Holiday Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “It is a hard job, isn’t it? After all, people don’t call the police when everything’s going great.”

  “That’s for sure,” agreed Marge. “But just between you and me it’s worse than ever now that Tom Scott is the big cheese in the department.”

  Lucy couldn’t help smiling. She hadn’t heard that expression in years. “What’s the problem?”

  Marge shrugged. “Tom’s got all these ideas about how Barney should improve his outreach program.”

  “Really?” Barney was the department’s safety officer, and through the years Lucy had seen most of his presentations at the school. “He does a great job, and the kids love him. That bike-safety obstacle course, where he sets up the real traffic light, they all look forward to that. He always does it the first day after spring vacation.”

  Marge’s face softened. “Barney loves it, too. You know, he made all those signs and the traffic light—spent one whole winter down in the cellar, building all that stuff.” She sighed. “Traffic safety, stranger danger, all that’s old hat according to Tom. He wants more antidrug and antialcohol education.”

  “For kindergarten?”

  “Can’t start too young, I guess. Gotta scare ’em straight. At least that’s what he tells Barney.”

  “Gee, whatever happened to childhood innocence? We used to try to protect kids.”

  “That’s what Barney says, but Tom’s given him these curriculums he’s supposed to use. Big, thick books.” She glanced at the recliner, where a special pocket held the TV remote. “Barney’s not much of a reader.”

  Lucy chuckled, recognizing the truth of Marge’s statement.

  “Actually,” continued Marge, leaning forward, “I’m kind of worried. The more Tom leans on Barney, the more Barney resists. I’m afraid he’s gonna snap and do something he’ll regret. If he lost his job, I don’t know what we’d do. We really need the medical insurance.” She touched the scarf, reassuring herself that it hadn’t slipped. “The surgery, the treatments, it’s all very expensive.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. Barney’s got lots of seniority. I don’t think they could fire him.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Lucy. I’m worried that he’ll quit.”

  “He wouldn’t do that—I can’t imagine him as anything but a cop. It’s what he is.” Lucy patted her chest. “It’s part of him.”

  “He keeps threatening. . . .”

  “I think he’s just talking.” Lucy hoped it was true; she knew how vital medical insurance was. She and Bill had been unable to afford it themselves until the Chamber of Commerce set up a plan for members who were self-employed, like Bill. Before that, a case of pneumonia one winter had forced them to depend on food stamps and a loan from Bill’s parents. Bill had only lost a few weeks of work, but the hospital had demanded payment and threatened legal action.

  “Hey, did you hear about Richie?’” asked Lucy, eager to switch to a more positive subject. “He got into Harvard.”

  “That’s wonderful,” enthused Marge, relieved to have a new topic of conversation. “Of course, he’s always been a bright boy. What are Toby’s plans?”

  “He says he’s interested in several colleges, but he’s being awfully lazy about the applications.”

  “Who can blame him?” Marge rubbed her forehead and Lucy suspected she was getting tired. “I tried to help Eddie, but I couldn’t manage it.”

  This was news to Lucy. She had thought Eddie would probably get a job after high school or join the armed forces. “Where’s Eddie applying?”

  “Culinary school. He wants to be a chef.”

  Lucy was impressed. “That’s a good idea. He’s worked at the Greengage Café for a couple of summers, hasn’t he?”

  “He loves it. But he says he has to go to culinary school to be a chef.”

  “Maybe I could help,” offered Lucy. “The boys could work on their applications together. It might be just what Toby needs to get his done, too. Eddie could come over one day next week.”

  “That’d be great, Lucy. You could help him with the essay part since you write for the paper and all.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Lucy checked her watch. “I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a list of errands a mile long.”

  “Thanks for coming, and thanks for the cookies.” Marge nodded at the tin on the coffee table.

  “Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

  “No, Lucy, I’m fine.”

  “You take care now,” said Lucy, giving Marge a quick hug before she left. Then, heading downtown, she thought about their conversation.

  She sympathized with Marge, but she also knew that under the leadership of Chief Crowley, whose health had been declining for years, the Tinker’s Cove Police Department had settled into a long slumber. Maybe Tom Scott would bring some much-needed vigor to the department.

  Then, rounding a corner, she drew up short, noticing Steve Cummings’s dental office. Acting on impulse, she pulled into the drive and parked in the small parking area behind the building. She hadn’t gotten much information from Marge. Why not question her prime suspect directly?

  As she made her way up the neat brick path to the door she tried to think of an excuse for seeing the dentist. Have her teeth cleaned? Dr. Cummings probably had a dental hygienist who handled that chore, and, besides, she would probably have to make an appointment. A cleaning was hardly an emergency.

  Could she claim she had a toothache? A really bad one that needed emergency attention? The idea made her uneasy. If Steve Cummings had murdered Tucker, she hardly wanted to put herself at his mercy in a dental chair.

  No, she would have to try a different approach. By the time she pulled on the door she had a plan.

  “Do you have an appointment?” inquired the woman behind the desk. She was a rather heavy, middle-aged woman with brass-colored hair cropped in one of those upswept styles that I was supposed to make a woman of a certain age look younger. It made this woman look like a Marine drill sergeant, thought Lucy.

  “No, I don’t. I’m from The Pennysaver, you know, the newspaper?”

  The woman’s face hardened. “We don’t advertise,” she said. “It’s a matter of professional ethics.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not selling advertising. I write for the paper. I’m Lucy Stone.”

  The drill sergeant was not impressed with this information.

  Lucy smiled, and plunged ahead, improvising as she went.

  “Actually, I’m working on a feature story. We’re asking prominent citizens, you know, people our readers will recognize, what they want for Christmas. It’s kind of a man-in-the-street thing, with kind of a new twist? It’ll only take a minute of the doctor’s time.”

  “I don’t think so.” The drill sergeant shook her head. “In fact, Dr. Cummings has cut back his schedule today. He’s only seeing a few patients whose treatment can’t be delayed.”

  “Could you just ask him for me?” persisted Lucy. “In my experience, most of the people we interview for stories like this are pleased and flattered by the attention.”

  “I don’t think that would be the case here.” The receptionist’s tone was flat.

  “You never know. He might be upset if he learned you’d sent me away,” suggested Lucy. “It’s good publicity, and it’s free. . . .”

  Just then the door behind the receptionist’s desk opened and Dr. Cummings appeared in his white jacket, followed by an elderly woman who looked a bit dazed.

  “Ruth, I want you to make another appointment for Mrs. Slade here. Preferably next week.” He handed a chart to the receptionist and quickly consulted a clipboard, then turned to Lucy. “Mrs. Green?”

  “Oh, no,” Lucy said quickly, before the receptionist could get her two cents in. “I’m Lucy Stone, from The Pennysaver.”

  She watched his face closely, looking for a reaction, but Steve Cummings wasn’t giving anything away. He looked the same as always, a thirtysomething professional with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glass
es, except that today his eyes looked tired.

  “I’m doing a feature story about Christmas, and I’d just like to ask you a few quick questions, if you don’t mind?”

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  Lucy followed him, making a point not to look at the receptionist. She knew looks couldn’t kill, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  He led her into a small office, with a large desk. He seated himself behind it, and Lucy took a chair.

  “It’s just a man-in-the-street sort of thing,” she began, letting her hands flutter in front of her. “I’m supposed to ask various important people, you know, people our readers will recognize, what they want for Christmas. You can be as serious or as funny as you want to be. And, of course, I have to take your picture.”

  She bent down to fumble in her purse for her notebook, all the time keeping an eye on Dr. Cummings. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.

  “What I want for Christmas, eh?” He sighed, and a shadow seemed to pass over his face. Then he focused his eyes on her. “There’s something I always wanted, ever since I was a kid, but I never got. My parents didn’t think it was appropriate: a G.I. Joe doll. They didn’t approve of dolls for boys, but I’m telling you, they made a big mistake. I saw one at an antique show not long ago, and it was worth a bundle.”

  Lucy smiled and scribbled down his quote. Actually, she thought, this could turn out to be a good idea for a story. But before she left, she had another question she wanted to ask. She pulled her camera out of her bag and waved it apologetically in front of her face.

  “Now’s the tough part. I have to take your picture.”

  “Go ahead. Shoot.”

  She glanced around the room. “You’re against the window—that doesn’t work. Could you stand against the wall?”

  “Oh, sure.” He got up and moved into position, straightening his jacket and smiling.

  “You know, I really lucked out with this assignment. I was afraid I’d have to cover that murder,” volunteered Lucy, from behind her camera.

  “That was a terrible thing,” said Steve. His smile was gone. He looked as if he was going to cry.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Lucy, lowering her camera. “I didn’t know you knew her.”

  “Only slightly.” Steve’s expression became guarded. “But I have a wife and two daughters. I don’t like the idea of something like this happening in Tinker’s Cove.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that.” Lucy smiled mischievously at him. “I was at a party with Lee a few nights ago, and it didn’t sound as if she would mind if you were murdered one bit.”

  He gave a hollow chuckle. “I guess that’s par for the course. We’re separated, you know, but hopefully we’ll work things out.”

  “Hopefully.” Lucy raised the camera again. “Now think of those two beautiful daughters of yours.” His face brightened, and he smiled; Lucy snapped the photo.

  “Thanks so much for your time,” she said, starting to pack up her camera and notebook, when the door flew open.

  The receptionist was clucking nervously, like a hen spying a hungry dog on the other side of the fence. No wonder, thought Lucy, recognizing the man behind her: Lieutenant Horowitz, the state police detective.

  “I was just leaving,” said Lucy, heading for the door.

  “Good idea,” said Horowitz, making eye contact with her. “This is the last I want to see of you, Mrs. Stone. Do you understand?”

  Lucy hastened to reassure him. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’m gone. You won’t see me again.”

  “I hope not.” Horowitz pulled his long upper lip down, and pressed it against his bottom lip. It made him look a little bit like a rabbit. Then he turned. “Dr. Cummings, I have a few questions for you. . . .”

  So, great minds think alike, thought Lucy, pushing the door open. She wasn’t the only one who suspected Cummings. Pausing for a moment on the stoop, she surveyed the scene. Not only did she recognize the detective’s gray sedan, but two cruisers were also parked on the street in front of the office. Horowitz had brought reinforcements.

  She slung her shoulder bag up over her arm and started down the path to her car. What she wouldn’t give to hear Horowitz’s questions.

  But as she started her car, she couldn’t help harboring a few doubts. Somehow, Steve Cummings just didn’t seem like a murderer to her.

  Chapter Seven

  As she headed downtown to the dry cleaners, Lucy tried to sort through her confusing thoughts. Logically, she knew Steve was the obvious suspect—boyfriends and husbands accounted for the great majority of murdered women. Her instincts, however, told a different story. Steve had seemed friendly and open, he hadn’t seemed like a man with a death on his conscience. And even if all the terrible things Lee said about him were true, which Lucy doubted, there was no question that he adored his little girls. She couldn’t forget the way his face had brightened when she told him to think of Hillary and Gloria when she snapped his picture.

  Lucy pulled into a free parking space and picked Bill’s good sport coat off the passenger seat. She sat there, holding it in her lap, wondering if she could really trust her feelings about Steve. Murderers, she knew, didn’t come with handy identifying marks on their foreheads. Mostly, they were ordinary people who had snapped for one reason or other: sweet-faced young babysitters who had shaken a crying baby a bit too hard, frustrated boyfriends whose anger had gotten out of control, battered wives who hadn’t seen any other way out.

  Just because Steve seemed like a perfectly nice guy didn’t mean he couldn’t have murdered Tucker. Lucy didn’t have access to the evidence, she didn’t know what Lieutenant Horowitz had found at the crime scene. All she had to go on was her gut feeling, and that didn’t count for much in a court of law. She sighed and opened the car door.

  Inside the little shop, with its strong chemical scent, Lucy had to give her name and phone number.

  “I thought I knew most people in town,” said the clerk, with a little sniff.

  “We’re not regular customers,” explained Lucy, taking the little pink slip. “Most of our clothes go in the washing machine.”

  As she pushed open the door and headed back to the car, she decided to pay a visit to the person who knew Steve best: Lee. It wasn’t as if she was getting involved in the case, she told herself. Not at all. She had a very good reason for stopping in the decorating shop where Lee worked. Since Bill was going to have to repair the dining-room ceiling, anyway, they might as well freshen the room up with some new wallpaper.

  * * *

  Captain Crosby Interiors occupied one of the big old houses on Main Street, in fact, it had been occupied briefly by Captain Elisha Crosby after his marriage to the lovely Betsy Billings. Local legend had it that he kissed Betsy good-bye one fine February morning in 1886, promising to return by Christmas with a hold full of China tea, and was never heard from again.

  Nowadays, the fine old house was an ideal setting for the shop, which sold fabrics and wallpapers. Lee had worked there part-time for years, mostly as a hobby, but had switched to full-time after the separation.

  When Lucy entered, Lee was busy with a customer so she gave her a little wave and settled herself down with the wallpaper books. As she flipped the pages, she tried to think of a graceful way to bring up her questions about Steve. After all, just because Lee wasn’t very happy with him these days didn’t necessarily mean she would welcome the idea that he was a suspect in a police investigation.

  As it happened, however, Lucy didn’t have to find a way to work the murder into the conversation after all. Lee couldn’t wait to talk about it.

  “Lucy!” she exclaimed, after her customer had left. “Did you hear about Tucker?”

  “Isn’t it terrible,” murmured Lucy.

  “You won’t find me shedding any tears for that little hussy,” declared Lee. “If you ask me, she got what she deserved. I don’t know if you knew, but she’d been trying to steal Steve away from me.”


  “I’d heard something like that,” admitted Lucy. “Was it serious? I mean, do you think Steve was planning to marry her?”

  Lee snorted. “That little snippet? I don’t think so. Not that she wasn’t trying. And it wasn’t just Steve, either. She was doing her darnedest to turn Hillary against me.”

  Lucy’s chin dropped. “What do you mean?”

  “At the day-care center. She always made a huge fuss over Hillary. Big hellos and good-byes, even hugs and kisses. It was a bit much, if you ask me. Oh, I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but this is one death that couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”

  Lucy was glad she was already sitting. If she hadn’t been, she would definitely have needed a chair. Lee’s attitude would have knocked her off her feet.

  “Aren’t you worried that the police might suspect Steve?” she asked.

  “Steve?” Lee thought this was hilarious. “Are you kidding? He couldn’t even drop a lobster into a pot of boiling water. I always have to do it.”

  Lucy looked at her curiously, and Lee gave her head a shake.

  “Listen to me, going on like this. You didn’t come in here to talk about my marriage. What can I help you with? Wallpaper?”

  “For the dining room. Since we have to fix the ceiling anyway, I thought we might as well do the whole room.”

  “Good idea! I have just the thing. It would be beautiful in your house.”

  Lee pulled a book out from beneath the counter and set it in front of Lucy. With a flourish, she revealed a bright Oriental design featuring enormous, brightly colored peacocks.

  “Isn’t that gorgeous? That blue! And the green and the pink. Go for it, Lucy. People are so afraid of color. It’s a big mistake when it can bring life and excitement to your home.”