Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (11 page)

“Don’t forget to turn out the lights,” Al said.

The four of them left the hall together, walking the short distance to Country Cousins. There a crowd had already gathered in front of the quaint country store that still sold penny candy, calico by the yard, and cheddar cheese cut from a huge wheel. The porch boasted two benches, one marked
Democrats
and the other
Republicans
, and in fine weather they were filled by old folks who enjoyed debating the issues of the day. The store itself hadn’t changed with the times, but the business model had. Country Cousins had grown far beyond the original store and had become a huge catalog and online retailer, with shiny new state-of-the-art headquarters located out on the town line, near the interstate.

Nobody was thinking of that, however, as they greeted Barney and hurried across the road to join friends and neighbors and family gathered around the bonfire that was burning in a steel drum. Lucy spotted Bill and Zoe and squeezed through the crowd to join them. “Where’s Sara?” she asked.

“At the college,” Bill said.

“SAC meeting,” Zoe added.

Then Dick Kershaw blew the first notes of “Deck the Halls” on his cornet and the singing began. It was a fine, clear night, not too cold. Gazing around at the happy faces, Lucy raised her voice in the songs she’d sung every year since she was a child. Some earnest volunteers had printed up booklets with the words to the carols, but nobody needed them, except for the tricky later verses to the “Partridge in a Pear Tree” carol. Then they were all singing the last song, “Silent Night,” and almost everyone was gazing skyward, at the bright stars that dotted the sky.

“Oh, darn!” Lucy exclaimed, as the last note ended.

“What is it?” Bill hissed, his voice a mixture of concern and annoyance. “You’re spoiling the moment.”

“Sorry,” she whispered back. “It’s just that I left my bag at the church.”

“No problem. I parked the truck over there.”

“What about you, Zoe?” Lucy asked.

“I’m meeting my friends for hot chocolate at the coffee shop,” she said, already on the move. “I’ve got a ride home.”

“Not too late,” Lucy said.

“Promise,” she called over her shoulder, running to greet her girlfriends. Lucy watched them exchanging hugs and air kisses with all the sophistication of Hollywood starlets.

Bill slipped his arm around Lucy’s waist as they made their way back to the church, on the other side of the town green where white lights had been strung in the trees. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“It’s my favorite Christmas thing,” Lucy said. Then she added, “Well, except for the presents.”

They were laughing together when they reached the church parking lot, where there were only three vehicles: Lucy’s SUV, Bill’s truck, and Florence’s little Civic. Bill got in his truck and started the engine, but promised not to leave until Lucy had retrieved her purse and started her car.

Lucy went inside, calling out Florence’s name so she wouldn’t be startled. There was no reply, but all the lights were on, except those on the stage and the kitchen, which were dark. Lucy thought Florence must have left, forgetting to turn off the lights, but then she noticed her coat was still on the rack. Lucy spotted her forgotten purse on the table where she’d left it and picked it up, then decided to see if Florence was in the bathroom. A quick check revealed that the ladies room was empty, so Lucy returned to the hall and called Florence’s name again. This time she got a reply, a faint moan that came from the stage area.

Lucy immediately ran to the switches and flicked them all on; the kitchen and stage area were now brightly illuminated. The stage was different from before, she realized. The big scenery flats that Al had constructed were no longer standing in place. They’d fallen, and Florence was trapped beneath them.

“I
’m coming!” Lucy cried, rushing up the steps to the stage. But when she tried to lift the flats off Florence she found they were too heavy for her to raise by herself.

“Hang on! I have to get help!” she cried, getting a moan in response. Then she was dashing through the hall and out to the parking lot, calling Bill. “I need help!” she yelled. “Call nine-one-one.”

“What’s the matter?” Bill was out of the truck and running across the parking lot.

“The scenery fell on Florence. She’s trapped and I think she’s hurt.”

Then they were back inside and Bill was hoisting the first of the three flats that had fallen, one on top of the other like huge dominoes. Florence’s hand and arm became visible. Then he lifted the second flat and her head and shoulders were revealed. Lucy was calling 9-1-1 and the ambulance was on its way when he got the last piece of scenery off the trapped woman, who had been knocked to the floor, face down.

“Don’t move,” Lucy warned. “You might have hurt your back.”

“Thank God you came,” Florence said in a weak voice. “I was afraid I’d be here forever.”

Lucy reached for her hand and held it. “It’s all right. The rescue squad is on the way.”

“I think I’m really okay,” Florence said. “It was just that I couldn’t get out from under.”

“What happened?” Bill asked, examining the flats. Each one was made out of two sheets of plywood nailed to a frame of two-by-fours. “Did you try to move them or something?”

“No,” she said, her voice small.

Lucy gave her hand a squeeze. “There’ll be time to figure out what happened later.” They could hear the ambulance siren coming closer, and then the flashing red and white lights could be seen in the windows. The door opened and the EMTs took charge, slipping a back board beneath Florence and transferring her to a gurney. Then they were off, leaving Bill and Lucy in the empty hall.

“How could that happen?” Lucy asked.

“Beats me,” Bill said.

“Maybe they were only set up temporarily, not properly secured,” she suggested.

“Seems like a foolish thing to do, what with the rehearsals and people coming and going,” Bill said.

“What if I hadn’t forgotten my bag? What if we hadn’t come back?” she asked, as they reached the doorway.

“It would’ve been a long, cold night for Florence,” Bill said, switching off the lights.

On Saturday morning Lucy phoned Florence to see how she was doing, but her call went unanswered. She tried calling the cottage hospital, fearing that Florence had been admitted, but the operator said there was no Florence Gallagher listed as a patient. Somewhat reassured, she headed out to the grocery store, where it seemed she was spending a lot of time and money lately.

Her grocery bill was always high at Christmastime, she thought, with all of the extra baking supplies she needed. She yanked a cart out of the corral and headed for the produce department, pausing at the holiday display of nuts and candied fruits to grab a bag of pecans and a tub of mixed fruits, wincing at the cost. She picked up a bag of potatoes and, noticing they were “buy one get one free,” added a second, then headed for the carrots. She knew that chuck roasts were on sale and was planning to make a pot roast for an old-fashioned Saturday-night dinner, and her recipe required carrots. The problem was whether she could get away with the cheaper conventional carrots, loaded with chemical fertilizer and pesticides, or buy the expensive, organic variety that Sara insisted on. Would Sara even notice? She probably would, Lucy thought, because she often snacked on carrots. Reluctantly, she picked up the two-pound bag of organic carrots, priced at a phenomenal six dollars.

By the time she was ready to check out she was crossing her fingers that she had enough cash in her wallet to pay for the cartload of food, which included fancy Greek yogurt, cage-free eggs, hormone-free milk, gluten-free bread, and organic chicken. Maybe, just maybe, she was thinking, it would be more economical to subsidize Sara’s desire to move out.

She was adding a chocolate bar to her cart, telling herself that today of all days she really deserved the jumbo size, when she spotted Florence at the end of the aisle. She was leaning heavily on her cart and was moving slowly, obviously in pain.

“Nothing broken?” Lucy asked, hurrying to her side.

“I was lucky,” Florence said, with a tight little smile. “It could have been so much worse. I got off with a few bumps and bruises.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it lucky,” Lucy said. “It would have been better if it didn’t happen at all.”

“I was lucky that you guys came and found me. I was afraid I’d be trapped there forever.”

“I forgot my bag,” Lucy said. “I’m glad we were able to help.” She paused. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Not really,” Florence admitted. “I was sitting at Bob Cratchit’s desk on the stage, sketching out some ideas. Then I heard a slam, like a door or window blowing open, and felt a cool draft, and it seemed to come from backstage. I had that sense you get, you know, that you’re not alone, and got up to investigate and . . . well . . . you saw what happened. I was crossing the stage to check the back door and they all just fell on me.”

From what Florence was saying, it seemed that an intruder must have entered the hall, perhaps intending to damage the scenery. Or maybe that person had planned to attack Florence. But why would anyone do that? “You have no idea who came in?” Lucy asked.

“I don’t even know if somebody was there or not. Maybe it was my imagination,” Florence said.

“The church is really old and needs some work,” Lucy said. “I bet a window just slipped down—it happens in old buildings.”

“You’re probably right,” Florence said, grimacing with pain. “And stage accidents aren’t uncommon. I went on Facebook this morning and quite a few of my actor friends said they’d had similar accidents.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “The stage is a dangerous place.”

“Life’s dangerous,” Lucy said, adding that chocolate bar to her cart.

“Chocolate! That reminds me—I need some baking cocoa for my chocolate cheese cake. I always make one for my open house.” Her eyes widened. “I do hope you’ll come. I have it every year on Christmas Eve and this year I’m inviting the whole cast. It’s going to be a blast.” She pursed her lips, as if savoring a secret. “Guess what? Uncle Ben actually said he might come, which is amazing since he always flat-out refuses. It would be so good for him. We have lots of food and plenty of wassail and it’s just a terrific party if I do say so myself. Will you come?”

“I’ll have to check with Bill, but thanks for the invitation,” Lucy said. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go.... Come to think of it, she wasn’t really friends with Florence and she really didn’t like the way Florence had been behaving toward Bob. And the notion that Ben Scribner might be attending was hardly an inducement. She turned her cart, heading for the checkout. “Take care, now. What do they say? RICE: Rest, ice, compression, and elevation?”

“Something like that.” Florence put her hand on Lucy’s arm. “You know, I hope you didn’t think me uncaring last night, when everybody was talking about Angie Cunningham’s need for a kidney.”

Actually, Lucy had thought Florence had been rather insensitive but wasn’t about to admit it. “Oh, no. It’s a very personal sort of thing. Not everyone wants to be an organ donor, not even after they die.”

“It’s not for me,” Florence admitted, “but I do wish the best for that poor little girl. I’m planning to make a donation to the Angel Fund.”

“Sooner would be better than later,” Lucy advised. “From what I’ve heard the Cunninghams are really up against it.”

“I’ll do it today,” Florence promised, slowly rolling her cart toward the deli counter.

When she got home, Lucy put the groceries away and began browning the chuck roast. While it sizzled in the casserole, she found herself wondering about Florence’s relationship with her uncle, and thought it odd that Florence was so pleased that the old Scrooge might come to her party. It just went to show, she thought, that you never could tell about people. She thought that Scribner and Downeast were a blight on the town, but Florence was hoping to rekindle family connections with him. Lucy gave voice to a little hmph, doubting that she would be successful.

The scent of browning meat filled the kitchen and Libby had heaved herself off her cushion and was standing next to Lucy, actually leaning her shoulder against Lucy’s thigh. “There’ll be some for you,” Lucy told the dog, wishing that the human family members would show the same appreciation for her cooking. Dinnertime hadn’t become a full-fledged war zone, not yet, but Sara was stockpiling arms and wasn’t above firing off the occasional warning shot.

That night, predictably, Sara opened fire and sent a missile whizzing into the demilitarized zone. “I found a place to live that’s actually affordable,” she said, helping herself to mashed potatoes. “It’s only two hundred dollars a month—that’s probably less than you’re spending to feed me, right, Mom?”

Lucy thought of her grocery bill and nodded. “Those carrots are organic,” she said, “so you better eat some. They cost almost as much as the roast.”

“What does two hundred dollars cover? Does it include food?” Bill asked, holding up the carving knife and fork.

“Yes! Two hundred dollars would be my share of the monthly expenses.”

“That doesn’t sound very realistic,” Lucy said. “Is it an apartment or a house? Where is it?”

“I’m not sure. I’d be going in with a group. It must be a big place ’cause it’s a big group.”

“Like a hippie commune?” Zoe asked. “That would be cool.”

“Who’s in the group?” Bill asked.

“Oh, Seth and some others from SAC.”

Lucy’s eyes met Bill’s across the table. Beneath the table, Libby was noisily licking her chops, anticipating her dinner.

“Will you have a room of your own?” Bill demanded.

“What about your studies?” Lucy asked. “I’m afraid you’ll spend all your time in meetings, planning demonstrations and making posters.”

“Are there going to be a lot of guys?” Zoe asked.

Bill set the carving utensils on the side of the platter. “I think I need to see the place. . . .”

“And we need to know exactly who’s living there,” Lucy added.

Sara’s eyes were filling with tears. “I knew you’d be like this,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing up. “You just don’t understand! Changing the system is more important than getting good grades! It’s not like there’s any jobs for grads anyway.” She threw her napkin on the table and marched off angrily; they could hear her stamping up the stairs and then slamming her bedroom door.

“She didn’t ask to be excused,” Zoe said, in her good-girl voice.

Lucy looked at her youngest child, so like an angel with her cheeks like peaches and her big blue eyes. It was just a matter of time, she thought, before she lost her innocence and became a combatant, taking up arms against parental authority just like her sisters and brother before her.

Monday morning found Lucy hard at work at the
Pennysaver
office, pounding away at the keyboard to finish up her story about how Downeast Mortgage profited from Marlowe’s Finance Committee vote. This was one story that really ticked her off and her fingers were flying as she recounted how some of the town employees whose hours were cut and who also happened to have mortgages with Downeast were now losing their properties to foreclosure. At the last minute she decided to call Will Carlisle, the mortgage officer at Seamen’s Bank, and discovered that his bank’s policy was to offer forbearance to struggling mortgage holders.

“The thing is, if they come in before they miss a payment, we’ll let them pay interest only for a few months, and that’s often all that they need. If the situation continues—say the mortgage holder is facing long-term unemployment—we’ll work with them and renegotiate the loan so it’s affordable. We’re a local bank and we don’t see foreclosures as beneficial to the community or to the bank,” he said.

“That’s terrific,” Lucy said. “It’s a shame more banks aren’t like yours.”

“We’re small, and the board members are local businessmen. That means we can be a lot more flexible than some too-big-to-fail outfit.”

“What did you think of the demonstration the other day—the kids protesting student loans?”

“That’s a different kettle of fish,” Carlisle said. “Our hands are tied by the feds, but we’re trying to figure something out. It’s a huge problem.... These kids didn’t realize what they were getting into. Everybody told them college debt was okay. Personally, I won’t let my child take out loans for college. Bella’s going to have to live with what we’ve saved and start at the community college.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Lucy said, delighted to find her own views reinforced. “We’re sending Sara to Winchester. She’s got a scholarship and she’s living at home, at least for now.”

“Smart,” Will said.

Lucy thanked him for his time and finished the story, which she sent to Ted for editing. That job done, she busied herself with other stories and didn’t think about Downeast again until Wednesday morning when Ted sent the foreclosure story back to her, heavily edited. All the references to Downeast Mortgage had been deleted.

“I can’t believe this,” she declared. “I worked hard on this, and it’s all true. I’ve got the facts.”

“It could be coincidence,” Ted said. “Marlowe can’t explain himself. We don’t know that he had any intention of foreclosing on those town employees.”

“Well, what if I call Ben Scribner and ask him? I’ll get a comment from him.”

“He’s hardly going to admit anything of the sort,” Ted said.

“That’s okay. We’ll have him lying on record. It’ll be obvious to everyone, because of what’s happened. He can say that Downeast never intended to benefit from the FinCom vote, that it was only an effort to control town expenses, but nobody will believe him.”