylan hesitated just long enough for Ellery to wonder what his relationship with Trevor had been like. Dylan said, “Tommy Rider for one.”
Ellery was taken aback. “The real-estate agent?”
“The same. And Janet Maples. Trevor’s ex-wife. That was a very ugly divorce. Oh, and let’s not forget Cyrus. He and Trevor fought about everything from zoning permits to signage—and that was before Trevor decided to run for mayor.” Dylan’s smile was wide and without guile. “For that matter, I won’t be shedding any tears over Trevor.”
If Dylan was trying to cheer Ellery up with this list of people who might have wanted Trevor out of the way, he was succeeding. “Why’s that?”
“The theater where the Scallywags perform goes up for sale next month, and Trevor had already told me he intended to bid against me.”
In addition to owning next door’s Toy Chest, a tiny but charming toys and games shop, Dylan ran the local amateur theater guild known as the Scallywags. He kept trying to get Ellery to join, but Ellery was only too aware of his limitations as an actor. He had the reviews to prove it.
“That’s a relief. I was starting to get the feeling everyone believed I was—I had—”
“Of course not,” Dylan said staunchly. “Anyone who knew Trevor knows perfectly well there’s a mile-long list of suspects.” His gaze returned to the stained floor as though he couldn’t help himself. “Are you open today? Because you’ll probably want to do something about…that…”
“Ugh. No. I’m supposed to make a list of anything that’s missing or damaged for Chief Carson.”
Dylan looked thoughtful. “The chief thinks someone broke in here and Trevor spotted them and came to investigate? That does sound like Trevor.”
No, it didn’t. Not to Ellery. Granted, he hadn’t known Trevor that well. And the opposite scenario was equally unlikely. If Trevor or someone else had wanted something out of the Crow’s Nest, they would surely have taken it after Great-great-great-aunt Eudora died and before Ellery had taken possession. There would have been ample opportunity.
Speaking of opportunity.
“You didn’t happen to see anything out of the ordinary yesterday evening?” Ellery asked. “The police think Trevor was killed between five and seven, so…”
Dylan winced. “No. The police already questioned me about that. The thing is, with it being the start of Buccaneer Days, I decided to close early and get over to the theater.” He looked apologetic. “From what I understand, Sandy closed early too.”
Sandy ran the small art gallery on the other side the Crow’s Nest.
Ellery said, “I thought Buccaneer Days was supposed to boost business for all of us?”
“Maybe eventually. Right now, it’s mostly for the village’s own amusement.”
That was certainly how it had looked in the Salty Dog last evening. And it was probably one reason Chief Carson hadn’t even seemed to consider the possibility Trevor had been killed by a non-resident.
Ellery said, “Speaking of village amusements, do you have any idea who I could call to get these bloodstains out?”
“Out Damn Spot,” Dylan replied promptly. “Their motto is: Your secrets are our secret. Tell them I referred you.”
At first glance, nothing appeared to be missing from the Crow’s Nest.
Ellery checked the locked case with first editions by Elizabeth Peters and Ian Fleming. Undoubtedly the most valuable items in the shop. The books sat undisturbed and already slightly dusty again, behind glass.
He checked the small collection of vintage bookends—great little ready-made murder weapons sitting all in a row—but every single bookend was unbloodied and accounted for.
He checked the erotic mystery section because, hey, you never know.
After that, he got distracted by phoning the cleaning company and then phoning the alarm company.
The cleaning service turned out to be co-owned by Dylan and run by his niece, which, in Ellery’s opinion, explained the whimsical company name. Pandora promised to be at the Crow’s Nest first thing Monday morning, mop in hand. The folks at the alarm company were equally helpful—news of murder in Pirate’s Cove had already reached them—and they answered all Ellery’s questions and then set up an appointment for Monday to quote new security systems for both the Crow’s Nest and Captain’s Seat.
By then it was after one, and Ellery felt a little more on top of things than he had that morning. He had spoken to Sandy next door, and she had reaffirmed Dylan’s assurances that no one seriously believed Ellery was a suspect in Trevor’s murder.
He wanted to believe her. Maybe he had misread Chief Carson’s tone the night before? Maybe Chief Carson treated everyone to that brusque, skeptical manner.
Anyway, the good news was his neighbors did not believe him capable of homicide. The bad news was that for all he knew, the bookshop might have to remain closed for the duration of the investigation. With the Crow’s Nest closed, Ellery had no income to keep the store afloat or himself from going broke. He needed the case to come to a quick resolution—one that did not end with his arrest—so that he could make the most of whatever business Buccaneer Days brought in.
Since sitting around worrying never solved anything, he decided to head back to Captain’s Seat and take his frustrations out on the kitchen’s remaining linoleum. He was on the wooden walk outside the shop, trying to get the door to lock, when Chief Carson pulled up in a white SUV with blue and gold insignia.
Ellery waited, trying to quash his unease as the chief unfolded from the vehicle and crossed the pavement. With an expression that unrevealing, Carson was probably a wiz at poker. Heck, he was probably a wiz at Russian roulette.
“Hi,” Ellery called.
“I understand you stopped by the station earlier,” Carson said. Not one for idle chitchat, clearly.
“Yes. I did.” He still wanted to ask Carson if he was the main suspect in Trevor’s murder, but even a few months in Pirate’s Cove had taught Ellery the walls had ears. Possibly also the doors, windows, and flower boxes.
Speaking of doors, he was still having trouble getting this one to lock. He pulled his key out, turned the knob, and the wretched thing swung open again. He felt vaguely flustered—and irritated by his reaction—as Carson reached him.
Carson looked just as grim up close as he did from a distance. Or maybe grim wasn’t the correct word. Stern? Stoic? Severe? He did not look like someone who smiled much, put it that way. Of course, being a cop was bound to be serious work, especially a cop with a murder to solve, but the pre-homicide Carson hadn’t been noticeably cheerier.