Christmas Cookie Murder #6 (6 page)

T
o the children, the bells meant it was lunchtime. Shrieking, they ran for the door and tumbled inside.

But to Lucy, they sounded like funeral bells, tolling the years of a life that was far too brief. Distracted, she went through the motions automatically, helping the children hang up their coats in the cubbies and telling them to wash their hands. Used to the routine, they were soon sitting at the table, waiting for Lucy to get their lunches out of the refrigerator and bring them to the table.

They thought it was hysterical when she gave Justin's blue lunch box to Harry; everyone knew Harry had a Power Ranger lunch box. Their laughter roused Lucy, and she reluctantly returned to the here and now, letting go of Tucker's death for the time being.

“Are you sure the Power Ranger lunch box is Harry's?” she teased, peeking inside. “I see Oreos—I think it must be mine.”

All the children laughed, except Harry, who appeared a bit anxious.

“Oops, I forgot,” said Lucy, slapping her hand to her head. “I didn't bring any lunch today. This must be Harry's!”

With a big sigh of relief Harry took the box and opened it up. Like the other children he began arranging the contents on the table in front of him.

Lucy went into the kitchen to get the milk and grabbed a few graham crackers for herself. After she poured the milk she sat with the children, nibbling on the crackers. She noticed that they all followed the same pattern: first they ate their cookies and fruit, after a lively trading session in which one fruit roll-up went for a box of raisins and two Vienna fingers, then they took a bite or two out of their sandwiches and discarded the rest.

Lucy was tidying the table, sighing over the waste, when Sue returned without Will.

“They wanted to keep him for a while, to make sure he isn't coming down with something, and I was afraid I'd never get away,” complained Sue, “but his mother finally showed up. She had to cancel ‘two very important meetings, mind you.'” Sue was a good mimic, and copied Steffie's officious tone perfectly. Lucy almost smiled.

“Hey, what's the matter?” prompted Sue. “You look as if something awful's happened.”

“Barney came by with some bad news,” began Lucy, wishing there was some way to soften what she had to say. “Tucker's dead.”

“What?” Sue didn't believe what she heard.

“It's true. She was found dead this morning. A neighbor noticed the front door was open and called the police. Barney came here looking for an address book, so they can notify her family.”

“Was it an accident?” Sue was struggling to understand.

Lucy shook her head. “They think she was strangled,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Oh my God.” Sue collapsed on a little chair, her long, elegant legs splayed out at an awkward angle.

Noticing the increase in the volume of the children's voices, Lucy turned her attention to them. Two of the girls were fighting over the bride's veil in the dress-up corner and Justin and Matthew were crashing toy wooden cars into each other.

“Okay, quiet down,” she said, rising to her feet and giving Sue's hand a little pat. “It's time for a story.”

Back in the familiar groove of their daily routine, the children gathered on the rug in the corner and sat cross-legged. Lucy settled herself in the rocking chair and opened the first book that came to hand. Afterward, she couldn't have said what book it was, but it held the kids' attention. Then, knowing the drill, they unrolled their mats and settled down for quiet time. Lucy popped a cassette of soothing music into the tape recorder and went back to Sue.

“Can I get you some tea? Something to eat?”

Sue didn't respond, so Lucy put two mugs of water in the microwave to heat and raided the graham-cracker box once again. Hearing the ding, she dropped tea bags into the mugs.

“Drink this,” she urged Sue.

Sue took the mug with shaking hands. “I just can't believe this. I was with her yesterday.”

“I know.” Lucy sipped her tea. “You know what I was thinking last night, when I was talking to Tucker? I was thinking how wonderful it would be to be young again and have my whole life ahead of me.”

Sue shook her head. “It's not fair. She loved life—she had so much enthusiasm. Once I asked her if she didn't get depressed sometimes, and you know what she said? She said she woke up every morning convinced that the day held something wonderful for her, and it was up to her to find that beautiful thing. It might be a smile from one of the kids, or a postcard from a friend, or a kitten…” Sue's face crumpled as she dissolved into tears.

Lucy wrapped an arm around Sue's shoulder and let her cry, grateful they were hidden from the children's view by a bookcase. Raffi's gentle voice drifted across the room. Finally, Sue's shoulders stopped heaving, and she wiped her eyes with a tissue.

“I'm sorry, Lucy. I don't know what's the matter with me. It must be the shock.”

“You don't need to apologize. You have a right to grieve.” Lucy wondered who else would be grieving for Tucker and remembered Barney's visit. “You know, Barney was looking for an address book but I don't think he found anything.”

“She had a bright pink agenda—you know, calendar, address book, your whole life wrapped up with a Velcro flap.” Sue sniffled and reached for another tissue.

“How big was it?” asked Lucy, going over to Tucker's desk. The top was bare except for a plant, a small pink mitten, and a picture of a smiling middle-aged couple. Lucy picked it up for a closer look. Tucker had inherited her coloring from her mother, but her smile came from her dad.

“About like this.” Sue described a ten-inch square with her hands. “It was chunky, a couple of inches thick.”

“It wouldn't fit in a pocket?” Lucy replaced the picture and slid the center drawer open. It was empty, except for a clutter of pens and pencils in the tray designed for them. Pulling open the top drawer on the side, Lucy noticed Sue had joined her.

“No, it was pretty big.” Sue peered in the drawer. “She'd only been here a few months. She didn't have time to accumulate much.”

The drawer held only a bottle of Advil and a spare pair of panty hose.

“What brought her here?” asked Lucy, pulling open the middle drawer and lifting out a sweater.

“She'd finished two years of college and wanted a break. Her folks said OK, as long as she did something useful. I almost fainted when she walked in one day, answering the help-wanted ad. I never expected to get anyone with her qualifications, not for what we pay. But she said she didn't need much money, she was living in her parents' summer house on the coast road.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow. Smith Heights Road overlooked the cove and was lined with enormous, gray-shingled “cottages” belonging to wealthy old-line families who summered in Tinker's Cove but lived in New York, Washington, or Philadelphia. Among them were a cabinet secretary, a prominent pediatrician whose name had become a household word, and the celebrated talk-show hostess, Norah Hemmings. Others were CEOs or lawyers or investment bankers.

In the bottom drawer Lucy found a well-worn pair of loafers, a handful of college catalogs, and a guide to hiking trails.

Sue picked up one of the catalogs and fanned the pages. “She was thinking of changing her major—she wanted to concentrate in early childhood education. I warned her it was a bad career move—low-paying, not respected—but she said she didn't care. She said she loved working with kids.” Sue closed her eyes and took a deep, quavery breath. “She said she'd never been happier.”

Sue bent down to replace the catalogs in the drawer and gently shut it. When she stood up, her eyes were glistening.

“No sign of the agenda, here. And I know Barney didn't take it. I would've noticed.”

“She usually carried a gym bag. She took a tai chi class after work. That's probably where it is. We don't need it, anyway. I have next-of-kin information on her emergency card.” She sighed. “I can't let them nap forever. I've got to get them up. Would you call the police station for me?”

Lucy nodded. Sue stood up, then sat down, propping her elbow on the desk and resting her head in her hand. “Damn—I've got to find someone to replace Tucker.” She rubbed her eyes. “At Christmastime, no less.”

“Don't panic. I can help out some. And I bet there are plenty of young moms who could use some extra Christmas cash.”

“We'll see.” Sue didn't seem convinced. She got back up and, walking slowly, went over to the bookcase and clicked off the tape recorder, reaching her hands high over her head. “C'mon kids. It's time to get up—let's see you all give a big stretch.”

While Sue led the children in their wake-up exercises, Lucy went to the phone and dialed the police station, asking for Barney.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.

“Nope. Not a thing.”

“Sue says she had a pink agenda, one of those organizer books, and she kept it in her backpack.”

“I'll pass that along, but I'm pretty sure they would have found it if it was there.”

“Well, I can give you the information on her emergency card,” said Lucy, pulling out the file folder and opening it up. “Mr. and Mrs. John Whitney,” she read, trying very hard not to think of the smiling couple in the photograph on Tucker's desk.

“Thanks, Lucy,” said Barney, when she had finished.

“Who's going to call them?” asked Lucy. “Will it be you?”

“I hope not.” Barney sighed. He had knocked on too many doors late at night, bringing bad news. “I sure hope not.”

“Me too,” said Lucy, feeling a surge of anger as she replaced the receiver. It was bad enough the murderer had taken Tucker's life, but whoever it was had done more than that. So many people would be affected: the little children in the day-care center who had come to trust and love Tucker; Sue would not only have to cope with her own grief, but she would have to find a new assistant; the police officers would have to struggle with their own emotions as they investigated the case. Everyone in town would be touched by this violent death in some way. Women who had walked alone at night without giving their safety a thought would now look uneasily over their shoulders. At home, they would be extra careful to make sure the windows and doors were locked at night. Children would be warned not to talk to strangers. No one would be able to rest easy, Lucy realized, until the strangler was caught.

She refiled Tucker's emergency folder and snapped the cabinet shut, making a little vow to herself. Tucker's murderer would be found and punished.

14 days 'til Xmas

T
he next morning, after Bill had left for work and the bus had carried the kids off to school, Lucy found herself alone in the house. Usually she enjoyed these few quiet early-morning moments, sitting down at the kitchen table with a second cup of coffee and planning her day. She reached for her calendar and opened it—Christmas was only two weeks away, she realized with a shock, and her shopping was far from done. She still only had one present for Elizabeth, the earrings, and didn't have the slightest idea what else to get her.

Lucy pushed the calendar away. It might be December, all right, but it sure didn't feel like Christmas. Not with Tucker dead. Things like that shouldn't happen. Young girls shouldn't die, but it was especially cruel when it happened this time of year.

Tucker had a mother and father who had undoubtedly been making their own Christmas plans. Her father perhaps looking forward to a game of indoor tennis with his best girl, or maybe even a skiing trip. Her mother had probably been fussing over what to buy her for Christmas, just as Lucy was worrying about what to give Elizabeth. Or perhaps she had found just the right present and had tucked it away, carefully wrapped in jolly, holiday paper.

How did people stand it, wondered Lucy. How did they manage to go on living after losing a child? Worst of all for Tucker's parents, thought Lucy, was the fact that she had been murdered. It would be hard enough to accept the loss of a child in an accident, but how did you deal with the knowledge that somebody had killed your precious daughter on purpose?

Unable to sit still any longer, Lucy pushed the chair back and stood up. She reached for the sponge and began wiping the counter, pacing back and forth the length of the kitchen. She tossed the sponge in the sink, spotting a gaily decorated tin that had gone unnoticed in the ever-present clutter, tucked away on top of the cookbooks.

Curious, Lucy opened it up and found a carefully arranged assortment of cookies from the cookie exchange. Puzzled, she furrowed her brow. Finally the light dawned. Someone, probably Franny, had put them aside for Marge.

No time like the present, thought Lucy, as a plan took shape. She'd been intending to visit Marge, anyway, and now she had a good excuse. And since Marge was married to Barney, she might have some inside information on the police investigation.

 

“Barney didn't have much to say about it,” said Marge, straightening the scarf she was wearing to hide the effects of the chemotherapy. She was lying on an aging plaid Herculon couch, with her shoulders propped on a pile of cushions. “I think it upset him, her being so young and all. And anyway, the state police handle all the homicides.”

“I know,” said Lucy, taking a seat in the rocking chair. Somehow it seemed presumptuous to sit in Barney's big recliner. “But they use the local manpower, too. For routine things like questioning neighbors, running background checks. Did Barney happen to mention who's in charge of the investigation?”

Marge's expression brightened. “He did mention Lieutenant Horowitz, I think. He's usually the one they send.”

Lucy recognized the name. Her most recent encounter with the lieutenant had been the year before, when she was a member of the library board of directors and there had been some trouble.

“He's very thorough,” said Lucy, remembering that Horowitz had even considered her a possible suspect. “I wonder if they have any suspects yet? You know, I heard she was involved with Steve Cummings.”

As she spoke, Lucy suddenly realized that Steve was the most likely suspect. The husband, or in this case, boyfriend, always was.

“That nice dentist?” Marge raised her eyebrows.

“That nice dentist walked out on his wife and two adorable little girls,” said Lucy. “Lee was pretty upset with Tucker at the cookie exchange.”

“I don't blame her,” said Marge. “Though by rights he's the one she should be angry with. And what's a man of his age doing with a young girl like Tucker anyway?”

“That seems to be the fashion nowadays. I guess it's some sort of status symbol to have a young girlfriend.” It was that very generation gap, thought Lucy, that could cause problems in a relationship. Problems that could lead to murder.

“Nothing new about that,” sniffed Marge. “It must be awful hard on their kids. Little girls, you said?”

“Hillary and Gloria. Gloria goes to school with Zoe, and Hillary's in the day-care center.”

Marge clucked her tongue. “I suppose she has to work now that they're separated, but I don't see why these young mothers can't spend a few years at home with their little ones.”

“They all have careers,” Lucy said, remembering little Will's asthma attack the day before. “You know, I was helping Sue at the center yesterday, and Will Scott got sick. Sue had to take him to the emergency room, but when I called his mother she acted as if it was all a big inconvenience. She told me I should have called her husband.”

“I guess I'm old-fashioned,” said Marge, with a shrug. “I was raised that you never bothered a man at work. When Eddie broke his leg, I took him over to Doc Ryder. When the water heater broke and flooded the cellar, I was the one who called the plumber and got it fixed. Barney never knew what happened 'til it was all over and done with.”

“Steffie's not like that, that's for sure,” said Lucy. “But she takes an interest in Tom's work—she's real active in Mothers Against Drunk Driving.”

“Now that's something I don't hold with,” said Marge, lifting a glass of water from the coffee table and taking a long drink. The table was filled with the clutter of illness: pill bottles, a heating pad, information pamphlets, and instruction sheets. “A man's work is his own business. Barney does his job, and I do mine. 'Course now it's different because I'm sick, but I always used to have a nice hot dinner on the table and a smile on my face when he came home from work. But I don't bother him about what he did or who's in trouble. If he wants to talk about it, fine, but I don't press him. It's hard enough being a cop, but he only has to do it forty hours a week. The rest of his time is his.”

“It is a hard job, isn't it? After all, people don't call the police when everything's going great.”

“That's for sure,” agreed Marge. “But just between you and me it's worse than ever now that Tom Scott is the big cheese in the department.”

Lucy couldn't help smiling. She hadn't heard that expression in years. “What's the problem?”

Marge shrugged. “Tom's got all these ideas about how Barney should improve his outreach program.”

“Really?” Barney was the department's safety officer, and through the years Lucy had seen most of his presentations at the school. “He does a great job, and the kids love him. That bike-safety obstacle course, where he sets up the real traffic light, they all look forward to that. He always does it the first day after spring vacation.”

Marge's face softened. “Barney loves it, too. You know, he made all those signs and the traffic light—spent one whole winter down in the cellar, building all that stuff.” She sighed. “Traffic safety, stranger danger, all that's old hat according to Tom. He wants more antidrug and antialcohol education.”

“For kindergarten?”

“Can't start too young, I guess. Gotta scare 'em straight. At least that's what he tells Barney.”

“Gee, whatever happened to childhood innocence? We used to try to protect kids.”

“That's what Barney says, but Tom's given him these curriculums he's supposed to use. Big, thick books.” She glanced at the recliner, where a special pocket held the TV remote. “Barney's not much of a reader.”

Lucy chuckled, recognizing the truth of Marge's statement.

“Actually,” continued Marge, leaning forward, “I'm kind of worried. The more Tom leans on Barney, the more Barney resists. I'm afraid he's gonna snap and do something he'll regret. If he lost his job, I don't know what we'd do. We really need the medical insurance.” She touched the scarf, reassuring herself that it hadn't slipped. “The surgery, the treatments, it's all very expensive.”

“I wouldn't worry. Barney's got lots of seniority. I don't think they could fire him.”

“I'm not worried about that, Lucy. I'm worried that he'll quit.”

“He wouldn't do that—I can't imagine him as anything but a cop. It's what he is.” Lucy patted her chest. “It's part of him.”

“He keeps threatening….”

“I think he's just talking.” Lucy hoped it was true; she knew how vital medical insurance was. She and Bill had been unable to afford it themselves until the Chamber of Commerce set up a plan for members who were self-employed, like Bill. Before that, a case of pneumonia one winter had forced them to depend on food stamps and a loan from Bill's parents. Bill had only lost a few weeks of work, but the hospital had demanded payment and threatened legal action.

“Hey, did you hear about Richie?” asked Lucy, eager to switch to a more positive subject. “He got into Harvard.”

“That's wonderful,” enthused Marge, relieved to have a new topic of conversation. “Of course, he's always been a bright boy. What are Toby's plans?”

“He says he's interested in several colleges, but he's being awfully lazy about the applications.”

“Who can blame him?” Marge rubbed her forehead and Lucy suspected she was getting tired. “I tried to help Eddie, but I couldn't manage it.”

This was news to Lucy. She had thought Eddie would probably get a job after high school or join the armed forces. “Where's Eddie applying?”

“Culinary school. He wants to be a chef.”

Lucy was impressed. “That's a good idea. He's worked at the Greengage Cafe for a couple of summers, hasn't he?”

“He loves it. But he says he has to go to culinary school to be a chef.”

“Maybe I could help,” offered Lucy. “The boys could work on their applications together. It might be just what Toby needs to get his done, too. Eddie could come over one day next week.”

“That'd be great, Lucy. You could help him with the essay part since you write for the paper and all.”

“I'll do what I can.” Lucy checked her watch. “I've got to get going. I've got a list of errands a mile long.”

“Thanks for coming, and thanks for the cookies.” Marge nodded at the tin on the coffee table.

“Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

“No, Lucy, I'm fine.”

“You take care now,” said Lucy, giving Marge a quick hug before she left. Then, heading downtown, she thought about their conversation.

She sympathized with Marge, but she also knew that under the leadership of Chief Crowley, whose health had been declining for years, the Tinker's Cove Police Department had settled into a long slumber. Maybe Tom Scott would bring some much-needed vigor to the department.

Then, rounding a corner, she drew up short, noticing Steve Cummings's dental office. Acting on impulse, she pulled into the drive and parked in the small parking area behind the building. She hadn't gotten much information from Marge. Why not question her prime suspect directly?

As she made her way up the neat brick path to the door she tried to think of an excuse for seeing the dentist. Have her teeth cleaned? Dr. Cummings probably had a dental hygienist who handled that chore, and, besides, she would probably have to make an appointment. A cleaning was hardly an emergency.

Could she claim she had a toothache? A really bad one that needed emergency attention? The idea made her uneasy. If Steve Cummings had murdered Tucker, she hardly wanted to put herself at his mercy in a dental chair.

No, she would have to try a different approach. By the time she pulled open the door she had a plan.

“Do you have an appointment?” inquired the woman behind the desk. She was a rather heavy, middle-aged woman with brass-colored hair cropped in one of those upswept styles that was supposed to make a woman of a certain age look younger. It made this woman look like a Marine drill sergeant, thought Lucy.

“No, I don't. I'm from
The Pennysaver
, you know, the newspaper?”

The woman's face hardened. “We don't advertise,” she said. “It's a matter of professional ethics.”

“Oh, no. I'm not selling advertising. I write for the paper. I'm Lucy Stone.”

The drill sergeant was not impressed with this information.

Lucy smiled, and plunged ahead, improvising as she went.

“Actually, I'm working on a feature story. We're asking prominent citizens, you know, people our readers will recognize, what they want for Christmas. It's kind of a man-in-the-street thing, with kind of a new twist? It'll only take a minute of the doctor's time.”

“I don't think so.” The drill sergeant shook her head. “In fact, Dr. Cummings has cut back his schedule today. He's only seeing a few patients whose treatment can't be delayed.”

“Could you just ask him for me?” persisted Lucy. “In my experience, most of the people we interview for stories like this are pleased and flattered by the attention.”

“I don't think that would be the case here.” The receptionist's tone was flat.

“You never know. He might be upset if he learned you'd sent me away,” suggested Lucy. “It's good publicity, and it's free….”

Just then the door behind the receptionist's desk opened and Dr. Cummings appeared in his white jacket, followed by an elderly woman who looked a bit dazed.

“Ruth, I want you to make another appointment for Mrs. Slade here. Preferably next week.” He handed a chart to the receptionist and quickly consulted a clipboard, then turned to Lucy. “Mrs. Green?”

“Oh, no,” Lucy said quickly, before the receptionist could get her two cents in. “I'm Lucy Stone, from
The Pennysaver
.”