Death Takes Priority by Jean Flowers Read Free Book Online Page B

coffeemaker, which stood on its own heavy oak table next to the floor-mounted American flag.
    â€œSurprised?” Sunni had asked the first time she caught me staring at the sleek black appliance. “My little indulgence, paid for it myself, of course. It’s fully programmable.” She’d run her finger along the steam pipe. “Espresso drinks, three cup sizes, timer, temperature control. The Cadillac of coffeemakers.”
    â€œDishwasher safe?” I’d asked.
    She’d smiled and told me she was saving up for the newest model in red.
    â€œCappuccino?” she asked now.
    I accepted Sunni’s offer and took a seat as she’d indicated. Soon, I was propped in a battered but comfortable chair across from her large oak desk, which bore stains and scratches from unnamed incidents over the years. Old wooden file cabinets, similarly scarred, and a bulky cast-iron radiator completed the look. Altogether, the furniture in Sunni’s office was of the kind our local antiques dealer would immediately put through the wringer of restoration. I wondered where said dealer was at that moment. Not downstairs in the two-cell jail, I hoped.
    I sipped rich, strong coffee through whole milk foam and waited patiently while Sunni dealt with the crises of the day: a male officer with a flag patch on his sleeve, like his boss’s, gave a verbal report on a rabid skunk that was terrorizing Mr. Jayne’s backyard; and a female officer told another tale about a vandalized restroom at the high school shared by North and South Ashcot. Sunni checked off a sheaf of paper forms for each officer. Another time, I would have been curious to know what the paperwork was all about.
    No one yet had mentioned the murdered man found in our woods. At least, not in front of me. The officers gone and her own steaming cappuccino ready, Sunni took her official seat and readied a pen and notebook. Her look was all business.
    â€œHow long have you known Scott James, Cassie?”
    And we were off. I was grateful to still be “Cassie” to the woman in uniform. I cleared my throat. “Just since I’vebeen back, about three months. I met him around the same time that I met you.”
    â€œWhat do you know about him?”
    I swallowed. “Not much. Not as much as you do, I’m sure. I don’t know what he did before he came to North Ashcot. I don’t even know where he’s from. Do you?”
Ramble on, Cassie.
    â€œYou were at lunch with him today?”
    â€œYes, but just lunch. I mean it wasn’t really a date.” I hoped I wasn’t blushing. Dark hair notwithstanding, I’d been blessed with fair skin that reddened easily, whether I was embarrassed or just thought I might be embarrassed in the future.
    â€œWhat did you talk about?”
    â€œGeneral stuff. A lot about me. How I came to be a postal employee. A little about his garden. He mentioned Chicago, but I don’t think that’s where he’s from. He said ‘out West’ but that could be anywhere. And I have no idea if he was in the antiques business there, or . . .” I shrugged and finally fell silent.
    Like all good cops on television, Sunni nodded, wrote a few words on her notepad, and waited me out. She raised her eyebrows slightly, as if to ask, “Anything else?” At first no words came out, but like all good interviewees on television, guilty or not, I couldn’t stand the silence. “Can I ask, does this have something to do with the murdered man in the woods? Is Scott under suspicion?”
    â€œDo you have reason to think he should be?”
    I threw up a mug-free hand and let it fall onto my lap. “No, no. I’m clueless here.”
    Sunni sat back. “Do you have any idea why there wouldbe a stack of telephone directories in his apartment, a couple hundred of them, addressed to the Postmaster, North Ashcot, Massachusetts?” She paused.