“Because my eyes, detective, although old, still work. That, and I eat dinner every other night at the Widow Tavern--they have very good baked cod--and Ksesia’s been my waitress on a number of occasions. What an interesting life she’s led; and what an excellent opportunity for her to come to America for the summer and work!”
“So did Ksesia tell you that she was involved with Jay?”
“No no. But Jay spent most nights at the bar, and as I said, I have eyes. He was a good-looking young man, Jay was, and Ksesia was a beauty beyond compare, don’t you think, Detective?”
“Well, I can’t say I didn’t notice--“
“No, of course you can’t. And if I were you, she is the direction you need to be looking in. Jay’s murder was premeditated and in cold blood, so there must’ve been a very specific reason for wanting him dead. It wasn’t money, of course. His parent’s have plenty, but no one stands to gain financially from his death. That leaves revenge--“
“You think Carli--“
“I think Carli was most definitely a wronged party, but I just can’t see it, can you?”
Detective McPhee shook his head and pursed his lips. Carli Clark might be socially ambitious to a fault, but she was no murderer.
“So then there is always love for a motive, or whatever it is that passes for love these days,” Mary Niven continued. “That is why I’m advising you to take a look at Ksesia Poliakoff. It is my opinion that Jay was not the only man involved with Ksesia and that he might have been killed because he was competition that needed to be removed. It’s only a theory, of course.”
“So who else do you think might be involved with Ksesia? Besides Jay.”
Mary picked at the handkerchief at her wrist. “Normally I wouldn’t gossip about such a thing but there is a murder involved. Chris Williams--he manages the bookstore, you know--has a two-ton crush on her but I don’t think he’ll ever do anything about it. And if he doesn’t have the nerve to ask her out then I highly doubt he had the nerve to cut Jay Martin’s throat. No, if I were you, I’d take a look at Bill Jackett.”
“The bartender.”
“I’m sure he’d prefer to be known as the proprietor. He owns the Widow, you know.”
“Right. I did know that. He’s involved with Ksesia?”
“I’m sure of it and I would imagine a number of other folks in town are sure of it as well. Strangely enough, I don’t think that Emily Jackett, his wife, knows. I suppose she’ll be the last to find out, poor thing.”
“So Ksesia is involved with two men. One is a college boy on his summer break, and the other is the married owner of the bar she works in. Here’s my question: Ksesia is a temporary fling for both of them, so why would Bill Jackett be so jealous that he would decide to kill his competition. It seems extreme.”
“I agree, Detective. It’s very extreme. But then again, Ksesia is extremely beautiful. I know they tell us it’s all in the eye of the beholder, but really, in her case ...”
Mary let the sentence drift. Detective McPhee wondered if this old spinster was just a little too fixated on the tempting qualities of the Russian waitress. Then again, he agreed with her. He’d seen Ksesia, and questioned her briefly about the murder, and she was a tall, lithe blonde with pillowy lips and cream-colored skin, most of which was left exposed by short denim skirts and black satin tank-tops. He’d wondered--and he wasn’t the only one--why she was serving up fried clams and Narragansett beer on the outer cape instead of walking runways in some cosmopolitan city.
“And one more thing,” Mary continued. “As I said before, Jay spent a lot of time at the bar of the Widow. To be near Ksesia, of course, but also because he liked to drink. Bill tended bar and the two were chummy. By chummy I mean they jawed a lot. About the Red Sox mostly, I think, but other things as well. Anyway, the other night, about a week ago I’d say, the subject of Ksesia came up. Jay was inebriated, to say the least, and he told Bill to keep his hands off of her. Told him fairly loudly as well. Several people heard.”
“So you think that it’s also a possibility that Bill killed Jay to keep him quiet about the affair he was having.”
“Yes, that did occur to me as another possible motive. Not too strong, of course, but coupled with the love triangle, who knows ... Worth following up on, anyway.”
“Yes, I agree. You’ve been very helpful.” Detective McPhee, in preparation to leave, placed his hands on the arms of his chair.
“Do you like birds, Detective?” Mary Niven asked, out of nowhere.
“They’re alright. I wouldn’t say I have a special affinity.”
“That’s too bad. I’m very fond of birds. Did you realize that Jay Martin’s name was two birds.”
“I don’t follow.”
“A Jay and a Martin. They are both names of birds. Two birds.”
“Oh right.”
“Only interesting to me, I guess,” Mary said, and laughed her pinched, staccato laugh.
“You’ve been very helpful.”
“Good luck to you, Detective. I don’t envy you your task.”
Mary walked the police officer to her front door and showed him out. After he’d left she stood for a moment, one hand still on the doorknob of the open door, and admired her view of the distant ocean. It was a vista mostly unchanged in her lifetime, and she knew she would never tire of it.
A decent man, she thought to herself, about the detective. Not sure he has the detective instinct, though. Smart enough. Just a little lacking in curiosity. Mary had always had the detective instinct. Even when she had been a little girl she’d had it, a desire to know the business of others, whether or not it was any business of her’s, as her mother had frequently reminded her.
She shut the door and turned inward to her house. The hallway was dark but she could see that afternoon light still flooded the rear of her house and her back garden. There was some weeding to do, not much, but she made her way toward it.
#
Prompted by Miss Niven, Detective McPhee began to investigate Bill Jackett. A few interrogations (Bill’s wife was more than willing to talk) proved that Bill Jackett was most definitely involved with Ksesia Poliakoff, and that there had been a public disagreement between Bill and Jay Martin only four days before Jay had been murdered.
The lack of an alibi, and the discovery of a dark hair at the scene of the crime procured a warrant. And the warrant turned up a stash of straight-edged razors, the kind of weapon that had already been determined to be the murder weapon. After a DNA match had been made, Bill was arrested, protesting his innocence the entire time.
He was currently being held without bail pending a trial, but all concerned felt that the right man had been nabbed. Detective McPhee had solved the first murder case in town in over twenty-five years.
In early September he visited Mary Niven again. It was a colder afternoon, the air a little crispy, and they sat in her front parlor, each in lumpy upholstered chairs.
“I wanted to thank you, Miss Niven,” the detective said, after taking a polite sip at some unpleasant tea.
“Mary, please, and what for? I just provided a little gossip. You could have heard it from anywhere.”
“But I heard it from you and I thank you. Bill Jackett, frankly, was nowhere near our radar till you put him there.”
“He’d have shown up in due course. They usually do, you know, the guilty parties. We can hide from the eyes of our neighbors but never from the eyes of God.”
“True enough. I do have one question. You said that you saw Jay Martin and Bill argue one night in the bar about Ksesia. We confirmed that that had happened, but everyone else we talked with agreed that it happened on a Sunday night. Now I heard that you never go to the Widow on a Sunday night.”
Mary giggled. “You are a detective, after all. No, I wasn’t there when they had the fight but I was sure that they were going to. It was in the cards. I’d been watching Jay Martin give Bill Jacket the hairy eyeball for over a month. It was a storm brewing. I’m sorry if I embellished.”
“That’s okay. Then what made you so sure that Bill Jackett was involved? You were sure, weren’t you? That time we first talked?”
“If I’d told you what made me truly suspect Bill Jackett, you’d have dismissed me outright.”
“Tell me. I’m curious."
“It was his appearance more than anything. He’s the swarthy type, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess so.”
“Yet he always had the smoothest skin. He was, and I’ve always thought this, the best shaved man in this vicinity. In that way he reminded me of my own father, and I thought to myself, the only way to get a really close shave like that is with a straight razor. So when I heard that Jay Martin’s throat had been cut with a razor ...”
“You thought it must be Bill?”
“Silly, I know, but it turned out to be correct. When one man decides to murder another, I think the weapon is usually something close at hand, don’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Detective McPhee said, and finished his tea, suppressing a shudder. He’d always hated tea and was loathe to imagine how anyone could choose it over coffee.
“Please come again, Detective. Even if you’re not in search of gossip. I’m always happy for company.” They stood in the doorway again. The wind had picked up in the short time Detective McPhee had been in Mary Niven’s house. He bunched his shoulders against the chill and said his goodbyes.