Holiday Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “That’s a big relief,” said Lucy, smiling as Barney and Richie Goodman entered Scott’s office. Lucy had known Richie ever since he was a baby, but she was always surprised by how quickly kids grew up. She could have sworn he’d grown a foot since she last saw him. He was at least six feet tall, a lean, good-looking boy with a thick mop of curly brown hair.

  “Now, Richie here is going to try to buy alcohol from license holders in the town,” explained the lieutenant. “He’s obviously underage—he’s seventeen and the legal age is twenty-one. Richie, will you tell Mrs. Stone here what your instructions are?”

  Richie looked embarrassed, but he spoke right up. “I’m supposed to ask for a bottle of beer, and if they sell it to me I’m supposed to bring it out to Lieutenant Scott. If they ask me for ID, I’m going to say that I don’t have any.”

  “That’s right. We want to do this thing fair and square,” said the lieutenant. “Right, Culpepper?”

  Barney shrugged and nodded. “Right.”

  Lucy didn’t think he sounded very enthusiastic.

  “Now, just to make it absolutely clear that we’re not planting any alcohol on innocent license holders, I’m noting on the record of this operation that Richie does not have any alcohol concealed on his body. Do you want to pat him down, Mrs. Stone?”

  Richie was blushing furiously.

  “I think I’ll leave that to Barney,” said Lucy.

  Barney quickly checked Richie’s pockets and confirmed that except for a wallet and car keys they were empty.

  “We’re off, then,” said the lieutenant, grabbing his blue jacket from the coat stand in the corner.

  They all piled into a cruiser: Barney was driving, and the lieutenant sat next to him in the front seat. Lucy and Richie were in the backseat. Lucy got out her reporter’s notebook and uncapped her pen.

  “Is this the first sting the department has conducted?” she asked.

  “As far as I know,” answered the lieutenant. “Officer Culpepper’s the one to ask—he’s been here a lot longer than me.”

  “It’s the first,” agreed Barney, sounding glum.

  “Liquor stings have proved to be effective community policing—a lot of departments are trying them,” said Scott, turning to face Lucy. “It lets licensees know that we’re really serious about enforcing the drinking age. And that’s a message we want to get out now, with the holidays just around the corner.”

  “If Richie is able to purchase beer, what will you do? Will you charge the license holder?” Remembering Ted’s reluctance to offend the business community, Lucy hoped not.

  “This time we’re issuing warnings,” said Scott. “And, of course, we’re hoping that having this written up in the paper will also act as a deterrent. No community businessman wants bad publicity.”

  Lucy squirmed in the uncomfortable seat. She didn’t like the feeling that she was being used to punish local businesses.

  Tom Scott seemed to sense her discomfort and hastened to reassure her.

  “This is kind of a personal crusade for me,” he said. “When I first started out in police work I felt the same way a lot of cops do—that my time and energy were best used to fight serious crimes. I tended to ignore minor violations in order to concentrate on cases that involved bodily harm or violence—muggings, bar fights, things like that. Remember, this was in New York City, where there are a lot more crimes against people and property than there are here.”

  He paused a moment, and when he resumed his voice was strained.

  “That all changed for me one night when I got a call to a motor-vehicle accident—a car had hit a light pole. This was in a section of the precinct where we were rarely called. A very nice residential area in the Bronx called Riverdale with fancy homes, lots of trees and grassy lawns, not exactly mean streets, if you know what I mean.

  “Well, when I got to the scene I found a brand-new Mustang. . . .” Scott paused to swallow, as Lucy scribbled his story down in the notebook word for word. “I knew it was bad. Entire front end was gone, like it had disintegrated under the force of the impact. When I got to the car the windows were open, and I could smell the alcohol.”

  He sighed and shook his head.

  “It was too late. There was nothing I could do. Two kids, both dead. All dressed up in their prom clothes. He was wearing a tux, she had on a long dress. Her flowers—white roses—were still on her wrist.”

  He paused, working his teeth.

  “That night I had to stand on two doorsteps, ringing the bell, knowing that the people on the other side of the door were never going to be the same after I delivered my news. It was then I decided that I’d had enough. I promised myself I was going to do whatever I had to do to stop this, this epidemic of alcohol abuse that is killing our young people.”

  In the front seat, Barney pulled a huge, white handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. In the backseat, Lucy finished writing just as they pulled up in front of Mrs. Murphy’s liquor store. She glanced over at Richie and saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

  “Are you ready?” asked Scott.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” answered Richie, climbing out of the car.

  The others remained in the cruiser, watching as Richie approached the brightly lit store. He pulled open the glass door and went in. They could observe him through the plate-glass windows as he walked over to a cooler and chose a bottle of beer, which he carried to the counter.

  The clerk, an older man with gray hair, shook his head.

  “That’s Jim Murphy—he knows the business,” said Barney, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

  Tom noticed and looked at him curiously. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re hoping this sting is unsuccessful,” he said.

  “Well, we all hope that, don’t we?” asked Lucy. “That means that the laws are being obeyed in our town.”

  “Except for one fact,” said Tom. “We know they’re not. Since I came here last summer we’ve arrested thirteen juveniles for operating under the influence.”

  They looked up as Richie pulled open the door and got in the car. “Mr. Murphy knows me,” he said, apologetically. “Maybe I should have worn a disguise or something.”

  “That’s okay, son,” said Scott. “We’ve got plenty more to try.”

  But as the evening wore on, Richie continued to be unsuccessful. He wasn’t able to buy a single beer. Wherever he tried, in the town’s three liquor stores, in the grocery store, even in the roadhouse out near the highway, he was refused.

  “Are you sure you’re doing exactly what I told you to do?” Tom finally asked him, when he returned empty-handed from the Bilge, a bar down by the waterfront that was a favorite with fishermen.

  “Yeah,” said Richie. “I just go up to the counter and ask for a Bud. I mean, I don’t make any conversation or anything. Should I?”

  “Nah,” grunted Scott.

  “Maybe if he wore my hat,” he volunteered, as they pulled up in front of Richard’s Fine Wines. He pulled a navy blue watch cap out of his pocket and jammed it down on his head. But the hat didn’t fool the clerk, who asked to see his identification. Richie was despondent when he returned to the car. “He offered to sell me a Coke.”

  “Well, that’s it,” said Barney, checking his clipboard. “That was the last one on the list.”

  “I don’t understand it.” said Tom as they drove back to the police station. “I never heard of a liquor sting that didn’t net any violators.”

  “Well, you probably wouldn’t,” said Lucy. “It’s not much of a story if nobody gets caught.”

  “Are you going to write it up for the paper?” he asked as Barney parked the car.

  “Sure. I’ve spent a lot of time on it already. Besides, Ted likes to print good news whenever he can, especially if it puts his advertisers in a good light.”

  Tom picked right up on the cue. “It’s not often in law enforcement that you have such a satisfying outcome,” he said, speaking slowly
so she could get every word. “It’s gratifying to know that the department’s efforts to enforce the legal drinking age are working and that our young people cannot purchase alcohol in Tinker’s Cove. And I want to express a special word of thanks to Richie Goodman, who volunteered his time tonight.”

  Lucy got it all down, and climbed out of the ear.

  “Thanks for inviting me along,” she said, shaking Tom’s hand. She turned to Richie, who was standing beside her. “Do you have a ride home?”

  “Yeah,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and striding off toward his car.

  “He’s a good kid,” said Barney, nodding his approval.

  “Maybe too good,” mused Tom. “Maybe I should have gotten a kid who had more street smarts.”

  “This is a small town,” said Barney. “Everybody knows everybody. The kids probably go a few towns over where nobody knows them. Maybe we should try a joint operation with the Gilead P.D.”

  “It’s a thought,” admitted Tom. “Or maybe we could just try not to tip off the storekeepers in advance.”

  Under the lights that illuminated the parking lot Lucy could see Barney’s face redden. “Nothing like that happened,” he said.

  “If you say so,” said Scott replacing his cap on his head and marching into the building.

  “Barney, you didn’t do anything like that, did you?” asked Lucy, as she watched the lieutenant stride off.

  “No, damn it, but I was sure tempted. I don’t like this kind of stuff. It’s awful close to entrapment, if you ask me. I’d rather wait for somebody to commit a crime, and then arrest them. I don’t like to trick ’em into it.”

  “Police do undercover operations all the time. It’s perfectly legal.”

  “Well, that don’t make it right.” Barney planted his cap on his head and shifted his belt. “You know what he wants me to do now? I’m supposed to put a box out on the desk when I visit the schools and tell the kids they can write me a note about anything that’s bothering them. Like maybe if their big brother is smoking pot or something like that. And I’m supposed to tell the kids it’s just between them and me and nobody will get in trouble. But that’s not true. The lieutenant here wants me to pass on suspected violations to the school authorities, and by law, they have to report drug use to the police.”

  “Do people know about this? Maybe I should write a story.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Barney, waggling his finger at her. “Your daughter has come to the attention of the department—you wouldn’t want her investigated, now, would you?”

  “Tom said everything was okay, that he was dropping the whole thing.”

  “And he will,” said Barney, giving her a wink, “as long as you do things his way.”

  * * *

  Barney was way off base, thought Lucy, as she drove home. She had Tom’s word that he wasn’t going to investigate the inhaler incident any further. There was nothing to investigate, for that matter. There was no law against helping a person in distress, Tom had said so himself. He’d said Elizabeth should be congratulated for her quick thinking.

  Poor Barney was under a lot of stress. He was no doubt worried sick about Marge. This was no time for him to have to adjust to a whole new way of doing things at work. After all, Barney had been on the force for twenty years or more, working the whole time for Chief Crowley. It was no wonder he was having trouble accepting the lieutenant’s ideas about community policing.

  But even Barney had admitted that the lieutenant was getting results—hadn’t he bragged to her about the department’s success in preserving the evidence that nailed Steve Cummings?

  The lieutenant certainly seemed to know what he was doing, thought Lucy, as she turned onto Red Top Road. And he was truly committed to his job. She remembered how his voice had cracked with emotion when he described finding the young couple dead in the crash, how he couldn’t forget the flowers on the girl’s wrist. White roses.

  What a tragedy, she thought, blinking back tears. And it would make a great lead when she wrote about the sting for The Pennysaver. She pulled into her driveway and braked, turning off the ignition. This was one story she couldn’t wait to write.

  Chapter Thirteen

  6 days ’til Xmas

  “Great story, Lucy,” said Ted, after he finished reading her report on the sting operation.

  Lucy had been so eager to write it that she’d gone into The Pennysaver office first thing Friday morning, way ahead of deadline.

  “You don’t think I went over the top?”

  When she had been writing the story, Lucy had been carried along in a rush of creative energy. Now that it was finished, she was beginning to have second thoughts. Maybe she should have taken the time to make a few phone calls to New York to check the accuracy of Scott’s account.

  “No. Great detail, especially the white roses.”

  Lucy felt better; Ted was a lot more experienced in the news business than she was.

  “Our advertisers will love it,” he continued. “Good news for once.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” Lucy took a deep breath and plunged in. “Do you think maybe we’re getting a bit too concerned about the advertisers? I mean, it seems to come up an awful lot lately.”

  “Damn right it does. Adam wants to go to BU—do you know how much that costs? Frankly, this paper makes a pretty thin profit as it is, and I can’t afford to alienate any advertisers right now. Not if Adam’s going to get a college education.”

  “You’ll get financial aid.”

  “Not enough—I’ve done the calculations. And a lot of that aid is probably going to be student loans, which I’d like to avoid if I can. I don’t want Adam starting out with a huge debt burden.”

  “That worries me, too,” admitted Lucy.

  “The good news is that revenues are ahead of budget this month, thanks to that new Ropewalk mall. They’ve placed a lot of holiday advertising with us.”

  “That’s great,” said Lucy. “Ho, ho, ho!” She shrugged into her coat and buttoned it up. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  * * *

  In the car, she turned on the radio. The local station was also getting plenty of ads; as she drove she heard commercials urging her to celebrate the holiday season in a variety of ways: with specially decorated Dunkin’ Donuts packed in festive jars, with a new car from Fat Eddie and his “happy, holiday elves” who were practically giving away the new models in a burst of Christmas spirit, and with a “luxurious,” meaning expensive, outfit from the Carriage Trade. And if the stress of the season was getting her down, a public service announcement informed her she could call the Samaritans for counseling.

  If she were honest with herself, she thought, it did seem as if a gray cloud of depression was following her wherever she went these days. It was partly a reaction to the forced jollity of the Christmas season, but she was also struggling to cope with Tucker’s murder and Steve’s arrest. And if that weren’t enough, she was anxious about the kids. Toby’s experiments with pot and his lackadaisical attitude about the college applications, not to mention Elizabeth’s suspension. This was not the Christmas she had hoped for.

  She had intended to stop by at Miss Tilley’s to deliver a Christmas present, but in her present mood she wasn’t sure it was a good idea. When she got to the corner of Miss Tilley’s road, however, she found herself flipping on the turn signal and accelerating. Through the years she had found there was nothing like a conversation with Miss Tilley to put things in their proper perspective.

  * * *

  Julia Ward Howe Tilley, who allowed only a sadly diminished number of contemporaries to call her by her first name, was the first person who befriended Lucy when she and Bill had moved to Tinker’s Cove. Then the librarian at the Broadbrooks Free Library, Miss Tilley had noticed Lucy’s interest in mysteries and began saving the new titles for her. As they grew to know each other, Lucy had come to appreciate Miss Tilley’s tart wit and no-nonsense attitude. Now th
at she was retired and steadily growing frailer, Lucy tried to stop by for a chat as often as she could.

  Rachel Goodman opened the door when Lucy knocked. After her auto accident a few years ago, Miss Tilley arranged to have Rachel help her with meals, housekeeping, and driving.

  “Hi, Rachel,” said Lucy, as she took off her coat. “You’ll be reading about your son in the paper next week.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope,” said Rachel, hanging it up in the coat closet.

  “No. You should be proud. He did a great job on that liquor sting.”

  Rachel grimaced. “He didn’t want to do it, but he didn’t feel as if he could refuse. Richie thought that if he said no, the lieutenant would think he was in the habit of buying booze illegally.”

  It occurred to Lucy that both Stones, Steffie and Tom, definitely had the knack of putting people on the spot.

  “Come to think of it, he did seem a little uncomfortable, but I figured it was just part of being seventeen.”

  Rachel shook her head. “No. He didn’t like the idea of tricking people and getting them in trouble. Plus, he does have a bit of a guilty conscience, I think. Now that he’s got his acceptance from Harvard, he’s come down with a wicked case of senioritis. He’s been spending a lot of time with Tim Rogers, and I don’t think they’re memorizing Bible verses.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Frankly, I don’t know why the police are so concerned about underage drinking—the real problem at the high school is drugs, if you ask me.”

  Lucy would have loved to share her own thoughts on this subject, but was interrupted.

  “Who are you talking to?” Miss Tilley asked in a quavery voice from the next room. “I thought I heard Lucy Stone.”

  Lucy went into the living room, where Miss Tilley was seated in an antique Boston rocker next to the fireplace, with a bright crocheted afghan across her knees, A small fire was burning on the hearth. Lucy gave her old friend a quick peck on the cheek and presented her with a foil package wrapped with a bright red bow.