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  Liss was about to pull her head back out and continue their search for Orson Bailey when she caught sight of a shoe.

  It was a man’s black dress shoe, lying on its side.

  Only an inch or so was visible, sticking out from beneath the floor-length tablecloth.

  Margaret saw it a moment after Liss did. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  After swallowing convulsively, Liss crept inside. She braced herself for an unpleasant discovery. Where there was a shoe, there was likely to be a foot, one with a body attached. Since this one was hidden under a table, the odds were good that it had not gotten there by accident. Using only her fingertips, she slowly lifted the cloth.

  It was still raised, revealing a very dead body, when Cindy joined them. At the sight, she shrieked Orson Bailey’s name and burst into tears.

  It was left to Liss to phone the police.

  Chapter Three

  Liss was, sadly, all too familiar with police procedure when it came to investigating a homicide. She willed herself to be patient when the local authorities arrived, separated her from Margaret and Cindy, and isolated her in one of the previously locked rooms at the Chadwick Historical and Genealogical Society.

  There was one significant difference this time around. When the first officer on the scene had asked for identification and she’d shown him her Maine driver’s license, he’d also asked to see her passport. Then he’d confiscated it.

  That was one way, she supposed, to make sure she didn’t leave town. Without her passport, she wouldn’t be allowed back across the border.

  Since she wasn’t wearing a watch and her cell phone and iPad were in the car, Liss had no accurate idea of how long she’d been left to twiddle her thumbs. The small room where she was sequestered was apparently used to make repairs on old books. After a while, in spite of the climate-controlled air that circulated through the entire building—no doubt a necessity to prevent damage to the many documents housed there—the decidedly musty smell coming off some of the volumes in for repair began to bother her. She tried to open the window but with no success. At some point in the building’s history, it had been painted shut. She had just given up the struggle and returned to her seat at the worktable when the door opened and a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police walked in.

  Sergeant Childs fit Liss’s image of a Mountie to at T . . . except for the fact that he was not wearing a bright red uniform. She kept this observation to herself. She doubted he’d be flattered if he knew she was comparing him to Dudley Do-Right, as portrayed in an over-the-top comedic performance by Brendan Fraser in a movie she’d seen years ago. Childs was, however, tall, muscular, square-jawed, and stone-faced.

  It occurred to Liss, as he took a moment to review notes he’d already made, that he probably had a lot in common with a certain Maine State Police detective named Gordon Tandy, someone with whom she’d had far too many professional encounters in the course of the past decade. As was the case with Gordon, she could not read Sergeant Childs’s expression. Until he spoke, she had no idea if he considered her a witness or a suspect.

  “It’s unfortunate you had to walk into such an unpleasant situation on your visit to Nova Scotia, Ms. Ruskin,” Childs said. “I have a few questions for you, but I will try to delay you for as short a time as possible. I understand you had an appointment with the deceased.”

  Liss let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It didn’t sound as if he considered her a suspect, despite the fact that she’d been the one to find the body.

  “My aunt and I were supposed to meet with Mr. Bailey at nine o’clock this morning.” When he gave her an encouraging nod, she went on. “Aunt Margaret corresponded with him by e-mail about some research we’re doing into the Chadwick family and he agreed to search the society’s collections for us. He was going to make copies of everything he found and give them to us today.”

  “Was there a specific reason why you needed to meet with him in person?”

  “Could he have mailed the copies or e-mailed them as attachments, do you mean? Yes, he could have, but my aunt and I were coming to Nova Scotia anyway. . . .”

  With a shrug, she let her words trail off. She’d be a fool to mention the map unless she had to. She could imagine what he’d think—crazy American tourist! The assessment might not be far wrong, at that. Other than in books and movies, when did X ever mark the spot where treasure was buried?

  Fortunately, the sergeant had other things on his mind. “Where were you before arriving in Chadwick?”

  Liss provided the name of the motel where they’d stayed the previous night. “I have the receipt,” she added, reaching for her tote. It didn’t appear that she and Margaret needed an alibi, but it didn’t hurt that the credit card slip had the time and date on it or that the motel in question was at least an hour’s drive away from Chadwick.

  “That’s not necessary,” Childs assured her. “Were you planning to stay here in Chadwick tonight?”

  Liss shook her head. “We have another appointment in Truro this afternoon. Then we’re headed for Cape Breton and we’ll spend the weekend at Antigonish.” That, at least, needed no explanation. Everyone in Nova Scotia was aware of the annual Highland Games.

  Apparently satisfied that he could find her if he needed to, Sergeant Childs took Liss through the details of her arrival at the headquarters of the Chadwick Historical and Genealogical Society leading up to the discovery of the body. He took careful notes.

  “Did you touch anything in the room or move the body?”

  “I lifted the tablecloth to see if there was anything I could do for him. One glimpse of his face was enough to tell me he was beyond help.” She repressed a shudder at the memory. Bailey’s eyes had been wide open but empty of life.

  “Mrs. Boyd was there with you?”

  “Yes. Right behind me. And then Ms. Fitzgibbons came in and saw the body and recognized him as Mr. Bailey.”

  “Did she touch anything?”

  “I don’t think so. I backed out of the room and closed the door. Mr. Bailey’s office was the closest one that was unlocked, so the three of us went there to phone the police.”

  He frowned. “Is that where you waited?”

  Liss shook her head. “Once help was on the way, we went out to the parking lot at the front of the building to wait.”

  Childs made a note, then tapped the eraser end of his pencil on his pad. “Did you see anyone else or hear anything when you first entered the building?”

  He’d already asked her that question, phrased in a slightly different way. Liss had a feeling that he would repeat all of his questions before he was through. Gordon always did, looking for discrepancies in a witness’s account and making sure no seemingly insignificant detail was accidentally left out.

  When Sergeant Childs finally put his notebook away, Liss asked a question of her own. “How did he die? I didn’t see any blood.”

  She supposed it was too much to hope for that Bailey’s death would be ruled something other than a homicide. It seemed unlikely. People who died from natural causes didn’t usually crawl under tables to breathe their last. It was equally difficult to suffer a fatal accident in such a location. Someone had to have hidden Bailey’s body there after he died.

  “It’s too early to say.” The enigmatic mask was back in place. All cop, Childs rose and gestured for her to precede him into the hallway. “If you’ll come with me?”

  Liss sighed. “You probably wouldn’t tell me anyway.” She sent a rueful smile in his direction and was surprised when he returned it.

  “True enough,” he admitted.

  He escorted her into the area at the front of the building that she’d earlier identified as a reading room and settled her in at a table. Then he asked, very politely, that she wait there until he told her she could leave. Canadian to the core, he once again apologized for delaying her departure.

  “You haven’t talked to my aunt yet, have you?”

 
“That’s next on my list.” He disappeared into the back of the building . . . without returning her passport.

  Liss folded her arms on the tabletop and bent forward to rest her forehead against them. As the full force of her grisly discovery belatedly hit home, she wanted nothing so much as to cover her eyes with her hands and make the rest of the world go away.

  * * *

  Less than ten minutes later, Liss was up and pacing. All she’d managed to do by closing her eyes was bring a vivid image of Orson Bailey’s dead face into her mind. She stared out the window at her car, wishing Childs would finish with her aunt so they could be on their way. She couldn’t wait to put Chadwick in her rearview mirror.

  Forgetting what had happened here would be harder. As it should be, she supposed. Death should never be trivialized and murder was the most heinous of crimes. That Liss had encountered homicides before did nothing to make this experience less harrowing.

  She turned at a faint sound from the doorway and was hit full force by the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Cindy Fitzgibbons entered the reading room carrying a tray that held two steaming mugs, a sugar bowl, and a small pitcher of cream.

  “You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” she said, placing it on one of the tables and waving Liss back into her chair. As soon as she was seated, Cindy joined her.

  “You, on the other hand, look like you could use a drink of something stronger than coffee,” Liss said.

  It was not a tactful observation, but it was nothing less than the truth. Cindy’s light green eyes were red-rimmed from crying and her face was unnaturally pale, even for a redhead.

  “You’re right about that, but all I have in my office is a small coffeemaker and the basic supplies to go with it. I keep them there for those times when I don’t want conversation with my morning break.”

  Liss doctored her coffee with cream and sugar and took a tentative sip, then another when she was sure she wouldn’t burn her tongue. She’d had a difficult morning, but it had been a hundred times worse for Cindy.

  “Did you work with Mr. Bailey for a long time?”

  Cindy’s lower lip trembled before she got it under control. “Five years. As president of the society and town historian, Orson was trying to get the organization’s records into some sort of order. He was a trained archivist, you know. We were lucky to have him.” She swiped at the fresh tears with her fingers, then fumbled in the pocket of her slacks for a tissue.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “The society isn’t even open today,” Cindy said as she dabbed at her eyes. “Orson only came in because he wanted to help you and your aunt find information on your family. He was always willing to give a hand to amateur genealogists.”

  Liss didn’t bother to correct the impression that she and Margaret were descended from the Chadwicks. She did wonder what had become of the copies Bailey had planned to make for her aunt, but this wasn’t the time to ask. Cindy had enough on her plate.

  “Did he often come in when the building was closed?” she asked instead.

  “He was selfless. Dedicated.”

  Liss let her eulogize, all the while trying to decide if Cindy knew that her idol had been paid handsomely for the time he’d spent researching the Chadwicks. True, Bailey had volunteered to go over what he’d found with them in person without additional charge, but that didn’t qualify him for sainthood.

  “He was the one who suggested using the society’s headquarters as a meeting place,” she ventured.

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure he was planning to be here anyway, on his own except for me. He liked being able to work without interruptions.”

  “He was going to leave the front door unlocked for us.”

  Cindy frowned. “Yes. I was surprised when I had to use my key to get in.”

  She didn’t think it unusual that he was unconcerned about strangers walking in on him, and yet she’d just said that he liked to work without fear of interruption. Cindy’s statements were contradictory, but Liss made allowances. She was upset by her colleague’s murder. Who wouldn’t be?

  Stop imagining skullduggery, Liss cautioned herself. People were inconsistent in their habits. And it certainly wasn’t uncommon to leave a door unlocked in a small town in broad daylight. This neighborhood seemed safe enough, made up mainly of private homes and older houses broken up into apartments. There was a small mom-and-pop restaurant just down the block and an art supply store next door to the society’s headquarters, but it wasn’t a high-traffic area, nor was it high-risk.

  “It’s strange,” Cindy murmured, holding her cup in both hands, as if she needed its warmth. “He knew you were coming. No matter when he got here, he should have let himself in and left the door unlocked for you.”

  “You mean he might have come in quite a bit earlier?”

  “Oh, yes.” In spite of her sorrow and distress, Cindy managed a fond smile. “Orson just loved doing research. Often he arrived here at the crack of dawn to work on some project or other. You aren’t the only American to write to us about finding her roots, you know. Why, I’ll bet we get a half dozen letters and e-mails every week from people wanting to know something or other about the past. Orson just ate that stuff up. Bread and butter, he’d say.”

  A drop of moisture appeared at the corner of one of Cindy’s eyes and rolled slowly down an already tear-stained cheek to plop into her coffee. She sniffled again, fished a tissue out of a pocket, and noisily blew her nose. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize.” Liss reached out to pat the other woman’s arm.

  At a guess, they were about the same age, but Cindy had an innocence about her that made Liss think she had not had much prior experience dealing with the death of someone she’d known and liked. Maybe it was even more than liked, given that they’d worked closely together for such a long time. The glimpse she’d had of Orson Bailey had shown him to be an older man, closer to Margaret’s age than her own, but perhaps he’d been a father figure to the younger woman. It didn’t really matter. What did was that Cindy was grieving and Liss’s heart went out to her.

  “He often came in early,” Cindy reiterated. “ ‘The early bird gets the worm,’ that was one of his favorite sayings.”

  Only in this case, Liss thought, the worm might have turned.

  They didn’t say much else to each other during the remaining time they had to wait for Sergeant Childs to reappear. Liss found it comforting to have company and suspected Cindy felt the same.

  As soon as Margaret and the sergeant entered the reading room, Liss scrambled to her feet. “Are we done here?”

  “You are free to continue your trip,” Childs said, and returned her passport. He also gave her a card with his name and contact information printed on it. “If you think of anything else between now and when you leave the country next Monday, please let me know as soon as possible.”

  Liss assured him that she would.

  Once outside, she drew in a deep breath of fresh Canadian air. “I feel like I’ve just been let out of jail,” she confided as she and Margaret walked toward the car.

  “Well,” Margaret said, philosophically, “there is a certain cachet in being able to say we were interrogated by the Mounties. That’s the kind of story you can dine out on for months to come.”

  Liss wished she could match her aunt’s upbeat attitude. As in any investigation of a homicide, witnesses ended up doing a great deal of sitting around and waiting. She’d had entirely too much time to think about grim topics like sudden death, crime, and violence. Add to that the fact that she’d been asked a lot of questions, the kind that made even an innocent person start to feel nervous, and she was more than ready for a change of topic.

  Unfortunately, Margaret was still fixated on the crime. “How long do you think Mr. Bailey had been dead?” she asked when they were in the car with seat belts fastened. “You got a better look at him than I did.”

  “I have no idea, but if they thought he was kil
led after we arrived in Chadwick, I’m pretty sure they’d still be grilling us.” Liss knew she sounded sour, but it took too much effort to sweeten her tone. She turned the key in the ignition with rather more force than necessary.

  She kept hoping she’d never have to be involved in another murder investigation again, and here she was, smack-dab in the middle of a new one. Worse, even though they were apparently off the hook as suspects, she couldn’t stop feeling a connection to the crime. Cindy had implied that Bailey might have been there, door unlocked, even if he hadn’t been expecting them, but how could she not feel partially responsible? Except for turning over the research he’d done at Margaret’s request, he’d had no specific reason to be at the society’s headquarters on this particular day.

  She shook her head to clear it. Time to hit the road. They had an appointment with a kilt maker in Truro at three in the afternoon. She steered the car out of the parking lot and away from the scene of the crime. Somewhere between here and there, they’d have to find a place to have lunch, but right now all Liss wanted was to put Chadwick far behind her.

  Focus on business, she told herself.

  Good intentions were not enough. As she drove, her thoughts kept returning to the events of the morning. Like it or not, she was involved in this homicide, and since she was, she wanted to know who had killed Orson Bailey and why and, most of all, when.

  Determining the time of death was tricky unless the victim’s watch happened to get broken at the exact moment he was killed. There would probably be a window of several hours. Still, it was a good thing she and Margaret had an alibi. Since they’d spent the night a good hour’s drive away from Chadwick, they were probably completely in the clear, although it wouldn’t surprise Liss if she got back home and found out the RCMP had been checking up on her.