by Leslie Meier
“If she knows there’s a potential problem she can take action,” said Lucy. “She can cook his favorite dinner and wear a sexy nightie to bed.”
“You think it’s that simple?” Sue sounded amused.
Lucy bit her lip. In her experience, men were that simple. She and Bill had been married for over twenty-five years and there hadn’t been much that a meat loaf dinner and a scented candle in the bedroom couldn’t fix, but maybe she was just lucky. “It’s worth a try,” she said.
“I guess I can send up a test balloon and see if she’s worried,” said Sue.
“That’s a good idea—but you better be careful. Use tact.”
“Of course,” said Sue, sounding a bit miffed. “By the way, have you been thinking about the dessert contest? It’s just around the corner. Have you come up with any ideas?”
“Not really. Besides, I’m on a diet.”
“And I told you to make a diet dessert,” said Sue. “There’s plenty of recipes on the Internet.” Lucy heard a distant childish wail. “Gotta go,” said Sue.
Lucy sat for a minute, holding her phone and scowling. Things were not going well. She sighed and looked out the window. It wasn’t an inspiring sight. The street was filled with filthy snow, the sky was gray, it was so dark, in fact, that the street lights were still on and it was almost noon. She was thinking that if she had a gun she’d probably shoot herself, when she noticed Bill’s red pickup truck going down the street. Impulsively, she punched in his cell phone number.
“Hey,” he said.
“I saw you driving by.”
“I’m done for the day. I thought I’d head home and have some lunch.”
“Want some company?”
“Sure.”
When Lucy got home, she found Bill was already heating up a can of soup on the stove and mixing up some tuna salad for sandwiches. A bowl of chips was on the table and she took one, then remembered her diet and put it back. “I hate myself,” she said, collapsing in a chair.
“It’s that sort of day,” said Bill, unwrapping a loaf of bread. “Do you want a whole sandwich or a half?”
Despite herself, Lucy was smiling. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
“What? I noticed you’ve been skipping seconds and desserts and only been eating half-sandwiches lately.”
She stood behind him, resting her cheek on his back and slipping her arms around his waist. “I’ve been trying to exercise, but it’s hard this time of year.”
Bill was about to pull some slices of bread out of the plastic bag but stopped. “I know how you can get some exercise,” he said, with a wink.
“I might not have the right clothes, or the right equipment,” said Lucy.
“Don’t worry,” said Bill, turning off the stove and taking her hand. “You don’t need any clothes—and I happen to know you’ve got the right equipment.”
“Oo-oh,” said Lucy, following as he drew her upstairs.
An hour or so later, Lucy found her mood was much improved as she finished her one-hundred-calorie bowl of soup and half-sandwich lunch. “I’m not happy about Zoe working at Chanticleer Chocolate,” she told Bill, putting down her soup spoon. “I don’t think Tamzin is a good influence.”
Bill grinned at her. “What have you heard?”
“It isn’t what I’ve heard—it’s what I saw. I caught her in a compromising position with one of our upstanding citizens.”
“As long as he was upstanding, I don’t see the problem.” He smiled at her. “Come to think of it, you’re no stranger to compromising positions.”
Lucy still felt warm all over. “We’re married.”
“Good thing,” said Bill, scratching Libby behind her ears. The dog was hoping a few leftover scraps might come her way. “Otherwise what we just did would be very wrong.”
“I’m no prude ... ,” began Lucy.
“I’ll say,” said Bill, with a leer.
“That woman’s trouble and I don’t want Zoe around her.”
“From what I’ve heard, she’s pretty harmless,” said Bill, clearing the table and carrying the dishes over to the dishwasher. “You can’t blame a fellow for looking, especially when you consider what most of the wives around here look like. Even if they’ve got nice figures, they hide them in baggy sweatpants. They don’t even try to look good.”
“That’s no excuse for infidelity,” said Lucy.
Bill closed the dishwasher door and leaned against it, crossing his arms. “She puts on a good show, but from what I’ve heard that’s as far as it goes.”
“What about Max? I heard they were seeing each other.” Lucy gave him a look. “I bet you didn’t know she’s got a black belt in tae kwan do, did you?”
Bill rolled his eyes and grinned. “Don’t tell me you think she’s some sort of black widow killer?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s certainly able to overpower a man, especially a drunk one. And she seems to be morally challenged. Look at the way she went behind our backs to hire Zoe.”
“That’s hardly the same thing as committing murder. Besides, I don’t think Max was interested in Tamzin. I heard he and Dora were seeing a lot of each other.”
Libby gave a little yip, and Bill looked out the window as the mailman drove up to their box. “Mail’s here.”
Lucy watched as he went down the driveway, without his coat. Men were so silly. And blind. Didn’t he see it? If Max had left Tamzin and gone back to Dora, Tamzin would have been hurt and angry. Maybe even angry enough to kill him.
That afternoon, instead of simply parking out front and waiting for Sara and Renee, Lucy went inside Fern’s Famous, hoping to have a word with Dora about Max. The police might consider his death an accident, but she wasn’t satisfied and she knew Dora had her suspicions, too. But instead of Dora, she found Flora behind the cash register. Her salt and pepper hair was cut in a neat bob, gold granny glasses perched on her nose, and she was wearing a red-and-white-striped smock with the Fern’s Famous logo embroidered on the pocket. Her complexion was fresh and smooth, belying her sixty-odd years, and Lucy wondered if chocolate had something to do with it. Dark chocolate, anyway, was supposed to promote good health.
“The girls’ll be out in a minute,” she said, with a little nod. “Dora’s got them packing up Valentine’s Day orders.”
“I’m not in a hurry,” said Lucy, glancing around the shop. Unlike Chanticleer Chocolate, with its mood lighting and artful displays, Fern’s was bright and white and the trays of fudge were kept free of contamination in a huge glass case. The atmosphere was almost clinical, and a vintage poster with two apple-cheeked children and a smiling Holstein nibbling a daisy declared, WE USE ONLY THE PUREST FARM-FRESH INGREDIENTS.
“Sara’s a good worker,” said Flora, pulling out a tray of penuche and realigning the little cubes with a gloved hand.
“That’s nice to hear,” said Lucy. “How’s Dora doing?”
“About like you’d expect, I guess,” said Flora. “Lily’s the one I’m worried about. She really misses her dad. They spent a lot of time together.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Lucy. “I guess I thought she’d be closer to her mom.”
Flora slid the tray back in place. “Oh, she is. They had shared custody, so she spent time with both of them. I don’t approve of divorce, but I have to say they were very amicable. They got along better after the divorce, really, and I have to give Max credit for being an excellent father. He taught Lily to fish and hunt and ski, turned her into a real outdoors person.”
Lucy thought of the beautiful, ethereal girl she’d seen in the shop so often. “She looks so fragile,” she said.
Flora laughed. “That fragile creature is a hell of a shot. We’ve been eating venison all winter, thanks to her. And she didn’t just shoot it. Max made sure she hung it and dressed it proper.”
Lucy figured her own girls’ reaction to a job like that would be a big Eeeuw.
“She’s a good cook, too,” continued F
lora. “Not only killed the beast but cooked it, too. Ragout, she calls it, but I think it’s just a fancy word for stew.”
“I saw her with Eddie Culpepper—do you think they’re serious?”
“I hope not. She’s way too young for that,” snapped Flora, looking up as Renee and Sara came through the door from the rear of the shop. “Well, here’re your girls. See you tomorrow.”
For some reason that Lucy couldn’t understand, Flora’s words sent the two girls into paroxysms of laughter.
“What’s so funny?” asked Lucy, as they all got into the car.
“Nothing,” said Sara, giggling as she fastened her seat belt.
“Flora said you were packing up mail orders,” said Lucy, starting the car and switching on the headlights. “Was it interesting?”
The girls didn’t answer but started laughing again. Something was screamingly funny and Lucy couldn’t help wishing she was in on the joke.
Chapter Nine
Sociologists estimate that forty to fifty percent of American marriages end in divorce and the numbers are even higher for second (sixty-seven percent) and third (seventy-four percent) marriages. Even couples who stay together tend to drift apart, according to a recent survey by the Association of Retired Citizens (ARC), which reported a marked decrease in romance among couples age sixty and older. Some lucky couples, however, defy the odds. Take, for example, Helen and Roger Faircloth, who insist they are still in love after more than forty years of marriage.
Interviewed recently at the Queen Victoria Inn, where the couple is staying while house-hunting in the area, Mr. Faircloth declared, “It’s easy to stay married when you’re in love. ” Beaming at his wife, he added, “She’s every bit as pretty as the day I married her.”
The couple met in London on a double-decker bus in the Swinging Sixties. Mrs. Faircloth was pursuing a modeling career and Roger was a student at the London School of Economics. In the years since....
Lucy flipped through the notes she had taken during her interview with the Faircloths but found them surprisingly thin. She should have written the story up immediately after talking with them, but she’d procrastinated, aware that the deadline for the Love Is Best on the Coast supplement was weeks away. Now it was Wednesday, deadline day, the story was finally due, and she couldn’t remember what happened between their fabled meeting in London and the Connecticut house fire that prompted their decision to relocate to the Maine coast.
“If I can’t have a Wyeth landscape on my wall, I can have one right outside my window.” That was a great quote from Helen, and Lucy certainly planned to use it in her story, but where were the hard facts? What sort of career did Roger have? He certainly didn’t spend forty years gazing at his beloved, like some lovesick swain.
And what about Helen? Did she continue to model? Lucy knew they didn’t have any children; it was their “one regret,” according to Helen. So what did she do for all those years besides dust the antiques and cook gourmet dinners for Roger? They said they’d collected art and antiques, they’d referred to a Goddard highboy, paintings by Warhol and Basquiat, all gone in the fire. “When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade.” That’s what Helen had said in a remarkable display of resiliency.
Lucy considered. They were resilient. Maybe she could do something with that. A quote from a marriage counselor would fill some space, she thought, but she still had a huge hole in the middle of her story. There was no way of getting around it, she had to call the Faircloths for more information. She knew they were still in town, she’d seen them just the other day, walking hand in hand on Main Street.
When she got Roger on his cell phone, he apologized profusely but said it wasn’t a good time to talk.
“This will only take a minute,” Lucy pleaded, glancing across the office at Ted, who was hunched forward, peering at his computer screen and pounding away on his keyboard. “I’m on deadline. If you could just tell me a little about your career... .”
“Sorry. It’s really impossible. I must go, I’m in the middle of a meeting with my realtor.”
“I see. I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Lucy, ending the call.
“That’s no way for a reporter to talk,” snapped Ted, glaring at her from his desk. “Call him back. Say the phone died and cut you off.”
Lucy remembered the set of Roger’s jaw at the Queen Victoria Inn; there was no way she was going to badger him. “He won’t answer,” said Lucy. “He’s in a meeting.”
“I need that story, I’ve got twenty inches to fill,” said Ted.
“I know, I know.” Lucy was already dialing one of her sources, a marriage counselor she’d quoted before. When she got through with him, however, she had only added an inch or two to the story. Maybe Frankie could help her out, she thought, dialing the real estate office. The phone was ringing when Lucy remembered Roger had said he was in a meeting with his realtor.
Much to her surprise, Frankie answered.
“Hi, it’s Lucy. I’m sorry if this is a bad time.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Frankie. “I was just working on some comps—but I’m glad you called. I’ve got a showing later. Can you pick up the girls?”
Sure, no problem,” said Lucy. “So the meeting with the Faircloths is over?”
“What meeting?”
“I just spoke with Roger and he said he was in a meeting with his realtor.”
“Well he wasn’t meeting with me,” said Frankie, “and he better not be meeting with any other realtor, because I have a signed contract with him.”
“Maybe I misunderstood,” said Lucy, who was pretty sure she hadn’t. “You know how I’m writing about them and their amazing love story? Well, I’ve kind of run into a wall and I’m hoping you can help me out.”
“Sure,” said Frankie. “What do you need?”
“Some background. Roger’s career, for example. Stuff like that.”
There was a long pause before Frankie spoke. “Sorry, but all I know is that they used to live in Connecticut and their house burned down. I guess some stuff was saved because they’re always saying they need room for the Duncan Phyfe sideboard and debating where they can hang the large Max Bohm seascape to best advantage.” She sighed. “To tell the truth, I’m getting a little tired of the Faircloths. I have shown them every house in five towns and nothing is quite right. I told them maybe they should build, but they say they want to move into something right away, they don’t want to wait a year while a house is built.”
Lucy knew when she was beat. “Can you give me some warm and fuzzy quotes about how they are still in love?”
“Of course,” said Frankie, “just give me a moment.”
Lucy was listening to Frankie and typing in her flattering description of the Faircloths’ relationship when she remembered that little awkward scene about paying the bill at the Queen Victoria Inn. When she’d finished, she found herself asking Frankie if she thought the couple were genuine.
“What do you mean?” asked Frankie.
“I don’t know. They just seem a bit off. When we had tea at the Queen Vic, the waitress asked Roger to pay cash, something about his credit being cut off. And now, all of a sudden, he doesn’t want to talk to me. It just makes me wonder.”
“That’s the trouble with being a reporter,” said Frankie. “You don’t trust anybody.” She paused. “But they have left the Queen Vic, they said it wasn’t quite up to their standards. They’ve moved to the Salt Aire.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, impressed. She knew the Salt Aire Resort and Spa was strictly top-of-the-line, the most luxurious—and most expensive—hotel in Tinker’s Cove. “I guess I do have a suspicious mind, but it did seem odd for this guy who’s got such very expensive tastes to argue over a restaurant tab.”
“That’s how the very rich are, Lucy,” said Frankie. “Especially the ones with old money. They pinch every penny.”
Lucy thought of some of the summer people who occupied the big shingled “cottages” on Shore Road—they
ran up big bills at shops in town and were slow to pay. It was a common complaint among the local merchants. “I’m sure you’re right,” said Lucy. “Thanks for the quote.”
“Uh, Lucy, talk about trust, I got a real unpleasant surprise last weekend.”
“What happened?”
“I was doing an open house—they’re an older couple, desperate to sell because he’s got cancer and isn’t expected to live long and she can’t keep up the big old place on her own. You probably know them, the Potters.”
“Oh, yeah. They’ve got that nice colonial on School Street.”
“It’s a steal. Needs a little work but a bargain for the right buyer. And they’re such a nice couple, I really want to help them out and get it sold.”
Lucy was wondering where this was going. Was it just a sales pitch? “Yeah, well, I’ll keep it in mind.” Then a thought came to her. “You know Eddie Culpepper is back and he might be looking for an investment... .”
“That’s the weird thing, Lucy. He came, along with Lily Fraser.”
Ah, young love, thought Lucy. It was enough to warm the cockles of your heart. “I guess they’re getting serious.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. When the Potters came home, they discovered his OxyContin had been stolen, right out of the medicine cabinet.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “You don’t think Eddie and Lily took it?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Frankie. “I blame myself. I should have told the Potters to take the meds with them, it just slipped my mind.” She paused. “And I should have kept a closer eye on those kids. I got distracted, an old client of mine came in and we got chatting. I think that’s when it happened, Eddie and Lily were upstairs by themselves.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure,” admitted Frankie. “But I’ve been wracking my brain and that’s the only time I think it could have happened. The bottle was in the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet and they were the only people who were up there without me.”