'Tis the Season Murder

by Leslie Meier

  The jangling bell on the door roused her from her thoughts as Ted entered, bringing a gust of cold air with him. “Glorious day,” he said, unwrapping his striped muffler.

  Lucy wanted to say something like “Glad you could make it” but bit her tongue. He was the boss, after all, and if he wanted to walk out on deadline day, well, that was his prerogative. Instead she said, “A nice day if you don’t count the foreclosures.”

  Ted glanced at the sheaf of papers she was holding. “Who is it this time?” he asked, unzipping his jacket.

  “Al Roberts,” she replied. “And a bunch of second homes.”

  “Let me see.” He took the foreclosure notices from her and began perusing, shaking his head as he flipped through them. “A lot of these folks are subscribers,” he said. “We send the paper to them all year so they can follow local news. They’re good customers, too, according to our advertisers. They order stuff from retailers year round and have it sent, they hire contractors to make repairs, they use heating oil and gas, they pay property managers to keep an eye on their homes.” He gave the papers back to her. “It’s not good for the town to have all these vacant houses sitting there.”

  “As if property values aren’t low enough,” Phyllis said.

  “They’re going to get lower,” Ted predicted gloomily. “We haven’t seen the worst of this.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do to pressure Downeast?” Lucy asked. “Get our state rep and other elected officials to put some pressure on Scribner?”

  “That’s a great idea, Lucy,” Phyllis said. “What about the banking commissioner? And the attorney general?”

  “We’ll start a campaign to save our community,” Lucy said.

  “Whoa,” said Ted, holding up a cautionary hand. “Not a good idea. For one thing, I’m pretty sure everything Marlowe and Scribner did is perfectly legal. And secondly, I can’t afford to get Scribner mad at me.” He shifted his feet awkwardly. “I can’t risk it. He can call my note at any time and there’s no way I can meet that payment.”

  Lucy stared at him. So that was what was behind his strange behavior. “Didn’t you read the note before you signed it?”

  “Of course I did, and it seemed perfectly okay at the time because it got me a lower interest rate—a full point less than Seamen’s Bank was asking.” He swiveled his desk chair around so that it faced away from the wall and sat down heavily, making the chair creak. “Those were the days when you walked in a bank and the first thing they did was ask if you wanted any money and they asked how much and said, ‘Just sign here.’ I never thought I’d have any problem refinancing if he called the note. The value of the house was going up all the time, lenders were tripping over each other to give me money.” He snorted. “I thought I was being smart. I never thought the bubble would burst.”

  “None of us did,” Phyllis said.

  “We can’t just give up,” Lucy said. “We have a role to play here. We need to get the facts out and mobilize people to save the town.”

  “If it’s any consolation, there will come a point when even Scribner realizes the folly of foreclosing every time a borrower misses a payment. He’s going to end up with a lot of decaying, worthless property,” Ted said.

  “By then it will be too late,” Phyllis said. “Tinker’s Cove will be a ghost town.”

  For a moment Lucy imagined tumbleweeds blowing down Main Street, an image straight out of a Western movie. “Instead of a showdown,” she said, “let’s try an ambush.”

  “Somehow I feel as if I’ve wandered into the Last Chance Saloon,” Ted said.

  Lucy grinned. “We could do a story about the Social Action Committee at the college, let them take on Downeast.”

  “That’s actually a good idea, pardner,” Ted said, brightening. “You could interview their leader—what’s his name?”

  “Seth, Seth Lesinski,” Lucy said, reaching for her phone.

  * * *

  Seth was only too happy to be interviewed and suggested meeting at the coffee shop in the student union later that afternoon. Lucy was seated in a comfy armchair in the attractive space with orange walls and distressed wood floor, planning the questions she wanted to ask, when Seth arrived. He definitely exuded charisma, she decided, as heads turned in his direction. He paused here and there, grinning and exchanging pleasantries, as he made his way toward her, working the room like a pro.

  “Thanks for coming,” Lucy said, as he seated himself next to her. “Can I get you a coffee or something?”

  “No, thanks,” he said, shrugging out of his camo Windbreaker but leaving on his black beret and checked Arab-style scarf. She figured it wasn’t just for the image of a revolutionary leader he was working so hard to project; his shaved head probably got cold.

  “Like I said on the phone, I’m writing this profile for the Pennysaver newspaper,” Lucy began. “I guess I’d like to begin by asking why you started the Social Action Committee. . . .”

  “I didn’t start it,” Seth said, “and I’m not the president or leader or anything like that. We have no leaders in this movement. Everything is decided by a vote of the members.”

  Lucy looked at him, wondering if he really believed what he was saying. He was no kid, she realized, noticing the lines around his eyes and a slight graying of the obligatory stubble on his cheeks and chin. No wonder he shaved his head, she thought, suspecting his hair was either graying or balding. “Okay,” she said, “but you do seem to be the guy holding the megaphone.”

  “I know,” he admitted, with a rueful shake of his head, “but I’m trying to change that. Nobody besides me seems willing to come forward, but we’re holding some public speaking workshops and I’m hoping to pass the megaphone to others.”

  Lucy nodded as she wrote this down in her notebook. “Has the group agreed on any goals?” she asked.

  “We want foreclosures to stop. We want action on student loans—they’ve overtaken credit card debt as a national problem. And we want the military budget cut and the troops out of Afghanistan.” He paused. “That’s especially important to me. I’m here on the GI Bill, you know. I was in the army, saw action in Iraq and Afghanistan.” He leaned forward, making intense eye contact. “I saw my friends die and I was lucky to get out alive, and this is not the America we were fighting for. We didn’t die and risk our lives so greedy bastards like Marlowe and Scribner could get rich by making people homeless.”

  Lucy was writing it all down, scribbling as fast as she could and wondering why she’d neglected to bring along her tape recorder. She knew why—she hated the way the machine intruded on an interview, making people nervous and stilted. “How many students are in the group?” she finally asked.

  “We can draw quite a crowd for a demonstration,” he said, looking satisfied with himself.

  “But how many go to meetings? How many are actually committed activists?”

  “Like your daughter?” he asked, catching her by surprise.

  Lucy wasn’t about to show he’d rattled her. “Like Sara,” she said.

  “You know, Sara suggested I contact you and ask to be interviewed,” he said. “You called me before I got a chance.”

  This was very unexpected news, considering how irritable Sara had been lately. “Really?” she asked, her voice bright with pleasure.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “She said it would be a good way to present our ideas to the public. SAC isn’t just a college group, you know. We’d like people from the community to join us. We’re fighting for them, after all.”

  “Traditionally there’s been a sharp division between town and gown—do you think you can overcome that?”

  “I hope so,” Seth said. “All we’re after is fairness, a level playing field. It’s not right for one percent to own forty-two percent of the wealth in this country. It’s not right that half the population is living at or below the poverty line. This is the richest country in the world and kids are going hungry, families are losing their homes. It’s time that pe
ople stood up for themselves and demanded fairness.”

  “How far should they go?” Lucy asked. “Do you condone violence, like the bombing that killed Marlowe?”

  “I would never condone violence; I don’t think anybody who’s been to war would,” he said in a soft voice. His expression was troubled, his eyes were directed at hers but he wasn’t seeing her, he was seeing something else, reliving a wartime horror. Then, with a shake of his head, he came back to the present. “If things continue the way they are, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see more violence. That’s what happens when people run out of options. They get desperate.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Lucy said.

  He smiled, revealing large eyeteeth that gave him a wolfish look. “When hope runs out, that’s when there’s trouble.”

  Lucy had a few more questions and the interview continued for a little longer before she was able to wrap it up. When she had no more questions she asked him if she could snap a photo; he was happy to oblige. When she checked the image in her digital camera she thought it reminded her of something, and when she was walking across campus to the parking lot it came to her. He looked like that famous poster of Che Guevara, she decided, not knowing whether to laugh . . . or cry.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Friday night was pizza night, when the family gathered around the kitchen table instead of eating in the dining room. It was the one night when Lucy used paper plates and paper napkins, and the kids were allowed to drink soda. That had been more of a thrill when they were little, but there was still something special about Friday. Maybe it was just the fact that the work and school week was over, and they could look forward to sleeping in on Saturday.

  Bill always picked up the pizza on his way home, and when Lucy saw his headlights in the driveway she called the girls. They came clumping down the back stairs and sat down at the table, waiting for him to set the big box in front of them. Wine was poured, flip tabs on soda cans were popped, and everybody dived in.

  “I interviewed Seth Lesinski today,” Lucy said, her mouth full of spicy cheesy tomato goodness. “He’s a very interesting guy.”

  “Mmmph,” Sara replied.

  “He mentioned you. He said you’re a ‘committed activist.’”

  “Sara?” Zoe scoffed. “He should see her getting dressed in the morning, deciding what to wear and fussing with her hair and makeup.”

  “I sure hope he doesn’t see her like that,” Bill said, and Lucy wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

  “Da-a-ad,” Sara protested, blushing. “It’s not like that. It’s a movement. Seth’s interested in making history, not . . . you know, romantic stuff.”

  “Believe me, Sara, every guy is interested in, uh, romantic stuff.” Bill reached for the bottle and refilled his wineglass.

  “Why do you always think the worst of people?” Sara demanded, rising from her chair. “Seth is . . . Seth is amazing! He’s not immature like the boys on campus. He’s got goals and ideas. He fought in Afghanistan.... He’s a hero!” Then she flung down her crumpled paper napkin and ran upstairs, where she slammed her bedroom door.

  “I think she really likes him,” Zoe said, finishing off her piece of pizza and reaching for another.

  “I think you’re right,” Lucy said, deciding this could definitely be a problem. “Bill, would you please pass the salad?”

  After dinner, Bill buried himself in his attic office with the FinCom papers and Lucy got ready to go to rehearsal. Sara didn’t answer when she knocked on her door, asking if she wanted a ride anywhere, but Zoe asked to be dropped at her friend Izzy’s house.

  Lucy was a few minutes late when she got to the church hall, but the rehearsal hadn’t started yet. Bob was conferring with Al Roberts on the stage; the scenery hadn’t been replaced but was lying on the stage floor in a neat stack. Rachel was seated alone, going over the script, and a chattering group had gathered around Florence, who was holding court at the back of the room.

  Lucy took a seat beside Rachel, who cast her eyes in Florence’s direction. “You’d think she was the star of the show,” she muttered.

  “She’s just one of those people who’s got a big personality,” Lucy said. “Bob doesn’t even seem to notice her.”

  “He knows he better not,” Rachel growled, causing Lucy to laugh.

  “I don’t think it’s very funny,” Rachel said, standing up and clapping her hands. “Places everyone! We’re taking it from the top!”

  Lucy watched the opening scene, set in Scrooge’s office, but when the actor playing Bob Cratchit began stumbling over his lines and had to be coached, she found it tedious and began looking for some distraction. Spotting Marge Culpepper sitting a few rows over, knitting a pair of mittens, she went to join her.

  “I hope those are for the Hat and Mitten Fund tree,” Lucy said, referring to a tree in the post office that was decorated with donated hats and mittens.

  “You know it,” Marge said. “I’ve made six pairs, and I’m aiming for ten.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I like to keep busy at these rehearsals,” Marge said.

  “Maybe I’ll take up knitting, too.” Lucy was marveling at Rachel’s patience when Bob Cratchit got his lines mixed up for the fourth time. “How’s Barney?” she asked.

  “Still helping the state cops with the bomb investigation,” Marge said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They’re looking at that college radical, that Seth Lesinski. They think he might have ties to terrorists.”

  “He’s ex-army,” Lucy said. “I think he’s the last person. . . .”

  “You never know,” Marge whispered, transferring some stitches onto a stitch holder. “It’s hard for vets. Eddie had his troubles,” she said, referring to her son, who struggled with drugs as a returning vet. “Sometimes they go a little screwy, get mixed up and start to sympathize with the enemy.”

  “That seems very unlikely to me,” Lucy said, hearing her voice called. “I gotta go—it’s my big scene.”

  “Break a leg,” Marge said.

  “Not funny,” Lucy said, taking her place on stage with Tiny Tim. It was a brief scene, over in a minute or two, and when she exited Lucy found Al Roberts watching in the wings.

  “How was I?” she asked.

  Her question startled Al, and she realized he’d been lost in his thoughts. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t watching.”

  “You must have a lot on your mind,” Lucy said sympathetically. “How’s Angie doing?”

  “Not very good.” He looked older than she remembered, and terribly tired.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lucy said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  He shrugged. “They’re doing everything they can at the hospital, but Lexie says they haven’t got a match for her kidney and every day that goes by . . .”

  “I know,” Lucy said, biting her lip.

  “I want to see her before . . . you know. She might not have very long.”

  Lucy wondered why he didn’t just go. There was nothing keeping him here in Tinker’s Cove that couldn’t wait. “Why don’t you go to Portland?” she asked.

  “My truck needs a starter . . . and then the gas. It’s pretty old, only gets about eleven miles to the gallon, and what with gas up over four dollars. . . .”

  “Take my car,” Lucy offered. “I’ll catch a ride home with someone. No problem. I’ll give you my gas card. Go.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” Al said, shaking his head. A number of cast members had gathered around them, waiting for their cues.

  “Of course you can,” Lucy said. “Let me get the keys for you. Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “No, I don’t—” Al protested, but Lucy was already down the steps and hurrying to the chair where she’d left her purse. When she got back, Al stubbornly refused to take her keys.

  “Please. It’s the least I can do.” She noticed Florence, who was standing nearby. “Florence will give me a ride home, won’t
you, Florence?”

  “Sure,” Florence replied. “Have you got car trouble?”

  “No. I’m trying to get Al to take my car so he can visit his granddaughter in the hospital in Portland.”

  “Doesn’t he have his own car?” Florence asked. Others had heard the conversation and were beginning to pay attention.

  “Got car trouble, Al?” Bob asked.

  “I know a great mechanic,” Florence offered.

  Al was distinctly uncomfortable with all the attention. His face was turning red and he was fidgeting restlessly, looking for an out. “I’ve got it under control,” he said.

  “Listen, if you need gas money, we can pass the hat,” Florence suggested. “All for one and one for all—isn’t that how it goes?”

  “Sure,” Marge said. “Angie should see her grandpa.”

  The group had surrounded Al, whose eyes had taken on a glazed look Lucy had recently seen on an aged lion surrounded by hyenas in a nature film on TV. “The man needs air,” Lucy said, trying to give him an exit. Nobody paid attention; they were all digging in their purses and pockets for spare cash.

  “Here, I’ve got five,” Florence said, offering Al a neatly folded bill.

  “Keep it!” he snarled, and everybody fell still. “I don’t want help, not from any of you and especially not from her,” he declared, pointing at Florence. Then he turned and stormed out of the hall.

  Speechless, they all watched him go.

  “What was that all about?” Florence asked.

  “Downeast is foreclosing on his house,” Lucy said. “I saw the notice today.”

  “Oh.” Florence looked puzzled. “But why does he blame me?”

  “Because of your uncle,” Lucy suggested.

  “Well, that’s not her fault,” Bob declared, defending Florence. “That’s a legal matter between Al and Downeast. It’s nothing to do with Florence.”

  Something brushed Lucy’s shoulder, and she realized Rachel was standing beside her, leaning close. “Damn,” she whispered, in Lucy’s ear.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Lucy said, not sure but hoping it was.