by Leslie Meier
“Interesting,” said Fran, taking heed of the DANGEROUS CURVE sign and braking. “I assume this is the place where Maxine died?”
“Yes,” said Lucy. “Lover’s Leap. If you want a better look, you can pull over up ahead.”
Fran pulled into the overlook and they both got out of the car and went over to the fence, where a couple of coin-operated binoculars were positioned. They didn’t look out at the distant islands, however, but peered down at the rocks below and at the pounding surf. Then Fran raised her eyes and examined the roadway. “She was coming in the opposite direction, right?”
“Yup. Pine Point is just up ahead, maybe a quarter mile.”
“The guard rail wasn’t broken?”
“She must have sailed right over it.”
“What kind of car?”
“A BMW. It was completely wrecked.”
Fran shook her head. “What a waste,” she said, and Lucy wasn’t sure if she was talking about Maxine or the car. She took another long look at the scene of the accident, then straightened her shoulders. “Let’s go.”
When they turned into the drive and approached the gates, Fran let out an appreciative whistle. “This is quite the place. Who cuts all this grass?”
“There’s a gardener, Izzy Scannell. She’s the only one left; there used to be a crew of workers.”
As they passed through the open gates, Lucy noticed Eddie Culpepper driving a little lawn tractor. Spotting her, he gave a big wave, which Lucy returned.
“Who’s that?” asked Fran, who didn’t miss a thing.
“Just a local kid, Eddie Culpepper,” said Lucy, thinking Willis had wasted no time before acting on her recommendation. “He’s a new hire, he wasn’t here when Van and Maxine died.” She decided there was no need to go into Eddie’s history as a troubled vet and recovered addict.
Fran gave her a sideways look as she pulled up by the front door and braked. “I’m just gathering information,” she said. “You don’t need to get defensive.”
“I’m not defensive,” said Lucy. “I just think you’re barking up the wrong tree. The people who work here didn’t have anything to gain from Van’s and Maxine’s deaths; quite the contrary. They put up with a lot from Weatherby and the Allens. They were overworked and underpaid. They only stayed on because they cared about VV.”
Fran gave her a half smile, which Lucy understood to be a gesture of condescension. “I like to keep an open mind,” she said. “You just never know about people. They’re full of surprises.”
Lucy followed Fran up the three stone steps to the front door, which was answered by Willis. He was happy to cooperate, once Fran identified herself and made it clear she’d been hired by Juliette, and led the way downstairs to his office. Fran settled herself at his desk and began going through the personnel files and Lucy went on to the kitchen to chat with Elfrida.
She found her taking a pan of blueberry muffins out of the oven.
Lucy inhaled the delicious scent of sugar and cinnamon. “Those smell wonderful,” she said. “And, by the way, I was here yesterday for lunch and that lobster Newburg was really, really good. And the pie was lovely.”
“Thanks, Lucy.” Elfrida set the pan on a cooling rack. “Have one, while they’re still hot. And there’s coffee and tea, too. Willis got one of those single cup machines so we can have a cup whenever we want now. It makes more sense, now that we’ve got more people working here and everybody’s on different schedules. And I put out muffins in the morning and cookies in the afternoon.”
“Isn’t that a lot of work for you?” asked Lucy.
Elfrida shook her head. “I can whip up a dozen muffins in fifteen minutes; cookies, too, except for the baking.” She chuckled. “I never knew cooking was so easy. I’m having a ball. You know what I’m making for lunch?”
Lucy shook her head, her mouth too full of buttery muffin to speak.
“Cream of asparagus soup. I made it myself. And ham sandwiches on homemade anadama bread.”
Just thinking about such a delicious menu made Lucy feel a little weak in the knees, so she made herself a cup of coffee from the snazzy new machine. “For VV, right? What do the staff get?”
“Everybody gets the same thing; lunch is at noon sharp. Mr. Willis says it’s more economical in the long run.” Elfrida took a warming tile out of the oven and placed it in a basket, then she piled the muffins on top. “VV is doing much better, now that she’s getting a variety of real foods.”
Lucy was taking a sip of the Colombian decaf she had brewed for herself, thoroughly enjoying it, when Fran appeared in the doorway. She stuck out her hand, introducing herself to Elfrida. “I’m looking forward to talking with you later. Willis is going to set up interviews this afternoon.”
“Okay,” responded Elfrida. “Any time before three. I have to be home for my kids.”
Fran gave a brisk nod, then turned to Lucy. “Let’s go,” she said. “I want to see where Van died.”
“Sure,” said Lucy, reluctantly setting the still-full cup in the sink. “I saw the whole thing.”
Fran raised an eyebrow. “You did?”
“Yeah. I brought my grandson for the Easter egg hunt.”
“Then you can show me exactly what happened,” said Fran. “You can be Van.”
“With one major difference,” said Lucy, scowling. “I have no intention of dropping dead.”
She led the way upstairs to the hall, explaining that all the townsfolk were some distance away, on the other side of the closed gates. “We saw the door open,” said Lucy, performing the action as she remembered Van doing it. Then she stopped, realizing the ornamental grille was open, and closed it. “This grille was in place,” she said. “Van had to push it open. Maybe it stuck or something because he seemed to have some trouble with it.”
But when she lifted the latch, it opened easily, and the grille swung outward in a smooth arc.
“He was in a bunny costume, with a big basket of eggs on his left arm,” continued Lucy, staggering awkwardly down the steps.
“Is that how he moved? Did he stagger?” asked Fran.
“Yup. All the way to the gates, he was spilling the plastic eggs as he went,” said Lucy, picturing the scene. “He got to the gates, stopped, and collapsed, right here.” She dropped to the grass.
“Interesting,” said Fran, crossing the lawn and taking a close look at the door. When she’d finished with the door, she got down on her hands and knees and examined the grille.
“Do you see anything?” asked Lucy, who had followed her.
Fran didn’t reply, but got to her feet and brushed off her knees. “On to the impound lot,” she said. “I want to see that car.”
Lucy remembered Barney warning her not to touch Maxine’s car for fear of destroying possible evidence. “I think you’ll need permission for that,” said Lucy, seating herself back in Fran’s car and fastening the seat belt. “You better check with the police chief first.”
Fran looked at her. “From what I hear, that car has been out in the weather at Al’s Auto Care since they pulled it out of the water more than six weeks ago and nobody has bothered to take a look at it.”
“That’s true,” said Lucy.
“I also have rubber gloves,” said Fran, pulling a pair of thin exam gloves out of her tote bag. “I know what I’m doing. Believe me, I’m not going to contaminate valuable evidence.”
Lucy wasn’t convinced she was doing the right thing, but she had to admit that Fran had a point. If the officials weren’t going to examine the car, somebody should. Fran was confident she had the necessary skills and Lucy decided to take her word for it. She had her own suspicions about the car and was eager to learn what Fran might find.
When they got to the garage, the gate to the impound lot was open and nobody seemed to be around, though they could hear voices coming from the repair bays inside. Fran was all business, opening the trunk and taking out a tool bag and a mechanic’s dolly. Lucy was impressed.
&nbs
p; “I am not going to get my clothes dirty,” said Fran with a shrug. “Which car is it?”
Lucy pointed out the white BMW, a battered but sleek and classy contrast to the bulky vans and aged pickup trucks that filled the lot.
Fran put on her gloves, then pulled a small but powerful flashlight out of her bag. She first peered inside the car, paying special attention to the steering wheel and smashed windshield. Then she turned off the light and carefully examined the extensive damage on the front end. Lucy could barely stand to look at the crumpled metal and broken glass, but Fran showed no emotion at all. Finally, she positioned herself on the little trolley and rolled under the car. Lucy watched as the beam of light from the flashlight danced here and there. Then the light went out and Fran emerged, every hair in place.
“The brake line was leaking,” she announced. “It wasn’t a clean cut . . .”
Lucy was overcome with a sense of dismay. “What does that mean? Did it break in the crash?”
Fran was stripping off her gloves. “Maybe, maybe not. It could have been cut intentionally but made to look ragged. I also think that iron door grille was wired and Van was electrocuted.”
“Of course,” said Lucy, remembering how Van had staggered when he took hold of the ornamental ironwork.
“Whoever did it is very clever, they’ve covered their tracks pretty well,” said Fran, bending to pick up the dolly. “And whoever it is, is a skilled mechanic. This person knows what he, or she, is doing, and was smart enough to disguise the cut in the brake line.” She replaced the dolly in the trunk, along with the bag of tools. “And they’re not afraid of electricity . . .”
“What about timing?” asked Lucy. “What if it hadn’t been Van who opened the door, but somebody else?”
Fran was thoughtful. “The killer might have rigged a switch—or might not have cared.”
They got in the car once more and Fran started the engine.
“It’s so cold-blooded,” said Lucy, thinking that sounded a lot like Vicky and Henry.
“And technical,” said Fran, shifting into drive. “This killer, whoever it is, is a real handy person.”
Lucy chewed her lip, thinking that didn’t sound at all like Vicky or Henry.
Chapter Fifteen
“So who’s in charge of this investigation, anyway?”
asked Fran. “The local cops?”
Lucy couldn’t help laughing at the idea. “The local cops mostly herd tourists on July fourth, issue parking tickets, stuff like that. The state police take over when it’s a serious crime like murder, a bank robbery, or a drug investigation. As far as I can tell, there hasn’t actually been any investigation into Van’s and Maxine’s deaths—these days it seems they look for reasons not to investigate further—but the DA has charged Vicky and Henry with elder abuse as well as fraud and embezzlement so I guess he must be taking a close look at them.”
“And where is this DA’s office?”
Lucy was surprised. “You want to see him?”
“I sure do.”
“He’s hard to get a hold of,” said Lucy, who had often tried and failed to interview him.
“Well, I’ve got to try,” said Fran. “As a private investigator, it’s my legal duty to share information with the appropriate authorities. I took an oath.”
“Turn right here,” said Lucy, as they approached an intersection. “Gilead is the next town over.”
Much to Lucy’s amazement, Phil Aucoin was only too happy to talk to Fran. His secretary, Nancy Willard, gave Lucy the usual evil eye, but when Fran produced her business card and ID, she grudgingly agreed to show them to Phil. Moments later the door to his office flew open and he was greeting Fran with open arms.
“A real private eye,” he exclaimed, taking her hand and shaking it. “From New York, no less. I bet you could write a book.”
“I’m planning to,” said Fran with a big smile. “When I retire.”
“Well, come on in,” said Aucoin with a sweep of his arm. “Tell me how I can help you.”
Lucy wasn’t convinced the invitation included her, but she tagged along anyway. Maybe he wouldn’t notice her.
“I see you’ve got company,” said Phil, seating himself behind the big desk, which was covered with piles of papers. Other stacks of files covered most of the floor between the desk and the window.
Fran took a seat in one of the captain’s chairs provided for visitors. “Lucy is helping me, showing me around and providing background.”
He nodded, inviting her to take the other chair. “Fine, fine. Just remember, Lucy, whatever you hear is off the record.”
“Of course,” said Lucy, sitting down and crossing her legs.
Phil leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his belt. “So, Ms. Martino, what brings you to our fair county?”
“Fran, call me Fran,” she began. “I’ve been hired by Juliette Duff to look into the deaths of her father, Van Duff, and her mother, Maxine Carey. Their deaths may be related to another case you’re working on. Juliette is Vivian Van Vorst’s great-granddaughter and Van, her father, is VV’s grandson and Victoria Allen’s brother.”
Aucoin nodded. “I’m familiar with that family’s genealogical chart, believe me.” He sighed. “But I’ve seen the paperwork. There’s no indication those deaths were suspicious. It’s tragic for Juliette, no doubt about that, but these things happen.”
Fran nodded in agreement. “No doubt about that, no doubt at all.” She paused. “But I have to tell you, I found evidence that Maxine’s car was tampered with.”
“Ah,” said Aucoin. “You found the broken brake line.”
“I didn’t know you had the car checked out!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Of course we did,” said Aucoin. “But it was torn, it wasn’t cut.”
“So it seemed,” admitted Fran. “But I think it was made to look that way. I do think it was torn on purpose.”
Aucoin spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I can only work with the evidence my investigators give me,” he said, “and they tell me there was no sign of tampering.”
Fran wasn’t done; she had another trick up her sleeve. “Then there’s Van,” she said. “I’ve had questions about his death ever since I read the witness accounts, which by the way, Lucy confirms. They all agree that he reacted physically when he opened the ornamental metal grille in front of the door. Different witnesses used different words: ‘staggered,’ ‘shook,’ even ‘convulsed.’ That made me suspect the grille may have been electrified in some way and when I examined it earlier today, I found scratch marks near the base, as if wires had been attached.”
“Or maybe somebody attached Christmas decorations to the grille,” said Aucoin. “Or one of VV’s dogs was in a hurry to get out. Or maybe Willis, the butler there, dropped a silver tray when he was opening the door. There could be a lot of reasons for the paintwork to be scratched.”
Lucy couldn’t stand it; she’d been biting her tongue, but now she had to speak. “C’mon Phil, you told me yourself you’d be only too happy to nail Vicky and Henry with a murder charge, but you didn’t have the evidence. Well, now you’ve got something to go on. These discoveries of Fran’s need to be addressed, they need to be investigated. Vicky and Henry definitely had strong motives for getting rid of Van and Maxine—they knew the jig would be up if either one of them figured out how they were robbing VV.”
Aucoin rubbed his forehead, mussing up his brown hair, which he wore combed straight back. “Motive’s not enough,” he said. “We’ve all got plenty of motives for doing away with our nearest and dearest.”
Fran chuckled. “You said it—but most of us don’t do it. I’m convinced Vicky and Henry did.”
Aucoin sighed. “I have seen no evidence whatsoever that either one of them is capable of changing a light bulb. There is nothing in their past to indicate any sort of mechanical proficiency, nothing like the sort of knowledge you’d need to pull off an electrocution. Whoever did this . . .” A
ucoin was brought up short, hearing his own words. “And I’m not saying anybody did do it, but if they did, they would have to know a lot about electricity. I couldn’t do it; about all I’m good for in that department is flipping a circuit breaker. And as for the brake line, I wouldn’t know how to find it—and I’m pretty sure they didn’t teach that stuff at the fancy schools those two attended.”
That was all they got out of Aucoin, who made it perfectly clear that he had to prepare for the trial, which was due to begin on Monday. When Lucy was back in the car with Fran, heading home to Tinker’s Cove, she thought about what Aucoin had said.
“You know,” she began, speaking slowly, “I was at the funeral. I saw Maxine argue with Vicky and Henry and storm off in a huff.”
“Were you there the whole time?” asked Fran.
“Yes. The day before, too. I was hired to help with the food so I was there before and after.”
“What about Vicky and Henry? Were they there the whole time, too?”
“I think they were,” said Lucy. “I was busy serving the food. I didn’t observe their every move, but I did see a lot of them. I don’t think they had time to tamper with Maxine’s car. They were too busy with the guests.”
“They didn’t have to do it themselves,” said Fran. “They could have hired someone, maybe someone who worked at the house. Like that kid, Eddie. He seems like a capable sort.”
“I’m sure he is, but he wasn’t working there then,” said Lucy.
“What about the gardener, Izzy? She seems to do more than plant stuff; she does a lot of maintenance, too.”
“She might have the necessary skills,” admitted Lucy, “but what motive could she possibly have? And if she was going to kill somebody, I’m pretty sure she would have knocked off the people who were causing her grief: Vicky, Henry, and Weatherby.”
“What about the butler, Willis?” asked Fran. “He seems like a resourceful kind of guy.”
“He is, and he’s very devoted to VV. I can’t see why he’d kill Van and Maxine, though. They were playing on the same team, defending VV against Vicky and Henry and Weatherby.”