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Frank poked his head in the doorway a minute later. “Hey, guess who finally showed up?”
“The missing neighbor?” Nico guessed.
“Yep. According to Seth, he’s already come and gone from his apartment. I’m heading over to his taxidermy shop now to talk to him.”
“Did you say taxidermy?”
Frank made a face. “Sure did.”
“Creepy. I’ll come with you.”
Chapter seven
“Colin Rowe,” Frank read aloud from his notes as they neared a cottage-style building on Main Street. “Thirty-four. Married, no children.”
Nico’s face pinched in distaste. “I never liked stuffed animals.”
“What? Not even teddy bears?”
When Nico turned deadpan eyes to his companion, Frank smirked and kept walking.
Colin Rowe’s shop was neat and tidy—obsessively so—even though it looked like it belonged to the era of bell-bottom jeans and disco: faded yellow carpet lined the floor, varnished paneling on the walls, display shelves boasted his dedication to his craft—all manner of fur and feathered animals looking alive enough to make any person take a second look. But no trace of certain extra-curricular activities—namely killing innocent young women—jumped out as Nico surveyed the space.
The man himself was—in a word—nonthreatening. Clean shaven and annoyingly friendly, he couldn’t do enough for the two of them, even insisting on brewing tea before they sat down.
“So,” he said, pouring three cups then settling into an ugly green sofa, opposite Nico and Frank. “Please tell me how I can help with your investigation.”
Frank took the lead. “You’re not under any suspicion here, Mr. Rowe. We just have a few routine questions.”
“Of course. Fire away.”
“Could you start by telling us how long you’ve lived in Mercy Cove?”
“Oh, six or seven years now. We—I moved here in my late twenties.”
“From where?”
“Wherever I was at the time,” he laughed. “I think France if memory serves. I was a travel writer, you see. When I was younger.”
“Lived for adventure, huh?” Nico asked, taking a sip of the odd-smelling tea because it was the polite thing to do, and instantly regretting it.
Colin nodded. “You could say that.”
“So, what made you settle here?”
For the first time since he’d beckoned them inside, the taxidermist looked tense. “Uh, well, Kate—my wife—she was a photographer. We traveled together. She fell in love with the landscape here. The ocean. The people. And because I was in love with her . . .” He shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.
“You stayed,” Frank finished.
“I stayed. Decided to learn a new skill”—he gestured to the variety of stuffed animals around them—“and made this place my home.”
“I see,” Frank said.
“Mr. Rowe, we understand this might be difficult, but could you talk to us about Isabelle Moss?” Nico asked. “How well did you know her?”
“Well, we were neighbors,” he replied.
“Outside of the neighborly sense,” Frank amended. “How well did you know her?”
