'Tis the Season Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Don’t be crazy!” she said, yelling over the noise of the crowd. “Look at Elizabeth. She’s got a great job.”

  “Seamen’s Bank is ripping you off!” Seth proclaimed, and a number of the kids in the crowd yelled out in agreement. “They’re getting rich and you’re getting poor!”

  “Come on, Sara,” Lucy urged. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Sara shook her head. “No, Mom. I’m staying. This is important to me.”

  Flummoxed, Lucy sucked her teeth. There wasn’t anything she could do. She couldn’t grab her daughter by the hair and drag her off to class. The only thing she could do was threaten her. “I’m going to tell your father,” she said, through a clenched jaw. “Don’t think I won’t!”

  Sara rolled her eyes, then turned her attention to the leader of the protest. “We demand amnesty!” Seth Lesinski yelled, raising his arm and unleashing a wave of shouts. “Amnesty! Amnesty! We demand amnesty!”

  Lucy’s emotions were in turmoil and her head was ringing from the noise. It was time for her to leave. She slipped through the crowd and began climbing the hill, shaking her head. What was she going to do about Sara? Even worse, what if she was right? Maybe it was crazy to spend tens of thousands of dollars to get her a bachelor’s degree when she could spend a few months learning medical billing or massage therapy and have a salable skill. Maybe she should join the coast guard, thought Lucy, recalling a TV commercial and thinking of Annie Kraus’s husband.

  “Careful!” a voice warned, and Lucy lifted her head, realizing she was about to walk into a lamppost. Embarrassed, she turned and recognized Phil Watkins, the assistant building inspector. He was a friendly guy and they always exchanged pleasantries when she stopped by town hall.

  “Thanks,” she said with a rueful smile. “I was distracted, wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Happens to all of us,” he said, shrugging. “Did I see Sara down there?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lucy said. “She’s become a social activist.” She paused. “Were you demonstrating or watching?”

  “Demonstrating,” Phil said. “Face it, since they cut my hours I’ve got plenty of time on my hands—and plenty of student loans. If it wasn’t for the student loan payments I wouldn’t have lost my house.” He winced. “Or maybe not. Maybe I’m just kidding myself, but they sure didn’t help.”

  “That house was a labor of love, wasn’t it?” Lucy asked. She knew Phil had built his LEED-certified green home himself, banging in every nail.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “It’s the only LEED house in town. It’s energy efficient, built with recycled and sustainable materials.”

  Lucy knew that; she’d written a story about the project, which was not only kind to the environment but also beautiful and livable. “It’s a shame you couldn’t work something out with Downeast Mortgage.”

  Phil scowled. “You know what really sticks in my craw? It’s the way Scribner made out like a bandit. That house is worth plenty, even in this depressed market. It’s entirely green and a lot of folks, especially rich liberal types, the Prius crowd, are willing to pay for that. I did the work, I had the vision to make it happen, and Scribner’s going to make a lot of money off my vision and hard work.”

  “That’s the way it is,” Lucy said, with a rueful smile. “The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.”

  “You said it! I heard that bastard’s already sold Macmillan’s lot for a fast food restaurant. . . .”

  This was news to Lucy. “You mean that building lot of Nelson’s?”

  “Yeah. Turns out the state is rerouting part of Route 1 and that scrappy bit of pasture has suddenly become prime real estate. Once again, Scribner’s going to make a killing.” The driver of a green pickup truck honked and Phil looked up, recognizing a friend. He raised his arm in a wave and the truck pulled to the side of the street. “Well, nice talking to you, Lucy. Take care.”

  Then he hopped into the truck, joining his friend, and the two drove off together. The demonstration was still going strong, so Lucy pulled her camera out of her bag and snapped a few photos before heading back to the office. As she walked, she thought about what Phil Watkins had told her. Downeast Mortgage was certainly profiting from the recession, making a fortune off other people’s misfortunes. That wasn’t a crime, but that didn’t mean it was right. It was no wonder there was a lot of bad feeling toward the company, and its principals, Marlowe and Scribner.

  The one person she thought ought to be angry, Nelson Macmillan, had seemed quite philosophical about his loss. Here he’d bought a piece of property that had increased dramatically in value, but he hadn’t been able to keep up the payments and he’d lost it. Why wasn’t he angry? He stood to make a fortune, if only he’d been able to keep it. And then it hit her. Of course. As the natural resources officer, he would have had inside knowledge of the planned rerouting. His office would have been consulted as a matter of course, to make sure no protected wetlands or endangered species were involved. He’d had inside knowledge that he’d used to buy the neglected acreage, anticipating how it would increase in value.

  It was no wonder he seemed so untroubled about his loss. He probably figured it was no more than he deserved, considering how he’d bent the rules in the first place. Or maybe, she thought, he was simply pretending not to be upset. Maybe he was hiding a deep anger, which he’d held close while he plotted his revenge.

  Chapter Nine

  Phyllis and Ted hadn’t returned from the funeral when Lucy got to the office and she figured she knew what was keeping them. Phyllis was probably still gabbing with her friends from the knitting circle and Ted might well be taking advantage of a state senator’s appearance at the funeral to discuss some upcoming legislative matters. Considering the senator’s reputation, that discussion would most likely be continued in the Irish pub down by the cove and would probably take the rest of the afternoon.

  It didn’t matter. They weren’t needed at the moment. The paper came out on Thursday morning and, except for a few callers with complaints, Friday afternoons were generally quiet. It was too early to start on next week’s news cycle, so Lucy usually went through the press releases, looking for story ideas. Phyllis filed the notices by date in a bulky accordion file as they arrived, so Lucy took the file over to her desk and booted up her computer. While she waited for the ancient PC’s clicks and grinds to subside, she checked her phone messages, discovering that the postmaster had called, informing Lucy that she would be in her office until 1:30 p.m.

  According to the antique clock on the wall it was only twenty-five past, so Lucy quickly made the call. Sheila Finlay wasn’t pleased at her timing.

  “I was just leaving . . .” she grumbled.

  “This won’t take long,” Lucy promised.

  “Oh, all right,” Sheila consented, sounding as if she thought she was doing Lucy a big favor.

  Of course, the shoe was actually on the other foot: it was Lucy who was doing Sheila a favor. Publicizing the effect of the proposed cuts might well prompt public outcry, which could save the postal workers’ jobs.

  “What do these cuts mean for Tinker’s Cove?” Lucy asked.

  “The mail will come a day or two later, I guess,” Sheila said. “They’re closing the nearest distribution center, so the mail will take longer.”

  “What about jobs?” Lucy asked.

  “Well, we’ll lose some, I suppose.” She paused. “I’m not at liberty—”

  “Can you give me a percentage?” Lucy coaxed.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve heard some of the smaller post offices will be closed. Is there any danger that we’ll lose our post office?” As in most small towns, the Tinker’s Cove post office was an important gathering place where people caught up with their neighbors.

  “Anything could happen,” Sheila said.

  Lucy felt like banging her head on the desk. “Do you think it will?” she persisted.

  “I don’t know.” There was a long pause. “
I have to go now.”

  Lucy still had a long list of questions she wanted to ask. “Before you go, what can you tell me about the package bomb . . . ?”

  “I don’t have anything to say about that.”

  “Well, thanks for your help,” Lucy said, thinking that Sheila hadn’t actually been any help at all. Maybe Ted got something from the state senator. Maybe she should call their congressional representative. Maybe she should just write up the inch or two she got from the postmaster and move on to something else.

  She began leafing through the press releases, discovering that this Christmas season was going to be much like the last. Every church in the county was holding a Christmas bazaar, the ballet schools were all presenting The Nutcracker, and the Historical Society was holding a cookie sale and open house at the Ezekiel Hallett House. And, of course, the Community Players were presenting A Christmas Carol. Perhaps there was a story there, if she could come up with a new angle that would convince Ted.

  She jotted down an idea or two, then ran out of steam. It was really quite chilly in the office and she was thinking about putting up the heat and debating whether it was worth risking a scolding from Ted, when and if he ever showed up. Maybe she should just make herself a cup of tea and put her coat back on. Maybe she should just get out of there, she decided, shoving her chair back under her desk. She still needed a few more interviews for the foreclosure story and a phone call wasn’t nearly as informative as a face-to-face encounter.

  Stepping outside, she discovered the sun had disappeared behind clouds and a brisk breeze was blowing off the cove, but Lucy didn’t mind. She enjoyed being on the move, working on a story, and she hadn’t spoken to Harry Crawford yet. She liked the harbormaster; most everybody did. He was pleasant and affable and generally helpful, unlike some public employees she could mention. He took his job seriously, aware of the dangers faced by those who ventured out to sea. It was one thing to take a pleasant sail on a warm summer day and quite another to chug out past Quissett Point on a dark, cold winter morning to check lobster traps, and Harry did everything he could to make sure that those who went out came back safely to shore.

  Nevertheless, she had to admit that Harry had a heck of a motive for killing Jake Marlowe. His family had owned their oceanfront farm for more than two hundred years, raising sheep on the rocky pastures that sloped down to the cove. Now, Downeast Mortgage was selling off that two hundred and twenty acres in a foreclosure auction scheduled a few days after Christmas.

  She’d felt sick herself when she saw the ad copy, and it wasn’t even her land, so she could imagine how Harry and the other members of his family felt about losing the property. They might well have wanted to send a message, and Harry certainly had the skill to build a bomb. As a farmer and harbormaster he had developed the expertise to keep engines and other equipment working, and knew all about electric circuits. As for explosives, well, that information was all over the Internet.

  But knowing Harry as she did, Lucy doubted he would have intended to kill Jake Marlowe. If he had sent the bomb, it would have been a desperate measure designed to frighten Jake, not take his life with a huge explosion and deadly fire.

  Reaching Sea Street, Lucy was relieved to see that the demonstration in front of Seamen’s Bank was over and the crowd was gone. The steep road that led down to the cove and the town’s harbor was clear, only a few cars and trucks parked along the curb. Lucy paused at the top of the hill for a moment, taking in the view she loved from here. The cove hadn’t iced over yet and a few lobster boats bobbed at anchor on the blue water. Others had already been taken out and put in storage, shrouded in shiny white shrink wrap and set on jacks in the parking lot.

  There was very little activity today, no clanks and hammering, no buzz of engines. Only a little column of smoke rose from the Irish pub, where a cheerful, welcoming fire was kept burning all winter.

  Lucy sniffed the pleasant scent of wood smoke as she made her way through the parking lot to the harbormaster’s shed. The shed was about the size of a tollbooth, with windows on all sides. It was also empty, closed tight, with a notice on the door announcing the new, reduced hours.

  Of course, she thought, feeling rather stupid. She knew Harry’s hours had been cut and she should have checked the new schedule on the town’s official website before she trudged all the way down here. She was turning to go when somebody called her voice and, shading her eyes with her hand, she noticed Gabe Franco at the fuel dock, pumping gas into his lobster boat.

  “Hi, Gabe,” she yelled back. “Howzit going?” Gabe’s face was deeply tanned, even in winter, and he was wearing yellow oilskin overalls.

  “Okay,” he said. “Were you looking for Harry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you know his hours were cut.”

  “It slipped my mind,” Lucy admitted.

  “Kind o’ crazy, if you ask me. We’re having the mildest winter in years and plenty of guys are still lobstering. And there’s the oyster farm—they’re out there nearly every day, harvesting. There’s a big demand this time of year. But I guess they just don’t understand at town hall about us folks down here at the harbor.” He cocked his head toward Main Street. “There isn’t anybody on that Finance Committee that makes a living working the water, not one.”

  Lucy knew he was right. Pam taught yoga part time, Frankie La Chance was a real estate broker, Jerry Taubert owned an insurance agency, and Gene Hawthorne was an innkeeper. The working people, those who actually worked with their hands, didn’t have a representative. “You’re right,” she said. “Maybe you should offer yourself now that there’s a vacancy.”

  “Not me,” Gabe said, glancing at the sky and waving his arm at the wide open space all around him. “I couldn’t take being stuck indoors at some meeting when there’s all this out here.”

  “I think you’re on to something,” Lucy said, with a smile. She gave him a wave and headed back up the hill, listening to the wild calls of the herring gulls wheeling high overhead.

  As she climbed up the steep incline she thought about Jake Marlowe’s impact on the town, deciding it was extremely negative. Not only had he cut town employees’ hours and benefits, reducing their income, but that lost income had hurt local businesses. The cuts also meant reduced services, which working people like Gabe and the other fishermen counted on. Even Bill, she remembered, had been complaining about how long waits for building inspectors were slowing his progress. And that was before you even took the foreclosures into account.

  The foreclosures were the greatest source of discontent, however, and the likeliest motive for the package bomb. Phil Watkins, for example, was angry about losing his LEED-certified home and was quite outspoken about it. She wasn’t sure if he was angriest about losing the house, or the fact that Downeast Mortgage was profiting handsomely from the foreclosure. Probably both, equally, she decided.

  Then there was Nelson Macmillan, who had lost the opportunity of a lifetime. It wasn’t every day that a scrappy piece of land littered with cast-off junk became the perfect spot for a fast-food restaurant, and he’d have made a bundle if he’d been able to hold on to it. But now Downeast Mortgage was collecting that bundle and Nelson had lost his retirement savings and was looking at a ruined credit rating. It was enough to make anyone think seriously about taking revenge.

  She thought of Ike Stoughton, a proud man who’d humbled himself to beg Ben Scribner for a little more time to pay back his loan. Scribner hadn’t been open to the idea; he’d been his usual high-and-mighty self. But Ike was only asking for a bit of time—there was no doubt that he would pay back whatever he borrowed. Everybody was feeling the squeeze, everybody was coping with payments that dribbled in slowly, or partial payments that came with promises to pay the rest “when I can.” Lucy had seen the scribbled notes piling up on Bill’s desk, IOUs for work he’d done in the last few months.

  Bill wasn’t taking those chits to small claims court, nor was he asking for liens on his debtor
s’ income or property. Nobody was, except for the big national banks and Downeast Mortgage. Lucy had seen Dot Kirwan at the IGA wave away the offer of a postdated check, telling a cash-strapped customer to pay when he could. And she’d seen Phil Crawford, Harry’s uncle, do the same thing at the Quik-Stop, when a young mother with two little kids strapped into her SUV didn’t have quite enough cash to pay for her fill-up.

  What difference would it make to Ben Scribner, she wondered, if he worked out new deals with mortgage holders instead of heading straight to court? She thought of Harry Crawford’s family farm, going on the block. What good did it do? The Crawfords were losing a source of income, and perhaps more important, family pride. And for what? Ben Scribner certainly didn’t need any more money—he had plenty.

  Reaching the top of the hill and turning onto Main Street, she noticed a new sign had gone up. The Curl ’n’ Cut beauty salon was now for sale, “price negotiable.”

  Well, thought Lucy, she hoped all these foreclosures were making Ben Scribner happy, since they were certainly causing a lot of misery for everyone else. And then it occurred to her that, of all the people in town, it was Ben Scribner who stood to profit most from his partner’s death. Did Ben Scribner send that package bomb to Jake Marlowe? Lucy pressed her lips together, grimly. She wouldn’t doubt it, not for a minute.

  Chapter Ten

  The sky was already darkening when she got to her car, the short winter afternoon almost over before it began. She decided to head home and grab a few minutes for herself, perhaps stretch out on the family room couch with a magazine. She had another rehearsal tonight and had to admit these late evenings were taking a toll. Ordinarily, she’d be joining the rest of the family at the town’s annual carol sing, which was scheduled to take place that evening, but she figured the show had to go on, which meant she’d miss it this year.