LStone 20 - Easter Bunny Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy smiled gratefully as he took the heavy platter from her and set it on a table. “Thanks,” she said, finding herself a bit dizzy. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “Here, sit down a minute,” he urged, taking her by the elbow and leading her back to the stairs.

  Her head swimming, she held on to the railing and lowered herself carefully to sit on the top step while he watched anxiously. “Lower your head,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”

  Lucy rested her head on her knees and found that it did help, a little.

  “When did you last eat?”

  “Breakfast,” replied Lucy.

  “Stay there, I’ll be right back.” And in a matter of minutes he returned with a piece of pound cake and a cup of tea. “Drink up. I put lots of sugar in.”

  Lucy felt nauseated but sipped the tea and by the time she emptied the cup she was able to nibble on the cake. “Thank you so much,” she said, looking up at her rescuer. “If you hadn’t grabbed that platter, we could have had a tragedy.”

  He laughed. “Tiny sandwiches everywhere, it would have been a fine mess.”

  He was a funny fellow, spry, though he must be well into his seventies, Lucy decided, and didn’t quite seem to belong in this crowd. His gray suit was rumpled and didn’t fit all that well; the sleeves were too long and the shoulders too large. His shoes weren’t right, either. Instead of dress oxfords, he was wearing scuffed brown sports shoes.

  “I’m not used to this kind of work. I’m just here for the day,” said Lucy, and then she introduced herself.

  “I’m Peter Reilly,” he said, taking her hand. “I guess you’d call me a friend of the family.”

  “I better get back to work,” said Lucy, grabbing the railing and hauling herself to her feet.

  “Take it easy,” urged Peter. “Believe me, in the grand scheme of things, this reception is merely a blip on the universal radar.”

  Lucy found herself grinning. “I’m not sure Willis would agree.”

  “Ah, Willis.” Peter tented his fingers and Lucy had the fleeting impression that he was a priest or a philosopher. “He’s uptight. They all are. Money does that to people.”

  “It does seem to be the prevailing theme around here. They say it’s running out.”

  “I doubt that,” said Peter.

  Lucy was about to push the door open but paused. “What do you mean?”

  “VV is very tight with her money. I happen to know because I was married to Little Viv for a while and money was really all that VV ever talked about. She didn’t like the fact that her daughter married me—I used to be a Catholic priest, you see. I’m not sure if it was because I was Catholic, or because I left the priesthood, but whatever it was, she found me unacceptable. She ranted and raved and wrote Little Viv right out of her will.” He smiled. “When we got divorced, she was terribly pleased and agreed to give Little Viv a modest annual allowance.” He raised his hands and made little quotation marks in the air when he said the word modest.

  “Here in town we see VV as a generous benefactor,” said Lucy. “I didn’t know she was so manipulative.”

  Peter shrugged. “As she grew older and weaker, she tried to use her money to control the family. It’s natural, I suppose. It doesn’t always work, of course. Little Viv couldn’t care less about money, she just assumes it will be there. Van was the same way.” He sighed. “I’m going to miss him.”

  Lucy was about to go through the door when it was suddenly pushed open and Sue confronted her. “There you are! What are you doing? I’m all alone out here!” she hissed, her eyes huge and accusatory.

  “Sorry. I’ll empty the dumbwaiter.”

  “No.” Sue was having none of it. “I’ll get the dishes. You can face the hungry hordes.”

  Lucy had been put in her place. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, feeling like the lowest scullery maid in a PBS costume drama.

  Chapter Seven

  Back at her post, Lucy quickly served the handful of mourners who were waiting to refill their cups of coffee or tea. The crowd was thinning, she noticed with relief. There was one thing to be said for limiting the refreshments—when the food started to run out, people definitely got the idea that it was time to leave. Lucy had to tilt the coffee urn to fill a cup for Juliette, who was every bit as pretty up close as she was from a distance, and very friendly, too.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” she said, taking the cup gratefully. “I’ve been too busy with the guests to have anything myself. I’ve been having a caffeine withdrawal.”

  Lucy smiled, finding Juliette’s sweet smile infectious. The girl was a stunner, there was no denying it, with her widely spaced hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and swanlike neck. She was graceful, too, despite the fact that she was nearly six feet tall, and she had a casual way of tossing her long hair over her shoulder that made her approachable. Don’t be put off by my beauty, this clever bit of body language seemed to say, I’m really a down-to-earth, fun-loving girl.

  “Is this enough?” asked Lucy, passing her the little cup perched on a saucer. She figured Juliette was used to the large takeout cups that seemed to be a fixture in stylish girls’ hands, their cell phones at the ready in the other hand. “I can run downstairs and get you more coffee, or something to eat.”

  But before she could answer, or even take the cup, Juliette was caught up in an embrace from her mother, Maxine. “Mom!” she exclaimed, planting kisses on both cheeks. “Where have you been? You missed the service!”

  “They told me it was at four, can you believe it?” Maxine was indignant, her chin quivering and her flowing garments, which seemed to Lucy more like a collection of black scarves than a dress, fluttering about her. “They wanted me to miss the whole thing! Imagine how I felt when I arrived and saw everybody was leaving,” she said, pulling a handkerchief out of her brocade handbag and dabbing at her eyes.

  “Who told you it was at four?” asked Juliette. “Mr. Weatherby?”

  Maxine nodded, her eyes blazing as she scanned the room, clearly ready for a fight. Her gaze landed on a silver-haired gentleman in a black suit with gray pinstripes and highly polished shoes; he could have been a clone of Vicky’s husband, Henry. “Weatherby!” she shrieked, barreling across the room toward him, her assorted garments flapping in the breeze. “I know you were behind this!”

  So this was Weatherby, thought Lucy, watching the confrontation. She wasn’t alone, the remaining mourners were equally transfixed.

  The lawyer looked down his nose at the flamboyant woman with the brassy, obviously dyed red hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Telling me the funeral was at four! You didn’t want me here, did you?”

  “You’re being ridiculous. I’m sure you mistook the time.” He sniffed suspiciously. “Have you been drinking? You’re making a scene.”

  “I’ll make a scene if I want to!” exclaimed Maxine. “Van was everything to me and you kept me from his funeral!”

  “I might remind you that you and Van were never married,” said Weatherby. “You’re not actually part of the family.”

  Maxine’s face grew so red that Lucy feared she might explode. “Not part of the family!” she exclaimed, incredulous. “Not part of the family! I’m the mother of his child, for God’s sake.” She poked Weatherby in the middle of his bony chest. “I have a lot more right to be here than you do. You’re nothing but a crooked shyster lawyer and I’ve got the evidence to prove it.”

  For a moment, Weatherby seemed stunned, as if he’d been slapped, but he quickly recovered. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, sticking out his chin.

  The stragglers who remained were standing about the room, fascinated by this unexpected turn of events. Little Viv, white faced and looking terribly fragile, was hurrying to Maxine, a lace handkerchief in her hand. She wasn’t quick enough, however. Vicky, ever alert to the slightest rip in the social fabric, had joined the group and was taking charge. “I understand how upset
you are, Maxine, but it’s no fault but your own that you missed the service. We made a video of everything, you know, and I’ll be more than happy to send you a copy.”

  “Video!” Hot tears of rage were spurting from Maxine’s eyes. “I want to say good-bye to Van. Where is he? Where’s his body?”

  Juliette wrapped her long, graceful arms around her mother’s heaving shoulders. “You know he was cremated, Mom. He’s gone.”

  “Gone! Gone!” Maxine fell to her knees, like the heroine in a Greek tragedy, and grabbed handfuls of her long, curly hair. “I just wanted to hold him one more time!”

  Vicky and Weatherby exchanged glances and Lucy knew without a doubt that Maxine was right on the money, the two had conspired to keep her away from Van’s funeral. Perhaps justifiably, she thought, considering how Maxine was behaving. Or perhaps not. At the very least, it seemed a mean trick.

  Judging by the sympathetic expression on her face, Lucy thought Little Viv was thinking the same thing. She was reaching out to Maxine, supported by Andrew, who was holding her elbow. He had a stern expression on his face and was clearly disgusted; Lucy wondered which side he was on in this family drama.

  Maxine was rising to her feet, helped by Juliette. She narrowed her eyes and turned on Henry, who had joined the group, standing behind his wife. “You’re nothing but a bloodsucker, Henry, that’s what you are. A human lamprey, a parasite. You’ve attached yourself to Vicky because you couldn’t earn an honest dollar if you tried.”

  “Enough. This is enough,” murmured Little Viv, the lacy handkerchief fluttering in her trembling hand.

  “Little Viv is right,” said Andrew firmly. “This is not the place for this discussion.”

  “Oh, sure, you’d like me to go away, wouldn’t you?” Maxine’s voice was steady, accusatory. “Well, I’ve been trying to have this particular discussion for some time, but nobody seems to want to talk to me, so we’ll do it here and now.” She fixed her eyes on Vicky. “I know what you’re doing. I know what you’re up to, Vicky. Now that Van is gone, you’re going to inherit everything, but you don’t want to wait, do you? You can’t let the poor old woman die in peace in her own time. Oh, no.” Her restless eyes darted from Henry to Weatherby and finally settled on Vicky. “Poor VV is a prisoner in her own home and you’re flaunting her wealth all over town. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Vicky’s plump face crumpled. “You’ve got it all wrong. I loved Van, I love grandmère, I’m doing everything I can to take care of her.” She turned to Little Viv. “Isn’t that right, Mummy?”

  Little Viv tightened her grip on Andrew’s hand. “Of course you are. The money doesn’t matter. We’re family, we take care of each other.”

  “If only that were true,” said Maxine, pleading with Little Viv. “It’s up to you—you’re VV’s daughter. You have to stop this.”

  Little Viv pressed her thin lips together and turned her pale blue eyes on Maxine. “I warned Van not to marry you—thank God for once he listened to me. You’re a vile common person and it’s time for you to leave.”

  Blinking back tears, Juliette once again wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders. “Come on, Mom, they’re not worth it.” She turned to Little Viv. “My mother is as much a part of this family as I am. How do you think I felt, when I realized she wasn’t here? It wasn’t easy to talk about my father. I needed her support.” She took her mother’s hand and started to leave, then whirled around to face Vicky. “I will never forgive you for this.”

  “Oh, Juliette,” crooned Vicky in her sweetest voice. “You did such a terrific job. Your little story, ice skating with your dad, it was lovely. We were all moved.”

  Juliette’s face hardened in cold fury. “Ice skating! It was sledding, you moron! I went sledding with my dad and if you listened, if you cared, you’d know that.”

  Vicky was quick to switch tactics, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbing her eyes. “My mistake. I’m just so, well, this is all so very difficult . . .”

  “Yes it is.” Peter Reilly joined the group, inserting himself between the two factions. “It’s been a very long day for everyone.” He turned to Maxine. “This is not productive. We’ll take this up another day. Now it’s time to go home. Can I give you a lift?”

  “I have my car,” she said. “But thank you.”

  Vicky and Henry had withdrawn, along with Weatherby. The three were talking together in low voices.

  Maxine couldn’t resist delivering a parting shot. “This isn’t over,” she declared. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see that you pay.”

  Then she whirled, her garments swirling around her, grabbed Juliette by the hand, and marched out the door.

  Lucy, who had been gathering up dishes and glassware as slowly as she could so as not to miss a word of this fascinating confrontation, finally picked up her tray and headed for the butler’s pantry. Sue, who was collecting the few remaining tea sandwiches and putting them together on a single plate, gave her a nod. “This is not a happy family,” she said.

  “I think Maxine’s on to something,” said Lucy. “What do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t trust any of them with the Sunday collection plate,” said Sue, hoisting a tray and following Lucy through the door.

  A couple of hours later, the tables were cleared, the dishes were washed, and Sue and Lucy were on their way out the door, each with a check for ninety-seven dollars and fifty cents in her pocket.

  “I can’t believe that’s all we got, not even a hundred dollars,” complained Sue. “We worked really hard.”

  “Willis did round off the last hour,” said Lucy, “even though we only worked forty-two minutes.”

  Sue’s voice was sarcastic. “Yeah, but who’s counting?”

  “You’ve got to admit it was interesting,” said Lucy. “Especially when Maxine arrived.”

  “She really knows how to liven up a party,” said Sue. “Poor Juliette, she’s got her hands full with a mother like that. She’s quite the career girl. Elfrida told me she’s a top model in New York.”

  They were coming up the outside stairs from the service area behind the house, rounding the large hedge that concealed this utilitarian part of the mansion. Just beyond, they could see Izzy, the gardener, trying to pull down a vine that had climbed up the thick yew bushes. In the struggle, the vine was winning.

  “You want some help?” asked Lucy.

  “Bittersweet,” said Izzy. “It’s stubborn stuff.”

  “But the berries are so pretty,” protested Sue.

  “Camouflage,” grunted Izzy. “You see the berries and think it’s pretty and meanwhile it’s strangling the life out of your fine ornamentals. It’s a thug.”

  Lucy stepped beside Izzy and together they grabbed the vine, pulling with all their might, loosening yards and yards of the tangled stuff, which finally fell in a huge heap at their feet.

  “Thanks,” said Izzy, bundling the vine together and loading it into a garden cart. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “You better burn it,” said Lucy. “It’s the only way to get rid of it.”

  “You said it,” agreed Izzy, adjusting her garden gloves and watching as Vicky and Henry left the mansion and got in a waiting limousine parked near the front door. The chauffeur held the door for them, and a moment or two later they drove off. “You gotta get rid of the thugs.” With that, she bent down and grabbed the handle of the cart, pushing it away in the direction of the greenhouse.

  Lucy and Sue resumed their walk to the parking lot. “You know,” said Sue, “I’m not sure she was talking about the bittersweet.”

  “Me, either,” said Lucy.

  That night, with the scene from the funeral fresh in her mind, Lucy decided to broach the subject of wills with Bill. She was in bed, reading, and looked up when he came upstairs; he’d been watching a hockey game on TV.

  “Who won?” she asked.

  “Bruins.”


  “That’s good,” she said.

  “Marchand scored in the last minute,” he said, pulling his sweater over his head.

  Lucy smiled, watching as he changed into his pajamas. He was still fit and trim, with broad shoulders, long back, and a tight little bottom; she could have gazed at him all night.

  “What are you smiling about?” he asked, a naughty gleam in his eye.

  “You’re a fine-looking man,” she said, “even if you’re not getting any younger.”

  “I feel good,” he said, slipping into bed beside her.

  Lucy put her book on the bedside table and turned to face him. She stroked his beard, barely tinged with gray. “I worry about you,” she said.

  “Me? I’m fine,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.

  “Your work is dangerous,” she said, pulling away. “You’re up on ladders, you use power saws. What if something happened to you?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” said Bill, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling.

  “Everybody thinks that, but things do happen. Did you know the average age women become widows is fifty-eight?”

  Bill looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Are you planning something, Lucy?”

  She put her hand on his chest, stroking him. “No way. I love you every bit as much as I did the day we got married, even more. I want to have you around for a long time.”

  “Good,” said Bill.

  “But I think we should get wills.”

  Bill snorted. “That would be a good idea—if we had anything to leave anybody.”

  “When you think about it, we’ve got quite a lot. There’s the house, that’s worth quite a bit . . .”

  “A lot less than it used to be worth and, besides, it’s a shared tenancy. It goes to the survivor.”

  “What about the college fund?”

  “It’s a joint account, same thing.”

  “But what if we both died, say in a car crash?”

  “Wouldn’t be our problem, would it?” said Bill, turning out the light.