Star Spangled Murder (9 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Star Spangled Murder
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“I'll pay it, Mom. Every penny.”
“What if you go to jail? Do you know you could be going to jail? Did you think of that? My son a convict! A criminal. Ohmigod. Jail!”
“Mr. Goodman said it would probably be a year's probation.”
“He can't be sure of that. What if the judge decides to make an example of you? What if Wesley Pratt is his favorite nephew or something? You could be in really big trouble.”
“I don't think Wesley Pratt is anybody's favorite anything,” muttered Toby.
“Don't get wise with me!” snapped Lucy. “You're in no position to start getting cocky.”
“Well, your position isn't so hot, either, is it?” exclaimed Toby, finally exploding. “I mean, you've got a court date, too, don't you? With the dog?”
Chagrined, Lucy bit her lip. “You're right. Who am I to scold you? I'm in trouble, too.” She chewed her lip. “It's even worse than that. Mrs. Pratt said she caught the girls on her property. What is going on? When did we turn into a family of criminals?”
“We're not criminals, Mom. We're good people. Circumstances have been against us, that's all, and we ended up on the wrong side of the law.”
“I know,” said Lucy, wondering as she started the car how something like this could happen to such nice, decent people. And even worse, how was she going to tell Bill?
Lucy made sure Toby was out of the house and the girls were upstairs, out of the way, when Bill finally came home towards eight o'clock. She warmed up his dinner in the microwave while he settled himself at the round golden oak kitchen table with a cold beer.
“How was your day?” she asked brightly, setting the plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in front of him and taking a seat.
“Good.”
“Traffic bad?”
“Not really.”
“Did you get what you wanted?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did you get a good deal?”
Bill put down his fork. “Is something the matter, Lucy?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You seem unusually interested in my day. Plus, there's no sign of the kids. What's going on?”
“Brace yourself. I've got bad news.”
Bill took a swallow of beer and carefully set the glass back down on the table.
“We're not at the hospital, so it can't be that bad. What is it?”
“Toby got in a fight and got arrested. He's out on bail but he has a trial in August. He's charged with disorderly conduct, resisting arrest and assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Deadly weapon?”
“A shod foot.”
“Oh,” said Bill, spearing a piece of lettuce and chewing it slowly. “Who was he fighting with?”
“Wesley Pratt.”
“Somehow I'm not surprised.”
“It's not about the dog, if that's what you're thinking.” Lucy sighed. “Not that Toby's saying much about it, but I think it's about poaching. Wesley and Calvin are the prime suspects.”
“It would be a Pratt, wouldn't it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“I got a call from Mrs. Pratt the other day, when you were out. Apparently Sara and Zoe were over in her yard. She says if they come back she won't be responsible for what happens to them.”
“Why didn't you tell me? I saw Pru at the courthouse and she lit into me.” Lucy took a sip of Bill's beer. “What were they doing over there, anyway?”
Bill scraped his plate with his fork, getting the last bit of gravy and mashed potato. “They told me they're upset about the dog hearing and they wanted to get evidence that she mistreats her chickens.” He chuckled. “They're their mother's daughters, that's for sure.”
“And Toby's your son,” replied Lucy.
“That's what you keep saying,” said Bill, reaching into the refrigerator for another beer. “But personally, I have my doubts.”
Chapter Nine
B
ill was in a foul mood next morning and barely touched the bacon and eggs Lucy cooked up for him as a treat. Toby wasn't around and Lucy thought his early hours were one bright spot in a day that didn't look very promising.
“Don't forget we have the dog hearing tonight,” she told him.
“It never rains but it pours,” he said, adding a big sigh for emphasis.
“Oh, cheer up,” said Lucy, who was consulting the horoscopes. “You've got a five-star day.”
“What's mine?” asked Elizabeth, breezing into the kitchen and pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Four. It says, ‘Your adventurous nature can lead you in new and rewarding directions if you will trust yourself.' ”
“I think she's been quite adventurous enough,” said Bill, draining his coffee and standing up.
“What's that supposed to mean?” demanded Elizabeth, who was always ready to defend herself.
“You know very well what I mean, young lady,” said Bill. “You've had your fling with this nudism but now it's time to stop, especially considering your brother's situation.”
Elizabeth glared at him. “Are you saying I can't sun myself because
Toby
got himself in trouble? That makes no sense at all!”
“It makes plenty of sense,” said Bill. “You've got to think about your reputation, and what your brother does affects that.”
“What is this? A time warp?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “This isn't the fifties, Dad.”
“Your father has a point,” said Lucy. “This is a small town and people talk. They're going to start wondering what's going on with the Stone family.” She looked out the window towards the kennel, where Kudo was stretched out with his chin on his paws. “We all need to keep a low profile for a while, until we drop off people's radar screens.”
“This is nuts,” said Elizabeth, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “I'm out of here. At least they're sane at the Queen Vic.” She paused at the door. “And don't count on me for supper—I've got plans.”
“What plans?” demanded Bill, but Elizabeth was out the door.
“You've got to do something about that girl,” he said, picking up his lunch cooler. “She's out of control.”
“Right. I'll do what I can,” said Lucy, standing on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. She stroked his arm. “Everything will be okay.”
“I hope so,” he said.
Lucy watched through the screen door as he trudged out to his truck, looking as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. She went back to the table and picked up the paper to check her horoscope—one star.
Like many other mothers, Lucy had discovered that the time she spent chauffeuring the kids was a good time to broach difficult subjects, so she decided to tackle Zoe and Sara about their trespassing on the Pratts' property when she drove them to day camp.
“You girls know better than to do something like that,” she said. “What were you thinking?”
“Mrs. Pratt's mean,” said Zoe.
“The whole family is mean,” added Sara. “I'm glad Toby punched Wesley. And you know what? I bet if they hadn't broken up the fight he would have beat up Wesley.”
Lucy couldn't believe her ears. “Sara! That's no way to talk. What Toby did was very wrong. There's no excuse for fighting. It doesn't solve anything. It just causes more problems.”
“Well, I don't care,” said Sara, stubbornly. “If I'd been there I would've helped him.”
“Me, too,” said Zoe.
“Well, I understand that you love Toby, but that doesn't mean he's perfect. He made a big mistake and he's going to have to pay for it.”
“Will he go to jail, Mom?” Sara's voice was very small.
Lucy felt as if she'd been stabbed right in the heart. She pulled the car over and braked, turning so she could face both girls.
“I wish I could tell you that won't happen, but the truth is that there's a possibility, a very tiny one, that he might be sent to jail.” She reached out and held their hands. “Remember when Melissa Knight had meningitis and they sent that letter home from school saying we had to watch for the symptoms? It's kind of like that. There was a chance that somebody else might have gotten sick, but nobody did, did they?” She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “Well, Toby's not going to go to jail, either. He's going to be fine.”
She turned around and restarted the car. “He's going to be fine,” she told herself, repeating it like a mantra. “He's going to be fine.”
 
 
By the time she got to work, Lucy felt as if she'd already completed a full day of hard labor. She had no energy for the pile of press releases that was waiting on her desk, no desire to check her phone messages and e-mails. All she wanted to do was crawl into a hole somewhere.
“Lucy, did you pick up the police log?” asked Phyllis. “I can't find it anywhere.”
“I forgot,” said Lucy, dropping her head onto her hand and shaking it.
Talk about a Freudian slip: she'd forgotten because she didn't want to see Toby's name included with the drunken drivers and wife beaters and marijuana smokers that filled the roster each week. Now she'd have to take time she didn't have to go over to the police station to get it. Leaving it out was unthinkable; the police log was one of the paper's most popular features. Or was it? Ted was just coming through the door. She might as well try.
“Ted,” she began, greeting him with a big smile. “What's the space situation this week? Tight?”
“You bet,” said Ted. “I'm considering adding some extra pages, but I don't really have enough ads to justify it.”
“Well, since there are so many big stories this week, what do you think about cutting some of the listings and notices, stuff like the gas prices and mortgage rates and maybe even the police log?”
“You forgot to get it, didn't you?” Ted seemed amused.
“Well, actually I did, and I have so much work to do. . . .”
“No problem,” he said, and Lucy's hopes rose only to be dashed. “I'll go.”
“That's not like him,” observed Phyllis, after Ted had gone. “Do you think he's coming down with something?”
“Maybe,” said Lucy, sounding so hopeful that Phyllis gave her a sharp look.
 
 
The day dragged on as Lucy struggled to concentrate on her work. Her mind kept wandering, going over and over the same worries, like one of those mule trains that went down into the Grand Canyon day after day, wearing a winding trail into the rocky soil. Once started she couldn't seem to stop and her anxiety about the dog hearing led to her worry about Toby and her disappointment with Elizabeth which brought her around to the younger girls' disturbing behavior and finally Bill's blood pressure which she thought he really should have checked because it was the “silent killer.”
The clock alternately lurched forward and stopped in its tracks while Lucy struggled with her emotions. She wanted the day to end and she wanted it to last forever; she wanted to get the dog hearing over with and she wished it could be postponed.
That night she cooked a family favorite, spaghetti, but nobody seemed to enjoy it. There was little conversation and they all ate mechanically, going through the familiar rituals of passing the basket of Italian bread and grating the Parmesan cheese without quite realizing what they were doing, each lost in their own thoughts.
Finally, leaving the dirty dishes for the kids to wash, Lucy and Bill left for the dog hearing. But not before Lucy finished one last chore. She fixed Kudo's bowl of kibble, adding a leftover meatball, and carried it out to him. She shoved it through the gate and stood watching him eat, wolfing down his meal in a matter of seconds and licking the bowl clean. He then came to the gate, tail wagging, expecting his evening exercise.
“Sorry,” she said, rubbing his nose. “Not tonight.”

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