Back To School Murder #4 (4 page)

“Can't you get them to hold it? Stop the presses, or something,” asked Lucy.

Ted gave her a withering glance. “What do you think this is—a movie or something? We don't have our own press. I can't stop anything. Frankly, I'm lucky the Portland paper puts up with me—my press run is so small.” He patted at his pants with a napkin. “I think I'll go change my clothes.”

As Lucy and Barney watched, he trudged across the office and out the door.

“Gosh,” said Barney. “I didn't mean to upset him.”

“Don't worry. You can't take Ted too seriously. If I got upset every time he yelled at me, well, I'd be upset an awful lot. It's just the way he is. One minute he's a screaming maniac and the next he's forgotten all about it. Really.”

“If you say so,” said Barney.

“You're sure about this? That the call came from the school?”

“Oh, yeah.” Barney nodded.

“But who could have done it? Not one of the teachers?”

“Not likely. Chief seems to think it was a kid.”

“A kid?” Lucy was incredulous.

“Kids have changed.” Barney nodded sadly. “Over at Gilead they charged a fourteen-year-old with rape.”

“I just don't believe a child could have done it, and especially not one from Tinker's Cove. If they're real daredevils, they ride their bicycles against traffic for thrills.”

“I know what you mean,” said Barney, who was a frequent visitor to the school and knew most of the kids by name. He gave a Halloween safety presentation every October, he taught the kindergarten students to call for help by dialing 9-1-1, and he set up a bicycle safety workshop complete with a working traffic light in the gym every spring.

“Still,” he added, “times are changing and kids aren't what they used to be. These are strange days.” He set his cap on his head and opened the door. “Take care, Lucy.”

Left by herself in the quiet office, Lucy tried to sort out her emotions. She was shocked to learn that the call had come from inside the school—she had assumed the bomb was set by some weirdo with a grudge. Someone who hadn't been hired for a job, or maybe someone who had to repeat second grade and blamed all subsequent failures in life on that first disappointment.

If the call had come from inside, the bomber had to be either a student or an employee. No one else had access to the phones. Lucy didn't think a student could have done it. For one thing, the school only taught grades kindergarten to four. Even the oldest students were only nine or ten years old, a trifle young to be handling explosives.

There didn't seem to be any likely suspects among the staff either. Most had been at the school for years; only Ms. Crane was new, having been hired the previous spring when the former assistant principal won the jackpot in the state lottery and quit suddenly. Rumor had it she was enjoying her new life in Bali very much.

Come to think of it, thought Lucy, something was different at the school. It was no longer quite the happy, relaxed place it had been when Toby started kindergarten there. She remembered the look of disgust on Mrs. Applebaum's face after the explosion. Did the principal have her own suspicions? And what about Mr. Mopps? Sara had heard Ms. Crane scolding him. Could he have set the bomb?

Lucy sighed and began tidying up her desk, sifting through the pile of papers and throwing out the old news releases. Coming across the night school announcement from Winchester College, she reread the description of the Victorian literature course. “A close examination of the work of the major figures in English literature of the Victorian period (1837-1901), with special emphasis on the poetry of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

She adored the Brownings, and had read everything she could find about them, delighting in every detail of their famous courtship and elopement. It would be wonderful to learn more about the Brownings and their contemporaries, she thought, and to do it in the company of kindred souls. Fellow students who shared her enthusiasm for the Victorians.

Well, why not, she asked herself. Now that she was earning some money, there was no reason she couldn't sign up for the class. The college was even offering a reduced rate to Tinker's Cove residents.

Then again, Bill had gotten that letter from Widemeyer's lawyer, announcing his bankruptcy. Maybe this wasn't a good time to spend money unnecessarily. Bill had been worried, all right, but he'd said they would manage. The money she was earning was a windfall; it wasn't really part of the family budget. They hadn't expected it, they wouldn't miss it, she rationalized.

Besides, when was the last time she had done something for herself? She couldn't remember, if she didn't count the chocolate bars hidden in the freezer. Furthermore, the course wasn't just for her pleasure and amusement. It would give her some of the credits she needed, and in a year or two, she could become a certified teacher. She picked up the phone and made the call.

I
t was nearly four when George returned, thumping down several bundles of folded papers. With a practiced flick of his thumb he snapped the plastic strips that held one bundle together and handed a copy to Lucy.

“Here it is—hot off the press,” he said, grinning at her.

“Wow,” said Lucy. She unfolded the tabloid and spread it flat on her desk.

“Looks good, doesn't it?”

“It sure does,” said Lucy, looking at the familiar
Pennysaver
with new eyes. “It really does. It looks great.”

“I thought you'd like to see what you've been working on.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy.

“See you next week,” said George, giving her a little nod.

Left alone, Lucy studied the paper, slowly turning the pages. She was excited to see how it had all come together. The dramatic photo of Carol Crane on page one was a definite interest grabber. Turning the page, she smiled to see the meeting announcements she had typeset, right on page two. And a few pages later, the obituaries. There was even a photo of Chester Neal; his hair was parted low over one ear and combed up over his bald patch. The legals were tucked in just before the classified ads. And the ads—she had taken some of them over the phone. She looked for Franny Small's refrigerator, “Sears Kenmore in Mint Condition,” and Harold Higham's puppies, “Shepherd Mix—Good Temperament.” When she found them, she was oddly pleased.

What must it be like for Ted, she wondered. Every week he saw his own thoughts and words transformed into print and read by hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people. If she was this excited to see her want ads, what would it be like to write a story, a real news story?

She refolded the paper and straightened it, giving it a little pat. Then she tucked a couple of extra copies in her bag, locked up the office, and went to pick up Zoë at the day-care center.

Driving along with the toddler babbling happily beside her, Lucy tried to think of something quick and easy for dinner. She was used to having all day to prepare supper—with plenty of time to roast a chicken or mix up a casserole. Now, it was already a quarter past five, and the family usually ate at six. She didn't have time for potatoes, and even macaroni took nearly half an hour—fifteen minutes for the kettle of water to boil and then ten or twelve minutes for the noodles to cook.

Couscous was quick and she had quite a lot of it thanks to a buy-one-get-one-free special. Couscous and salad and what? Lucy tried to remember what was in the freezer.

The freezer! She hadn't defrosted anything. Braking, she made a quick U-turn and headed back to the supermarket. She would have to pick something up.

Pulling into the IGA parking lot, Lucy hoisted Zoë onto her hip and hurried inside. Cruising the meat case, she grabbed a package of ready-to-cook chicken strips then dashed over to the freezer section, where she found bags of Oriental vegetable mix. She joined the other working moms in the express line, and checked out their choices for future reference. Stir-fry was popular, so was rotisserie cooked chicken from the deli, and frozen pizza.

Paying for the groceries took her last few pennies. Lucy hurried back to the car and pulled into the driveway at a quarter to six. Sara was skipping rope in the yard and came over to the car.

“There were dogs at school, Mom,” she said, proud to have some news to impart.

“That's nice,” said Lucy, bending over the car seat to unbuckle Zoë. “Did you pet them?”

“No.” Sara was clearly disappointed. “The policemen wouldn't let us.”

“Police dogs? What were they doing?” asked Lucy, balancing Zoë against her chest as she reached for the bag of groceries.

“Smelling.”

“Smelling what?”

“Everything.” The little girl studied her shoes, then raised her head. “Mom?”

“What, honey?”

“Can we get a dog?” This was a consistent item on Sara's wish list.

“No, sweetheart. Elizabeth is allergic to dogs.”

“Elizabeth's in trouble.” Sara gave a sly little smile. “Daddy's mad at her.” She turned and skipped across the yard, humming a happy little tune.

Lucy shook her head and mounted the porch steps. As soon as she opened the door, she heard Bill's raised voice. She followed it to the family room and found Bill, crimson-faced, confronting Elizabeth and a leggy teenaged boy sitting side by side on the couch.

“This,” said Bill, turning toward her, “is Lance.”

“Hi, Lance,” said Lucy, giving him a grim little smile.

“Lance has been paying a visit to Elizabeth,” said Bill, through clenched teeth. “They came home from school together.”

“That was hours ago,” said Lucy.

“Exactly,” said Bill, turning on his heel and leaving the room. “You're her mother. You've got to do something about this.”

Lucy sat down on the hassock, still clutching Zoë and the groceries.

“You must realize why your father is upset,” she began, appealing to Elizabeth.

“He doesn't trust me! It's not fair! He didn't even give me a chance to explain.”

“It's just not a good idea for you to entertain friends unless a parent is home—we'll have to make a rule that you can't have guests after school unless one of us is home.”

“That stinks.” Elizabeth crossed her arms across her chest and slouched down on the couch. Beside her, Lance looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Well, until we can work out something better, that's the rule. I thought you had field hockey practice—what happened?”

“I skipped it.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “From now on, there's no more skipping practices. Understand? Now, Lance, I'm sure your family must be looking for you.”

“Mom, Lance lives on the other side of town. Can you give him a ride home?”

Even Elizabeth knew this was pushing it. Lucy stared at her for a minute.

“I don't think so—I've got to get supper started. Lance, why not give your folks a call, and then you can start walking. And you, miss,” she said, handing a rather soggy Zoë over to Elizabeth, “can change Zoë and keep her occupied while I cook.”

Lucy escorted Lance to the kitchen. He did have a deep tan, she observed, and the little gold bead in his nose wasn't all that unattractive. Personally, she didn't like orange hair, but she couldn't deny that the boy had a certain cocky charm.

While he phoned, she got a pot of water boiling for the couscous, started browning the chicken in a frying pan, and began assembling the salad.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Stone,” said Lance. “I didn't mean to get Elizabeth in trouble.”

“You didn't—she's perfectly capable of getting in trouble all by herself,” said Lucy, showing him the door.

“Sara,” she called up the stairs as she ripped open the vegetables. “Set the table, okay?”

It was nearly six-thirty when Lucy called the family to the table for dinner.

“About time,” said Bill, clearly disgruntled.

“I'm starving,” said Toby, helping himself to most of the couscous. “I thought we'd never eat.”

“Toby, that's way too much. Put some back so your sisters can eat, too. If you want, have a piece of bread instead.”

“I hope this isn't going to happen every night,” said Bill. “How much longer are you going to be working on the paper?”

“I'm not sure,” admitted Lucy. “Phyllis's mother has cancer. She may need her for quite a while.”

“Why don't you tell Ted you'll finish out the week but he'll have to get someone else after that,” suggested Bill, passing the salad to Sara.

“I couldn't do that,” said Lucy, surprised at how strongly she felt. “Who would he get?”

“I don't know—and I don't care. This isn't working out.” Bill's tone was definite. “The kids need you. The house is a mess. Things are out of control.”

“Other families manage. I think it's just a matter of adjusting. If everyone pitches in, it will all work out.”

“Why should we have to pitch in?” asked Bill, his voice rising. “The house and the family are your responsibility. I don't ask you to hammer shingles for me!”

“That's not exactly true,” said Lucy. Her voice was getting louder, too. “I do the books for you and handle the correspondence. I help the kids with homework and a million other things. I don't think it's too much to ask for a little help with the housework and cooking. Especially since I really enjoy working at the paper!”

Bill's jaw tightened. The kids were very quiet, as they always were when their parents quarreled. Lucy suspected it was a survival technique that had been passed down through the chain of evolution. Lion cubs and little hyenas probably kept clear of their snarling parents, too.

“And before you say another word,” added Lucy, “you might as well know that I've signed up for a night class at Winchester College. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time.”

Bill didn't say anything. Instead, he got to his feet and left the table, leaving most of his meal untouched.

Lucy pushed her plate away and slid her chair back from the table. “I'm not very hungry either,” she said, getting to her feet and addressing the children. “Finish your dinner, and then you can wash the dishes.”

For once, no one argued.

Having delivered her ultimatum, Lucy went out to the back porch. She stood there, leaning on a post. The temperature had dropped a bit, and a soft breeze was stirring. Between the heat and her job, she realized, she had neglected the garden. Picking up a hoe that stood by the back door, she marched across the yard.

Opening the wire gate and surveying the vegetable plot, she sighed. The tomatoes definitely needed attention—the plants were slipping from their supports, weighted down with ripening fruit. A number of overripe Big Boys had fallen to the ground and split open. What a waste, she thought. She began picking the red, ripe fruits, inhaling the spicy, pungent scent of the foliage. In just a few minutes she filled a plastic beach pail that Zoë had abandoned. What am I going to do with all these, she asked herself, slowly sinking to the ground.

In summers past, she had always made tomato sauce, filling the gleaming quart jars with her own savory, herb-filled recipe. Some years the garden produced barely enough tomatoes to make sauce, and she'd had to buy more at Andy Brown's fruit and vegetable stand. But this year, the garden had been extremely productive. The plants were loaded with ripe fruit, and there were plenty of green tomatoes coming. If she got tired of making sauce, she could switch to green tomato relish and piccalilli.

If she got tired. Who was she kidding? She was exhausted. She didn't have the time, or the energy, to make tomato sauce. In fact, truth be told, she didn't want to make tomato sauce. She didn't want the mess of skinning and seeding them. She didn't want to burn her fingers on the hot jars. And most of all, she didn't want to process the jars in a hot water bath until the kitchen was so full of steam she was afraid the wallpaper would peel off. She was sick of making tomato sauce.

From inside the house, she heard Zoë wail. Time to go back. She slowly stood up and, carrying the bucket in one hand and the hoe in the other, walked across the toy-strewn yard to the porch. Things change. Time doesn't stand still. Life is full of choices, and she was going to make some new ones. This year, she'd bag the tomatoes and let the kids take them into school to give to their teachers. She'd take them to the food bank. She'd put them on a table by the road. She'd even put them on the compost heap. But she'd be damned if she'd make another batch of tomato sauce.