“That Theo Rackliff,” Junie said, her voice dropping the way it did when a name had been laundered through three phone calls and half the Hannaford lot. “The bank turned him down.”
Eleanor Whitcomb wiped the counter at Thistle & Vine, polishing away coffee rings that were not her own. Saturday morning, the third Saturday since Win fell, and the news had already circled the Landing.
“Turned him down for what?”
“That expansion loan he wanted, to buy out Win’s barn,” Junie said. She sat on one of the stools, a chipped mug warming her hands. “Back in August, I heard. A teller’s cousin told Paulie. Said the paperwork was a real mess. The man didn’t even have a current P and L.”
“Who heard the teller’s cousin say that?” Nell asked.
“Paulie did. She stopped him outside the credit union.” Junie set the mug down. “Then Paulie told me over the phone at ten.”
“So the whole Hannaford lot knows.”
“The whole Hannaford lot knows,” Junie said. “By noon it’ll be on the corkboard by the coin machine.”
“They have a corkboard by the coin machine?”
“They have a corkboard,” Junie said. “Same thing.”
Nell wiped a circle of Formica. She pictured Theo Rackliff: lean, ink on his cuffs, checking his phone like it owed him a sale. He had offered Win’s business before Win was cold in the ground. The loan story made the suspicion in town sound finished.
“Well,” she said.
“Well, what?” Junie pushed. “A man that broke, and the old man with a stack of signed first editions. Seems like motive to me.”
“It seems like paperwork,” Nell said. “You just gave me four people between the teller and us. By the tenth retelling, a missing current P and L gets a man convicted.”
Junie frowned. “You don’t think he did it?”
“I think a denied loan is a record, not a verdict.” Nell hung the rag over the faucet. “David used to say a story is a clean line. The facts are not.”
Junie crossed her arms. “You and David and your clean lines. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means a story that fits is the one I trust least.”
“He also said check the deed before you check the gossip,” Junie said.
“He did.”
That evening, the Grange Hall bustled. The Saturday bean supper was in full swing, and the smell of baked beans and woodsmoke hung over the long tables. Families sat elbow-to-elbow. Nell picked up a chipped porcelain plate and joined the line, watching Ro Pelletier ladle thick brown bread from a steaming kettle. Ro wore a yellow cardigan with small embroidered pumpkins.
“Nell,” Ro said. “Good to see you out. Haven’t had a decent Saturday off since… well.”
“Since Win.”
“I keep expecting him at the end of the line, complaining about my ladle.”
“I came for Paulie’s beans. And your brown bread.”
“Mine are pretty good too.” Ro gave a small shrug. “Just not the same without Win.” She paused. “He used to tease me about my Friday runs to Wexford. Always said I’d miss the nine o’clock news if I didn’t hurry.”
“Did you make it home for the news?”
“I was home for it, same as ever, that night he fell.”
Nell filed the timeline. It was the second time Ro had put herself at home on the Friday night Win fell. Home for the nine o’clock news, same as ever. It sounded ordinary. It sounded rehearsed.
She moved down the line, collecting a scoop of golden baked beans and a slice of brown bread. The whole supper cost $12.00, cash only, for adults. Paulie was behind the dessert table, directing traffic with a stern look and a kind hand.
“Paulie, these beans are perfect,” Nell said.
“You’ll want some chowder to take home, too.” Paulie grunted. “Don’t tell Junie I said so, but she still hasn’t finished hers from lunch.”
Nell laughed. “Your secret’s safe.”
“No it isn’t. Junie tells everyone.” Paulie filled a sturdy white Reny’s yogurt tub with thick haddock chowder and capped it tight. “No charge. It’s on me tonight.”
“I’ll owe you.”
“You’ll owe Junie, and she won’t let you forget it.”
Nell carried her plate to an empty spot at a table near the big fireplace. She ate slowly, listening to the murmurs of the town. Theo Rackliff’s name came up twice, tied to the failed loan. People said it like a verdict. A man desperate enough to try to take over his former mentor’s business, then desperate enough to kill. It fit a story, a simple one.
Later, back in Cass’s apartment above the shop, the chowder tub sat on the small kitchen table. Eleanor Whitcomb poured a cup of tea. She had the photograph of the ledger page, showing Ro’s neat penmanship under the Monday after Win fell: “Cellar bulb replaced. One new 60W, standard base.” She had Theo’s lie about not being at the shop that Friday night. Now she had the rumor of his failed loan, solidifying a visible motive. A man facing ruin, desperate for Win’s inventory, caught in a lie. It pointed to Theo, clear as a lighthouse beam.
But the file had a smell.
Win Prentiss had been close to finishing his appraisal. He was methodical, careful, his notebook a precise record of his work. He’d reached the “good shelves” in the cellar, where the valuable first editions were kept. If Theo Rackliff had wanted to hide fraud, a quick, un-audited bulk liquidation would serve that purpose. Curt Prentiss wanted that, too, for his inheritance.
But if the killer needed Win gone before he finished—to stop the count, to scatter the proof—why turn out the light on the stairs instead of simply pushing him? And why would Win’s flashlight be on the bench, his close-work glasses on his face? A sale needs him gone, yes. But so does a meticulous, item-by-item count of every book in the shop.
Which one does a dead appraiser actually serve?
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