by Leslie Meier
“You can say that again,” agreed Pam indignantly. “I saw her at the IGA and she told me that Jennifer had gotten her first period, and that was before Jennifer even got home from school.”
Franny moaned. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. She’s awfully good friends with the school nurse.”
“I dread to think what you’ve heard about my kids,” Lucy worried.
“I don’t listen to her,” admitted Franny. “I’ve got my own life to live.”
“Don’t we all. Too much life, in fact. I’m never going to be ready for Christmas. But I still can’t help wondering why someone would kill Sam Miller,” Lucy said pensively.
CHAPTER FOUR
#1939 Classic neckties made by McMurray woolen mills, weavers of handsome plaid and solid-color woolens for over 100 years. Made in Canada. Dry clean only. Three lengths: boys, regular, and tall. Be sure to specify size and pattern on order form. $12.
The next morning Lucy made breakfast, kissed Bill good-bye, packed lunches for Elizabeth and Toby, kissed them on their cheeks, and waved them off on the school bus. Then she made the beds, washed the dishes, and swept the kitchen floor. Chores completed, she sat down at the big oak table with a cup of coffee and a pencil and paper to take stock of her Christmas situation.
Only seven days until Christmas. One week. Yesterday she’d finished the sleeves of the sweater she was making for Bill. Now all she had to do was sew the parts together and knit the neckband. The tools she’d ordered from Brookstone had come, and she’d used her Country Cousins discount to buy some other clothes for him. Bill was taken care of. She put a check next to his name.
Next on the list was Bill’s father, Bill senior. She had used her Country Cousins discount again and bought him a fly-tying set, which was sure to be a big hit. She put a check next to his name.
Below him on the list was “two moms,” hers and Bill’s, with a row of question marks next to them. Lucy fought down a rising sense of panic, scratched her head thoughtfully with her pencil, and added another question mark to the row.
This afternoon she would finish Elizabeth’s angel costume, really just a sack with armholes made from an old sheet. With her long blond hair, a little tinsel, and wings provided by the church, Elizabeth would look lovely. She put a check next to “angel costume.”
Looking over her list of toys for the children, Lucy decided there was no way around it. She had to work tonight, and that only left tomorrow, Saturday, for a final trip to the Tons of Toys store in Portland. She wrote “Sat” next to “toy store” and went on to the next item, “meals.” Just then the phone rang. It was Sue Finch.
“Sue, I was just going to call you! I had such a nice time last night, and it’s great having all those cookies in the pantry.”
“Thanks for coming and bringing those Santa’s thumbprints. Everybody loves them. Listen, Lucy, are you going to Sam Miller’s funeral?”
“I want to,” said Lucy. “I’m sure it’s going to be the social event of the year in Tinker’s Cove. But I have to do some major Christmas shopping in Portland.”
“So come to the funeral with me and we’ll zip into Portland afterward. You’ll hate yourself if you miss it,” coaxed Sue.
“Okay, great,” said Lucy. She hung up the receiver and called for Sara to come and put her jacket on.
“Come on, honeybun. We’ve got to get some groceries.”
Lucy enjoyed her little outings with Sara. She had just turned four, and she still loved going to the grocery store, the bank, or the story hour at the library with her mother. Before she knew it, Lucy realized, she’d have another touchy preteen like Toby to cope with.
Sara and Lucy took their time strolling through the aisles at the IGA. They debated the relative merits of Cheerios and Lucky Charms and found a great deal on fabric softener, and Lucy decided that a package of cupcakes wouldn’t hurt just this once. When it was time to check out, Lucy saw her friend, Miss Tilley, standing in the checkout line behind Barb Cahoon, who was the mother of three basketball-playing sons and had the grocery order to prove it.
“Miss Tilley, is that heavy cream in your basket? You shouldn’t be buying that.”
“Nonsense, I’ve had oatmeal with cream for breakfast every morning since I was a little girl. Hasn’t hurt me a bit. Of course, I’m only seventy-three years old.”
“You don’t look a day over eighty,” teased Lucy.
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady,” retorted the old woman. “Now tell me . . . about this Sam Miller business. Who do you think killed him?”
“I haven’t got the foggiest idea,” answered Lucy, tucking a stray clump of hair behind Sara’s ear.
“I seem to remember that you love to read mysteries. I used to save the good ones for you at the library.” Miss Tilley had been the town librarian until the board of trustees finally gathered the courage to retire her forcibly on her eightieth birthday.
“I don’t have time for mysteries these days. In books or in real life.” Lucy shrugged. “Everybody’s saying Marcia killed him.”
Miss Tilley raised an eyebrow. “Why do folks think that?”
“I guess because it’s the usual thing. Husbands and wives usually kill each other.”
“I wouldn’t know,” observed Miss Tilley. “I’ve never been married. I would imagine he was killed by someone who had something to gain by killing him.”
“Well, Marcia might have gained a lot. First, she got out of an unhappy marriage. Did you know they had separate bedrooms?” Lucy nodded for emphasis. “And, he probably left her a lot of money. Money, and the freedom to spend it. Sounds like a pretty good motive to me.”
“Not necessarily. She received a settlement when she married, but that’s all she got. Sam’s money is all tied up in the business.”
“That’s interesting,” said Lucy; remembering that Sam Miller’s mother and Miss Tilley were close friends. “Who. really runs the business? Is it a family board of directors?”
Miss Tilley laughed. “Old Sam hated family squabbles, and he had plenty of them with his wife’s family, as I remember. He left the whole kit and caboodle to the two boys, Sam and Tom.”
“That means Sam’s brother, Tom, might have quite a lot to gain.”
“That nasty Viennese doctor probably had a name for it,” said the old woman.
“Sibling rivalry,” agreed Lucy. “Sam always did overshadow Tom.”
“Now Tom will be able to run Country Cousins any way he sees fit,” said Miss Tilley, unloading her basket of groceries onto the conveyor belt. “I wonder if there will be any changes.”
“I wonder,” said Lucy, shaking off the anxious feeling she got when she thought about going back to work. Chances were, she thought as she watched the girl ring up Miss Tilley’s order, that Sam Miller’s death had something to do with Country Cousins. After all, that’s where his body was found. Maybe it was where his murderer would be found, too.
For the rest of the day Lucy tried not to think about Country Cousins. She was scheduled to work at five, and as the afternoon wore on, she began to feel tense and uneasy.
When the old Regulator in the kitchen read 4:45, she climbed into her little Subaru, feeling exactly the way she had the day she went to the dentist to have her wisdom teeth pulled. As she drove the familiar route, she couldn’t help thinking about Sam again. He might have been killed because he saw something he shouldn’t have. Nobody in Tinker’s Cove talked about it much, but like many coastal communities, the little town had had its share of smugglers and mooncussers.
The Pennysaver occasionally reported drug busts made by the Coast Guard, so Lucy knew Tinker’s Cove wasn’t immune to illegal traffic, but she didn’t think she knew anyone who was involved. Country Cousins itself imported goods from all over the world, and Lucy, with her flair for the dramatic, had occasionally wondered if something a little more potent might be coming in along with the Peruvian knitwear and Mexican rugs.
As she parked in her usual spot, she w
ished it wouldn’t get dark quite so early. Anyone could be lurking out there, in the dark beyond the bright lights. They certainly hadn’t done much for Sam Miller, and she felt like a sitting duck as she crossed the brightly lit area to the safety of the warehouse.
Walking down the hall, Lucy noticed a group of women clustered around the bulletin board in the break room.
“What’s up?” she asked Beverly.
“It’s just a memo saying the police are investigating Sam’s death and asking everyone to cooperate.”
“Oh, no,” wailed Lucy. “I don’t think I can go through that again.”
“I’m sure it’s just a formality,” Bev reassured her. “I haven’t seen any sign of police.”
“It feels so creepy coming back here,” Lucy confessed. “I didn’t want to come.”
“The sooner you get back to work the better. Come on, hang up your coat,” said Bev in a no-nonsense, motherly tone of voice.
Lucy obeyed, and followed Bev to her desk, where she found a bouquet of supermarket flowers waiting for her.
“Oh, you guys are so nice,” she exclaimed.
“We knew it would be hard to come back,” said Ruthie. “It’s been hard for everyone. We’re all scared.”
“Lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice,” Bev said, settling down at her computer station.
“It does if there’s a maniac loose out there,” grumbled Ruthie. “What did the police ask you, Lucy?”
“Just what I saw, which wasn’t much.” Lucy put on her headphone and logged onto the computer. “What did they ask you?”
“They haven’t bothered with me,” Ruthie complained. “But I heard they were in and out of the office all day. They spent a lot of time with Tom Miller and George Higham.”
“I suppose they would,” said Lucy, taking a call. She was soon busy taking orders, some from as far away as Alaska and California, and talking to the customers made her forget her anxiety. The lines were busy and she didn’t even get to take a breather until ten-thirty. She was just coming out of the rest room and heading for the machines in the break room when she met George Higham, the customer service manager, in the hallway.
“Hi, George,” she said, and then, plucking up her courage, she asked, “Have the police made any progress?”
“Not as far as I know. Of course, as the memo requested we’re asking everyone to cooperate,” replied the little bearded man. He was wearing his usual navy blazer, button-down shirt, gray flannels, and tasseled loafers. Lucy noticed that all his clothes were from the catalog.
“I can’t help feeling nervous,” admitted Lucy. “You don’t think Sam’s death had anything to do with the company, do you?”
“Of course not,” he snapped, bridling at the suggestion. “Now, isn’t it time you got back to work?”
“Well, I’m actually on my dinner break right now. I worked right through my coffee break. I’m supposed to get a half hour for dinner, and a fifteen-minute coffee break.”
“You don’t need to lecture me about the state labor laws, Lucy,” said Higham, his face flushing. Then he caught himself, probably remembering some seminar on employee motivation, and stretched his mouth into something resembling a smile. “I see you’re quite close to earning an incentive bonus, Lucy. Keep up the good work.”
Lucy watched him as he walked down the corridor to the executive offices; then she went into the break room. She bought a package of cheese crackers and a diet soda from the machines and sat down at the table opposite Bev.
“Sam Miller’s only been dead for two days, and already things are going to pot around here.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bev.
“With Sam gone, guys like George Higham are going to have more power,” Lucy said, ripping open the cellophane package.
“Sam was a nice man to work for,” Bev agreed. “He had a smile for everybody, and then he left you alone to do your job.”
“Those days are over, Bev. George Higham will be looking over our shoulders and poking into everything. He won’t be able to pass up a chance to flex his managerial muscles.”
“You’re probably right, Lucy. But there’s nothing you can do about it. Take a word from a survivor and watch your step. Higham’s real friendly with Tom Miller. He’s the one to watch these days.”
CHAPTER FIVE
#2100 Orthopedically correct back cushion for comfort on long drives. Car manufacturers insist on designing automobile seats that are sheer torture for people with weak or injured backs. These sheepskin-covered forms of flexible, durable poly foam are guaranteed to solve the problem. $57.
As she climbed awkwardly into Sue’s big Jeep the next morning, Lucy lamented her friend’s knack for looking perfect. Her gray tweed coat and black beret were just right for a Tinker’s Cove funeral, where too much black would be considered excessive.
“I thought I’d just put this scarf over my shoulder when we go to Portland,” said Sue, pulling a piece of red paisley out of her enormous shoulder bag. “I don’t want to look as if I’ve been to a funeral.”
That was just the sort of thing Sue would do, thought Lucy, who was making do with a castoff coat of her mother’s. There was no point in being jealous; no matter how hard she tried she would never have Sue’s sense of style. Lucy would much rather spend an afternoon reading the latest P. D. James than studying the latest Vogue. She loved shopping with Sue, though, because no one had a surer nose for a bargain.
Arriving at the white clapboard church with its tall steeple, they paused for a second and looked up at the weather vane. It was a gilded rooster, and Lucy loved the way it sparkled against the clear blue sky.
Neither woman was surprised at the large turnout. They managed to squeeze their way through the crowd to the balcony, where they found two vacant seats behind the clock. They would have to crane their necks to see, but at least they had seats.
Looking around, they saw that everyone in Tinker’s Cove seemed to be there—from the selectmen right on down the social ladder to Sol Smith, the man who owned Sol’s Septic Service.
At precisely ten o’clock, a hush fell over the congregation as the Miller family entered. First came Marcia Miller, leaning heavily on the arm of the funeral director. She was swathed in a black veil reminiscent of the one Jackie Kennedy wore at JFK’s funeral. Next to her, holding her hand, walked five-year-old Sam IV, looking like a small solemn owl in his tiny blazer and short gray pants. The undertaker indicated the front pew and Marcia entered it, alone except for young Sam. Sue and Lucy exchanged a glance, and Lucy found herself working very hard not to giggle.
Following Marcia was Tom Miller, Sam’s younger brother, escorting his mother, Emily. Emily Miller, usually a hale and hearty type, looked very old and frail today. Tom helped her sit down and get settled.
Tom had always been considered something of a mama’s boy. He still lived in the big Miller house out on the point with his mother. Lucy had always thought of him as a pale imitation of his brother. He and Sam looked a lot alike, but where Sam had a fine head of glossy black hair, Tom’s was light brown and thinning.
Sam had always been a bit of a show-off. He drove the BMW with its SAM-I-AM plates, he had the glamorous wife and the architect-designed house with Palladian windows and an indoor pool. Tom, on the other hand, was often seen at local theater productions with his mother and was known to collect stamps. Lucy had long suspected that he was gay. After all, no one’s sex life was nonexistent, and since Tom didn’t have a public one, she assumed he must have a hidden one, though she’d never voiced her suspicions. Homosexuality was not an approved life-style in Tinker’s Cove.
The next three or four pews behind Tom and Emily Miller were filled with an assortment of more distant Miller relatives and senior executives of Country Cousins. Lucy noticed with satisfaction that George Higham was not included in this group, although she was sure he would have liked to be.
The organist struck a few familiar chords, and the congregation all ros
e to sing “Rock of Ages.” Then they sat and read together the Twenty-third Psalm. A period of silent prayer accompanied by several mournful tones from the organ ensued. Then, formalities completed, Dave Davidson, the minister, rose to deliver the eulogy. Lucy thought he looked awkward and uncomfortable standing before them in the black robe he wore for services. His hands clenched nervously as he grasped the lectern and gazed out at the congregation. He glanced once at Marcia Miller in the front pew and began.
“Sam Miller was a man everyone knew and no one knew. He was not a simple man; his life was a paradox. Sam himself was an enigma.”
It seemed to Lucy that a rustling, perhaps even a wave of resistance, emanated from the Miller clan, but Marcia sat perfectly still, while Sam IV fidgeted beside her.
“To many of you, Sam was the man who had it all. He owned the biggest store in town, had the biggest house and the biggest bank account. Sam could afford things most of us can’t, and many of us envied him.
“You might be surprised to learn that Sam envied you.
“To many of you, Sam was your boss, your employer. He was a good man and a fair man; he was a good man to work for. It’s hard to work for a man and be his friend, too.
“You might be surprised to learn that Sam wanted to be your friend.
“Sam Miller knew that the success of his business and the prosperity it brought had changed Tinker’s Cove. Sam Miller felt badly about that. Sam Miller wanted to be your neighbor.
“Sam Miller was a wealthy man, a powerful man, and a successful businessman. Yet he grew up here in Tinker’s Cove and the values of Tinker’s Cove were his values, too. He believed in family. He believed in hard work. Let us remember him as he would have liked to be remembered: as a neighbor, a friend, a man who was one of us.” Here Davidson paused, looked around the church at the congregation, and picked up the large Bible that lay on the lectern before him.