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

Nick. “I mean something you wouldn’t be interested in, not a big crime certainly.”
    “If I can ever be of help, let me know,” I said.
    Another woman walked in and Alice waved her over. “Rhonda, come meet Nora.”
    Rhonda, a petite attractive woman, probably in her mid-fifties, swung her trim hips as if she were walking down a runway to the rhythm of a bass drum.
    Boom, ba-da boom, ba-da boom, boom, boom.
    Despite the sexy walk, it was her hair that grabbed my attention. It contradicted the walk. It was light brown, gentle and ultra-feminine, kind of a bouffant updo with a few curls fluttering around her face. It was soft, not Mary Fran sprayed, and reminded me of Great-Grandma Evie’s hair in an old photo. The words Ida used when she first pointed out the picture popped into my head. Gibson Girl. I liked the look.
    Her smile seemed mechanical as she extended a slim hand to me. “Rhonda Racanelli.” She turned to Nick, her smile evaporating. “It’s terrible about Buster.”
    Her tone had me on instant alert. Something there. Behind the words.
    Alice left the menus and paper placemats and went behind the counter to get flatware. Since I already knew what I wanted, I slid the menu aside, straightened my placemat and focused on Rhonda who looked genuinely upset about the victim.
    “I heard Vivian killed him. Such an awful woman with all those dogs. You did good work catching her so soon, Nick.”
    “Sit for a few minutes,” Nick said as he made room for her beside him. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Rhonda. She hasn’t been convicted yet.”
    I was happy to hear him say that.
    Rhonda slid into the seat. “Well, you must have a good case against her or you wouldn’t have arrested her. She should spend the rest of her life in prison.” Her lips tightened. Then she added softly, “Buster was a good guy. Everyone at the camp misses him. Who knew that call would be his last?”
    “Call?” I asked.
    She looked at me for a moment. “Oh. You’re the one who found him. He called to say he’d be late. He was expecting someone. You, I guess.”
    I nodded. Then said, “You knew him well?”
    She stared a moment and I wondered whether she was assessing me or trying to decide whether to answer. Or perhaps it was something completely different.
    Nick picked up the menu.
    Finally, she said, “About as good as anybody in town, I suppose. His nephews work for me. They were in high school with my son Steven, not exactly friends like Buster wanted them to be, but they knew each other. Steven went off to college and then medical school. He’s at the Maine Medical Center in Portland now.” She took a deep breath and said quietly, “We’re so proud of him.”
    I felt the catch in her throat as if it were in my own.
    People approach parenting so differently. I couldn’t picture my own parents being emotional over my success. When I was accepted into New York University’s prestigious computer science program on an academic scholarship my mother’s only comment was, You’d better not spend your time partying and lose that scholarship because we’re not putting out good money for you .
    My father’s comment was shorter: Congrats, kid .
    “He sounds like a wonderful son,” I said.

She nodded. “Yes. He is. Very much like his father.”
    I traced the rose graphic on the placemat as I thought about that. Finally, refocusing on the information she’d given, I said, “So Stan and Lenny work for you.”
    “I own the All-Season Wilderness Lodge and Campground outside of town. Stan drives the bus, takes folks to the lake and to the whitewater rafting site downriver, and Lenny’s our computer guy. Handles my accounting program, something I intend to learn.”
    The waitress returned and I ordered my all-time favorite, a Maine lobster roll. No surprise there. You’d think I’d be sick of lobster rolls by now, but no, I just keep storing them away like a squirrel preparing for winter. Nick went with corned beef on