Christmas Cookie Murder #6 (15 page)

“Yeah? Well, why won't you trust me? All I wanted to do was spend some time with my friends,” demanded Elizabeth.

“He's not goin' along with the program,” commented another gangster, a small fellow with a wizened face.

“That's why,” said Lucy, pointing to the TV. “I trust you to do what's right, but I don't trust all your friends.”

“I can take care of myself,” insisted Elizabeth.

“He knows too much. We gotta rub him out.” It was the gangster with the cigar.

Stunned, Lucy sat down on the bed, staring at the TV.

Elizabeth reached out and turned it off, and the picture shrank to a little, bright dot.

Suddenly, Lucy knew why Tucker had been killed. She had been a good girl, a girl her parents trusted not to get into trouble. And she hadn't done anything wrong herself, but she had seen something she shouldn't have, probably during that forty-five minutes she was supposedly lost before the hike. She had known too much. And that made her dangerous to somebody. Her innocence hadn't protected her; it had made her vulnerable.

“Mom, are you OK?”

Lucy nodded, and pulled Elizabeth close to her.

I day 'til Xmas

L
ucy had just slipped the chocolate cheesecake into the oven and was starting to make lunch for herself and the girls, Toby having been recruited to act as Bill's gofer, when she realized she was ready for Christmas. The long month's preparations were done. The cards and packages had been sent, the presents had been bought and wrapped, the house decorated and the tree trimmed, the refrigerator and pantry were stocked with holiday treats.

“Do you girls have any plans for this afternoon?” she asked, as they gathered around the kitchen table to eat tuna fish sandwiches and tomato soup. “Zoe, you've been invited to go to Sadie's house to make gingerbread men.”

“Cool,” said Zoe, prompting Lucy to raise an eyebrow. They sure grew up fast these days.

“I'm supposed to go ice-skating with Jenn,” said Sara. “Mrs. Baker said she'd pick me up at one.”

“That sounds like fun. What about you, Elizabeth?”

“Lance wants me to go over to his house to go swimming.”

“Isn't it kind of cold for swimming?” Lucy took a bite of sandwich.

“They got an indoor pool.”

Lucy choked on a bit of tuna fish that went down the wrong way. “An indoor pool?”

She knew Lance's mother, Norah Hemmings, better known as the “queen of daytime TV,” was a wealthy woman, but this was definitely a first for Tinker's Cove.

“Yeah. He's invited a bunch of us to come over and hang out. I can go, can't I, Mom?”

“Only if you bring back a complete report,” specified Lucy. “Sue will want to know all the details.”

“Deal.”

 

It was one-thirty when Lucy pulled into Norah Hemmings's driveway, after dropping Zoe at the Orensteins'. True enough, she saw that a large addition with huge French windows had been added to the back of the big mansion on Smith Heights Road. Norah's house now dwarfed the neighboring houses, including Corney and Chuck Canaday's, which stood next door.

“Dad's going to pick you up on his way home, around four.”

“Why don't I just call, instead,” suggested Elizabeth.

“No way, Jose,” said Lucy, firmly nipping that idea in the bud. “And listen. If I hear the slightest rumor that anything went on here that shouldn't have, you can count on being grounded for the rest of vacation. Understand?”

“Oh, Mom,” groaned Elizabeth, as she climbed out of the car. “You can trust me.”

“Right,” muttered Lucy to herself, as she turned the car around in the spacious driveway.

As Lucy drove past one impressive house after another, all with spectacular ocean views, she couldn't help wondering why anybody would want to live here year-round. A bone-chilling wind came right off the ocean, she could feel it pushing against the Subaru. And the ocean wasn't much to look at on a gray day when you couldn't tell where water ended and sky began. In the distant sky she could see two herring gulls. One, an immature brown one had a fish, she could see silvery flashes as it struggled to break free. The other, a mature white-and-gray bird, was darting at the younger bird, trying to make him drop his prize. The brownish gull held on stubbornly, but the fish finally wriggled free and fell through the air, only to be scooped up by the more experienced bird, who flapped off in triumph. The yearling gull complained against this injustice. His harsh, hollow call echoed in Lucy's ears as she passed a mailbox marked
WHITNEY
.

Acting on impulse, Lucy braked and stopped the car. She looked at the house, a big old wooden box ringed by a generous porch, no doubt filled with chintz-cushioned wicker chairs in the summer but now bare and empty. Long window boxes had been filled with geraniums, now black stumps shriveled by frost. Lucy shuddered, thinking of Tucker all alone in that big, hollow house.

She drove on down the road, surprised to come upon the conservation area only a quarter mile or so from the Whitney house. Once again, Lucy thought it unlikely that Tucker had lost her way, as she had told her fellow hikers. She had summered in that house for her whole life; she must have known about the conservation area.

Saying she was lost must have been an excuse. Something must have delayed her, and it must have been something she didn't want to talk about. Something she felt she had to cover up. What could it be?

Lucy looked up at the Whitney house, and realized it was built on an outcropping of rock that set it up higher than the neighboring houses. In fact, it was so high that someone standing in one of the upstairs windows would have a clear view out to sea, looking right over the roofs of the houses on the other side of the road. From there, Lucy realized, Tucker could see the boats coming and going from Tinker's Cove, and with a pair of binoculars she could probably see the big freighters farther out at sea on their way to Halifax.

What if Tucker had seen something out of the ordinary, as she looked out of those big windows, thought Lucy. What if whatever it was she saw made her so curious that she went to investigate? Reaching to the end of Smith Heights Road, Lucy was about to turn out onto the main road when she noticed a well-worn dirt road branching down toward the water. Impulsively, she decided to see where it led. After all, she had no other responsibilities this afternoon. It was hers to spend as she liked.

The Subaru bounced along, rocking from side to side and crunching through icy patches, for a few hundred feet. Then the road opened out and Lucy found herself looking at a cluster of metal buildings. A small sign read
ROUSSEAU'S LOBSTERS
.

Nobody seemed to be around, there were no cars or trucks, so Lucy turned off the ignition and got out of the car. A blast of cold wind blowing off the water hit her, and she shivered, pulling up the hood of her parka and stuffing her hands in the pockets as she began walking across the yard to the dock. This wasn't at all what she expected a lobster pound to be; she had somehow imagined the lobsters would be kept in some sort of pen or corral in the water. But there was nothing like that, only a dock with a hoist at the end, for unloading the boats. The holding pens must be in the metal buildings, she decided, so the workers could stay relatively warm and dry. Reaching the end of the dock she stood a minute, scanning the empty cove. The wind rattled the line on the hoist; it creaked as it swung back and forth. Realizing her teeth were chattering, she turned to go back to the car and saw she had company. A pickup truck was now parked next to her car, and two men were coming towards her.

Recognizing Rusty and J.J., Lucy gave a wave and a big smile, but they didn't smile back.

“What are you doing here?” demanded J.J., when they were within earshot.

“I was looking for lobsters,” improvised Lucy. “For Christmas dinner.”

Rusty and J.J. exchanged uneasy glances.

“Isn't that what the sign says? Lobsters?” asked Lucy, cocking her head.

The two men were standing opposite her, blocking her path to the car, a situation Lucy wasn't entirely comfortable with. In fact, she would have been a lot happier in her car, speeding back home. Snooping around suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea.

J.J. shook his head, and a lock of curly dark hair fell across his forehead. “We only do wholesale,” he said.

“Yeah,” agreed Rusty, scratching the orange stubble on his chin. “And with the quota and all, we don't have any extras.”

Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “Well, that's too bad. I guess I'll have to try someplace else.”

Much to her relief the two men courteously stepped aside, clearing the path to her car.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, reaching for the door handle, when she heard the sound of a boat motor. They all looked up as a boat approached the dock, then turned abruptly as a red pickup truck sped into the yard and stopped suddenly, brakes squealing. The driver-side door flew open and Claw jumped down and ran toward them.

“What's going on?” he demanded, pointing a stubby finger at Lucy. “What's she doing here?”

“She wants lobsters,” J.J. explained. “I told her we only sell wholesale.”

“Don't you know who she is?” Claw was looking past them, out to the dock. “She's that newspaper reporter. From the meeting the other night.”

Rusty looked over his shoulder to the dock, where a man was tying up the boat. “Is that true?”

“I write for the paper,” began Lucy, as Claw began running to the boat, waving his arms. “Mostly features, you know, soft stuff. In fact,” she extemporized, checking her watch. “I'm supposed to interview Mrs. Santa Claus—to get the behind-the-scenes story—and I'm a little late. So, Merry Christmas to you and your families.”

Determined not to look back no matter what happened she grabbed the handle and pulled the car door open. Stepping next to her, Rusty slammed it shut.

“I think the old man wants to talk to you,” he said, roughly grabbing her arm. Before she could protest, J.J. had her other arm and they were dragging her toward one of the buildings. A door was opened, and she was roughly thrust inside. “You wait here,” he said, and the door slammed shut.

“You can't do this to me,” she screamed. Nobody answered. The door remained shut. Lucy looked around. She was in a dim, chilly room with a concrete floor. Light came through translucent plastic panels on the roof, and she could make out big vats lined up in rows. She peered in the nearest one and saw a few dozen lobsters resting on the bottom.

She stood there, looking at them, wondering how she could have been so stupid. She had retraced Tucker's steps all too well; only to be trapped herself. Whatever Tucker had found had gotten her killed. Lucy was determined that wasn't going to happen to her. She began exploring the room, looking for a way to escape.

It only took minutes to discover that there were no windows and only the one door. She turned the knob, but it was locked. She looked up at the roof, wondering how solid the light panels were, when she heard voices approaching. When a few minutes had passed, and the door didn't open, she pressed her ear against the crack, hoping to hear what they were saying.

“I don't like this business. We should never've locked her up. Now what are we gonna do with her? Say, gee, sorry about that, don't tell anybody, and we'll let you go.
Joyeux Noël
and all that?”

Sounds good to me, Lucy thought hopefully.

“What else could we do?” It sounded like J.J. “The stuffs coming in and we've got a newspaper reporter right here….”

Lucy's breath caught. She could hardly believe what she had heard. They really were dealing in illegal drugs.

“Let me tell you,” continued J.J. “There's something wrong with this picture, and what's wrong is that broad being here.”

Lucy felt her cheeks redden.

“No, what's wrong with this picture is that we ever got involved in the first place.” That was Rusty, Lucy thought, straining to hear every word. “We're in so deep, how're we ever gonna get out?”

Lucy saw a dim ray of hope. Maybe she could convince them that tossing her in with the lobsters or whatever they planned to do with her would only make things worse. She heard the rattle of keys and stepped back from the door just in time.

It opened, and Claw entered, followed by his two sons.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Lucy Stone. I live in town with my husband and four children. They're probably wondering what's keeping me.”

Claw nodded. “You tell me, what exactly brought you out here?”

“Lobsters—for Christmas.” Lucy decided to stick with her story. “Do you treat all your customers like this? Lock them up?”

Behind Claw, J.J. was smiling. “Sorry about that. It's just that, well, you heard about this quota?”

“Yeah, that's it,” said Rusty. “We've got too many lobsters. We're way above quota. And you're not gonna tell anybody about it, because I'm gonna give you some of these lobsters. That makes you guilty, too, right?”

“Right.” Lucy watched as J.J. picked up a wooden stick with a hook on the end and went over to the tank. He began pulling out lobsters and putting them in a burlap sack, and she felt a huge sense of relief. She was actually going to get out of here.

“How many you want?” he asked.

“Just one,” she said. “Like a dollar to seal a contract.”

“Nah,” said Claw. “You said four kids. Give her six, six nice ones. For Christmas dinner.”

“Thank you so much.” Lucy took the sack. “Believe me, I won't say a word about this to anyone.”

“Not even Mrs. Santa Claus?” Claw's eyes gleamed mischievously.

“Not even her.”

Claw opened the door for her. “Rusty, those are heavy. You carry them for the lady.”

“I can manage,” protested Lucy, to no avail. Rusty insisted on escorting her to her car. He opened the door for her, and carefully placed the sack of lobsters in the back.

“Safe home,” he said, before he slammed the hatchback down.

Her hands were shaking so badly Lucy could hardly get the key in the ignition. When it finally slipped in and turned, and the car started, she felt tears streaming down her face. It was as if she had been given a wonderful gift, a gift she didn't deserve, and she felt humble and thankful and guilty and incredibly lucky all at once. She shifted into gear and lifted her foot off the brake, and began slowly turning the car around toward the driveway. She pressed her foot on the gas, accelerating toward the drive, when a police cruiser suddenly appeared, blocking the way out and leaving her with no choice but to slam on the brakes.