by Leslie Meier
“I don’t believe it, and I’m here.” J.J. slumped against the wall beneath the window, next to her.
Across the room, she heard Scott stirring.
“He’ll get us all killed,” muttered J.J., standing up.
He hadn’t taken a step when his body was thrown violently across the room, slamming onto the desk and then slipping to the floor. On her hands and knees Lucy crawled to him. Frantically, she felt for a pulse. Touching something warm and sticky she jerked her hand back, as if she’d touched fire. She clutched her hands together in front of her, they were icy. Her teeth were chattering, she realized. There was another burst of gunfire, and she crawled under the desk.
She pulled her knees up against her chest and wrapped her trembling arms tight around them, hugging herself. She heard small, whimpering noises, and for a moment she thought a kitten or puppy had somehow gotten trapped with her. She had actually started feeling around for the poor, frightened thing in order to comfort it when she realized she was making the noises herself. She pressed her lips tight together and concentrated on breathing, just breathing, one breath at a time.
A loud crash made her jump, she felt as if her heart would leap out of her body. Then machine-gun fire was raking the room. It was so loud she involuntarily covered her ears with her hands and she smelled something like Fourth of July fireworks. The machine-gun staccato ended with a loud crack, and Lucy felt the floor shake as something heavy fell. Suddenly, there was a bright, white light.
* * *
She could hear voices. They seemed to be coming from very far away.
“She’s starting to come around.”
“I want to interview her, before you take her away.”
“I can’t let you do that . . .”
Lucy stirred, rolling her head from side to side. She tried to raise herself up, but she couldn’t. She was wrapped up in something. Finally, it occurred to her that she could open her eyes.
“Well, hello, sunshine.”
She blinked, recognizing Lieutenant Horowitz. “Wha’?” she asked.
“You’re going to be OK.” Another person, this one in a blue uniform, came into view, leaning over her. “We’re taking you to the hospital to check you out, but right now it looks like you’ll be home for Christmas.”
Lucy closed her eyes, only to hear Horowitz’s voice.
“Mrs. Stone! I have some questions. . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Special Edition
The Pennysaver
Tinker’s Cove, Maine
December 26th
Two Killed in Drug Raid
By Edward J. Stillings
TINKER’S COVE—Two men were killed and a Tinker’s Cove police officer was wounded in a dramatic Christmas Eve shootout at a Cove Road lobster pound owned by Claude Rousseau, 63. The two dead men were identified as Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 42, of Tinker’s Cove and Raymond “Fatman” Norris, 23, of Boston, Mass. Tinker’s Cove Police Lt. Thomas Scott, 34, was wounded and remains in stable condition at Memorial Hospital in Portland. Also injured in the raid was Pennysaver reporter Lucy Stone, who was treated for a dislocated shoulder at Memorial Hospital and released.
“From the evidence we have so far, it looks as if Norris shot the other two men with an Uzi machine gun,” said State Police Detective Lt. C.G. Horowitz. “Norris was killed by a SWAT team member.”
A fourth man, Eduardo Reyes, 20, of Boston, Mass., was taken into custody and will most likely be arraigned on Monday. Charges against him have not yet been completely determined, but will include illegal possession of one or more firearms, said Horowitz.
Horowitz said charges are also pending against Scott, who had been under surveillance for several months by the state police special crimes unit. Unit investigators allege that Scott accepted bribes and engaged in drug trafficking while he was acting chief of the Tinker’s Cove Police Department. Police are also investigating allegations that Scott murdered Tucker Whitney, 20, of Tinker’s Cove earlier this month.
Horowitz said the drug task force was alerted when Norris and Reyes were spotted by a New Hampshire toll collector who noticed their unique automobile. “It was a Mercedes, top of the line, really loaded, and you don’t see a lot of those, at least not this time of year,” said Fred W. Smithers, a member of the Classic Car Club of Portsmouth, N.H.
Drug task force members monitored the pair’s progress, notifying the special crimes unit when they appeared headed for Tinker’s Cove.
“When Scott, Norris, and Reyes all gathered at Rousseau’s Lobster Pound, we knew we had to act fast or lose them,” said State Police Capt. Willard Penfield, commander of the drug task force. “It was getting late in the day, and we were losing daylight. We decided to call in the SWAT team.”
Tinker’s Cove residents watched in amazement as numerous state police vehicles sped through town, with sirens blaring, en route to the lobster pound. Crowd control became a problem for officials as curious onlookers, including a large group of teens who had been attending a pool party at the nearby home of TV star Norah Hemmings, gathered on Smith Heights Road. Hemmings was unavailable for comment.
Charles Canaday, 41, who lives at 151 Smith Heights Road, said he was astonished to see SWAT team members in his backyard.
“I was taking out the garbage and saw what I thought were soldiers, dressed in camouflage and carrying weapons, trotting down my driveway. For a minute I thought it was World War III,” said Canaday.
The SWAT team cordoned off the lobster pound and set up spotlights, which were immediately shot out by machine-gun fire from Norris.
“We called for replacements, but we knew that was going to take a while, so we improvised with vehicle headlights and fired tear-gas canisters,” said Penfield. “Norris ran for cover and one of our snipers had a clear shot and took it. Once Norris went down, Reyes immediately surrendered.”
Team members entered the lobster-pound office, where they found the wounded Scott manacled to a pipe with his own handcuffs. Stone was found, unconscious but otherwise apparently unharmed, beneath a large desk. Rousseau’s body was also found; both he and Scott appeared to have suffered wounds from machine-gun fire. Norris was killed by a single bullet to the head.
Officials said that more indictments are expected as the investigation is still in its preliminary stages and will continue.
“We’re especially interested in determining what role the Rousseau family played,” said Horowitz.
Interviewed at home on Christmas Day, Stone insisted she was an innocent bystander caught in events beyond her control. “I was just picking up some lobsters for Christmas dinner,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
New Year’s Eve
A week later, Lucy’s arm and shoulder were still strapped, so she was a passenger in the Subaru while Elizabeth drove.
Even though she had a learner’s permit, Lucy hadn’t had much time to take her daughter driving, so she figured this was a good opportunity for her to get some practice.
“You’re doing really great,” she said in an encouraging tone of voice as they crept along Main Street. “Now turn on your signal and turn here—I need to go to the post office.”
Elizabeth signaled left and turned right, picking up speed and heading directly for the brick post-office building.
“Brake!” shrieked Lucy, and the car lurched to a sudden stop, straddling two parking spaces.
“Sorry about that,” said Elizabeth, who was checking her teeth in the rearview mirror. “I get them confused. Which is the gas?”
“The one on the right,” said Lucy, opening the door. She wasn’t sure which was more dangerous: the shootout at the lobster pound or teaching her own daughter to drive.
She reached back in the car for her purse and when she straightened up, smiled to see Sue leading her little group of day-care kids. They looked like peas in a pod, each child holding tight to a chunky, knotted rope. Bringing up the rear was a young woman Lucy didn’t recogniz
e, pushing an oversize baby carriage stuffed with several snowsuited toddlers.
“Hi!” Sue greeted her. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better. I didn’t need any pain pills today.”
“Kids, you know Mrs. Stone. Sometimes she helps us at the center.”
“Hi, Justin. Harry. Emily. Matthew. Did you all have a nice Christmas?”
The kids smiled and nodded, and Emily held out her hands to show off her new dragon mittens.
“Granny made them,” she said, opening and closing the dragon’s mouth and revealing his hot pink tongue.
“Very nice,” said Lucy.
“And this is my new assistant, Casey Wilson,” said Sue, indicating a petite young woman who was adjusting Harry’s hat.
“Hiya,” said Casey, giving Lucy a big smile.
“I don’t see Will,” said Lucy. “What’s happening with him?”
“Steffie’s gone home to her folks, in New Jersey.” Sue lowered her voice, mindful of the children. “I think she’s going to divorce Tom. They weren’t that happy, anyway. And now with all that’s happened, she’s definitely not sticking by her man.”
“I don’t blame her,” said Lucy. “He’s bad news. She ought to make a clean break and start over.”
“I think she will,” said Sue. “She was pretty shook up. Not quite the same Steffie. Said she was shifting her priorities, and now Will’s going to be number one.”
“Well, maybe some good will come out of this thing. But if you ask me, I can’t quite believe little Miss Goody Two-shoes didn’t know what her husband was doing all along. I still haven’t forgiven her for bringing those leaflets to the cookie exchange.”
“He was pretty controlling,” said Sue, with a shrug. “I suspected all along that he was abusive. She even had a restraining order out on him around Thanksgiving.”
Lucy’s chin dropped as she digested this information.
“You never told me.”
“Oops!” Sue’s hand flew to her mouth. “Time to go, kids. I hear the bells. That means it’s time for lunch.”
Lucy watched for a moment as the little procession made its way across the parking lot, recalling how sad the noontime bells had sounded on the day she’d learned of Tucker’s death.
Today, she thought they sounded hopeful. Ringing out the old year and ringing in the new.
She turned and went inside the post offtce, pausing at the letter slot, to check that she had all of Toby’s college applications. She had just shoved them through the slot when she noticed Marge, also holding a handful of envelopes.
“College applications?” asked Lucy, noticing that Marge looked better than she had in a long time. There was color in her cheeks, and she seemed to have her energy back.
Marge nodded. “He got them done in the nick of time.”
“Same here,” said Lucy. “Did you have a nice Christmas?”
“Sure did.” Marge nodded. “Barney’s a lot happier these days. He says getting rid of Tom Scott was the best Christmas present he got!”
“I guess Tom will be going to jail for a long while—Ted says the Rousseaus are only too happy to cooperate and will testify against him. They want to clear the family name.”
Lucy pushed open the door and held it for Marge, who paused on the stoop to wave to a passing car.
It was the Cummings family: Steve, Lee, and the girls, driving by in their big sport utility. Lucy also raised her hand in a wave.
“Happy New Year!” shouted Lee, waving out the window.
Steve beeped the horn.
“Happy New Year!” called out Marge and Lucy.
“Do you have any special plans for tonight?” asked Marge.
“Actually, the kids are all sleeping over at friends’ houses, so Bill and I are planning some cuddle-and-bubble time—he’s got a bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge.”
“Good for you!” laughed Marge, getting in her car. “Barney’s got a six-pack and a video called Rolling Thunder.”
“Happy New Year!” called Lucy, as she watched Marge back out.
When she pulled open the door to the Subaru, Elizabeth handed her another letter.
“I found it after you got out,” she said.
“You couldn’t have brought it in? You just sat here like a lump?”
“Oh.” Elizabeth looked at her blankly. “I was listening to my new tape—the Diskettes.”
Lucy sighed and took the envelope.
She had just bought a stamp when she noticed Franny Small standing in the corner clutching a letter to her chest, apparently in a state of shock.
“Franny, what’s the matter?” she asked. “Did you get bad news?”
“No.” Franny’s eyes were huge. “It’s good news. Really good news.”
Franny held out the letter and Lucy took it.
“It’s from Neiman Marcus!” she exclaimed, scanning the text. “They want ten thousand pieces of your jewelry!”
“Do you believe it?” Franny’s face was glowing. “That’s a hundred-thousand-dollar order.”
“Wow.”
“And the letter says they plan to put them in their catalog next year and anticipate placing further orders.”
“That’s great, but Franny, how are you going to do it? Can you make ten thousand pieces of jewelry all by yourself?”
“Don’t be silly.” Franny’s curls shook as she nodded her head. “I’m going to go right over to that economic development agency that’s opened in Gilead and get myself what they call a start-up loan. Then I’m going to hire some of those folks who lost their crafts businesses in the fire and put them to work. While they’re making the jewelry, I’m going to go out and see who else wants to buy it.”
She pointed to the letter.
“If you notice, Neiman Marcus didn’t mention anything about exclusive rights. That means I can sell to other customers.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“This could be the start of something big.”
She looked up.
“Listen, Lucy, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to talk right now. I’ve got to make some phone calls.”
Openmouthed, Lucy watched as Franny bustled off. Then, remembering her errand, she looked down at the letter in her hand. It was the application to Toby’s first choice college, Coburn University. She attached a stamp and, crossing her fingers, slipped it through the slot. Then she returned to the car and, saying a little prayer, took her place in the passenger seat.
“Okay, Elizabeth. Look over your shoulder and make sure it’s clear. Then, put the shift in reverse, take your foot off the brake. . . .”
“Mom, my foot’s not on the brake.”
Lucy pressed her hands together to stop the trembling and took a deep breath.
“We’ll start over. First, make sure your foot is on the brake. Then, look over your shoulder . . .”
RECIPES
Santa’s Thumbprints
Lucy always brings these cookies to the cookie exchange.
1 cup shortening
½ cup granulated sugar
½ cup brown sugar
1 egg
½ teaspoon vanilla
½ teaspoon almond extract
½ teaspoon each baking soda, salt
1½ cups uncooked oatmeal
2 cups flour
6 ounces semisweet chocolate chips
Beat shortening, add sugars, beat till fluffy. Add egg and extracts; mix well. Stir in flour, baking soda, salt, and oatmeal. Shape dough into small balls about the size of a walnut, place on baking sheet, and press hollow in top of each cookie.
Bake at 375 degrees for 10–12 minutes. Melt chocolate and spoon into center of each cookie. Chill until firm.
Makes about 3 dozen.
Sand Tarts
My Aunt Helen, who was a lot like Miss Tilley,
used to bake these cookies every Christmas.
I always think of her when I make them.
Cream ½ cup butter.
&n
bsp; Add:
1 cup sugar
2 egg yolks (beaten)
1 tablespoon milk
½ teaspoon vanilla
Beat mixture until light.
Sift together:
1½ cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
Add to first mixture and blend well. Chill for several hours. Roll dough very thin and cut with star cookie cutter. Place on buttered baking sheets and put a split, blanched almond in the center of each cookie. Brush with unbeaten egg white and sprinkle with mixture of 1 tablespoon sugar and ¼ teaspoon cinnamon. Bake at 375 degrees for 10 minutes.
It’s late autumn in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, and the last surviving flowers on Lucy Stone’s porch have fallen victim to the first frost of the season. But as the part-time reporter learns, this cold November morning will claim more than potted plants . . . .
Besides the annual Turkey Trot 5K on Thanksgiving Day, Lucy expects the approaching holiday to be a relatively uneventful one—until she finds beautiful Alison Franklin dead and frozen in Blueberry Pond. No one knows much about Alison, except that she was the daughter of wealthy investor Ed Franklin and struggled quietly with drug addiction. Police blame her death on an accidental overdose, but Lucy can’t understand what terrible forces could lead a privileged woman to watery ruin....
Alison’s funeral service is just as puzzling. Many believe Ed’s young—and very pregnant—new wife, Mireille, divided the family, leaving Alison to wither on the vine. Did Mireille truly adore her stepchild as Ed claims, or did she pit father against daughter for personal gain?