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

rye, a New York specialty.
    “You got a solid case, Nick?” Rhonda asked.
    “You know I can’t discuss that,” Nick said.
    “Such a by-the-books guy.”
    “Doin’ my job, Rhonda.”
    After lunch we headed back to the sheriff’s office, and being the persistent type I brought up Buster’s computer again.
    “Did I ever tell you I was a senior computer analyst, a title that covers a lot of territory?”
    “It’s been brought to my attention, but I suspect there’s some you haven’t told me.”
    As we walked I ticked off my accomplishments, raising a finger for each to illustrate more clearly.
    “I’ve debugged, revamped, programmed and reprogrammed. I’m proficient in Windows, Macintosh, Linux, UNIX, and DOS. I have a Masters in Computer Science.” I used all ten fingers in the ticking process. “Are you impressed?”
    “I am.”
    He stopped by the slanting Police Vehicles Only sign and inspected the damage. He touched the small smear of silver paint and rubbed the residue between his fingers as if it would reveal something. I studied the sign, too, a concerned citizen, eyeing the silver paint scrap on the sign, happy to see it was a small chunk, as chunks go.
    “Wonder when this happened?” he said.
    I shrugged my shoulders, and gave him my best how-would-I-know look.
    “The guy who’s coming next week from headquarters probably has an Associates in Computer Technology,” I said.
    Nick said nothing, just walked around the damaged sign as if seeing it from all angles would reveal the culprit. It was obvious he already had a suspect in mind.
    “Do you really think Vivian murdered Buster?” I asked as he glanced from the sign to my silver truck parked down the road.
    He gave me a long hard accusing stare, which did not bother me at all. I stared right back.
    “Can’t say,” he finally answered.
    We headed up the steps of the station house.
    “If someone threatened … let’s say … to throw you into a vat of boiling oil, would you say anything then?”
    “Most likely.”
    “What would you say?”
    “You threatening?”
    “I’m not a violent person. But let’s just suppose….”
    “I’d probably say I was looking at other suspects, too.”
    Progress. “Who?”
    He opened the door of the station house and I went in ahead of him.
    “Who?” I whispered, eyeing skinny Trimble watching us from the main desk.
    “Follow me.”
    Anywhere, I almost said. Fortunately, I’m a little more sophisticated and held my tongue.
    When we reached the hall , away from prying eyes and listening ears, he said, “I’m looking at all Buster’s relatives and friends, and the people he did business with around town. Some of your relatives are on the list. Most have been eliminated, but not all.”
    “My relatives. What relatives?”
    “Your Uncle Walter is still on the list along with two of your cousins. I’ll probably cross the cousins off before the day is out.”
    We continued down to the visitors’ room and then stopped.
    “I don’t know Uncle Walter. Why is he a suspect?”
    “I shouldn’t have called him a suspect. He’s a person of interest. He spent a lot of time with Buster over the years. I saw them in town about two months before Buster was killed. From the looks of it they were having a heated discussion. I need to find out what that was about.”
    “They were fighting?”
    “Looked like it. I’ll take a drive out later today and talk to him.”
    Hand on the doorknob, he said in a quiet voice, “Don’t be concerned with negative feedback from my mother. The bottom line is that of all the people in this town who know you, I am probably the least eager to see you leave. I thought you knew that.”
    He kissed me on the lips and opened the door, not giving me time to say anything.
    Although I spent the next twenty minutes with Vivian, reporting on her brood, listening to additional instructions about this and that, and meeting her lawyer whom I figured would probably do a pretty good