by Leslie Meier
“Say, Bitsy, do you know where those figures for the addition are?”
Bitsy closed the book and turned to face Hayden Northcross, another member of the board of directors. Hayden was a small, neat man who was a partner in a prestigious antiques business that was known far beyond Tinker’s Cove.
“Gerald’s got them, in my office,” said Bitsy.
“I’ll see if he’s through with them,” said Hayden, turning to go. “Say, what’s that?”
“Hansel and Gretel. For story hour.”
“Oh, my dear! Not Hansel and Gretel!” exclaimed Hayden, throwing up his hands in horror.
“No? Why not?” inquired Bitsy, tightening her grip on the storybook and starting a slow mental count to ten.
“Not unless you want to traumatize the poor things,” said Hayden. “I’ll never forget how frightened I was when Mumsy read it to me. I think it may have affected my entire attitude toward women.” He cocked an eyebrow and nodded meaningfully.
Bitsy wasn’t quite sure how serious he was. Hayden and his business partner, Ralph Love, had also been domestic partners for years. Hayden thought it great fun to shock the more conservative residents of Tinker’s Cove by flaunting his homosexuality.
“It’s just a story,” said Bitsy, defending her choice. “I’ll be sure to remind them it’s make-believe.”
“I’m warning you. You’re playing with fire,” said Hayden, waggling his finger at her. “That book contains dangerous themes of desertion and cannibalism—the mothers are sure to object.”
“You’re probably right,” said Bitsy, putting the book back on the shelf.
“You know I am,” said Hayden, flashing her a smile. “See you at the meeting.”
The meeting, thought Bitsy, biting her lip. That was another sore point. The fact that the board met at the same time Bitsy was occupied with story hour was not coincidental. She was convinced it was their way of letting her know she was not a decision maker. She was just the hired help, allowed to join the meeting only for the last half hour to give her monthly report.
It hadn’t always been like that. When she first took the job, the board had sought her advice, and had adopted her suggestion that the library be expanded. But as time passed they seemed to grow less receptive to her views, and began easing her out of their meetings. They’d also become increasingly intrusive, always poking their noses into her work.
Bitsy checked her watch and resumed her search. She had better find something fast; it was already a quarter to eleven and little Sadie Orenstein had arrived. She was slowly slipping a big stack of books through the return slot in the circulation desk, one by one, while her mother studied the new books. The Orensteins were ferocious readers.
Pulling out book after book, she shook her head and shoved them back on the shelf. It seemed as if she had read them all, over and over. Absolutely nothing appealed until she found an old favorite, Rumpelstiltskin.
She smiled at the picture of the irate dwarf on the cover. The kids would like it, too, she thought. She would have them act it out and they could stamp their feet just like Rumpelstiltskin. Tucking the book under her arm, and telling Sadie she’d be right back, she hurried to the office. She’d just remembered that she had left a file open on the computer and wanted to close it.
There she found Ed Bumpus, yet another member of the board of directors, busy disassembling the copy machine. Ed was a big man and when he bent over the machine his shirt and pants parted, revealing rather more of his hairy backside than she wanted to see. She stared out the window, at a snow-covered pine tree.
“We want copies of the addition finances for the meeting, but the danged machine won’t work,” explained Ed. He was a contractor and never hesitated to reach for a screwdriver.
“That’s funny. It worked fine yesterday. Maybe it’s out of paper. Or needs toner. Did you check?”
“What kind of idiot do you take me for? Of course I checked!” snapped Ed, growing a bit red under his plaid flannel shirt collar.
“We’ll have to call for service, then,” said Bitsy, leaning over Gerald to ease open her desk drawer. “You can make copies at the coin machine by the front desk. Here’s the key.”
“Could you be a doll and do it for me?” Ed gave her his version of an ingratiating smile.
Still leaning awkwardly over Gerald, Bitsy reached for the mouse and clicked it, closing the file. Then she took the report from Ed. More children had gathered for story hour—she could hear their voices. They would just have to wait a few minutes. She was not going to risk being insubordinate to one of the directors, especially Ed.
When she returned she found him lounging in the spare chair, sitting on top of her coat, and joking with Gerald, who was still sitting at her desk. What a pair, she thought, annoyed at the way they made themselves at home in her office.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him the papers and turning to go. She really had to get story hour started.
“So you’re reading Rumpelstiltskin to them today?” inquired Gerald, who was still sitting at her desk. His tone was friendly—he was just making conversation. Now that he was retired he had all the time in the world.
“I think they’ll like it,” said Bitsy, eager to get out to the children. Unsupervised, there was no telling what they might get up to.
“Well, I don’t think it’s a very good idea. It’s a horrible story,” said Ed. “It used to make my little girls cry.”
“Really?” Bitsy kept her voice even. She was determined not to let him know how irritated she was.
“In fact, I don’t even think it belongs in the library. With all the money we spend on new books I don’t know why you’re keeping a nasty old book like that. Just look at it—it’s all worn out.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Bitsy, who knew the acquisitions budget was a sore spot with Ed, who favored bricks and mortar over books. His objection, however, reminded her of a box of new material that had arrived the day before but hadn’t been opened yet.
“I’m just going down to the workroom for a minute,” she said, more to herself than the directors. Grabbing the box of art supplies and taking a pile of red construction paper from the corner of her desk, she quickly left the office and hurried through the children’s room, giving the assembled mothers and children a cheerful wave.
“I’ll be right with you—we’re making Valentines today,” she called, opening the door to the stairs that led to the lower level. She rushed down, hearing her footsteps echo in the poured concrete stairwell, but caught her foot on the rubber edging of the bottom step. She fell forward, twisting her ankle and bumping her head painfully on the doorknob. The sheets of red paper cascaded around her; the coffee can containing child-safe scissors clattered to the concrete floor and crayons rolled in every direction.
Groaning slightly, she pressed her hands to her forehead and sat down on the next to last step, waiting impatiently for the blinding agony to pass. Using a trick she’d picked up in a stress management workshop, she concentrated on her breathing, keeping her breaths even. Gradually, the pain receded. She unclenched her teeth and blinked her eyes. Grasping the handrailing, she pulled herself to her feet, only to feel a stabbing pain in her ankle. Conscious that she was already late for story hour, she tried putting her weight on it even though the pain made her wince. The ankle held and she limped through the dark and empty conference room and on into the brand-new workroom. The workroom, unlike the conference room, had windows and she squinted her eyes against the bright sun. She bent over the box, which was sitting on the floor, and yanked at the tape.
Hearing the outside door open, she raised her head.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognizing the figure outlined against the bright light streaming through the windows. Of all the nerve, she thought angrily. This was just too much; the morning was spinning out of control. She’d had enough. She took a deep breath, preparing to give vent to the emotions she had been suppressing for so long, but she never
got the chance to say what was on her mind.
Bitsy Howell’s last words were rudely interrupted.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Leslie Meier’s newest Lucy Stone mystery
ST. PATRICK’S DAY MURDER!
CHAPTER ONE
Maybe it was global warming, maybe it was simply a warmer winter than usual, but it seemed awfully early for the snow to be melting. It was only the last day of January, and in the little coastal town of Tinker’s Cove, Maine, that usually meant at least two more months of ice and snow. Instead, the sidewalks and roads were clear, and the snow cover was definitely retreating, revealing the occasional clump of snowdrops and, in sheltered nooks with southern exposures, a few bright green spikes of daffodil leaves that were prematurely poking through the earth.
You could almost believe that spring was in the air, thought Lucy Stone, part-time reporter for the town’s weekly newspaper, the Pennysaver. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Part of her believed it was too good to be true, probably an indicator of future disasters, but right now the sun was shining and birds were chirping and it was a great day to be alive. So lovely, in fact, that she decided to walk the three or four blocks to the harbor, where she had an appointment to interview the new harbormaster, Harry Crawford.
As she walked down Main Street, she heard the steady drip of snow melting off the roofs. She felt a gentle breeze against her face, lifting the hair that escaped from her beret, and she unfastened the top button of her winter coat. Quite a few people were out and about, taking advantage of the unseasonably fine weather to run some errands, and everyone seemed eager to exchange greetings. “Nice day, innit?” and “Wonderful weather, just wonderful,” they said, casting suspicious eyes at the sky. Only the letter carrier Wilf Lundgren, who she met at the corner of Sea Street, voiced what everyone was thinking. “Too good to be true,” he said, with a knowing nod. “Can’t last.”
Well, it probably wouldn’t, thought Lucy. Nothing did. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy it in the meantime. Her steps speeded up as she negotiated the hill leading down to the harbor, where the ice pack was beginning to break up. All the boats had been pulled from the water months ago and now rested on racks in the parking lot, shrouded with tarps or shiny white plastic shrink-wrap. The gulls were gone—they didn’t hang around where there was no food—but a couple of crows were flying in circles above her head, cawing at each other.
“The quintessential New England sound,” someone had called it, she remembered, but she couldn’t remember who It was true, though. There was something about their raspy cries that seemed to capture all the harsh, unyielding nature of the landscape. And the people who lived here, she thought, with a wry smile.
Harry Crawford, the new harbormaster, was an exception. He wasn’t old and crusty like so many of the locals; he was young and brimming with enthusiasm for his job. He greeted Lucy warmly, holding open the door to his waterfront office, which was about the same size as a highway tollbooth. It was toasty inside, thanks to the sun streaming through the windows, which gave him a 360-degree view of the harbor and parking lot. Today he hadn’t even switched on the small electric heater.
“Hi, Lucy. Make yourself comfortable,” he said, pulling out the only chair for her to sit on. He leaned against the half wall, arms folded across his chest, staring out at the water. It was something people here did, she thought. They followed the water like a sunflower follows the sun, keeping a watchful eye out for signs that the placid, sleeping giant that lay on the doorstep might be waking and brewing up a storm.
“Thanks, Harry,” she said, sitting down and pulling off her gloves. She dug around in her bag and fished out a notebook and pen. “So tell me about the Waterways Committee’s plans for the harbor.”
“Here, here,” he said, leaning over her shoulder to unroll the plan and spread it out on the desk. “They’re going to add thirty more slips, and at over three thousand dollars a season, it adds up to nearly a hundred thousand dollars for the town.”
“If you can rent them,” said Lucy.
“Oh, we can. We’ve got a waiting list.” He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked past her, out toward the water. “And that’s another good thing. A lot of folks have been on that list for years, and there’s been a lot of bad feeling about it. You know, people are not really using their slips, but hanging on to them for their kids, stuff like that. But now we ought to be able to satisfy everyone.”
Lucy nodded. She knew there was a lot of resentment toward those who had slips from those who didn’t. It was a nuisance to have to ferry yourself and your stuff and your crew out to a mooring in a dinghy. With a slip, you could just walk along the dock to the boat, untie it, and sail off. “So you think this will make everybody happy?” she asked. “What about environmental issues? I understand there will be some dredging.”
He didn’t answer. His gaze was riveted on something outside that had caught his attention. “Sorry, Lucy. There’s something I gotta check on,” he said, taking his jacket off a hook.
Lucy turned and looked outside, where a flock of gulls and crows had congregated at the end of the pier. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“The ice is breaking up. Something’s probably come to the surface.”
From the excited cries of the gulls, who were now arriving from all directions, she knew it must be something they considered a meal. A feast, in fact.
“Like a pilot whale?”
“Could be. Maybe a sea turtle, a dolphin even. Could be anything.”
“I’d better come,” she said, with a groan, reluctantly pulling a camera out of her bag.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said, shaking his head. “Whatever it is, it’s not going to be pretty, not this time of year. It could’ve been dead for months.”
“Oh, I’m used to it,” sighed Lucy, who had tasted plenty of bile photographing everything from slimy, half-rotted giant squid tentacles caught in fishing nets to bloated whale carcasses that washed up on the beach.
“Trust me. The stench alone . . .”
She was already beginning to feel queasy. “You’ve convinced me,” she said, guiltily replacing her camera. Any photo she took would probably be too disgusting to print, she rationalized, and she could call him later in the day and find out what it was. Meanwhile, her interest had been caught by a handful of people gathered outside the Bilge, on the landward side of the parking lot. Tucked in the basement beneath a block of stores that fronted Main Street, the Bilge was a Tinker’s Cove landmark—and a steady source of news. It was the very opposite of Hemingway’s “clean, well-lighted place,” but that didn’t bother the fishermen who packed the place. It may have been a dark and dingy dive, but the beer was cheap, and Old Dan never turned a paying customer away, not even if he was straight off the boat and stank of lobster bait.
Lucy checked her watch as she crossed the parking lot and discovered it was only a little past ten o’clock. Kind of early to start drinking, she thought, but the three men standing in front of the Bilge apparently thought otherwise.
“It’s never been closed like this before,” said one. He was about fifty, stout, with white hair combed straight back from a ruddy face.
“Old Dan’s like clockwork. You could set your watch by it. The Bilge opens at ten o’clock. No earlier. No later,” said another, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses.
“He closed once for a couple of weeks, maybe five or six years ago,” said the third, a young guy with long hair caught in a ponytail, who Lucy knew played guitar with a local rock band, the Claws. “He went to Florida that time, for a visit. But he left a sign.”
“What’s up? Is the Bilge closed?” she asked.
They all turned and stared at her. Women usually avoided the Bilge, where they weren’t exactly welcome. A lot of fishermen still clung to the old-fashioned notion that women were bad luck on a boat—and in general.
“I’m Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver,
” she said. “If the Bilge has really closed, that’s big news.”
“It’s been shut tight for three days now,” said the guy with the ponytail.
“Do you mind telling me your name?” she asked, opening her notebook. “It’s Dave, right? You’re with the Claws?”
“Dave Reilly,” he said, giving her a dazzling, dimpled smile.
Ah, to be on the fair side of thirty once more, she thought, admiring Dave’s fair hair, bronzed skin, full lips, and white teeth. He must be quite a hit with the girls, she decided, reminding herself that she had a job to do. “Has anybody seen Old Dan around town?” she asked.
“Come to think of it, no,” said the guy with glasses.
“And your name is?” she replied.
“Brian Donahue.”
“Do you think something happened to him?” she asked the stout guy, who was cupping his hands around his eyes and trying to see through the small window set in the door.
“Whaddya see, Frank?” inquired Dave. He turned to Lucy. “That’s Frank Cahill. You’d never know it, but he plays the organ at the church.”
“Is he inside? Did he have a heart attack or something?” asked Brian.
Frank shook his head. “Can’t see nothing wrong. It looks the same as always.”
“Same as always, except we’re not inside,” said Brian.
“Hey, maybe we’re in some sort of alternate universe. You know what I mean. We’re really in the Bilge in the real world, having our morning pick-me-up just like usual, but we’re also in this parallel world, where we’re in the parking lot,” said Dave.
The other two looked at each other. “You better stick to beer, boy,” said Frank, with a shake of his head. “Them drugs do a job on your brain.”
“What am I supposed to do?” replied the rocker. “It’s riot my fault if Old Dan is closed, is it? A guy’s gotta have something. Know what I mean?”