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Authors: Alice Kimberly
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reappeared with a small, middle-aged man at his side.
Ciders faced the newcomer with zero patience. “Who are you and what do you want?!” he roared.
“My name is Emory Philip Stoddard, Esquire,” the little man said, clearing his throat. “I am, or rather . . . I was Miss Todd’s legal representative. I received a call from your dispatcher to come immediately—”
Ciders cursed. “Sorry, Mr. Stoddard. Sorry about the yelling there. My bark is worse than my bite sometimes. I forgot I told Joyce to call your office.”
Seymour rolled his eyes. “I get strip-searched, falsely accused of murder, and prevented from doing my job, but the lawyer gets a formal apology over a little harsh language?”
Ciders shook the lawyer’s hand, and introductions were made all around—though the chief pointedly neglected to introduce Seymour.
As I greeted the man, it occurred to me that Mr. Stoddard was the polar opposite of Dr. Rubino. Where the doctor was a tanned, toned GQ -type clad in rough-looking outerwear, Mr. Stoddard was a rough-looking character swathed in a GQ package.
About five-foot-two, he had a ruddy complexion with a receding blond hairline, a hawkish nose beneath smallish light eyes, and a pudgy body immaculately wrapped in a tailored cobalt suit. His Windsor knot was perfect, the thin silver bar gleaming as it held his Italian silk tie firmly in place along his opalescent dress shirt. He wore matching cuff links, too, with which he continually fidgeted.
“I guess Joyce explained the situation,” Ciders said.
Mr. Stoddard nodded. “I understand that Miss Todd has passed. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Yeah, Chief,” Seymour piped up. “Tell the man what happened.”
Ciders scowled. “Mr. Tarnish here was just leaving .”
“Tarnish?” Mr. Stoddard repeated. “Are you by any chance Mr. Seymour Tarnish?”
Seymour nodded. “The one and only. What’s it to you?”
“It so happens that you’re mentioned in Miss Todd’s last will and testament,” Mr. Stoddard replied.
Seymour’s jaw went slack. “Huh?”
“You’re a beneficiary, man.”
Chief Ciders’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing down to tiny pinholes. “Tarnish here is inheriting something as a result of Miss Todd’s death?”
Mr. Stoddard nodded. “And so is Mrs. McClure and her aunt. I’ll be holding a meeting in my office forthwith.”
“What exactly is this man getting?” Ciders asked with naked suspicion.
“Oh, I am sorry, Chief, but for now that’s confidential.”
Ciders folded his arms and smirked. “Well, whatever the hell Miss Timothea Todd left her mailman, it better not be valuable. Because if Mr. Tarnish here winds up inheriting anything more than a souvenir ashtray and some dusty old books, I’d say that’s a motive for murder.”
CHAPTER 6
Beneficiaries
I loathe these dives . . . They look as if they only existed after dark, like ghouls.
—Raymond Chandler, “Blackmailers Don’t Shoot,” Black Mask , December 1933 (Chandler’s debut short story)
AFTER LEAVING MISS Todd’s mansion, I’d watched clouds roll in all afternoon. Now it was twilight and darkness descended with more murk than usual for a warm June night.
Heeding Mr. Stoddard’s official request to appear in his Millstone office at eight P.M., Aunt Sadie and I closed the bookshop early, leaving the Community Events room in the trustworthy hands of the Yarn Spinners reading group as well as our young part-timer, Bonnie.
Seymour Tarnish picked us up in his pristine, vintage 1975 lime green “breadloaf” Volkswagen bus. We piled in, dropped off my son, Spencer, at the home of his best buddy, Danny Keenan (the son of Seymour’s old friend, “Bottle Rocket Keith” Kennan), and then headed for the highway.
Seymour didn’t say much as he drove us to Millstone, which was unusual for the loquacious mailman. Wearing a slightly wrinkled blue suit, white shirt, and Mighty Mouse tie wide enough to double as
Ciders faced the newcomer with zero patience. “Who are you and what do you want?!” he roared.
“My name is Emory Philip Stoddard, Esquire,” the little man said, clearing his throat. “I am, or rather . . . I was Miss Todd’s legal representative. I received a call from your dispatcher to come immediately—”
Ciders cursed. “Sorry, Mr. Stoddard. Sorry about the yelling there. My bark is worse than my bite sometimes. I forgot I told Joyce to call your office.”
Seymour rolled his eyes. “I get strip-searched, falsely accused of murder, and prevented from doing my job, but the lawyer gets a formal apology over a little harsh language?”
Ciders shook the lawyer’s hand, and introductions were made all around—though the chief pointedly neglected to introduce Seymour.
As I greeted the man, it occurred to me that Mr. Stoddard was the polar opposite of Dr. Rubino. Where the doctor was a tanned, toned GQ -type clad in rough-looking outerwear, Mr. Stoddard was a rough-looking character swathed in a GQ package.
About five-foot-two, he had a ruddy complexion with a receding blond hairline, a hawkish nose beneath smallish light eyes, and a pudgy body immaculately wrapped in a tailored cobalt suit. His Windsor knot was perfect, the thin silver bar gleaming as it held his Italian silk tie firmly in place along his opalescent dress shirt. He wore matching cuff links, too, with which he continually fidgeted.
“I guess Joyce explained the situation,” Ciders said.
Mr. Stoddard nodded. “I understand that Miss Todd has passed. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Yeah, Chief,” Seymour piped up. “Tell the man what happened.”
Ciders scowled. “Mr. Tarnish here was just leaving .”
“Tarnish?” Mr. Stoddard repeated. “Are you by any chance Mr. Seymour Tarnish?”
Seymour nodded. “The one and only. What’s it to you?”
“It so happens that you’re mentioned in Miss Todd’s last will and testament,” Mr. Stoddard replied.
Seymour’s jaw went slack. “Huh?”
“You’re a beneficiary, man.”
Chief Ciders’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing down to tiny pinholes. “Tarnish here is inheriting something as a result of Miss Todd’s death?”
Mr. Stoddard nodded. “And so is Mrs. McClure and her aunt. I’ll be holding a meeting in my office forthwith.”
“What exactly is this man getting?” Ciders asked with naked suspicion.
“Oh, I am sorry, Chief, but for now that’s confidential.”
Ciders folded his arms and smirked. “Well, whatever the hell Miss Timothea Todd left her mailman, it better not be valuable. Because if Mr. Tarnish here winds up inheriting anything more than a souvenir ashtray and some dusty old books, I’d say that’s a motive for murder.”
CHAPTER 6
Beneficiaries
I loathe these dives . . . They look as if they only existed after dark, like ghouls.
—Raymond Chandler, “Blackmailers Don’t Shoot,” Black Mask , December 1933 (Chandler’s debut short story)
AFTER LEAVING MISS Todd’s mansion, I’d watched clouds roll in all afternoon. Now it was twilight and darkness descended with more murk than usual for a warm June night.
Heeding Mr. Stoddard’s official request to appear in his Millstone office at eight P.M., Aunt Sadie and I closed the bookshop early, leaving the Community Events room in the trustworthy hands of the Yarn Spinners reading group as well as our young part-timer, Bonnie.
Seymour Tarnish picked us up in his pristine, vintage 1975 lime green “breadloaf” Volkswagen bus. We piled in, dropped off my son, Spencer, at the home of his best buddy, Danny Keenan (the son of Seymour’s old friend, “Bottle Rocket Keith” Kennan), and then headed for the highway.
Seymour didn’t say much as he drove us to Millstone, which was unusual for the loquacious mailman. Wearing a slightly wrinkled blue suit, white shirt, and Mighty Mouse tie wide enough to double as
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