by Leslie Meier
Bill took one look at her and put the hammer down, enfolding her in his strong arms. She felt his bristly beard against her forehead and smelled his good, sweaty smell. He stroked her hair with his rough, calloused hand.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It was all pretty routine. They wanted to know where I was yesterday.”
“What did you say?”
“The truth. I don’t have anything to hide. I was here, working.” He gave her a squeeze. “I expected it, really. We’re her closest neighbors and there were problems, there’s no use pretending there weren’t.”
“It was in the Globe. Ted wrote that the police are investigating the neighbors—that means us—and especially Toby. Because of that fight with Wesley.”
Bill stepped back and looked at her. Then he spoke, slowly. “I was here alone, you know. The cop asked me if I saw anybody or talked to anybody and I had to say no. I can’t prove that I was here.”
“You don’t have to,” said Lucy. “They have to prove you weren’t. That’s how it works.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Bill, sarcastically. “Now I feel a whole lot better.”
“I’m really worried about Toby.”
“If they questioned me, they’re definitely going to talk to him.” Bill looked at his watch. “He’s on the boat with Chuck. I don’t think they’ll be back for an hour or so. I could call and warn him that the cops are likely to be waiting for him.”
“He’s innocent so he shouldn’t have anything to worry about, right?”
“Right.” Bill’s voice was firm. “I think I’m going to head down to the harbor. I’d like to be there when Toby gets back.”
Lucy watched Bill go, then started picking up his tools and putting them away in his toolbox. She knew he wouldn’t want to leave his valuable tools lying about in the open. Then she found the broom and began sweeping up the sawdust and bits of wood that littered the wide old floorboards. She loved the smell of clean, new wood and sheetrock and the sense of emptiness in the nearly finished building. Soon enough it would be filled with rugs and furniture and all the owner’s stuff, but now it was bare and fresh.
She remembered Toby as a little baby with unblemished, creamy skin and fine, curly hair and sweet round cheeks and tiny, tiny little toenails. He’d been an easygoing, bouncy baby who nursed enthusiastically and slept deeply. Full of energy, he’d walked and talked early. He’d been a delight and she’d been unprepared when colicky, cranky Elizabeth arrived on the scene.
Lucy brushed the floor sweepings into a dustpan and emptied it into a trash barrel, then propped the broom into the corner, tucking the dustpan behind it as she always did. She stood up. Toby hadn’t killed Pru Pratt, she was sure of it. She wasn’t sure what he was up to these days, there was a lot about him that she didn’t know, but she knew in her heart that her sweet baby boy would never kill anybody. The problem was making sure the police believed it, too.
Chapter Sixteen
When Lucy got home, she found Elizabeth in the family room, watching TV and having a late lunch of diet soda and baby carrots.
“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be working on your tan.”
“It’s not so nice down there anymore, Mom,” said Elizabeth, wrinkling her nose. “There’s a lot of black flies and mosquitoes and there’s litter. It’s kind of icky.”
“I’m surprised,” said Lucy. “I thought the naturists were more responsible than that.”
“I think Mike’s organizing a clean-up party this weekend.” Elizabeth chewed a carrot. “It’s not just that, Mom. I’ve got a rash.”
“It’s probably a heat rash”
“No.” Elizabeth held out her arm. “Look. It’s gross.” Her voice tightened. “Do you think it’s skin cancer?”
Lucy felt a stab of guilt. Maybe she shouldn’t have put that library book on Elizabeth’s night table. She took a look at Elizabeth’s arm and immediately recognized the honey-colored scabs. “Impetigo.”
“What’s that?” Elizabeth grimaced. “Is it bad?”
“It’s stubborn, like you. You have to keep after it with antibiotic cream. It’ll go away, but it’ll take a while.” Lucy couldn’t resist adding, “You probably picked it up at the pond.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going back there. Some of those people were kind of creepy.”
Lucy didn’t like the sound of this. “What do you mean?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “They weren’t cool, you know. They’d stare.”
“Sightseers?”
“You could say that.”
Lucy went into the kitchen to make herself a sandwich. She felt better than she had all morning. At least something was working out, even if it took a dose of impetigo to convince Elizabeth to keep her clothes on. While she didn’t like the idea of unsavory characters hanging around so close to her house their presence did open a promising avenue worth investigating. She was humming to herself and spreading mustard on a piece of bread when she heard Elizabeth shriek.
“Mom! Come here!”
Lucy ran into the family room, where Elizabeth was pointing at the TV. “It’s Mrs. Pratt, Mom. On TV.”
“Police are investigating whether a family feud in a small Maine town led to the death of a woman there,” said Brad Hicks, the New England Cable News anchorman.
Lucy’s jaw dropped as she watched the story unfold in pictures. First there was a shot of Pru, accepting a blue ribbon for her chickens at the county fair. It was the only time Lucy had ever seen her in a skirt and she looked rather attractive. She’d even tied a bit of ribbon around her pony tail. Then there was rolling video of the Pratts’ house with the driveway filled with police cars.
“Long-standing feud with neighbors Bill and Lucy Stone . . .” was illustrated with a shot of their house, “. . . culminated earlier this week in a dog hearing. Responding to complaints that the Stones’ dog attacked the dead woman’s chickens, town officials voted to destroy the dog if there were any further attacks.”
“I can’t believe this,” muttered Elizabeth.
Lucy watched in horror as the screen filled with a familiar action shot of Toby playing lacrosse taken from his high school yearbook. His hair was matted with sweat, he had a streak of mud across his face and was grimacing with exertion. He was also attempting to whack the opposing player with his lacrosse stick. “The Stones’ son Toby is currently under indictment for assault and battery against Prudence Pratt’s son, Wesley.”
Then Wesley’s yearbook photo, picturing him in a shirt and tie with neatly combed hair, filled the screen. Lucy knew enough about public relations to know this was a disaster. Wesley was a neatly groomed “good” boy and her son was an aggressive hooligan.
That photo was replaced with a live shot of Brad Hicks, announcing breaking news in Tinker’s Cove. She and Elizabeth watched, fascinated, as the camera panned the harbor parking lot, which was crowded with reporters, photographers and TV cameramen. The camera then settled on a young blond woman in a blue suit.
“Stacy Blake, reporting live from Tinker’s Cove where police are awaiting the arrival of Toby Stone, a suspect in the murder of Prudence Pratt. Stone is believed to be aboard a lobster boat now approaching the dock.”
The camera focused on Quisset Point, where the Carrie Ann could be seen steaming steadily towards its birth. A uniformed officer and a plainclothes detective were stationed on the gangway, where they were soon joined by Bill and Bob Goodman.
“Are they going to arrest Toby?” asked Elizabeth.
Lucy was perched on the sofa, wringing her hands. “I hope not.” She could hardly believe what she was seeing: people and places she knew were actually on TV. Somehow it made everything seem unreal.
“As you can see,” the reporter continued, “the lobster boat carrying suspect Toby Stone has now docked and police are boarding it. They appear to be questioning the two men on the boat, one of whom we believe is Toby Stone, but we cannot hear what they are saying.”
“T
ell me, Stacy,” came Brad Hicks’s voice, “can you tell our viewers why Toby Stone is considered a suspect.”
“Yes, Brad, I can. Stone was arraigned in district court last week and charged with assault and battery against Wesley Pratt, the victim’s son. The two apparently had some sort of altercation right here on the docks.”
“Was Stone the only one charged?”
“No, Brad. As it happens, several other men were charged in connection with that altercation, including Wesley Pratt, the victim’s son.”
“Well, that is certainly interesting information Stacy. Can you tell us what’s happening now?”
“The police appear to be continuing to question the men aboard the fishing boat, the Carrie Ann.” Behind the reporter the police could be seen leaving the boat and climbing up the gangway. “No, I stand corrected. The officers appear to have completed their questioning and are now leaving the boat.”
The scene at the harbor erupted into chaos as the pack of reporters surged in two directions. Some followed the police officers and others headed for the gangway. The camera wobbled, then settled on Bob Goodman. He stood patiently while microphones were thrust into his face.
“We have no statement at this time,” he said.
“Who are you?” called out several reporters.
“I’m an attorney. Robert Goodman. I have offices here in town.”
“Who are you representing?”
“I represent a lot of people in this town,” said Bob. “Now I’m warning you that you’re obstructing the right of these fishermen to conduct their business.”
The feed from Tinker’s Cove was abruptly disconnected and Brad Hicks was back on the screen. “In other news . . . ,” he began.
Lucy and Elizabeth remained in place on the couch, in shock.
“This is crazy,” said Elizabeth.
“I have a feeling it’s going to get a whole lot crazier,” said Lucy, as the phone began ringing.
She picked up the receiver, expecting it to be one of her girlfriends: Sue Finch or Rachel Goodman or Pam Stillings. It was NECN and she slammed the receiver down.
“Don’t pick up unless it’s somebody you know,” she told Elizabeth. “We can use the answering machine to screen our calls.”
Lucy grew increasingly nervous as the afternoon wore on and there was no sign of Toby or Bill. The constant ringing of the phone was an added irritation, especially since the callers were all reporters. The worst part, she decided, was that she really had no right to get indignant at this invasion of her privacy. How many times had she done the same thing, calling some troubled person for a reaction? How many times had she exposed someone to shame and censure, all in the cause of truth? And had she really discovered the truth or had she found a few facts and crafted them into a sensational story, just as the NECN reporters had done. Oh, it was all true, but it added up to a big lie. There was no family feud, or if there had been it had been on the Pratts’ side. Finally, she heard Bob Goodman’s familiar voice.
“Lucy, it’s me, Bob,” he said. “Pick up if you’re there.”
Lucy grabbed the receiver.
“What’s happening? I saw it on TV. I’ve been so worried.”
“That’s why I called. Everything’s okay. We went to the police station and I stayed with Toby when they questioned him and it turns out he’s got a good alibi. He was out on the boat all day yesterday and Chuck can vouch for him.”
“That’s a relief,” said Lucy. “Do they have a time of death?”
“Between ten and two, when you found her.”
“Not earlier than ten?” asked Lucy.
“Nothing’s definite, yet, but they seem to think that’s the outside limit. Listen, Lucy, this is important. If you were watching TV you know the media is all over this case, the town is full of TV trucks. They’re going to be after you, the kids, too. Don’t talk to them. Don’t let the kids talk to them. Try to ignore them, try to keep your expressions pleasantly neutral, if you can.”
Lucy was getting the picture. “In case we’re photographed?”
“Right. Try not to look guilty, okay?”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” said Lucy. “We’re not guilty!”
“If only it were that easy,” said Bob, with a sigh.
That evening Lucy and Bill held a family conference to clue the kids in on the situation. It soon became clear that Bob was right; it wasn’t going to be easy at all. There was a lot of grumbling as they pulled the kids away from their various occupations but eventually everyone was gathered in the family room. The TV was off, and if Lucy had her way, it was going to stay off.
“Because of Mrs. Pratt’s murder we might be getting some media attention,” she began.
“It’s like being the Osbournes,” said Elizabeth. “Except they keep showing Toby and our house. Why don’t they show me? I’m the most photogenic.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped and Bill was speechless.
“You wouldn’t like it so much if they did show you,” said Toby, scowling.
“Will we get paid millions of dollars, like the Osbournes?” asked Sara.
“When is it my turn?” asked Zoe. “I think I’ll wear my new pink shirt tomorrow, just in case they want to film me.”
“Maybe I’ll get discovered and get a modeling contract,” mused Elizabeth.
“Uh, guys, I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” said Bill. “This isn’t ‘The Osbournes’. It’s more like ‘Inside Edition’ and we’re the bad guys.”
Now it was the kids’ turn to drop their jaws in disbelief.
“We’re the bad guys? That’s crazy!” exclaimed Sara.
“We’re nice!” exclaimed Zoe.
“It’s all Toby’s fault,” grumbled Elizabeth. “Because of him fighting with Wesley.”
“You better mind your own business,” said Toby. “I’m not guilty, yet, for your information, and last I heard there’s no law against defending yourself.”
“Enough!” barked Bill.
“We’re in this together,” said Lucy, “and we’re going to get through it together. And the way we’re going to do that is we’re going to go about our business, we’re going to stick to our routines, and we’re not going to answer any of their questions. Like the president coming back to Camp David, we’re just going to keep on walking. That’s what we’re going to do.”
“But Mom, this could be my big chance. I could talk to them about the weather or something. Just to introduce myself to the nation,” said Elizabeth.
“I’m warning you, Elizabeth. Even something you think is harmless can be used against you. ‘Neighbor’s Daughter Sheds No Tears for Poor Pru.’ You think you’re making polite chit-chat and they make you out as a callous monster. I’ve seen it happen.”
“You’re a reporter,” accused Toby, “you’ve probably done it.”
“Watch your tongue, Toby,” said Bill.
“Actually, I’m not a reporter any more.”
They all looked at her.
“I quit my job today and I’m glad I did. I don’t want to be part of the media anymore.”
Chapter Seventeen
Lucy’s opinion of her profession wasn’t improved the next morning when Bill left for work only to stomp angrily back into the house, instructing her to look out the window. She was shocked to see a couple of vans and a handful of reporters parked on the grassy verge opposite the driveway.
“I don’t believe this,” she said, but Bill was busy dialing the phone.
“This is Bill Stone on Red Top Road,” he said. “I want to complain about some reporters parked on the road outside my house.”
Lucy assumed he was calling the police department. She didn’t think he’d get very far.
“Well, no, they’re not obstructing the road,” he said. “They’re not trespassing on my property, either. But they’ve got no business to be here. They’re harassing my family—we have no privacy.” He listened, growing redder in the face by the minute, until he snapped. “It’
s great to see my tax dollars at work!” he snarled, slamming down the phone.
“There’s nothing they can do, right?”
“The road’s open to everyone, it’s public property,” said Bill. “They’re not even going to send a cruiser. Apparently, there’s media all over town and everybody’s calling and complaining. They don’t have the manpower, she says.”
“Bob warned us this might happen. He said we should just ignore them, but try to keep a pleasant expression. Try not to look guilty.”
Bill looked at her. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. Then he left.
When it was her turn to leave the house to take the girls to day camp, she promised herself she would follow Bob’s advice. She’d stay cool, she wouldn’t get rattled as she ran the press gauntlet. When she braked at the end of the driveway and signaled her turn onto the road, several reporters approached the Subaru, snapping photos and shouting questions.
“Did you hate Prudence Pratt?” “Have the police questioned you?” “Has your son been arrested?” “Will you make a statement?” “Can I interview you? We’ll pay.”
Trying not to look flustered, Lucy drove carefully and deliberately until she’d worked her way free of the reporters. She was breathing a sigh of relief when she spotted a couple of cars following her. She was being tailed!
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered.
“Believe what?” asked Zoe.
“Nothing,” said Lucy, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.
At least they couldn’t follow her onto the camp property, and the drop-off area was at the far end of the parking lot, blocked from the road by bushes. Nonetheless, she felt uneasy as she let the girls out.
“Remember, don’t talk to strangers. If you see anybody who shouldn’t be on the camp property be sure to tell Melanie right away.”
“Okay, Mom,” grumbled Sara. “We get it.”
Driving home, Lucy was tempted to stop the car at the driveway and tell those reporters the real story. About the lobster poaching and the way Pru Pratt had made enemies of everyone in town. She’d like to give them a piece of her mind. Then she remembered Ted, cackling merrily when a controversial story prompted a flurry of irate letters to the editor.