by Leslie Meier
“Do I have to stay here?” asked Lucy, suddenly desperate to leave. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the stretcher.
“ ‘Fraid so,” Barney said. “The investigating officer will want to ask you some questions. You can’t go till he says so.” “What about Toby and Elizabeth? I was going to pick them up at school.”
“I’ll call Marge,” said Culpepper, referring to his wife. Lucy caught the nod he gave the EMTs before strolling out to his cruiser, and felt suddenly uneasy.
“Am I a suspect?” she demanded as soon as he returned. “It must look pretty suspicious, being found in the same room with a dead man. And it is my camera.”
“Aw, Lucy, ‘course you’re not a suspect. All I know is we’re supposed to sit tight until the staties get here. Looks like that’s them now.”
A steady stream of official vehicles began arriving outside, and soon the store was filled with investigators. Lucy sat quietly, watching their comings and goings, until Barney told her an officer would take her fingerprints.
“You can’t be serious,” she protested feebly as an officer noted the condition of her hands and proceeded to scrape off a sample of the blood. After that her fingers were inked and rolled one by one against a card. Only then was she given a towelette to clean her hands. Lucy was using it when she heard a familiar voice.
“Mrs. Stone, I see you’re in the thick of things once again,” observed a slight man in a tan raincoat.
Looking up and seeing Detective Sergeant Horowitz’s familiar face, his long upper lip reminding her of a rabbit, she attempted to smile.
“I didn’t do it,” she said.
“That’s what they all say, at first,” he replied, shaking his head. His hair had thinned since last December, when he’d been in charge of investigating Sam Miller’s death. That episode had left them each with a grudging admiration for the other’s abilities at detection.
“I guess we’ll have to give you the benefit of the doubt, at least until a jury decides otherwise,” he said, smiling as he sat down beside her. This was his version of a joke, she decided. “Just start at the beginning,” he told her.
Obediently, Lucy went over the events of the afternoon as clearly as she could. When Horowitz asked why Franny had borrowed the camera, she hesitated before answering. She didn’t want to incriminate Franny by saying Slack suspected her of stealing.
“I don’t know why Franny wanted it,” she lied. She knew from the drift of Horowitz’s questions that Franny was the number-one suspect.
“Franny couldn’t have had anything to do with this, any more than I did,” she insisted.
“You’ve been real helpful, Mrs. Stone. Thank you. I’ll let Officer Culpepper take you home now,” said Horowitz, concluding the interview. “Have a nice day.”
Lucy was furious when she climbed into Barney’s cruiser. “What does he mean, have a nice day? I found a dead body, for God’s sake. How am I supposed to have a nice day?”
“It’s just one of those things people say. Doesn’t mean anything. Now calm down, Lucy. All this excitement can’t be good for the baby.”
“I suppose you’re right,” admitted Lucy, finally clicking the belt into place. “Am I going to have to answer more questions? What about my car?”
“You’re in no shape to drive. We’ll figure something out.” “Okay, Barney. I don’t mean to be unreasonable. I’m just upset. They think Franny did it, don’t they?” she asked, turning to face him.
“Maybe the investigation will turn up somebody else, but right now she’s the likeliest suspect.”
“Because of her husband?”
“That’s right. He had quite a knock on the head, too.”
“I thought he fell down the stairs.”
“That’s what she said happened.”
“It could have happened that way.”
“Sure, but when the same thing happens twice you can’t help being a little suspicious.”
“Was there a trial when her husband died?”
“No. There was no physical evidence that she did it, and everybody felt sorry for her. He used to beat on her, you know. She was always going to the emergency room saying she fell down the stairs or accidentally bumped into a door. I questioned her myself, more than once. Things were different then. We all knew what was going on, but we couldn’t do anything unless she pressed charges. She was too ashamed to admit the truth, I guess. Then when she called and said there’d been an accident and he’d fallen down the stairs, well, nobody pushed too hard. There was an investigation, but she stuck to her story and charges were never filed against her. Seemed like he got what was coming. Too bad there were no stairs this time.” Culpepper turned the cruiser smoothly into Lucy’s driveway and braked.
“I can understand her striking back in self-defense,” argued Lucy. “But I can’t believe she would hit an old man, even someone as awful as Slack. She worked for him for years.” “And he took advantage of her for years. Kind of like that husband of hers, if you ask me. Something snapped then, and it probably happened again. If she gets a good lawyer, maybe she’ll get off. You take it easy, now, Lucy.”
Looking at the blank windows of the house, Lucy felt reluctant to leave the safety of the cruiser. She was suddenly afraid to be alone. Then the kitchen door opened, and Bill stood there, waiting for her. Reassured, she climbed out of the car and rushed into his arms. For the first time since she’d discovered Slack’s body, she allowed herself to remember what she’d seen.
“Oh, Bill,” she wailed, bursting into tears. “It was horrible.” “It’s okay,” he said, holding her close. “You’re home.”
13
Be sure to label all costumes with student’s name.
“It’s a simple system, crude but effective,” explained Doc Ryder the next morning. “The brain doesn’t get enough oxygen for one reason or another, so you black out and fall down. Once you’re down, the brain gets plenty of oxygenated blood, thanks to gravity, and you revive. The thing to do is to avoid these sudden shocks. If you insist on discovering dead bodies, it’ll probably happen again.”
“Believe me, I’ll do my best to avoid them,” promised Lucy. “Is the baby okay?”
“Oh, sure,” said the doctor, waving his stethoscope. “Nice strong heartbeat.”
“That’s a relief,” said Lucy, sliding off the examining table. She had made the appointment at Bill’s insistence, but in her heart she was grateful for his stubborn refusal to leave for work until she’d seen the doctor.
“He says there’s nothing to worry about. We’re both fine.
Really,” she told Bill. He’d been sitting in the waiting room, reading to Sara.
“I wish I wasn’t working so far away,” he complained. He’d been hired to oversee the repair of a two-hundred-year-old church in Gilead, about fifteen miles away. “I still think you ought to take it easy for a day or two.”
“I really need some groceries. If you take me and Sara over to the hardware store, I can pick up the car. Barney locked it up for me. He’s got the keys at the police station.”
“Okay,” sighed Bill, working the spare key off his key ring. “I’ll call around lunchtime, just to make sure everything’s okay.”
“What could happen at the IGA?”
“Something like what happened at Slack’s,” muttered Bill, starting the truck engine with a roar.
Bill waited in the truck while Lucy unlocked the Subaru, strapped Sara in her seat, and started the engine. It was only after she smiled and waved to him that he drove off.
Glancing over her shoulder at the hardware store, where a closed sign hung in the door, Lucy gave a small shudder. She shifted into drive and went straight to the police station.
“Hi! Is Barney in?” she called to the pretty young dispatcher who was perched behind the counter.
“Sorry, Mrs. Stone. He had to go out, but he said to give you these if you came by.” She held up the car keys.
“Thanks,” said Lucy, taking them. “You
don’t happen to know where he is?”
“Sorry,” said the dispatcher, shaking her perky blond ponytail. “Police business.”
Disappointed, Lucy led Sara back to the car. She was once again buckling her in when she noticed the albums, still sitting in the cargo area, where she’d stowed them yesterday. She’d look at them as soon as she got home, she promised herself.
It was only a short drive to the IGA; sometimes Lucy thought she spent more time strapping and unstrapping Sara than she actually spent driving. Tempted as she was to skip the back-breaking procedure, she never did. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Crossing the parking lot with Sara’s little hand firmly in her own, Lucy was pleased to see Julia Ward Howe Tilley coming out of the store.
“Up to your old tricks, I see,” said Miss Tilley, positively beaming at her. Miss Tilley had been the librarian at the Broadbrooks Free Library for many years. She had always encouraged Lucy’s interest in crime and used to save the newest mysteries for her.
“I don’t go looking for bodies,” protested Lucy. “In fact, Doc Ryder has warned me to avoid them and I plan to follow his advice.”
“Was it very gruesome, dear?” she inquired, smacking her lips.
“Rather.” Lucy didn’t want to think about it.
“I’m glad,” declared Miss Tilley. “He deserved it.”
“No one deserves that.”
“Morrill did. He was an absolute Tartar, you know. Poor Kitty spent her life tiptoeing around him. Always afraid. That’s no way to live.”
“She told me Morrill would never let her retire,” said Lucy. “I guess she can retire now.”
“And in comfort. Morrill was quite wealthy. He never liked to spend money, he just squirreled it away. There’s more than the store, you know. He had land and timber interests he inherited from his father. He never parted with anything.”
“Who do you think killed him?” asked Lucy, ignoring Sara’s impatient tugs on her arm.
“Any number of people would gladly have throttled the old goat. He had quarreled with almost everyone in town, even his own son. Even me, for that matter.” The old woman seemed amazed at Slack’s effrontery. “He tried to close the library, you know, when he was a selectman. To save the town money, he said. He was going to fire me and sell off the building, including the books. He was always penny wise and pound foolish.” She clicked her tongue. “Look at that. Annemarie’s been shopping for the ‘funeral baked meats.’ “
“I guess so.” Lucy was astonished to see Annemarie Slack leading a small procession of grocery carts across the parking lot to her Chevy Suburban. The IGA staff didn’t include bag boys except on Saturdays, so Lucy was amused to see the bakery lady and Mort the butcher helping Annemarie with her bundles.
“Annemarie’s doing everything herself,” Miss Tilley went on. “Kitty told me she absolutely refused to hire a caterer.” “For some people cooking is a way of expressing love,” mused Lucy. Thinking of the fish sticks and hamburgers she’d been serving lately, she added, “I prefer to express it in other ways.”
“So I see.” Miss Tilley was staring rather pointedly at Lucy’s tummy.
Embarrassed, Lucy quickly asked, “Is Kitty very upset about losing Morrill?”
“It’s hard to tell. You never really know what Kitty’s thinking. My guess is that she’s rather shocked. I stayed with her last night. She didn’t cry, thank goodness, but she didn’t seem interested in anything, either. She had the TV on, but I don’t think she could tell you what she watched. She just sat there.” “Were Fred and Annemarie with her?”
“No. They were busy with the police and the undertaker. In fact, Fred called and asked me to stay with his mother because they couldn’t. He’s a good son.”
“Mommy,” whined Sara.
“Here, honey,” said Lucy, digging in her purse for a coin. “You can ride the horsey.” A small mechanical pony stood in front of the grocery, but Lucy always marched the children past it. Sara was thrilled with her treat and climbed right on.
Aware that she had only a few minutes before the ride ran down, Lucy switched the subject of the conversation. She knew that Miss Tilley and Caroline Hutton were old friends.
“Now that there’s been a murder, I hope the police don’t forget about Caro.” For a minute the words seemed to hang between them, and Lucy was afraid she had upset Miss Tilley.
“I’m hoping the opposite,” the old librarian answered. She had obviously given the matter some thought. “They’ll have to investigate both crimes to see if there’s a link, won’t they? This might be the beginning of a crime wave against senior citizens.”
“Do you really think so?”
“No, but I think the police will have to consider it. Maybe they’ll find some new information about Caro. I hope so.”
“The worst thing is not knowing what happened to her,” said Lucy. The horse was prancing more slowly now.
“I don’t think Caro is dead. I think she’s . . . what’s that term?” Miss Tilley’s face clouded with the effort of remembering, then brightened when she found the right words. “Missing in action.” She smiled. “That’s it. Missing in action.”
“What do you mean?” began Lucy, as the horse ground to a halt and she went to help Sara get down. When she turned, Miss Tilley was gone.
One hour and a hundred and twenty-three dollars later, Lucy was on her way home. Sara, licking pink icing off her fingers, was in a cupcake-induced state of bliss.
Driving along Main Street, Lucy was soon past the hardware store. A block or so later the business district ended and the street was lined with the impressive mansions built in earlier centuries by sea captains and merchants. Lucy drove by the Slacks’ ornate Victorian; it seemed gloomier than ever. The overgrown fir trees that blocked out the sun couldn’t entirely account for the atmosphere that seemed to surround the old mansion.
Fred and Annemarie’s Federalist-style house stood nearly opposite, freshly painted gleaming white, the crushed-oyster-shell driveway sparkling in the sunlight. A new road had been cut alongside Fred’s property, where plans for a new subdivision had been approved. The project never got off the ground; only the fresh blacktop and a single foundation stood as a monument to the recession that had stalled so much of the Northeast.
Lucy drove a few blocks farther before she passed the little bungalow where Franny lived with her mother on the outer fringe of the village. When Lucy saw several police cruisers parked in front, effectively barricading the house, her stomach lurched. Swallowing hard, she hoped Franny had a very good alibi.
14
No talking backstage.
Franny, however, had no alibi at all.
“You mean absolutely nobody can verify that you spent all yesterday afternoon at home?” Horowitz’s soft voice betrayed no emotion and his eyes were pale blanks to Franny. If anything, he seemed tired. Investigating crimes must get rather depressing, she thought.
“I watched a little bit of TV. I looked through some magazines. I found an old Agatha Christie paperback and read it.” “You didn’t get any phone calls?”
“No.”
“Nobody dropped by?”
“No. Nobody would have expected us to be home. I’m always at work. And yesterday was Mom’s day at the thrift shop.” Franny smiled weakly at her mother, who was huddled in a rocking chair in the comer of the living room. She was watching avidly and saving up all the details, but Franny was certain that this story wouldn’t be served up to entertain the bridge club or the other energetic retirees who volunteered at Meals on Wheels.
There was certainly a lot to see. The little house had literally been invaded by police officers. When she had opened the door, Horowitz had flashed a warrant and sat Franny and her mother down in the living room. He wanted to ask her some questions, he said, while the house was searched. Franny had no idea what they were looking for, but soon the house was filled with policemen intent on exploring every nook and cranny. Horowitz remained in the
living room, along with a second man whose job seemed to be operating a tape recorder. A female state trooper, her rounded figure looking slightly ridiculous in her mannish uniform, stood nearby. Franny hoped she wasn’t going to be subjected to a body search and eyed the female officer uneasily.
The problem was that Franny was having a hard time believing in her own innocence. In fact, she had wished more than once that Slack would drop dead, most recently on the day he fired her. And now that he was dead, really dead, she was glad.
She knew it was wrong to feel this way. She went to church every Sunday and believed in her heart that it was wicked to rejoice in another’s misfortune, but she couldn’t help it. He was a miserable, horrible old man, he’d caused her a great deal of grief, and he’d finally gotten exactly what he deserved. It just went to show that there was some justice in the world.
Or would be if she could convince Horowitz that she’d had nothing to do with Slack’s sudden demise. If only she didn’t feel guilty. But there was, she’d discovered, this soft, rotten spot in her conscience, and she knew Horowitz sensed it. He believed she’d killed Slack, she knew it. Guilt-ridden as she was, she couldn’t hope to convince him that she was really innocent.
“Now, why didn’t you go to work yesterday?” he asked.
Franny was tempted to lie, to say that she’d been sick, but decided it would be better to stick to the truth. She had told
Lucy she’d been fired, and for all she knew it was common knowledge by now.
“Mr. Slack fired me on Wednesday.”
“Why was that? You’d worked in the store for a number of years, hadn’t you? Why would he suddenly decide to fire you?” “He said I was stealing.”
“Why would he say that?” Horowitz’s voice was smooth, seductive.
“There was a problem with shrinkage—money and merchandise.”
“Really? How much?”
“It varied. Some days ten or twenty dollars. A total of a hundred and forty dollars.”
“You say merchandise was also missing—what sort of merchandise was that?”