Turkey Day Murder (15 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Turkey Day Murder
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“I'm not—” she began in protest, attempting to make eye contact with her captor.
All she saw was her own face, very small, reflected in his aviator sunglasses.
“Tell it to the judge,” he said as he thrust her inside the crowded paddy wagon.
CHAPTER 17
J
udge Joyce Ryerson wasn't interested in what Lucy had to say. She tapped her long polished nails on the bench impatiently.
“How do you plead?”
“There's been a misunderstanding.”
Receiving a warning glance from the judge, Lucy decided this was not the time to argue. “Not guilty.”
“Thank you,” said the judge, with exaggerated politeness. “You're due back in court on December fifteenth.”
“That's so close to Christmas,” protested Lucy.
The judge ignored her and studied a sheet of paper.
“I see no reason not to release you on your own recognizance. See the bailiff.”
She banged down her gavel and Lucy got in line behind the other accused lawbreakers at the bailiff's desk. When it was her turn she waited while he scribbled on an official-looking form.
“That'll be fifty dollars,” he finally said without even raising his head.
“Fifty dollars?” Lucy knew she didn't have that much money in her wallet. She guessed she had something in the neighborhood of five dollars. “Can I write a check?”
He raised his head and lifted an eyebrow.
“Do you take Visa?”
He shook his head.
“I understand I get a phone call?”
He nodded and she was led back to the holding cell.
When she finally got her turn at the phone, Lucy didn't know whom to call. Bill was on the job and nobody was home. She could leave a message on the answering machine, but the odds of one of the kids actually listening to the message and taking action weren't good. She could call the paper, but suspected Ted was most likely out on assignment. Phyllis usually only worked mornings, which meant she'd have to leave a message and trust he'd check the machine before quitting for the day. Besides, it was getting late and the banks would be closing soon. She knew he refused to carry an ATM card and the chances he would have fifty dollars in cash were slim.
Her best bet, she finally decided, was to call Bob Goodman, Rachel's husband. He was a lawyer, after all. He would know what to do.
“The law office of Robert Goodman. May I help you?”
Martha Bennett's voice was music to Lucy's ears. “Martha, this is Lucy Stone. Could I speak to Bob?”
“Lucy, I'm afraid he's not in right now. Can I take a message?”
Lucy didn't want to tell this very proper, silver-haired lady that she needed bail, but she didn't really have a choice.
“I'm in a bit of a jam and need Bob to bail me out.”
Martha Bennett didn't seem at all surprised. Lucy supposed she'd gotten calls like this before.
“Don't worry, Lucy. I'll page Bob immediately. How much do they want?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“He's on his way.”
This time, as Lucy was led back to the holding cell once again, she felt encouraged. Bob was on the way; Bob would rescue her.
She sat down on the steel bench, squeezing in between a rather heavy woman in flowing handwoven garments, who was obviously one of the protesters, and a tiny, shrunken woman, who was shaking uncontrollably.
“DTs,” said the heavy woman with a knowing nod. “Better give her plenty of room.”
She had no sooner spoken than the tiny woman doubled over and vomited on the floor. Some of the other women in the crowded cell made sounds of disgust; the gray-haired woman called for the guard.
Nobody came to clean up the mess. There was no place to go; no other seat was available in the crowded cell. Lucy concentrated on a brown water stain on the opposite wall. She tried to ignore the smell; she tried not to notice the woman's trembling. Instead, she tried to frame the story she would write for the
Pennysaver
about the morning's events.
The thing that most struck her, she decided, was the contrast between the quiet mourners inside the church and the pandemonium outside. To her, it seemed the protesters and the police were equally guilty of disturbing the funeral service.
Her thoughts turned to Ellie and the figure beside her: Jonathan Franke. There had been something in the way he'd angled his body toward Ellie, something in the way his hand lingered on her back, that made Lucy doubtful he was acting simply as a friend. She would have bet her bail money that Jonathan Franke was hoping to take Curt Nolan's place as Ellie's boyfriend.
If that was true, she thought, it gave Franke a real motive for killing Nolan. She remembered the pie sale, where the two had argued. Now that she thought about it, the two men had exhibited more animosity than could be accounted for by their differing views about zoning regulations. In fact, she remembered, Franke had been so angry he had stalked off without finishing his pie—a definite first for the pie sale.
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Franke was a prime suspect for Nolan's murder. It was obvious the murder hadn't been premeditated; the murderer had acted on impulse. And everybody knew Franke had trouble controlling his temper. Years ago, when the Association for the Preservation of Tinker's Cove had been in its early stages, he'd been involved in a few scuffles and had even been charged with assaulting a contractor in an effort to halt a construction project in a watershed area.
Lately, however, he'd made a real effort to be more reasonable and professional in his role as the association's executive director. He'd given up the wild, curly hair that had been his trademark and had taken to wearing casual business clothes instead of the jeans and plaid flannel shirts he'd once favored. Now he was usually seen in khaki pants and tweed jackets—the sort of jackets that had leather patches on the elbows and woven leather buttons.
The thought brought Lucy up sharply: woven leather buttons, just like the one that was found in Curt Nolan's hand.
Feeling pressure on her upper arm, Lucy glanced at the alcoholic woman next to her. She wasn't a pretty sight and Lucy struggled not to gag. The woman had passed out and was leaning against Lucy. A stream of saliva was dribbling down her chin and she reeked of booze and vomit.
“Lucy Stone,” called the officer.
“Here,” yelled Lucy, gently easing herself away from the unconscious woman and lowering her to the bench before presenting herself to the guard.
She watched impatiently as he fumbled with the keys. Enough, already. She'd been here for an eternity and couldn't wait to get out.
“What took you so long?” she demanded as Bob led her to his car. “Do you know what it's like in there? People were throwing up! It was disgusting! I don't know how they get away with treating people like that, keeping them in such appalling conditions! It's outrageous!”
“I knew you'd be glad to see me,” said Bob, unlocking the car door for her.
“I must've been in there for hours,” said Lucy, fuming as she fastened her seat belt.
“Well, you're out now—until December fifteenth. Want to tell me how you got in this mess so I can convince Judge Joyce not to lock you up and throw away the key?”
“She could do that?” Lucy was horrified.
“I'm exaggerating,” admitted Bob. “But you've got to face the fact that this isn't over. You've been charged with assaulting a police officer, disorderly conduct, unlawful assembly, and kidnapping.”
“That's absurd! I was there for the funeral. I wasn't involved in the protest at all. Then I saw one of the kids from the day care center wandering around and tried to get her to safety. I wasn't kidnapping her.” Lucy stared out the window at the bare gray trees they were passing. “They grabbed her out of my arms. What's going to happen to her?”
“Probably social services is taking care of her until her parents can claim her. Were they arrested, too?”
“I don't know. All I know is her name is Tiffani. I don't even know her last name.” She bit her lip. “I hope she's okay.”
“She's in good hands.”
“I wish I could be sure of that.”
“All right,” said Bob. “I'll check on her and let you know.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy.
“About time,” said Bob. “Most of my clients are a lot more appreciative. This will definitely be reflected in your bill.”
“I'll tell Rachel,” said Lucy with a little smile.
“Touche,” said Bob. “This will be pro bono.”
“Thank you. That's really nice of you.”
“Don't mention it,” said Bob, turning into her driveway. “I'm just being realistic. If you couldn't come up with bail, what are the chances you could pay me?”
“My funds were temporarily unavailable,” protested Lucy.
“Never mind,” said Bob. “Just do me a favor and stay out of trouble between now and December fifteenth. Promise?”
“I promise,” said Lucy.
CHAPTER 18
“M
om, you're on TV.”
Lucy tossed the sponge she'd been using to wipe off the kitchen table into the sink and hurried into the family room. There she watched herself being unceremoniously tossed into the paddy wagon.
“Is my butt really that big?” she asked Bill.
He didn't answer but walked right past her to answer the phone that was ringing in the kitchen.
She stood there in the doorway, watching the rest of the report. Bear Sykes got a lot of play; he was shown in action leading the protest and was also interviewed afterward, when he had been released from jail.
“Why do you want to get mixed up with a guy like that?” said Bill, returning to his recliner and picking up the remote.
“I'm not mixed up with anything,” protested Lucy. “I explained to you. All I did was go to the funeral. I didn't even know there was going to be a protest. I got arrested because I saw one of the day care kids had gotten lost and tried to get her out of the scuffle.”
“Don't give me that,” said Bill. “The cops obviously don't believe that story and I don't either. You told me you weren't going to get involved in this murder, and here you are, charged with ten counts of sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.”
Lucy shifted uneasily and looked over at the couch, where Zoe and Sara had gotten very still and quiet. Bill, however, was too angry to notice and continued his tirade.
“You had no business going to that funeral. It isn't as if there isn't plenty for you to do around here. The house could do with a good cleaning and Zoe got stranded at her scout meeting without a ride home. Anybody with two working brain cells could have figured out there'd be some kind of demonstration at that funeral but you never gave it a second thought and went off to get yourself arrested and forgot all about your responsibilities.”
“That's not fair,” Lucy began, ready to argue in her own defense but Bill was having none of it.
“And if all this wasn't bad enough,” he said, cutting her off, “you know who just called? The Barths. They don't want to move here anymore. They just want me to finish up the house as quick and cheaply as I can so they can sell it—and I don't blame them either. Who would want to live in a place with murders and a gambling casino and demonstrations? Nobody in their right mind—that's for sure!” He glared at Lucy as if it were somehow all her fault.
“Bill,” she began, then realized she might as well talk to a wall. He had retreated behind the newspaper and she knew from past experience there was no point trying to talk to him when he was in this kind of mood.
Besides, she thought guiltily, returning to the kitchen, he did have a point. She had had no business promising Miss Tilley she would try to find out who murdered Curt Nolan and she should never have attempted to conduct her own investigation. She could have saved herself a lot of trouble if she'd stayed home vacuuming or dusting instead of going to the funeral.
Angry and depressed, she yanked open the freezer and pulled out the emergency chocolate bar she kept behind the ice cube trays. She smacked it on the table, smiling with grim satisfaction as she felt it shatter into small pieces. Then she sat down and unwrapped it, popping a piece of chocolate into her mouth.
Sitting there with the sweet, delicious chocolate melting on her tongue, safe in the house she didn't seem to appreciate and surrounded by the family she had neglected, Lucy felt tears stinging her eyes.
She pictured once again Tiffani's frightened, tearstained face as she wandered in the midst of the disordered crowd, looking for a familiar face among the struggling police and protesters outside the church. She remembered the fear and outrage she'd felt when the police had grabbed her and how frustrated she'd been to find herself completely powerless, being carted off to jail. Worst of all was the way everybody had refused to listen to her explanation. To the cops and the judge, she was just another docket number, another case for the system.
And what a system. She hadn't had any idea how people were treated when they were arrested. All jumbled together in that appalling paddy wagon and then confined in that filthy cell. As soon as she'd gotten home she'd taken a shower and changed her clothes, but the stench of the jail seemed to linger stubbornly about her. She could still smell the disgusting reek of vomit, booze, and body odor.
She reached for a tissue and gave her nose a good blow, then took another and wiped her eyes. If she was this upset, she thought, popping another piece of chocolate in her mouth, what must poor little Tiffani be going through? Was she spending the night with strangers in some foster home? Had some unfamiliar woman bathed her and dressed her in borrowed pajamas, then tucked her into a bed that wasn't her own? Was she terrified that she'd never see her family again?
Lucy sniffled again and Kudo raised his head from the dog bed, where he had been snoozing. He looked at her curiously. He got up slowly and stretched, then clicked across the floor to her and rested his head on her lap.
At least someone understands,
thought Lucy, stroking the thick fur on the dog's neck. She hoped Tiffani had found some similar comfort, maybe a teddy bear, to get her through the night.
Bob had promised to check on the little girl for her, but Lucy wasn't entirely confident he'd remember. Tomorrow she'd check with Sue at the day care center and make sure Tiffani was back where she belonged. Then, she promised herself, she would drop the whole thing.
But what about Jonathan Franke? she asked herself as she sucked the chocolate off a piece of almond. She couldn't just forget about him, especially since he seemed to have such a strong motive for killing Nolan. No, she thought, picking up another piece of chocolate, she had to alert the police to her suspicions. Once she'd done that, then she could retire from the investigation and turn her attention where it belonged: to her home and family.

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