Christmas Cookie Murder #6 (9 page)

“Welcome to our classroom,” said Lydia Volpe, indicating Lucy and Lee with a nod. “There are chairs in the back of the classroom.”

Lucy searched the room for Zoe and found her sitting beside her best friend, Sadie Orenstein. Gloria, Lee's little girl, was just behind them. Lucy gave them a smile and a little wave as she took her seat. As she expected, there was no sign of Barney yet. He would make a surprise appearance as Santa Claus after the children finished presenting the songs and fingerplays they had been practicing for weeks. Of course, all of the children knew what to expect, thanks to older brothers and sisters. The Christmas party was a Tinker's Cove tradition, and local merchants generously donated toys and books for Santa to distribute. Lydia made sure that Santa knew in advance which children weren't likely to have very lavish Christmases at home so especially nice gifts could be given to them.

As always, the program was adorable, and Lucy had no trouble filling a couple of rolls of film with cute pictures. Ted often said you couldn't have too many photos of dogs and children in a community newspaper so she was sure he'd be pleased with her work.

Finally, when the children got to the last line of “Up on the rooftop, ho, ho, ho,” the door flew open and Barney made his entrance, dressed in a Santa Claus suit that was beginning to look a bit worse for the wear, his familiar face hidden behind an elaborately curled, enormous fake beard.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he roared, and the children erupted into giggles and screams and jumped up and down with excitement. A few bolder children, children Lucy suspected didn't get much attention at home, wrapped their arms around his massive, treelike legs and hugged him.

“Children.” After twenty years in the classroom, Lydia's voice commanded attention, and the children quieted down. “If you will take your places, I believe Santa may have some presents
for good boys and girls
. Is that right, Santa?”

“Yes, it is, ho, ho, ho. I have a pack filled with presents for
good little boys and girls
.” Barney turned his back, showing the bulging sack he was carrying.

There was a mad scramble as the children ran for their desks, anxious to get their presents as soon as possible. When it was quiet, Barney seated himself and plunked his sack down between his legs. Then he pulled out a long list, unrolling it with a dramatic flourish.

“Jason Adams.”

Jason, a little boy with a huge gap in his front teeth, jumped to his feet and ran up to Santa. Barney fumbled in his bag and presented him with a festively wrapped, flat package. Jason hurried back to his seat and began opening it. Every eye was on him. When he finally got it unwrapped he shrugged philosophically.

“It's a coloring book,” he said. “With crayons.”

Nobody seemed very impressed. They turned to Barney, waiting to see what the next present would be.

“Susanna Barlow,” said Barney, pulling out another package that looked very much like the first. He gave it to Susanna, a little girl with freckles and long braids.

Lucy happened to know Susanna's grandmother, Dot Kirwan, who worked at the IGA. Dot was the first to admit she shamelessly spoiled her first grandchild, and Susanna was an expert at opening presents. She ripped the paper off in no time, revealing another coloring book and crayons. Scowling, she clumped back to her desk and mashed the wrapping paper into a ball.

The children began to fidget in their seats, growing restless. It was one thing to sit quietly, anticipating a terrific present like a Barbie doll or a soccer ball, but it was very hard to sit still for what they were all beginning to suspect was only a coloring book and a box of six no-name crayons.

“Justin Diggs.”

As soon as Lucy heard the name she knew Barney was in trouble. Justin lived out on Bumps River Road in a hardscrabble neighborhood where the tired houses were surrounded with cars that didn't go and appliances that didn't work. This was probably going to be his only Christmas present, and he had been expecting something good.

“Justin, go and get your present from Santa,” prompted Lydia.

Justin stayed put at his desk. “I don't want no coloring book. My brother got a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger last year. I want somethin' like that.”

Lydia glanced at Barney, whose Santa beard didn't begin to hide his unhappiness, and took swift action.

“Santa, would you mind distributing the presents to the children? That would be quicker, I think, and the mothers can begin setting up the refreshments.”

Taking his cue, Barney went from desk to desk passing out the coloring books. He kept up a brave front, issuing lots of ho-ho-hos, but Lucy knew his heart wasn't in it. He loved playing Santa and hearing the oohs and aahs and squeals of delight when he passed out the presents, and this year there were only a few polite thank-yous.

When the refreshments had been served and the children were busy licking the icing off their cupcakes, she approached him.

“What happened? No donations this year?”

“I had to refuse 'em. Orders from the top.”

“What?”

“Lieutenant Scott. He said it wasn't appropriate for the safety officer to act like the Salvation Army. Told me to give out antidrug coloring books instead.”

Lucy picked up one of the coloring books that had been abandoned on a nearby desk and flipped through it. When she got to the outline of a hypodermic needle with a big X through it she groaned and put it back down.

“My word,” she said, shaking her head. Her first impulse was to sympathize with Barney, but then she remembered Toby and Eddie's little experiment with pot the day before. “Maybe Tom Scott is on the right track after all….”

She was interrupted by Lee.

“Barney Culpepper, I have to talk to you.”

“Fire away,” said Barney, with a sigh.

“Maybe Santa could continue this conversation outside,” suggested Lydia. “I think it's time to wrap things up.”

A quick glance around the room was enough for Lucy. The little natives, fueled by sugary treats, were getting restless.

“I hope you have recess next,” she told Lydia.

“Are you kidding? Today is double recess.” Then she raised her voice, making an announcement to the class. “Children, I'm afraid Santa has to go back to the North Pole now. What do you say?”

“Thank you, Santa,” chorused the little girls and a few boys.

“Thanks for nothing, Santa,” grumbled Justin. This was met with hoots of approval by the children.

“Merry Christmas, everyone!” roared Barney, turning and striding out of the room. A quick exit was definitely his best option.

Lucy hurried down the hall after him, determined to share her concern about the drug situation at the high school, but she didn't catch up to him until he was outside, by his cruiser, pulling off the Santa outfit.

“Hey, you're going to blow your cover,” she joked.

“I think it's blown,” he said, rolling the red suit into a ball and tossing it into the trunk.

“You know, what I started to say inside is that this antidrug campaign may not be such a bad idea. I think it's really needed.” She took a deep breath and forged ahead. “From what I hear, the high school is full of illegal substances.”

Barney snorted. “Stop the presses,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Lucy, this isn't exactly news, you know. The whole town's full of the stuff.” He shook his head. “I've never seen it so bad.”

That wasn't quite what Lucy expected to hear. Nevertheless, she plunged on. “Well, if it's true, then isn't it important to educate the kids about drugs so they'll know not to use them?”

Barney threw up his hands in dismay and stood facing her, arms akimbo. “Let me tell you something, Lucy. All that education stuff sounds good in theory, but you know what, it doesn't work. The only thing that does work is keeping the drugs out, cutting off the supply. And as long as the only way a lobsterman can make a living is by bringing 'em in, well, we're not gonna be able to keep the drugs out. Too much money in 'em, and a man who's having trouble feeding his family or making the payment on his boat isn't gonna say no.”

“I guess you're right.”

“You know it.” Barney pulled his heavy belt, complete with gun holster, out of the trunk and strapped it on. “Maybe there is something you could do, though.”

“What?” Lucy asked eagerly.

“It isn't just drugs, you know. The kids especially get into trouble with booze. You know about Tim Rogers?”

Lucy nodded.

“Well, we're having a sting operation. Richie Goodman is going to try to buy booze, and if they sell it to him, we're gonna issue warnings. It could make a good story for the newspaper.”

“Sure. Just let me know when, okay?”

“Deal.” Barney slammed the trunk shut and pulled open the car door, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid Lee, who had followed them out of the school.

“Barney, I've got to talk to you,” she demanded, grabbing his arm. “You know Steve's innocent, don't you?”

“We-e-ll,” began Barney, looking more than ever like a worried St. Bernard. He shook his head dolefully. “I gotta tell you, it doesn't look good for Doc Cummings.”

“They've arrested the wrong person, I'm telling you,” insisted Lee.

Barney nodded sympathetically. “I know how you feel, but they've got some pretty convincing evidence.”

Lucy leaned closer. “What is this evidence?” she asked.

Barney scratched his chin underneath the fake beard. “Fibers, skin cells, a gum wrapper.”

“A gum wrapper? They're accusing my husband of murder because of a gum wrapper?” Lee was incredulous.

“Sugarless,” said Barney. “With fingerprints.”

Certain he'd clinched the case against Cummings, he climbed into his cruiser and drove off, leaving Lee and Lucy on the sidewalk.

“Because it's sugarless gum, it has to be a dentist?” Lee's voice dripped with sarcasm.

“He did mention fingerprints,” said Lucy.

Lee dismissed that evidence with a wave. “Listen. I know Steve Cummings better than anyone, and I say, sure, he's a two-timing bastard and a lying, cheating son of a bitch and I wouldn't trust him with another woman as far as I could throw him, but he's no murderer!”

A
s she started the Subaru, Lucy couldn't help smiling. This was more like the Lee she knew. Outspoken, outrageous—you had to love her.

Lucy's next stop was the photo shop, where they promised to develop her film right away. Then she was off to
The Pennysaver
to write up a story about the Christmas party.

This was going to be a bit sticky—Ted was expecting a happy holiday feature about cute little kiddies receiving gifts from Santa. But that wasn't what really happened at the party. She didn't want to embarrass Barney, but she had an obligation to tell the truth.

The jangle of the bell and the sharp scent of hot lead that still lingered years after the linotype machines had been removed always had the same effect on her: It was something akin to the reaction a racehorse has to the sound of the trumpet. She sailed past Phyllis, the receptionist, giving her a wave, and plopped herself down in the chair Ted kept relatively clear for his visitors.

“I think I've got something…”

“Santa Claus is a fake?” asked Ted.

“Well, kind of. Something like that might work for a headline,” said Lucy, ignoring his sarcasm. “There were an awful lot of disappointed little kindergarteners at the school this morning. They all got antidrug coloring books instead of the usual gift bonanza. Barney said it was a policy decision by the lieutenant. I think it might be a significant story, considering the town's drug problem.”

Ted considered her pitch.

“I dunno. Somebody must have donated those coloring books. We don't want to insult them. After all, Santa Claus did come, and the kids did receive gifts. Some readers might think the kids are just ungrateful.”

“You know that's not true,” argued Lucy. “Those coloring books are the only gifts some of those kids are going to get this Christmas, and they were expecting real presents, just like in the past.”

“I know.” Ted chewed on a pencil.

“And Barney says all this drug education is a lot of nonsense anyway. He says the town is full of drugs because of the lobster quota.”

Ted pushed his chair away from the antique rolltop desk he had inherited from his grandfather, also a small-town journalist, and laughed.

“Lucy, this is not the
Washington Post
or the
New York Times
. We're a small-town weekly that depends on the local advertisers. It's bad enough we have a young girl murdered by the local dentist, but now you want me to print that the town is full of drugs, too? Believe me, I hold my breath every time we get a press release from the state police drug task force—and so far, I've been lucky. Nobody from Tinker's Cove has been arrested. And believe me, this is one issue I'm not going to touch until I have to. If a handful of lobstermen are bringing in drugs to pay off their mortgages and keep shoes on their kids' feet, well, who am I to start pointing fingers? Folks around here have always done what they had to to get by.”

“I get your point,” said Lucy, holding her hands up in surrender. “It's smiling faces and ho-ho-hos all around.”

At her desk, she flipped through the press releases Phyllis had collected for her, looking for possible future stories. Nothing looked very interesting: the annual holiday bazaar at the Community Church, a Christmas dinner for people who would otherwise be alone sponsored by Alcoholics Anonymous, and a batch of used-clothing and used-book sales. Barney's sting operation, a community taking care of its children, was beginning to look better all the time. She picked up the phone and dialed the police station, intending to ask Barney for the date and time.

“Lucy?” Barney sounded defensive. “I can't talk about the Christmas party.”

“I know. Don't worry. Ted wants a heartwarming holiday story, and that's what he's going to get.”

“That's a relief.” Barney expelled a great sigh—it sounded like a tornado on the telephone.

“This is off the record,” she began, sensing that now that he was no longer worried about looking like the Grinch in the newspaper he might be more talkative than usual. “You know how convinced Lee is that Steve is innocent? She asked me to look into it and…”

“Oh, no.” Barney cut her off. “Don't do that, Lucy.”

“I wasn't intending to.” Lucy was quick to tell him, her voice rising in pitch. “But I just wanted to know—for my own peace of mind—are you guys sure you've got the right man?”

“‘Fraid so.” Barney lowered his voice. “I tell you, Lucy, morale around here is pretty high. Never been higher. You heard about Horowitz? Congratulatin' the department? That's never happened before. And you know why? Because the guys from the fire department, the EMTs would be all over the place before we could secure the scene. Chief Crowley knew it was no good, but he'd just say, ‘What can you do? Ya gotta try to save the victim, even if the victim's beyond saving.' But now the lieutenant's in charge, it's different. This one was by the book and whaddya know? It worked. We're not the Keystone Kops anymore.”

Lucy looked up as Phyllis deposited the packet of pictures on her desk.

“I don't think people thought you were Keystone Kops.”

“Believe me. We took a lot of grief from the state police, even the cops in other towns.”

“I didn't know that.” Lucy ran her finger under the flap to open the packet. “So, what about the evidence that was so carefully preserved? What was it?”

“Oh, I dunno. Crime-scene experts took care of that. There were fibers, I guess. All that microscopic stuff. And the gum wrapper, o' course, with Cummings's fingerprints.”

Lucy pulled out the pictures and saw Steve Cummings's smiling face looking up at her. She'd forgotten all about taking his picture on Friday. Now, she remembered telling him to think of his girls. The trick had worked; she'd caught him looking particularly attractive.

“What about time?” she asked. “That kind of physical evidence could have been left anytime, and everybody knows he was seeing her.”

“Nah,” protested Barney. “They have ways of dating it. Plus, Cummings doesn't have an alibi for the time of death on Thursday morning. Shoulda been at his office, but he wasn't.”

“Oh.” The longer Lucy looked at Steve's picture, the less she thought he had murdered Tucker.

“That's how you build a case, you know,” said Barney, sounding rather pompous. “Bit by bit. In the end, it all adds up.”

Lucy suspected he was reciting something he'd heard, perhaps a lecture by the lieutenant on the proper handling of evidence.

“Well, thanks a lot, Barney. I feel better. But it's still hard to believe Steve Cummings could do something like that.”

“See, that's where amateurs go wrong,” said Barney. “You think a person's innocent because you know them, and they're nice. From what I hear, Ted Bundy is a heck of a nice guy, a real charmer, but he killed a bunch o' women, didn't he? Nope, you can't trust people, but you can trust the evidence.”

Lucy chuckled. “Okay. I give up. Now, when is that sting operation?”

“Lemme see.” Lucy could hear rustling paper. “It's Thursday night. Is that good for you? Seven o'clock.”

“Great.” Thursday night gave her almost an entire week to write the story before the next Wednesday deadline. Plus, it would be a heck of a lot more interesting than that dismal dinner. “See you then.”

She hung up and studied the photo of Steve Cummings. She had taken it under false pretenses and the last thing she wanted was for Ted to run it with the story about Steve's arrest, so she quickly tore it into small pieces and tossed it into the trash. She turned her attention to the pictures of the children, writing brief captions for the best ones. Then she quickly typed out a few paragraphs about the party, focusing on the children's songs and the refreshments provided by the mothers. She played Santa's arrival up big and played down the presents. When Ted read it he was pleased as punch.

“Just one question…” he began, exercising his editorial prerogative, as Lucy answered the ringing phone.

She held up one finger, indicating she would be with him in a minute.

“
Pennysaver
, this is Lucy.”

“Thank God you're there!”

“Sue?”

“Can you come over? I'm desperate!”

“Right now?”

“Yes. It's Will. Another attack. I've got to take him to the clinic.”

“Okay. I'm on my way.”

 

Lucy expected to find the day-care center in chaos when she got there, imagining small figures running around and shrieking at the top of their lungs. All was quiet, however, when she pulled open the door. Connie Fitzpatrick, one of the teachers at Kiddie Kollege, the nursery school that was also housed in the rec building, had settled the children down for their nap.

“Hi, Lucy,” she whispered. “Sue says they rest for at least a half hour, but if they fall asleep they can go 'til one-thirty.”

Lucy nodded and Connie tiptoed out, leaving her in charge. She hung up her coat and checked on the children, who were lying on floor mats. Her buddies Harry and Justin were sound asleep, and Emily seemed ready to drift off. Hillary, Lee's little girl, was lying on her back, holding up a stuffed toy and whispering to it.

Lucy caught her eye and held her finger to her lips, warning her to be quiet. Hillary rolled over on her tummy, hugging the little bear and sticking her thumb in her mouth.

Continuing her circuit of the room, Lucy felt a bit nonplussed. She had expected to have to cope with a difficult situation but everything was under control. She looked out the window for a few minutes, then went over to Sue's desk, looking for something to read.

She picked up a magazine and sat down in the rocking chair. But somehow she couldn't get interested in whether she should “Take the Plunge! Go for the Gold!” and color her hair blond. As for “Paint Your Way Out of the Box!,” well, her house was hardly a surburban box and, while the dining room definitely needed work, she didn't think she was interested in knocking even more holes in the plaster for an antique look and applying a faux marble finish.

She dropped the magazine in her lap and leaned back, closing her eyes and intending to relax, but it was no good. Her eyes refused to stay shut, and her legs twitched. She needed to move. She got up, stretched, and walked back to the window. She stayed there for a few minutes, doing squats to relieve the tension in her legs. Then she replaced the magazine on Sue's desk and stood for a moment at Tucker's.

It was now bare; her parents had taken her things. Lucy pulled out the chair and sat down. With nothing better to do, she opened the shallow center drawer, releasing the bitter smell of unfinished wood. As she expected, the drawer was empty, as were all the others. But when she tried to close the big bottom drawer it wouldn't go all the way in.

Getting down on her hands and knees, Lucy pulled the drawer out and peered behind it. Something was stuck in the space behind the drawer. She reached in and felt a plastic-covered book of some kind. The missing agenda, she thought, with a rising sense of excitement.

She pulled it out, discovering the bright pink, chunky day planner Sue had described. No wonder they hadn't been able to find it; as long as it remained upright, there had been enough room for the drawer to close. It was only when it fell on its side that it blocked the drawer.

Lucy set the agenda on the desk and replaced the drawer. Then she sat down once again and held the agenda, smoothing it with the palm of her hand. Should she open it? Some people used agendas like diaries, recording intimate details of their lives. Tucker, Lucy guessed, wasn't like that. She probably used her agenda as a calendar, so she wouldn't forget meetings and appointments.

It wouldn't hurt, thought Lucy, to take a peek. If it seemed personal and private, she could stop. But when she leafed through the lined pages she found only the briefest notations. On the day she died, Lucy discovered, Tucker had been planning to get a haircut at five-thirty.

Curiously, Lucy leafed through the pages preceding her death. They were mostly blank. The cookie exchange was noted, as was an oil-change appointment. And Tucker had planned something for Sunday, but Lucy wasn't sure what. In her clear, precise block printing she had written three letters: A, M, and C.

What did that mean, wondered Lucy. Was she planning to meet somebody? Somebody with the initials AMC? Who could that be? And when? Tucker had not written down any time, which seemed odd.

Unless, thought Lucy, it was such an important meeting she didn't have to. Her parents coming, perhaps? Or a serious boyfriend. Those weren't Steve's initials, that was for sure.

Not Steve, thought Lucy, struck with a horrible realization. Not Steve's, Lee's. Aurelie Mabelline Cummings. Lucy mouthed the words, silently. Then she picked up a pencil and wrote the initials on a scrap of paper: A. M. C.

Lucy's eyes fell on little Hillary, now sound asleep on her mat. She had the awful feeling she was looking at a motive. Just how far would Lee go to get Hillary and Gloria's daddy back? Lee had made no bones about the fact that she hated Tucker; could she have killed her?

Seeing Sue's face in the glass window of the door, Lucy rolled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket. Her first impulse was to get rid of the initials; she wasn't ready to think about this now.

“Hiya,” she whispered. “How's Will?”

“Better.” Sue sighed and sat down in the rocking chair without taking off her coat. “I'm exhausted.”

“Racing off to the clinic with a sick child will do that to you,” observed Lucy.

“It's really not fair,” complained Sue. “If his folks weren't in denial about this whole thing, and if they started treating Will's asthma, I wouldn't have to go through this every other day.”

“The doctor will talk to them.”