Star Spangled Murder (17 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Star Spangled Murder
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“I don't think so,” protested Sue, spotting a woman pushing a cart full of bags walking down one of the aisles between cars. Intent on her prey, she turned the SUV around and began a slow stalk.
“I'm adding him to the list. So far we've got Wesley Pratt, Calvin Pratt, a crazed naturist, an angry lobsterman and Mel Dunwoodie. Anybody else?”
“I can't think of anyone,” said Sue, letting the car idle as she watched the woman load the shopping bags into her car. When she finished, she pushed the cart to one side and got in, taking her time starting the car. Sue drummed her fingers on the wheel impatiently.
“Finally!” she exclaimed when the woman backed out at a speed roughly that of a fresh bottle of ketchup. “Could she move any slower?”
When the car finally drove off, Sue hit the gas and promptly collided with the cart, which had rolled into the space.
“Shit!”
Lucy bit her lip and didn't say anything.
 
 
They'd just finished filling every inch of space inside the SUV with blocky cardboard boxes of paper goods and bags of red, white and blue party decorations when Sue suddenly asked, “What do we do now?”
“Try to get home alive so we can do this all over again and unload the stuff,” said Lucy, pushing the cart back to the corral.
“No, silly. I mean about the murder,” said Sue, following with the second cart. “How are you going to find out who did it?”
“Start asking questions,” said Lucy, adding her cart to the line of linked carriages. “See what I can find out. I only wish there was some way I could find out more about the Pratt family. If they had some friends I could talk to them, but I don't think they had any.”
“Pru belonged to the Revelation Congregation,” said Sue, giving her cart a final little shove. “And so do my neighbors, the Wilsons. I could talk to them.”
“That's a good idea.”
“You'll have to pay me, though.”
Trust Sue to extract her pound of flesh, thought Lucy. “Whatever you say.”
“Ten pounds of potato salad, for the picnic.”
“No problem.” Lucy considered. “You've told Ted, right?”
“He's giving it front page coverage.”
“That's good.” For a minute Lucy wished she was back at the
Pennysaver,
writing up the story.
“His story won't be half as good as what you would have written,” said Sue, patting her hand.
“You're right. He's probably missing me like crazy.”
As she said it, Lucy was aware that she was voicing her own thoughts, not Ted's. She was already missing her job. She climbed up into the passenger seat and began fastening the seat belt. It didn't seem quite adequate; she wanted something sturdier for the trip home, like the harnesses they used in stunt aircraft. An ejection seat would be nice, too.
“Ready?” asked Sue, starting the engine and shifting into reverse.
“As ready as I'll ever be,” said Lucy, resigned to her fate.
Chapter Eighteen
L
ucy pondered her next move when Sue dropped her off at the house. Amazingly enough she was in one piece, but somewhat rattled by Sue's aggressive driving. She took a couple of aspirin for her tension headache and stood at the kitchen sink, drinking a glass of water and watching the watchers.
They were still there, which surprised her. You would think they would have something better to do than sit for hours in front of an empty house. Maybe, she thought, she could give them some help. Fearful that her Dutch courage would desert her, she placed her glass in the sink and marched out of the house and down the driveway, stopping at the road. Predictably, the reporters gathered around.
“This is off the record,” she began, trying to ignore the cameras. “But I'm afraid you're missing the big story.”
Now that she was actually face-to-face with them, the reporters looked very young. They were probably rookies, assigned to watch the house while their more experienced colleagues were attending news conferences and interviewing officials.
“What do you mean?” asked one, a freckle-faced kid with a crew cut.
“Well, you know, Blueberry Pond is just a bit down the road.”
“So? What's Blueberry Pond?” This poor girl was camera-ready in a pastel polyester suit and Lucy knew she must be cooking in the heat.
“Haven't you heard about the nudists?” Lucy kept her voice neutral.
“Nudists?”
“Well, they prefer to be called naturists.” Lucy dangled the bait. They were nibbling, but would they bite?
“Around here?” The kid with the crew cut was wary, sensing a trick.
“At Blueberry Pond. Some days there are hundreds over there. Sunning themselves and swimming. It's an official hot spot on the naturist Web site.”
“That is interesting,” began the girl, “but what's that got to do with the murder?”
“Oh, didn't you know? Prudence Pratt was very upset about all those naked people practically in her backyard. She was trying to get the town to pass an anti-nudity bylaw.”
“At the very least it would be a photo op,” said the photographer.
“And it might tie into the murder,” said the girl.
“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” said the kid with the crew cut.
“No problem,” said Lucy, turning and strolling up the driveway. She turned back to look when she reached the porch and saw that the little caravan was departing.
Wasting no time she grabbed her purse and started the Subaru. Which way to go? She ran through her list of suspects and decided to head for the harbor, the scene of the most recent violence before the murder. She wanted to find out more about the lobster poaching and this was her chance, but only if the time and tide were right for the lobstermen to return to port.
Her heart sank when she turned into the harbor parking lot and discovered nearly all the berths were empty. If everybody was out fishing there wouldn't be anyone to talk to. Even the harbormaster's little shack was shut tight, with a handwritten sign indicating he would be back in two hours. Lucy wandered from one end of the pier to the other, looking for signs of life. All she found were seagulls perched on pilings, waiting for the boats to return with their dinner of bait bits and fish scraps.
She was about to give up when she heard a string of oaths, delivered by a gruff voice, coming from the Reine Marie, Beetle Bickham's boat. She went closer to investigate and noticed the hatch was open. She heard a series of clangs, followed by more profanity. Beetle was in the hold, working on his engine.
“Hi, down there!” she yelled.
“Hi, Lucy.” Beetle's sweaty, red face appeared in the opening. “What's up?”
“Nothing much,” she said, shrugging. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Sure. I'll be glad to take a break from this stubborn, hard-hearted old bitch of an engine. There's Cokes in the cooler.”
He pulled himself up easily through the hatch with his powerful arms, strong from years of raising heavy lobster traps from the deep, and seated himself beside her on the locker. Lucy handed him a frosty can and he popped the top, downing most of the contents in one gulp.
“That is thirsty work.” He looked down ruefully at his grease-stained hands and shirt.
“Sure is,” said Lucy, sipping her drink. “Have you missed many days of fishing?”
“Naw. She just started acting up yesterday, when I was coming back in. And I made my quota anyway this week.”
“Already?” Lucy was surprised since she'd heard that catches were low.
Beetle shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah. It's pretty good, much better than it was for a while there.”
Lucy noticed that Calvin and Wesley's boat, Second Chance, was tied up at the dock, too.
“So you think the poachers have been busy with something else?”
His black eyes twinkled. “That might just be it.”
Lucy took another sip. “You know, I've been wondering if whoever killed Pru Pratt might have mistaken her for Wesley. From the back, they looked a lot alike, you know?”
“She was a good woman, very religious, but not a womanly woman. You understand what I'm saying?” Beetle's hands were in motion, this was a subject he felt strongly about. “I used to make a little joke about her, eh? I'd sing that old song about skin and bones and a hank of hair. That's all she was.” He paused, perhaps thinking of his own amply endowed wife and his curvaceous daughters, who had all inherited his sparkling black eyes. “But I heard she was a good cook, especially her chicken fricassee.” He shook his head, pondering this incongruity.
“So do you think one of the lobstermen might have killed her by mistake, thinking she was Wesley? Were tempers running that high around here? Over the poaching, I mean?”
“It's hard to say,” said Beetle. “Men get upset over a lot of things: women, money, politics. Lobsters, too.” He glanced at the ramshackle Bilge, perched precariously on the hill overlooking the harbor. “Especially if they drink a little too much Pete's Wicked Ale, no?”
Lucy looked at him sharply. “Does anybody like that come to mind?”
Beetle raised his hands. “No, no. Nobody in particular. But the Bilge is a popular place. A lot of guys go there and drink, all night sometimes.”
“All night? That's illegal,” began Lucy, prompting a world-weary chuckle from Beetle. “Okay, I admit the Bilge is a law unto itself. So can you think of anybody who was especially upset by the poaching?”
“I'm sorry, Lucy, but I have to get back to work.”
“I thought you said there was no rush.”
“I need a part and I just remembered the boatyard closes early today.”
Lucy didn't believe it for a minute. She suspected Beetle didn't like the direction her questions were taking.
“Oh, I'm sorry.” Lucy said slowly. “I didn't mean to keep you.”
“No problem. You know I wish the best for Toby. He's a good kid.”
“This has been hell for him, for all of us. If you could give me something to go on I'd be so grateful.”
“I wish I could help you, Lucy.” Beetle shook his head. “Say thanks to Ted for me, will you? I saw my letter in the paper.”
She had to expect this, she realized. People didn't know she'd quit.
“I don't work there anymore.”
“No?” Beetle's black eyebrows shot up in amazement.
“No. Ted says I can't be in the news and report it, too.”
“He fired you? There was nothing else you could do there?”
“There was nothing I wanted to do, so I quit.”
“Well, maybe you'll go back when this is all over.”
Lucy gave him a tight little smile. “Maybe.”
Maybe he was right, she thought, as she drove home. Maybe she would go back to the
Pennysaver
when this was all over. But right now it didn't seem as if it would ever be over unless Pru's killer was found. And that seemed extremely unlikely unless somebody talked. But if her conversation with Beetle was any indication, it wasn't going to be one of the lobstermen. They followed an unwritten code of loyalty, grown out of necessity. They depended on each other to help them if they ran into trouble on the water; it was expected that they would risk their own lives to save a fellow lobsterman.
The problem was that while most of the lobstermen were hard working and followed the law, a handful took advantage of the code of silence to supplement their incomes by scrubbing female lobsters of their eggs, a practice forbidden by law, or even to use their boats to smuggle illegal drugs, even cigarettes now that they were so highly taxed. If one of the lobstermen had killed Pru Pratt, it would be extremely difficult for her, or the police for that matter, to finger the culprit.
Lucy was thinking over this discouraging truth, when she spotted Ellie Sykes's “Fresh Eggs” sign. Remembering the ten pounds of potato salad she'd promised Sue, she slammed on the brakes, spun the Subaru into Ellie's driveway, bounced down the rutted dirt track and braked by the house.
The eggs were set out on a card table, underneath a huge shady maple tree, packed in recycled cartons from the supermarket. Lucy opened one of the boxes—these beauties were a far cry from supermarket eggs. The shells shone as if they'd been polished, gleaming globes of brown and blue and green, some even speckled. They were varying sizes, too, big jumbos for daddy and extra larges for mommy and even a few itty-bitty pullet eggs for baby.
Lucy was trying to decide how many dozen she needed when Ellie came out of the house.
“Can I help you?” she asked in her official egglady voice.
“I'm fine,” said Lucy. “I'm just dithering, trying to decide how many to take.”
“Hi, Lucy, I didn't realize it was you. The sun's in my eyes and you're in the shade.”
“These are such beautiful eggs. I forgot how wonderful homegrown ones are, I've been buying those poor excuses the supermarket sells. I guess I got in the habit over the winter.”
“My hens only lay enough for me in the winter,” said Ellie, in a matter-of-fact voice. “I don't have enough to sell, so folks have to go to the store. It takes a while for people to find me again in the spring.”
“Well, I'm glad I saw your sign. I need them for some potato salad I'm making for the town Fourth of July picnic. I guess you heard about it?”
“I think it's a great idea. Something to bring the whole town together.”
“Not like the anti-nudity bylaw,” ventured Lucy. “Do you think there's any hope for that now?”
Ellie shrugged. “Pru had drummed up quite a lot of support, before she was killed. I know the Revelation Congregation came out in force to demonstrate and I guess they'll carry on the fight.” Ellie drew her brows together. “You know, these are yesterday's eggs. I can get you some fresher ones if you like. You can gather 'em yourself, for that matter.”
“Really?” Lucy felt like a little kid. “From the hens?”
“Sure.” Ellie grabbed a basket that was hanging on a handy hook. “Follow me.”
They walked together to Ellie's chicken house, a neat little shed situated behind her house. An old apple tree partially shaded the fenced-in run, where a small flock of plump hens were busily engaged in preening their feathers and scratching at the pebbly soil.
“They're very handsome birds,” said Lucy. “They look so healthy.”
“Thanks,” said Ellie. “Maybe this will be my big year, now that Pru's out of the picture.”
“What do you mean?”
Ellie's nut-brown face reddened, and she looked embarrassed. “I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I'm sorry Pru is dead. Nobody should die like that. But the fact remains that she always got the blue ribbon at the county fair. Bitsy Parsons and I took turns getting second and third.”
“Bitsy?”
“You know her. She has that little flower and egg stand on Newcomb Road.”
Lucy nodded. “The snapdragon lady.”
“And cosmos and zinnias and coneflowers and I don't know what all. She can make anything grow, claims it's the chicken manure. She's the sweetest thing, too, always giving away extra plants.” Ellie waved a hand at the flowering border that ran along the front of her porch. “Most of my flowers came from her garden.”
“I suppose the competition will be cutthroat now,” said Lucy, entering the chicken house as Ellie held the door open for her.
“Not likely,” laughed Ellie. “So what do you want? Colors? Jumbos? I bet we've got some double yolkers here.”
Lucy reached into one of the straw-lined nesting boxes and found a warm egg. She liked the way it felt in her hand, she liked the smooth texture and the way it fit into her palm, and lifted it to her cheek.

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