Plum Pudding Murder Bundle with Candy Cane Murder & Sugar Cookie Murder

by Joanne Fluke

  “That’s understandable,” said Lucy, with a little smile. “If a judge is going to enforce the law he has to obey it, right? Otherwise he’d be a hypocrite.”

  “This went beyond obeying the law,” said Miss Tilley, speaking slowly, her gaze turned inward. “It was as if he believed he had received the rules for acceptable behavior from a Higher Power, rather like Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.” She gave a small, rueful smile. “Only there were a lot more than ten, and Mama and I, and my sister Harriet—she was named for Harriet Tubman—had to follow them to the letter. We all rose at six, except for Mama who got up earlier, and we had to be washed, and combed and dressed, with our beds made and our rooms tidied before breakfast, which was served in the dining room at six-thirty sharp.” She looked at Lucy. “From time to time Papa would conduct a surprise inspection and, oh dear, there was such a fuss if a slipper was left lying on the carpet or the windowsills were dusty.”

  “What sort of fuss?” asked Lucy. “My mother says her father used to spank her with a hairbrush.”

  “Nothing like that. No hairbrushes. It was worse, really. We’d have to listen to a long lecture on irresponsibility and wickedness and ungratefulness and by the end I would feel absolutely worthless. And, of course, there’d be no breakfast for the sinner who would have to remain in her room to reflect on her crime until Papa decided—or remembered—to let her out.”

  “He locked you in your room?”

  “He didn’t have to. We simply didn’t dare leave until we’d received permission.”

  Lucy, an only child who had always been able to convince her father to grant her every wish, found this hard to understand. “And what about your mother? Did he treat her like that, too?”

  “Oh, yes. If Mama failed to live up to his expectations he would scold her, too.” She shook her head. “Looking back it all seems ridiculous. A piece of burnt toast was treated as if you’d burned down the house. It was all out of proportion, but we were so cowed we didn’t realize it. Except for Harriet. She was always more rebellious than I and refused to give up her friends from school—Papa considered them unsuitable companions—even when he threatened to send her away to boarding school. She was convinced that he was too miserly to pay tuition and she was right. Papa predicted she would come to a bad end and I guess she did, at least in his book. She ran away with a young man Papa did not approve of. He was a labor organizer and a big supporter of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and of course Papa believed Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his wife, Eleanor, were earthly embodiments of Satan himself.” She paused and licked her lips. “Especially Eleanor.”

  “My great grandfather Tobias thought that, too,” said Lucy. “What happened to Harriet?”

  “I’m ashamed to say that I don’t know.”

  Lucy was shocked. “You don’t know?”

  “No. Papa disowned her and we never heard from her again.” She sighed. “It was a great sadness to my mother. In fact, it was right after Harriet eloped that Mama’s health began to fail and she became bedridden.

  “I suspected she had tuberculosis and I knew she was terrified of being sent to a sanatorium. That’s what they did back in those days. They packed people off to the mountains and hoped the good clean air and lots of hearty food would cure them. Mama didn’t want to leave home so she insisted she had woman troubles because all you had to do was say that in those days and everyone changed the subject fast.”

  Lucy couldn’t resist chuckling. “It’s not so different now, at least in my house.”

  Miss Tilley shook her head. “No. I don’t imagine your home is anything like that. My parents’ house was a house of secrets. When you’re afraid the truth will get you in trouble, you lie. You hide things. Everything becomes dangerous, even ideas, so you keep them to yourself. That’s what happened to us. Mama, Papa, and I became strangers to each other, strangers living in the same house.”

  The baby inside her kicked and Lucy placed her hands on her tummy. “A house of secrets and strangers,” she said.

  “Exactly,” said Miss Tilley, with a little nod. “But it all changed when Papa hired a nurse to take care of Mama. He resisted for a long time, but when I fell ill, too, the doctor insisted. Papa didn’t like the idea, of course, especially when the doctor recommended a nurse who was obviously Italian. As you’d expect, Papa did not approve of anyone whose name ended with a vowel—and he wasn’t too keen on the Irish either. Angela DeRosa was her name and I’ll never forget it because she was just like an angel to me, and to Mama, too. She was like a breath of fresh air, so efficient, so caring. You felt better the moment she entered your room, you just did. She was young and pretty and sang to herself as she made the beds and spooned out the medicine. But Papa always grumbled about having to pay a nurse as well as a cook and a maid.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Lucy, mentally adding the nurse, the maid, and the cook to the judge as possible suspects. “What was the cook like?”

  “Her name was Mrs. Sprout, if you can believe it.” Miss Tilley snorted. “Helen Sprout. She was no angel, that’s for sure. She was big and fat, and grouchy and she slammed around the kitchen, banging pots, and chopping up chickens with a cleaver, and punching the bread dough, and pounding potatoes with a big wooden masher. I stayed clear of her, that’s for sure.”

  “Were you afraid of her?”

  Miss Tilley reflected. “I guess I was, now that I think about it. There was something out of control about her. She was unpredictable, like a human whirlwind. Plates would break, smoke would billow from the stove, the sink would overflow, things like that were always happening.”

  “How was the food?”

  “Fine. Really good. It was the oddest thing. You’d think everything would be awful, burned to cinders, but it wasn’t. And after Papa had a taste of her apple pie, why there was no question about letting her go. He loved all her cooking, but especially her pies. That woman certainly had a knack—even Mama’s pie crust wasn’t as flaky as Mrs. Sprout’s.”

  “My mother makes good pies,” said Lucy, “and she’s tried to teach me but mine are never as good as hers.” She thought of her father, drifting in and out of consciousness in the hospital, and her mother who was spending every free minute with him and suddenly wanted desperately to talk with them. Later, she promised herself, maybe after dinner when Bill gave Toby his bath. “What about the maid?” she asked.

  “Which one?” chuckled Miss Tilley. “We went through quite a few of them, if I remember correctly. There was a Brigid, and several Marys, and a Margaret. They never lasted very long.”

  “Your father?”

  “Oh, no. He never took any notice of them. It was Mrs. Sprout. She made them work awfully hard. And I think some of them were afraid of Mr. Boott,” said Miss Tilley, giving an involuntary little shudder.

  Lucy’s interest perked up. “Boott? Was he related to the Bootts on Packet Road?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Kyle is probably his grandnephew. Mr. Boott never married. He was a sort of handyman. He cut the grass and painted the trim and tended the coal furnace and sometimes he drove Mama when she went to see the doctor.”

  “Did he have a first name?”

  “Oh, yes. Emil.” Miss Tilley paused. “You know, I think that’s why I didn’t like him. I didn’t like his name.”

  “Maybe there was some other reason?” prompted Lucy.

  “Well, he was a convict, a trusty, from the county jail.”

  Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “A prisoner?”

  “Yes. Papa had some arrangement with the sheriff and men from the prison often worked for him. They painted the house, I remember. Things like that.”

  “No wonder you were afraid. They must have been in jail for a reason, right?”

  “I don’t think Mr. Boott did anything very terrible, or Papa wouldn’t have had him around the house.”

  “But he was in jail for a long time, right? So it must have been a fairly serious crime.”

&n
bsp; “You’re right, Lucy. I never thought of it that way before. He must have worked for us for at least twenty years and he was a prisoner the whole time.”

  “Twenty years is a long sentence,” said Lucy.

  “Even for Papa,” said Miss Tilley. “He was tough but he rarely sentenced anyone for more than a year or two at most.” She paused. “Only the very worst criminals, like murderers and embezzlers got long terms. He believed in getting them back to work as fast as possible so the taxpayers wouldn’t have to support them, or their families.”

  “Your father sounds like a peach,” said Lucy, sarcastically.

  “Speaking of peaches, I almost forgot Miss Peach.”

  “Miss Peach?”

  “Oh, that wasn’t her real name. That’s what Mama called her, because she was from Georgia. She was my father’s secretary. Miss Katherine Kaiser.”

  “It sounds as if your mother was a bit jealous.”

  “I think she was and who could blame her? Miss Peach was everything she wasn’t. She had a career as a trained secretary, she was independent, she could spend her salary any way she wanted. And what she wanted was to buy clothes. She always looked lovely, in beautiful suits and hats and high-heeled shoes with peep toes. And she went to the beauty salon every morning just to have her hair combed! Harriet and I were pretty impressed, you can be sure of that. Imagine! Going to the salon just to have your hair combed.”

  “That is pretty impressive,” said Lucy. She heard Toby stirring in the borning room and struggled awkwardly to her feet, belly first, and cracked the door to take a peek. He was sitting up in bed, sucking his thumb. She quickly changed his diaper, then he scrambled off the bed and ran out to the living room, stopping short when he saw Miss Tilley.

  “I think he forgot me,” she said.

  But Toby hadn’t forgotten. “Mmmm,” he said, remembering the game they’d played earlier.

  “Mmmm,” she went, right back at him, and he laughed.

  “I guess I better get this little fellow home for lunch,” said Lucy. “Come on Toby, let’s pick up your toys.”

  It was a slow process but eventually everything was packed up, including the cookies, and Toby and Lucy were zipped in their winter jackets, and muffled in hats, scarves, and mittens, ready to go.

  “Thanks for everything,” said Lucy. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without the cookies. And I haven’t forgotten about your mother. We’ve got a list of suspects and I’m going to see what I can dig up.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Your father, Emil Boott, Mrs. Sprout, Angela DeRosa, Katharine Kaiser, even the maids—any one of them could have given your mother a fatal push down the stairs.”

  “I never thought of it that way but I suppose you’re right. They’re all suspects.”

  But when Lucy had finally strapped Toby into the car seat and stowed everything in Auntie Granada’s enormous trunk, and was starting the car, she realized she had to add another suspect to her list: tuberculosis. As Miss Tilley had told her, the disease had ravaged families right up until World War II when lifesaving treatments were developed. It seemed a lot more probable that poor, ill Mrs. Tilley had fallen down the stairs as a result of a coughing fit or a fainting spell than at the hands of a household intimate.

  Chapter Four

  When Lucy got home she found Bill had heated up the pot of split pea soup they had been having for lunch for the past week. The soup never seemed to end, it just got thicker with each reheating even though they kept thinning it down with the vegetable cooking water Lucy always saved. The chunks of ham and carrot which had been plentiful in the beginning had become scarcer with each reheating, however.

  “‘Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold,’” chanted Lucy, as she unzipped Toby. “‘Pease porridge in the pot nine days old,’ and that’s no lie. It’s lovely pea soup for lunch again.”

  Toby didn’t seem to mind. He kicked his feet in the high chair and spooned the stuff up eagerly, chasing down the little oyster crackers that Lucy sprinkled on top. She wasn’t quite as enthusiastic but reminded herself that homemade pea soup was nourishing and tasty and certainly helped stretch the food budget. She was trying to think of something new to do with a pound of hamburger for supper when Bill came in the kitchen to heat some water for tea.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” chortled Toby, flinging a spoonful of soup over his shoulder.

  “So how did the cookie baking go? I’d be happy to conduct a taste test,” he asked, automatically reaching for the sponge and wiping the soup spatter off the wall, where it had landed.

  Watching him, Lucy wondered why he bothered. Another stain on the wall would hardly matter. “Sorry,” she said, rousing herself. “Toby already did that. He said they were fine.”

  Hearing his name Toby laughed, then picked a cracker out of his soup with his fingers and stuck it on his nose.

  “I don’t know if he’s entirely reliable in matters of taste,” said Bill. “I’ve had a lot more experience when it comes to cookies.”

  “You mean you don’t wear them?” asked Lucy.

  “Exactly,” said Bill, plucking the cracker off Toby’s nose and popping it in his son’s little mouth. “I know that food goes in the mouth.”

  “Down!” ordered Toby, who had lost interest in lunch and was raring to go.

  The kettle shrieked as Lucy wiped his hands and face with a washcloth and set him on the floor, where he made a beeline for the wooden crate that served as a pot cupboard. She put tea bags in two mugs, filled them with hot water and arranged a half-dozen cookies on a plate and, stepping nimbly over the pots that Toby was scattering on the floor, carried it all back to the table.

  “Mmm,” said Bill, savoring a bite of cookie.

  “Mmm,” said Toby.

  Bill raised his eyebrows curiously. “Mmm?” he said

  “MMM,” hummed Toby, louder than before.

  “It’s a game Miss Tilley taught him. He loves it.”

  Bill’s next mmm was very soft, but Toby didn’t take the hint. His MMMM was louder and longer than ever.

  “Is there a way to stop it?” asked Bill, reaching for another cookie.

  “Don’t go mmm anymore,” said Lucy.

  “MMMMM!”

  “I will if you will,” said Bill. “So did you have an interesting morning?”

  “A lot more interesting than I bargained for. You know that cane I bought for Miss Tilley?” When Bill nodded she continued. “Well, she started to cry when I gave it to her. It seems her mother actually died on Christmas Eve many years ago, this must have been back in the thirties, and a red and white glass cane was found smashed beside her body.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” said Bill, taking a slurp of tea.

  “I know. And it gets weirder. She told me she’s always suspected her mother was killed by her father. He was a mean old character if ever there was one.”

  “She told you all this while you were baking cookies?”

  “Uh, well, Toby fell asleep and we drank some sherry,” admitted Lucy. “I only had a very small glass but Miss Tilley pretty much drained the bottle. I think it may have loosened her lips.”

  “I guess so,” said Bill. “It doesn’t seem the sort of conversation you have with a new friend.”

  “Not at all, but that’s the funny thing. It didn’t feel as if we were getting to know each other, it seemed as if we’d known each other forever. Like we were old friends, maybe in some earlier reincarnation or something.”

  Bill looked at her skeptically. “I think you need to get out more, Lucy.”

  “Well, I was thinking I might do a little investigating and see if I can’t find out how her mother really died. There were a lot of people in and out of the house and one of them might have been a murderer.”

  “How are you going to do that? They’ve probably all been dead for years.”

  Lucy looked down at her empty mug. “I don’t exactly know myself,” she admitted. “But people don’t live in a vacuum.
There are bound to be records, newspaper accounts. After all, old cases do get solved from time to time. That’s what the mystery I’m reading is about.”

  “That’s a book, this is real life,” he said. “And besides, you’re already overlooking an obvious clue.”

  “I am?”

  “Sure, the cane.”

  “You’re right!” exclaimed Lucy, hopping up and running around the table to kiss him. “In fact, it just so happens that I bought the cane from some people named Boott, and the Tilley family had a handyman named Boott. And, get this, he was a trusty from the jail.”

  “Sounds like a prime suspect to me,” said Bill, scratching his chin. “I’m thinking of growing a beard. What do you think?”

  “I think you’d look like a real Mainer.”

  He pulled her into his lap. “It will be scratchy at first,” he said, giving her a long, lovely kiss.

  “Mmmm,” said Lucy. “I won’t mind.”

  “MMMM!” hummed Toby, banging a pot with a wooden spoon.

  Surprised, they jumped apart, laughing. “I guess I better get back to work,” said Bill. “That sheetrock isn’t going to hang itself.”

  Lucy took the dirty dishes over to the sink and began washing them, looking out the window as she worked. She had a clear view of the rutted dirt driveway, the fence with its missing and broken pickets, and the road that nobody except the mailman ever seemed to use. And here he was now, in his little Jeep.

  Checking to see that Toby was busy with his pots she threw her coat over her shoulders and ran down the driveway, hoping the day’s mail included something good. A big fat check would be best, maybe they’d overpaid their income tax and the IRS was sending them a refund. But she’d settle for a card from a friend, or a Christmas gift.

  Opening the flap on the front of the box, she smiled to see a small package wrapped in brown paper and string along with the usual bills and junk mail. The return address indicated it came from her mother, which surprised her because she knew her mother was spending all her time at the hospital with her father.