Tippy Toe Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “She was old. Old people are always wandering off. You read about it in the papers all the time. They’ll find her sooner or later.”

  “Those people have Alzheimer’s. Caro doesn’t, and she’s in great shape, too. I’d love to find out what really happened to her,” said Lucy.

  “What could happen in a place like this?” asked Bill sensibly. “Lucy, I’m sure the police are doing everything they can. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

  “Of course it does. This is where I live,” said Lucy, reddening.

  “You’ve got enough to think about with this baby coming,” reminded Bill. “Mind your own business.”

  Lucy resented this comment, but she didn’t want to fight in front of the children. She kept silent, staring out the window.

  “Hey, Toby, I hear you’re getting an award,” said Bill, using his jovial paterfamilias voice.

  “It wasn’t anything. I didn’t even know I had perfect attendance,” admitted Toby.

  “What do you mean? I’m proud of you. I never had perfect attendance.” Bill got up from the table and laid his plate on the counter. “Almost finished, Toby? Tonight’s the night. I bet you get a home run off that Rockbound Insurance pitcher. I heard he’s only got one pitch, and it’s not even fast.”

  “Go get ‘em, slugger,” said Lucy, giving Toby a quick hug. She knew he hadn’t gotten a good solid hit yet this season and was nervous every time he went up to bat.

  “Are you coming to watch the game, Mom?” he asked hopefully.

  “I don’t think so, honey. I’ve got a lot to do at home tonight. Next time, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, lowering his head and following his father out the door.

  “Mom, when’s the baby coming?” asked Sara.

  “In about three months. Not very long.”

  “Will the baby want to play with my toys?”

  “No, stupid. Babies don’t do anything but eat and sleep, do they, Mom?” said Elizabeth.

  “Don’t insult your sister. If you’re done with supper, how about putting out some food for the cats,” suggested Lucy, turning to brush Sara’s bangs out of her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about the baby,” she told the little girl. “Just think, pretty soon you won’t be the youngest anymore. You’ll be a big sister, too.”

  Sara scooped up a blob of ketchup with her finger and sucked it thoughtfully. Then she hopped down from the table. “I’ll help Elizabeth feed Softy, Mac, and Diana,” she volunteered, proudly naming the family’s three cats before running off. Lucy sat at the table for a minute, slowly shaking her head.

  She knew it would be hard for Sara to adjust to the new baby, and she felt sad about it. Guilt, she thought, the mother’s curse.

  As she scraped the dinner plates and set them in the dishwasher, Lucy’s thoughts turned again to Caroline Hutton. She realized that although she knew all about Caro, she didn’t really know her. She’d seen her around town, she knew where she lived and what car she drove, she greeted her when they met, but she’d never exchanged more than a few words with her. Of course, Lucy was grateful for the fund Caro had established for the purpose of encouraging young dancers. It was thanks to that money, which was administered by the town recreation department, that she could afford ballet lessons for both girls.

  Caro also helped promising local dancers attend Winchester College’s dance program, and one or two had even gone on to join prestigious dance companies. Lucy occasionally picked up the college alumni magazine in the free bin at the library, and she’d been struck by the many fond references the graduates made to Caro. She was obviously one of those rare teachers who was truly committed to her students.

  It seemed incredible to Lucy that a woman so many people cared about could just vanish, and she felt a surge of indignation.

  People matter, she thought, snapping the dishwasher door shut with just a bit too much force and switching it on. A person shouldn’t be allowed to disappear with a perfunctory search and a news conference. What was it Chief Crowley had said? Lucy pawed through the pile of old newspapers stacked in the comer of the kitchen and found the story she wanted, the press conference announcing the suspension of the investigation. There it was, in black and white. “This is one mystery we’ll probably never understand,” the chief was quoted as saying.

  I don’t know about that, thought Lucy. I bet someone who cared, someone who liked to get to the bottom of things, could find out what happened to Caro. The way to start, she decided, would be to have a chat with her friend, Officer Barney Culpepper. The police probably knew more than they were telling.

  Lucy caught herself. I’ve been reading too many mysteries, she decided. Bill’s right. I’ve got enough on my mind. The kids, the baby, they had to be her first priority. She took the pink notice off the refrigerator, where she’d stuck it with a magnet when the girls first brought it home. She read it through, took a deep breath, and called the girls.

  “Put on your costumes so I can sew on the straps,” she told them.

  “Straight, not crossed,” warned Elizabeth.

  “Straight, not crossed,” she repeated, as if it were a solemn oath.

  5

  Straps on costumes to be worn straight—not crossed in back.

  The mild spring evening was inviting, so Lucy went out to sit on the back porch while she sewed. Settling herself on the creaky old glider, she carefully stitched the elastic straps on. That done, she still had to attach the frilly strip of sequins and ruffles that was supposed to conceal the elastic.

  It was pleasant, sitting outside, listening to the shrieks of the girls as they played on the swing set. It had been an especially warm day for mid-June and Lucy didn’t even need a sweater. She knew it would be hours before the sun set; these long evenings were a luxurious contrast to the dark, short days of winter.

  As she worked, Lucy wondered why she didn’t sew more. It was relaxing, taking neat little stitches, pulling the thread through the fabric. Perhaps she would make something for the baby, she thought. It might be fun to try her hand at counted cross-stitch, or even smocking. Maybe the baby would be a little girl, and she could make all sorts of pretty little dresses for her.

  Completing Sara’s costume, Lucy held up the tiny pink tutu to admire it. Back in January when the costumes were ordered, Lucy had agonized over the seventy dollars the two costumes cost. Now the price was but a memory, and she had to admit they were adorable. Tatiana always chose tutus for the littlest girls, with these ridiculous bits of netting attached to satin bodices, and trimmed with sequins, ruffles, and ribbon rosebuds. I would love to have worn one of these when I was a little girl, she thought, remembering how disappointed she had been when an older cousin got married and neglected to include her as a flower girl.

  She put aside the first costume and began work on the second. Hearing a car turning into the driveway, Lucy looked up and was surprised to see Franny Small’s little blue Dodge.

  “Hi, Franny. What brings you all the way out here?” she called cheerfully, hoping that Franny hadn’t decided that the Stones needed a dose of Austrian ravioli. Lucy suspected that one, perhaps even two of Franny’s foil-wrapped offerings were buried deep in the bottom of the freezer.

  “Oh, it was such a nice evening I thought I’d take a drive,” explained Franny, sitting down on the rickety aluminum chair that completed the back-porch furnishings. Lucy longed for white wicker with flowered chintz cushions, but they couldn’t afford it.

  “Actually,” Franny continued, “to be honest, I want to ask a favor. Could I borrow your video camera?”

  “Gosh, I’d love to lend it to you,” answered Lucy regretfully, “but I want to use it myself on Thursday. It’s the dress rehearsal for the big ballet show, and it’s the only time Tatiana allows cameras.” Seeing Franny’s crestfallen expression, she asked, “What do you want it for, anyway?”

  “Oh, Lucy. Mr. Slack thinks I’ve been stealing from him, and it’s the only way I can think of
to prove that I’m innocent.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because the money comes out short every day, and there’s merchandise missing.”

  “But it can’t be you!” exclaimed Lucy a shade too vehemently. She didn’t want Franny to think for a minute that she doubted her honesty.

  “Well, if it isn’t me, and it isn’t him, it must be his grandson,” reasoned Franny. “He’d rather believe it’s me than Ben.” “Oh,” said Lucy slowly. “That makes sense.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Ben. There was never any problem before he started working at the store. The inventory figures on batteries are way off, and his friends come into the store all the time, and they all have those big portable radios. They use batteries, don’t they?”

  Lucy nodded, thinking of the small fortune it cost to keep Toby’s little Walkman operational.

  “Even worse,” Franny continued eagerly, “have you noticed all that writing on the Bump’s River Road bridge?”

  “You mean the graffiti?”

  “The rude words painted all over it. I think Ben stole cans of spray paint and gave them to his gang,” concluded Franny, pursing her lips in disapproval.

  “I wouldn’t call them a gang. They’re just small-town boys. They get bored and get into mischief. How long has Ben been working in the store? Shouldn’t he be in school?”

  “I think he got suspended or something. Probably for drugs,” said Franny, whispering the last word.

  “He seems awfully young to be involved in drugs,” said Lucy. “Besides, they’re expensive.”

  “He’s sixteen, he drives a better car than I do, and he has access to plenty of cash. A hundred and forty dollars is missing,” argued Franny. “And you should see the clothes he wears. His shirts say things like ‘Party Naked’ and ‘Public Enemy,’ and one has leaves all over it. I think they’re marijuana leaves.” “That’s just the style. All the kids wear them,” explained

  Lucy, thinking back to the good old days when shirts had stripes and little alligators. “Toby wanted me to buy a shirt at the mall that said ‘NWA’ and I almost did until he mentioned it meant ‘Niggers with Attitude,’ laughed Lucy. “And the shoes. He wants Pumps or Airs or something that cost over a hundred dollars.”

  “Did you get them for him?” asked Franny.

  “No,” said Lucy. “We compromised on something a bit more reasonable.”

  “Not Ben. His parents buy him whatever he wants. He’s been spoiled since day one. Even Mr. Slack says so. I guess that’s why he was so pleased when the boy agreed to work in the store. He thinks he’s taking an interest in the business. Mr. Slack was real disappointed when Fred went into real estate.” “Fred’s done awfully well,” said Lucy. “We bought this house from his outfit, Yankee Village. We have our insurance with him, too. He isn’t pushy the way you expect a salesman to be. He’s very polite.”

  She often saw Fred Slack around town, usually clutching a roll of plans under his arm as he climbed into his Wagoneer. He always gave her a hearty greeting and a big smile. It was impossible not to smile back. He sported a bright-red walrus mustache and favored outrageously preppy clothes, often wearing slacks covered with spouting whales or ducks. His ruddy face and round belly seemed to indicate a hearty indulgence in life’s pleasures. He was nothing like his father, thought Lucy.

  “Mr. Slack doesn’t think much of Fred,” said Franny. “Or his wife.”

  “Really? He doesn’t like Annemarie?” Lucy was amazed. Everyone in Tinker’s Cove agreed that Annemarie Slack was absolutely perfect. She had renovated and decorated a condemned old captain’s house on Main Street, saving it from demolition and transforming it into a showplace that was featured in Nor’East Life magazine. Annemarie was a gourmet cook, entertained lavishly and frequently, managed her own graphics firm, and was frequently seen on her knees weeding the perennial bed. Worst of all, with her classic features and blond pageboy, she was extremely attractive. Sue Finch had once remarked that Annemarie Slack made Martha Stewart look like an underachiever.

  “Mr. Slack told me Annemarie is a painted hussy,” giggled Franny.

  “He actually said that?” laughed Lucy. “ ‘A painted hussy’?” “Yes,” gasped Franny. “With bleached blond hair!” She was laughing so hard she had to hold her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to Lucy, once she regained control of herself. “It must be the strain. He told me he’ll fire me if I don’t make restitution by Friday.”

  Privately Lucy thought that getting fired from the hardware store would be the best thing that could happen to Franny, but seeing her suddenly stricken expression, she found herself offering her the camera.

  “You can only have it tomorrow and Thursday morning,” she told Franny. “I absolutely must have it back on Thursday afternoon.”

  “Lucy, I promise I’ll bring it to you on my lunch hour Thursday. I won’t let you down.”

  “I know, Franny. Are you sure this is the best way to handle this? What if you do get Ben on tape? What’ll happen to him?” “He’ll get what he deserves, I hope,” said Franny self-righteously. “It will be good for him. I don’t think he’s ever heard the word no.”

  “Kids need so much attention,” said Lucy, watching as the girls tried to catch one of the cats. “Come on,” she called to them. “It’s getting late.”

  Franny nodded approvingly as the two little girls ran to obey their mother. “See? If that was Ben, he wouldn’t mind you. He’d make a point of ignoring you.”

  As she walked Franny to the car and watched her carefully place the camera on the floor behind the driver’s seat, Lucy felt uneasy. If Slack was so blind that he refused to admit his grandson was stealing, he probably wouldn’t appreciate having it pointed out to him. Even if she did manage to capture the young delinquent on tape, Lucy was afraid the evidence would backfire on Franny somehow.

  “Say, Franny. What’s happened to George? You know, Caro’s dog?”

  “Barney Culpepper took him. Says he’s a good dog, and shouldn’t have to stay in the pound.”

  “Any news of Caro?”

  “Not a word,” said Franny, shaking her head. “It’s scary, isn’t it?” She looked up at the mountains behind the house. “There’s an awful lot of woods around here for a person to get lost in.” She gave a little shiver, then put the key in the ignition and started the car.

  She had just pulled out of the driveway when Bill and Toby turned in.

  “Hi, guys,” Lucy greeted them. “How’d the game go? Did you win?”

  Toby didn’t stop to answer but rushed right past her and stormed into the house, slamming the screen door for emphasis. Thank goodness Franny didn’t see that, thought Lucy.

  “Your team lost?” she asked Bill.

  “Nope,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. “We won. Five zip.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Toby didn’t play very well. In fact, he struck out. Four times.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy with a sigh.

  “If anybody else had been coaching, he probably would’ve spent the game on the bench. I kept sending him up. I figure he’ll never get a hit if he doesn’t go up to bat. But now he says he wants to quit the team.”

  “Isn’t there something you can do to help him? Practice here at home?” “It’s the damnedest thing, Lucy. Here in the yard he’s a great hitter. Never misses. It must be nerves or something. He just can’t relax when he goes up to bat. It’s killing me,” admitted Bill, sitting down heavily on the glider. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up one of the tutus.

  “Those are the girls’ costumes. Aren’t they adorable?”

  Bill looked skeptical. “How much did those cost? More than a good glove?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucy, snuggling up beside him. “How much does a good glove cost?”

  “Twenty, thirty dollars.”

  “Just look at that sky,” said Lucy, indicating the billowing mass of dark clouds that were
gathering, blocking their view of the mountaintops. “I think a storm is brewing.”

  6

  No chewing gum.

  “For goodness sake, Franny, watch what you’re doing!” Startled by her mother’s voice, Franny looked up from the morning newspaper she had been so absorbed in, and realized she had poured too much milk on her Cheerios.

  “Never mind, Mom,” she said as her mother leaped for the roll of paper towels. “I’ll clean it up.”

  She was too late. Her mother, Irma, efficiently mopped up the overflow and reduced Franny to preschool status in one deft motion. “If only you would be a bit more careful, Franny,” she commented.

  “I was just looking to see if they’ve found Caro, but there isn’t anything.”

  “There’s more to that than meets the eye, I’ll bet,” said Irma over the rim of her coffee mug.

  “What’s your theory?” asked Franny. She knew her mother loved to gossip and spent most of the day on the telephone, chatting with a large circle of friends.

  “It’s shocking, that’s what it is. A woman disappearing in broad daylight like that. Makes you wonder if any of us are safe. I’m calling Niemann the Key Man first thing this morning and getting all the locks changed. And Franny, I want you to be extra careful. No more leaving the car unlocked—or the house, for that matter.”

  “But, Mom, we’ve never bothered with locking the door,” protested Franny. “I know I’ll end up locking myself out.” “We never had to till now. But I’m not taking any chances. They got Caro, and that dog didn’t even bark.”

  “Who got her?”

  Irma looked carefully over both shoulders, then leaned forward over the table and whispered to Franny, “Satanists.” “What?” Franny nearly choked on a mouthful of cereal. “It’s more widespread than you think,” said the older woman, nodding. “Didn’t you read those articles Ted Stillings wrote last summer? Young people go off in the woods and, well, all sorts of obscene nonsense goes on. The police over in Gilead found the evidence in the woods. Altars, bloodstains, carvings on trees.”