Easter Bunny Murder (6 page)

Lucy had been to enough receptions at the Quissett Yacht Club to be familiar with radish and butter sandwiches, a true WASP delicacy. “So I shouldn't bother looking for the caviar?”

Sue laughed. “No caviar. This is the economy buffet.”

Lucy was shelling the eggs, sniffing at the unpleasant sulfur smell, when one of the nurses popped in. “Whew!” she exclaimed, speaking with a slight Spanish accent. “What a stink!”

“Eggs,” said Lucy, going on to introduce herself and Sue. “We're helping out for the funeral.”

“I'm Sylvia Vargas,” said the nurse, a plump woman in her late twenties, dressed in blue scrubs and white clogs. “I take care of Mrs. Van Vorst.” She looked around. “Where's that cook?”

“I think she stepped outside for some fresh air,” offered Sue, who was pouring batter into a cake tin.

“Fresh air! She's smoking!” Sylvia shook her head. “A cook who smokes! Can you believe it?” She stalked over to the outside door and yanked it open, then stepped through, leaving it ajar. “Elfrida! Don't you know smoking is bad for you? You'll get cancer!”

Lucy and Sue could hear the conversation clearly; their eyes met, and they both smiled.

“You didn't come all the way down here to warn me about smoking,” said Elfrida.

“No. I want to know why you switched brands on Mrs. V's nutrition drink. This new one tastes terrible.”

“Mr. Weatherby said the other stuff was too expensive,” said Elfrida. “He said to get the generic stuff.”

“I should make him drink it,” said Sylvia, coming back inside. She opened the refrigerator and extracted a can of the stuff, then left the kitchen. A moment or two later, they heard her arguing with Willis in the hallway.

“No way!” Sylvia was saying, in no uncertain terms. “I'm a nurse, not a cleaning lady! And, by the way, this nutrition drink is expired. It's past the sell-by date.”

There was a low male murmur; Lucy and Sue couldn't quite make it out. Determined to hear the conversation, Lucy went over to the swinging door and pushed it open a tiny bit with her foot.

“Perhaps you could consider it a favor to Mrs. Van Vorst,” Willis was saying. “She certainly wouldn't want visitors to see the house at less than its best. She would fret. It might even be bad for her health.”

Sylvia was laughing. “Good try, but once again, may I remind you that I am a professional, highly educated, registered nurse. Cleaning is simply not part of my job description. If you want the house cleaned, you'll have to hire more cleaners. Tracy can't do it all herself.”

“I wish I could,” said Willis. “You know the situation as well as I do. Mr. Weatherby will not approve another penny for this funeral. I had a hard enough time convincing him to let me hire those two kitchen helpers.”

Lucy looked at Sue, who raised her eyebrows.

“I don't want to hear it, Willis. That's your problem. All I do is take care of Mrs. V. Meds, temps, blood pressure, that's my job. Oh, and by the way, Yum-Yum peed on the carpet again, and as I've told you before, cleaning up dog messes is not my job!”

“
Not my job, not my job
,” muttered Willis, and Lucy hopped back to the sink and her eggs. She was peeling one when he entered the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of cleaning liquid and a roll of paper towels.

“Oh, Mr. Willis,” she said in a bright voice. “I've finished washing the plates and glasses—would you like me to carry them upstairs?”

Willis stared at her, mouth open in surprise. “That would be a great help,” he said. “Follow me.”

Lucy did, scurrying behind him as he zoomed down the long hall and began climbing up a scuffed back stairway and down yet another dimly lit hallway. He finally opened a door and Lucy found herself stepping into the dining room. The large central table had been moved to the side of the room and other smaller tables had been placed in a row in front of the French doors; folded damask tablecloths were lying on each table. Beyond, through the open double doors, she glimpsed an elegantly decorated room, where piles of chairs were stacked here and there. “The drawing room,” he said. “That is where the service will take place.”

Lucy nodded, taking in the dining room's arrangement. “Cakes and sandwiches on the big table, beverage service on the smaller ones?” asked Lucy.

Willis's eyebrows shot up. He seemed surprised at Lucy's competence and it took him a moment to respond. Finally, he nodded. He made an odd figure, dressed in his formal outfit and clutching the cleaning equipment, and Lucy saw he was not the imperturbable butler she had thought he was, but a man who was struggling to do the best job he could in difficult circumstances.

“I'll get started,” she said, shaking out a tablecloth and spreading it on one of the smaller tables.

Willis cleared his throat. “You and your friend seem to be very capable,” he said. “Would you be interested in working tomorrow, serving and cleaning up?”

Lucy jumped at the opportunity, but she wasn't at all sure about Sue. “No problem,” she said, crossing her fingers. “We'll be here.”

Willis nodded and departed to clean up after Yum-Yum, and after a moment's hesitation, Lucy went to the doorway, watching as he climbed the carpeted staircase. When he was out of sight she quickly followed, tiptoeing across the tiled hall where the center table was bare, without the valuable Karl Klaus sculpture. Lucy wondered if
Jelly Beans
was normally kept in storage between events, as she continued up the carpeted stairs. Reaching the spacious hallway upstairs, she noticed one of the many paneled doors was slightly ajar and went over to it.

As she stepped closer, she was aware of a stale, rank scent emanating from the room, as if the windows hadn't been opened in a long time. Peeking through the slight gap into the dimly lit room, she had a glimpse of VV's head, propped on a pile of pillows. Her hair, now white, seemed flat and heavy, and her cheeks were sunken. Her nose jutted out sharply and was her most prominent feature. One scrawny hand, like a claw, rested on the bedcovers.

It was a shocking sight and Lucy withdrew, hurrying back down the stairs. She didn't know what she'd expected. She'd heard VV was not doing well, but she hadn't expected to see this corpselike creature. The image was still fresh in her mind as she continued down the service stairs to the kitchen, intending to start bringing up the clean crockery and glassware.

“Goodness,” said Sue, looking up from her mixing bowl. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Almost,” said Lucy, slipping into a chair. “I saw VV.”

“Was it bad?” Sue was pouring cake batter into a loaf pan.

Lucy nodded. “Really bad. This isn't right.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sue, scraping out the last globs of batter from the bowl.

“I only got a glimpse, but she looked like a skeleton. Her hair was nasty—looked like it hasn't been washed in weeks.” Lucy swallowed. “Her room stinks.”

“That doesn't make sense.” Sue shoved the pan into the oven and shut the door. “That nurse, Sylvia, seems competent enough.”

“She was arguing with Willis. You heard them. There's not enough help to keep the place clean, they're skimping on VV's nutrition, it's crazy. I don't see how you go from being a millionaire to having to drink expired cans of nutrition drink in just a few years. She can't have lost all her money.”

Sue was already creaming butter and sugar together with the electric mixer. “If you ask me,” she said, raising her voice over the hum of the motor, “I don't think she's lost her money at all. After all, the stock market is the one thing that's recovered in this recession. I think somebody else wants it and has decided it's time for VV to go.”

“That's absolutely horrible,” said Lucy, picking up a tray of crystal stemware and beginning the long trek to the dining room upstairs.

When she got there, she found a middle-aged woman pushing a vacuum back and forth on the Persian rug. Seeing Lucy awkwardly negotiating through the doorway with the heavy tray, the woman switched off the vacuum and went to help.

“Here you go,” she said, holding the door for her.

“Thanks,” said Lucy, setting the tray down on the nearest table. “That stuff is heavy, and I've only got about ten more trays to go.”

The woman smiled. “I'm Tracy,” she said. “You must be new here.”

“Lucy Stone. I'm helping out for the funeral.”

Tracy's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really? Extra help? I can't believe that cheapskate Weatherby okayed spending the money.”

“Not much money,” grumbled Lucy, whose back was already beginning to bother her. “Oh, well, back to the mines . . .”

“Hold on,” said Tracy. “There's a dumbwaiter.”

“A what?” asked Lucy.

“One of those mini-elevators. I'll show you.” Tracy led the way to a small room off the dining room. “This is the butler's pantry, and this,” she said, opening a cabinet door, “is the dumbwaiter.” She pushed a button on a control panel and the shelved unit sank out of sight, revealing an empty shaft. “It goes down to the kitchen.”

“Elfrida never told me,” exclaimed Lucy.

“She probably doesn't know. It goes upstairs, too, to the master bedroom.”

“How handy,” said Lucy.

“It is handy, but they don't use it much, now that VV doesn't entertain anymore. The dining room hasn't been used for ages.”

“Do the nurses use it?” asked Lucy.

Tracy shook her head. “They'd rather go down to the kitchen themselves. It makes a change, you know? Otherwise, they'd be stuck in that room all day.”

“Well, thanks,” said Lucy. “This will make my job a lot easier.”

She turned to go back down to the kitchen to load the dumbwaiter when one of the French doors opened and a thirtyish woman entered, carrying a potted orchid, and stepped carefully around the temporary tables. She was dressed for outdoor work, in jeans and a barn jacket, with sturdy duck boots on her feet.

“Hi, Tracy,” she said, smiling over the nodding pink blooms. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her cheeks were pink. She carried with her a scent that Lucy, a keen gardener, recognized. It was the scent of newly turned earth and green leaves, fresh air and sunshine. “Where do you want these?”

“I don't know. You better ask Lucy, here. She's in charge of the arrangements for the collation.”

Lucy laughed, introducing herself. “I don't think I'm in charge of anything. I'm just helping out for a day or two.”

“I'm Izzy Scannell. I'm supposed to be the head gardener, but I'm down to one helper, which means I'm more of a yard worker. Lately, I've been cleaning out the beds and weeding; pretty soon I'll be mowing. It's just maintenance now, no more experiments with the perennial bed, no more additions to the water garden.”

“That's a beautiful orchid,” said Lucy.

“It's a good thing orchids are tougher than they look—they're about all I've been able to keep going in the greenhouse. Now they're earning their keep, as we won't have to order expensive arrangements from a florist.”

“That should please Mr. Weatherby,” said Lucy.

Izzy shot her a questioning glance. “What do you know about Mr. Weatherby?”

Lucy smiled. “I've only been here a few hours, but I've heard plenty about how cheap he is.”

“You can say that again,” said Izzy. “He's made me lower the temperature in the greenhouse and he's been, as he says, ‘concerned' about the cost.”

Tracy chuckled. “Sounds like you're in trouble,” she said, unplugging the vacuum and pushing it into the next room.

Izzy twisted her lips into a sardonic grin. “She's right. Expressing ‘concern' is the first step around here. I think it's time for me to look for a new job before I'm fired.”

Lucy was spreading another tablecloth. “Perhaps he'll be so taken with your orchids that he'll reevaluate.”

“I'm not holding my breath,” said Izzy, nodding at a wheelbarrow full of blooms that was on the terrace, just outside the French doors. “So where do you want me to put them?”

Lucy asked her to set the plants on the floor, planning to add them as a final touch after she'd arranged the plates, silver, and glassware. Then she went back downstairs for another load of tableware, wondering exactly how she was going to convince Sue to agree to work a second day at Pine Point.

Chapter Six

T
he
Pennysaver
with Lucy's photo of the EMTs working over the collapsed figure of Van Duff was lying on the table in Jake's Donut Shop. The rescue workers' bodies blocked his head; all that could be seen of Van were his plush-covered legs and feet. T
RAGEDY AT
E
GG
H
UNT,
read the headline.

“It
is
a tragedy,” said Rachel Goodman, shaking her head. Her long black hair was caught in a loose bun that wobbled and her big brown eyes were mournful. “Some of those children are going to be scarred for life. They saw the Easter Bunny, an iconic figure, collapse right in front of them. Talk about trauma!” Rachel was a psych major in college, and had never gotten over it. She was one of the four friends who gathered at Jake's, where the coffee was strong and the conversation even stronger, every Thursday morning for breakfast.

“Oh, I don't know,” countered Sue with a chuckle, tucking a lock of her expensively cut hair behind her ear with a perfectly manicured finger. “I bet a Cadbury cream egg would go a long way toward restoring any kid's mental health.” Sue was a dedicated dieter and limited herself to black coffee.

“Those things are disgusting,” protested Pam Stillings, who was a fan of whole grains and natural foods and always had the yogurt and granola bowl. She was married to Lucy's boss, Ted.

“I didn't want Ted to use that photo on the front page,” said Lucy, her fork poised over the hash and eggs combo plate. “It was worse, if you can imagine such a thing. The head of the bunny costume was here,” she said, pointing with her fork to the white margin outside the photo. “It looked like the Easter Bunny had been decapitated.”

Rachel was horrified. “Oh, dear.”

“I got him to crop it out, it was just too . . .” Lucy speared a chunk of hash with her fork and dipped it in the egg yolk.

“Graphic,” said Sue. “That's the word you want.”

“Inappropriate,” said Lucy, swallowing. “That's what I told Ted. The
Pennysaver
is a family newspaper, though I don't know if kids really read newspapers these days.”

“I don't think anybody reads newspapers,” said Pam with a grim expression. “Circulation's down.”

“Well, Lucy,” said Sue, lifting her cup and sipping her coffee, “if Ted lays you off, you can always go into catering.”

“That reminds me,” said Lucy. “Don't forget we agreed to work at Pine Point this afternoon.” Sue had done no such thing, but Lucy was hoping to finesse that point.

“I don't remember agreeing to that,” said Sue. “I was planning on cleaning out my closet and putting the winter things in storage.”

“Please,” said Lucy in a small voice. “I really need you. This is my only chance to get in the house again . . .”

“Are you going undercover?” asked Rachel, leaning forward and whispering.

“Why? What are you investigating?” asked Pam.

“Nancy Drew here thinks there's something suspicious going on at Pine Point,” said Sue with a sniff. “If you ask me, the only suspicious thing is why they ever hired Elfrida as a cook! She can't even make a simple pound cake. Lucy had me cooking up cakes and sandwiches for after the funeral all yesterday afternoon and now she wants me to be a server while she goes sniffing around.”

Rachel broke off a piece of her Sunshine muffin. “Lucy might be on to something. I know Bob is concerned about VV,” she said, popping the bit of muffin in her mouth. Rachel's husband, Bob, was a lawyer.

“How so?” Lucy asked.

“Well, he represented VV for years, but last summer he got a letter from another lawyer saying VV no longer required his services. He called the house to check, but was told VV was too weak to speak to him. Willis, however, confirmed the change, saying this new guy, Weatherby, was handling everything. Bob told Willis that he would continue to represent VV unless he got something in writing and a day or two later he got a brief note, very terse, typed, with VV's signature on the bottom. Bob said it didn't seem like VV's way of writing—her notes were always handwritten and full of dashes and exclamation points—and the signature was dubious. He's been trying to decide what to do. He feels responsible for her, but she has every right to hire whomever she wants to represent her. It's awkward.”

“I don't know if this is relevant,” said Lucy, “but there does seem to be some sort of economy drive going on at Pine Point. The staff has been reduced, they're cutting spending every way they can. Even Van's funeral . . .”

“Egg salad sandwiches!” exclaimed Sue. “And sherry from a jug!”

Pam nodded in agreement. “They only gave twenty-five dollars to the Hat and Mitten Fund last year. I think VV really got slammed in the recession.”

Rachel knit her brows together. “I don't think so. The stock market has recovered, it's jobs and housing that are still depressed. And I happen to know that VV is doing just fine, at least she was last summer.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I'm actually not supposed to know that—forget I said it.”

“I'll forget in a minute,” said Lucy. “First tell me what you know and how you know it. Off the record, of course.”

“Well,” said Rachel, as they all leaned in closer, “Bob was very upset when he learned that VV no longer wanted him to be her lawyer and he mentioned that considering how much money she had, he should have demanded a retainer. He said here she was with hundreds of millions of dollars and he only charged her his usual hourly rate, the same rate he charges clients with a lot less money.” Her cheeks grew pink with embarrassment and she hurried to defend her husband. “That's not really like him, he's not greedy, it was just that he was so upset. He'd represented her for years and years.”

They all nodded in agreement, aware that Bob's fees were extremely moderate and he did a great deal of work
pro bono
.

Rachel looked at Lucy. “Now, remember, you're forgetting I ever said anything about this.”

“Right,” said Lucy, waggling her fingers. “It's gone. What was it you said?” But she knew, they all knew, that it's very hard to forget hundreds of millions of dollars.

 

About a hundred specially invited guests were seated in the drawing room where the funeral service for Van Duff was underway; Lucy and Sue were busy in the dining room with last minute preparations. They could hear bits and pieces of the service as they laid out the platters of sandwiches and sliced cake and made sure there was cream—Sue pointed out that it was actually milk—in the creamers and sugar in the sugar bowls.

“He was always up for a good time,” they heard a male voice saying. “Whether it was a last-minute trip to catch the waves at Baja or a round of golf at the National, he was your man. I don't think I ever heard him say the word no. Van was never too busy to help out a friend. I remember when I got stranded in Bali, after the tsunami. I don't know how he even knew I was there, but a couple of days after the disaster, I'm out there on this beach, trying to help these people whose village was completely destroyed—I mean absolutely nothing was left standing—and what do I see but a huge catamaran that comes right up on to the beach and who's at the wheel but Van. He gives me a wave and then he starts unloading boxes of food and clothing and bottled water. He saved the entire village. I don't think they would have made it without his help; they had nothing.” There was a long pause and then they heard him continue, his voice tight with emotion, “I'm gonna miss you, bro.”

Other speakers continued in the same vein: Van was terrific at golf, a keen competitor on the tennis court, a sailor who loved to take risks, a generous friend to those in need, a lover of wilderness and a defender of endangered species. It was the last speaker, however, who they found most moving.

“Van was my father,” she began, in a voice so soft they had to strain to hear her. Crossing the dining room and peeking through the double doors, they saw a beautiful young woman standing at the podium. Tall and whippet thin, she was dressed simply in black which made a stunning contrast to her buttery blond hair and creamy complexion.

“In addition to everything else, Van had terrific genes,” said Sue. “You know, I've seen her before. I can't remember where.”

“Shh,” hissed Lucy. “I want to hear.”

“He wasn't the sort of father who read bedtime stories and tucked you in at night, he wasn't the sort of father who made you eat broccoli,” she said, getting a laugh. “In fact, there were long periods when he wasn't around—but that didn't matter, because it made it so special when he was.

“I have one memory I want to share with you. It was when I was very little, maybe four or five years old. It's one of my first memories. We had a snowstorm, a big storm that kept us indoors all day. Daddy blew in just as the sun was coming out the next morning and he had Mom bundle me up in my boots and snowsuit. We started out walking but the snow was too deep for me so he picked me up and set me on his shoulders and carried me up to the top of our road, Pickering Avenue. It was early in the morning and no cars were out, but the road had been plowed, leaving just a couple of inches of packed snow, perfect for sledding. Dad set me down on this big old Flexible Flyer sled and wrapped his arms tight around me and away we went, sailing down Pickering Avenue. I've never again done anything as exciting, and I've never felt as safe as I did in my daddy's arms, flying through that cold winter morning.”

Lucy's and Sue's eyes met and they both had to brush away tears. In the drawing room, someone struck a few chords on the piano and everyone shuffled to their feet to sing “Morning Has Broken.” Sue adjusted the parsley garnish on a platter of sandwiches, Lucy stationed herself behind the urns of coffee and tea, and the gathered mourners sang the final amen. Willis opened the doors to the dining room and the family formed a reception line.

Lucy recognized Vicky, Van's sister, and her husband, Henry, from the photos she had seen in the society pages. Vicky's light brown hair was done in a classic pageboy complete with a black headband and she was wearing a single strand of pearls over a black and white tweed suit. Henry's hair was graying at the temples and he was impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray suit and beautiful wingtip shoes, which had been polished and buffed to a high sheen. Van's mother, Little Viv, stood next to Henry, and Lucy was shocked to see how fragile she looked. She was so thin that her knees and elbows were knobby bulges beneath the thin silvery gray silk knit pantsuit she was wearing. Her granddaughter, the beautiful Juliette, was last in line and the two made a startling contrast between youth and age. It was impossible to avoid seeing Juliette's future in Little Viv's frailty.

Soon Lucy was too busy pouring tea and coffee to keep track of the principal mourners, and the dining room was filled with the gossipy din that inevitably follows a funeral. She suspected that the survivors were so relieved to find themselves alive and kicking that they enthusiastically embraced each other in good fellowship and indulged in the enjoyment of large amounts of food and drink. The platters were emptying fast, Lucy saw, and the sherry was almost gone. She was on her way to inform Willis that more wine was needed when she encountered her dear old friend, Miss Julia Ward Howe Tilley.

Miss Tilley, now retired, had been the longtime librarian at the Broadbrooks Free Library and knew just about everything about everyone in Tinker's Cove. Her aureole of white hair gave her an angelic aspect but she was no sweet old lady, as Lucy knew only too well. Miss Tilley—no one except a diminishing number of very old friends dared call her anything else—had a sharp tongue and didn't hesitate to use it.

“What are you doing here?” Lucy asked, embracing the old woman. “I thought you avoided funerals like the plague.”

“It's true, I don't much like them,” said Miss Tilley, who had some years ago celebrated her ninetieth birthday, “but as funerals go, this one wasn't too bad. They skipped a lot of the religious nonsense and stuck to Van's life, which made it a lot more interesting than most.”

“I heard a little bit,” said Lucy. “It made me wish I'd known Van.”

“Well, you know how it is at funerals,” sniffed Miss Tilley. “They only say good things about the dear departed. Believe me, there was plenty that wasn't wonderful about Van. His mother, Little Viv, is my goddaughter, you know, and she spent many an afternoon crying on my shoulder about him. He was kicked out of four or five prep schools, as I remember. Oh, he led poor Little Viv a merry chase!”

“I had no idea,” said Lucy.

“Oh, yes. Van was a little devil, that he was.”

“I'm sure he was. What I meant was, I had no idea you were so close to the family.”

“I don't know about close.” Miss Tilley shrugged her bony shoulders. “I send Little Viv a handkerchief for her birthday every year, that's about it. And, of course, VV and I grew up together, we went to the same one-room school, that sort of thing, but that was many, many years ago. People drift apart.” Miss Tilley turned her attention to the buffet table. “You know, I wouldn't mind a glass of sherry and something to eat. Death always gives me an appetite.”

“Right,” said Lucy, reminded of her duties. “I was just on my way to see about getting more sherry from Willis.”

“Well, don't let me keep you from your mission,” said Miss Tilley with a wave of her gnarled, blue-veined hand.

Lucy was coming back with a freshly filled decanter when she saw Miss Tilley heading up the stairs, a plate of sandwiches in her hand, only to encounter Vicky in the middle of the flight. The two exchanged words, but Lucy couldn't hear what was said, and then Vicky shook her head, a firm expression on her face.