Father’s Day Murder (20 page)

He sat for a minute, fingering the book and, Lucy suspected, wrestling with his emotions. Finally he opened to page one. It was an old snapshot of him taken in the hospital, dressed in disposable scrubs and a ridiculous cap, holding a tiny, red-faced, newborn baby Toby. Underneath, Zoe had carefully printed the words
Bill Stone becomes a father for the first time.

Looking at the photo, Lucy felt a rush of emotions: joy at Bill's proud expression, a flood of love for her firstborn child, and anger at the feckless and irresponsible young man he'd apparently become.

“Where is Toby, anyway?” asked Bill, voicing the question Lucy had dreaded.

He was answered by heavy steps coming up the stairs, accompanied by the click of Kudo's nails.

“Sorry I'm late,” said Toby, who was dressed in waterproof fishing pants, as if he'd just stepped off the boat. “We had a bigger catch than usual and I couldn't get away.”

“Bigger catch?”

“He's been working for Chuck Swift on his lobster boat,” explained Bill.

By means of illustration, Toby hoisted a black plastic garbage bag. “I've got six nice ones, Pop. Happy Father's Day!”

“Thanks, Toby. Thanks, everybody. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to eat my eggs before they get cold.”

“C'mon girls,” said Toby. “I've got some of Jake's doughnuts for breakfast. They're still warm.”

 

Left alone with Bill, Lucy snuggled against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Drawn by the smell of the food, Kudo nosed his way into the room, sniffing at the discarded wrapping paper and finally curling up on the floor beside Bill's side of the bed, just in case Bill dropped a tasty morsel.

Bill chewed his bacon and swallowed.

Kudo sighed.

“The dog hearing's been postponed,” said Bill.

“How come?”

“The dog officer, Cathy Anderson, is out on maternity leave.”

“That's great news,” said Lucy. “I'll have to send her something nice for the baby.”

“You could stuff Kudo,” suggested Bill, tossing the last bite of bacon to the dog, who caught it on the fly and gulped it down.

“It looks like you're doing that already,” said Lucy. She reached up and stroked Bill's beard affectionately. “I'll admit I was worried, but it looks as if you were right and I was wrong. You managed fine without me—and you did it your way. Everything seems to have worked out. The kids are great, the dog's got a reprieve, the house isn't even messy. How'd you do it?”

“Just don't look under the bed,” he said, shoving the tray aside and pulling her closer. “Welcome home.”

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

Leslie Meier's next Lucy Stone mystery

STAR SPANGLED MURDER

coming next month in hardcover!

H
e'd killed before and he would kill again. He couldn't help himself. It was more than an addiction; he was programmed to do it. It was in his DNA. He loved the rush of excitement when he spotted his victim and the sense of power he felt when he'd mastered his prey. They were so stupid. Going about their daily business unaware of the eyes watching them. His eyes. They thought they had it all under control, but they didn't. They would live or die as he willed. As he desired.

He sighed and rolled over on the sorry excuse for a bed that his captors gave him. There would be no killing today. He stared at the thick wire mesh that confined him. It was nothing more than a pen, really, but there was no way out. He'd tried, of course. It was his major occupation, considering the small amount of exercise his captors allowed him. He'd examined every corner, looking for a gap, a loose screw, a flaw in the concrete. So far, he hadn't found any.

So he'd just have to bide his time until they made a mistake. He could wait. He was used to it. He'd had to get used to it. But that didn't mean he'd given up. Oh, no. He was simply waiting for an opportunity. Hearing a door slam, he looked up. Maybe this was his big chance.

The woman was coming towards him carrying a bowl. His dinner. He got to his feet and watched as she opened the door and carefully slid the bowl towards him. “Hungry?” she asked, in a high squeaky voice. What did she think? Of course he was hungry. And bored. Eating was the high point of his day. Even the slop they gave him. He licked his chops, turning his attention to his meal.

And then he heard it. A shriek. “Mom! Come quick!”

She whirled around, slamming the heavy gate and ran for the house. He waited until she disappeared inside, then gave the gate an experimental push. It opened. This had happened before. She'd slammed it too hard and it had bounced back without latching. Stupid woman. Would she never learn? In a moment he was outside, sniffing the air, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back. It was a fine day, a fine day for killing.

He gave himself a good shake, then he was off, tail held high. His bowl of kibble remained untouched. Kudo was in the mood for chicken.

L
ucy Stone wasn't usually a clock watcher. Time didn't pass slowly for her; it galloped ahead of her. As a part-time reporter—not to mention feature writer, listings editor and occasional photographer—for the
Pennysaver
, the weekly newspaper in Tinker's Cove, Maine, and the mother of four, her life sometimes seemed to her an endless chase after a spare minute. She was always late: late for meetings she was supposed to cover, late for doctor's appointments, late for picking up the kids. But not today.

Today her eyes were fixed on the old electric kitchen clock with the dangling cord that hung on the wall behind the receptionist's desk in the
Pennysaver
office. If only she could stop the minute hand from lurching forward, if only she could stop time, then she wouldn't have to go to the Board of Selectmen's meeting at five o'clock.

“Is there something the matter with my hair?” asked Phyllis, whose various job descriptions included receptionist, telephone operator and advertising manager. She gingerly patted her tightly-permed tangerine do. “You keep staring at it.”

“Your hair's fine,” said Lucy. “I'm looking at the clock.”

Phyllis peered over her rhinestone-trimmed cat's-eye glasses and narrowed her eyes. “Have you got the hots for Howard White? Can't wait to see him,” she paused and smoothed her openwork white cardigan over her ample bosom, “wield his gavel?”

Howard White was the extremely dignified chairman of the Board of Selectmen, a retired executive who was well on in years.

Lucy laughed. “Howard's not my type,” she said.

Phyllis raised an eyebrow, actually a thinly penciled orange line drawn where her eyebrows used to be. “Why not? He's not bad looking for an old guy, and he's rich.”

“He also has a wife,” said Lucy. “And I have a husband.”

“Details.” Phyllis waved a plump, manicured hand, nails polished in a bright coral hue.

“I don't want to go to the meeting. I wish Ted would cover the Board of Selectmen until this dog hearing is over.”

Ted was the owner, publisher and editor-in-chief of the
Pennysaver
.

“Did I hear my name?” he inquired, sticking his head out of the morgue where the back issues going all the way back to the
Courier & Advertisers
printed in the 1800s were stored.

“Ted? Do me a favor and cover the selectmen's meeting? Please?”

“Trouble at home?”

“You could say that,” said Lucy. “It's Kudo. He's been going after Prudence Pratt's chickens and I got a summons yesterday for a dog hearing. I just feel so awkward trying to cover the meeting with this thing hanging over me.”

“Is the hearing tonight?”

“Next meeting.”

“Sorry, Lucy, but I don't see a conflict of interest tonight. I'll cover the next hearing though.”

“Do you have to?” asked Lucy, picturing her name in the headline. That darned dog was such an embarrassment. She felt like a criminal. “Couldn't we just skip that meeting? Pretend it never happened?”

“No,” said Ted, flatly. “And if you don't get a move on, you're going to be late for today's meeting. It's five, you know.”

Lucy checked the clock. It was five minutes to five.

“They never start on time,” she said, slowly gathering up her things. “And town hall's just across the street. There's no hurry, really.”

“You better get a move on.”

Lucy hoisted the faded African basket she used as a purse on her shoulder and drifted towards the door.

“I'm not going to miss anything. Bud Collins is never on time and they always have to wait for him.”

Ted yanked the door open, making the little bell jangle. “Go!”

“See you tomorrow,” said Lucy, walking as slowly as a convict beginning the last mile.

The door slammed behind her.

 

Selectmen's meetings were held in the basement hearing room of the town hall. The walls were concrete block painted beige, the floor was covered in gray industrial tile, and the seating was plastic chairs in assorted colors of green, blue and orange. One end of the room was slightly elevated and that's where the board members sat behind a long bench, similar to the judge's bench in a courtroom.

What with the flags in the corner and a table and chairs for petitioners, the room was quite similar to the district court, thought Lucy. It wasn't a comforting idea and she tried to put it out of her mind as she took her usual seat, smiling at the scattering of regulars who never missed a meeting. Scratch Hallett, a gruff old fellow who had a plumbing and heating business and was active in veteran's affairs, was a particular favorite. She also recognized Jonathan Franke, the former environmental radical who was now the respected executive director of the Association for the Preservation of Tinker's Cove, and several members of that organization. They were exchanging friendly nods when Lucy's attention was drawn to a newcomer. Tall and gaunt, with her skimpy red hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail, it was none other than her neighbor Prudence Pratt, dressed in her customary summer outfit of baggy blue jeans and a free Blue Seal T-shirt from the feed store.

Lucy's heart sank. She hoped Pru hadn't gotten the date wrong, and thought the dog hearing was today. Or maybe she wanted to file an additional complaint. Kudo had gotten loose again the other day, and had come trotting home with a chicken feather stuck in his teeth. The memory made Lucy wince. She was at her wit's end; she'd tried everything she could think of to restrain the dog but he was some sort of escape artist. And whenever he got out, he went after her neighbor's chickens.

Lucy tried to catch Pru's eye, hoping to start some kind of dialog. Maybe if she apologized for the dog's behavior, or offered to pay for the damages, they could work something out and avoid the hearing. But Mrs. Pratt stared straight ahead, pointedly ignoring her.

A little flurry of activity announced the arrival of the board members, who filed into the room accompanied by their secretary, Bev Schmidt, who kept the minutes. They always came in the same order, with IGA owner Joe Marzetti going first. He was a bundle of energy, tightly focused on the task at hand.

He was followed by newly elected member Ellie Sykes, a dollmaker and member of the Metinnicut Indian tribe whom Lucy had gotten to know when Indian rights activist Curt Nolan was murdered a few years before. Kudo had actually been Curt's dog and Lucy had taken him off Ellie's hands when he'd begun raising Cain with her flock of chickens. Ellie gave her a big smile as she sat down and arranged her papers.

Next came board veteran Pete Crowley, whose crumpled face and world-weary attitude seemed to imply he'd seen it all in the twenty years or so he'd sat on the board and nothing would surprise him.

Chairman Howard White always took the center seat, and was the only board member to wear a sport coat. He invariably shot his sleeves when he sat down, as if he were chairing a high-level meeting of movers and shakers instead of this oddly assorted group of public-minded citizens.

Bud Collins always brought up the rear. A retired physical education teacher and coach, he seemed to have used up all his energy urging Tinker's Cove High School students to run faster and jump higher. He often dozed off during meetings. Lucy would have made a point of it in one of her stories, except for the fact that she sometimes dozed off too, especially during presentations by the long-winded town accountant, who tended to drone on endlessly in a monotone.

“The meeting is called to order,” said White, with a tap of his gavel. “As usual, we'll begin with our public comment session. This is the time we invite citizens to voice any concerns they might have, keeping in mind that once we begin the advertised agenda discussion will be limited to the issues under consideration.”

Pru's hand shot up.

Lucy swallowed hard and sat up straighter.

“You have the floor,” said White, with a courteous bow of his head. “Please state your name and address for the minutes.”

“You know perfectly well who I am,” she snapped, “and so does Bev Schmidt. Gracious, we were in school together.”

Howard White was normally a stickler for detail, but after glancing at Bev and receiving a nod in reply, he decided to allow this breach of procedure. “Please continue,” he said.

“Well, as you know, my property on Red Top Road goes back all the way to Blueberry Pond, which is owned by the town. It's conservation land, open to the public for swimming and fishing, duck hunting in the fall, and up 'til now there's been no problem.”

“But now there is?” inquired White.

“I'll say there is. They're naked back there. Butt naked! It's a disgrace!” Pru was clearly outraged: her mouth seemed to disappear as she sucked in her lips and her pale blue eyes bugged out.

Lucy fought the urge to giggle in relief, concentrating instead on the board member's reactions. They also seemed to be struggling to keep straight faces.

“I think there has always been a certain amount of skinny-dipping at the pond,” said Bud Collins. “The kids like to go there after practices, especially the baseball team. To cool off with a swim.”

“I don't know who they are and I don't care. I don't like it and I want it stopped! Isn't there a law against this sort of thing?” demanded Mrs. Pratt.

White looked to the other board members, who shook their heads.

“I am not aware of any town bylaw that forbids nudity,” said White.

“And a good thing, too,” offered Joe Marzetti. “There's nothing the matter with a hard-working man stopping by the pond for a quick dip on his way home on a hot summer day. Or at lunchtime, for that matter. There's nobody there most of the time. What's the harm?”

“What's the harm?” Pru's eyes bugged out in outrage. “It's immoral, that's what. It's time this town took a stand and stood up for public decency!”

“You're welcome to write up a proposal and put it on the town warrant for a vote at town meeting,” said White.

“Town meeting! That's not until next April!”

“We could call a special town meeting, but you'd have to get signatures for that.” White paused. “Bev, how many signatures would she need?”

“Two hundred and fifty registered voters,” said Bev.

“Bear in mind that a special town meeting costs money,” said Marzetti. “It's not generally popular with taxpayers.”

“We'll see about that,” said Pru. “I'll be back, you can count on it.”

“We'll look forward to it,” said White, casting a baleful glance at Ellie, who was struggling to suppress a giggling fit.

Lucy knew her duty as a reporter, so she followed Pru out of the room, catching up with her in the parking lot.

“Do you have a minute? I'd just like to get your reaction to the board's decision for the paper….”

“My reaction isn't fit to print,” snarled Pru. “That board's a bunch of godless, lily-livered, corrupt scoundrels. They'll rot in hell and so will you, Lucy Stone, you and that dog of yours.” With that she climbed into her aged little Dodge compact and slammed the door.

“Can I quote you on that?” yelled Lucy, as she rolled out of the parking lot.

 

When Lucy returned to the meeting, Jonathan Franke was making a presentation with the help of a laser pointer and a flip chart. He had certainly adopted all the accessories of success, thought Lucy, who remembered the days when he was usually seen holding up a sign protesting government inaction or big business profiteering and sporting an enormous head of curly hair.

“As this chart shows,” he said, indicating a bar graph, “Tinker's Cove is blessed with one of the few surviving communities of purple-spotted lichen in the entire state. Once abundant, this complex life form has fallen victim to a sustained loss of environment due to development and pollution. It is now considered endangered and is protected under the state's environmental protection act. I'm here tonight, with other members of the Association for the Preservation of Tinker's Cove, to request that the town take all appropriate steps to protect our priceless legacy of purple-spotted lichen.”

Judging from their pleased expressions, Lucy understood the board members were congratulating themselves on their good judgement and wise management of a resource they hadn't actually known they had. Whatever they'd been doing, it had apparently been the right thing, at least for purple-spotted lichen.

“And how do you suggest we continue to care for this rare and wonderful little plant?” asked Ellie.

“That brings me to my next illustration,” said Franke, flipping to the next page on his chart, a map of the town with prime lichen areas indicated by purple patches of color.

“As you can clearly see,” he said, making the little red laser dot dance over the map, “one area of particular concern is out on Quisset Point. This is actually the town's largest community of purple-spotted lichen, thanks to the abundance of ferrous rock.”

The board members nodded, indicating their high level of interest in an issue that was surely noncontroversial and certain to resonate positively with voters.

“That is why our organization, the Association for the Preservation of Tinker's Cove, is here tonight to request the cancellation of the upcoming July Fourth fireworks display.”

All five board members were stunned, even Bud Collins, who had been nodding off. They had certainly not expected this.

“I'd like a clarification,” said White. “Did you say you want us to cancel the fireworks?”

“You mean call them off?” demanded Marzetti.

“No fireworks at all?” exclaimed Crowley. “Isn't that un-American?”

“Believe me, we are not making this request lightly,” said Franke, looking very serious. “We wouldn't consider it except for these facts.” He lifted a finger. “A: The lichen is severely endangered throughout the state. B: The lichen is extremely fragile and easily damaged by foot traffic. And C: The lichen is highly flammable and one errant spark could wipe out the entire Quisset Point colony.”