Rules for Perfect Murders - Peter Swanson Page 0,47
at least two weeks every summer. Honestly, it’s my grandpa who reveres this place because they do baked oysters the way he likes them.”
The waitress came. I ordered a Gritty McDuff’s English-style bitter and a lobster roll. Gwen ordered a Harpoon and a haddock Rueben.
“No baked oysters?” I said.
She turned to the waitress. “Can we get six oysters to start?”
After the waitress left, Gwen said, “For Grandpa. I’ll let him know.”
“Where do they live the rest of the year?” I asked.
“Upstate New York, although they keep talking about moving here year-round. But they’d have to buy a new house. The lake place isn’t winterized. Have you been to this part of Maine before?”
“I’ve been to Camden. Once. That’s close to here, right?”
“Next town, yeah. When was that?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Ten years ago. Just a vacation.” I’d gone with Claire, of course, back when we frequently took road trips all over New England.
Our beers arrived, along with a basket of bread. We each took sips, then Gwen said, “Can I ask you about your wife? Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind, no,” I said and tried to look normal. But I was aware that we’d lost eye contact across the table.
“When did she die?”
“Five years ago, now, although it doesn’t feel that long.”
“I’m sure,” Gwen said, wiping some foam off her upper lip with a knuckle. “That must have been terrible. Her dying so young. The way she died.”
“You’ve done some checking up.”
“Yes. A little bit. When I first got your name, when I found the list, I ran a check on you.”
“Did you see that I’d been questioned in the murder investigation into Eric Atwell?”
“I did see that.”
“I would have killed him, if I had a chance. But it wasn’t me.”
“I know that.”
“It’s okay if you don’t. I know you’re doing your job, and I know you’re wondering what connection I have with all these murders. Truth is, I don’t have any, or at least not that I know of. After my wife died, I told myself that I would just go on living by myself, doing my job, reading books. I want a quiet life.”
“I believe you,” she said, and she looked at me with an emotion I couldn’t quite read. It seemed like affection. Or maybe it was pity.
“You sure?”
“Well, this crime scene, Elaine Johnson’s murder, does change things. It’s different from the others. It’s pointing directly at you, directly at the list.”
“I know it is. It’s giving me a very strange feeling.”
“Tell me more about Brian Murray. Would he have known Elaine Johnson?”
“He did, actually,” I said. “Well, I don’t know if he’d spoken to her, but he definitely knew her because Brian comes to all our readings, and Elaine comes, as well. Used to come.”
“How did the two of you end up buying the store together?”
“We were friends, not close, but he was in the store a lot, and we’d occasionally get a drink. When the previous owner decided to sell, I must have told Brian about it, about how I’d buy it if I had the money. I think he offered to come in right away. He had his lawyer write up a deal in which he provided the majority of the capital and I’d manage the business. It was a perfect arrangement. It still is. He doesn’t have anything to do with these murders.”
“How do you know that?”
I sipped my beer. “He’s an alcoholic, a functioning one, but barely. He writes his yearly book in about two months and takes the rest of the year off to drink. He’s sixty years old but looks seventy, and every time we hang out together he tells me the exact same stories. I just don’t see it. Even if for some reason he had murderous intentions, there’s just no way he could pull it off. He doesn’t even drive. He takes taxis everywhere.”
“Okay.”
“You believe me?”
“I’ll look into him, but, yes, I believe you. I used to read his books, actually, when I was a teenager. Ellis Fitzgerald was one of the reasons I wanted to go into law enforcement.”
“The early books were good.”
“I loved them. I remember that I could read an entire book in a day.”
Our oysters came, and the rest of our food shortly afterward. We didn’t talk anymore about the crime scene, or Brian Murray, or anything remotely personal. We ate, and Gwen went over her plan for the next day. She was going to go into the local FBI office and arrange for