'Tis the Season Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Actually, I can. I do know of a woman in New York. She investigated the Van Vorst mess last summer.”

  “Sounds expensive.” Scribner made the word expensive sound rather indecent.

  “I would imagine so,” Lucy agreed. She thought Scribner looked at least ten years older than he did at the funeral. “It must be hard, losing someone you worked with for all those years.”

  “They blew him up,” Scribner said, with a haunted expression. “It keeps me up at night, thinking about it.”

  “That’s understandable.” Lucy paused, debating what to say next, and deciding to go for the obvious. “Maybe you should talk to someone who could help you sort out your emotions.”

  Scribner snorted. “Now you sound like my niece. She’s always fussing over me.”

  “Florence cares about you,” Lucy said.

  “She’s a nuisance,” Scribner declared, with a flash of his former self. “I’m a businessman; I’ve never really had a family. It’s enough for me to understand business. Profit and loss, interest and capital, those are the things I understand, and I don’t see what’s wrong with that. You can’t do anything without money. You can’t start a business. You can’t buy a house. You can’t build a school. People forget all that. Nowadays making money and being successful are viewed as bad things.”

  “I think it’s the lack of money that’s got people upset,” Lucy said.

  “Exactly.” Scribner nodded. “It doesn’t grow on trees—what do they think? You’ve got to be prudent, careful. That’s what Marlowe was doing. He was trying to balance the town budget.” He lifted his fist and banged it down on the desk. “Since when is that a crime?”

  For a moment, Lucy was once again eight years old, sitting at her grandfather’s big mahogany dining table, and he was banging his fist on the polished surface, making the silverware jump. “The deficit!” he declared, his voice rolling on like thunder, predicting doom. “The deficit will be the ruin of the country!” Only this time, it wasn’t her grandfather railing against the government—it was Ben Scribner, defending his partner.

  “Do you think he was killed by a disgruntled town employee?” Lucy asked. “Someone who might have thought he engineered the layoffs in order to foreclose on valuable property?”

  Scribner’s face flushed darkly and Lucy feared he was going to have a stroke or heart attack. “Marlowe would never . . .” he began.

  Lucy hurried to placate him. “Of course not. But somebody might have thought that. Maybe Harry Crawford, for example, who’s losing his family farm? Or Phil Watkins, who built that energy-efficient house? Did one of them threaten Marlowe, for instance? Or what about . . . ?”

  Behind her, Lucy heard the door open and felt a blast of cool air. “Goodness, it’s cold out, but the snow has stopped,” Elsie declared, hurrying to her desk. “Now what are you up to, Mr. Scribner? Messing about with my papers?”

  “Just checking my schedule,” Scribner answered, sounding like a schoolboy caught peeking into his teacher’s desk drawers.

  “And you, Lucy Stone? What can we do for you?” Elsie’s expression was challenging, daring Lucy to explain herself.

  “I was just checking on the investigation,” Lucy said, knowing how lame she sounded.

  “Well then, I suggest you go and talk to the police,” Elsie said.

  Lucy felt the ground slipping away beneath her. “I’ll do that . . . Uh, thank you,” she said, making what felt like a lucky escape through the door.

  Outside, she stopped to collect herself. That woman was scary, she thought, with a little shudder. How did she do it? Talk about assertiveness training—Elsie Morehouse could write the book.

  Lucy was opening her car door when she heard a honk and looked up to see Molly had pulled up alongside in her little Civic. Patrick was behind her, in his car seat.

  “Hi!” Lucy greeted them.

  “We’re going to see Santa,” Molly said. She was wearing a red Santa Claus hat over her long blond hair. “Want to join us?”

  Lucy considered the offer. She had intended to go to the office but there was nothing pressing, nothing she really had to do today. Besides, she was still feeling rather resentful toward Ted. “Sounds good,” she said, jumping into the passenger seat beside Molly. As she buckled her seat belt she felt her spirits rise, like a school kid playing hooky.

  “I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to go because of the snow, but it turned out to be just a squall,” Molly said, zipping along Main Street and heading for the highway.

  “Ocean effect,” Lucy said, calculating that only about a half inch had accumulated on lawns, even less on the road. “Never amounts to much.”

  “I see blue sky,” Molly said. “I bet the sun will be out soon.”

  Lucy cast her eyes skyward. “My mother used to say you could count on it clearing when ‘there’s enough blue to make a pair of Dutchman’s breeches.’”

  “That’s a funny one,” Molly said.

  In the backseat, Patrick was humming a little song to himself.

  The trip to the mall passed quickly and they got to Santa’s workshop just as it was opening. In the past Patrick had been shy about meeting Santa, but now that he was three and a half he was beginning to be much braver.

  “Do you know what you’re going to ask Santa to bring you?” Lucy asked.

  “Cranky the Crane and Gordon,” he replied promptly.

  “The rock group?” Lucy inquired.

  “No, Thomas the Tank Engine and his many friends,” Molly explained. “It’s on TV. There are books, videos.... It’s hard to explain the appeal but somehow it takes over their little brains.”

  Mother and grandmother watched proudly as the elf opened the gate and Patrick marched right up to Santa and climbed on his lap. “Ho, ho, ho,” Santa said. “Have you been a good little boy?”

  “Most of the time,” Patrick replied with disarming honesty.

  “Well, that’s pretty good,” Santa said. “What do you want for Christmas?”

  “Cranky the Crane and Gordon,” Patrick repeated.

  “We’ll see what we can do, young man,” Santa said. “Now smile for the camera.”

  Patrick smiled, the elf snapped the picture, and Lucy found herself forking over ten dollars for a copy. It was worth it, she decided, studying the image of the towheaded, apple-cheeked youngster sitting on the lap of the whiskered, apple-cheeked Santa.

  Molly wanted to do a bit of shopping so Lucy offered to take Patrick off her hands for an hour; they would meet for lunch at the sandwich shop. Lucy enjoyed spending time with Patrick, especially now that he was a bit older and they could have a real conversation. They walked along, hand in hand, discussing the displays in the windows.

  “Why is that lady flying?” Patrick asked, studying a mannequin suspended on fish line.

  “It’s to catch your eye,” Lucy said. “If she was just standing there it wouldn’t be very interesting. Because she’s flying, we’re looking at her, and we can see her clothes and maybe we’ll want to go inside the store and buy them.”

  “Pink is for girls,” Patrick said, commenting on the mannequin’s sparkly skirt.

  “Mommy might look nice in that,” Lucy said.

  “Mommy can’t fly,” Patrick said very seriously.

  “No, she can’t,” Lucy agreed, chuckling to herself.

  After doing a complete circuit of the mall, including a stop at the toy store where Lucy bought Patrick a little car, they settled themselves at a booth in the coffee shop to wait for Molly. Patrick was busy coloring his place mat when she joined them, carrying several large shopping bags.

  “Looks like you were successful,” Lucy said.

  “I found some bargains,” Molly said, sliding into the opposite seat. “How’s your shopping going?”

  “I’m almost all done. I did it all online the weekend after Thanksgiving,” Lucy admitted. “I didn’t feel like dragging around to the stores, and now I’m glad I shopped online because the rehearsals
are taking up so much time.” She nodded at the shopping bags resting beside her on the banquette. “I couldn’t resist a few small things, though, and I still need something for Bill. Something special.”

  “How’s the show going?” Molly asked, opening the plasticized menu and studying it.

  “Okay, I guess,” Lucy said. “I hope we get a good turnout. If we make any money it will go to the Cunningham family for Angie.”

  Molly’s eyes were big and sad. “I heard she’s not doing too well. Zach told Toby they’re afraid she won’t get a kidney in time.” Her glance fell on Patrick’s shining blond head, bent over his little yellow car, which he was pushing with chubby fingers. “I can’t imagine what Lexie and Zach are going through.”

  “Me, either,” Lucy said, signaling to the waitress.

  The western sky was a gorgeous deep red when Lucy got home later that afternoon, and the windows of her old house were aglow in the reflected light. Winter sunsets were gorgeous, with intense color, but they didn’t last long, so Lucy made a point of taking a minute before she got out of the car to admire the rosy light, which suffused everything with radiant color, a violin concerto on the car radio providing musical accompaniment to the show. Then, when the light faded to pink and then to gray, she gathered up her purse and shopping bags and went inside.

  The answering machine was blinking so she listened while she took off her coat and hat. It was Rachel saying there would be no rehearsal tonight, and Lucy was thoughtful as she unwound her scarf, wondering if Rachel was having some sort of breakdown. She dialed her number but there was no answer, so she left a message, then got busy hiding Christmas presents and cooking dinner. She was scrubbing some potatoes when Sara called to say she was staying at the college to work on a paper and wouldn’t be home for dinner, so Lucy put her potato back in the bag. Then, before she returned to the sink, the phone rang again and it was Zoe, saying she was at her friend Jess’s house, wrapping presents for the toy drive, and Jess’s mom had invited her to stay for dinner.

  Her potato went back in the bag, too. Lucy looked at the two remaining Idahos and thought this was going to be her future as an empty nester: two potatoes and two pork chops. It seemed so meager, she thought, used to cooking big meals when there were six of them gathered at the table.

  Lucy got the potatoes in the oven and then set two places at the kitchen table, thinking that with just Bill and herself it seemed silly to set the table in the dining room.

  As she arranged the place mats and silver, she considered adding a couple of wineglasses. Evenings alone were a rarity and she thought they might as well take advantage of the situation and enjoy a romantic interlude. She recalled Rachel’s confession that things weren’t going well in her marriage and thought she didn’t want to start taking Bill for granted, always putting him off because she was busy. She didn’t know if that was the root of Rachel’s problems but even Rachel admitted she was doing too much.

  “We’re dining à deux,” she told Bill, when he came home. “Do you want to open a bottle of wine?”

  She was terribly disappointed when he declined, saying he wanted to get to work on the FinCom papers. He barely spoke to her when they ate, clearly distracted, and then took his after-dinner coffee up to his office, leaving Lucy alone with her mug of decaf. She cleaned up dinner and settled in the family room to write Christmas cards, trying not to feel hurt that Bill had rejected her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Next morning it seemed the old adage about a red sky at night being a sailor’s delight was true. The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky and the air was as crisp as it could only be on a winter morning in coastal Maine, hypercharged with oxygen and smelling faintly briny. The cold made Lucy’s nose tingle as she gassed up the car at the Quik-Stop.

  Harry Crawford was doing the same on the other side of the pump, filling his rusty old pickup and complaining about the rising cost of gas. “They say it’s gonna go up to five bucks a gallon,” he said, glumly watching the numbers scroll by.

  “When I pay my bills, I make the check out to Thrifty Gas Thieves,” Lucy said. “It makes me feel better but they don’t seem to mind. They cash it anyway.”

  “Thrifty Gas has no shame—if they did they’d change their name,” Harry said with a grin. He was wearing the working man’s uniform, flannel-lined pants topped with a plaid wool shirt, a thick sweater, thermal hoodie, and a barn jacket. He had well-worn work boots on his feet and a blue knit watch cap on his head. “I gotta say I’ve got high hopes now that Bill is on the FinCom,” he said in a serious voice, as he replaced the pump handle. “I need to get my hours back or it’s gonna be a real mean winter, that’s for sure.”

  Lucy finished screwing the cap back on her tank, giving it a couple of extra twists, just to be sure it was tight. “He’s been working hard, going over all the papers. He’s determined to be fair, and wants to look at both sides of the issue.”

  “Oh, right,” Harry said with a knowing wink. “He’s a good guy, a working man, not like that Marlowe, who never did an honest day’s work in his life.”

  Lucy pulled her glove back on and shoved her hands in her coat pockets. “Any chance you can keep the farm?” she asked. “Have you been able to work something out with Scribner?”

  Harry laughed, a harsh sound, like a bark. “Bastard won’t budge an inch. He says he gave me the money when I asked for it, and now that it’s my turn to pay, I’ve got to do it on time or face the consequences. He didn’t force me to take out the mortgage. He’s held up his side of the bargain and I’ve got to hold up mine, do what I said I’d do or else I lose the property.”

  “That’s too bad,” Lucy said, who remembered Scribner saying pretty much the same thing to Ike Stoughton at Marlowe’s funeral.

  “Yeah. My granddad held on to the place through the Depression, you know. It wasn’t easy, but somehow he did it. I wish he was still around to tell me how, ’cause I sure can’t figure out a way.”

  “Times are different,” Lucy said. “If it’s any comfort, you’re not alone.”

  “It’s not,” Harry said. “Crawfords have owned that farm for more than two hundred years and I’m the one who’s losing it. It’s like I’m not worthy of the name.”

  “Don’t think like that,” Lucy admonished, alarmed at his depressed tone of voice. “Like I said, everything’s different now.”

  “I don’t know about that. Seems like the same old, same old. ‘Socialism for the rich and capitalism for the poor.’”

  “That’s always been true, for sure,” Lucy said. “But I think there’s something else going on. Things aren’t working the way they’re supposed to. Take college, for example. When you get out of college you’re supposed to be able to get a job. . . .”

  “I don’t know about that,” Harry said, his expression hardening. “I never had that opportunity.”

  Lucy wanted to tell him there was no shame in not going to college, that she knew how smart and talented and hardworking he was and that she respected him, but she didn’t want to sound patronizing. “Take it easy,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

  “Don’t have any choice,” Harry said with a shrug, pulling a single dollar bill out of his pocket. “I’m gonna try my luck on the lottery.”

  “You can’t win if you don’t play,” Lucy said, repeating the lottery’s advertising slogan as she got into her car. “Good luck!”

  “I’m gonna need it,” Harry said, waving as she drove off.

  Lucy was thoughtful as she cruised down Main Street to the Pennysaver office. The way she saw it, the lottery was part of the problem, not the solution. It took money from thousands of low-income people, like Harry, and redistributed big chunks of it to a lucky few. Then again, she decided, pulling into a parking space, there wasn’t much you could buy with a dollar anymore. You might as well take a chance on winning.

  Harry hadn’t looked too optimistic about his chances; he’d looked like a desperate man who’d run out of op
tions. She remembered his expression when he’d said he hadn’t had the opportunity to go to college and suspected he’d been nursing a grudge for a long time. The question was, she thought as she switched off the engine, whether or not that simmering resentment had driven him to construct a package bomb and mail it to Jake Marlowe. She would never have thought in a million years that Harry Crawford would do such a thing, not until now.

  Phyllis was already at her desk, sorting press releases, when Lucy entered the office. “What’s happening?” she asked, hanging up her coat.

  “More foreclosures,” Phyllis said, handing her several sheets of fax paper, all headed with the Downeast Mortgage logo.

  “This is not good,” Lucy said, speed-reading the legalese and looking for names. She didn’t recognize most of them, so she figured they were for second homes owned by summer people. Too bad for them, of course, and not very good for the local economy, but she was relieved that none of her friends or neighbors were losing their homes. None, until she saw Al Roberts’s name on the last notice.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, staring at the paper and checking the address.

  “Who is it?” Phyllis asked. “I didn’t have a chance to read them.”

  “Al Roberts.”

  “Like that family doesn’t have enough to worry about, with little Angie waiting for a kidney transplant.”

  “Are Angie and Al Roberts related?” asked Lucy.

  Phyllis’s penciled eyebrows rose above her reading glasses. “Of course they are, he’s her grandfather.”

  Lucy remembered how sullen Al had been at the last rehearsal, just before the scenery he had erected had fallen on Florence Gallagher. She wondered if he’d been so distracted with his problems—a desperately ill granddaughter, a daughter struggling to keep her family together with diminished resources, and his own financial troubles—that he’d been careless with the scenery. Or maybe, she wondered, he’d arranged for it to fall on purpose, deliberately striking back at Scribner through his niece.