Star Spangled Murder (20 page)
“Your brownies? Your fabulous brownies?” Ted took one from the plate and passed it to Mike Gold. “You've got to try one. These are fabulous.”
Lucy would have liked to ask Ted about the investigation but she knew she wouldn't get much out of him while Mike was around. Or even if he left, for that matter. She knew Ted well enough to know that he often used high spirits and jollity to block questions he didn't want to answer.
Mike had taken a brownie and was smiling as he bit into it. “Mmm. Real butter. You can always tell.”
“Ah, so you're a connoisseur,” said Lucy, wondering if he would be a better bet.
“More of a consumer, I'm afraid,” said Gold, patting his ample belly. He turned to Ted. “Do you have any more questions for me? I don't mean to rush you, but I've got another appointment. You said I could have some back issues. . . .”
“Oh, right.” Ted disappeared into the morgue for a minute, returning with a handful of papers. “Here you go. Thanks for the interview.”
“No problem. It was a pleasure,” said Mike, opening the door.
“I'm going, too,” said Lucy. “Mind if I walk with you?”
Ted's eyebrows shot up, but she was through the door before he could say anything.
“I'm Lucy Stone, by the way,” she said, introducing herself.
“I know. I've seen you on TV.” Gold's eyes twinkled mischievously.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “You can't believe everything you see on TV.”
“You're telling me?”
They laughed together, walking down the street and stopping in front of the storefront the ANS was using as a temporary headquarters.
“I guess you're used to all the media attention,” said Lucy.
“It's a constant battle for the organization,” said Gold. “All we want is responsible, fair reporting but as soon as they realize who we are, they start to sensationalize our position. Basically, all we want is to be left alone to take our clothes off.”
Lucy smiled sympathetically. “All I want is to find out who killed Pru Pratt so my family and I can get on with our lives.” She sighed. “Do you mind if I ask you a few quick questions?”
Gold checked his watch. “Gotta be quick. I don't want to keep âInside Edition' waiting.”
“Trust me, they'll wait for you,” said Lucy. “I'm just curious about my neighbor, Mel Dunwoodie. Has he been involved with ANS for long?”
“Dunwoodie? The guy with the trailer park?”
Lucy nodded.
“I know he's a dues-paying member, and he's been real helpful to the organization. He's a member of the task force we organized to deal with the anti-nudity bylaw issue, but I don't really know anything about him personally.” He paused. “He seems nice enough. He's a real hard worker.”
“What about his relations with . . .”
“Sorry,” said Gold, cutting her off. “I've got to go.”
Lucy watched as one of the big white trucks with a satellite dish on top rolled up to the curb, then put on her sunglasses and quickly turned and walked down the street. She didn't want to risk any more media attention. Back in the car she considered her next step and decided she'd like to have a little chat with Scratch Hallett.
Driving through town to Hallett Plumbing & Heating, she remembered how angry he'd been at the selectmen's meetings when first the fireworks and then the parade had been cancelled. He'd been particularly angry about the parade, even blaming Pru for raising such a fuss over the nudists that organizers felt the parade had to be canceled. She wondered where all this anger was coming from, and if there was some long-standing grudge behind it.
Hallett Plumbing & Heating was located behind Scratch's modest clapboard house, in a garage that had been enlarged throughout the years as the business grew. Scratch now employed five or six mechanics, and a small fleet of blue and white vans was parked every night on the blacktop outside the shop. Now, of course, the vans were gone as the crew of plumbers were out turning on the water in summer homes, repairing leaky faucets and replacing busted water heaters.
Lucy parked in the area reserved for customers and went in the office, pausing to admire a Rube Goldberg-like assemblage of pipes and plumbing fittings that was displayed in the window. Scratch himself was seated at an enormous gray steel desk dating from the fifties. A pinup calendar from a tool company, featuring a busty girl in a skimpy bikini holding a very large monkey wrench hung on the wall behind him.
“Lucy Stone! Are you here to interview me for the
Pennysaver?”
Pennysaver?”
“You know, I should. You're a real success story. What did you start with? A station wagon?”
“That's right. Back in '45. I got home from the war, married Mrs. Hallett and started the business, all in a couple of weeks. Didn't have time to waste after spending four years overseas in the Army Air Corps. Wasn't the Air Force then, it was still part of the Army.”
“I guess you saw a lot of the world.”
“I sure did. I crossed over on the
Queen Mary,
she was converted into a troop ship you know. We were stacked in bunks four or five high, and when your shift was done somebody else got your spot. We was in England for a good while, then they sent us on to North Africa. I ended up in Italy, in Naples.”
Queen Mary,
she was converted into a troop ship you know. We were stacked in bunks four or five high, and when your shift was done somebody else got your spot. We was in England for a good while, then they sent us on to North Africa. I ended up in Italy, in Naples.”
Lucy felt a twinge of envy; she'd never been to Europe. “Have you ever considered going back and visiting those places?”
“Nope. Once was enough,” said Scratch. “So what can I do for you? I see you're not writing any of this down.”
“No. I'm on a forced vacation. Ted says I'm too involved to work at the paper until this Pru Pratt thing is over.”
Scratch raised an eyebrow. “ 'Cause of the dog?”
“Well, that, and being neighbors and having differences with the Pratts. The whole package, I guess. The paper is supposed to be impartial and Ted's not convinced I can be objective,” Lucy paused. “So I decided the sooner this thing is over, the sooner I can get back to work. The cops don't seem to be making much progress so I'm investigating on my own.”
“Good for you!” said Scratch, leaning back in his chair and lighting his pipe. “So how's it going?”
“Not very well,” admitted Lucy. “When you get right down to it, there are a whole lot of people who didn't like Pru Pratt.”
“I suppose I'm one of 'em,” said Scratch, pulling at his eyebrow. They had grown extremely bushy, as some men's do when they age. His were impressive, as was the white and wiry hair sprouting from his ears. “You probably think I could be the one who did the evil deed.”
Lucy blushed. “I doubt that very much. But you've lived here your whole life. I bet you know a thing or two about the Pratts. For instance, was Pru always religious?”
Scratch laughed. “She was a real devil in high school. She was a couple of years ahead of my oldest and he used to say she was fast. Her father was a real mean one, rumor was he used to beat her.” Scratch raised an eyebrow. “Mebbe even more, if you get my drift.”
“Incest?”
“That's what some said. I don't put much stock in gossip meself, though.”
“When did she change?”
“When that Revelation Congregation started, she was one of the first to sign up.”
“Repenting for her sins?”
“That's prob'ly what she thought, but you ask me, those folks just replace their old sins with new ones. They're not fornicating so somehow that entitles 'em to go all intolerant. See what I mean? They start thinking they're better than everybody else.”
“Pru was like that, that's for sure.” Lucy paused. “What about Calvin? Did he grow up here?”
“Cowardly Calvin!” snorted Scratch. “That's what we used to call him. He kinda disappeared for a while during the Vietnam War, said he had business in Canada.” He nodded at her. “When he came back, he came around here looking for work. I told him no way. No way I was going to hire a draft dodger. Not after what I saw in the war.”
“I can understand that,” said Lucy.
“A man's gotta do his duty,” said Scratch. “It's the American way.”
“The price of freedom,” murmured Lucy.
Scratch was gazing into the distance. She wondered what he saw, what memories came to him.
“The
Queen Mary
hit a smaller ship when we made the crossing, you know. It felt like a bump, like she'd hit a log or something. Later I found out over three hundred British sailors died, went down in the cold dark Atlantic.” He turned his bright blue eyes on her. “Beats me why Calvin Pratt thought his skinny little ass was worth more than those poor fellows' lives. They didn't try to get out of serving, most of 'em enlisted. That's what we did back then.”
Queen Mary
hit a smaller ship when we made the crossing, you know. It felt like a bump, like she'd hit a log or something. Later I found out over three hundred British sailors died, went down in the cold dark Atlantic.” He turned his bright blue eyes on her. “Beats me why Calvin Pratt thought his skinny little ass was worth more than those poor fellows' lives. They didn't try to get out of serving, most of 'em enlisted. That's what we did back then.”
“I know,” said Lucy, thinking of the dwindling ranks of veterans who showed up for Memorial Day and Veterans' Day observances. She could never get through one of those ceremonies without crying when the trumpeter played “Taps.” “People forget. They can't even be bothered to vote.”
“Not us vets,” said Scratch. “We've got long memories.”
“I bet you do,” said Lucy, standing up. “It's been nice talking to you. Have a good day.”
Going back to the car, Lucy felt terribly sad. Scratch had survived the war and come home to his sweetheart, but so many of the young men who had marched off to war with him never returned. She'd seen the photos of military cemeteries in Europe, row upon row of white crosses. And then there were the ones whose bodies were never even found, the missing in action. The prisoners of war. And the shell-shocked, who hadn't been able to forget the horrors they'd seen. The concentration camp liberators who turned to drink to get through the rest of their lives; the hollow-eyed survivors of the Bataan death march and D-Day invaders, who saw their comrades sink into the sea beside them.
She wondered about Scratch's wartime experiences. What had he seen? What had he done? She wondered if he'd been in battle, if he'd killed enemy soldiers. It was frightening to think of this white-haired old man taking a life, but she didn't doubt for a minute that he would have done his duty as a soldier. The question was whether he was still fighting the war, his own private war.
Chapter Twenty
L
ost in her thoughts as she drove away from Scratch's, Lucy didn't notice the TV news van that was following her until she braked for a stop sign and checked her rear-view mirror. Curious to see if it was following her, she flipped on her turn signal. So did the van.
ost in her thoughts as she drove away from Scratch's, Lucy didn't notice the TV news van that was following her until she braked for a stop sign and checked her rear-view mirror. Curious to see if it was following her, she flipped on her turn signal. So did the van.
She'd enjoyed the break but she might as well face it: they were back. Noticing that several more vehicles had joined the line behind her, she decided that Pru Pratt's funeral must be over and the newshounds were sniffing out any possible leads. She decided to follow their example and head over to Sue's house to get a report on the funeral.
“I see the gang's all here,” commented Sue, when she opened the door to Lucy.
Lucy paused and looked over her shoulder, straight into the lenses of several cameras.
“Darn!” she exclaimed, ducking into the shelter of the house. “I should know better by now. I suppose I'll look all furtive and guilty.”
“Too bad your shirt is all scrunched up,” said Sue, observing her coolly. “It makes your bum look bigger than it is. Of course, the baggy khaki shorts don't help.”
“I didn't know I was going to be a cover girl when I got dressed this morning, now did I?” demanded Lucy.
“I think you should assume that somebody's going to be snapping your picture,” said Sue. “I'd wear black if I were you. Maybe capris, they're slimming.”
“Thanks for the fashion tip.” Lucy's voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Like I've got time to go shopping. I'll put it on the âto do' list, right after âsolve murder.' ”
“Oooh, you are touchy, aren't you,” said Sue, leading the way to the kitchen. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?”
“Yes, please,” said Lucy, feeling like a scolded child. “It's just that I really thought the media had turned their attention elsewhere. I didn't think I was going to have to cope with this any more.”
“I know,” said Sue, setting a tall frosty glass in front of her. “It stinks. Lemon?”
“Please.”
Lucy squeezed her lemon wedge into the tea and stirred it, then took a big swallow. “So how was the funeral?”
“Dry.”
Lucy was puzzled. “Was rain forecast?”
Sue gave her a sharp look. “There was no booze. Not a drop. Not even that disgusting sweet sherry.”
“What did you expect? The Revelation Congregation doesn't approve of alcohol.”
Sue was doubtful. “Really?”
“Really. No drinking, no dancing, no card playing, no gambling.”
“What do they do for fun?”
“I don't think they believe in it.”
“That explains a lot,” said Sue. “It was very somber. Definitely not Finnegan's wake.”
“Who was there?”
“The entire congregation, I guess. There was a good turnout, but I didn't really know anybody, except my neighbors, the Wilsons. The hymns were all weird, too. I didn't know them, but everybody else did. They were in great voice, they sounded much better than the Methodists.”
Considering that the Methodist congregation consisted of a handful of aged ladies, Lucy wasn't surprised.
“Did they have a reception afterwards?”
“In the church hall, not at the house.” Sue considered. “The food was pretty good. They had little tiny egg-salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off, chicken salad, too. And cake and homemade cookies and deviled eggs and little cherry tomatoes stuffed with egg salad.”
“You actually ate this stuff?” Lucy was doubtful; Sue was a career dieter.
“I did. There was nobody to talk to except my neighbors and they were busy with the food, and nothing to drink, so I ate.” Sue patted her flat tummy. “I'll skip supper.”
“You can send Sid over to my houseâI'm grilling pizzas on the barbecue.”
“Thanks, Lucy, but he's on duty at the fire station tonight.”
Lucy nodded. She knew Sid was a volunteer fireman. “Did you overhear any interesting conversations?” she asked. “And how come they had so many egg dishes?”
Sue fluttered her beautifully manicured hand for emphasis. “I'm glad the great detective finally asked. That's a very interesting point. I asked Mrs. Wilson the very same question and she said all the eggs were donated by Bitsy Parsons, who apparently has been carrying a torch for Calvin. She thought it was very odd indeed that Bitsy wasn't there to comfort him in his time of trouble.”
“And to remind him that she would be available to comfort him in the future?”
“Yes.”
“It does seem funny that she would pass up the funeral,” mused Lucy. “Maybe she didn't feel well.”
“Maybe she was exhausted from cooking up all those eggs.” Sue wrinkled her nose. “Faint from sulphur fumes.”
“Maybe she was home, waiting, arranged attractively on the divan in hopes Calvin would show up after the funeral?”
“If she thought that, she miscalculated. I overheard Wesley saying that he and his dad were going fishing after the funeral. He said it's the only place they find any comfort.”
“That's kind of fishy, isn't it? I mean, right after the funeral?”
“No puns allowed.”
“Sorry. But they must have a reason for going out today, like they're meeting somebody or something.”
“Like drug smugglers?'
“Or handing off poached lobsters.” The wheels were turning in Lucy's head. “I wish there was some way we could find out what they're doing.”
“We could follow them in Pam's boat. She won't mind. She leaves it down at the harbor, you know.”
“That's not a bad idea. What kind of boat is it?”
Sue was nonchalant. “A boat boat. I don't know. It floats.”
Lucy got up and walked through the living room to the front window, where she peeked out through the blinds. “There's more of them now. How are we going to get down to the waterfront without being followed?”
Sue joined her and peered through the slats. “Good God! Don't they have anything better to do?”
“Apparently not.”
“I could just go out and tell them you're not that interesting,” offered Sue. “And certainly not a murderer.”
“It's kind of you to offer, but they'd never believe you.” Lucy tossed her hair. “I've become notorious.”
“You know, J. Lo, I've got an idea. I bet Sid would drive down the street with his siren going and his light flashing.”
“They'd all follow him! That's brilliant.”
“I'll call.”
Ten minutes later, Sue and Lucy heard Sid approaching, siren blaring. They watched out the window as he sped down the street in his shiny red pickup truck, with the light flashing. The reporters, who had been lounging against their vehicles, chatting in small groups, scattered and ran for their cars. They were all gone within seconds.
Minutes later, Lucy and Sue arrived unnoticed at the harbor, just in time to see Wesley and Calvin heading out to sea in their boat, Second Chance. They lost precious moments parking the SUV, then Sue led the way to the farthest end of the float where Pam's little runabout was bobbing in the water.
Lucy wasn't impressed with the little aluminum boat's seaworthiness.
“Pam doesn't go out of the cove in that thing, does she?” she asked.
“Sure.” Sue eased herself into the boat and started fiddling with the engine. “Hop in! We're going to lose them.”
“We'll never catch them in this thing,” said Lucy, carefully lowering herself into the tippy little craft. In the distance she could see Second Chance rounding the point and heading out to the open sea.
“That's okay. We don't have to. We just want to keep an eye on her. The idea is to look like we're just out for some sun and fun on the water.”
“You're wearing a little black dress,” said Lucy.
“Perfect for any occasion,” said Sue, slipping off her black slingbacks and rummaging in her oversized designer purse. “Aha!” she exulted, producing a pair of miniature binoculars. “I knew they were in here.”
“I'm not even going to ask,” said Lucy, amazed.
“You keep an eye on them while I steer,” ordered Sue, bringing the little boat neatly around the point.
“Aye-aye, Captain.” Lucy squinted through the eye piece and fiddled with the adjustment knob. “I can barely make them out.”
“You're looking through the wrong end.”
“Oh.” Lucy flipped the binoculars around. “That's better. Oh no it isn't. They're looking right at us. They know we're following them.”
“You're right. They're speeding up.” Sue shaded her eyes with one hand, the other remained on the tiller. “That's a serious engine in that boat. Look how fast it's going.”
“Especially considering how low it's sitting in the water. That boat is loaded with something.”
“As long as we can keep them in sight, we're okay,” said Sue, relaxing a bit. “Slow but steady wins the race, you know.”
“It's a nice day for boating,” said Lucy, settling in for the ride.
And truth be told, it was a nice day to be out on the water. The sun was strong and hot, but a gentle breeze cooled them. The sky was bright blue, broken only by the occasional soaring gull. The water was deep, deep blue and glassy with only the occasional little wave to lift them up and then gently set them back down.
“Too bad we don't have fishing rods,” said Lucy.
Sue immediately began searching in her purse.
“Don't tell me you have a fishing rod in there?”
Sue raised her head. “No. Sunscreen. Put some on.”
“Thanks.” Lucy eyed the purse. “How about a sandwich? Or a candy bar?”
“Breath mints.”
“I'll take one.”
Lucy was placidly sucking on her mint when the engine sputtered.
“Oops.”
“Don't panic. It's probably air in the line or something.”
The engine sputtered again, then went dead.
“No big deal, right? It'll start right up.”
“No.” Sue was squinting at a little gauge. “We're out of gas.”
“But there's a gas can, right?”
“I don't see one.”
“You've got to be kidding.”
“We were in a hurry, right? I didn't think to check.”
“You've got your cell phone, though. We can call for help.”
“No. It's on the kitchen counter, recharging. It's time to row.”
At least the oars were in the boat, thought Lucy, as Sue moved from the rear of the boat to join her on the middle seat. They each took an oar.
“This is kind of like Girl Scout camp,” said Sue, giggling.
“Yeah, except we're not in the middle of Lake Tiorati. We're in the middle of the North Atlantic.”
“Not the middle, we're not even near Greenland, and there are no icebergs in sight,” said Sue. “So don't start getting all dramatic on me.”
“Well, how far do you think we are from shore?”
“Maybe a mile, certainly less than two.”
Lucy looked around doubtfully. There was no sign of land. “We were going at a pretty good clip, you know. And I don't see land.”
“That's 'cause of the fog,” said Sue, rubbing her bare arms. “It's getting chilly.”
“The sun's gone.”
“It's definitely clouded over.”
“Oh, shit. We could be rowing in the wrong direction.”
“Don't panic,” said Sue, her voice tight with nerves. “We'll put on life jackets and just sit tight. Somebody's bound to come along.”
“That's the best thing,” agreed Lucy, whose arms were tired from rowing. “And there's an air horn, right? We can let off a blast every five minutes or something.”
“No air horn,” admitted Sue, passing her a very small life jacket. “We'll have to yell.”
“What is this thing?” demanded Lucy, who was having trouble fastening the straps.
“It's a kiddie-size. It was probably Adam's,” said Sue, who was putting on an old-fashioned orange life preserver. “I'd give you this one, but it's pretty mildewed. It stinks.”
“I can't believe this,” said Lucy, her teeth chattering. “Doesn't Pam pay any attention to Coast Guard regulations? You're supposed to have . . .”
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