Wedding Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

“So we’re going to play Twenty Questions instead of discussing this like mature people?”

  Bill’s only reply was to turn a page of the paper.

  Disgusted, Lucy picked up her coffee and carried it out to the gazebo. Sometimes the man could be so infuriating. What was going on? Okay, she hadn’t asked his permission for the wedding; well, there wasn’t going to be a wedding now. And so far, she’d been covering all the bases despite working extra hours. The girls were enjoying summer camp; Elizabeth and Toby were getting to work on time; the house was running pretty much as usual. What did he have to complain about?

  She sat there, looking out at the distant mountains, wondering what to do. Bill did have a point: she had been accused often enough of poking her nose into police investigations and muddling up the evidence. Lt. Horowitz had threatened more than once to charge her with obstructing an investigation.

  But this time, she didn’t have a choice. Ron’s murder was a big story and Ted would expect her to help cover it. Furthermore, her best friend and her family were directly involved. She couldn’t pretend the whole thing wasn’t happening, she thought, glumly resting her chin on her hand. Kudo settled down beside her and she idly scratched the top of his head. If only she could be as certain as Bill that Sid wasn’t the murderer.

  Come to think of it, she realized, Bill could have been on to something when he’d said Ron’s death probably had nothing to do with Tinker’s Cove. She had been foolish to think that, just because Davitz had died in Tinker’s Cove, that meant the primary suspects had to be locals. That wasn’t necessarily the case, considering that Ron had been such an important businessman. He had only been visiting in Tinker’s Cove; he didn’t live here. He would naturally have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances and business contacts stretching far beyond this little town.

  There were, for instance, the muscle-bound men in white polo shirts she’d seen at the coffee shop. They had definitely been interested in Davitz. Who were they, she wondered. She had assumed they were bodyguards, but could they have been hired killers? She had to write an obit anyway; she might as well do a little extra research and see what she could turn up about Davitz and his possible enemies. She swallowed the last of her coffee and stood up.

  But what, she asked herself as she paused to examine the tomato plants in her garden, would she do if she discovered that Sid, or even Sue, had really killed Davitz? Not intentionally, of course. She didn’t think either one was capable of planning a murder. But what if there had been an argument that led to a fatal blow? What would she do then?

  Noticing nothing but a stem where a leaf used to be, Lucy looked closer and spotted a plump tomato hornworm industriously munching his way along another leaf. In its way, with its bright green body and black-andcream stripes and spots, it was a magnificent creature, and for a second she was tempted to leave it alone. Then she remembered the damage a single hornworm could do to an entire bed of tomato plants and plucked it off, dropped it on the ground, and stepped on it.

  Remembering her instructions from Ted, Lucy spent several hours over the weekend on the Internet, researching Ron Davitz. Although she turned up plenty of information for the obit she had been assigned to write, she didn’t come up with anything that would suggest he had enemies in the business world.

  She also called Sue several times with offers of help but was politely rebuffed.

  “Thanks, Lucy, but we’re doing fine,” was all Sue would say.

  From Elizabeth, who had changed her mind about spending time with Lance, she learned that Norah had taken Thelma under her wing. She’d also invited the bridesmaids to stay with her at her enormous summer “cottage” on Smith Heights Road.

  On Monday she hurried into work, eager for the latest news on the police investigation.

  Ted shook his head. “Nothing, nada, zip. No press conferences, not even a statement.” He paused. “Did you do the obit?”

  Lucy gave him the floppy disk and sat down at her desk, where an enormous pile of press releases awaited her attention. It was almost lunchtime, and she was deeply immersed in the details of a silent auction when Ted got around to editing the obit.

  “Nice work,” he said after reading it. “You did a good job of explaining what Secure.net actually does.”

  “I’m not sure I really understand it,” Lucy confessed, “but greater minds than mine seem to think it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. Do you know the stock was initially offered at twenty-five dollars a share, rose to forty-seven, and settled at forty-two dollars on the first day of trading? They say Ron made millions in that one day alone.”

  Ted shook his head. “Do you have the feeling that we’re missing the party? People are making fortunes in the stock market, and I can’t even fund my IRA to get the tax break.”

  “I’ve got a mutual fund,” said Phyllis.

  Ted and Lucy were impressed.

  “How’s it doing?” asked Ted. “Are you going to be retiring soon?”

  “Not likely. It’s been losing money.”

  Lucy was surprised. “Losing? I thought everyone was making money.”

  “Everyone but me,” said Phyllis, watching as Lucy took a tin out of her tote bag. “Are those homemade cookies?”

  Lucy peeked inside, then closed the lid. “Sorry. I’m taking them to Thelma.”

  “You are an angel,” said Phyllis.

  “Want to come with me?”

  “Uh, I would,” began Phyllis, “but I’m spending my lunch hour at the beach.”

  Lucy chuckled. “I’ll pass along your condolences,” she said.

  When she stepped out into the sunshine, Lucy was tempted to forget about visiting Thelma. It was a gorgeous summer day, and this was no way to spend her precious lunch hour. She sighed and headed for the harbor.

  Passing the town hall, she met Chuck Swift, dressed in his working clothes of rubber overalls and heavy rubber boots.

  “Aren’t you warm in that getup?” she asked.

  “You bet, but I was in a hurry. Came straight here from my boat.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Plenty,” he said. “That check that Davitz gave the town for docking privileges is no good.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My mom works in the town hall, you know. She told me. It kind of puts the waterways commission’s policy on transients in a new light. A pretty questionable light, if you ask me, since town residents have to pay for the entire season in advance. And if your check bounces, you lose your slip. They give it to the next guy on the list.”

  “They didn’t make Davitz pay in advance?”

  “Nope. He just waved his checkbook and they couldn’t do enough for him.”

  “So the town’s out more than ten thousand dollars?”

  “Closer to twenty now.” He snorted. “And you know what’s really crazy about this? With all the news coverage and all, they’re not going to make the boat move, either. I just talked to Chairman Wiggins. He says they can’t add to a grieving mother’s distress. What do you think of that?”

  “I think some people are going to be wearing egg on their faces for quite a while,” said Lucy, chuckling. “But you know, this happens a lot with rich people. I’ve heard Dot at the IGA complaining about how those rich summer people on Smith Heights Road run up huge charges at the store and never seem to be in much of a hurry to pay their bills. I even heard the dry cleaner has cut off some of those people. Refuses to take their dirty clothes unless they pay up front.”

  “Maybe the waterways commission should do the same thing,” suggested Chuck. “You can be sure the commercial fishermen’s association is going to be out in force at the next meeting, and I think we can get some support from the taxpayers’ association, too. Let’s face it, nobody in this town gets away with paying taxes or fees late. You’re late, the penalties start to mount, and pretty soon they’ve got a lien on your property.”

  “He only rented the yacht, so they can’t exactly put a lien on it.”r />
  “Too bad.” He cocked his head. “Say, where are you headed? I’ve got the truck around back. Can I give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks. I can use the exercise. See you later.”

  When Lucy got to the yacht, she paused at the gangway. Without a doorbell or knocker, she wasn’t sure how to announce herself. Maybe she should yell “Ahoy, there” or something.

  Her steps on the rubber-coated sheet metal made quite a lot of noise, and when she stepped onto the boat she gave a yell.

  “Hi, there.”

  Nobody answered.

  She stood, holding her tin of cookies, and waited a few minutes. She knew the yacht had a huge staff. Sooner or later, someone would appear. There was no shade where she was standing, so she took a few steps farther until she was under an awning. She considered poking her head into the saloon, but decided against it. If Thelma was sitting there, grieving, she didn’t want to burst upon her unannounced. She waited.

  Still no one came. Finally, she decided a little walk around the deck might be in order. She would be sure to bump into a crew member then. A circuit of the lower deck revealed no one, however, so she decided to climb to the upper deck, where the bridge was located. Surely someone would be there.

  Sure enough, as she drew closer to the bridge, she heard voices coming through the open windows.

  “. . . hell of a spot,” she heard a male voice complain. “The company wants me to oust her and set sail for Boston tomorrow. They’ve got a late booking, wants to cruise the coast for two weeks. I asked them, what am I supposed to do with her?” He snorted. “They said to jettison her unless she comes up with some cash.”

  This was met with laughter from someone else, and Lucy thought this would be a good time to make herself known.

  “Ahoy!” she called, feeling slightly ridiculous.

  A member of the crew appeared at the door. “Can I help you?”

  “I came to see Mrs. Davitz. Is she home—I mean, aboard?”

  “Follow me,” he said, taking Lucy back down to the lower deck and leading her through the grand saloon. As they passed through, Lucy noticed a large number of flower arrangements and fruit baskets. Continuing down a flight of stairs, the steward paused outside a closed door, knocked, and entered, leaving Lucy in the passage. In a moment, he returned and told her Mrs. Davitz would see her.

  Lucy had expected the stateroom to be luxurious, but she hadn’t expected it to be quite so spacious. Far away, across yards of white broadloom, Thelma was perched in a silk-covered easy chair, with a stack of letters in her lap.

  Lucy hurried over to her, proffering her tin of cookies. “I just wanted to come and tell you how sorry I am,” she said.

  Deftly Thelma took the tin with one hand and used the other to clasp Lucy’s hand.

  “You are so sweet to think of me,” she said, “in this terrible time.”

  Lucy extricated herself and sat in the companion chair, waiting while Thelma dabbed her eyes and composed herself.

  “I’ll never forgive myself,” said Thelma, patting her gray twin set and rattling her ropes of pearls. “My last words to him were . . . unpleasant. We were arguing, about the shower. I so wanted him to come. He said he had better things to do.” She sniffed. “Why couldn’t I let it go?” She raised her eyes to meet Lucy’s. “I never had a chance to say good-bye. But how are you supposed to know that you’ll never see . . .”

  Thelma bent her head, unable to go on, and Lucy passed her a box of tissues.

  “You couldn’t know,” said Lucy, in a soothing voice. She waited while Thelma dried her eyes. “I see you’ve gotten a lot of flowers—a lot of people are going to miss Ron very much.”

  Thelma sighed. “People have been so kind. See this phalaenopsis orchid? Barbara Walters sent it. And this one, it’s from Diane Sawyer and Mike Nichols. That fruit basket, it’s from Gwyneth Paltrow—such a dear. And, of course, Norah’s been an absolute wonder. I would never have been able to get through the last few days without her.”

  Lucy wondered if Thelma knew that her time on the yacht was running out. “Maybe you should stay with her for a while,” she suggested. “You’d be a lot more comfortable at her place, and you wouldn’t be alone.”

  “I really am alone, aren’t I?” Thelma sniffed. “I’ve lost my husband, and now my only child is gone, too.”

  “It’s terrible, I know,” said Lucy. “Can I get you something? Some tea? Would you like a piece of candy?”

  Thelma dabbed at her eyes. “I think I could manage one of those Godiva chocolates.”

  Lucy followed her pudgy, beringed finger and saw a stack of candy boxes on a table. She went over and opened the top one.

  “No, dear. The Godivas are in the gold box.”

  Lucy found the box and carried it over to Thelma, who studied the contents.

  “None of them look very appealing,” she said.

  Lucy couldn’t agree and hoped Thelma would offer her one. After all, she hadn’t had lunch yet.

  “I guess I’ll try this one.” Thelma plucked a dark chocolate heart out of the box and slowly placed it in her mouth. Then she put the lid back on the box and set it on the table next to her.

  “Have you made any plans for a funeral service?” inquired Lucy.

  “I’m waiting to hear from Ron’s company,” said Thelma, reaching for another chocolate. “I’ve put in several calls, but they haven’t called back.”

  “No one has called back?” Lucy thought this was odd.

  “No.” Thelma was looking in the box, trying to decide which to eat next. “I suppose they’re discussing what sort of observance would be most suitable. Perhaps they will have him lie in state in the company headquarters.”

  Lucy thought this was unlikely. “Where are the company headquarters?”

  Thelma looked rather blank. “I don’t actually know. Isn’t that funny?”

  Pretty funny, thought Lucy. “I suppose a lot of men keep their business lives separate from their private lives.”

  Thelma nodded, her mouth too full to answer until she swallowed. “Ron was just like that. He was absolutely fierce about it. Never let me so much as peek in his briefcase.” Thelma sighed. “But I can’t really complain. He was very generous to me. He was a wonderful son.”

  Lucy nodded sympathetically. “You must have so many wonderful memories of him,” she said. “No one can take those from you. You will always have them to take comfort from.” Lucy hesitated, then continued. “I wonder, what is your last memory of Ron?”

  Thelma sucked on a chocolate and leaned her head back, apparently searching her memory.

  “He went off to town around five o’clock. For a meeting with that writer from CyberWorld magazine, he said. I’ve already told you I was upset with him, seeing we were going to have the shower so soon.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I didn’t see him after that.” Thelma looked at her. “You never know, do you? When you say good-bye to someone, it may be for the very last time.”

  “You never know,” Lucy agreed, thinking that if Thelma was correct, Dorfman was probably the last one to see Ron alive. Had there been some sort of confrontation about the missing notes? She stood up to go.

  “Oh, do you have to leave so soon?” Thelma was disappointed.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I understand,” she answered, in a resigned voice. “Would you please pass me that basket of fruit?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  People’s reactions to death were never quite what you expected, Lucy thought, reminding herself that it wasn’t fair to judge someone until you had walked a mile in their moccasins—or in Thelma’s case, her Manolo Blahniks. Not that she was sure exactly what she had expected from Thelma.

  It just seemed odd, she thought, as she left the boat. Despite all the flowers and fruit baskets she had received, all the phone calls from celebrities, Thelma seemed very alone. Isolated, even, and ignorant of her situation. Ron’s inattention to finances—he apparently had forgotten to p
ay the rent on the yacht and hadn’t bothered to cover the check for the docking fee—had left his mother in an awkward situation. She reminded Lucy of some doomed, uncomprehending grand duchess trapped in a castle while the mob raged at the gates. It was just a matter of time before the gates fell.

  On the one hand, maybe Ron had just been careless about paying his bills. Lots of people were, Lucy knew, and it didn’t necessarily mean they were short of cash. On the other hand, it did seem funny that Thelma hadn’t heard from any business associates or colleagues of Ron’s. Wouldn’t it be funny, she thought as she toiled up the hill to Main Street, if it turned out that Ron wasn’t a millionaire at all? If he wasn’t really the next Bill Gates? If Secure.net wasn’t doing quite as well as everyone thought?

  It was unlikely, she admitted to herself. Investments were strictly regulated, weren’t they? Weren’t there all sorts of checks and balances and rules about disclosure and insider trading and . . . Well, she admitted to herself, she wasn’t exactly sure of the particulars, but it seemed impossible that everybody could be wrong about Secure.net.

  The person who would know, of course, was Dorfman. She wanted to talk to him about Ron’s behavior on the day he died, anyway. She paused for a moment at the corner of Main Street, checked her watch, and decided to take the car over to the Queen Vic. That way, she wouldn’t have to retrace her steps to retrieve it.

  She was hungry, she realized as she started the car, but there was no time to eat now. She wanted to talk to Dorfman, and then she knew she ought to stop in at Sue’s and see how they were coping. If they were coping. Whatever they were doing over there.

  It was confusing, Lucy admitted. There was Thelma, mother of the next Bill Gates, about to be evicted from her luxurious yacht, but nonetheless showered with formal expressions of sympathy from people Lucy knew only as names in print. And on the other side of town, Sue had cut herself off from the friends and neighbors who genuinely cared about her and Sidra and wanted to ease their grief with a hearty casserole, a bunch of zinnias from the garden, or just by sitting with them awhile.