Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (12 page)

“I don’t want you calling him, Lucy.” Ted wasn’t making a suggestion, he was giving an order.

“Why not?”

“Because it would be harassment. He’s just lost his partner, under the most horrible circumstances. . . .”

Lucy thought of all the times Ted had made her call grieving survivors of auto accidents and house fires, insisting that she was only giving them an opportunity to honor their deceased family members. “But, Ted, you always say it helps people through the grieving process if they can talk. . . .”

“No. We’re running the story without mentioning Marlowe’s vote or Downeast Mortgage. This is a story about how the recession is affecting our town.”

“But Seamen’s Bank—”

“I know,” Ted said. “And I wish to heaven I’d gone to them instead of Downeast when I needed money.”

“Oh,” Lucy said, suddenly understanding the situation. “I get it.”

He shoved his chair back and grabbed his coat, leaving without a word of explanation. Lucy and Phyllis both watched him go.

“It’s deadline day,” Lucy said.

“He’s never done that,” Phyllis said. “He’s never walked out on deadline.”

“Do you think he’s coming back?” Lucy asked, her throat tightening.

“I don’t think so.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You can put it together, Lucy,” Phyllis said, sounding like a cheerleader. “You’ve seen him do it enough times.”

“I appreciate your faith in me,” Lucy said, “but I don’t know where to begin.”

“With the first page,” Phyllis suggested.

“Okay.” Lucy took a deep breath. “What we need is a big photo on the front cover, maybe kids on Santa’s knee, something that says Christmas is coming. . . .” she said, thinking aloud as she opened the photo file.

Even as she worked to lay out the paper, clicking and dragging and occasionally swearing in a struggle to arrange ads and stories in what she hoped was an acceptable format, Lucy kept hoping Ted would return. The little bell on the door remained silent, however, and it was nearly two hours past the noon deadline when she finally shipped the file to the printer.

“Good work, Lucy,” said Phyllis, who had been watching over her shoulder. “That page-one photo of the little Mini Cooper with a Christmas tree on top is real cute.”

“I hope it’s okay with Ted,” Lucy fretted.

“He’s the one who walked out, leaving you holding the bag,” Phyllis said with a sniff.

“I’m not sure he’s going to see it that way,” Lucy said, arching her back and stretching. She felt completely wiped out, her neck and shoulders tight with tension, and she had a low-grade headache. “I’m done here.”

Leaving the office, she headed for home where she recruited the dog for a walk. Libby was thrilled at the prospect of running through the woods, and Lucy needed to soothe her frazzled emotions. The sky was milk white, and it seemed as if snow might be coming, but Lucy inhaled the cold crisp air and marched along, swinging her arms and humming Christmas carols. What was it with that “Little Drummer Boy”? Once you heard it, you were stuck with it.
Rum-pa-pum-pum!

When she returned home she felt much better. She stretched out on the family room sofa with a magazine and next thing she knew Zoe was asking what she should make for dinner.

Rousing herself, Lucy threw together a meat loaf while Zoe made a salad and set the table. Tonight was the FinCom meeting and Lucy figured she’d fortify Bill with his favorite dinner. After they’d eaten, Lucy and Bill left Zoe in charge of clearing up. Lucy figured she might as well take advantage of Zoe’s willingness to cooperate while it lasted.

The meeting took place in the town hall’s basement conference room, which was set up rather like a courtroom. The four committee members sat at a long bench equipped with microphones and name plaques. Facing them were several dozen chairs set in neat rows for citizen observers; most of the chairs were empty. At the rear of the room a TV camera was set up, operated by members of the high school CATV Club. As promised, Ted had assigned a freelancer, Hildy Swanson, to cover the meeting since both he and Lucy had conflicts of interest. Hildy wrote the popular Chickadee Chatter bird column.

Lucy and Bill seated themselves in the middle of the room, receiving welcoming smiles from board members Frankie La Chance and Pam Stillings. The other two members, innkeeper Gene Hawthorne and insurance agent Jerry Taubert, ignored them, busy comparing favorite golf courses in Hilton Head. Hawthorne, who was chairman, called the meeting to order promptly at seven o’clock. The first order of business was the reading and approval of the minutes from the last meeting. Once that was done Hawthorne moved on to the first item on the agenda: filling the temporary vacancy left by Jake Marlowe’s death. When he asked if there were any volunteers, Bill raised his hand and so did Ben Scribner, whom they hadn’t noticed because he had entered late and seated himself behind them.

“Very good,” Hawthorne said. “You both understand that this is a temporary position, and that a permanent board member will be chosen at the town election in May?”

Both Bill and Scribner said they understood that was the case. Hawthorne then asked them to each explain why they wanted the job and what they thought the proper role of the Finance Committee should be. He asked Scribner to begin.

“Well,” he began, placing both hands on the back of the chair in front of him and getting stiffly to his feet. “I’m volunteering to fill in for my deceased partner, Jake Marlowe. We were partners for a long time and it seems the right thing to do. We agreed on most things and I think he’d want me to take his place.”

This was met with nods of agreement from the board members, which Lucy thought was a bad sign for Bill’s prospects.

“As you well know, Jake believed that the least government was the best government, and by that he meant the least expensive government. Elected officials have a responsibility to the taxpayers to keep expenses as low as possible, especially in these tough economic times. People are struggling to pay their property taxes as it is, and raising them would create an impossible burden for those who are living on fixed incomes. If I’m appointed, I will be a strong advocate for responsible fiscal policy and I will carefully examine the proposed budget with an eye to cutting wasteful spending.”

“Thank you,” Hawthorne said. He turned to his fellow committee members. “Any questions?”

They shook their heads, indicating they didn’t have any questions. No wonder, thought Lucy, as Scribner’s opinions were well known. She wouldn’t be surprised if he managed somehow to foreclose on town hall and sell it to the highest bidder.

Hawthorne was busy making a note; when he finished he asked Bill to address the same questions.

“Thanks for giving me this opportunity,” he said, by way of beginning. “I’ve lived here in Tinker’s Cove for almost thirty years. We moved here when I quit my job on Wall Street to become a restoration carpenter. I’m self-employed, but I studied business in college and have a strong background in finance.”

Lucy thought she heard somebody make a “hmph” sound. It came from behind them and she suspected Scribner was indicating that he found Bill’s qualifications unimpressive. Bill was not deterred, however, and continued speaking.

“I have a somewhat more progressive view than Mr. Scribner when it comes to town finances. It seems to me that the recent budget cuts are having a negative effect on the town’s economy. Christmas spending generally boosts local businesses, but this year people are struggling to meet their day-to-day expenses and have little left over for the holiday. I made a few phone calls before coming here and learned that the food pantry has seen a twenty-five percent increase in applications and is barely able to meet the need. My daughter has been leading the toy drive at the high school and she says donations are down while requests are up. We’ve all seen the foreclosure notices, and the for-sale signs that are sprouting up all over town.”

Once again, Lucy heard that “hmph,” a bit louder this time.

“It seems to me that cutting town employees’ income is the very worst thing we can do right now, when we need to give the economy a boost. I understand that the Finance Committee can’t solve all these problems, but we don’t have to make things worse by laying off town employees.” He paused. “Thank you for your time.”

When he took his seat Lucy reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “That was great,” she said with a smile. “Well said.”

“We’ll see,” Bill said, keeping his voice low. “I don’t think I convinced Hawthorne and Taubert.”

Hawthorne asked if there were any more applicants, and when no one else came forward, called for a vote. Frankie and Pam both voted for Bill, and Taubert voted for Scribner, which was expected. As chairman, Hawthorne had the last vote.

“I’m in a bit of a quandary,” he said. “My inclination is to vote for Mr. Scribner, because I agree with him that it’s important to keep taxes low, but if I cast my vote for him we’ll end up with a tie. That means the decision would go to the Board of Selectmen, and I don’t want to cede control of the committee to another branch of town government.”

Hawthorne paused here, and Lucy gave Bill’s hand another squeeze.

“Furthermore, I’ve known Bill Stone for a very long time and I know he’s a fair and open-minded person who will give serious thought to the matters before the committee.

Lucy was holding her breath; the suspense was killing her.

“So I’m casting my vote for Bill Stone, with certain reservations. Congratulations, Bill.”

Bill got to his feet, turned and reached out to shake hands with Scribner, who reluctantly obliged, then left the room. Bill turned back to face the committee members.

“Thanks for your confidence in me. I’ll do my very best not to disappoint you.”

“That’s great, Bill,” Hawthorne said. “Genevieve, here, our secretary, has some papers for you to review before our next meeting so you can get up to speed. Keeping that in mind, do I have a motion to adjourn?”

“I so move,” Taubert said.

“Second,” Pam added.

Hawthorne banged his gavel. “Meeting adjourned.”

Bill received congratulations from the handful of concerned citizens who attended the meeting, and hugs from Pam and Frankie. Taubert gave him the briefest of handshakes, and Hawthorne had a few papers for him to sign confirming his appointment. Then he reported to Genevieve, who handed him a banker’s box full of documents.

“All this?” Bill asked.

“And those, too,” Genevieve said, indicating two more boxes.

“Righto,” he said, stacking two of the boxes one on top of the other so he could carry them. “I can’t believe you got me into this,” he muttered to Lucy.

She picked up the third box and followed him out into the night.

P
am was already at their usual table in Jake’s when Lucy arrived on a snowy Thursday morning. Lucy wanted to ask her about Ted’s abrupt departure the day before, but Pam wasn’t about to give her the opportunity.

“Congratulations!” she chirped, as Lucy sat down and shrugged out of her parka. “Is Bill excited about being on the Finance Committee?”

Maybe, Lucy thought, Pam didn’t even know about Ted’s hissy fit, when he’d stalked out of the office, leaving her with the job of putting the paper together. Maybe it wasn’t the big deal she thought it was. Pam didn’t seem the least bit troubled. “Not exactly,” Lucy confessed. “He’s feeling overwhelmed by those boxes of papers he’s supposed to read.”

“My advice is to start with the most recent and work backward,” Pam said. “He doesn’t need to get bogged down in the details. He’ll get the picture soon enough.”

“You don’t know Bill like I do,” Lucy said. “He’s taking this very seriously. And, by the way,” she said, intending to ask if something was bothering Ted, when Rachel joined them.

“What’s Bill taking seriously?” Rachel asked. She had several tote bags slung over her arms and had the slightly flustered air of someone who had a long to-do list.

“He got the temporary appointment to the FinCom,” Pam said, obviously pleased as punch.

“And he’s pulling his hair out, now that he’s discovered how much work is involved,” Lucy added.

“He’ll do a great job,” Rachel said, dropping her bags in a pile around her chair. “I can’t think of a better person.”

“That’s the problem,” Lucy said. “He really wants to do a good job. He wants to do the right thing. I don’t know how he’ll handle the criticism. You know, when some member of the Taxpayers’ Association accosts him in the post office or gas station and chews him out.”

Pam nodded knowingly. “He’ll learn soon enough. You have to develop a bit of a thick skin. I listen and nod and sometimes what they say actually makes sense.” She paused. “Not often, but sometimes.”

Lucy and Rachel laughed as Norine, the waitress, arrived with a fresh pot of coffee. “Where’s the black coffee?” Norine asked, referring to Sue’s regular order.

“That smells heavenly,” Rachel said, wrapping her hands around the mug and inhaling the fragrant brew.

“She must be running late,” Pam said, answering Norine’s question.

“You look like you’re running on empty.” Lucy was talking to Rachel, who had rested her elbow on the table and was propping her chin on her hand.

“I’ve got the show and Miss Tilley and the Angel Fund, and Christmas is almost here and I don’t know whether I’m coming or going,” she admitted, with a big sigh.

“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” Lucy said, knowing that Rachel spent several hours every day providing home care for the town’s oldest resident. “I can help out with Miss Tilley.”

“I might take you up on that, Lucy,” Rachel said, sipping her coffee.

Pam watched as Norine filled her cup. “Do you think we should order? Sue just has coffee anyway.”

“I think so,” Rachel said. “I’ve got a meeting at nine.”

“Regulars all ’round?” Norine asked.

They all nodded and she departed, writing in her order pad as she went.

“Who’s the meeting with?” Lucy asked.

“Actually, I’m seeing a counselor,” Rachel said.

Pam’s jaw dropped. “You are?”

Lucy was also shocked. “What’s the matter?”

Rachel’s face was a portrait of misery, and Lucy noticed her long hair needed a wash, and her nails, usually filed into neat ovals, were ragged and broken. “It’s Bob.” She sighed. “That’s not fair. It’s not really Bob. It’s me. Things just don’t seem to be working.”

“Marriage is like that,” Pam said. “Every once in a while you hit a rough patch.”

“She’s right,” Lucy said. “Bob adores you.”

“Bob takes me for granted,” Rachel said. “And I see the way he looks at Florence.”

“I think you’re imagining things,” Lucy said. “I know she’s flirtatious, but he doesn’t seem the least bit interested. If anything, he tries to avoid Florence.”

“When he heard about the accident, he sent flowers,” Rachel said with a sniff.

“Who’s Florence? What accident?” Pam asked, mystified.

“Florence Gallagher. She’s in the show. She’s playing Fred’s wife,” Lucy explained. “I saw her at the supermarket, by the way. She’s doing pretty well after the accident. Just a few aches and pains, no broken bones.”

“Like I care,” Rachel grumbled. “I wish that scenery had squashed her flat.”

“What are you talking about?” Pam demanded.

“Some scenery fell on her Friday night. She stayed at the church hall to work on it while we all went to the caroling,” Lucy explained. “Bill and I found her trapped under the collapsed sets and called the rescue squad.”

“That was lucky for her,” Pam said, as Norine set a bowl of granola-topped yogurt in front of her. “Otherwise she might have been stuck there all night.”

“Would have served her right,” Rachel said.

“Rachel, I really think you’re overreacting,” Lucy said, taking her plate of hash and eggs. “She’s just one of those friendly people. She hardly knows me and she invited me to her Christmas open house.”

“I’ve just got a bad feeling,” Rachel said, crumbling her Sunshine muffin. “You know how it is—you just feel that something’s not right.”

“Have you talked to Bob?” Pam asked.

“Yeah,” Rachel said, her eyes filling with tears. “I asked him if he was attracted to Florence and he got mad. He denied it, got all huffy and angry, and that’s when I knew.”

Lucy stabbed her egg with her fork and watched the yolk ooze out. “He protested too much,” she said.

“Yeah.” Rachel was fumbling in one of her bags for a tissue and Pam handed her a napkin. She took it and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset everybody.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Pam said. “Whatever happens, you know we’re here for you.”

“That’s right,” Lucy added, squeezing Rachel’s hand.

The three friends were sitting silently, glumly studying their plates, when Sue arrived. “Have you heard already?” she asked, taking the last chair.

“Heard what?” Lucy asked. Sue was as impeccably dressed and made-up as usual, the very picture of country chic in a plaid jacket, corduroy pants, and chunky boots, but even her Chanel foundation couldn’t mask the dark circles under her eyes.

“Sidra called last night,” she said, naming her daughter, who lived in New York City. “Geoff has kidney disease.”

The news hit hard. They all knew Sidra’s husband, Geoff Rumford, who was a local boy, as well as his brother, Fred, who was a professor at Winchester College.

“Is it serious?” Rachel asked.

“He’s still undergoing tests,” Sue said. “But it can’t be good, can it? You need your kidneys.”

“Yeah, but people have two and you only need one,” Lucy said, ever the optimist. “Maybe they can just remove the bad one.”

“Sidra’s going crazy,” Sue said, accepting a cup of black coffee from Norine. “She says she’ll donate one of her kidneys.”

“What about dialysis?” Pam asked.

“That’s what I asked Sidra, but she says they’re trying to avoid that. It’s pretty miserable. It takes hours and hours and it’s painful and has side effects.”

“I didn’t realize,” Pam said.

“Me, either,” Lucy said, thinking of little Angie in the hospital in Portland.

“Sidra’s having tests, too, to see if she’s a good match.”

“And there’s Geoff’s brother,” Lucy said, thinking of Fred.

“I know.” Sue’s expression was serious. “I’m sure it will work out. It’s just so worrying right now.”

“Of course it is,” Rachel said. “We’ll keep them in our prayers.”

Lucy nodded with the rest, thinking that health really was the most important thing. Suddenly her worries about Sara didn’t seem important. She was smart and strong and healthy, and Lucy crossed her fingers, making a wish that she would stay that way.

It was snowing lightly when Lucy left Jake’s. She usually took care of a few errands on Thursday morning before going into the office, so she took a turn through the drive-through and cashed a check at the bank, stopped at the drugstore to take advantage of a sale to stock up on toothpaste, and picked up Bill’s shirts at the cleaners. None of this took a great deal of mental power, so her mind was free to wander and she found her thoughts settling on Florence Gallagher.

Lucy thought she must be pretty new in town because she only met her for the first time when she’d interviewed her about the children’s books she illustrated. Tinker’s Cove wasn’t very large; there were only a few thousand year-round residents, and you got to know everybody, at least by sight. As she made her way around town, driving carefully because of the snow, Lucy wondered why Florence had chosen to settle in Tinker’s Cove. She was, after all, an attractive, single woman, albeit approaching her forties, and it was hard to understand what drew her to the small coastal Maine town. It wasn’t as if there were a lot of single people her age. As for employment, well, the prospect was bleak, pretty much limited to low-paying retail jobs. Lucy admired the illustrations she’d seen, but wondered if that produced enough income for Florence to support herself. Perhaps she’d come in hopes of developing her art beyond illustrations; Maine’s incomparable beauty did attract a lot of artists. Or perhaps she’d come, thought Lucy, because she wanted to be near her uncle, Ben Scribner. Maybe he was her only relative and she wanted to take care of him in his old age. Maybe he was her richest relative and she wanted to make sure she got mentioned in his will. Maybe, Lucy thought, speculating wildly, Florence wanted to make sure she got all of her uncle’s money and got rid of his partner.

That was simply crazy, way out there, Lucy decided, catching sight of the Downeast Mortgage sign and impulsively braking. She was in the neighborhood, she decided, so she might as well pay Ben Scribner a visit and see if the police had made any progress in solving the bombing death of his partner.

She knew she’d have to get past Scribner’s secretary, Elsie, and had her line of attack prepared when she entered the reception area, but found she didn’t need it after all. Elsie was not at her desk. Instead, Scribner himself was standing there, behind the huge expanse of mahogany, looking through an appointment book.

“Can I help you?” he asked, looking up. It was chilly in the office and Scribner was wearing a thick gray cardigan beneath his Harris tweed jacket.

“I was just passing,” Lucy began, “and wondered if there have been any new developments concerning Jake Marlowe’s death.”

“The police are fools,” Scribner said. “They couldn’t find a lost cat, not if it wandered in front of them.”

Lucy thought he had a point. “They have their ways, procedures and policies and all that. I guess there are good reasons behind it all, but it does seem to slow things down.”

Scribner sat down and Lucy thought he looked tired.

“You could hire a private investigator,” she said. “Have you thought of that?”

“I have,” he admitted, with a sigh.

“Did you hire someone?” Lucy was definitely interested.

He sighed again, a long sigh. “I can’t seem to decide.” He raised his head and looked at her. “Can you recommend someone?”

“Actually, I can. I do know of a woman in New York. She investigated the Van Vorst mess last summer.”

“Sounds expensive.” Scribner made the word
expensive
sound rather indecent.

“I would imagine so,” Lucy agreed. She thought Scribner looked at least ten years older than he did at the funeral. “It must be hard, losing someone you worked with for all those years.”

“They blew him up,” Scribner said, with a haunted expression. “It keeps me up at night, thinking about it.”

“That’s understandable.” Lucy paused, debating what to say next, and deciding to go for the obvious. “Maybe you should talk to someone who could help you sort out your emotions.”

Scribner snorted. “Now you sound like my niece. She’s always fussing over me.”

“Florence cares about you,” Lucy said.

“She’s a nuisance,” Scribner declared, with a flash of his former self. “I’m a businessman; I’ve never really had a family. It’s enough for me to understand business. Profit and loss, interest and capital, those are the things I understand, and I don’t see what’s wrong with that. You can’t do anything without money. You can’t start a business. You can’t buy a house. You can’t build a school. People forget all that. Nowadays making money and being successful are viewed as bad things.”

“I think it’s the lack of money that’s got people upset,” Lucy said.

“Exactly.” Scribner nodded. “It doesn’t grow on trees—what do they think? You’ve got to be prudent, careful. That’s what Marlowe was doing. He was trying to balance the town budget.” He lifted his fist and banged it down on the desk. “Since when is that a crime?”

For a moment, Lucy was once again eight years old, sitting at her grandfather’s big mahogany dining table, and he was banging his fist on the polished surface, making the silverware jump. “The deficit!” he declared, his voice rolling on like thunder, predicting doom. “The deficit will be the ruin of the country!” Only this time, it wasn’t her grandfather railing against the government—it was Ben Scribner, defending his partner.

“Do you think he was killed by a disgruntled town employee?” Lucy asked. “Someone who might have thought he engineered the layoffs in order to foreclose on valuable property?”

Scribner’s face flushed darkly and Lucy feared he was going to have a stroke or heart attack. “Marlowe would never . . .” he began.

Lucy hurried to placate him. “Of course not. But somebody might have thought that. Maybe Harry Crawford, for example, who’s losing his family farm? Or Phil Watkins, who built that energy-efficient house? Did one of them threaten Marlowe, for instance? Or what about . . . ?”