'Tis the Season Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Fortunately for Lucy they’ve invented underwire bras and hair dye,” Sue remarked.

  “And sneakers,” Lucy added, naming her favorite footwear as Norine delivered her order of two eggs over easy with corned beef hash and whole wheat toast. Norine passed Rachel her usual Sunshine muffin, gave Pam her yogurt topped with granola, and refilled Sue’s cup with coffee.

  “Auditions are tonight,” Rachel said. “Will you come, Lucy? And how about you, Pam?”

  “Ofay,” Lucy agreed, her mouth full of buttery toast.

  “I’m too busy for rehearsals,” Pam said, “but I can do the program for you. I’ll get ads and Ted can design it and get it printed.”

  “That would be great,” Rachel said. “Any money we make will go to the Hat and Mitten Fund.”

  They all nodded in approval. The Hat and Mitten Fund, which provided warm clothing and school supplies for the town’s needy children, was a favorite charity.

  “Maybe we could give part of the money to the Cunninghams,” Lucy suggested. “They’re having a hard time right now. Their little girl, Angie, has kidney disease and there are a lot of expenses their health insurance doesn’t cover.”

  “That’s a good idea, Lucy,” Pam said, a member of the town Finance Committee. “Lexie is one of the town employees whose hours were cut.”

  “How awful for them,” Rachel said. “Just having a sick child is bad enough, but now the Cunninghams have all these financial worries, too.”

  “They may lose their house,” Lucy said.

  “Oh,” Pam groaned. “I feel so responsible.”

  “But you voted against those cuts,” Sue said.

  “The vote was three to two,” Pam said. “Frankie and I were the nays—we were outnumbered by the men.” She paused. “But now that Marlowe is no longer with us there’s a vacancy on the board. Right now we’re evenly divided. Taubert and Hawthorne have one goal: keep taxes low. Frankie and I aren’t exactly big spenders, but we have a more moderate approach. We need to fill that vacancy with another moderate who understands the value of town services.”

  “And town employees,” Rachel added.

  “You’re right,” Pam said. “Marlowe actually called them parasites who were sucking the taxpayers dry.”

  “Sounds like a real sweetheart,” Sue said sarcastically.

  “Not really,” Pam said. “So if you can think of anybody who’d be willing to take on a thoroughly thankless task by joining the FinCom, let me know. We want to choose someone at the next meeting.”

  “Ted did put an announcement in the paper,” Lucy said. “Maybe you’ll get some volunteers.”

  “It’s a bad time of year to recruit a new member,” Pam said. “Everybody’s busy with Christmas.”

  “That’s true,” Lucy said, remembering that her husband, Bill, had recently expressed a desire to become more active in town affairs. Maybe this was something he’d be interested in doing. She filed that thought for later and turned her attention to her friends.

  “Don’t forget the auditions tonight,” Rachel was saying. “At the Community Church. Can I count on you, Lucy?”

  “Okay,” Lucy agreed. The audition would make a nice human interest story and she was certain there was no way she was going to get a role. She was no Mrs. Cratchit, for sure.

  After leaving Jake’s, Lucy spent a few hours at the Pennysaver, filing news releases and typing up events for the Things to Do This Week column. As Phyllis had pointed out, there were more listings than usual, because of Christmas. All of the churches were holding bazaars, the Historical Society was having a cookie sale, and the high school was giving a holiday concert. Going beyond Tinker’s Cove, the Gilead Artists were having a small works sale, the South Coast Horticultural Society was holding a gala Festival of Trees, and the Coastal Chorale invited one and all to join them in singing Handel’s Messiah.

  “If you did all these things you wouldn’t have any time to shop or wrap presents or send Christmas cards,” Lucy observed.

  “Nobody sends Christmas cards anymore,” said Phyllis, who ought to know because her husband, Wilf, was a mail carrier. “They e-mail holiday greetings.”

  “I never thought of that,” Lucy said.

  “Well, don’t,” Phyllis said. “The postal service is having enough problems. They need the business.”

  “They can count on me,” Lucy said. “I always send cards and I like getting them. I put them up around the kitchen door.”

  She was typing the listing for the preschool story hour when she had an unsettling thought. “Phyllis, did Wilf deliver that postal bomb they think killed Jake Marlowe?”

  Phyllis wrapped her fuzzy purple sweater tightly across her ample bosom and blinked behind her pink and black harlequin reading glasses. “I think he must have,” she said in a very small voice. “I know the state police have questioned him.”

  “They don’t think . . .” Lucy began.

  “I certainly hope not!” Phyllis exclaimed. “He was just doing his job, delivering the mail. He doesn’t know what’s in the packages—how could he?”

  “Of course not,” Lucy said. But she was thinking how terrible it would have been if the bomb had exploded early. And seeing Phyllis’s bleak expression, Lucy knew her coworker was thinking the very same thing.

  When Lucy left the office she checked her list of errands. She needed to cash a check at the bank, the wreaths she’d ordered from the high school cheerleaders were awaiting pickup, and she had to do her weekly grocery shopping. First stop, she decided, was the drive-through at the bank, which was at one end of Main Street. Then she’d zip down Parallel Street to the school, avoiding traffic, and get the wreaths. From there she could sneak into the IGA parking lot from the back, missing the traffic light on Main Street.

  She hadn’t forgotten about the fire, but she was distracted, making plans for Christmas as she drove along Parallel Street, so it was quite a shock when Marlowe’s burned house came into view. She immediately slowed the car, taking in the scorched chimneys, the flame-scarred walls, and the stinking, blackened pile of debris surrounded by a fluttering yellow ribbon of DO NOT CROSS tape that was all that remained of the once magnificent house. She’d seen fires before, of course. Fires were big news and she’d had to cover quite a few in her career, but she’d rarely seen one that was so completely destructive. Marlowe’s burned-out house was a frightening sight, especially to someone like her, who also happened to live in an antique house.

  Batteries, she reminded herself, pressing the accelerator. Don’t forget to buy fresh batteries for the smoke alarms.

  Not surprisingly, the IGA was out of nine-volt batteries, even the expensive brand-name ones. “We’re expecting a shipment on Saturday,” said Dot Kirwan, the cashier, who also happened to be police chief Jim Kirwan’s mother. Her son, Todd, was also a police officer, and her daughter, Krissy, the town’s emergency dispatcher. Dot was well connected and Lucy cultivated her as a prime source of information. “There’s been a run on them since the fire. You’re supposed to change the batteries when you put your clock back in the spring but it seems that a lot of folks aren’t going to wait. They’re doing it while it’s fresh on their mind.”

  “Any progress on the fire?” Lucy asked, as she began to unload her cart.

  “Not that I’ve heard,” Dot said. She had permed gray hair cut short and wore a bright red smock with her official IGA name tag pinned on her left breast. “They sent some stuff to the crime lab, but I don’t think they’re going to learn much more than they already know. It was a mail bomb—anybody could’ve sent it.”

  “Anybody who knows how to make a mail bomb,” Lucy said.

  “There’s instructions on the Internet,” Dot said. “You could make one, if you wanted.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Lucy said.

  “Me, either.” Dot scanned a package of veggie burgers, a mainstay of Sara’s diet. “Tell the truth, I kind of miss old Jake. He was a regular customer, came in most days.”
r />   “Really?” Lucy was bagging her groceries in the reusable bags that her daughters Sara and Zoe insisted she use.

  “Yup. He kept an eye on the dented cans, the day-old bread, even the marked-down meat. He loved a bargain.” She paused. “That comes to a hundred thirty-six dollars and seventy-four cents.”

  Lucy swiped her debit card and punched her code into the keypad. “I guess I’d be rich, too, if I didn’t spend all my money on groceries and gas and clothes. . . .”

  “That’s the secret,” said Ike Stoughton, who was buying coffee, sugar, and creamer for his office. “Jake didn’t spend much, that’s for sure. Never paid more than he had to. I’ll miss him, though.”

  “You’re one of the few,” Dot said dryly.

  Lucy knew Ike, a neighbor, was a highly regarded surveyor. “Did you do much work for Marlowe?” she asked.

  “Not too much lately, but a few years ago he took a lot of land by adverse possession and I did the surveying for him.” He paused, then cocked an eyebrow. “He didn’t pay much, but he was as good as his word and he did pay on time.”

  Lucy, whose husband, Bill, was a restoration carpenter, knew that all too often clients held back final payments, demanding work they hadn’t contracted for, and sometimes paid late or didn’t make that final payment until threatened with a lawsuit. “Old time values,” Lucy said. “You don’t see them so much anymore.”

  “These days most people can’t afford them,” Dot said.

  “True,” Ike agreed, taking his package and nodding toward the big plate glass window at the front of the store. “Looks like snow,” he said, and Lucy saw the sky was filling fast with dark clouds.

  Chapter Three

  A few snowflakes were floating about when Lucy turned off Red Top Road and into her driveway, but they melted as soon as they hit the ground and there was no accumulation. The house was empty, except for Libby the Lab, who gave her a perfunctory greeting before turning to her main interest, which was sniffing at the grocery bags Lucy had set on the floor. She found the one with the chicken in a matter of seconds and Lucy quickly grabbed it and hoisted it on to the kitchen counter.

  “Okay,” she told the dog. “I know it’s hard, all this food and nothing for you.”

  Libby sat on her haunches and stared at her with her big brown eyes. “I’ll play the game if you insist,” she seemed to be saying, “even though we both know I’m the boss around here.”

  Lucy obediently began digging around in the grocery bags until she found the bag of beef jerky treats and gave a couple to Libby, who wolfed them down. “That’s all, now,” she said, in a firm tone, and the dog slouched off to settle down on her bed. There she set her chin on her paws and watched with interest as Lucy put the groceries away.

  That chore done, she popped a chicken and some sweet potatoes in the oven, then began unloading the dishwasher. From time to time she peeked out the window to check on the snow, but it wasn’t amounting to much, so the roads would be okay for her returning family members. Zoe was the first to arrive home; now that her friend Amy Whitmore had a driver’s license she got a ride with her most days, shunning the school bus.

  Bill was next, in his pickup truck. He was a restoration carpenter and had landed a big contract converting an old meetinghouse in nearby Gilead into a walk-in health clinic. He sniffed the air, decided it was chicken roasting, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Shall I open that chardonnay?” he asked, and receiving a nod, got to work with a corkscrew.

  They had just seated themselves at the round oak kitchen table with their glasses of wine when Sara blew in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, unwinding her scarf, striped in the green and white that were Winchester College’s colors. “I forgot the time.”

  “No problem,” Lucy said, sipping her wine. “Dinner won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes.”

  “Great.” She thundered up the back stairway and slammed the door to her room shut.

  “Funny,” Bill said. “I thought girls would be quieter than boys.”

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” Lucy said, laughing.

  Promptly at six, what sounded like a herd of elephants but was only Zoe and Sara came pounding down the stairs, looking for dinner. The girls quickly set the dining room table while Lucy dished up the chicken, baked sweet potatoes, green beans, and salad.

  “So what’s new?” Bill asked, slicing into the chicken with his carving knife.

  “The junior class is having a toy drive for Christmas,” Zoe said. “I’m in charge of publicity.”

  “I can help with that,” Lucy offered, serving herself salad. “What about you, Sara? Is the college holding a holiday fund-raiser?”

  Sara was helping herself to a baked sweet potato. “Charity at Christmas is just a sop, to make people feel good about themselves. The Social Action Committee is working for real economic justice. When we achieve that, charity will be unnecessary—everyone’s needs will be met.”

  “A lofty goal,” Bill said.

  “And until then, a lot of people right here in Tinker’s Cove are in need,” Lucy added.

  “And the little kids shouldn’t have to suffer,” Zoe said. “Not at Christmas.”

  “Christmas is just a day like any other, that’s what Seth says. He says Christmas is just a corporate gimmick to get people to spend money they don’t have and to distract them from the real problem, which is an economic system that benefits only one percent of the population while the other ninety-nine percent are struggling.”

  “Who’s Seth?” Bill asked, zeroing in on an unfamiliar male name.

  “Seth Lesinski. He’s amazing, Dad. He’s the leader—Well, there are actually no official leaders.... He facilitates SAC.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Oh, he calls the meetings and presents ideas for action, like the protest we had the other day against Downeast Mortgage.”

  “Sounds like he’s the leader,” Bill said, helping himself to seconds.

  “No, the whole group has to vote.”

  “Still . . .” Bill began.

  “He’s very good looking,” Lucy interjected. “At least that’s what Sue says.”

  “SAC is not about looks,” Sara said, her cheeks flushed with color. “It’s not about appearances. It’s what we do that’s important.”

  “You’ve got to admit he cuts quite a dashing figure,” Lucy said. “That scarf he wears, and that camo jacket fits like he had it tailored.. . .”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mom.”

  “Just an observation,” Lucy said. “By the way, I’m auditioning tonight. The Community Players are putting on A Christmas Carol and Rachel wants me to be Mrs. Cratchit.”

  “Sentimental Victorian drivel,” Sara sniffed.

  “Do you really think you can act?” Zoe asked.

  “Where are you going to find the time?” Bill asked. “That’s if you get the part.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Sara scoffed.

  “Rachel thinks I can do it. She asked me specially to audition.”

  “She’s probably just being nice,” Zoe said in a consoling voice. “You don’t have any acting experience.”

  “She’s right, Mom,” Sara said. “You have to have talent to act. Some people can and some people can’t. It’s genetics.”

  “You’re going to be too busy, anyway, with Christmas and all.” Bill ended the discussion by changing the subject. “What’s for dessert?”

  When Lucy left the house the girls were busy clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, Libby’s nose was buried in her dish, and Bill was watching TV. There was about a half inch of wet snow on the ground and she drove cautiously. She’d never auditioned for anything, so she didn’t know what to expect, but she thought she might enjoy acting. She was, she admitted to herself, excited at the prospect of trying something new. Wouldn’t it be great if she got the part? That would show those naysayers at home!

  When she arrived in the basement meeting room at the Commu
nity Church she found a handful of people sitting around a couple of tables that had been pushed together. Rachel was there, of course, and so was Bob, her lawyer husband. She recognized a few other people, including Marge Culpepper, and Florence Gallagher, whom she’d recently interviewed for a feature story about the children’s books she’d illustrated.

  Rachel greeted her with a smile. “Great, you’re here, Lucy. I think we can get started. As you can see, I like to keep things very informal. We’ve got scripts, so we’ll read a little bit, and if you have any experience acting, please tell me. Bob, I think we’ll start with you. Can you read Scrooge’s lines on page five?”

  “Is Bob going to be Scrooge?” Lucy couldn’t see it. Bob was the sweetest, nicest man she knew. He had a reputation as a bit of a bleeding heart and much of his busy law practice was pro bono.

  “Bah! Humbug!” he growled in a very convincing way, and they all laughed.

  After he’d read a few lines, complaining to Bob Cratchit about giving him a day off to celebrate Christmas with his family, Rachel thanked him and turned to Lucy.

  “Lucy, do you have any acting experience?”

  “I do,” Lucy said, dredging her memory and coming up with a nugget. “In kindergarten I was Ferdinand the Bull’s mother. As I recall, I had a line about how Ferdinand liked to sit quietly and smell the flowers.”

  “Practically a professional,” Rachel said, when the laughter subsided. “I want you to draw on that experience and read Mrs. Cratchit’s lines on page thirty-five.”

  When Lucy finished, Rachel nodded. “Very nice. I think you’ll be great.”

  “You mean I got the part?”

  “Absolutely,” Rachel said.

  After an hour or so Rachel called a break and Lucy struck up a conversation with Marge, who was married to the town’s community affairs officer, Barney Culpepper. Marge was going to play the role of Scrooge’s housekeeper.

  “I wish I’d gotten a more sympathetic role,” she said, pouring herself a cup of decaf at the refreshment table. “She pawns his stuff before Scrooge is even buried.”

  “It’s just a foreshadowing, right? It doesn’t actually happen,” Lucy said. “Just like Tiny Tim doesn’t die.”