Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (8 page)

Ted was going to love them, she decided, especially the one with the dog. The handsome German shepherd was clearly focused on the package one hundred percent, performing the life-saving work he was trained to do. She thought of her own lab, Libby, who was really only interested in her next meal. If only she could be more like this heroic bomb-sniffing dog. She made a mental note to call the bomb team to get their names, including the dog’s. Especially the dog’s.

When Lucy got back to the
Pennysaver
office, however, she discovered she didn’t need to make the call after all. Buzz Bresnahan had already e-mailed her a press release about the entire incident, with numerous attachments containing information about the bomb team, including the fact that the dog’s name was Boomer. She sent a quick reply thanking him, aware that in the current financial climate every Tinker’s Cove department head had to become a public relations expert. Buzz was defending his department from budget cuts, and he made it very clear in his press release that the bomb squad was funded by the state, assisted by the federal Department of Homeland Security.

Lucy made sure she included that information in the story, but put it at the end, leading with the human interest angle, the dog, Boomer. She was just winding up the story and thinking about heading home when Ted announced he had received an e-mail from the bomb squad.

Recalling Boomer’s immediate response to the suspicious package, she wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that it was discovered to be completely innocent of any explosives. It contained an assortment of sausages sent to Scribner from his insurance agent.

“It came prewrapped,” said Bill Swift, of Swift and Chase, when she called him for a reaction. “I wanted to express my appreciation to my best customers. I never thought—I mean—I’m so sorry.”

Ending that call, Lucy decided to follow up with the bomb squad after all. “What did you do with the sausage?” she asked.

“Oh, we ate it,” came the reply, “but we gave most of it to Boomer. That dog really loves sausage.”

H
arriet Sigafoo, the organist, pulled out all the stops for the final hymn, “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” and the mourners gathered for Jake Marlowe’s funeral on Friday morning were clearly eager to get moving as soon as they sang that last amen. Jake Marlowe hadn’t been very popular in his life and Lucy suspected quite a few people had come simply to make sure the old miser was really and truly dead. Now that they had been assured that this was indeed the case, they were eager to see what was being offered in the collation the minister had invited everyone to partake of in the Fellowship Hall.

As she waited for her pew to empty, Lucy thought of the lines of the hymn: “When my feeble life is o’er
Time for me will be no more.
Guide me gently, safely o’er / To Thy kingdom shore, to Thy shore.” Jake Marlowe had run out of time rather sooner than he’d expected, and Lucy wondered if he would have made some different choices if he’d known his end was so close. Perhaps he would have forgiven some debtors, hoping that his own sinful debts would be forgiven. Or perhaps not, she thought, remembering Elsie’s warning about moral hazard. Perhaps he thought he was the righteous one and the pearly gates would open wide for him.

Personally, Lucy doubted it. At the very least she expected St. Peter would consign him to a lengthy spell in purgatory, to consider his moral lapses. Jesus said it was easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven, and Lucy thought that was probably true in Jake Marlowe’s case. She assumed exceptions would be made for rich people who shared their wealth and tried to make the world a better place, people like Bono and Bill Gates. Jake Marlowe hadn’t done that. In truth, his single-minded pursuit of wealth had caused a great deal of misery.

Joining the line of people who were filing into the Fellowship Hall, Lucy thought she caught a tantalizing whiff of Fern’s Famous Swedish meatballs. Not what she expected, she thought, recalling Phyllis’s prediction of tea punch and lemon cookies. But first, she had to negotiate the reception line.

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” she murmured to Ben Scribner. He seemed quite subdued, she thought, murmuring a barely audible thank you. She suspected he was still quite shaken by the incident with the suspicious package; even though it turned out to be completely harmless it must have been a terrifying experience. He passed her along to his niece, Florence, who greeted her warmly and introduced her to Virginia Irving, Marlowe’s ex-wife.

Lucy caught her jaw before it dropped; she never would have guessed that Marlowe was once married, and certainly not to someone as attractive as Virginia. She was an energetic fifty or so, with a fashionable short hairdo. Her skin glowed, her eyes were bright, and any gray hairs were covered with an auburn rinse. She was wearing a subdued greenish gray dress, but instead of the usual black pumps was sporting a pair of very fashionable high-heeled ankle boots.

“Lucy and I have parts in
A Christmas Carol,
” Florence was saying. “I hope you’ll come to the show.”

“I’d love to,” Virginia said with a warm smile. “It’s my favorite Christmas story.”

“Mine, too,” Lucy said, moving along to check out the buffet table.

“Quite a spread,” Marge Culpepper said, getting in line beside her. “I heard that the ex-wife is paying for it.”

Lucy surveyed the chafing dishes filled with Swedish meatballs, flounder roll-ups with crab stuffing, chicken Kiev, and beef Stroganoff and concluded Marge was right. The long table seemed to go on and on, offering potatoes au gratin, rice pilaf, buttery noodles, mixed vegetables, a huge bowl of salad, rolls with butter, and then there was a separate dessert table with tea and coffee. “That must be the case,” she said. “Ben Scribner would never spend the money for something this lavish.”

“You’re right about that. Mrs. Irving is the founder of this feast and she’s a sweetie,” Dora Fraser said, spooning a healthy serving of meatballs onto Lucy’s plate. “I don’t know what she ever saw in that miserable old codger, but it’s thanks to her that we’re going to have Christmas after all. Believe me, just last week I was studying my checkbook and figuring we could have either prime rib for Christmas dinner or presents, but not both.”

“If Jake Marlowe knew about this he’d be spinning in his grave like a top,” Marge said. “I hope they’ve got him down a good six feet.”

“Considering the state of his body, I guess he’d be more like a dust devil,” Dora said.

“You’re terrible, Dora,” Lucy said, adding salad to her plate.

“But you know she’s right,” Marge said, bursting into giggles.

Looking around, Lucy had to admit there were no sad faces at Jake Marlowe’s funeral. She and Marge seated themselves at a table set for four and were soon joined by Pam and Sue. They were a merry group, chatting about their holiday plans. Lucy resisted the temptation to have a second helping of those famous meatballs, and decided to forgo the tempting desserts in favor of a cup of tea. She was just returning to the table when she encountered Virginia and Florence.

“Is everything all right?” Virginia asked. “Is there enough food?”

“Plenty of food and everything is lovely,” Lucy said, “and to be honest, quite unexpected. You must have been very fond of Jake Marlowe.”

“I was once, many years ago, but we grew apart,” Virginia said. “He changed—that’s why our marriage ended. But now that he’s gone, I want to remember the man he used to be.” She gave a sad smile. “My therapist would say it’s wishful thinking.”

“That’s an interesting view,” Lucy said, turning to Florence. “How is your uncle taking the loss? And on top of losing his partner, there was the bomb scare. . . .”

“He won’t admit it, he’s keeping a stiff upper lip, but he’s really upset. Losing Jake was like losing part of himself, his right hand or something. They’ve been partners for thirty-odd years,” Florence said. “And now the idea that somebody out there wanted to do Jake harm—that’s really shaken him. He feels very vulnerable and that doesn’t fit in with his world view. He’s the one who’s supposed to be in charge.”

“It must be quite upsetting,” Lucy said, privately thinking it was high time the old cheapskate got a reality check. “Has he had any more panic attacks?”

“No. Doc Ryder gave him some antianxiety medication but I’m not convinced he’s taking it.” She indicated her uncle, who was sitting by himself in a corner. “As a matter of fact, I think I better go and cheer him up.”

“I’ll come, too,” Virginia said. “It was nice talking to you, Lucy.”

Lucy sipped her tea, watching them cross the room. Noticing a photo collage depicting Jake Marlowe’s life, she decided to take a look at it. She was curious about him, wondering why he’d become such a miserly hermit, and perhaps the photos would offer an explanation.

The first thing Lucy noticed was that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to create the display, and she assumed that person was Virginia. The photos were beautifully mounted, in chronological sequence, and had captions written in a lovely calligraphic hand. The photo essay began with a graying photo of an infant tightly grasping a silver rattle, which must have been taken when Jake was only a few months old. That was followed with five or six snapshots, clearly taken together, of a chubby towheaded toddler pulling a little wooden wagon.

Studying the photos, Lucy wondered why Virginia had kept them. She was now Mrs. Irving, so she must have remarried. Once a divorce was final, she imagined most women were eager to get on with their lives and got rid of reminders of their failed marriage, even throwing away their wedding rings. Or maybe that was just in the movies, she thought, examining the pictures that documented Jake’s progress through elementary school, prep school (
St. Paul’s
read the flowing script), and college (Dartmouth).

At St. Paul’s he was pictured arm in arm with three other teens, and at Dartmouth he seemed to be quite the life of the party, caught by the camera in company with numerous other glowing youths. The glow, Lucy suspected, came from plenty of alcohol.

But why had Jake changed from the sociable fellow he had been in his youth to the miser he became in later life? It was hard to believe the young man pictured at his first job with longish, curly hair, wearing a once fashionable suit with bell bottom pants, was the same person who lived in that ramshackle house stuffed with old newspapers. There was a clue, perhaps, in the fact that his first job was with a venture capital firm and he was smiling broadly and proudly displaying a fan of hundred-dollar bills in his hand.

There were only a few more photos in the display, and none from Marlowe’s later life, confirming Virginia’s confession that they had grown apart. Hearing her voice, Lucy looked for a way to get a bit closer to the corner where Virginia and Ben Scribner were sitting. Noticing the memory book set out on a nearby table, she bent over it and began turning the pages.

“Remember when you two met at Fitzhugh Capital?” Virginia was saying. “Old Fitz was a wonderful boss, wasn’t he? Remember those fabulous dinners at Locke-Ober’s? That Christmas party at the Ritz? The champagne corks were going off like popcorn!” She shook her head, her voice rueful. “When did it all start to go wrong?”

Ben shrugged and shook his head. “Jake was a good partner. I couldn’t have asked for better. I’d trust him with my last penny.”

“You know,” Virginia said, “when I asked for a divorce it was because I thought he was having an affair with another woman, but it wasn’t a woman at all. It was money. He fell in love with money.”

“He was a good businessman,” Ben said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Oh but there is,” Virginia said, placing her hand on Ben’s. “There’s more to life than business, and I’m afraid you’re making the same mistake Jake did. He fell in love with money and it seems you’ve fallen into that trap, too.”

“Nonsense!” Ben said, shaking off her hand and rising unsteadily to his feet. “You’re being ridiculous.” He waved his hand. “Look at all this! A waste of money!”

Virginia’s face was white, and she bit her lip. “No, Ben, not a waste. The waste was Jake’s life, hiding himself away in that big old house.”

Ben glared at her, but all he was able to come up with in response was a big “Hmph!”

Lucy picked up the pen and wrote her name in the memory book, and when she finished she saw that both Virginia and Ben had left their seats. They weren’t the only ones; the room was definitely emptying. Lucy plucked a single cookie from the dessert table and nibbled it, making her way to the coatrack. She was there, buttoning her coat, when Ike Stoughton joined her.

“I didn’t expect such a good turnout,” he said.

“Funerals are always popular in Tinker’s Cove,” Lucy said, drawing on long experience.

“Maybe so,” Ike admitted. “But I suspect a lot of people wanted to make sure the old bastard was really dead—and the free meal was a bonus.”

“There’s that, too,” Lucy replied, but she was talking to Ike’s back. He’d turned, spotting Ben Scribner, and had crossed the small vestibule to approach him, actually cornering him. Ben was looking uncomfortable, but Lucy couldn’t hear what Ike was saying, although he did appear to be asking for a favor of some kind. Whatever it was, Scribner wasn’t pleased. He was shaking his head and trying to get around Ike.

Suddenly Ike’s voice rose. “I tell you, I just need a bit more time. I can pay you next month.”

“This is not the place to discuss business,” Scribner snarled, glaring at him. “Call my office and make an appointment.”

“I’ll do that,” Ike said. Realizing he was drawing attention to himself, he stepped aside, and Scribner scurried to the coatrack in a sideways move that reminded Lucy of a frightened crab running for cover. Once he’d pulled on his overcoat, he seemed to regain his usual arrogant attitude.

“I don’t imagine it will make any difference,” Scribner said, pulling his leather gloves from his coat pocket and slapping them against his hand. “A contract is a contract.” Then Elsie, his secretary, joined him and the two left the hall, walking in the direction of the Downeast office.

“I bet they’re going back to work,” Ike said. “He wouldn’t even close the business for one day in honor of his partner.”

“Oh, that’s the last thing Jake Marlowe would have wanted,” Lucy said. “He’d expect them to carry on with business as usual.”

Ike snorted in disgust. “Unbelievable,” he said, shrugging into his bulky down jacket and holding the door for Lucy. They parted when the path met the sidewalk and she headed back to the office, enjoying the opportunity to clear her head in the crisp, cold air.

As she began the short, four-block walk along Main Street to the
Pennysaver
office, Lucy thought that Ike Stoughton was absolutely the last person she would expect to have financial problems. He had a successful surveying business and was known as the man to go to if you had a problem with a property title. Of course, the recession had taken a toll on business, especially real estate. Nevertheless, even foreclosures required accurate surveying, which should have provided at least some work for him.

Probably, she admitted, nothing like what he was doing before the recession, when real estate was booming. These days everybody, it seemed, was making do with less and Ike Stoughton was no exception. Unfortunately for him, Lucy knew, he had high expenses for his daughter, Abby, who had suffered a mental breakdown following the death of her mother.

Lucy paused at a corner, waiting for a car to pass, then crossed the street. When your income dropped you could cut back on some things, but not medical care, especially when your daughter was suicidal. Ike was committed to Abby, and he wanted the best for her, but that didn’t come cheap. It was the sort of thing that could make for a motive, Lucy thought. Ike wasn’t one to knuckle under to anyone and he might be just angry enough to do something foolish. If he sent the bomb, Lucy was sure he had only meant to scare Jake Marlowe and his partner, Ben Scribner—he wouldn’t have meant to kill anybody. Just try telling that to a jury!