Trick or Treat Murder (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Leaving Miss Tilley's, Lucy also saw the Medflight helicopter, rising above the trees. She sent a little prayer along with it, as it banked and whirled off to the trauma center, the same prayer she had been repeating ever since the accident. Please, please God, let Jennifer be okay.

The poor girl must have been trapped in that car for at least an hour and a half, thought Lucy, as she started up the Subaru. That couldn't be good. Everything she knew about first aid stressed the fact that minutes could mean the difference between life and death. At least Jennifer had youth on her side, and was strong and healthy.

Miss Tilley, on the other hand, was old and weak, much weaker than anyone guessed. Now that she thought about it, Lucy could see a pattern of increasing intolerance. Miss Tilley had always been something of a character, but lately her tongue had been sharper and her wit more scathing. Lucy suspected this was her way of compensating for her increasing frailty.

The old woman had no family that Lucy knew of. Dear Poppa, as Miss Tilley always referred to her father, had died during the second Nixon administration. Miss Tilley always maintained that the shock of learning a Republican could be involved in something as disgraceful as Watergate had killed him.

With no family to take charge, Lucy knew she would have to assume the burden of making sure her old friend got the help she needed. There wasn't anybody else. Lucy decided to call the Senior Council as soon as possible to find out what resources were available.

Stopping at the traffic light on Main Street, Lucy spotted Toby and his constant companions, Eddie Culpepper, Adam Stillings, and Rickie Goodman. Stubby Phipps was trailing along after them, and if he didn't quite seem to be part of their group, they were tolerating him. Barney's social rehabilitation program seemed to be working.

They were probably headed to the scene of the accident, in hopes that the wrecked automobiles hadn't been towed away yet. She wondered if she should stop them. She could order them into the car and take them home, get out some board games, and cook up some popcorn in the microwave.

No, she thought. They might as well see. Maybe they would remember when they were driving themselves. Not, she thought with a sigh of relief, for at least a few more years.

Driving down Main Street, she passed the movie theater that had burned in July. The facade was boarded up with plywood, but the marquee bravely proclaimed the upcoming opening of an art exhibit.

COMING SOON it read in big black letters, COLLEGE ARTS COMPLEX. Smaller letters were arranged in the bottom row. "Premier show: The Red Zone."

A bit further along the road, Lucy saw the ruins of Doug Durning's real estate office. Like the Homestead, it had burned completely. Looking at the pile of charred timbers that remained, surrounded by official yellow tape, Lucy felt sick. It had been a beautiful old building, a real treasure, and now it was gone. What a shame. If this kept up the town wouldn't have any old buildings left.

"Oh my God," she said aloud, remembering the groceries in the wayback. At least there was no ice cream, she thought, grateful for small favors and crisp fall temperatures. Everything was probably fine.

By the time she got home she was so tired she was tempted to leave the groceries in the car for Bill to unload. Zoe didn't wake, however, when she lifted her out of the safety seat, so she decided she might as well get it done.

She was putting two boxes of instant oatmeal in the pantry, a buy one-get one-free special, when the phone rang.

"Lucy, it's Mira."

"Oh, hi," said Lucy. "How's everything?"

"Okay, I guess. I take one day at a time." Mira's voice sounded small.

"That's all you can do," said Lucy sympathetically.

"I wanted to let you know about the memorial service we've planned for Mom. It's Sunday, at First Parish here in Brookiine. Two o'clock."

"Thanks for calling," said Lucy. "We'll be there."

But when she hung up, Lucy realized she didn't want to spend an hour thinking about poor Monica, burned to cinders in her bed.

She didn't want to think about Jennifer, fighting for her life in a Portland hospital. And she didn't want to think about Miss Tilley, slowly decomposing in her musty, dusty old house.

Up until now, she thought, she'd been concerned with conceiving and planting and growing. That was her job—tending the garden, keeping the house, and raising the children. She had nothing to do with death. Even her father's sudden passing from a heart attack hadn't really touched her. She'd been so busy taking care of the details and helping her mother that she had barely noticed her loss.

But now, more than anything, she missed her father. She wished he could come back and sit in his favorite spot at her kitchen table. She remembered him there on Sunday mornings, with a mug of coffee and a cigarette, tackling the Times crossword puzzle.

He was gone. Sometimes she thought she saw him, an old guy in a plaid shirt jac and a tweed driving cap; sometimes she got a whiff of wool and cigarettes that reminded her so strongly of him, but it never was.

She brushed away a tear, feeling suddenly much older, and she knew she had crossed some invisible line. She heard a late autumn bluebottle fly buzzing at the window, and watched as it faltered, searching for an exit. There was only one way out—for the fly, for her, and even for baby Zoe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Promptly at ten on Halloween Lucy met Liz Kelly, the outreach worker from Senior Services in front of Miss Tilley's house. Liz was much heavier than Lucy expected, but she had given Lucy reason to be optimistic during their brief phone conversation the day before.

Liz hadn't hesitated to schedule an outreach meeting for Saturday morning. After hearing Lucy describe Miss Tilley's situation she had agreed it required immediate action.

Today, however, Lucy was having doubts. As she watched Liz square her shoulders and march up to the front door, for all the world like a soldier going into battle, she wished she were certain this was the right thing to do.

"Good news," chirped Miss Tilley, as she opened the door. "The man from the auto body shop called and said my car will be just fine. There was no mechanical damage. He says it will be good as new once he pops out a few dents and slaps on some paint. His choice of words, not mine."

Lucy felt a small bubble of anger welling up in her throat, and she swallowed it down. Scolding at the old woman wouldn't accomplish anything. It certainly wouldn't help Jennifer.

"That's all well and good then," said Liz, carefully lowering her rather ample bottom onto Miss Tilley's prize Windsor chair. It squeaked a bit, but held, much to Lucy's amazement. She had expected the chair to splinter under Liz's weight. "You'll be able to get a good price when you sell it."

"I don't plan to sell it," said Miss Tilley.

"Of course you're going to sell it," said Liz, with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. "You can't continue to drive after what happened."

"I certainly can. If I stop driving I'll lose my independence. It would be like giving up and dying."

"That's ridiculous," said Liz flatly. "Besides, they'll probably revoke or suspend your license. You'll be lucky if you don't go to jail. I heard the police are considering manslaughter charges, maybe even vehicular homicide, if Jennifer dies."

"Is that true?" Miss Tilley turned to Lucy. "Is she going to die?"

"I don't know," Lucy answered. "I called the hospital this morning and they said she was in intensive care. She's listed in poor condition."

"Well, there's no use crossing that bridge until we get to it," said Liz brightly. "And if the need arises, Senior Services has free legal counseling. In fact, I think you'll be amazed at the range of services we offer. I like to tell people it's like an all you can eat buffet. You take all the services you want and leave the rest."

Lucy doubted Miss Tilley had ever attended an all you can eat buffet; in fact, she suspected her old friend would find the very idea repulsive.

"I think I'll put the kettle on," said Lucy, rising. As she puttered about in the kitchen, she listened to the conversation in the other room.

"We have Meals on Wheels," said Liz. "Delicious hot nutritious meals brought right to your home every day."

"Macaroni and cheese in tin foil," snorted Miss Tilley.

"We have trained home care aides, to help you with light housekeeping and personal care."

"Snoops and busybodies." Miss Tilley waved away the brochure.

"We have friendly visitors, volunteers who will pay you a visit to brighten your day."

"Ghouls," Miss Tilley snapped. "Waiting to snatch the silver."

"What shall I put you down for?" asked Liz, licking her pencil.

"You can get lead poisoning doing that," said Miss Tilley. "Not to mention that it's a very unattractive habit." She folded her hands in her lap.

"Maybe you'd like to think about it for a bit," Lucy suggested, bringing in the tea tray. "She doesn't have to decide today, does she?"

"Oh, no," Liz agreed. "Give me a call anytime. Actually," she checked her watch, "I have to scoot, or I'll be late for a meeting."

"Don't let me keep you," said Miss Tilley.

"I can see what you meant when you called yesterday," Liz whispered as Lucy showed her to the door. "She's a stubborn old dear, but she'll come around. They all do. They fight it at first, but eventually they realize that they need help."

"We'll work something out," said Lucy. "Thanks for coming." Standing in the tiny hall with Liz, Lucy felt smothered.

"Some of these old folks live in shocking conditions, but this is the worst I've seen in a while." Liz raised an eyebrow. "Not even a TV."

"Oh, that's because.."

"I'm sure we can find her a used one. And that furniture! Absolutely filthy. Needs a good scrubbing if you ask me."

"Maybe a bit of lemon oil," said Lucy, imagining Liz taking a sudsy sponge to Miss Tilley's priceless antiques.

"Don't you worry, we'll soon have everything ship-shape." Liz patted Lucy's hand and clumped down the path in her sensible shoes, clutching her flowing Guatemalan wrap around her bulky form.

"What a remarkably ugly woman," said Miss Tilley, when Lucy returned. "Why doesn't she get that huge hairy mole removed?"

"Beats me," said Lucy. She took a sip of tea. "Is it true that you don't cash your social security checks?"

"That's rather a personal question, don't you think?"

"I was thinking that if you cashed them you could hire someone to help out a couple of hours a day. Cook a hot meal for you, and drive you wherever you wanted to go."

"Like Cynthia Durning?"

"Who?" Lucy was distracted, today she didn't have the pa¬tience to listen to one of Miss Tilley's stories. She couldn't help worrying about Jennifer.

"Douglas's mother. She kept house for Wilfred Peters for years. Some people said she did more than keep house." The old woman cackled wickedly. "That's why old Peters left her his house. Too bad it's gone, now."

"It's too bad," Lucy repeated.

"That's right. Used to be Mr. Peters's house. People talked, of course, but I thought it was fitting, really. He didn't have any family except for that daughter of his who ran off with Rupert Lenk. After that Mr. Peters wouldn't have anything to do with her, and I think he was absolutely right. He warned her she was throwing her life away, that Lenk was trash. And he was."

"Who was Rupert? Randy's father?" Lucy snapped to attention. This was getting interesting.

"That's right. He was a vicious sort of man, and never took care of anything. He would have let it foil to rack and ruin, of course. When Randy was a little boy I wouldn't even let him in the library, he was so foul-mouthed and dirty. Just like his father. Douglas, on the other hand, was such a nice, polite boy. I felt badly when he brought that project of his before the commission and we had to turn him down. It didn't set well with a lot of people."

"What project? Do you mean Doug Durning's place?"

"That's right. The old Peters house." Miss Tilley was growing impatient. "He wanted to remodel that lovely old house into an office complex. It was quite grand, with a gazebo and an ATM machine. But it wasn't very well thought out. He was going to rip off that fine pine clapboard and stick in a stainless steel machine!"

"Really?" Lucy sighed. She couldn't spend all day sitting around with Miss Tilley. She had to get ready for the Halloween party tonight. Not that she felt like going to a party.

"It was one of the first cases that came before us," reminisced Miss Tilley. "In fact, he just missed the deadline. If he'd submitted his plans a day or two earlier, he wouldn't have needed commission review." Miss Tilley gave a big yawn. "I'm tired today. I didn't sleep very well last night."

"Why don't you take a little nap?" Lucy suggested, rising. "I'll clean up the tea things." She had to get moving, she had a million things to do.

Lucy took the tray into the kitchen and began filling the sink. The trash was full so she carried it outside to empty into the barrel that stood on the back porch. As she lifted the lid she noticed Lenk's quilt on the bench, where she'd left it the day before.

It always seemed to keep coming back to Lenk, she thought. What had Miss Tilley said? Doug Duming had inherited a house from Randy's grandfather. Was it his office? she wondered. Was that what it was all about? Had Randy been simmering with jealousy all these years, and finally decided to do something about it? Something spectacular that everybody would notice?

Lucy picked up the quilt and fingered it thoughtfully. It wouldn't hurt to stop off at Lenk's gas station to return the quilt. Maybe this time she would find a clue, something that would connect Lenk to the fires.

She went back inside and finished washing the tea things, leaving them to dry on the drainboard. Tiptoing, so as not to disturb Miss Tilley, she went into the front room to retrieve her purse.

"I'm not asleep," said the old woman.

"I have to go."

She nodded, and grasped Lucy's hand. "I've been thinking. I've decided to surrender my driver's license."

"I think that's the right thing to do."

"Did you notice that young man who works for Lenk?"

"Rob?"

"He seemed awfully taken with my car. I bet he'd enjoy driving it around town, even with me in it."

"That's a good idea."

"Who knows? If he really likes my classy chassis, I might even leave it to him."

"You're a filthy old witch," said Lucy fondly, placing her hand on Miss Tilley's shoulder and bending down to kiss the top of her grizzled head.

"I know," said Miss Tilley.