Candy Cane Murder (32 page)

“Maybe someone gave it to her,” suggested Lucy.

“She was too sick for visitors by then.”

“I see,” said Lucy.

“I'm afraid I'm not being very helpful,” said Miss Tilley.

“On the contrary,” said Lucy, who was beginning to think she was on to something. She might not be Sherlock Holmes, but she could use his method. It was simple logic that if the glass cane wasn't in the house before the murder, and if Mrs. Tilley had no way of obtaining it herself, then the killer must have brought it. Find the owner of the cane and she would find the murderer.

She was explaining this to Miss Tilley when the pot began to steam and the lid rattled. “Oops, got to go,” she said, “before the pot boils over.”

 

Next morning it was the diaper pail that was demanding attention. Now that Toby was becoming more interested in using the toilet, the pail filled more slowly and had plenty of time to ripen. She sniffed the familiar odor and decided something had to be done. Fortunately, the septic system hadn't been giving much trouble lately, the sink and bathtub drained nicely, the toilet flushed properly without even a hiccup, so Lucy decided to risk running the washer. She filled it with hot water, added detergent and bleach, and dumped in the diapers. The machine chugged and swished and Lucy enjoyed the sense of virtue that came from knowing she wasn't polluting the planet with disposable diapers. Not that she wouldn't, of course, if she could have afforded them. But that didn't lessen the fact that she had made the ecological choice.

The cycle had almost finished and she was considering running a second load when she heard an ominous bubbling sound in the kitchen sink. She went into the bathroom and discovered the toilet was burping, a sure sign that the cesspool was nearing capacity and needed time to drain. That second load would have to be done at the Laundromat.

Lucy put the diapers in the dryer and got it going, then she packed up the dirty laundry, zipped Toby into his snowsuit, and advised Bill not to flush unless absolutely necessary. She didn't mind having to go to the Laundromat. It got her out of the house, and she planned to make a second stop at the Winchester College museum to inquire about the glass factory.

A light snow was falling as she steered Auntie Granada toward Main Street, passing the large old sea captains' houses that had been built in the town's nineteenth-century heyday. Back then there were huge fortunes to be made at sea, taking ginseng to China, and bringing back tea, and porcelain, and furniture. Those days were gone but the substantial houses had endured and were decked in holiday greenery, with wreaths and swags and garlands. A few even had decorative arrangements of fruit—pineapples, and oranges, and apples—fixed above their doors. Continuing on past the Community Church she spotted the traditional creche on the lawn and decided to show it to Toby.

She parked right in front of the church and climbed the hill to the creche, holding Toby by the hand. Another woman was already there, with a little girl a few years older than Toby.

“Hi!” said Lucy. “What a charming creche.”

She wasn't exaggerating. The creche featured a collection of large plaster figures depicting Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, and the animals. In a wooden manger filled with straw a plaster baby Jesus lay with his plump arms and legs in the air.

“If that's a newborn baby, Mary is a better woman than I,” said the woman.

Lucy looked at her, taking in her smartly tailored black coat with padded shoulders, her Farrah Fawcett hairdo, her red lipstick and her high-heeled platform boots. The little girl was also beautifully dressed, in a red wool coat with leggings, and a matching hat that screamed Saks Fifth Avenue's children's department. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don't look as if you're from around here,” she said. “I'm Lucy Stone and this is Toby. We just moved here a few months ago from New York.” Then she added, “City,” just to be clear.

“Sue Finch, and this is my daughter, Sidra. We've been here about a year.” She sighed meaningfully “We used to live in Bronxville but my husband, Sid, didn't get tenure so he decided to become a carpenter.”

“That's too bad,” said Lucy, expressing heartfelt sympathy. “My husband wanted to get back to the land and work with his hands. He used to be a stockbroker.”

“Why Maine?” asked Sue.

“Bill read an article years ago in
Mother Earth News
….”

“I think Sid read the same one! So here we are.” Sue held out her hands. “Strangers in a strange land.”

Lucy laughed. “Look, I have to get going, but would you like to exchange phone numbers? Maybe we could get together for tea and sympathy?”

“You've got a deal,” said Sue, scribbling on a piece of paper and giving it to Lucy.

Lucy tore off the bottom half and wrote her number on it. “Call anytime,” said Lucy, visualizing the calendar full of empty white squares that hung on the kitchen wall.

“I will,” said Sue. “By the way, do you think you could give us a lift to the IGA? My car got a flat and Mike at the garage said it won't be ready before noon.”

“No problem,” said Lucy, as they walked down the hill together. Sidra, she noticed, was making faces at Toby and he was clearly fascinated.

But when they got to the car, she was embarrassed by the mess of toys and papers, not to mention the dirty laundry, and began to try to clear the passenger seat for Sue.

“Never mind,” she said, seating herself on top of some crumpled junk mail.

But Lucy did mind. She figured her new friendship was over before it began. Who would want to hang out with a slob like her?

 

Lucy had a laundry basket full of neatly folded clothes sitting beside her on the front seat and Toby was nodding off in his car seat in the back when she pulled into the museum parking lot at Winchester College. The college's venerable brick buildings and quad reminded her of her own college days and she felt a bit wistful as she maneuvered Toby out of the car seat and into the umbrella stroller. She decided to take Toby for a little walk around the quad before going to the museum, hoping that the motion would lull him to sleep and the little toddler dozed off before she was halfway around. She enjoyed the reaction of the students she passed: the boys generally ignored Toby but the girls all smiled at him, probably imagining themselves as mothers some day.
Good luck to them
thought Lucy, whose back was beginning to ache.

Back at the museum, Lucy wheeled Toby inside, pausing to examine an Egyptian mummy that was displayed in the front hall. Wondering how it ended up in this backwater corner of Maine, she studied a directory posted on the wall and discovered the curator's office was on the third floor. She took the elevator and when the doors slid open encountered a thirty-ish man wearing the academic uniform of tweed jacket, oxford shirt and bow tie. “Can I help you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Lucy assumed he didn't get too many visitors, especially not mothers with toddlers in tow. “I'm looking for the curator,” she said.

“Well you found him,” he said, extending a hand. “I'm Fred Rumford. What can I do for you?”

“I'm Lucy Stone,” she said, taking his hand and finding it pleasantly warm and his shake firm. “I'm looking for information about a glass factory that used to be here in town.”

“Come with me,” he said, ushering her back into the elevator and pressing the number two. “We have a display.”

The second floor of the museum was devoted to local industry such as fishing and farming, and a corner featured enlarged photos of the Brown and Williams Glass Company, as well as samples of the wares it produced such as bottles, oil lamps, and fancy dishes. There wasn't a glass cane in sight, but the photos of workers caught her eye. One picture of office workers had a list of names beneath the rather glum group and she leaned closer for a better look. Sure enough, she realized with mounting excitement, there was Emil Boott standing in the back row, dressed as the others were in a dark suit. His face was round and bland and gave no hint that he was a criminal, headed for prison.

She pointed him out. “See that fellow there, in the wire-rimmed glasses? He did something very bad and was sent to prison for twenty years.”

“You don't say,” said Fred. “He looks nice enough.”

“You never can tell, just by looking at someone,” said Lucy, thinking of the photos she'd occasionally seen in the newspaper of murderers and other criminals. She studied them, looking for a clue to what made them commit such evil acts, but they usually looked like anyone else.

“Back in the nineteenth century they used to think there was a criminal physiognomy, that you could identify criminals by the shape of their heads,” said Fred.

“If only it were that simple,” said Lucy, with a sigh. “I'm interested in a particular item, a glass cane,” she said.

“A whimsy.”

“A what?”

“Whimsy. They were items the workers made out of leftover glass at the end of the day to amuse themselves.”

“Would there be a record of who made them, or who bought them?”

Fred shook his head. “No. In fact, since they had to be left out overnight to cool, they were often appropriated by whoever got to work first the next morning.”

“So a fellow like this Emil Boott, an office worker, could have taken a cane or two if he got to work early, before the glassblowers.”

“Well, sure,” said Fred. “But I don't think he went to prison for twenty years for taking a whimsy.”

Lucy bent closer and took another look at the man identified as Emil Boott and remembered Miss Tilley saying that her father only gave long sentences to the very worst criminals, like murderers. Had he misjudged Emil Boott when he put him to work around the house? Had Emil Boott killed Mrs. Tilley?

“You're right. He must have been more than a petty thief,” agreed Lucy, wondering how she could find out exactly what crime Emil Boott had committed to earn such a long sentence.

Fred cleared his throat. “I really have to get back to work,” he said, with a sigh. “Budget projections are due next week.”

Lucy's face reddened. “Oh, don't let me keep you. I really appreciate your help. Is it okay if I look around a bit?”

“Be my guest,” said Fred, pushing the elevator button. “We don't get too many visitors, except for school groups.” The doors slid open and he stepped aboard. “Don't miss the mummy,” he said.

Lucy started to ask how the museum came to possess a mummy, but before she could form the question the doors closed and Fred was gone. “Another mystery,” she said to Toby. “This town is full of them.”

W
hen they lived in the city Lucy had always looked forward to the weekend when Bill didn't have to go to work. That meant they could sleep a little later, and then enjoy a leisurely breakfast while deciding what to do with the rest of the day. Sometimes it would be a car trip out of the city, with a stop at a farm stand. Sometimes it would be an excursion to the zoo or the botanical gardens, or a museum. And other times they would simply go for a walk, perhaps stopping for a big doughy pretzel or a hot dog from a street vendor. It didn't matter what they did, really, because there was a special holiday feel to the weekend that made it special.

But now that Bill worked at home, weekends were just the same as every other day. He couldn't take the time, he said, because there was so much work to be done on the house. And anyway, there wasn't really anywhere interesting to go. Tinker's Cove didn't offer much in the way of culture apart from the library and the museum, and Lucy was already familiar with them. The movie theater was only open in summer; it closed up tight for the winter. There was nature, of course, lots of it. Acres and acres of woods, lakes and ponds, and the endless expanse of ocean. But, oddly enough, everybody seemed to take it for granted and there was very little public access. Hunters roamed the woods, to be sure, but there were few easy trails suitable for family hiking. And most of the shore was privately owned, and rocky to boot, except for the little town beach. There was no open expanse for walking, like the beaches she knew on Cape Cod.

So here it was, a bright and sunny Saturday morning, and Lucy was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and leafing through the Pennysaver newspaper, looking for something to do. Toby was by her side, in his high chair, supposedly eating scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. Maybe he would be the next Jackson Pollack, thought Lucy, watching as he smeared the eggs on the tray.

“Ready to get down?” she asked, reaching for a washcloth to wipe his face and hands.

“No.” He shook his head and began chewing on a toast triangle.

“Okay,” she said, turning the page and studying the “Things to Do” column. That's what it was called, but there was precious little that interested her. Goodness knows she didn't need Weight Watchers, she wasn't interested in seeing the new holiday line of Tupperware products, she didn't have money to spend on Mary Kay cosmetics and, darn it all, they'd missed the pancake breakfast with Santa at the fire house. “Maybe next year,” she promised Toby. “We'll keep an eye out for it.”

Toby rewarded her with a big smile, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed chunks of toast. Not a pretty sight, even if he was her own child. She turned back to the paper, where an announcement for an open house at the historical society caught her eye. Maybe someone there would be able to give her some leads on her investigation, especially concerning her prime suspect, Emil Boott. “It says there will be refreshments,” she promised Toby, ignoring his protests and removing a soggy wad of toast from his little fist and cleaning him up. “Better save some room for punch and cookies.”

It was almost eleven when Lucy parked Auntie Granada in front of the Josiah Hopkins House and wrestled Toby out of the car seat. As they walked along the uneven blocks of sidewalk to the open house she examined the antique house that housed the historical society. Built circa 1700, according to a sign next to the front door, the little Cape-style house was supposed to be the oldest house in town. It was named for its builder, Josiah Hopkins, who was reputed to be the first European to settle in Tinker's Cove. The white clapboard house appeared to be quite small from the front, with a low roof set over two pairs of windows and a center door, but a series of ells had been tacked onto the back as the family grew and stretched in an uneven line that ended at a lopsided barn.

Unsure whether she should knock on the wreathed door or just walk in, Lucy paused on the grindstone that served as a stoop. “I thought there'd be more people,” she told Toby, as she hoisted him up and perched him on her hip. She was just about to knock when the door flew open.

“We saw you coming,” said a little old lady who bore an unnerving resemblance to an apple-head doll. Her hair, which was carefully curled and blued, was an odd contrast to her wrinkled and puckered face. Her eyes, however, were sharp as ever and didn't miss a thing. “Ellie, Ellie,” she called. “Come and meet this adorable little tyke.”

She was quickly joined by another little apple-head doll of a woman, right down to the matching hair. “Isn't he the little man!” she proclaimed. “Come in, come in.”

Lucy set Toby on his feet and unzipped his jacket, then grasping him firmly by the hand, introduced herself.

“Oh, you're the young folks who bought the old farmhouse on Red Top Road,” said Ellie. “Emily, they're the folks who bought the place out by the Pratts.”

“We're the Miller sisters,” said Emily. “We're twins. I'm Emily and this is Ellie.”

“You can tell us apart because I'm the pretty one,” said Ellie, repeating what Lucy suspected was a well-worn joke. Lucy made a quick mental note, observing that Ellie was wearing the pink twin set and Emily was in blue.

“Never mind her,” said Emily. “We're so glad to welcome you to our open house. Do enjoy the house and we'll be happy to answer any questions you have, and be sure to have some holiday punch and cookies in the dining room.”

“Thank you,” said Lucy, who was admiring the wide plank floors and the simple woodwork which had been painted a deep shade of red. A small fire blazed in the hearth, which was ringed with a simple wooden bench, a rocking chair and a tall settle. Cheery print curtains hung at the windows and a hutch displayed a collection of antique china.

“All the furnishings have been donated by our members,” said Emily, noticing her interest.

“Did your members do the restoration work, too?” asked Lucy, keeping a watchful eye on Toby, who was fascinated by the fire.

“Most of it. We also hired some craftsmen. We got a lot of advice from the state historical commission.”

“I see,” said Lucy, eager to see the rest of the house. She took Toby by the hand and together they explored the kitchen, with its enormous hearth, the buttery where food was stored, the pantry where dishes were kept, and climbed the cramped little staircase to the tiny bedrooms tucked under the eaves. Pulling Toby away from a display of antique toys she went back downstairs to the dining room, where black-and-gold Hitchcock chairs surrounded a cherry drop-leaf table that held a crystal punch bowl with a silver ladle and enough cookies for an army.

“Would you care for some punch?” asked Emily, popping through the door. Or was it Ellie, wondered Lucy, afraid she'd mixed up pink and blue.

“Be sure to taste the mincemeat cookies,” advised Ellie, or was it Emily?

“Thank you,” said Lucy, holding the crystal cup so Toby could drink from it, then handing him a cookie. “It's a beautiful house,” she said, taking a bite of a lemon bar. “It must have taken a lot of work.”

“A labor of love,” said Emily.

“That's right,” said Ellie, nodding along.

“I wonder,” said Lucy, excited by an idea that was taking shape in her mind, “does the society have information about the early residents of Tinker's Cove? I'm thinking of census records, genealogies, wills, things like that.”

The two Miller sisters exchanged a glance.

“We used to,” said one.

“Before the fire,” said the other.

“It was all lost.”

“We were lucky to save the house and the furniture.”

“Oh, dear,” said Lucy, feeling extremely disappointed.

The sisters exchanged another glance.

“Would you like to sit down, dear?” asked one.

“Is there something in particular that you want to know?” asked the other. “Because most people in town have deep roots. Their families have been here for a very long time.”

“A long time, that's right.”

Lucy sat down and the sisters refilled her cup and passed her a plate of cookies. She sipped and nibbled and thought. She was reluctant to admit that she was investigating Mrs. Tilley's death, which might or might not have been murder, but she didn't want to pass up this opportunity, either. So far, the Miller sisters were her only lead.

“Well,” she began, “I'm doing some research on a household. Sort of a social history, if you know what I mean. A well-off family and their helpers.”

The sisters nodded. “Like that TV show.”

“
Upstairs, Downstairs
.”

“Right,” agreed Lucy. “I have all the information I need about the upstairs family, but it's the downstairs folks I'm having trouble tracking down.”

The sisters nodded.

“I need information about a man named Emil Boott.”

They shook their heads. “There's a family named Boott out on Packet Road,” said Emily.

“Oh I don't think she wants to visit
them
,” said Ellie, with a sniff.

“Oh, I've met them,” said Lucy. Seeing the sisters shocked expressions she quickly added, “At a yard sale.”

“I'd steer clear of that lot, if I were you,” said Emily.

“Oh, yes. Oh, dear yes,” chimed in Ellie. She lowered her voice. “Kyle's a bit, um, unpredictable.”

“So I gathered,” replied Lucy, with a nod. “Is there a violent streak in the family?”

The ladies exchanged glances but didn't reply. Lucy sensed she'd gotten all she was going to get from them concerning the Boott's and pressed on. “Angela DeRosa?”

They shook their heads.

“Katherine Kaiser.”

The sisters exchanged glances, again, and sighed in unison. Lucy had the distinct feeling they knew something but weren't going to share it with her. She continued down her list. “Helen Sprout.”

The two broke into smiles and giggles. “There are lots of Sprouts around,” said Emily.

“Old Hannah Sprout, she must be going on eighty herself, lives over in Gilead.”

“I bet she'd love to talk to you.”

“I bet she would, too.”

Lucy was about to ask how she could contact Hannah Sprout when she suddenly remembered Toby. He'd been right there, eating cookies, and now he was gone. She jumped to her feet. “Where's Toby?”

“He can't have wandered far,” said Ellie.

“No, no, no,” agreed Emily.

But Lucy was imagining the worst as she searched frantically through the maze of little rooms. He might have fallen in the fire. He might have fallen down the stairs. He might have wandered out a back door. He might have been abducted.

Then she heard one of the sisters sing out, “I found him.”

Lucy hauled herself up the crooked little staircase as fast as she could, considering her condition. She was out of breath when she found Toby sitting on the floor in the room that was decorated as a child's nursery, surrounded by that valuable collection of antique toys. The toys, and Toby, appeared to be unharmed.

“Isn't it sweet?” trilled a sister.

“He found the toys!”

“I hope nothing's broken,” said Lucy, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the stairway. She took a deep breath. “We'll pay if there's any damage.”

“Oh, no, no, no damage,” chorused the sisters. “No harm done.”

As Lucy zipped up Toby and buttoned her coat and headed straight for the door, she had the feeling that a tragedy had been barely averted. “Thanks for everything,” she said, as the door closed behind her and she let out a big sigh of relief.

Toby didn't see it quite the same way, however. Once outside he yanked himself free and threw himself on the brown grass, shrieking and kicking his heels in a full-blown temper tantrum. “Horsey! Horsey!” he repeated, over and over, at the top of his lungs.

Lucy had read about two-year-olds and their famous temper tantrums in the child care books, but so far she hadn't experienced one. She stood there, in the middle of town, trying to remember the recommended course of action. Nothing came to her except an acute sense of embarrassment. Thank heavens nobody seemed to be on the street, at the moment, but if Toby continued screaming that was sure to change. The last thing Lucy wanted was to attract a crowd.

“Toby, stop it!” she said, in her firmest, most authoritative voice.

He kicked his heels harder.

Maybe bribery? The experts discouraged it, but it had been remarkably successful on the few occasions she'd tried it. “Toby, stop fussing and be a good boy and I'll buy you some ice cream.”

The screams grew louder.

It was time to bring out the big guns. “Toby, if you don't stop that this minute I'm going to get in the car and leave you here all by yourself.”

Not a good idea. The shrieks were now punctuated with hysterical sobs. Lucy felt her cheeks reddening, she felt angry and incompetent and frustrated and embarrassed, all at once. And now, she saw, a group of women were advancing down the sidewalk. Mature, matronly women who had mastered the art of motherhood. She had to get out of there. Adrenaline surged, she grabbed Toby by the hood of his jacket and the seat of his pants, and, tucking the screaming and kicking boy under her arm, she hauled him to the car and wrestled him into the car seat. Once he was securely strapped in, she slid behind the steering wheel and caught her breath.