Shame, thought Lucy, thinking of Carol. It was true that some people had no relations whatsoever, but it was very unusual. Carol must have a family somewhere; she didn’t spring up in a cabbage patch. Whoever they were, and wherever they were, there had certainly been some sort of rift.
But if Carol had maintained any sort of contact, the police would certainly have found it. An old address book, insurance forms, it wasn’t that difficult for an investigator to find surviving relatives in order to notify them of a death. The only way that Carol could be so completely alone, thought Lucy, was if she had cut herself off entirely. Chances were, she guessed, that Carol had a past but she was ashamed of it.
After class, as the students filed out of the room, Professor Rea drew Lucy aside.
“I had no idea Carol was dead—why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. Lucy noticed that his hands were trembling.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling guilty for taking advantage of him. “We were trying to keep the story from breaking as long as we could.”
“Just doing your job,” he said bitterly.
“I didn’t realize you were that close to her, or I wouldn’t have done it,” said Lucy. She was shocked to discover that as much as she felt absolutely terrible about tricking him, she was still hoping he would tell her about his relationship with Carol. She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with empathy.
“Well, it’s over now,” he said, giving an abrupt little shrug and snapping his briefcase shut. “I don’t know why Carol’s death came as such a shock. She lived close to the edge. She played games. Sooner or later she was bound to push somebody too far.”
“The police think that person was Josh Cunningham. Do your?”
“All I know is what I saw on the news.” He picked up his briefcase and turned to go. “It’s ironic, really. This poor devil thought he was getting rid of Carol by killing her. All he’s done is get himself in more trouble. That’s Carol for you. Always having the last laugh.”
With that, he strode out the door.
Lucy gathered up her books, and walked slowly down the hall. She thought about the Oxford mathematician with the secret life, and she thought about Carol Crane. Who was she really? How much did anyone in Tinker’s Cove know about her?
Taken at face value, she was a heroine who risked her own life to save a crippled little boy. She was a dedicated educator, with innovative ideas.
But then there was the business of the phony references on her résumé. The confrontations with other staff members. That pink suit. Something didn’t ring true.
She lived close to the edge. She liked to play games. Quentin obviously knew a lot more about her than he was willing to tell. Lucy wondered what their connection really was; she was willing to bet it went a lot deeper than the usual student-advisor relationship.
Tomorrow, she decided, as she exited the building and headed for the parking lot, she was going to take another look at that résumé. Carol Crane wasn’t dropped into Tinker’s Cove from Mars. There had to be a way to find out about her past. Hadn’t she heard somewhere that you could find anyone in the United States with a few phone calls?
Reaching the parking lot, Lucy took her keys out of her pocket and held them ready in her hand. She had parked under the streetlight, as Josh had advised, and was soon safely inside her car and heading home.
As she drove along the dark roads, her mind jumped from image to image. She thought of Mr. Mopps’s prediction, and how it was soon followed with the gruesome discovery of Carol’s body, lying in tangled sheets with a pillow over her face. She thought of DeWalt Smythe’s self-righteousness, and his eagerness to condemn Josh. She pictured Lydia, writhing at the stake as she was burned alive for practicing witchcraft. She thought of Sophie, arranging a memorial service for a woman she detested. She remembered Josh Cunningham’s bewildered expression, and Toby’s insistence that he must be innocent.
At last, she saw the familiar outline of her house, dark except for the porch light Bill had left burning for her. She turned into the driveway and braked, parking in her usual spot. She yawned, and got out of the car, mounting the porch steps slowly. She was tired, and needed some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ted was hunched over his desk when Lucy arrived on Friday morning, his body wracked with deep, chesty coughs.
“You sound terrible. Why don’t you go home?”
“Can’t,” said Ted. “Got to cover that candidate’s coffee.”
“With all due respect, I think I can handle it. Why not let me go?” said Lucy.
“Do you really think you could manage?” Ted was doubtful.
“Why not? I’ll write down what they say, take whatever they hand out, and snap a few pictures. What else is there to do?”
“It’s not that easy,” said Ted, remembering interns who forgot to get names, and rookie reporters who were incapable of holding the camera straight for a simple grip and grin—the posed shot of two people shaking hands and smiling.
“I’m not a kid, Ted. I can take pictures—I’ve got an album full at home. I can listen and write at the same time—I have kids. As for names, I’ll probably know everybody there.”
“I give up. I’m going home,” said Ted, snuffling and searching his pockets for a handkerchief.
“I think you should, in the interest of public health,” said Lucy, handing him a fresh box of tissues.
“The microbe is mightier than the man,” he said, handing her the invitation to the coffee. “If you run into trouble, give me a call. Promise?”
“Promise,” said Lucy. “And remember, drink plenty of fluids.”
When Lucy arrived at the address Ted had given her, à newish house with an elaborate arrangement of windows surrounding the front door, she knew she was in the right place. The sides of the road were lined with cars, many of them with ANGUS FOR STATE REP bumper stickers.
I’m not here to judge or argue, even if I am a lifelong Democrat, she reminded herself as she approached the door. I’m just here to report whatever ideas Bob Angus is running on. She rang the doorbell.
The door was opened by Mrs. Spitzer, Tommy’s mother, who greeted her warmly. “Come in, come in. Our candidate isn’t here yet, but I expect him shortly.”
“I’m Lucy Stone,” said Lucy, extending her hand. “I’m from The Pennysaver.”
Mrs. Spitzer leaned forward conspiratorially. “Are you a reporter?”
“Yes. Is that all right?”
“Are you going to write about this for the paper?” Mrs. Spitzer’s eyes widened.
“That’s the idea,” said Lucy.
“How wonderful!” exclaimed Mrs. Spitzer, hugging herself with excitement. “Let me introduce you to the others. Girls! Look who’s here! A reporter from the newspaper!”
Instead of blending into the background as she had planned, Lucy found herself the center of attention.
“Are you going to take pictures?” asked a pretty young woman in a flowered pink dress.
“I hope to,” said Lucy with a friendly smile. Looking about the room, she searched for a familiar face.
She soon discovered that while the faces were familiar enough, none belonged to anyone she knew well. These were women she had seen around town, in the grocery store, or at soccer games, but with whom she had never had occasion to exchange more than a few words.
“Can I get you some coffee?” asked Mrs. Spitzer, fluttering nervously beside her.
“I’d love some,” said Lucy. “Tell me, how is Tommy?”
“Fine, just fine. He wasn’t hurt at all, thanks to Carol. What a tragedy. I just can’t believe anyone would do a thing like that.” She dabbed at her eye with a hankie she took from the sleeve of her dress.
“I think everyone’s in a state of shock,” said Lucy. “First the bombing, and now this.”
“It’s terrible,” agreed Mrs. Spitzer, leading Lucy to a table covered with assorted baked goods. “Who would think these thin
gs could happen in our little town?” she said, filling a cup for her.
“Thank you,” said Lucy. “Are you active in politics? Have you hosted a candidate’s coffee before?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I would never have thought to do it, but DeWalt asked me and I didn’t want to refuse. He was so nice after the bombing. So concerned about Tommy.”
“That’s nice,” said Lucy, choosing a cookie and putting it on her saucer.
“Excuse me, I see some more guests are arriving,” said Mrs. Spitzer, hurrying to open the door and welcome the newcomers.
Lucy leaned against the wall and nibbled her cookie. Always curious about her neighbors, she studied the room. It was a big L-shaped space, what builders called a great room, which combined living and dining areas. The kitchen was really part of the room, too, set off from the rest by only a low counter.
Lucy wondered if the Spitzers had chosen the house because they liked the floor plan, or because it was practical for a family with a handicapped child. The hallway leading to the bedrooms was equipped with a railing, but there were no other modifications that Lucy could see. The open plan offered few barriers to little Tommy; it would be easy for him to get around on his crutches.
There was beige contractor-quality carpeting on the floor, and beige wallpaper with tiny flowers. A smattering of pictures that were too small for the room hung from the walls. The furniture was new, too, probably bought from Sears for the house. Everything was very clean, much cleaner than Lucy’s own house. Mrs. Spitzer must spend all her time waxing, scrubbing, and polishing windows, she decided.
The women who had come to the coffee were youngish. Like Mrs. Spitzer, they were mostly in their early thirties. They had fresh-scrubbed faces and soft, feminine hairdos and they were all dressed in their Sunday best. Lucy hadn’t seen so many pastels since her last roll of Necco wafers.
The quiet hum of conversation was broken suddenly when the door flew open and DeWalt blew in, followed by two others, both men. All three were dressed in business suits. The women all sat up a bit straighter and smiled in welcome. Lucy put down her coffee cup and reached for her notebook.
“Where’s our hostess?” demanded DeWalt, looking around the room. “Ah, there you are! Sorry we’re late, but Bob wanted to meet a few voters at the Quik Stop.”
“That’s all right,” trilled Mrs. Spitzer. “I’m so honored to have you all here. Would you like some coffee?”
“You couldn’t keep us from your fine coffee,” cooed DeWalt, oozing charisma. “But first, I’d like to make some introductions. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Spitzer, stepping aside.
“Ladies,” began DeWalt, pausing to make eye contact with every woman in the room. “I’m thrilled to be here with you this morning to have you meet my good friend, Bob Angus, who hopes to be the Republican candidate for state rep from this district. Also with us is his campaign manager, Bill Franklin.”
The women clapped politely, and Bob Angus stepped forward.
“I’m Bob Angus, and I’m running for state rep because I want to represent you. I’m not just saying that, I really mean it. There’s something wrong in our country. You know it and I know it. The Christian values upon which this great country was founded have been lost.”
The women nodded and murmured agreement. Lucy scrawled down his speech in her notebook, looking up from time to time to study Bill Franklin. Franklin. Where had she heard that name?
“Families, families like yours and mine are under attack,” continued Bob Angus, warming to his theme. “By the media, which offers lewd and promiscuous entertainment. By the government, which encourages irresponsible behavior and financially rewards young women who have children out of wedlock. Even by our own schools which promote immoral behavior in so-called ‘sex education’ classes.”
The women nodded more vigorously; Angus had hit a chord.
“Now, if I’m elected, I’m going to work hard to bring back those family values you and I cherish. One way I’m going to do that is by filing a parental notification bill. This bill will require the schools to let you know, in advance, when they are going to teach some controversial subject, say homosexuality, for example. That way, you can make sure that your child does not attend those classes.”
The women began clapping enthusiastically, and Angus beamed genially at them.
“Thank you. Thank you all. I hope I can count on your votes in November. Now, do I smell coffee?”
While Bob Angus worked the room, Lucy approached his campaign manager.
“Mr. Franklin?”
“Actually, I’m Dr. Franklin,” he said, smiling genially at her. “We educators love our honorifics, you know, especially once we’re retired. I was the superintendent of schools in Bridgton until last year.”
“Of course. I knew I’d seen your name. Carol Crane listed you as a reference on her résumé.”
“Oh, yes. That’s a very sad business.” He shook his gray-haired head. “Carol was so full of life. She touched many people in Bridgton.”
“The same here, in Tinker’s Cove,” said Lucy. “Do you know where she grew up, anything like that? The paper would like to print a tribute, but we haven’t been able to find out much about her.”
“I wish I could help you. She was only with us for a short time. We hired her when our assistant principal was disabled in an auto accident. We needed someone fast, we were really quite desperate, and Carol was available. She turned out much better than any of us could have anticipated. In fact, when there was a fire in the school, she saved the day.…”
“A fire?” Lucy’s heart started racing. “Can you tell me more about it?”
“Thanks to Carol’s quick thinking, no one was hurt. We were very grateful and we were very sorry we didn’t have a permanent position to offer her. I was very happy when I heard she got the job here.”
Seeing that DeWalt and the candidate were heading toward the door, Lucy remembered that she needed to get a picture before they left. “Just one more question—why are you campaigning for Bob Angus?”
“Bob’s the best man for the job, it’s as simple as that, and you can quote me.”
“I will,” said Lucy, scribbling it all into her notebook. “I’d like a photo of Mr. Angus, perhaps with Mrs. Spitzer?”
“Come with me,” said Dr. Franklin. “Bob! This young lady would like a photo for the newspaper.”
The candidate was more than happy to cooperate, and Lucy snapped what she hoped was an original variation of the grip and grin in which he posed accepting a cup of coffee from Mrs. Spitzer.
Before the men could depart for their next engagement, however, DeWalt was stopped by a pale woman whose light brown hair was drawn tightly back into a bun. She reached out and tugged at his sleeve, and he turned toward her.
“We had a murderer in our school, teaching our children,” she said, anxiously pressing her hands together in front of her stomach.
“I understand your concern,” DeWalt assured her. “He should never have been hired. We have to begin requiring a higher moral standard of our teachers. After all, we are entrusting them with our children.”
The pale woman’s face contorted in anger. “It could have been my daughter, instead of poor Carol Crane! It could have been any of our daughters!”
DeWalt nodded solemnly. “There is only one way to change things. You have to elect good people, like Bob Angus. You have to elect folks like yourselves, like me, to the school board. That’s the only way we’ll get rid of those hopeless liberals like Sophie Applebaum. That’s the only way we’ll get Christian values back into the schools.”
“But not everybody’s Christian.” Lucy blurted it out without thinking.
The room suddenly fell silent, and once again, all eyes were on her. Lucy squirmed.
“I mean,” she explained, “there are people of many faiths, even here in a little town like Tinker’s Cove. Jews, Buddhists, Muslims, all kinds of people.”
<
br /> Nobody said a thing. They just looked at her. She was no longer the friendly reporter from The Pennysaver; she had become the personification of the liberal media establishment. It was definitely time to go, before they brought out the hanging noose and formed a lynch party.
“Well, I’ll be on my way,” she said, spotting Mrs. Spitzer. “Thank you so much.”
She didn’t extend her hand in farewell; she was afraid Mrs. Spitzer wouldn’t have taken it. Instead, she gave a little wave and hurried out the door. Why, she asked herself, couldn’t she just take her notes and pictures without butting in? Why did she have to open her big mouth? She was supposed to report the news, not make it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Back in the Subaru, Lucy wasted no time getting back to the office. Once there, she immediately called the Bridgton Gazette and spoke to the editor. He obligingly agreed to fax her a copy of the story he had printed about the elementary school fire last spring. It would take a while, however, so Lucy busied herself with the obituaries.
She was halfway through an account of Susan Peters Thompson’s life—she enjoyed sewing and was a member of the Ladies’ Aid Society—when she heard the door open. Looking up, she was surprised to see Quentin Rea.
Today, Lucy was a bit surprised to notice, he was no longer the grief-stricken figure of the night before. He was grinning broadly, casually holding his jacket over his shoulder with one finger. He gave his sandy hair a toss and cocked his head, waiting for her to speak.
“What brings you here?” she asked, swallowing hard.
“I want to place a want ad,” he said as his eyes met hers.
Lucy quickly ducked beneath the counter, reaching for a blank form. She slid it across the counter to him, and he picked up a pencil. His hands were nice, she thought, with thick fingers that looked as if they did more than turn pages.
She felt awkward, standing there while he filled out the form, so she sat back down at her desk and resumed typing the obituary. Interestingly enough, she discovered, Mrs. Thompson also raised Airedales.
Back To School Murder #4 Page 13