Easter Bunny Murder (4 page)

“No problem.”

Lucy had barely ended the call when Ted demanded to know what she'd promised to keep off the record. “I'll decide what's off the record,” he growled.

“It's no big deal,” said Lucy. “The hospital auxiliary's run into a snag, that's all. A major donor has withdrawn a promised contribution and they're scrambling to make up for it.”

“That's getting to be a familiar story,” said Ted. “Weatherby again?”

“Roger wouldn't say, but I think so.”

“The economy must be worse than I thought if the rich aren't rich anymore,” said Phyllis.

“Everything's relative, I guess,” said Lucy, who was searching the computer files for the photo she'd promised Roger.

“If that hospital expansion is threatened, we have to cover it,” said Ted. “The hospital is bursting at the seams. The ER is totally inadequate. The state made the expansion a condition of recertification. If it doesn't go through, we could lose our hospital.”

“I didn't think of that,” admitted Lucy.

“Roger's not the only one on that board,” said Ted. “Why don't you call the others? See if you can get confirmation.”

“But I promised Roger . . .”

“You didn't promise the others,” snapped Ted. “Get on it.”

A very reluctant Lucy was just starting to dial Millicent Frobisher's number when the door flew open and a flamboyant redhead blew in, wearing a mink coat so old that the silk lining was hanging down in tatters that fluttered around her ankles.

“Can I help you?” asked Phyllis.

“I have a big story,” said the woman, tossing back her long wavy hair. She was wearing high-heeled black boots and had a worn crocodile bag slung over one mink-clad arm.

Phyllis glanced at Ted, who stood up. “I'm the editor,” he said, holding out his right hand. “Ted Stillings.”

Lucy and Phyllis watched as she took Ted's hand in one gloved hand and covered it with the other. “I'm Maxine Carey,” she said, leaning forward, almost close enough to kiss him. “I'm Van Duff's ex.”

“I'm very sorry for your loss,” said Ted.

“Thank you,” she said, still holding his hand. “That's why I'm here. I want everyone to know that Van's death was no accident. Van Vorst Duff was murdered and I have the proof right here!”

Chapter Four

T
his announcement didn't exactly land like the bombshell Maxine intended, but they were all interested. Definitely interested.

“That's a serious allegation,” said Ted. “What proof do you have?”

“Blood tests.” She pulled a much-folded sheet of paper from the crocodile purse, which was worn bare in patches, and gave it to Ted. “He had his annual checkup less than a month ago.” She stepped closer to Ted and stabbed at the paper with her finger. “He was so proud he put the whole thing on Facebook. Just look. Cholesterol, way under two hundred. The good cholesterol through the roof and the bad stuff, hardly there. And he had a stress test, too, and passed with flying colors. His blood pressure was better than mine, one hundred three over seventy. Now, I ask you, does it make any sense at all that a man in the prime of health would just drop dead?” she demanded, breathing in his face.

“I'm not a doctor, I really don't know,” said Ted, stepping backward and giving the paper back to Maxine.

“Well, I do know,” said Maxine, carefully folding it and tucking it away. “I know that a man like Van doesn't just drop dead. He windsurfed and skied and biked and did the Ironman five times. I'm telling you, there's something fishy going on up at Pine Point!”

Ted shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, then glanced at the regulator clock on the wall. “I'm afraid I've got an appointment,” he told Maxine. “But my chief reporter Lucy Stone will be happy to talk with you.”

Lucy raised her hand, as if she knew the answer to seven times nine. “I'm over here, why don't you take a seat?”

Maxine plunked herself down in the wooden chair Lucy kept for visitors and Ted grabbed his jacket, making a hasty exit.

“Typical,” said Phyllis with a chuckle.

“What does she mean?” asked Maxine, pulling off her gloves.

“Ted's uncomfortable with feminine drama,” said Lucy, smiling. “I'm pretty sure his important appointment is at the coffee shop.”

“This happens to me all the time,” declared Maxine, crossing her legs and digging into her purse, extracting a tube of lip gloss. “I am so tired of these weeny milquetoasts who won't rise to the occasion. I've been battling them my entire life. ‘Don't dip into capital,' they say,” she said, slathering on a thick coat of bright red gloss. “ ‘Floss your teeth, eat lots of fiber, get eight hours of sleep every night, everything in moderation.' Well, I don't believe in moderation and neither did Van. Life's too short for moderation!”

Lucy found herself liking Maxine, even if she was a bit overwhelming. “If Van didn't die of a heart attack, what do you think killed him? And who did it? And why?”

“I wish I knew!” declared Maxine, narrowing her eyes and screwing the cap back on the tube of lip gloss. “It could have been any of them.”

“Any of who?” asked Lucy.

“The Three Pigs,” she said darkly. “That's what I call them, anyway.”

Lucy glanced at Phyllis, who had raised her eyebrows. “Who exactly are the Three Pigs?”

“Van's sister, Vicky, and her husband, that parasite Henry, and their disgusting excuse for a lawyer, George Weatherby,” said Maxine with a little nod. “That's exactly who I mean. Those three are determined to control everything at Pine Point. They won't even let me make any suggestions about the funeral . . .”

“Well, you are his ex-wife,” said Lucy, playing devil's advocate.

“Not exactly. Truth is, it was a common law situation. We never actually got married. But Van acknowledged Juliette; his name is on the birth certificate and he gave her his surname.” Maxine waved her large hands in front of her face; Lucy noticed she bit her nails. “We're not together anymore, not that way, if you know what I mean, but we've always been friends. Best friends. And if Van could rise up from whatever cold slab he's lying on, he'd say the same thing. And, believe me, the last thing he'd want is those three planning his funeral.”

“Perhaps you could have a separate observance, a memorial service,” suggested Lucy.

“That's a good idea. You know, I might do that.” Maxine put her hands together and rested them on her knee. “But that doesn't change the fact that the Three Pigs are going to go for some dull old churchy thing and Van would have hated that. And, trust me, it'll be those awful peanut butter and bacon on Melba toast things for refreshments—the ones that get stuck in your throat, that you can't possibly swallow—and maybe some watered down sherry from a big economy-size jug. They won't spend a penny on anybody but themselves, you'll see!”

“There has been talk that things aren't quite what they should be up at Pine Point,” said Phyllis.

“It's true!” exclaimed Maxine. “Whatever you've heard! It's awful! Poor VV, they're not taking proper care of her. She hasn't had her hair styled in months—it's all white and the nurses just chop it off.”

“It was always so beautifully done,” said Lucy, remembering VV's expertly tinted strawberry blond curls.

“Not anymore. And her nightgowns are in tatters. I wouldn't use them to dust with!”

“All those beautiful clothes,” said Lucy.

“Just hanging in the closets, with the shoes lined up like little soldiers. It's too sad! They make her wear these ugly felt slippers—horrid big gray things—when they get her out of bed, which isn't often enough, if you ask me.”

“But still she hangs on,” said Lucy, thinking VV must have been declining for a very long time. It was last August, after all, when Pam was told she was too ill to see visitors.

“If you ask me, she lives for those little dogs of hers. Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum. She adores them.” Maxine rolled her eyes. “Though they're not getting proper care, either. The girl who used to walk them has been fired, the nurses won't do it, Willis won't do it. So you can imagine what happens. The place is beginning to stink.”

Lucy's jaw dropped. “My word.”

“The worst of it, though, is the food,” continued Maxine, rolling her eyes and waving her arm in front of her. “They have a new cook, but she's not really a cook at all. She opens cans and microwaves things; she wouldn't know what to do with a fresh vegetable if it bit her. It's absolutely atrocious!”

Lucy pressed her lips together and avoided looking at Phyllis. “I understand these cuts are necessary because VV's assets have declined.”

“I don't know about that. She was very, very rich and if she isn't rich anymore it's because her money has been mismanaged.” Maxine pursed her glistening scarlet lips. “Or stolen. I wouldn't put it past them.”

Lucy figured she might as well ask the question that was bothering her. “And you think these same three are responsible for Van's death?”

Maxine's eyes widened and she nodded her head. “Absolutely. They were all there, you see, for a family conference.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Lucy. “There doesn't seem to be any evidence of foul play.”

Maxine got to her feet. “I just know it, that's all. I feel it here.” She clenched her hand into a fist and pressed it to her heart. “I've never been more certain of anything and I'm going to prove it, if it's the last thing I do!”

And with that, she stalked across the room and out the door, leaving the bell jangling furiously behind her.

“Well,” said Lucy, exhaling.

“Well,” agreed Phyllis. “What are you going to do?”

“I guess I'm going to follow up. These are serious accusations.”

“And if it's true, it's a heck of a story,” said Phyllis.

“That, too,” said Lucy. She put in a call to Doc Ryder but he wasn't available, so she left a message and got busy with the listings. She was trying to make sense of a confusing Easter service schedule the Episcopalians had submitted when her phone rang. It was Elizabeth calling from Florida.

“How are you doing?” asked Lucy. “I haven't heard from you for a while.”

“I've been busy, Mom. You know how it is.”

Lucy was used to hearing this excuse. “So how come you've suddenly found time in your busy schedule to call me?”

“I don't feel good, Mom.”

Lucy's maternal antennae were suddenly picking up ominous vibrations. “Really? What's the matter?”

“I've got these awful cramps. Honestly, Mom, I thought I was going to die last night.”

A second light on Lucy's phone lit up, probably Doc Ryder returning her call. She needed to wrap this up quickly because she knew from experience that he wouldn't try a second time.

“Do you think it could be your period? You've had bad cramps before. What time of the month is it?” she asked as the phone began ringing.

“It's a little early . . .”

“Better early than late,” quipped Lucy. “Honey, I really have to go. I've got another call.”

“Okay, Mom. Thanks.”

Lucy didn't reply. She was already hitting that blinking button. As she suspected, it was Doc Ryder. “Thanks,” she said, “I know you're busy.”

“You don't know the half of it. People can't afford health insurance so they wait until they're desperate and then they show up at the ER. Already today I've had a late-stage melanoma, a diabetic coma, and a kid with measles—these people should all be getting regular medical care.”

It was a familiar refrain, and Lucy had written several stories about the need for improved medical care in the region. “You should send them over the border to Canada,” she said.

“I wish I could,” said Doc Ryder. “But you didn't call me about the need for a national health system, or did you?”

“No. Actually, we just had a visit from Van Vorst Duff's ex-girlfriend and she claims he'd just had a physical and passed with flying colors. She thinks he was murdered.”

“I examined his body and I can assure you I didn't find any bullet wounds, bruises or stab wounds. He wasn't strangled, garroted or hanged and there were no signs of poisoning. I determined that his death was due to natural causes and no autopsy is required.”

“She says he had no cholesterol problems to speak of and low blood pressure.”

“It happens, Lucy. What can I tell you? A seemingly healthy person drops dead. Everybody thinks that if they exercise and don't smoke they'll live forever but, trust me, it doesn't happen. Everybody dies sooner or later. It just happened sooner for him. Remember that kid from Gilead, the basketball player? Seventeen with a scholarship to Bates? He fell down dead in the middle of a game.”

Lucy remembered. The tragic death had stunned the entire region and terrified every parent whose child played in school sports. “That kid had an aneurysm, right? Is that what happened to Van?”

“It could have been. To tell you the truth, I only did an external exam, enough to satisfy myself that death was due to natural causes.”

“I thought there were always autopsies after an unattended death,” said Lucy.

“Well, his death wasn't unattended. He died in the ambulance, on route to the hospital. And, he smelled of alcohol. That could've been a factor.”

Lucy remembered Van staggering as he grabbed the metal grille to push it open, and how he'd stumbled as he'd approached the children, spilling eggs from his basket.

“Look, if I had my way, I'd request a complete autopsy on everybody who dies. It's good science, we learn a lot from autopsies. But families resist. They don't want their loved ones cut open and dissected. And even when there's some question about a death, and I'm not saying there was in this instance, funding is extremely limited. I don't have the time or the money to do what I'd like to do as the town doctor. We were lucky to be able to get enough flu vaccine for the seniors last fall.”

“I know,” said Lucy. “But you're satisfied Van's death was natural? Nobody conked him on the head or anything?”

“Lucy, as I understand it, he was wearing a giant padded bunny head.”

“So I guess that means blunt trauma is out of the question?”

He laughed. “I'd say so.”

“Well, thanks for your time. It was nice chatting with you.”

“Right. Oh, and Lucy, Bill is due for a blood pressure check.”

Lucy was flooded with a sense of guilt. She knew he'd cancelled an appointment and she hadn't reminded him to reschedule. “I'll get right on it,” she promised, hanging up and writing a reminder to herself.

“So what's the story?” asked Phyllis. The fax machine began to spew out a sheet of paper.

“Doc Ryder has no reason to suspect foul play in Van's death,” said Lucy, walking across the office to the fax machine.

“Well, Maxine does seem to have a flair for the dramatic,” said Phyllis.

“You can say that again,” said Lucy, scanning the fax, which had just come from the local funeral home.