Tippy Toe Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “See, Little League can be fun,” said Pam, beginning to gather up her things. “Don’t forget the service tomorrow. It’s at two o’clock, and everybody’s invited to Fred and Annemarie’s afterward. You won’t want to miss it. Ted says it’s going to be the funeral of the century.”

  17

  Older girls—black mascara, blue eye shadow.

  Lucy spent Sunday morning in an agony of indecision. What does one wear to the funeral of the century, especially if one is pregnant and has a limited wardrobe to choose from? Lucy finally eliminated the denim jumper, deciding it was too casual. That left a silky gray polyester dress with rather frivolous puffed sleeves.

  Expecting a baby didn’t mean she wanted to dress like one, she thought, staring at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Oh well, she consoled herself, at least it didn’t have an arrow pointing to her midsection proclaiming baby in large letters.

  That was about all she could say for herself, she decided. She had never been so dissatisfied with her appearance. Her face was puffy and splotched and her hair, usually a neat, shining cap, was getting harder and harder to manage. No matter how she tried, she seemed unable to control her appetite, and she hated to think how much she’d gained. She looked like a blob.

  Turning from the mirror, she noticed the albums stacked neatly on the blanket chest. With one thing and another, she hadn’t had a chance to look through them. Perching on the edge of her bed, she carefully turned the brittle pages filled with newspaper announcements, programs for dance recitals, and cast photographs.

  A yellowed newspaper photo of five-year-old Caro as an angel in a dancing school production of Hansel and Gretel made her smile. Other clippings indicated she’d attended dancing classes in Boston throughout her childhood, right up until her graduation from the Brookline Country Day School. She hadn’t gone to college after graduation, but instead went to New York, where she performed with the Joffrey Ballet and studied with Martha Graham. Eventually she also performed with the Graham company.

  The latter pages of the album were filled with original mimeographed programs for the annual student performances at Winchester College. Scattered among the memorabilia Lucy found wedding invitations and birth announcements from Caro’s students, as well as newspaper clippings announcing their various triumphs.

  One year the students had pooled their funds and bought Caro a pair of diamond earrings. The card they gave her, which pictured a Degas sketch of three dancers, was carefully preserved. Inside someone had written, “Those beautiful arabesques on points, / How they give us a pain in our joints! / Even though you constantly pull us apart, / We have only an abundance of love in our hearts.”

  Lucy chuckled, gently closed the book, and sat holding it in her lap. She felt just a little bit like a voyeur; she hadn’t expected the albums to be quite so revealing. From what she knew about Caro she would never have expected her to be so sentimental.

  Lucy had a memory book herself. It was filled with souvenirs from her early childhood and high school years. But once she’d started college she’d stopped adding to it. Now it was in the bottom of a trunk shoved way in the back of a closet. She’d become so busy living her life that she hadn’t had any time to record it for posterity, except for snapshots and videos.

  Caro, on the other hand, had devoted a good deal of time and care to this collection, and she kept it near at hand in the coffee table drawer. Maybe someday I’ll spend my days looking at old photos of the kids, thought Lucy, standing up and smoothing her skirt. Maybe not, she thought, thinking of her mother, who had joined the outing club at her retirement community and was so busy that she recently forgot to send Bill a birthday card.

  Glancing at the clock, Lucy realized she was in danger of being late for the funeral. She quickly slipped a black blazer over the dress and decided it seemed to improve matters. She couldn’t button it, of course, but even left open it added a touch of sophistication. Her black pumps, tight when she bought them last fall before she became pregnant, were hopeless. She had no choice but to make do with a pair of black Birkenstocks and tights.

  “Lucy,” said Sue, opening her front door, “you can’t possibly wear those Birkenstocks.” It was only June, but Sue already had a golden tan and looked terrific in a black linen coat dress.

  “I’m pregnant,” she snapped. “My feet are swollen. I want to be comfortable and I don’t have anything else that fits except my Reeboks.”

  “Oh, well,” said Sue. “Let’s go. Maybe no one will notice.”

  It was only a short walk from Sue’s house to the white-steepled clapboard community church. A steady stream of people were making their way up the steps, and the pews were almost full when Sue and Lucy arrived. That meant they were seated at the back and didn’t have to turn around and crane their necks to see who else was there, as so many people in the front were doing.

  Since hardly anyone had fond memories of Morrill Slack, or anything at all nice to say about him, the family had wisely asked Dr. Churchill to limit the service to a simple reading from The Book of Common Prayer. Lucy found the words oddly appropriate.

  “In the morning it is green, and groweth up; but in the evening it is cut down, dried up, and withered,” intoned the minister. Lucy couldn’t imagine Morrill Slack as a fresh, limber youth, but he had certainly labored and sorrowed and shriveled, and now he was gone. And, as the book noted, he had heaped up riches and he would not know who would gather them. Or how they would be spent.

  In the front pew, Lucy observed, the Slack family were models of decorum. Fred, uncharacteristically somber in a dark suit, sat between his mother and his wife. With his broad shoulders and solid frame, he was a reassuring presence. Ben, on the other hand, was clearly uncomfortable in a navy blazer that was a shade too small for him, and fidgeted restlessly in his seat, earning a warning stare from his mother. Kitty didn’t notice; she seemed to be in a world of her own.

  Dr. Churchill augmented the service with several old hymns, supposedly favorites of Morrill’s. Lucy enjoyed the thunderous chords of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” and the somewhat gentler strains of “Faith of Our Fathers.” The service concluded with “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” and the tune was still ringing in her ears as, duty done, she joined the procession of mourners marching down the street to Fred and Annemarie’s house for the glass of sweet sherry and slice of pound cake customary after a Tinker’s Cove funeral service. She would skip the sherry.

  “I’m so sorry,” murmured Lucy, taking Fred’s hand.

  “Well, we have the comfort of knowing he didn’t suffer,” said Fred, passing her along to Annemarie.

  “And he lived a very full life,” added Annemarie, taking her hand and passing her on to her mother-in-law, Kitty.

  “And a very long life,” nodded Kitty. “Lucy, thank you for coming. I do hope you will stay and have something to eat and drink.”

  “It’s an open bar,” whispered Sue, pointing to a table set up at the back of the hall, under the stairs. It was manned by a white-jacketed bartender.

  “I’m not supposed to,” said Lucy, patting her tummy.

  “A little glass of white wine couldn’t possibly do any harm,” coaxed Sue.

  “All right,” agreed Lucy, succumbing to temptation. “A small Chablis,” she told the bartender, who proffered a generously filled wineglass.

  The two women sipped their wine and strolled across the hall to the archway leading into the dining room, where they supposed the pound cake would be. There they stopped, amazed.

  “I’ve seen this sort of thing in magazines,” began Lucy.

  “But not in Tinker’s Cove!” concluded Sue.

  Every surface in the room was covered with lavish displays of food. Shrimp, spread on a bed of ice, spilled from a crystal cornucopia set on the sideboard. Chafing dishes filled with scallops wrapped in bacon, Swedish meatballs, and Chinese chicken wings were set alongside. There was a collection of cheeses, surrounded by thinly sliced breads and a
ssorted crackers.

  “Look at the centerpiece,” whispered Sue, giving her a nudge. An entire poached salmon dominated the mahogany table, completely covered with cucumber-slice scales and coated with glistening gelatin. A black olive filled the creature’s eye, and a strip of pimiento outlined his mouth.

  “I wonder who the caterer was?” said Sue. “Someone from Portland?”

  “I think Annemarie did it herself. I saw her at the IGA with carts and carts of groceries. It must have cost a fortune,” said Lucy.

  Deviled eggs, cold meats of every description, including a whole ham and a roast turkey, were also set out, as well as bowls of dip and generous piles of crudités. Entire lettuces, fans of Chinese pea pods, and artfully curled scallions completed the display.

  “Are they mourning the old guy’s death, or celebrating it?” asked Lucy, under her breath.

  “A little bit of both,” said Sue, grinning wickedly. “It’s a black-and-white cake.”

  A small drop-leaf table stood by the doorway leading into the library, and the sweets had been placed there. In addition to the checkerboard cake, which magically combined devil’s food and yellow cake in a pattern of squares, there were platters of cream puffs and éclairs, and heaping plates of cookies. Pyramids of whole fruits, including pineapples and bananas, created a backdrop against which slices of kiwi and mounds of berries were piled.

  “Grab a plate, Lucy,” urged Sue. “You’re holding up the line.”

  It was only later, when she’d found a seat in the living room and was nibbling at the plate of food she didn’t really want, that Lucy had a chance to look around. She had never been in Fred and Annemarie’s house before and she was frankly curious.

  “This place looks like a furniture store,” said Sue. “That’s Colefax and Fowler chintz on the windows, in case you didn’t know.”

  “I know,” said Lucy. “And you’re sitting on a Braunschwig et Fils tapestry chair, in case you didn’t know.”

  Sue jumped up. “You’re right. And this rug? I think it’s silk.” She tapped the gorgeous Oriental with her black patent-leather sandal.

  Everything in the expensive and tastefully furnished rooms appeared brand new, and the effect was oddly impersonal. Lucy thought of her own house, where a mix of flea market finds and antiques was usually overlaid with scattered Barbie dolls. Or

  Barney’s house, where his huge recliner and TV dominated the living room. In Pam Stillings’ house, newspapers and magazines cluttered the horizontal surfaces, and the walls were papered with the children’s artwork. Even Sue, who decorated her house as carefully as she dressed herself, displayed whatever she was currently collecting. Recently, the teddy bears and Saint Nicks had disappeared, Lucy noticed, and had been replaced by a growing assortment of cookie jars and silly salt and pepper shakers.

  “Do you think I could get a peek at the upstairs if I ask to use the bathroom?” asked Sue, echoing Lucy’s own thoughts.

  “Bring me back a report,” Lucy whispered. She was content to stay in the chair, allowing her strained digestive processes to work and indulging in a little people-watching. As her gaze flitted from face to face, she wondered if Morrill Slack’s killer was among the crowd filling the house. According to Miss Tilley, there were plenty of people in Tinker’s Cove who had a score to settle with Morrill.

  Although there was no lack of suspects, Lucy found her gaze returning again and again to Annemarie. What makes her tick, wondered Lucy as she watched Annemarie move from guest to guest. Annemarie plumped up a pillow and tucked it behind old Mrs. Humphrey, she made a little plate of sweets for Adele Delaporte to save her the trouble of getting up when her arthritis was so bad, and she gently teased selectman Hancock Smith about his entirely mythical sex appeal, pleasing him no end. Annemarie seemed to strike the right chord with everyone. Today, however, the dazzling smile was strained. Probably because of her son, Ben, thought Lucy. The boy must be facing some sort of charges for the incident in Gilead. Come to think of it, although Ben had sat with his family at the service, he seemed to have made himself scarce immediately afterward— he was nowhere to be seen at the reception.

  “Lucy, can I get you something?” asked Fred, hovering over her.

  “Oh, no. I’ve eaten far too much. Everything was so delicious.”

  “Annemarie did it all,” he said proudly. “She’s a terrific cook, just like her mother. A real Italian mama. Loves to feed people.” He sat down in the chair Sue had vacated. “You know, Lucy, I’m awfully sorry you had to be the one who discovered my father. It must have been a dreadful shock, especially in your condition.”

  “It was,” admitted Lucy. “But there haven’t been any ill effects. I’m really very sorry about your father,” she added politely.

  “Well, it was dreadful to lose him so suddenly,” sighed Fred. “I hope Mom has some time to really enjoy life.” He looked across the room at his mother, newly fashionable in a navy blue Chanel-style suit and salon hairdo, and smiled encouragingly at her. There was real love in the gesture, thought Lucy.

  “She hasn’t had an easy time,” continued Fred. “Dad wasn’t an easy man to get along with. Believe me, I know.” He seemed about to enlarge on this theme when he caught himself. “I guess I’d better get back to work keeping those glasses filled, Lucy. Thanks for coming.”

  Fred had no sooner gotten up than Tatiana slipped into his chair. The ballerina was as chic as ever in a simple black sheath that emphasized her slender shape, but she looked tired and fidgeted nervously with her fingers.

  “Tatiana,” Lucy greeted her. “It was sure lucky for me that you canceled that rehearsal. I never could have made it.” “That’s right. That’s when you found the body! How awful for you!”

  “It was.” The image of Slack’s battered head surfaced in her consciousness, but Lucy refused to dwell on it. “Will there be a rehearsal on Tuesday?”

  “I’ve decided to carry on,” said the dance teacher, smoothing back her glossy black hair. “Rehearsals Tuesday and Thursday, show on Friday. That’s what Caro would want. Besides, it isn’t fair to the kids to keep putting it off. I’m hoping she’ll turn up this week. She never misses the show, you know. I can’t imagine having it without her.”

  “Have you had any news of her?”

  “Yes and no. I call the police every day and Barney says there have been reports from all over. One man insists he saw aliens abduct her from a highway rest area. Somebody else saw her at Graceland. She was spotted at the Macy’s in White Plains, New York, and at an ice cream stand in North Conway.” “Graceland?”

  Tatiana shrugged. “It makes about as much sense as the others. Barney’s wonderful, though. He keeps a list of every sighting and follows up when he has a free moment. He says something will turn up. I keep hoping she went off on a cruise or something and forgot to let anyone know.”

  “Maybe.” Lucy smiled encouragingly. Across the room she noticed Miss Tilley among the group of chatty old women gathered around Slack’s widow. “You know,” she said, “Miss Tilley told me she thinks Caro is missing in action. What do you think she meant?”

  “Like a spy mission? Going undercover?” Tatiana was doubtful.

  “I’m not sure what she meant,” admitted Lucy. “Maybe that Caro is off on some business of her own. Barney told me the police don’t think any crime was involved.”

  “I know. That ought to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. It all seems so out of character.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was dependable, she didn’t break commitments.” “Maybe this was more important.”

  “More important than my show?” Tatiana was incredulous. “An emergency or something. Who did she care about the most?”

  “Her students,” answered Tatiana with no hesitation. “She never married or had children. Her students were her family.”

  Lucy leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Tatiana nodded.

  “I took some albums from Ca
ro’s house.” Lucy felt her face growing warm. “I didn’t steal them. I borrowed them and I’m going to return them. But before I do, would you like to look at them with me?”

  “You mean, look for a clue?” Tatiana’s eyes were bright. “I’d love to. Today?”

  “I can’t.” Lucy thought guiltily of Bill, who was home watching the kids. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

  “At the studio? I’m free until three.”

  “Good.” Lucy looked around the room. The drinks and refreshments had definitely had an effect on the mourners. Conversation was no longer hushed, voices had risen, and bursts of laughter were heard. “This is turning into a terrific party.”

  “Especially for a funeral.”

  “Old Morrill must be furious, wherever he is.”

  “Perhaps his present companion is keeping him busy,” said Tatiana, smiling wryly.

  “And who might that be?” said Lucy, mimicking the Church Lady on Saturday Night Live.

  Tatiana laughed, and together they chorused, “Satan?”

  18

  Parent, take child to bathroom before putting on costume.

  Somewhat ashamed of herself, Lucy glanced around to see if anyone had observed their indiscreet behavior, and noticed Sue beckoning her from the bottom of the stairs.

  “I guess it’s time to go,” she told Tatiana as she struggled to rise from the comfortable chair.

  “Try sliding forward and getting your feet under you,” advised the ballerina. “Find your center of gravity and work with it.”

  “That’s much easier,” said Lucy. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Tucking her fanny under her and straightening her spine, she crossed the room. Much to her surprise, she discovered walking this way was a lot more comfortable than the waddle she’d slipped into.

  “You certainly took your time,” said Sue. “Let’s get out of here.”