Christmas Cookie Murder #6 (7 page)

She watched his face closely, looking for a reaction, but Steve Cummings wasn't giving anything away. He looked the same as always, a thirtysomething professional with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses, except that today his eyes looked tired.

“I'm doing a feature story about Christmas, and I'd just like to ask you a few quick questions, if you don't mind?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

Lucy followed him, making a point not to look at the receptionist. She knew looks couldn't kill, but she wasn't taking any chances.

He led her into a small office, with a large desk. He seated himself behind it, and Lucy took a chair.

“It's just a man-in-the-street sort of thing,” she began, letting her hands flutter in front of her. “I'm supposed to ask various important people, you know, people our readers will recognize, what they want for Christmas. You can be as serious or as funny as you want to be. And, of course, I have to take your picture.”

She bent down to fumble in her purse for her notebook, all the time keeping an eye on Dr. Cummings. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.

“What I want for Christmas, eh?” He sighed, and a shadow seemed to pass over his face. Then he focused his eyes on her. “There's something I always wanted, ever since I was a kid, but I never got. My parents didn't think it was appropriate: a G.I. Joe doll. They didn't approve of dolls for boys, but I'm telling you, they made a big mistake. I saw one at an antique show not long ago, and it was worth a bundle.”

Lucy smiled and scribbled down his quote. Actually, she thought, this could turn out to be a good idea for a story. But before she left, she had another question she wanted to ask. She pulled her camera out of her bag and waved it apologetically in front of her face.

“Now's the tough part. I have to take your picture.”

“Go ahead. Shoot.”

She glanced around the room. “You're against the window—that doesn't work. Could you stand against the wall?”

“Oh, sure.” He got up and moved into position, straightening his jacket and smiling.

“You know, I really lucked out with this assignment. I was afraid I'd have to cover that murder,” volunteered Lucy, from behind her camera.

“That was a terrible thing,” said Steve. His smile was gone. He looked as if he was going to cry.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Lucy, lowering her camera. “I didn't know you knew her.”

“Only slightly.” Steve's expression became guarded. “But I have a wife and two daughters. I don't like the idea of something like this happening in Tinker's Cove.”

“I'm surprised to hear you say that.” Lucy smiled mischievously at him. “I was at a party with Lee a few nights ago, and it didn't sound as if she would mind if you were murdered one bit.”

He gave a hollow chuckle. “I guess that's par for the course. We're separated, you know, but hopefully we'll work things out.”

“Hopefully.” Lucy raised the camera again. “Now think of those two beautiful daughters of yours.” His face brightened, and he smiled; Lucy snapped the photo.

“Thanks so much for your time,” she said, starting to pack up her camera and notebook, when the door flew open.

The receptionist was clucking nervously, like a hen spying a hungry dog on the other side of the fence. No wonder, thought Lucy, recognizing the man behind her: Lieutenant Horowitz, the state police detective.

“I was just leaving,” said Lucy, heading for the door.

“Good idea,” said Horowitz, making eye contact with her. “This is the last I want to see of you Mrs. Stone. Do you understand?”

Lucy hastened to reassure him. “Yes. Yes, I do. I'm gone. You won't see me again.”

“I hope not.” Horowitz pulled his long upper lip down, and pressed it against his bottom lip. It made him look a little bit like a rabbit. Then he turned. “Dr. Cummings, I have a few questions for you….”

So, great minds think alike, thought Lucy, pushing the door open. She wasn't the only one who suspected Cummings. Pausing for a moment on the stoop, she surveyed the scene. Not only did she recognize the detective's gray sedan, but two cruisers were also parked on the street in front of the office. Horowitz had brought reinforcements.

She slung her shoulder bag up over her arm and started down the path to her car. What she wouldn't give to hear Horowitz's questions.

But as she started her car, she couldn't help harboring a few doubts. Somehow, Steve Cummings just didn't seem like a murderer to her.

A
s she headed downtown to the dry cleaners, Lucy tried to sort through her confusing thoughts. Logically, she knew Steve was the obvious suspect—boyfriends and husbands accounted for the great majority of murdered women. Her instincts, however, told a different story. Steve had seemed friendly and open, he hadn't seemed like a man with a death on his conscience. And even if all the terrible things Lee said about him were true, which Lucy doubted, there was no question that he adored his little girls. She couldn't forget the way his face had brightened when she told him to think of Hillary and Gloria when she snapped his picture.

Lucy pulled into a free parking space and picked Bill's good sport coat off the passenger seat. She sat there, holding it in her lap, wondering if she could really trust her feelings about Steve. Murderers, she knew, didn't come with handy identifying marks on their foreheads. Mostly, they were ordinary people who had snapped for one reason or other: sweet-faced young baby-sitters who had shaken a crying baby a bit too hard, frustrated boyfriends whose anger had gotten out of control, battered wives who hadn't seen any other way out.

Just because Steve seemed like a perfectly nice guy didn't mean he couldn't have murdered Tucker. Lucy didn't have access to the evidence, she didn't know what Lieutenant Horowitz had found at the crime scene. All she had to go on was her gut feeling, and that didn't count for much in a court of law. She sighed and opened the car door.

Inside the little shop, with its strong chemical scent, Lucy had to give her name and phone number.

“I thought I knew most people in town,” said the clerk, with a little sniff.

“We're not regular customers,” explained Lucy, taking the little pink slip. “Most of our clothes go in the washing machine.”

As she pushed open the door and headed back to the car, she decided to pay a visit to the person who knew Steve best: Lee. It wasn't as if she was getting involved in the case, she told herself. Not at all. She had a very good reason for stopping in the decorating shop where Lee worked. Since Bill was going to have to repair the dining-room ceiling, anyway, they might as well freshen the room up with some new wallpaper.

 

Captain Crosby Interiors occupied one of the big old houses on Main Street, in fact, it had been occupied briefly by Captain Elisha Crosby after his marriage to the lovely Betsy Billings. Local legend had it that he kissed Betsy good-bye one fine February morning in 1886, promising to return by Christmas with a hold full of China tea, and was never heard from again.

Nowadays, the fine old house was an ideal setting for the shop, which sold fabrics and wallpapers. Lee had worked there part-time for years, mostly as a hobby, but had switched to full-time after the separation.

When Lucy entered, Lee was busy with a customer so she gave her a little wave and settled herself down with the wallpaper books. As she flipped the pages, she tried to think of a graceful way to bring up her questions about Steve. After all, just because Lee wasn't very happy with him these days didn't necessarily mean she would welcome the idea that he was a suspect in a police investigation.

As it happened, however, Lucy didn't have to find a way to work the murder into the conversation after all. Lee couldn't wait to talk about it.

“Lucy!” she exclaimed, after her customer had left. “Did you hear about Tucker?”

“Isn't it terrible,” murmured Lucy.

“You won't find me shedding any tears for that little hussy,” declared Lee. “If you ask me, she got what she deserved. I don't know if you knew, but she'd been trying to steal Steve away from me.”

“I'd heard something like that,” admitted Lucy. “Was it serious? I mean, do you think Steve was planning to marry her?”

Lee snorted. “That little snippet? I don't think so. Not that she wasn't trying. And it wasn't just Steve, either. She was doing her darnedest to turn Hillary against me.”

Lucy's chin dropped. “What do you mean?”

“At the day-care center. She always made a huge fuss over Hillary. Big hellos and good-byes, even hugs and kisses. It was a bit much, if you ask me. Oh, I know you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but this is one death that couldn't have happened to a nicer person.”

Lucy was glad she was already sitting. If she hadn't been, she would definitely have needed a chair. Lee's attitude would have knocked her off her feet.

“Aren't you worried that the police might suspect Steve?” she asked.

“Steve?” Lee thought this was hilarious. “Are you kidding? He couldn't even drop a lobster into a pot of boiling water. I always have to do it.”

Lucy looked at her curiously, and Lee gave her head a shake.

“Listen to me; going on like this. You didn't come in here to talk about my marriage. What can I help you with? Wallpaper?”

“For the dining room. Since we have to fix the ceiling anyway, I thought we might as well do the whole room.”

“Good idea! I have just the thing. It would be beautiful in your house.”

Lee pulled a book out from beneath the counter and set it in front of Lucy. With a flourish, she revealed a bright Oriental design featuring enormous, brightly colored peacocks.

“Isn't that gorgeous? That blue! And the green and the pink. Go for it, Lucy. People are so afraid of color. It's a big mistake when it can bring life and excitement to your home.”

“I was thinking of something more…beige,” said Lucy.

“Beige?” Lee was disappointed.

“Maybe a stripe,” suggested Lucy.

“I've got it.” Lee pulled out another book. “Wainscoting! That way you can have your cake and eat it, too. Color on the bottom of the wall, something light and airy above.”

“That's a good idea,” admitted Lucy, intrigued.

“It would be nothing at all for Bill to put up a little bit of molding.”

“It would really dress up the room. I'll think about it. Can I take the book?”

“Sure.” Lee drew closer and lowered her voice. “Don't tell anybody I told you this, but I can probably do something for you on the price. We have a big sale after Christmas, anyway.”

“Thanks, Lee. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“There's no rush. Take your time.”

Lucy couldn't swear to it, but she thought Lee was humming a happy little tune as she saw her to the door.

“Have a nice day, now, you hear.”

 

As she walked down the pathway to her car, Lucy was so deep in thought that she didn't notice Lieutenant Horowitz approaching.

“I seem to keep running into you,” he said, eyeing her with disapproval. “And I don't think it's a coincidence. I'm beginning to suspect that you're conducting your own investigation of Tucker Whitney's death.”

Lucy looked up, startled. “I'm sorry. What did you say?”

“I said I think you ought to mind your own business instead of poking your nose into an official police investigation, that's what I said.”

“Oh, I'm not….”

“Don't give me that,” growled Horowitz. “I know what you're up to, and I'm warning you that you could be breaking the law.”

Lucy smiled sweetly, and held up the wallpaper book as proof of her innocence. “Buying wallpaper is against the law?”

“No, Mrs. Stone. There's no law against buying wallpaper, but there are plenty of laws about obstructing justice.”

“Well, I happen to be interested in wallpaper,” said Lucy, allowing a self-righteous tone to creep into her voice.

“Right,” muttered the lieutenant, brushing past her and pulling open the door to the shop.

Lucy continued on her way to her car, checking her watch as she went. It was later than she thought, she realized, thinking guiltily of the long list of Christmas errands she hadn't done. With only two weeks left until the holiday she'd wasted an entire day running around town looking for information, and she didn't even have the comfort of knowing she'd made any progress. The sun was already setting, a giant red ball sinking behind the stark, black silhouettes of the bare trees, and she had more questions about Tucker's murder than she'd had that morning when she set out. All she'd managed to accomplish, she realized, was to antagonize Lieutenant Horowitz. Now, the kids were home from school and she had to get home, too, and put that roast in the oven if they were going to have it for supper.

13 days 'til Xmas

T
oday was another day, another chance to tackle that list of errands, resolved Lucy as she started the car on Friday morning. If she didn't get anything else done, she definitely had to get the Christmas cards mailed. Then she had to go to the bank, get gas and groceries, and stop at the church to pick up Zoe's angel costume for the Christmas pageant.

As she drove down Red Top Hill and turned toward town and the post office, she remembered that she only had a few dollars in her wallet. She turned and was driving down Main Street, approaching the rec building on her way to the Seamen's and Merchants' Bank, when a huge Ford Expedition suddenly pulled out in front of her, directly in her path.

Lucy slammed on the brake and held on to the steering wheel for dear life, narrowly missing a collision. As she watched, horrified, the Expedition almost tipped over as the driver made a sharp turn into the narrow street. For a second or two it was only on two wheels, then the driver gained control and it righted itself. As it sped down the street past her, Lucy got a clear view of the operator. It was Lee.

Making a quick decision, Lucy flipped on her blinker and turned into the rec-center parking lot Lee had just exited. She must have just dropped Hillary off at the day-care center; maybe Sue would know what was going on.

“I haven't got a clue,” said Sue, who was on her knees struggling to unzip Hillary's jacket. “Mommy was in a hurry this morning, wasn't she?”

After a few more tugs the zipper opened, and Hillary shrugged out of her jacket and ran across the room to join Emily at the toy stove.

Sue examined the zipper, fingering the place where the fabric was torn.

“I don't know what's going on, but this obviously wasn't a good morning for Lee. She just shoved Hillary through the door and left, never said a word.”

“She was driving like a maniac when she left here. Almost ran right into me.”

Sue shook her head. “Maybe she's finally realized that Steve's a suspect in the murder. Last night Horowitz paid me a visit and all his questions were about Tucker's relationship with Steve.”

“He's the obvious suspect. Obvious to everyone except Lee.”

“Oh, I don't know. It seemed to me that he and Tucker were more good friends than anything else. Tucker told me she liked him and all, but she thought he was too old for her. She said it was like dating her father!”

“Maybe Tucker wasn't serious, but Steve was,” suggested Lucy. “Sounds like a motive to me.”

“Could be.” Sue glanced around the room, making sure the children were all behaving themselves.

Lucy took the cue. “I've got to go—have a nice weekend.”

“It doesn't look too good right now. Tucker's parents are coming to make funeral arrangements—the service is going to be on Monday night—and they want to meet with me.”

Sue's expression was grim, and Lucy knew she was dreading the meeting.

“Will you be all right? Do you want me to go with you for moral support?”

“Thanks, Lucy,” said Sue, squeezing her hand. “This is something I have to do alone. I'll be all right.”

“Okay. Call me if you change your mind.”

Back in the car, Lucy tried to sort out her thoughts. From what Sue said, it seemed that Steve was definitely the prime suspect. Horowitz had questioned him, he'd questioned Lee, he'd even questioned Sue about Steve's relationship with Tucker.

Lucy tried not to think about how likable she'd found Steve, she tried not to think about how happy Lee had been to have Steve all to herself again, she tried not to think about little Hillary and Gloria. Whatever was going to happen was out of her hands. If Horowitz had the evidence, there was no doubt he would arrest Steve Cummings.

All weekend, Lucy followed the newscasts. She tuned in while she drove Sara and Zoe to their friends' houses on Saturday, she listened to the radio while she cooked supper that night. On Sunday morning she was so eager to see the paper that she went out to the plastic tube that stood by the road in her slippers, even through there were two inches of snow. Her feet got cold and wet, but she didn't learn anything new. Police were reported to be continuing the investigation, but there were no new breaks in the story.

On Sunday afternoon, she and Bill left the kids home and went to the mall in Portland to finish their Christmas shopping. Bill was happily humming along to a favorite Clapton tune when Lucy switched the radio to the all-news channel.

“Why'd you do that?” he asked.

“I keep waiting to hear if they've arrested Tucker's murderer,” she explained.

“I'm sure they'll break in with an announcement if that happens,” he said, switching back to the local music station. “Why don't you just sit back and enjoy this rare opportunity to be alone with me? I'm your favorite husband, after all.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, laughing, and temporarily shelving her intention to talk to him about Toby. “It's just you and me and a very long shopping list.”

 

At the mall, Lucy couldn't help thinking that Bill looked a little out of place in the trendy juniors shop, a refugee from the granola wars in his beard and corduroy slacks, topped with a plaid flannel shirt and a bulky down jacket. He surprised her when he pointed to a sparkling spandex T-shirt and suggested they buy it for Elizabeth.

“That?” Lucy raised her eyebrows doubtfully. To her, it looked sleazy. Besides, it was overpriced at thirty-nine dollars.

“She'll love it,” he said, nodding positively. “I saw something just like it on MTV. And it's on sale.”

He was right, Lucy realized, spotting a sign indicating the whole rack was one-third off.

“That makes it…” She furrowed her brow as she figured the math.

“About twenty-four dollars.”

“Okay.” Lucy pulled the shirt from the rack.

 

Now, on Monday afternoon, as she tucked tissue paper around the shirt and arranged it in the box, she couldn't help smiling fondly. That was the thing about Bill. He kept surprising her. Married for almost twenty years, and he hadn't lost the power to amaze her. That itself was astonishing, she thought, picking up the ringing phone.

“Oh, Lucy,” wailed Sue. “It was awful.”

“What was?”

“Tucker's parents came.”

Lucy sat down on the bed, remembering how worried Sue had been on Friday afternoon. It seemed like eons ago.

“That must have been sad. Were they real emotional?”

“That was the worst part. They're terribly polite, you know, and very stiff-upper-lip and all that. But you could tell they were all ripped up and torn inside. They should have been beating their breasts and sobbing, but instead they were telling me they didn't want to intrude and would only take a minute but they did want to gather up Tucker's belongings and by any chance, if it wasn't too much trouble, could I tell them a little bit about her work at the center?”

“What did you say?”

“What I told you. That she really seemed to enjoy her work and that I don't know what I'll do without her.” Sue paused. “They wanted to know if she'd seemed troubled or anxious—they really seemed to want to know about that.”

“Of course they would.”

“I couldn't bring myself to tell them anything about Steve—I just said I hadn't noticed anything wrong. I should have noticed something, shouldn't I?”

“Don't blame yourself,” said Lucy. “What could you have done? You didn't even know about Steve until she told you on the way to the cookie exchange.”

“If only she'd confided in me sooner. I could have advised her, warned her to be careful. I don't know.”

“Well, Steve is the last person you'd think to warn her about,” said Lucy, matter-of-factly.

“You think it really was him?”

“I'm not convinced, myself, but I think it's just a matter of time until he gets arrested. What I can't figure out is what's taking the police so long.”

Sue was silent for a minute. Finally, she spoke. “Well, at least then the Whitneys will know what happened to Tucker. They say that the trial brings a sense of closure to the victim's family.”

“I wish I believed that,” said Lucy, remembering Tucker's bright presence at the cookie exchange. “I don't think parents ever get over the death of a child. Oh, they go on living, but they're never the same. It's like they're walking wounded.”

“You're right.” Sue's voice was so sad that Lucy struggled for some way to console her.

“You gave her something wonderful, you know. You gave her the job at the center and she discovered her vocation—that she wanted to work with kids. She loved working at the center, everybody says so. And she was perfect for it. She was bright and happy and full of energy.” Lucy paused, hearing the kids arriving home from school in the kitchen downstairs. “That's how I'm going to remember her. Now, I've got to go. It sounds as if the Mongol hordes have found the refrigerator.”

“I better let you go, then.” Sue sniffled. “Thanks for everything, Lucy. Talking to you really helped.”

“Anytime. Now, for my next challenge: preventing World War III.”

 

In the kitchen, Lucy found Eddie and Toby with their heads buried in the refrigerator. Elizabeth was perched on the counter, legs crossed, doing her best to catch Eddie's eye. Sara was prying open a yogurt carton, not having bothered to remove her coat, and Zoe was precariously balanced on a kitchen chair trying to reach the cookies in the cabinet high above the stove.

“Hi, Eddie,” began Lucy. “Elizabeth—off the counter. Zoe, don't climb on chairs, it's dangerous. Sara, hang up your coat. Toby, reach that bag of gingersnaps for me.”

Lucy set out a plate of cookies and poured big glasses of milk for the boys. Elizabeth didn't want any; she fled from calories like a vampire avoided the rays of the sun. Sara took the yogurt into the family room and Zoe renewed her efforts to scale the kitchen cabinets, this time looking for the chocolate syrup.

Lucy pried her loose and joined the boys at the kitchen table, planting Zoe in her lap.

“So, are you going to work on those college applications today?” she asked. She turned her gaze on Toby. “As I remember, you owe me one, and today's a good day to make good.”

Toby grimaced and popped a cookie in his mouth. Eddie shifted his bulky frame in the chair and leaned back, brushing his crew cut with his hand. Lucy was struck yet again by how much he resembled his father, Barney.

“You don't want to be a cop, like your dad?” Lucy realized she had spoken without intending to.

Eddie's face reddened; he looked uncomfortable. “Nah,” he finally said, reaching for another cookie.

“He just likes to eat—that's why he wants to go to cooking school.” Toby punched Eddie's shoulder.

Lucy shook her head. They might be bigger, she thought, but they behaved just like the little Cub Scouts who used to cluster around her kitchen table every week.

“Did you bring the applications?”

Eddie nodded and pulled a thick sheaf of papers from his backpack.

“Well, it looks as if you guys have your work cut out for you. Why don't you get started—just jot down some ideas for those essays. I'll see how you're doing in about half an hour, OK?”

“Sure thing, Mom,” said Toby, pulling his own pile of papers toward him and opening the top folder.

“Call me if you get stuck,” she said, heading downstairs to the washer and dryer.

 

From time to time Lucy peeked in the kitchen and saw the boys bent over the table, apparently deeply immersed in the applications. When she noticed it was beginning to get dark, she decided to ask Eddie to stay for dinner. But when she went into the kitchen she found the boys had disappeared, leaving the papers behind. Leafing through the printed forms she saw that only the most basic questions had been answered; there was no sign of any progress on the questions that required essays.

“January 1. These are due January 1,” she muttered to herself, looking out the window.

There was no sign of the boys in the yard, so she checked the family room and went upstairs to peek in Toby's room.

“Have you seen Toby?” she asked Elizabeth, who was reclining on the couch in the family room and flipping through channels with the remote. “By the way, don't you have any homework?”

“Nope. Tomorrow is ‘Smart Kids, Smart Choices.'”

“What's that?”

Elizabeth pulled a wad of folded paper from her pocket. “Don't read the back, OK?”

“Scout's honor,” said Lucy, carefully prying the layers apart and studying the Xeroxed notice.

“Smart Kids, Smart Choices,” she learned, was made possible by the Tinker's Cove Police Department and the PTA. This traveling troupe of reformed alcoholics and drug abusers, none older than twenty-five, would present a “hard-hitting, graphic account” based on their own experiences. The rest of the morning would be spent in discussion groups and in the afternoon the entire school population would work together to create message murals that would be displayed in the halls.

“This is taking all day?” asked Lucy. “What about French and chemistry and algebra and…”

“Oh, Mom,” groaned Elizabeth in a world-weary voice. “If they actually taught us chemistry, we'd probably just cook up our own drugs. That's what they think, anyway.”

“Well, maybe if they taught you some solid reasoning skills, they wouldn't have to indoctrinate you and you could figure out for yourselves that drinking and using drugs isn't very smart.”

“Interesting, Mom,” said Elizabeth. “Very interesting.” She studied her fingernails, which were painted light blue. “But hopelessly retro.”

“That's me. Hopelessly retro,” agreed Lucy, who had received a solid prep-school education and could still conjugate her Latin verbs, even if her inability to comprehend percentages had been the despair of the entire math department. She resolved to call the principal for a little chat, in which the school's declining SAT scores would definitely be mentioned.