Tippy Toe Murder

by Leslie Meier

  She hardly ever shopped at Slack’s. The place was an absolute relic and the prices were outrageous. But today she didn’t have the time or the energy to drive thirty miles to Portland just to buy a bag of fertilizer.

  The store was a fixture on Main Street. In fact, some people believed Tinker’s Cove had been named after the first Slack, a tinsmith named Ephraim. While some Chamber of Commerce members would have eagerly seized on such a link to the past, cultivating an old-fashioned atmosphere for the benefit of the tourists who arrived in droves every summer, Morrill Slack never even considered it. His store was old-fashioned because he was too cheap to modernize it.

  Nothing newfangled here, thought Lucy, glancing around. This was not the sort of hardware store that sold salad spinners. Nails were still kept in wooden kegs and sold by the pound. Little wooden drawers behind the long counter were filled with nuts and bolts, and customers had to ask for what they wanted. Pity the poor soul who didn’t know a wood screw from a machine screw or a female fitting from a male. If you didn’t know exactly what you wanted, and weren’t prepared to pay retail plus for it, Morrill Slack certainly wasn’t going to waste his time helping you.

  “Hi, Lucy,” said Franny Small, the round-faced little cashier. Everyone in town knew Franny; whenever illness or tragedy struck, Franny followed, bringing a foil-covered dish of Austrian ravioli. Franny was thirty-five years old, lived with her mother, and had worked in the store for years.

  “Gosh, it seems so quiet in town it’s almost spooky. Where’d everybody go?”

  “After that bomb scare at Kennebunkport on Saturday they all cleared out real fast,” said Franny. “It’s kind of a relief, really. I got sick of being interviewed, especially since I didn’t have anything to say. Of course, they were all after Mr. Slack ‘cause he’s Caro’s neighbor and all, but they didn’t get much from him, that’s for sure. He finally put a sign up. Did you see it? Told me not to let any reporters in the store.”

  “No reporters interviewed me,” said Lucy, “but the police did. Barney Culpepper came by, along with that state detective, Horowitz, but I couldn’t tell them much. I saw Caro a week ago Friday, walking George as usual. I slept in a bit on the weekend, so I don’t know if she went walking or not. Last Monday was the first time I missed her. They’ve had search parties and dogs all over the woods and down to the pond, but they haven’t found any sign of her.”

  “And now they’ve stopped searching,” said Franny.

  “I’m sure they’ve got bulletins out,” speculated Lucy. “They’re probably contacting police departments all over the country.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” said Sue Finch, appearing from behind the paint display and setting a quart of white enamel on the counter. “Got to paint the Adirondack chairs,” she explained, smiling a greeting to Lucy.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lucy. “Why don’t you think they’ll keep looking for her?”

  “She’s an old woman with one foot already in the grave. Old women are practically disposable.”

  “Sue, that doesn’t sound like you!” Lucy was shocked.

  “I’ve been volunteering over at the women’s shelter in Portland and I guess it’s getting to me.” Sue shrugged and pulled a rather elegant French purse out of the leather backpack she used as a shoulder bag. Sue had a natural flair for clothes and accessories that Lucy admired but had long ago given up trying to emulate. It took too much energy.

  “It’s an epidemic,” she continued angrily. “Women beaten, raped, killed, and by the time the police and the courts do anything, it’s almost always too late.”

  Franny fumbled taking the bill Sue proffered, and her face suddenly lost its color. While Franny was occupied ringing up the paint on the antique cash register, Lucy shot Sue a warning glance, then placed her order.

  “Franny, I need a bag of five-ten-five for the garden. Have you got any?”

  “Sure. Let me have Ben put that in the car for you. You shouldn’t be lugging around heavy bags of fertilizer.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, reaching around to rub her aching back. In answer to Franny’s call, a scruffy, skinny teenager appeared from the back room. He was dressed in the uniform of his tribe: long, baggy shorts and an oversized Guns ‘N Roses T-shirt. He was wearing an extremely expensive pair of athletic shoes, the same style that Lucy’s son Toby had unsuccessfully begged her to buy for him. An officially licensed Red Sox cap sat on his closely shaved head.

  “Whatcha want?” he asked Franny. There was a hint of defiance, or maybe just defensiveness, in his stare.

  “Mrs. Stone wants fifty pounds of fertilizer—it’s the green bag over there. You can put it in the silver Subaru out front.”

  “I’m supposed to be sweeping the back room,” he said, shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the other.

  “This will only take a minute,” said Franny mildly. “You can hardly expect Mrs. Stone to lift it, in her condition.”

  The women were amused to see a blush spread over Ben’s pimply cheeks, and watched as he shuffled over to the neatly stacked bags of fertilizer and hoisted one onto his shoulder. When the door finally slammed behind him, Franny spoke.

  “He’s Mr. Slack’s grandson,” she said, tilting her head toward a door containing a pane of frosted glass marked “Office” in peeling black letters. “He’s been coming in to help out for the past two weeks. The old man’s thrilled to pieces that he’s taking an interest in the business. Let’s see, that’ll be six ninety- five.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Lucy, raising her eyebrows. “It was only two ninety-nine in the K mart flyer.”

  “I don’t know what K mart is charging,” announced Morrill Slack, who had suddenly appeared in the office doorway. Dressed in a sober black suit and a snowy-white starched shirt, he looked like an apparition from the past. “I do know that my price is six ninety-five, take it or leave it.”

  The old man took his heavy gold pocket watch out of his vest pocket and stroked it lovingly with his large, flattish fingers before flipping open the lid to check the time. He shut it with a snap and held it in his hand a moment, savoring its heft before replacing it carefully in his vest pocket.

  “Well, do you want the fertilizer or not?” he demanded abruptly, impatiently clicking his dentures back and forth with his tongue. He glared through his wire-rimmed glasses at Lucy and Sue. “You’ve already taken up quite enough of Franny’s time with your gossiping.”

  “Oh, I want it,” said Lucy hastily. “Ben’s already put it in the car. I really appreciate the service.”

  “He’s a fine boy,” observed the old man as he returned to his office.

  Franny allowed herself a moment of rebellion and rolled her eyes for her friends’ benefit before ringing up the transaction.

  “See ya, Franny,” said Sue. She took Lucy’s elbow and steered her out of the store. “Have you got time for a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure,” said Lucy, stepping nimbly to avoid the heavy door. “Good, ‘cause I’m dying to know what that was all about.” “What do you mean?”

  “Why’d Franny act so funny when I mentioned working at the shelter?” They paused at the curb, waiting for a lobster truck to rumble by, then crossed to Jake’s Donut Shop.

  “Franny was a battered wife,” said Lucy as the two settled down at a table.

  “Franny?” exclaimed Sue. “I can’t believe it. I never even knew she’d been married.”

  “It was a long time ago, fifteen years or more. Bill and I had just moved here. It was quite a scandal. He died falling down the stairs, and some people thought Franny gave him a push.” “Franny? I can’t believe it. Was there a trial?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t remember why. Maybe it was an accident. I know he drank a lot. I’m kind of fuzzy on the details, but I do know most people thought he got what he deserved.” She paused to consult the menu. “I can’t decide what to order. Doc Ryder’d kill me if he ever found out I was even in this place.”

&nbs
p; “Lucy, don’t change the subject. Tell me about Franny’s husband.”

  “Honest, Sue, I told you everything I know. It was a long time ago. How many calories do you think a Bavarian crème doughnut has?”

  “Forget calories,” advised Sue with the nonchalance of a perfect size eight. “Pregnancy’s the one time you ought to be able to indulge. Do you have any cravings?”

  “Not really. Mostly I’m just tired. I’m not twenty-five anymore. It’s harder as you get older. My back’s been bothering me this time.”

  “Then you need Jake’s Tiger Milk shake,” advised Sue. “You can hardly taste the brewer’s yeast.”

  “I’ll have a glass of grapefruit juice,” Lucy told the waitress. “And I’ll have iced coffee,” said Sue.

  “So what’s this about working at the women’s shelter? It doesn’t seem like your sort of thing.”

  “I know. I guess my consciousness got raised a little late,” agreed Sue. “Somehow hitting all the sales and snapping up the bargains lost its luster. I wanted to do something, well, I really hate this word, meaningful.”

  “Why don’t you go to work?”

  “Raising two kids, cooking three meals a day, and keeping a clean house doesn’t give you much of a resume,” she said, pausing while the waitress placed their orders on the table. “I thought this might help me get something more interesting than cashiering at the IGA.”

  “Or answering the phones at Country Cousins,” said Lucy, referring to her former job at the giant mail-order company. “Bill swears I got pregnant just so I could quit.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No. He’s right. But next time I’m going to sign up for a course. It’s gotta be easier on the back.”

  The two women shared a laugh and sipped their drinks. Sue poured some milk into her iced coffee and watched it swirl through the dark liquid.

  “I don’t really like it with milk, but I can’t resist seeing it change color like that,” she admitted. “Lucy, you love a good mystery. What do you think happened to Caro?”

  “I don’t know. It’s scary, isn’t it? I think about her all the time. She was so nice, you know?”

  “Do you think she was murdered or something?” “According to Barney Culpepper there’s no sign of any foul play. The police think she either went away of her own accord, on a trip or something, or she killed herself. He said they’re not seriously considering suicide, since no body’s been found.” “Sounds to me like they’re just making excuses. Do you think they’re really looking for her?”

  “I think they’ve done as much as they can. A case like this really needs a full-time investigator.”

  “Someone like you?” asked Sue with a mischievous smile.

  “I don’t think so,” said Lucy slowly. “Bill’s been difficult enough lately. He’d have a fit if I started playing detective again.”

  “Are you two having problems?” Sue’s tone was sympathetic. Lucy shrugged. “You know how it is. We didn’t plan this pregnancy—it just happened. I know he’s worried about money. I mean, he’s a carpenter and this will be our fourth kid. It’s more than that, though. There’s no time anymore just for us. Little League practices, ballet lessons, PTA meetings. There’s always something. I can’t blame him for losing his temper now and then.”

  “Does he hit you?” asked Sue in a low voice.

  “No!” exclaimed Lucy. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “I’m warning you, Lucy, it’s a continuum.” Sue drew an imaginary line with her fingers. “At one end there’s verbal abuse, then there’s physical abuse, and finally there’s ultimate abuse. That’s when he kills you.”

  “I think I’m safe enough,” said Lucy. “That crisis center seems to be making you awfully cynical.”

  “It’s been an eye opener,” said Sue, shaking her head sadly. “There’s so much abuse. It’s crazy. It’s out of control. One of the advocates told me more women were killed by husbands and lovers during the Vietnam years than soldiers were killed overseas, and it’s getting worse.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Lucy. “Except for Franny, I don’t know any battered wives.”

  “Oh yes you do.”

  Lucy thought for a minute and then leaned forward. “Who?” “I can’t tell you. But believe me, there’s plenty of women afraid for their lives and for their children, right here in Tinker’s Cove.”

  Sue paused and slowly shook her head.

  “The kids, that’s the part that really gets me. Have you seen that story in this morning’s paper? Some poor woman gone to jail rather than hand her kid over to an abusive father. The judge, male, of course, won’t let her out until she tells where the kid is. It makes me so mad. They call it a war against women, but if we fight back they slap us in jail. It’s not fair.” Surprised at her own vehemence, Sue cracked an apologetic smile. “I tend to get carried away on this subject. Oh, well, I gotta go, Lucy. I didn’t realize it was so late. The plumber’s coming at eleven and I don’t want to miss him.”

  “That’s okay,” said Lucy. “I’ll get the check.”

  She watched her friend leave the coffee shop, and then made her way slowly to the cash register. She knew she had no business feeling light-headed, she’d just had a glass of juice, but for a moment the floor tilted crazily beneath her. Home ought to be a safe place, a haven.

  “Is everything okay?” asked the cashier, a motherly woman with her gray curls confined in a hair net.

  “I must have stood up too fast,” said Lucy, reaching in her purse. Where would she go, she wondered as she waited for her change, if she couldn’t go home?

  3

  There is no charge for the performance—donations welcome.

  The store was quiet after Sue and Lucy left. Franny perched on her stool behind the counter and leafed through a pile of old invoices. She could hear an occasional humph from Mr. Slack in his office, and she heard Ben knocking around in the back room, where he was supposed to be sweeping.

  Franny wasn’t as happy about Ben’s coming to work in the store as his grandfather was. In the past she’d pretty much had the place to herself, but now that the boy was coming in, the old man was constantly popping out of his office and interfering.

  Through the years, although she was officially only a cashier, she’d gradually taken over the running of the business. She was used to having things her way, and she resented Ben’s presence.

  To give him his due, the boy really seemed to take to the business. He had a way of stroking various items, as he put them on the display shelves or stowed them in drawers, that reminded her of his grandfather.

  Perhaps it was one of those family traits that get passed along, but it was unnerving to see the teenager working his big hands the same way the old man did. He even had an oversized nut and bolt he kept in his pocket. He fiddled with them just the way Slack fondled that precious gold pocket watch of his.

  Most upsetting of all, now that Ben was working in the hardware store, his friends had started hanging around. Franny could feel her stomach hardening and twisting into knots when they arrived, pushing and shoving one another and tripping over their huge basketball shoes. It was a wonder they didn’t knock over a display rack or topple one of the neatly stacked pyramids of paint cans. They seemed to be everywhere at once, and she couldn’t possibly keep an eye on all of them.

  Actually, she was a little afraid of them. While they dressed like kids, she knew they were actually young men. They were bigger than she was and full of rough male energy.

  From what she observed it seemed Ben was their leader and they were reporting to him. She was sure they were up to no good. Their whispered conversation was full of winks and nudges, and they constantly checked over their shoulders to see if they were being overheard. She tried to keep her distance, but if she had to approach them to help a customer, she noticed they would move away or fall silent. Whenever Mr. Slack appeared, they disappeared.

  Returning to the invoices, Franny went th
rough them one more time. She couldn’t understand it. According to the paperwork, the store had received enough batteries to last through the summer, based on her best estimate using last year’s figures. They’d gotten twenty boxes each of AA and D batteries, the most popular sellers, and ten boxes each of the other sizes.

  Last week she’d noticed the display rack was nearly empty, and she’d asked Ben to fill it.

  “Can’t,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes. “They’re all gone.”

  “There should be plenty in the storeroom,” she’d insisted, looking curiously at his two buddies, who were lounging by the paint display. They seemed to find the conversation extremely amusing. “Go check again.”

  “There’s no point. I’m telling you, they’re all gone. Look, I’m taking a break now,” he’d said, signaling his friends to follow him outside.

  Sure enough, she couldn’t find any batteries in the storeroom, either. She was sure they hadn’t been sold; she would have noticed the unusual number of sales and ordered more. Where had they gone?

  It was very disturbing, especially since she’d been having such a hard time lately making up the bank deposit. That was always the first task of the day. She would take the previous day’s take out of the safe and add up the checks and cash, square them with the total sales figure, and fill out the deposit slip. Then Mr. Slack would put the whole business in a blue vinyl zippered pouch and take it to the red-brick bank across the street.

  For the past few weeks, however, she hadn’t been able to get the figures to match, even though she was especially careful whenever she made change. Every morning the cash was five or ten dollars short. She checked and rechecked her figures. She knew she wasn’t making mistakes in addition, and she wasn’t giving out the wrong change.

  Only one answer seemed possible to Franny, especially when she realized the trouble began after Ben came to work in the store. Franny suspected the boy loved the business just a little bit too much and was appropriating some of the merchandise and cash for himself and his friends.