by Leslie Meier
They were standing by the front door, and Coach Buck extended his hand. Lucy took it, finding his grasp warm and strong. He smiled and Lucy found herself gazing into his eyes, eyes that convinced her he had nothing to hide. Reassured that the players were in good hands, she said good-bye and headed for her car. It wasn’t until she was back at the paper and got a call from Willie Westwood that her doubts began to grow again.
“Lucy, I just thought I ought to let you know that Sara seemed edgy today when I picked her up to take her to practice. In fact, I had to stop the car so she could throw up.”
“Maybe it’s the flu,” said Lucy. “Did you take her home?”
“I tried, but she insisted on going to practice. I’m sorry to bother you at work but I thought you should know.”
“Not at all. Thanks for calling.”
After the call Lucy tried to concentrate on the task at hand, the list of mortgage rates offered by local banks that ran every week, but found her mind drifting back to the uncomfortable few minutes she’d spent in the weight room. She was beginning to wish that Sara had gone out for girls’ soccer or volleyball instead of cheerleading.
Chapter 7
Concerned about Willie’s warning, Lucy watched Sara closely all week for signs that something was troubling her but, if there was, Sara was adept at concealing it. And when she drove her to the school on Saturday morning for the traditional preseason game against the Northport Fish Hawks, there was no indication she was anything but excited. Perhaps too excited, fretted Lucy. This year the game was in Northport and the cheerleaders would be riding the bus with the varsity team. After the anonymous letters and her experience in the weight room she wasn’t all that happy about her freshman daughter riding with the varsity players, mostly juniors and seniors, but the younger JV team had no cheerleaders.
Despite her concerns, Lucy had to admit Sara looked adorable in her outfit, a short skirt and tank top in the team colors of red and white. She’d tied her hair up in a perky pony tail and was practically bouncing in her seat when Lucy pulled into the Westwoods’ driveway. As usual, several cats were sunning and grooming themselves in various spots on the warm asphalt, and the dog, an aged golden retriever, ran out to greet them. There was no sign of the controversial pot-bellied pig; Lucy supposed it was kept in a pen of some sort. Or perhaps it was an indoor pet. She figured she’d make its acquaintance one of these days.
Sassie was excited, too, and as soon as she jumped in the car the girls began practicing their cheers. Lucy would have liked to ask them about the boys on the team, and warn them to sit together on the bus, but she couldn’t get a word in edgewise. There wasn’t even time to say good-bye when she pulled up at the high school; the girls were out of the car the second it stopped.
As she watched them run to the bus, their shiny white saddle shoes gleaming in the sunlight, she figured something was definitely up. Her highly sophisticated maternal radar could detect when the anti-parental defense shield was in operation, but her shield-piercing missile was unfortunately still in development. She hoped to have it operational by the time Zoe was in high school.
Lucy’s mind was miles away, trying to think of a tactic that would get Sara to open up, when she arrived at the outlet mall with three hundred and sixty individually-wrapped gourmet dog biscuits. The sale was scheduled to start at nine, when the mall opened but now, at a few minutes past eight, Chris was already setting up tables.
“Hi, Lucy,” she said, greeting Lucy with a big smile. “I see you’re another early bird.”
“I had to drop my daughter off at the high school. The big Northport game is today and she’s a cheerleader.”
“They grow up fast, don’t they?” said Chris. “I’m trying to decide if public school will be challenging enough for Pear and Apple or whether I should start researching private schools.”
“The public school’s the only game in town, unless you’re considering the Christian academy run by the Revelation Congregation.”
“Christian academy?” Chris was laying colorful sheets over the tables. “I guess that would be okay. We’re Episcopalian.”
“They don’t believe in evolution,” explained Lucy. “They teach something called intelligent design.”
Chris’s eyebrows shot up. “That would hardly prepare Apple and Pear for Harvard or Duke,” she said.
“Hardly,” agreed Lucy. “Where do you want the dog biscuits?”
“At the far end,” said Chris. “There are some signs in my car—would you mind getting them?”
Lucy followed Chris’s instructions and found a stack of professional-looking signs in the back of her SUV. She was carrying them back when she met Frankie, who was toting a big basket of madeleines.
“Oh, Lucy, I’m glad to see you. I can really use some help. My house was the collection point for Prudence Path so my car is full of baked goods.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t like to think how many calories are in there.”
“It’s a pity the car can’t run on them, considering the price of gas,” joked Lucy, placing the signs on the table and heading back to the parking lot. She was carrying several baskets of granola bars when she noticed Sue speeding into the parking lot in her enormous Suburban. She’d stuck a sign in the back window that said: “Yummy Treats. Follow me to the bake sale.”
“Am I late?” she called, leaning out the window.
“No. We’re just setting up.”
“Great. I’ve got Rachel and Pam’s cookies, too. They’re on the afternoon shift.”
“That’s right,” said Chris, consulting her clipboard. “Along with Willie and Bonnie. There are only four in the afternoon because I figured it would be slower.” She was checking off names. “Everybody’s here except Mimi.” She looked at Frankie. “Do you have her Yummy Pumpkin Kisses?”
Frankie shook her head. “No. She was the only one who didn’t bring her cookies over.”
“Did you call her?” demanded Chris.
“No. I figured she’d bring them herself since she was on the morning shift.”
Chris’s tone was accusatory and the sinews in her neck were showing. “Well, she’s not here and the sale is due to start in five minutes.”
People were already starting to gather at the sale tables, attracted no doubt by the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. Chris had borrowed a huge pot used for the coffee hour that followed Sunday morning services at her church and it was proving a big draw.
“Well, we have to open up without her,” said Frankie, with a shrug. “These people aren’t going to wait forever and we don’t want to lose them to the food court.”
“We need Mimi,” insisted Chris, a note of panic in her voice. “There are too many people. We’re not going to be able to manage without her.”
“Calm down,” said Lucy. “It’s a bake sale. People will understand.”
Chris was checking her watch. “I know. We’ve got a few minutes before we officially open. Lucy, will you go and see what’s keeping Mimi—and her Yummy Pumpkin Kisses?”
“Me?” Lucy was reluctant; she was hardly on the best of terms with Mimi.
“I think it would be best,” snapped Chris. “After all, Sue doesn’t know where she lives and her car is a good advertisement for the sale. Frankie’s already pouring coffee and I need to stay and make sure everything runs smoothly.”
“Okay,” said Lucy, overwhelmed by her argument. “When you put it that way…”
“We don’t have time for this,” snapped Chris, losing patience. “Just go and get back as fast as you can. We need all the help we can get.”
It was true. The people in the line were definitely getting restless. One man had even commented, quite loudly, that the service was better at Dunkin’ Donuts.
“I’ll be as fast as I can,” she promised, running to her car.
Her heart was pounding and she was out of breath when she started the engine and spun out of the parking lot. It was the squeal of the tires that brought her to her senses. She
’d never left rubber in her life and she wasn’t about to start now, not for a bake sale. Chris was a tad overwrought, she thought, slowing to a sedate and legal thirty miles per hour. Just because she was a frustrated housewife who missed her high-powered executive job didn’t mean everybody had to go along for the ride as she turned a simple bake sale into an emotional roller coaster. You’d think she was on some TV reality show or something but as far as Lucy knew Donald Trump wasn’t coming to Tinker’s Cove to point his finger and announce “You’re fired!” if the bake sale didn’t meet its goal.
She was tempted, in fact, to turn right around and go back to the bake sale. She didn’t like being Chris’s messenger girl and she didn’t like checking up on Mimi. The woman worked in the town hall, after all; she’d probably been called in to work an extra shift because somebody was sick or something. Or maybe she had a family emergency. Or maybe she’d decided to go and see Tommy play his first JV game. Whatever it was it wasn’t any of Lucy’s business and she felt uncomfortable playing truant officer.
She hesitated for a minute when she pulled into the Stantons’ driveway, worrying that she might encounter Fred instead of Mimi, then decided she was being silly. If anyone should be embarrassed it was him, for making nasty phone calls. It was too late to leave anyway; by now somebody would surely have noticed her car. She might as well see if Mimi was home and, if she was, politely remind her of the bake sale. She’d make it clear that Chris sent her, that she was in a sense following orders, and was in no way a busybody. Having decided on her approach, Lucy reluctantly got out of the car and immediately noticed the scent of burned sugar.
That explained it, she thought, walking up the drive. Poor Mimi had burned her cookies and was probably frantically mixing up a new batch. Though that would be a big problem for Mimi because making cookies from scratch wasn’t something you could rush. The butter and sugar had to be creamed, the batter had to be thoroughly mixed and you could only fit a couple of pans in the oven at one time. Poor Mimi, thought Lucy, as the scent grew stronger. This batch definitely seemed to be burning, too.
Her eyes were already stinging and she could hear the smoke alarm ringing when she got to the kitchen door. She opened it cautiously and was forced back by a noxious cloud of smoke. She was beginning to think she should go back to the car and call the fire department when the smoke began to thin, thanks to the open door, and she noticed Mimi slumped over the faux-granite island. Minutes, no seconds, counted in a fire and Lucy knew she couldn’t delay. She had to get Mimi out of there, into the fresh air, so she pulled her stretchy jersey T-shirt up over her nose and ran into the smoky room. She immediately began sputtering and coughing but, reassured by the fact she wasn’t hit by a blast of heat, she staggered onward until she reached the island. She bent over Mimi, intending to hook her arms under her armpits to drag her towards the door, when she felt something hard hit her chest. Taking a closer look she noticed Mimi’s eyes, half-open and sightless, and identified the object that had banged her chest. It was the wooden hilt of a large chef’s knife that was protruding from Mimi’s back.
Her mind simply didn’t take it in. Her body did, however, and instinct took over. She found herself outside, on the farmer’s porch, shaking and moaning. She’d wrapped her arms around herself and was rocking back and forth, fighting waves of nausea until, once again, her body took over and she threw up into a brightly colored Mexican pot of geraniums. Feeling marginally better, she sat down on the steps and called 9-1-1.
She knew Chris would expect her to call, she even had her cell phone number on the bake sale instruction sheet that was in the car, but she didn’t move. She sat, shaking and completely drained, concentrating on holding herself together until help arrived. In reality it was only minutes, but it seemed hours before she heard the screech of sirens and the deep honk of the town’s brand new hook and ladder truck. Soon Prudence Path was filled with fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance.
There was very little for any of the helpers to do. EMTs rushed to Mimi’s aid, but there was no help to be given. She was obviously dead and they were not allowed to move the body of a crime victim. All the firefighters could do was turn off the oven and set up fans to clear the smoke.
There was no question Mimi had been murdered. As one EMT said, “She sure didn’t do that to herself.”
The rescuers all knew Mimi, who had been a colleague, after all, and a few were obviously struggling with their emotions. One female firefighter, dwarfed by her helmet, coat and boots, was in tears and several cops were stone-faced, staring straight ahead at nothing. Everybody kept a respectful distance, almost as if keeping vigil over her body. Outside, a couple of officers were stringing yellow crime scene tape from the bushes, but there was no crowd to keep back. Nobody was home on Prudence Path this Saturday morning.
Lucy, who had been instructed to wait for the arrival of the state police investigative team, had moved out of the way and was sitting on the deacon’s bench that Mimi had placed on the farmer’s porch just a few weeks earlier. Still feeling somewhat shaky, she was wondering who had done this terrible thing to Mimi. The first person who came to mind was Mimi’s husband. After all, everybody said Fred Stanton had a terrible temper. She remembered the conversation at the Hat and Mitten Fund meeting, when the Prudence Path neighbors had spoken about the way he used to abuse Mimi. Lucy had received some of his abuse herself when he called up and yelled at her to mind her own business that evening when she’d given Tommy that bottle of Gatorade.
“You’re looking very thoughtful. Have you decided who did it?”
Lucy looked up and saw the familiar face of State Police Detective Lieutenant Horowitz. Summer was almost over, but Horowitz wasn’t sporting a tan. He was pale as ever, dressed in rumpled shirt-sleeves and wrinkled gray pants. His thin brown hair was receding and he was wearing wire-rimmed bifocals.
“When did you start wearing glasses?” asked Lucy.
“When they said I’d have to have one contact lens for distance and one for reading. I couldn’t get the hang of switching from one eye to the other.” He sat beside her. “So tell me what happened.”
Lucy told him about Mimi’s absence from the bake sale and how she’d been sent to get her, only to find her with a knife in her back. “It must have been the husband, don’t you think?”
“I think it could have been anybody, including you,” said Horowitz.
“You’re joking, right?”
“Yeah. You’re a pain in the butt but I never knew you to actually commit murder.” He stood up. “Now I know this is a big news story and all, and I know you’re going to write about it, but I don’t want you starting some cockeyed investigation of your own, okay? Leave the investigating to the professionals.”
“But…” began Lucy.
“No buts. I don’t want to see you with a knife in your back. When you get that urge to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong, just remember how that lady looked, okay?”
Lucy felt a tingling right between her shoulder blades. “Okay,” she said.
He turned to go back in the house, then paused, looking down the cul-de-sac. “Is it always this quiet around here?” he asked. “Where is everybody?”
Lucy considered. “Some of the women are at a bake sale, that’s where I’m supposed to be.” She sniffed. “Mimi, too.” She looked at the houses, neat as pins, each set in the middle of a square of lawn. “He’s a vet, he’s probably at his office and she teaches riding, Saturday morning’s a popular time for lessons,” she said, pointing to the Westwoods’. “Frankie LaChance is a single mom, she’s at the bake sale and her daughter’s at the football game. The Burkharts, they’re across from Frankie, well, he’s the football coach and I don’t know where she is. Maybe shopping for back-to-school clothes for the twins. As for the Cashmans, Chris is at the sale and her husband is probably chauffeuring their kids to computer class or something.” She paused, thinking. “Mimi’s youngest son is on the football team. Fred, that’s
her husband, is probably there. His brother, too.”
“What about your family?” he asked, looking towards Lucy’s house.
Lucy’s face paled. “Bill’s at work, Sara’s at the football game, and Zoe slept over at a friend’s house last night.”
“Your son?” asked Horowitz.
“He doesn’t live with us anymore—he’s on his own now—and Elizabeth’s back at college in Boston.”
“We’ll need their addresses,” he said, going back inside. A few minutes later, an officer sat down on the bench beside her and took her statement, including the addresses, then told her she was free to go. She was sitting in her car, starting the engine, when she saw the men from the medical examiner’s office wheeling out Mimi’s body, encased in black vinyl, on a wheeled stretcher. She sat, silent, watching as they lifted the stretcher over the porch steps and rolled it down the driveway. There was a pause and a jolt as they collapsed first the front legs and then the rear and slid it into the van. Then they got in and drove off. Lucy waited until they were gone before starting the engine.
It was later than she thought, she realized, too late to go back to the bake sale. She had ignored Chris’s calls to her cell phone and they’d finally stopped. There was no way she could tell her what had happened to Mimi—word would have spread like wildfire and impeded the police investigation—and she hadn’t had the energy to think up a plausible lie. Now it was almost one and time for her to head over to the high school to pick up Sara and Sassie.
From the honking procession of cars, with screaming teens leaning out the windows waving streamers in the school colors, and the boisterous attitude of the players and cheerleaders who tumbled out of the two yellow school buses when they arrived in the parking lot, it was obvious the Tinker’s Cove Warriors had carried the day.
She found herself smiling as Sara and Sassie skipped across the asphalt, shaking their pom-poms.
“I guess the Warriors won,” she said, as they slid into the backseat.