Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (15 page)

“If it was in a shop, it would be five hundred or more.”

“It’s not in a shop,” Lucy said. “And it’s filthy. It’s going to take a lot of work to get all this gunk off it.”

“What’s it worth to you?” Molly asked.

“A lot,” Lucy admitted. “But I don’t want to pay a lot.”

“Ask Liz what they want.”

“But what if they want hundreds?”

“I haven’t seen anything over a hundred,” said Molly, who had been studying the orange stickers. “Offer seventy-five and see what she says.”

Lucy’s heart was in her throat as she approached Liz, pointing to the chest in what she hoped was a nonchalant sort of way, and asking if she would take seventy-five dollars. To sweeten the deal, Lucy had the cash in her hand, three twenties, a ten, and a five.

Liz was busy counting out cash and making change for a woman who was buying several chests of drawers. She glanced at the ship carpenter’s chest, narrowed her eyes, and nodded.

Lucy handed her the cash, restraining herself from crowing as she waited for Liz to write out a sales slip. Then she and Molly each took one of the rope handles and carried the chest to Lucy’s SUV, where they stowed it in the way back. It was only when they were driving away that Lucy allowed herself to celebrate. “Can you believe it?” she crowed, banging her hand on the steering wheel and shaking her head. “What a find!”

“Bill will love it,” Molly said.

“I know! He’ll be so surprised!”

Toby and Patrick were building a snowman when Lucy and Molly arrived at the house on Prudence Path. Lucy and Molly pitched in, and when the snowman was complete asked Toby for help with the chest. He carried it down to the basement and promised to clean it up.

“You don’t have to do that,” Lucy said. “I can do it.”

“I’d like to do it,” Toby said. “Let me. It will be my gift to Dad, too.”

“Okay,” Lucy agreed, relieved to cross that item off her to-do list.

When she went home, she tackled a few more items, including calling Ginny Irving about the Cunninghams.

“Their daughter is terribly sick. She’s only ten, and she’s in the medical center in Portland. It’s difficult for them, what with gas being so expensive and having to buy meals in the cafeteria,” Lucy explained. “As it is they’re in danger of losing their home. It’s a terrible situation and there’s no one they can turn to. The grandfather’s truck needs repairs and his house is in foreclosure.”

“That’s terrible. I’m happy to give them the money from the estate sale. I’d like to see it go to somebody who really needs it.”

“The Cunninghams really need it,” Lucy said. “The Seamen’s Bank has set up an account called the Angel Fund.”

“Got it,” Ginny said. “When I get the check I’ll forward it to the fund.”

“Thanks, that’s very generous.”

“Well, let’s face it: Jake’s life was all about making money and hoarding it. He stopped caring about people. I don’t want him to be remembered as a miser. He was once better than that and that’s how I’d like him to be remembered, as he was when I first knew him.”

“It’s very sad,” Lucy said.

“I guess I always hoped that he would change, that he’d mellow when he got older,” Ginny continued. “People sometimes do, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“He never really got the chance,” Lucy said.

“That’s true.”

“Have the police made any progress?” Lucy asked.

“They haven’t told me, if they did,” Ginny said.

“Did he receive threats before the bombing? Anything like that?”

“We weren’t close, you know. I didn’t have any contact with him after our divorce and during my second marriage. Then after my husband died I had to manage our money, our investments, so I thought of Jake. That was the basis of our relationship. I’d see him about twice a year and he’d report on how the stocks and things were doing. He didn’t get personal, except the last time I saw him, he seemed to be growing a bit paranoid. He was nervous and edgy and said something like, ‘They’re not gonna get me.’ I asked who, and he didn’t answer, but he said he was keeping a shotgun by his bed.”

Lucy was genuinely shocked. “Oh, my goodness,” she said.

“Looking back, it seems he wasn’t paranoid at all,” Ginny said. “It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you.”

W
hen Lucy got to work Monday morning the first thing she did, after flipping the C
LOSED
sign on the door to O
PEN
and adjusting the ancient wood venetian blinds to let in some weak winter sunshine, was call the Tinker’s Cove Police Department and ask to speak to the chief. Jim Kirwan was polite as always, but Lucy knew it would be a challenge to get any information out of him.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Fine,” Lucy said.

“And the family?”

“Everybody’s fine.”

“Is your oldest—the one in Florida, that’s Elizabeth, right? Is she coming home for Christmas?” he asked.

“Elizabeth has to work on Christmas, but she’s coming home the day after.”

“So I suppose you’ll be having two Christmases,” the chief said.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing her. It’s been six months since her last visit,” Lucy admitted. “But that’s not the reason I called. . . .”

“I didn’t suppose it was,” the chief said, switching to his official voice.

“I had a little chat with Virginia Irving on Saturday, after the estate sale at Marlowe’s place, and she said that Jake Marlowe was extremely paranoid in his last weeks and that he kept a shotgun by his bed. He seemed to think someone was out to get him.”

“These old folks tend to be a bit paranoid,” the chief said. “I have one old lady who calls me at least once a week, convinced someone has stolen her silver tea service. I send an officer over and it’s always in the same place; she just put it away in a closet to keep it safe and forgot where she hid it.”

“Well, this is a little different,” Lucy said, wondering how stupid the chief thought she was. “Somebody really was out to get Jake Marlowe, and succeeded! It sounds to me as if he’d been receiving threats. He knew he was in danger and he was afraid. So what I’m wondering is whether he reported these threats to your department. Did he?”

“That sort of thing would be confidential,” Kirwan said, sounding even more official. “Department policy.”

Lucy figured this meant Marlowe had indeed filed a complaint with the department. “I can understand the need for confidentiality when people are alive, but now that he’s dead, I don’t see how it matters,” Lucy said. “Everybody knows that somebody really had it out for Jake Marlowe.”

“I’m sorry, Lucy, but policy is policy. I can’t start making exceptions—that’s a slippery slope.”

“How long ago did the threats start?” Lucy asked. “Did he have any idea who was making them?”

“I haven’t confirmed or denied any action that Jake Marlowe may or may not have taken in regard to this department,” Kirwan said.

“Can I quote you on that?” Lucy asked in a sarcastic tone. She really hated when public officials resorted to speaking in officialese.

“Yes, you may,” the chief said. “You can also say that the investigation is continuing and we are cooperating with the state police and the fire marshal’s office. And this department is committed to following every lead and will not give up until the person or persons who committed this despicable act are identified. The safety and security of every Tinker’s Cove resident is this department’s primary concern.”

“Is this an exclusive?” Lucy scoffed. “Shall I stop the presses?”

“That would be your decision,” the chief said. “Nice talking to you.”

“Same here,” Lucy said, but her tone of voice made it clear that she didn’t really mean it. Not that she’d actually expected to get much out of the chief.

She typed up a few inches, quoting the chief word for word, and sat for a few minutes staring at the computer screen. Then, impulsively shoving her chair back, she hopped to her feet, grabbed her coat and shoved her hat onto her head and headed over to the Downeast Mortgage office, pulling on her gloves as she went.

Elsie Morehouse wasn’t thrilled to see her. “Oh, it’s
you,
” she said, adding a sniff that made Lucy wonder if she’d forgotten to use deodorant that morning. “Mr. Scribner is not in.”

“I actually wanted to talk to you,” Lucy said, grasping at straws.

“I can’t imagine why,” Elsie said, “unless you wish to apply for a loan.” Her tone of voice made it quite clear that she doubted Lucy would qualify.

“Not today, thank you,” Lucy said, finding that annoying Elsie was rather enjoyable. “No, I came because I heard a rumor that Mr. Marlowe had received death threats before the bombing. Do you know anything about that?”

“I’m not at liberty to say anything about that,” Elsie said, stiffening her back.

“Why ever not?” Lucy asked.

“The police said I wasn’t to say anything to anyone about Mr. Marlowe, and especially not to the media.”

“I’m not
the media,
” Lucy said. “I’m just the little local paper. The
Pennysaver
is more like a community newsletter, like a nice, chatty note you might get from your aunt, or what your neighbor might say over the fence.”

Elsie’s face hardened and her permanent curls actually seemed to tighten. “I’m not a fool, Lucy. I know that whatever goes in the
Pennysaver
can be picked up by the Portland and Boston papers, and could even go on TV. And that’s why I’m not going to say anything, because I don’t want to get in trouble with the police.”

“Who’s in trouble with the police?” Ben Scribner demanded, entering the office.

“No one’s in trouble,” Lucy said. “I’m just trying to track down a rumor about Jake Marlowe.”

“Marlowe’s dead,” Scribner said.

“But . . . but . . .” Lucy sputtered, as he walked right past her and into his office, closing the door.

Elsie peered at her over her half glasses. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She managed to give the impression that in her view Lucy was little more than a lazy layabout.

Lucy nodded, staring at the closed door. “Right, well, thanks for your time.”

When she got back to the
Pennysaver
office she found Phyllis had arrived and was sitting at her desk behind the reception counter. “Did you have a nice weekend?” she asked, as Lucy hung up her coat.

“Yeah, I got a terrific ship carpenter’s chest at the Marlowe estate sale. I’m giving it to Bill for Christmas. What about you?”

“I was there, too. I must’ve missed you.”

“Did you buy anything?”

“I didn’t find anything. It was all filthy and terrible. What a way to live, huh? And him so rich. Makes you think.”

“It sure does,” Lucy said, settling in at her desk and moving on to the Seth Lesinski story. She began the way she usually did, reading through her notes and highlighting a few quotes, organizing her thoughts. She knew it was important to be impartial and not to let her own feelings about the campus organizer color the story; the fact that her daughter seemed to be enamored of him was hardly relevant to the average reader. But she found herself recoiling when she read his prediction about violence, when he said, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see more violence. That’s what happens when people run out of options. They get desperate. When hope runs out, that’s when there’s trouble.”

She sat there, her yellow highlighter pen in her hand, staring at the words. He’d really said them. She remembered the wolfish gleam in his eye and the casual way he’d tossed off the prediction. As if violence was inevitable, even natural to him. And she supposed it would be, after several tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Sara saw him as a committed social activist, as someone who wanted changes that would improve people’s lives. He said he wanted economic justice for everyone, which was hard to argue against. Lucy herself believed in the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. She figured that applied to economics, too, and that in a wealthy, civilized country like the United States everyone ought to have their basic needs met. She didn’t want to go hungry and she didn’t want other people to, either. She wanted a roof over her head and education for her children—those were things that everyone should have.

She was well aware that some people in Tinker’s Cove were struggling financially, and sometimes weren’t able to obtain basic necessities for themselves and their families. That’s why she and her friends worked hard to raise money for the Hat and Mitten Fund, which provided warm clothes and school supplies for local kids. She wrote sympathetic stories about regional charities in hopes that readers would support them, and she was among the first to write a check for a good cause. She carried her beliefs into the voting booth, too, and voted for candidates whose views were most like her own. She also encouraged her children to volunteer their time to help others who were less fortunate and, she admitted to herself, at heart she was proud of Sara’s social activism.

But there was a danger when social activists became frustrated and began to justify violence, which was what Seth Lesinski had done. Protests and demonstrations were one thing, sending a postal bomb was another, and she wondered if Seth Lesinski had confused the two. Had he taken his social activism a step too far? Had he threatened Marlowe, or perhaps even sent the package bomb? It was a disquieting thought, and the fact that Sara was involved with him made it even more disturbing.

Lucy was sitting there, wondering how she could convince Sara that Seth might be a dangerous person, and that it might be wise to step back a bit. She remembered how her earlier attempts had failed and was trying to think of a way to reach her daughter when Ted blew in.

“Writer’s block?” he asked, noticing that she wasn’t typing.

“Not exactly,” Lucy said. “I could write a book on this particular subject, but I don’t want to get sued for libel!”

As the day wore on the weak morning sunshine faded and the sky filled with thick, threatening clouds. The streetlights on Main Street had turned on when Lucy left for home around four o’clock, and a light snow was falling, the dancing flakes catching and reflecting the lamplight. She was planning on making spaghetti and meatballs for supper and decided to pick up a bottle of chianti. It was just the sort of night that called for a bottle of red wine.

Bill agreed when he got home and promptly opened the bottle, so they could share a drink while Lucy cooked dinner. It had been a while since they’d really had a chance to talk and Lucy found herself voicing her concerns about Seth Lesinski.

“He’s not a kid. He’s done several tours in Iraq and Afghanistan,” she said, stirring the spaghetti into a pot of boiling water. “I can’t imagine what he might have seen and done over there.”

Bill was thoughtful, sitting at the round golden oak table and sipping his wine. “Sara sure thinks a lot of him,” he said.

“Of course!” The words came out like a small explosion. “He’s a man, he’s a hero, a warrior, and he makes these eighteen-year-olds who’ve never been out of Maine look pretty pathetic in comparison. And he has ideals.” Lucy sipped her wine. “Ideals are sexy.”

“Do you think Sara is involved with him?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy admitted, “but I do know that she’d like to be!”

Bill stared glumly into his empty wineglass, and reached for the bottle to refill it.

The storm was picking up when they gathered at the candlelit table and they could hear the wind howling outside. “They’re forecasting at least a foot,” Zoe said, who was studying meteorology in school. “It’s a classic nor’easter.”

“I wonder if school will be closed tomorrow,” Lucy mused. “Classes might even be canceled at Winchester.”

“That would be great,” Sara said. “I’ve got a biology quiz tomorrow.”

“Better study anyway,” Bill advised, “just to be on the safe side.”

“It won’t be a waste. You’ll need to know the material for your final,” Lucy said.

Sara rolled her eyes. “It’s under control, Mom,” she said, helping herself to salad.

Bill, who was well into his third glass of wine, glared at his daughter. “Don’t talk to your mother like that,” he said.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Sara muttered.

Zoe was silent, keeping a low profile.

“It’s all right,” Lucy said, filling Bill’s plate with a big pile of pasta. “This is a new meatball recipe. I got it from Lydia Volpe,” she added.

“It’s really good,” Zoe said, eager to keep the peace.

“How are your grades?” Bill demanded. “College isn’t like high school. We don’t even get to see your grades, even though we’re paying a small fortune for you to go.”

Sara was shoving a meatball around on her plate with her fork. “They’re okay. I’m not failing or anything like that.”

“But they’re not great?” Bill asked, pressing the issue.

“It’s a lot harder than high school,” Sara said, her voice rising defensively.

“Maybe you should make an appointment with your advisor,” Lucy suggested. “What subject are you having trouble in?”

“Mostly biology,” Sara said. “And I don’t know why I ever signed up for Chinese—it’s impossible.”

“Not for millions of Chinese; they manage to speak it,” Bill said. “Maybe you need to work harder. You could try studying instead of demonstrating.”

Lucy inhaled sharply. This wasn’t turning out to be the pleasant, relaxing dinner she’d hoped for. “Let’s talk about this later,” she urged. “I’m sure we can figure out a way to salvage Sara’s first semester.”

“I don’t know if college is worth it,” Sara declared, voicing her frustration. “You can’t get a job, even with a degree. I think I’d be better off working for the movement.”

“You don’t mean that,” Lucy said, horrified.

“I do! I don’t see the point of all this studying. What good is it? What does it matter if I know what
ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny
means? Who actually cares about some silly, outdated theory?”