'Tis the Season Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that,” Rachel said. “I’m worried about losing Al. The scenery’s not finished.”

  Right, Lucy thought, who didn’t believe her for a minute. “I’ll ask Bill. He can finish it up if Al doesn’t come back.”

  Rachel squeezed her hand. “Thanks,” she said, then clapped her hands smartly. “Places everyone! Act two!”

  * * *

  On Saturday morning Lucy and Molly went to the estate sale at Marlowe’s place. The house was gone, the burned wood hauled away and the cellar hole filled in with dirt, but the huge 1866 barn was untouched by the fire and was still standing. It was also full to bursting with stuff, according to the newspaper ad, which promised: C. 1810 tiger maple Sheraton four-drawer chest, C. 1820 drop-front secretary, empire card table, Civil War-era drum, muffin stand, tilt-top table, and plenty more. What the ad didn’t mention, and what Lucy and Molly soon discovered as they wandered among the pieces of furniture set out on the lawn, was that almost everything was broken and covered with a thick layer of filth.

  “I suppose Bill could fix this,” said Lucy, standing back to study the muffin stand, which was missing a leg.

  “How would you clean it?” Molly asked, her lips pursed in disgust.

  “Oh, lemon oil works wonders,” said Lucy, who was trying to think where she could put the muffin stand.

  “They’re asking twenty dollars,” Molly said, pointing to the orange sticker. “And it’s just the first day of the sale.”

  “You don’t think they’re willing to bargain?” Lucy asked.

  “Not yet,” replied Molly, who’d just heard a woman’s offer of thirty dollars for an enamel-topped kitchen table with a broken drawer, which was firmly refused. The table was priced at fifty dollars, which Lucy thought was wildly optimistic.

  “Let’s keep looking,” Lucy said. “The ad promised old tools and I’d like to find something for Bill. Maybe one of those two-man saws, something he could hang up on the wall in his office.”

  “Maybe you’ll find something inside the barn,” Molly suggested.

  The sale organizers had tried to organize the contents of the barn, but it was a daunting task and most of the stuff was still stacked in piles. Chests of drawers were topped with wooden crates full of junk and topped with three-legged chairs or bushel baskets filled with even more stuff. There were piles of old newspapers and magazines, stacks of moldy books, a child’s rusty tricycle, empty picture frames, and cracked mirrors.

  Spotting an old photo album, long forgotten in the barn, Molly began turning the pages and studying the pictures. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to a pair of women, obviously sisters, dressed in long skirts and hats with enormous brims topped with feathers.

  “They must be relations of some sort,” Lucy guessed. “Maybe even Marlowe’s mother or grandmother.”

  Molly closed the album. “It makes me feel like a ghoul,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” said one of the sale workers, a middle-aged woman who had been helping a customer who wanted to take a closer look at a wicker chair. Once the cobwebby chair had been taken down from its lofty perch, she brushed off her hands. “Marlowe sure doesn’t need this stuff anymore, and to tell the truth, I don’t think he thought much of it when he was alive.”

  “It doesn’t seem so,” Lucy agreed, looking at the vast barn. “So much stuff. Why was he keeping it?”

  “Couldn’t let go of it, that’s my guess,” the woman said. She was wearing a paper nametag that said HELLO in big letters. Her name, Liz, was handwritten in the space beneath. “We see this a lot. You wouldn’t believe the stuff people hang on to.”

  “Such a waste,” Lucy mused. “He had all this stuff but I don’t think he had any friends. And he had pots of money but he lived in squalor.”

  “Well, we’ll make a bit of money out of this sale so he’s doing us some good. His ex-wife—she’s the one who hired us—says she’s donating her share of the proceeds to charity,” Liz said.

  “That’s Ginny Irving?” Lucy asked.

  “Right. She’s a real nice lady,” Liz said. “Do you know her?”

  “I met her at the funeral,” Lucy said, wondering if Ginny might be interested in helping the Cunninghams. She was considering how to approach her when somebody carried off a dressing screen, the faded and stained cloth in tatters, and revealed an old carpenter’s chest.

  “Excuse me,” Lucy said, unable to wait to zero in on her find. “It’s been nice talking to you,” she added, over her shoulder, as she made her way between the piles of furniture. As she went she told herself not to get her hopes up. The chest was probably in dreadful condition and if it wasn’t they would undoubtedly want a fortune for it.

  When she got closer, however, she discovered the chest was made of mahogany, probably by a ship carpenter. It had rope handles and, once she’d wrestled it free of the milk crate of jelly jars and the potato baskets that were sitting on top of it, she realized the interior shelf with compartments for tools was in pristine condition.

  “Those shelves are usually missing,” Molly said, “or broken.”

  “Bill would love this,” Lucy said, feeling a sudden, overwhelming need to possess the chest.

  “There’s no price on it,” Molly observed.

  “What should I offer?” Lucy asked, somewhat breathless with excitement.

  “If it was in a shop, it would be five hundred or more.”

  “It’s not in a shop,” Lucy said. “And it’s filthy. It’s going to take a lot of work to get all this gunk off it.”

  “What’s it worth to you?” Molly asked.

  “A lot,” Lucy admitted. “But I don’t want to pay a lot.”

  “Ask Liz what they want.”

  “But what if they want hundreds?”

  “I haven’t seen anything over a hundred,” said Molly, who had been studying the orange stickers. “Offer seventy-five and see what she says.”

  Lucy’s heart was in her throat as she approached Liz, pointing to the chest in what she hoped was a nonchalant sort of way, and asking if she would take seventy-five dollars. To sweeten the deal, Lucy had the cash in her hand, three twenties, a ten, and a five.

  Liz was busy counting out cash and making change for a woman who was buying several chests of drawers. She glanced at the ship carpenter’s chest, narrowed her eyes, and nodded.

  Lucy handed her the cash, restraining herself from crowing as she waited for Liz to write out a sales slip. Then she and Molly each took one of the rope handles and carried the chest to Lucy’s SUV, where they stowed it in the way back. It was only when they were driving away that Lucy allowed herself to celebrate. “Can you believe it?” she crowed, banging her hand on the steering wheel and shaking her head. “What a find!”

  “Bill will love it,” Molly said.

  “I know! He’ll be so surprised!”

  Toby and Patrick were building a snowman when Lucy and Molly arrived at the house on Prudence Path. Lucy and Molly pitched in, and when the snowman was complete asked Toby for help with the chest. He carried it down to the basement and promised to clean it up.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Lucy said. “I can do it.”

  “I’d like to do it,” Toby said. “Let me. It will be my gift to Dad, too.”

  “Okay,” Lucy agreed, relieved to cross that item off her to-do list.

  When she went home, she tackled a few more items, including calling Ginny Irving about the Cunninghams.

  “Their daughter is terribly sick. She’s only ten, and she’s in the medical center in Portland. It’s difficult for them, what with gas being so expensive and having to buy meals in the cafeteria,” Lucy explained. “As it is they’re in danger of losing their home. It’s a terrible situation and there’s no one they can turn to. The grandfather’s truck needs repairs and his house is in foreclosure.”

  “That’s terrible. I’m happy to give them the money from the estate sale. I’d like to see it go to somebody who
really needs it.”

  “The Cunninghams really need it,” Lucy said. “The Seamen’s Bank has set up an account called the Angel Fund.”

  “Got it,” Ginny said. “When I get the check I’ll forward it to the fund.”

  “Thanks, that’s very generous.”

  “Well, let’s face it: Jake’s life was all about making money and hoarding it. He stopped caring about people. I don’t want him to be remembered as a miser. He was once better than that and that’s how I’d like him to be remembered, as he was when I first knew him.”

  “It’s very sad,” Lucy said.

  “I guess I always hoped that he would change, that he’d mellow when he got older,” Ginny continued. “People sometimes do, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “He never really got the chance,” Lucy said.

  “That’s true.”

  “Have the police made any progress?” Lucy asked.

  “They haven’t told me, if they did,” Ginny said.

  “Did he receive threats before the bombing? Anything like that?”

  “We weren’t close, you know. I didn’t have any contact with him after our divorce and during my second marriage. Then after my husband died I had to manage our money, our investments, so I thought of Jake. That was the basis of our relationship. I’d see him about twice a year and he’d report on how the stocks and things were doing. He didn’t get personal, except the last time I saw him, he seemed to be growing a bit paranoid. He was nervous and edgy and said something like, ‘They’re not gonna get me.’ I asked who, and he didn’t answer, but he said he was keeping a shotgun by his bed.”

  Lucy was genuinely shocked. “Oh, my goodness,” she said.

  “Looking back, it seems he wasn’t paranoid at all,” Ginny said. “It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Lucy got to work Monday morning the first thing she did, after flipping the CLOSED sign on the door to OPEN and adjusting the ancient wood venetian blinds to let in some weak winter sunshine, was call the Tinker’s Cove Police Department and ask to speak to the chief. Jim Kirwan was polite as always, but Lucy knew it would be a challenge to get any information out of him.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Lucy said.

  “And the family?”

  “Everybody’s fine.”

  “Is your oldest—the one in Florida, that’s Elizabeth, right? Is she coming home for Christmas?” he asked.

  “Elizabeth has to work on Christmas, but she’s coming home the day after.”

  “So I suppose you’ll be having two Christmases,” the chief said.

  “I’m really looking forward to seeing her. It’s been six months since her last visit,” Lucy admitted. “But that’s not the reason I called. . . .”

  “I didn’t suppose it was,” the chief said, switching to his official voice.

  “I had a little chat with Virginia Irving on Saturday, after the estate sale at Marlowe’s place, and she said that Jake Marlowe was extremely paranoid in his last weeks and that he kept a shotgun by his bed. He seemed to think someone was out to get him.”

  “These old folks tend to be a bit paranoid,” the chief said. “I have one old lady who calls me at least once a week, convinced someone has stolen her silver tea service. I send an officer over and it’s always in the same place; she just put it away in a closet to keep it safe and forgot where she hid it.”

  “Well, this is a little different,” Lucy said, wondering how stupid the chief thought she was. “Somebody really was out to get Jake Marlowe, and succeeded! It sounds to me as if he’d been receiving threats. He knew he was in danger and he was afraid. So what I’m wondering is whether he reported these threats to your department. Did he?”

  “That sort of thing would be confidential,” Kirwan said, sounding even more official. “Department policy.”

  Lucy figured this meant Marlowe had indeed filed a complaint with the department. “I can understand the need for confidentiality when people are alive, but now that he’s dead, I don’t see how it matters,” Lucy said. “Everybody knows that somebody really had it out for Jake Marlowe.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy, but policy is policy. I can’t start making exceptions—that’s a slippery slope.”

  “How long ago did the threats start?” Lucy asked. “Did he have any idea who was making them?”

  “I haven’t confirmed or denied any action that Jake Marlowe may or may not have taken in regard to this department,” Kirwan said.

  “Can I quote you on that?” Lucy asked in a sarcastic tone. She really hated when public officials resorted to speaking in officialese.

  “Yes, you may,” the chief said. “You can also say that the investigation is continuing and we are cooperating with the state police and the fire marshal’s office. And this department is committed to following every lead and will not give up until the person or persons who committed this despicable act are identified. The safety and security of every Tinker’s Cove resident is this department’s primary concern.”

  “Is this an exclusive?” Lucy scoffed. “Shall I stop the presses?”

  “That would be your decision,” the chief said. “Nice talking to you.”

  “Same here,” Lucy said, but her tone of voice made it clear that she didn’t really mean it. Not that she’d actually expected to get much out of the chief.

  She typed up a few inches, quoting the chief word for word, and sat for a few minutes staring at the computer screen. Then, impulsively shoving her chair back, she hopped to her feet, grabbed her coat, and shoved her hat onto her head and headed over to the Downeast Mortgage office, pulling on her gloves as she went.

  Elsie Morehouse wasn’t thrilled to see her. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, adding a sniff that made Lucy wonder if she’d forgotten to use deodorant that morning. “Mr. Scribner is not in.”

  “I actually wanted to talk to you,” Lucy said, grasping at straws.

  “I can’t imagine why,” Elsie said, “unless you wish to apply for a loan.” Her tone of voice made it quite clear that she doubted Lucy would qualify.

  “Not today, thank you,” Lucy said, finding that annoying Elsie was rather enjoyable. “No, I came because I heard a rumor that Mr. Marlowe had received death threats before the bombing. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say anything about that,” Elsie said, stiffening her back.

  “Why ever not?” Lucy asked.

  “The police said I wasn’t to say anything to anyone about Mr. Marlowe, and especially not to the media.”

  “I’m not the media,” Lucy said. “I’m just the little local paper. The Pennysaver is more like a community newsletter, like a nice, chatty note you might get from your aunt, or what your neighbor might say over the fence.”

  Elsie’s face hardened and her permanent curls actually seemed to tighten. “I’m not a fool, Lucy. I know that whatever goes in the Pennysaver can be picked up by the Portland and Boston papers, and could even go on TV. And that’s why I’m not going to say anything, because I don’t want to get in trouble with the police.”

  “Who’s in trouble with the police?” Ben Scribner demanded, entering the office.

  “No one’s in trouble,” Lucy said. “I’m just trying to track down a rumor about Jake Marlowe.”

  “Marlowe’s dead,” Scribner said.

  “But . . . but . . .” Lucy sputtered, as he walked right past her and into his office, closing the door.

  Elsie peered at her over her half glasses. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She managed to give the impression that in her view Lucy was little more than a lazy layabout.

  Lucy nodded, staring at the closed door. “Right, well, thanks for your time.”

  When she got back to the Pennysaver office she found Phyllis had arrived and was sitting at her desk behind the reception counter. “Did you have a nice weekend?” she asked, as Lucy h
ung up her coat.

  “Yeah, I got a terrific ship carpenter’s chest at the Marlowe estate sale. I’m giving it to Bill for Christmas. What about you?”

  “I was there, too. I must’ve missed you.”

  “Did you buy anything?”

  “I didn’t find anything. It was all filthy and terrible. What a way to live, huh? And him so rich. Makes you think.”

  “It sure does,” Lucy said, settling in at her desk and moving on to the Seth Lesinski story. She began the way she usually did, reading through her notes and highlighting a few quotes, organizing her thoughts. She knew it was important to be impartial and not to let her own feelings about the campus organizer color the story; the fact that her daughter seemed to be enamored of him was hardly relevant to the average reader. But she found herself recoiling when she read his prediction about violence, when he said, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see more violence. That’s what happens when people run out of options. They get desperate. When hope runs out, that’s when there’s trouble.”

  She sat there, her yellow highlighter pen in her hand, staring at the words. He’d really said them. She remembered the wolfish gleam in his eye and the casual way he’d tossed off the prediction. As if violence was inevitable, even natural to him. And she supposed it would be, after several tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Sara saw him as a committed social activist, as someone who wanted changes that would improve people’s lives. He said he wanted economic justice for everyone, which was hard to argue against. Lucy herself believed in the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. She figured that applied to economics, too, and that in a wealthy, civilized country like the United States everyone ought to have their basic needs met. She didn’t want to go hungry and she didn’t want other people to, either. She wanted a roof over her head and education for her children—those were things that everyone should have.

  She was well aware that some people in Tinker’s Cove were struggling financially, and sometimes weren’t able to obtain basic necessities for themselves and their families. That’s why she and her friends worked hard to raise money for the Hat and Mitten Fund, which provided warm clothes and school supplies for local kids. She wrote sympathetic stories about regional charities in hopes that readers would support them, and she was among the first to write a check for a good cause. She carried her beliefs into the voting booth, too, and voted for candidates whose views were most like her own. She also encouraged her children to volunteer their time to help others who were less fortunate and, she admitted to herself, at heart she was proud of Sara’s social activism.