Wedding Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  Lucy stopped and smiled at Ralph Winslow, who was standing in the door of his antique shop.

  “I wish we could bottle it and save it for January,” said Lucy.

  “You’d make a fortune,” he replied.

  Lucy gave him a little wave and turned the corner onto Sea Street. From there she could see the whole harbor studded with the tall masts of sailboats. In general, she noticed, the sailboats and recreational boats were berthed on the right side of the main pier, which was stationary. Floating walkways extended from the pier to provide access to the slips. The bigger commercial fishing boats and the ferry to Quisset Point had the left side, near the boat ramp and the loading dock for the trucks that carried the day’s catch to market. Boat owners paid a hefty price to rent a slip, but even so there was always a waiting list. Those not fortunate enough to get a slip anchored their boats at moorings out in the harbor and had to row back and forth from their boats in a dinghy, or what old-timers called a pram.

  As she drew closer to the waterfront, Lucy sniffed the mixed scent of creosote and diesel fuel, with a touch of salt and fish, that she had come to love. To her it was the essence of Tinker’s Cove, where the ocean wasn’t just a playground for vacationers but had provided a livelihood for generations of hardy working folk. It was a risky way of life, and fishermen were finding it increasingly difficult to make a living. Nevertheless, Lucy could understand its appeal. There was a sense of adventure that was part and parcel of every sea voyage, whether it was the ten-minute ferry ride to Quisset Point or a round-the-world cruise.

  Taking a seat on a bench, Lucy opened her lunch and took a bite of ham on rye. She rolled up her pants and stretched her legs out, taking her chances with skin cancer in order to get a touch of tan on her winterwhite skin, and relaxed. It was peaceful and quiet. From somewhere she heard the distant sound of hammering and the thrum of a motor, gradually becoming louder. She wondered if it might be Geoff and Toby, aboard the Lady L, but when the boat came in sight it was Chuck Swift’s Osprey.

  Lucy ate her lunch, watching as Chuck docked and unloaded his catch, neatly packed in plastic boxes. When she’d finished her apple and he was hosing down the deck, she approached him, once again ignoring the sign and keeping an eye out for Wiggins.

  “How’s the fishing?” she asked when he looked up.

  “Can’t complain,” he said, grinning. “Not on a day like today.”

  Chuck was a muscular fellow in his late twenties with a ruddy, broad face. He was wearing rubber boots and bright yellow foul-weather pants with suspenders. His stained and worn T-shirt advertised Moat’s Boat Yard: MOAT’S: EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO STAY AFLOAT.

  “Did you see the Lady L out there?” she asked, shading her eyes with her hand.

  “Didn’t see ’em but I heard ’em on the radio. They’re out by Pogey Point.”

  Lucy nodded. She knew the fishermen kept in touch by radio, gossiping over the airwaves like housewives used to do on the telephone in the days when women stayed home.

  Chuck jumped up onto the dock and hoisted a box full of lobsters. “Got my quota today,” he said, referring to a new regulation limiting lobster catches. “But you know, some days I’m still out there at six, seven at night and still not near it.”

  “They’re getting scarce, that’s for sure,” Lucy said. “Maybe this research project will help. I’m going to write a story about it for the Pennysaver.”

  He cocked his head. “And you probably want me to say that it’ll be the salvation of the industry or some such thing, don’t you?”

  Lucy raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You don’t think it will help?”

  “Maybe,” said Chuck, dumping the box on the scales and scrawling the weight on the lid. “It seems to me that every time they try to help us they just come up with something that costs us money. Safety equipment, quotas, rules and regulations—it’s sure not the business it used to be. My grandfather wouldn’t recognize it, that’s for sure.”

  “I suppose not, but you’ve got to admit that if they can identify this parasite . . .”

  “What are they gonna do? Vaccinate all the lobsters?”

  “Uh.” Lucy was stumped. “You got me there.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Chuck. “I’m not against the project; I’m just not getting my hopes up. Like that meeting they’re talking about going to, to complain about the new waterways policy. We can go and make a fuss, but you know it’s not going to change anything.”

  “What new policy?” Lucy was definitely interested. Maybe that was what Geoff and Wiggins had been arguing about earlier.

  “You know, raising the fees and saving the bigger slips for recreational boats.”

  Hearing a blast from a ship’s horn, Lucy and Chuck looked up to see an enormous, gleaming white yacht gliding into the harbor.

  “Wow,” said Lucy. “What’s that?”

  “That is some rich guy’s private yacht.”

  “I never saw anything like that here before.”

  “Well, you’re going to see a lot more of ’em. It’s getting too crowded on Nantucket or something, so they’re coming our way. And the waterways commission is seeing green. Charging big bucks for prime docking space.”

  “But where do they put them? There’s a waiting list for even a little slip.”

  “Right you are,” agreed Chuck. “But that doesn’t matter to the commission. When one of these pleasure palaces arrives, they just move somebody out into the harbor, or make us double up. Kinda like you do with your kids when you’ve got company.”

  “But you’ve paid for your slip . . .”

  Chuck shook his head. “Not anymore. We pay for docking privileges—not a particular berth.”

  “But how can you load stuff on and off the boat?”

  “You use the dock, and then you move. It’s a pain in the chops because when you’re all done you’re not all done—you’ve got to move the boat.”

  “But why don’t they keep those big boats out in the harbor?”

  Clarence rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “Big bucks. Those babies pay by the foot. Bigger boats get precedence. That’s the new policy.” He paused. “That one out there, it’s seventy feet if it’s a yard. Plus, they pay transient rates. The town’ll probably get as much from her in a week as they get from me in a season.”

  Lucy gazed at the sleek yacht, all sparkling white and clean as a new penny. “SEA WITCH, FORT LAUDERDALE” was painted on its stern. It made quite a contrast to the rust-stained, tubby working boats with their cluttered decks full of nets and gear.

  “I see,” she said. “Well, I’m just a working girl. It’s back to the old grind for me.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Chuck, taking hold of a wheelbarrow and pushing it down the dock to retrieve the rest of his catch.

  Walking back to the office, Lucy didn’t notice the fine weather. She marched along, wondering how it could be that some people had to work their fingers to the bone and risk their lives in order to make a living and others could just sail around in the lap of luxury. And if that wasn’t bad enough, here was the town displacing working people in favor of these idlers with well-padded wallets. As if they were some sort of superior beings just because they had lots of money. It just wasn’t fair, and she was going to look into it. It was about time the people of Tinker’s Cove learned how their prime natural resource, their harbor, was being sold to outsiders.

  Sold by the foot, she told herself. Now there was a headline.

  Chapter Five

  Back at the Pennysaver, Lucy yanked the door open and set the little bell jangling.

  Phyllis looked up and handed her a pink message slip. Lucy glanced at the notation to “Call Sue” and realized Phyllis hadn’t greeted her. Something was up. She cast a questioning glance at Phyllis, who tilted her head in Ted’s direction. Lucy got the idea.

  “I know I took a long time for lunch, but that’s because I was working o
n a story. Have you heard about this new harbor policy?”

  “Were you thinking at all when you wrote these obits?” asked Ted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Typos. Lots of typos. According to you, the late Fred Dunmeyer was a diary farmer! And then there’s Sylvia Appleton, I quote you, “a former school barbarian!”

  “Okay. Okay.” Lucy waved her hand impatiently. “No big deal. Minor details. I’ll fix them. Listen to me a minute. This is a major story.”

  Ted sighed and shook his head. “No, it isn’t. We ran it a few weeks ago, when the commission voted.”

  Lucy was dismayed. “The commissioners decided to displace the working fishermen in favor of rich millionaires with yachts and you don’t think it’s a big story?”

  Ted started to explain, but he was interrupted by Phyllis.

  “Millionaires? Where?” she asked.

  “At the harbor. You should see the yacht that’s just pulled in. Very big. Very white. From Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Is it anybody famous?”

  “That’s an idea, Lucy,” said Ted. “Why don’t you find out who it is. Now that could be a story. Maybe it’s a movie star.”

  Lucy threw her hands up in frustration. “Don’t you get it? We have this huge income gap in this country. Five percent of the people have eighty percent of the wealth, leaving twenty percent for the rest of us. And here we have local, hardworking fishermen finding their job is becoming a lot harder because the town is selling their dock space to the highest bidder.”

  “It’s not such a bad idea, Lucy,” said Ted, leaning back in his swivel chair. “The harbor’s in bad shape. The pilings are rotting away; they need to dredge. All that costs money, and the commission figured this would be preferable to raising the fees for everyone.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy, feeling like a deflated balloon.

  “Lucy,” began Ted, “I’m curious. Do you ever read the paper?”

  “I’m too busy writing it,” she snapped. “So, what next? The police log? The real estate transactions?”

  “Both.” He handed her a thick sheaf of papers.

  She groaned.

  “And when you’re done, find out who’s on that yacht.”

  She flipped through the police log. Extra long, she noticed, probably because school was out. She fingered the pink message slip; better call Sue before she got started.

  “It’s me. What’s up?”

  “Guess what?” Sue’s voice was breathless with excitement. “Ron and Thelma are in town and I want you to meet them.”

  Lucy drew a blank. “Who are Ron and Thelma?”

  “Sidra’s fiancé and his mother.”

  “Ohhhh,” said Lucy. “That Ron and Thelma.”

  “And it’s important for you to meet them since the wedding is going to be in your gazebo.”

  “Okay. Did you have a time in mind?”

  “How about this afternoon? We could have tea.”

  “Four o’clock. Great.”

  “Four’s a little early. Could you make it at five?”

  “I have to pick up the kids then.”

  “Couldn’t Bill pick them up, or somebody else?” Lucy could hear the tension in Sue’s voice.

  “I guess so,” she said, unwilling to add to her friend’s stress level. She had enough to cope with, planning the wedding.

  “Great! See you later!”

  “Great,” muttered Lucy, hanging up the phone.

  Darn. She couldn’t call Bill—he had gone to New Hampshire to buy salvaged millwork from an 1800 house that was going to be demolished. Zoe’s best friend, Sadie Orenstein, was also at the Friends of Animals day camp; maybe her mother would take the girls home. Geoff Rumford probably wouldn’t mind giving Toby a lift, and they could pick up Elizabeth on the way. Give the girl a thrill. She was dialing when she heard Ted’s voice.

  “You don’t seem to have gotten very far on that police log.”

  “I know. Transportation crisis. Got to get rides for the kids.”

  “I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but you seem to be spending a lot of time on personal issues. What’s with all these messages from Sue? Can’t you talk to her on your own time?”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “I got one message.”

  “So you say.” Ted didn’t sound convinced.

  “But Sidra’s getting married, you know.”

  “That’s nice. What’s it got to do with you?”

  “I’m helping Sue with the wedding.”

  “Ahhh, so that’s it,” said Ted, nodding and placing the tips of his fingers together. “I hope that this wedding isn’t going to interfere with your work. After all, your job is a lot more important than a wedding.”

  Lucy couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She looked across the room at Phyllis, who was also equally incredulous. They turned in unison to face Ted.

  “Nothing’s more important than a wedding,” asserted Lucy.

  “That’s right,” chorused Phyllis. “You tell him.”

  Ted looked at the two women, then blinked and swallowed hard.

  “Well, just so you get your work done,” he said, retreating to the tiny morgue, where they stored the back issues.

  Lucy felt a little thrill of anticipation when she drove the Subaru into Sue’s driveway and parked. She was finally going to get a look at Sidra’s millionaire fiancé. Her experience with millionaires was limited; the only certified millionaire she knew was Norah Hemmings. Not that she knew the talk show host very well. In fact, Lucy only knew her at all because Norah’s son Lance was Elizabeth’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Although Norah was definitely a charismatic person, she didn’t really appear wealthy. That was probably part of her appeal, thought Lucy. Millions of middle-class women wouldn’t turn on the TV to watch someone they couldn’t identify with, someone like those perfectly groomed and coiffed women pictured with their winning horses in Town & Country magazine.

  As an Internet millionaire, Ron didn’t have to worry about offending the viewing public with obvious displays of wealth. He probably looked like the men in Ralph Lauren ads, thought Lucy, or those haughty fellows in the Brooks Brothers ads. They were always tall and tanned and muscular, with sharply defined jaws and straight teeth. Straight hair, too, which the wind blew away from their faces. They were the sort of men who faced the wind and defied the elements, guys who were so sure of themselves that they could dare to wear pink shirts.

  Lucy had hardly gotten herself out of the car when the door flew open and Sue ran out to greet her.

  “What took you so long?” she demanded, nervously wringing her hands.

  “I got here as soon as I could.” She gave her friend a quick hug and noticed how tight her shoulders were. “Is something the matter?”

  “Oh, no,” insisted Sue. “It’s just that I’ve never met them and, well, it’s a bit awkward. We don’t seem to have much in common.”

  “Well, they’re from New York. It’s a different world,” said Lucy, giving Sue’s hand a squeeze. “Just remember you do have something in common—Sidra. You all love Sidra.”

  “That’s right,” said Sue, leading her through the house to the deck overlooking the backyard. Stepping through the sliding doors, Lucy spotted Sue’s husband, Sid, standing against the railing. He worked as a finish carpenter and usually wore jeans and work boots, but Sue must have insisted he get home early and change. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he was looking rather uncomfortable in a dress shirt and chinos—he looked as if he had gained a few pounds since he wore them last. Lucy gave him a big smile while she waited to be introduced to the others. Sid nodded solemnly.

  “This is my best friend, Lucy Stone,” said Sue, draping an arm across Lucy’s shoulders. “Lucy, this is Thelma Davitz and her son, Ron.”

  Lucy had a gracious little speech all prepared, but it flew out of her mind when she was finally confronted with Ron and Thelma. All she could manage was a little “Hi,” delivered in a squeaky voice.

  “Lovely
to meet you,” said Thelma, extending her plump little hand. Her arm was paved with gold bracelets and her fingers were covered with enormous rings.

  Lucy gingerly grasped the proffered hand, hoping she wouldn’t be injured by a protruding gemstone.

  Meeting Thelma’s eyes, which were bristling with fake eyelashes, Lucy took in her brittle, bleached hair, her remarkably taut and unlined face, and the numerous chains draped around her crepey neck. Continuing her survey, Lucy noticed the designer warm-up suit Thelma was wearing. It was made of some shiny, silky material that Lucy doubted would actually absorb a single bead of sweat and was trimmed with glittering gold braid. Thelma was wearing matching gold sandals, and her toenails, like her fingernails, were polished with bright-red lacquer.

  Turning to greet Ron, Lucy struggled not to show how disappointed she was. Ron was not the groom she had imagined for Sidra; she suspected that if Ron ever ventured into Brooks Brothers or Ralph Lauren he would be politely ushered to a back room. He was tall and dark, all right, but he wasn’t handsome. His nose was too big, his chin too small. His shoulders were narrow, and although he was thin, he didn’t appear to be in very good shape. His pale white skin, though it would have gladdened the heart of a dermatologist, had the unfortunate effect of emphasizing his five o’clock shadow. Worst of all, he was wearing black socks with shorts and sandals.

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” murmured Lucy, wondering what in the world Sidra saw in this fellow.

  He didn’t bother to get out of his chair, or even to take her proffered hand. Instead, he raised one hand in a little wave, as if he were making that last half turn to install a new light bulb.

  “Congratulations are in order, I think,” said Lucy, taking a seat. “You’re very fortunate to have won Sidra’s heart.”

  “Uh,” he said, peering at her through his thick, black-framed eyeglasses. He blinked. “Thank you,” he finally said, as if trying out a new phrase in a foreign language.