by Leslie Meier
Getting no response from the fallen man, Willis ran to the gate and punched some numbers into the intercom located there. “Mr. Duff has had an attack of some kind. Call nine-one-one,” he said. Receiving an affirmative squawk in reply, he turned to the assembled and silent crowd. “This is most unfortunate,” he said. “But we need to clear the area for the rescue squad.”
Nobody budged. Peering through the bars of the gate, Lucy saw a nurse dressed in green scrubs appear at the doorway and begin running awkwardly down the walk. When she reached Van, she immediately began performing CPR. Feeling a bit like a ghoul, Lucy snapped a few more photos, of the petite, dark-haired woman laboring over the fallen Van. A moment later, the distant wail of an ambulance siren was heard.
“Please, please move away,” begged Willis in a shaky voice. His face had lost its usual ruddy glow and he seemed in need of assistance himself, appearing a bit unsteady on his feet.
The siren grew louder, but people were reluctant to move, stepping aside only when the ambulance came into view and the gates began to swing open. “Go on home,” urged Willis. “There’s nothing to see here.”
He was wrong, of course. This was the most exciting thing that had happened in Tinker’s Cove for quite some time and everyone was determined to see how it played out. So they all squeezed together to let the ambulance by and then closed ranks, waiting to see what happened next.
An EMT in a dark blue uniform was already opening the rear doors of the ambulance and pulling out a heavy plastic case. The driver was kneeling on the ground, examining Van and questioning Willis and the nurse. More sirens could be heard, as well as the rumble of the ambulance’s diesel engine, but everyone in the gathered crowd seemed to be holding their breaths.
Suddenly the EMTs were on the move, pulling a wheeled stretcher out of the ambulance. In a moment, they had slapped an oxygen mask on Van’s face and lifted him onto the gurney, covered him with a blanket and fastened a couple of straps, and pushed him the short distance to the ambulance. Doors slammed and the ambulance began to roll at the same time a police cruiser appeared at the end of the drive. Lucy watched as the two vehicles passed, one leaving and one approaching. When she turned back, she saw the gates had closed once again and Willis was standing behind them.
The crowd parted once again as the cruiser drew up to the gates and stopped, its blue lights flashing, and Officer Barney Culpepper climbed out. “All right, folks,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “The excitement’s over. It’s time to go home.”
A few people began to drift away but others hesitated, fearful of missing something.
“This is private property,” said Barney in a firm voice. “I don’t want to have to start arresting you folks for trespassing.”
“But what about the Easter egg hunt?” asked the guy with the tattoos.
“There’s no Easter egg hunt,” said Willis, shaking his head before turning and walking slowly toward the house.
“You heard him,” said Barney. “Now get moving before I call for reinforcements.”
People finally began to leave, taking their dressed-up children by their hands and returning to their cars. Lucy, who had been friends with Barney ever since the days when they’d both served on the Cub Scout Pack Committee, pulled her notebook out of her bag. “Why don’t you take Patrick back to the car and wait for me there?” she suggested to Molly, giving her the keys. “I want to get a comment from Barney.”
“Okay,” agreed Molly, plunking Patrick back in the umbrella stroller.
Lucy gave Patrick a big smile and a little wave as his mother began pushing him down the drive, then went up to chat with the tall, well-padded officer. “So, Barney, what can you tell me?”
“Not much,” he said. “We got two calls. One that an unresponsive male needed assistance. Shortly after that, the second call came asking for crowd control.”
“There’s usually an officer or two here for the Easter egg hunt,” said Lucy. “But there were no officers here today.”
Barney shrugged. “That would be a private detail, not part of the department’s regular duties. Folks have to make a special request and pay for the officers’ time.”
“They didn’t do that?”
Barney shook his head, looking like a big old bulldog. “Not that I know of. They usually post requests for special details on the bulletin board, but I didn’t see anything. I watch out for it; it’s easy duty and they always had a plate of food for us afterward.”
“What about Van?” asked Lucy. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
Barney sighed. “They didn’t put the blanket over his face.”
“Meaning he was alive when they took him away?”
“Don’t quote me,” he cautioned, raising a bristly gray eyebrow. “This is off the record. You can get the official information from the department.”
“Of course.” Lucy smiled. “So, how are Marge and Eddie?” she asked, naming his wife and son.
“Fine, just fine,” said Barney, fastening his gaze on a man who was about to pluck an early daffodil bloom. “Hey!” he yelled, marching toward the offender. “Stop that!”
Lucy began walking back toward the car, hurrying to join a young mother with three little ones in tow. “I’m Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver,” she said. “Can I take your photo? You and the kids?”
“Sure,” said the woman. “This was a real bummer. It’ll be fun to see our pictures in the paper, though, right, kids?”
Lucy arranged the little group—the mom in back, holding the youngest, Saffron, eighteen months, with the boys, Scott, five, and Todd, three, in front. The mother supplied the names, as well as her own, Angie Toth. She hesitated about giving her own age but finally divulged the information. She was thirty-one.
“So what’s your reaction?” asked Lucy.
“I’m disappointed. I got the kids all dressed up in their Sunday best, expecting a terrific afternoon. Last year, Scott got a Children’s Shoppe gift certificate for a hundred dollars and Todd got a fifty dollar savings bond. They didn’t care, of course, it was just paper to them. They just loved the jelly beans and toys.”
“I got a Bakugan,” volunteered Scott.
“Me, too,” said Todd.
“You did not,” said Scott, with a smirk. “You got a pink pony.”
“I did not!”
“Did too!”
“That’s enough, boys,” said Angie.
“I’ll let you go,” said Lucy, chuckling. “Thanks.”
She stood for a moment, watching Angie getting the kids settled in the family van, then looked around for more people to interview. Most everyone had gone, however, so she hurried along to join Molly and Patrick.
When she reached the car, Molly had already strapped Patrick into his car seat and was sitting in the front passenger seat. She’d turned on the radio and was singing along to the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” Patrick was waving his arms and kicking his legs in appreciation.
“This was lucky—it’s Beatles hour on the oldies station,” she told Lucy. “Patrick loves the Beatles.”
“He has good taste,” said Lucy, settling herself behind the wheel and turning the car around very slowly, mindful of the people who were still walking in the drive.
“What did Barney have to say?” asked Molly. The Beatles were now singing “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and Patrick was oo-ooing along with them.
“Not much. He seemed to think Van was alive when they put him in the ambulance, but he wasn’t sure.”
Molly was silent for a moment. “It’s scary to think a person could just collapse like that. I hope he’s all right.”
Lucy was silent, thinking of a popular high school teacher who had died recently from a heart attack at the ripe old age of fifty-two. “Van’s not very old,” she said. “I think he’s only in his forties.”
“He’ll probably pull through, then, don’t you think?”
“I hope so,” said Lucy, remembering Van’s agonized
expression and unhealthy blue color. The brake lights on the car in front of them suddenly lit up and she braked, too, realizing they’d reached the curve at Lover’s Leap.
“I bet he’s a really nice man,” said Molly. “After all, there aren’t too many guys who’d dress up like a giant bunny.”
Lucy found herself chuckling. “Not Bill,” she said, naming her husband, a restoration carpenter. “That’s for sure. And probably not Toby.”
“No, not Toby.”
“Van’s always been a party animal,” said Lucy. “I remember when we first moved to Tinker’s Cove, he was quite the playboy. He had a fancy English car, a Morgan or something, and there was always a gorgeous girl sitting in it.”
“Did he ever marry?”
“I don’t know if any of those fabulous blondes ever snagged him.” Lucy was humming along to “Norwegian Wood.” “I do know he’s been to rehab a few times. He’s always starting projects and then dropping them. He was going to row across the Atlantic. He had a fancy boat built especially for the venture, but he ended up crashing it on the rocks at Quisset Point. Then he had some idea about adding recycled glass to asphalt to make it more durable, but that never worked out. He had another idea about vacuuming up oil spills. He tried to get them to use it after the BP disaster in the Gulf of Mexico but nobody was interested.”
“I suppose he can afford to dabble,” said Molly.
“I think he must have a trust fund or something,” said Lucy. “Rumor has it that his mother, Little Viv, got herself disinherited when she divorced her husband and ran off with a defrocked priest. VV did not approve.”
“Does that mean Van gets everything when VV dies?” Molly smiled. “Maybe I married the wrong guy.”
“I’m pretty sure you married the right guy,” said Lucy. “Just look at Patrick.”
Patrick was quietly studying a little toy truck, looking every bit the angel he wasn’t. “He drives me crazy most of the time,” admitted Molly, “but I can’t imagine disinheriting him. Not that we’ve got all that much to leave him.”
“I guess VV had her reasons,” said Lucy. “For all I know Little Viv is back in the will. I heard she divorced the priest, too.”
“Sounds like quite a family,” said Molly, a hint of disapproval in her voice.
“Little Viv has a daughter, too. Vicky.”
“And what’s Vicky like?” asked Molly. “Is she a playgirl like Van?”
“Not at all, she’s terribly proper,” said Lucy, listening to John Lennon singing about money on the radio. “Her wedding was a big deal. They had a tent at Pine Point and the town was flooded with famous people. It was the first big story I covered for the paper. It was the talk of the town. Nobody here had seen anything like it.”
“And the marriage lasted?”
“Oh, yes. Every once in a while I see them. Her husband is Henry Chatsworth Allen . . .”
“My, my. That’s a rich-sounding name.”
“It sure is. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Chatsworth Allen are often pictured in the society pages, generally looking as though they’d rather be somewhere else.” She sighed, turning into Prudence Path. “You know, it’s a cliché to say that money can’t buy happiness, but it seems to be true for VV and her family.”
Lucy braked in front of Molly and Toby’s house, noticing with disappointment that Toby’s old truck was missing, which meant he wasn’t home. She brightened when Molly invited her to come inside and take some of the dyed Easter eggs. “We can’t possibly eat them all,” she said, lifting her child out of the car seat.
Inside the kitchen, she settled Patrick in his high chair and gave him a few animal crackers and a juice box. Lucy was choosing some of the colored eggs and packing them in a cardboard egg carton.
“I’ll take blue,” she said, showing the egg to Patrick.
“Bloo,” he repeated.
“And this red one.”
“Red,” exclaimed Patrick, kicking his legs.
“How about green?”
“Grrr,” growled Patrick. “Grrr. Grrr.”
“He loves growling,” said Molly, who was filling the kettle. “You know, it seems to me that Van must have decided at the last minute to have the Easter egg hunt. It didn’t seem as if it was planned. The gate was closed and there were no eggs in sight, except the ones in his basket.”
“I know. It was odd. And Barney said they hadn’t requested a special detail, like they usually do.”
“And there was no sign of VV. It’s her shindig, isn’t it? You said she gives out prizes and stuff.”
“You’re right. I wonder if her health is failing.” Lucy was closing the lid on her half-filled egg carton.
“Can you stay for some tea?” asked Molly.
“No, thanks. I better get going. I have to call Ted.” Ted Stillings was Lucy’s employer, the editor, publisher, and chief reporter for the town’s weekly newspaper, the Pennysaver. “I have a feeling this is going to be a big story.”
“Keep me posted,” said Molly.
Lucy bent down and kissed Patrick on the top of his head. “Be a good boy,” she said.
“Grrr,” he replied.
Lucy was smiling when she got back in the car for the short drive out Prudence Path and down Red Top Road to home. The old farmhouse was as welcoming as ever, with its sharply peaked roof and spacious porch, but when she stopped at the mailbox, she noticed the blue sky was filling with clouds. Typical in Maine, where people said if you didn’t like the weather, you should wait a minute.
When she lowered the window to reach into the mailbox, she noticed the temperature was falling and felt cold drops of rain on her hand. It looked as if spring was over, at least temporarily. She parked the car in her usual spot and hurried along the brick path lined with shivering crocuses, clutching her light jacket tightly at the collar and dodging the pelting sleet that was quickly turning into a downpour.
Inside the warm kitchen, Libby, her lab, rose slowly from her bed and stretched, wagging her tail in greeting. Lucy set the carton of Easter eggs along with the bills and a plastic-wrapped issue of Glamour magazine on the kitchen table, thinking that her daughters, Sara and Zoe, would probably get in a fight over it. Then she took her jacket off and hung it on the hook, giving her damp hair a shake. Nobody seemed to be home. It was the perfect time to wrap up this story, so she called for an update on Van’s condition.
Willis answered, announcing “Pine Point” in his usual clipped tone.
“This is Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver,” she said. “I was just wondering if there’s any news about Mr. Duff’s condition.”
There was a long silence while she waited for a reply. Finally, Willis spoke, but seemed to have a difficult time getting the words out. “I’m very sorry to say we’ve just learned that Van Vorst Duff passed away en route to the hospital.”
Chapter Three
Lucy was thoughtful as she drove to work on Monday morning. She knew Van’s death would be a big story and she wasn’t all that eager to cover it. She wasn’t getting any younger, she noted wryly, and neither was Bill. The sudden death of a man who seemed to be in his prime was a grim reminder of their own mortality. How would she cope if Bill suddenly had a heart attack? And what about poor Bill, if she died suddenly? Did he even know where she kept the important papers—the birth certificates, the insurance policies, and the deed to the house? Would he know what bills to pay first, and which could wait? Could he tell the difference between her good jewelry and the costume stuff? What if he sent her mother’s pearls to a thrift shop? And what about the silver? Could he tell it from the stainless? My goodness, she realized with a shock, they didn’t even have wills.
She had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach by the time she reached the Pennysaver office, which was in a Main Street storefront, and swung into the parking area behind it, and was resolving to have a serious talk with Bill as soon as possible. This very evening, if she could pull him away from the Bruins game on TV.
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�Why are you looking so glum?” asked Phyllis, when she entered the office. “The sun’s shining, the birds are singing, it’s a beautiful spring day.”
“It’s probably global warming,” muttered Lucy, hanging up her jacket on the coat tree. “We’re doomed. The ice caps are melting, the ocean’s rising, and soon we’ll be swimming for our lives.”
Phyllis perched her harlequin reading glasses on her nose. “You know what they say. No one gets out alive.”
“You’re right. But I’d rather leave later than sooner. Not like poor Van—he was only in his forties.”
“Ouch,” said Phyllis. “Wilf is fifty-two. Of course, he’s in excellent shape; he walks all day long.” Phyllis’s husband, Wilf, was a mail carrier. She furrowed her brow and examined her manicure; her nails were painted a bright shade of green. “He does eat fast food for lunch, though. I wish he wouldn’t. Just one soft drink a day is supposed to be bad for you, even if it’s diet. And the fries, well, everyone knows they go straight to your arteries and clog them up.”
“Tell me about it. Bill won’t touch brown rice—I lost that battle years ago. He’s a meat and potatoes man and he has to have meat loaf at least once a week.” Lucy sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. “He’ll eat salad—if it’s slathered with blue cheese dressing. And fruit . . .”
“If it’s in a pie served with a scoop of ice cream,” finished Phyllis.
“How are we going to keep them alive?” asked Lucy.
“It’s not going to be easy,” said Phyllis, with a sharp nod. “I heard on some financial planning show that the average age women become widows is fifty-eight.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “No.”
“Yes. It’s a statistical fact.” Phyllis shuffled some papers. “Look at VV. I bet she’s been a widow longer than she was married.”
Lucy’s computer was finally ready and she Googled Vivian Van Vorst, learning that Phyllis was right. “She was married for twenty-five years. Old Horatio died in 1969. She’s been a widow for more than forty years.” Her eyes met Phyllis’s. “Is that what we have to look forward to?”