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

by Joanne Fluke

  Proceeding at a more sedate pace she passed the library, the Community Church and the town hall. Slack’s Hardware and the Appliance Mart were in the next block, but her eye fell on the sign for Sherman Cobb’s law office. Funny, she thought as she braked and turned into the parking area beside the little white clapboard building, she’d never noticed it before. But now here it was, right in front of her, and there would never be a better time to ask him about Emil Boott.

  When she entered the office’s neat little waiting room she was greeted by the receptionist, a tall woman about her own age with long brown hair. The plaque on her desk gave her name: RACHEL GOODMAN.

  “Hi,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to talk to Mr. Cobb,” said Lucy.

  “I’m afraid he’s not in,” said Rachel. “His partner, my husband Bob, is available.”

  “I’m afraid I need to speak to Mr. Cobb,” said Lucy.

  “Bob is a very good lawyer,” said Rachel, smiling. “And I’m not just saying that because he’s my husband. He really is.”

  “I’m sure he is,” said Lucy, laughing. “I’m not here about a legal matter. I’m doing some research on local history and Miss Tilley, the librarian, suggested I speak to Mr. Cobb.”

  “I see,” said Rachel. “Well, he just went out for his morning cup of coffee. He should be back in a few minutes if you want to wait.”

  Lucy looked at the comfy plaid couch, the brass lamp and the stack of magazines on the pine coffee table and decided she could spare a few minutes. “Thanks,” she said. “I think I will.”

  She tucked her gloves in her pockets and unbuttoned her coat, making herself comfortable on the sofa. Before she’d become a mother she never would have believed that the opportunity to spend a few minutes checking out the latest magazines would seem like such a luxury. She picked up a copy of People magazine and began flipping through the pages.

  “I’ve seen you around town,” said Rachel, breaking into her thoughts. “You have a little boy, don’t you?”

  “That’s right. Toby’s almost two.”

  “And you live out on Red Top Road?”

  “I guess I’ll have to get used to everybody knowing all about me,” said Lucy. “It wasn’t like this in the city.”

  “I suppose not,” said Rachel. “Tinker’s Cove is a pretty small town. Everybody knows everything about everybody.”

  “You said it,” said a middle-aged gentleman, coming through the door. He had salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing a suit underneath his red-and-black plaid jacket.

  “Mr. Cobb, this is Lucy Stone. She wants to ask you about some local history.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right man,” said Cobb, setting his paper cup of coffee on Rachel’s desk, hanging his jacket on the coat tree and extending his hand toward Lucy. She grasped it in hers, then Cobb opened his office door with a flourish and she preceded him through it. Once inside he pulled out a chair for her and she sat down, facing his desk. He sat down facing her, carefully setting his coffee on the blotter.

  “So it’s local history you’re interested in,” he prompted.

  Lucy looked around the office, which was decorated with Civil War memorabilia including Matthew Brady photographs, a small and tattered Confederate flag in a frame, and a shadow box containing two lead bullets and a minnie ball.

  “Actually, I’m looking for information about a man named Emil Boott. He was a trusty who worked for Judge Tilley.”

  “Emil Boott, Emil Boott, the name sounds familiar but I don’t remember him. Kyle Boott, of course. Now that was quite an accident. Everybody’s talking about it.”

  Lucy blushed. “I feel just terrible about that,” she said.

  He looked at her curiously. “Don’t tell me you were the woman who…?”

  “I’m afraid I was. I slipped on the icy sidewalk at the same moment that poor woman lost control of her car. It was a freak accident.”

  “I’d say it was good work,” said Rachel, appearing in the open doorway. “He was a brute and certainly won’t be missed.”

  Sherman Cobb pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, and Rachel scurried back to her desk. “May I ask why you want to know about Emil Boott? Is it something to do with the accident?”

  “Oh, no. It’s just a coincidence. I’m interested in social history, sort of an American Upstairs, Downstairs. I’m studying the late Judge Tilley’s household, in fact.”

  “For a television show? Do you write for TV?”

  “Possibly,” said Lucy, aware that she was prevaricating. “Right now I’m thinking more along the lines of a story for a women’s magazine. How times have changed, that sort of thing.”

  “I expect you’ll find they’ve improved quite a bit,” said Sherman, prying the lid off his coffee. “I’m a Civil War reenactor and I can tell you life wasn’t very comfortable back then. Clothes were itchy, shoes didn’t fit very well, food was monotonous and a bath was a real luxury.”

  “And that’s only the male side of things,” said Lucy. “Think of all the work the poor women had to do.”

  “It killed a lot of them, you know. The old cemetery behind the Community Church is full of old sea captains who have three or four wives buried beside them. You’d think going to sea would be dangerous but it was more dangerous for the women staying home.”

  “Childbirth was the big killer,” said Lucy, patting her tummy. “I, for one, am thankful for modern obstetrics.”

  “And disease, well into this century. The judge always maintained that Mrs. Tilley died of exhaustion but most people thought it was TB.”

  “Did you know the family well?” asked Lucy.

  “Not Mrs. Tilley. I came along after she was gone. But Judge Tilley took an interest in me. You could say he was my mentor.”

  “Really?” Lucy was surprised. “Everything I’ve heard seems to indicate he was rather stern and forbidding.”

  “There was that side to him, definitely. But he helped pay for my schooling, right up through law school. And he gave me plenty of encouragement and good advice when I started to practice.” He took a swallow of coffee, then chuckled. “I often wonder what he’d think of the present day system.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The judge believed justice should be swift and sure. He actually tended to give rather short sentences, he wanted folks to learn their lesson and get back to work supporting their families. I’ve talked to some of people he sent to the county jail and they’ve told me jail was a picnic compared to the talking-to he gave them. Made them think, he did. He wouldn’t approve of all these long trials and people sitting on death row for years and years of appeals.”

  “Did he ever sentence anyone to death?”

  “No. He didn’t believe in it. He said that should be left to God.”

  Lucy shook her head in amazement. “I had an entirely different impression of him.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Cobb. “He was a tough taskmaster, believe me. I clerked for him when I graduated from law school and I have never worked so hard.”

  “You worked for him, but you don’t remember Emil Boott?”

  “I worked at the courthouse. I was never invited to the house.”

  “Isn’t that odd?”

  Cobb shrugged. “The judge was a private man. He drew a distinction between his work and his home.”

  Lucy nodded, remembering Miss Tilley’s assertion that she had grown up in a house of secrets.

  “Come to think of it,” continued Cobb, “my father did the same thing. He was the county sheriff, he ran the jail, and you can be sure my mother and I had absolutely no contact with the inmates.”

  “There must be records at the jail, right?” asked Lucy.

  “Well, this was some time ago, and I don’t know if they kept all those old records or not. It’s certainly worth checking out, though. I do know that my father would have kept meticulous accounts of the inmates’ progress. He was a big believer in prison
reform, you see, and thought it was important to rehabilitate the prisoners, not just punish them.”

  Cobb’s phone gave off a little beep and he glanced at the clock. “I’m sorry, but that was Rachel, reminding me that I have an eleven o’clock appointment.”

  “I’d better get going, then,” said Lucy, rising. “I can’t thank you enough for your time and your knowledge.”

  Cobb blushed. “Nonsense. I enjoyed our little chat.”

  Back in the waiting room, Rachel helped Lucy into her coat. “Was Mr. Cobb able to help you?” she asked.

  “He was very helpful,” said Lucy, fastening the buttons.

  “You know,” said Rachel. “I have a little boy, too. Richie. He was two last month. Maybe we could get together for a playdate? I only work mornings so I’m free in the afternoons.”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Lucy, jumping at the chance. “What about this afternoon?”

  “Let’s say two o’clock.” Rachel scribbled down the address.

  “Great,” said Lucy, taking the slip of paper. “See you later. By the way, do you know where the county jail is?”

  Lucy felt like kicking herself as she proceeded on foot down the street to the appliance store, leaving the car in the parking lot. The sun was actually peeking through the clouds and it seemed too good to waste. But what on earth must Rachel think of her, seizing on her invitation like that? She was probably already regretting getting involved with a woman who knocked people underneath cars and visited the jail. Respectable people stayed as far away from jail as they could, didn’t they? She hoped Rachel didn’t think she had some personal interest in the jail, like an incarcerated relative, something like that. Then again, she reminded herself, Rachel worked in a law office and her husband was a lawyer, and lawyers often had to go to the jail to interview their clients, at least they did on TV. Maybe she didn’t think Lucy’s interest in the penal system was at all unusual.

  She hoped so, she decided, stepping inside the Appliance Mart and viewing the ranks of harvest-gold, avocado-green, and poppy-red refrigerators and washing machines. What happened to white? she wondered. And how soon could she get a stove delivered?

  Not until after Christmas, she discovered.

  “I’ll take a floor model,” begged Lucy.

  “I’m sorry,” said the salesman, writing up the order. “Three weeks is the soonest I can promise.”

  “But how am I going to cook?” wailed Lucy.

  “My wife finds a Crock Pot quite handy,” said the salesman. “And we have those in stock.”

  Reluctantly, Lucy reached for her wallet and unfolded the fifty dollar bill she’d been saving for Christmas presents. She felt badly about it, but as she headed home with an electric frying pan as well as the Crock Pot, she had to admit that life certainly seemed a bit brighter with the prospect of a hot meal.

  Bill, however, wasn’t quite as enthusiastic. “What do you mean we can’t get a stove for three weeks?”

  “That’s what the man said,” said Lucy, with a shrug.

  “And where have you been all this time? Do you know what it’s like to be stuck in the house for hours on end with a two-year-old when you don’t feel all that well?”

  Lucy folded her hands on her tummy and looked at him. Was he kidding? She was about to ask that very question in a rather sarcastic tone when she noticed the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. It certainly wasn’t from the heat; the furnace could barely keep the house above sixty degrees.

  “I’ll get you one of those pain pills,” she said. “Why don’t you have a little rest while I make lunch?”

  A beef stew, a bit light on the beef but with plenty of healthful vegetables, was simmering in the Crock Pot when Lucy and Toby left for the playdate at Rachel’s house. Lucy was curious to see Rachel’s place; until now Miss Tilley’s house was the only house in Tinker’s Cove that she’d been inside of.

  She was a bit disappointed to discover the Goodmans lived in a modern ranch, part of a small development tucked behind the school complex. The houses were all variations on a single theme featuring a picture window with three rather stunted rhododendron bushes beneath. The Goodmans’ house was gray with white trim.

  When Rachel opened the door, however, Lucy was enchanted by the vibrant Persian rug on the living room floor and the curvaceous Victorian settee that sat beneath that picture window. “This is lovely,” said Lucy, as Rachel took their coats and hung them in the hall closet.

  A hall closet, she realized, was something you took for granted in a modern house but was definitely lacking in her own antique farmhouse. Modern houses certainly had their advantages. She was pretty sure Rachel had a working stove, too.

  Following her into the kitchen, she noticed that Rachel not only had a stove and a side-by-side refrigerator, she also had a dishwasher. But the modern appliances were offset by cheery gingham curtains, a pot rack holding baskets and bunches of herbs, and a gorgeous golden oak table and chairs.

  “I have to admit I’m dying with jealousy,” said Lucy, stroking the table’s gleaming surface. “What a find.”

  “It didn’t look like that when we bought it, believe me,” said Rachel. “It was painted pea green.”

  “Who refinished it?”

  “Bob. It’s a hobby of his.”

  “Make yourself comfortable,” said Rachel, setting the kettle on the stove. “I’ll get Richie. He’s a little shy.”

  When she returned, Richie was clinging to her hand and holding a sad looking binky against his cheek. But when Rachel spilled a basket of Fisher-Price trucks and little people on the floor the two boys were soon absorbed in play.

  “Have you lived here in Tinker’s Cove for long?” asked Lucy, accepting a cup of tea.

  “A couple of years,” said Rachel, taking a pressed oak chair opposite Lucy’s.

  “What brought you here?”

  “Bob answered Sherman Cobb’s ad,” said Rachel, stirring some milk into her tea. “He saw an article about Maine in the Mother Earth News.”

  Lucy laughed. “So did my husband! And do you know Sue Finch? I met her the other day. Her husband read that article, too.”

  “That article has a lot to answer for,” said Rachel, in a rather dark tone. She sipped her tea. “Sue Finch? She’s that woman with the Farrah Fawcett hair and high heels?”

  “That’s her,” said Lucy.

  “Fashion’s not really my thing,” said Rachel, smoothing the sleeves of her orange sweater. “That’s one of the things I like about Tinker’s Cove. But I am glad to see more young people moving in. I mean, I went to a Women’s Club meeting when we first moved here and there wasn’t a single woman under fifty. And all they wanted to talk about was their most recent operations.”

  “Miss Tilley—the librarian—isn’t like that at all,” said Lucy. “In fact, I’m helping her solve a family mystery.”

  “She’s a character,” said Rachel, watching as the two little boys headed down the hall to Richie’s room. “They seem to be getting along well.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure Toby really misses his playmates from the city. I used to take him to the park almost every day.”

  “So tell me about this article you’re working on,” coaxed Rachel.

  She listened intently as Lucy recounted her investigation. “It’s interesting that Miss Tilley never married, don’t you think?” she said, when Lucy had finished.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it seems she had an unresolved conflict about marriage and the role of women, probably because of her parents’ troubled relationship.”

  “You sound like a psychiatrist,” said Lucy.

  “Actually, I was a psych major in college.”

  “So tell me, doctor,” began Lucy. “Was it a psychosis or a neurosis?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Rachel, “but I think something was definitely not right in the Tilley household. So what’s your next step?”

  “Well, I want to get over to the county jail t
o look for information about Emil Boott.”

  Rachel glanced at the clock on the wall over the sink. “It’s only three, why don’t you go now? I’ll keep an eye on the boys.”

  Lucy couldn’t believe it. “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Sure. They’re happy as clams and if they get tired I’ll let them watch Sesame Street.”

  “I’ll be back before Sesame Street is over, I promise,” said Lucy, grabbing her bag.

  It only took Lucy about fifteen minutes to make the drive over to the neighboring town of Gilead, and before she knew it she had parked the car and was climbing the hill to the fortresslike county jail. Built of gray stone, it looked like a medieval castle with towers and turrets, but instead of a moat it had a tall chain-link fence topped with vicious looking coils of razor wire. Once inside, however, she was pleasantly greeted by a rather plump uniformed guard.

  “I’m sorry but visiting hours are on Mondays, Thursdays, weekends and holidays,” he said, folding his chubby pink hands on the counter. “I can take a message if you want.”

  “I’m not here to visit anyone,” said Lucy, feeling slightly offended. “I’m looking for information about a former prisoner named Emil Boott.”

  “Never heard of him. Must’ve been before my time.”

  “Around 1930, I think.”

  “That was some time ago,” he said, scratching his smooth chin. “Was he a relative of yours?”

  Lucy was about to protest, then thought better of it. “Actually, yes. Emil was the black sheep of the family. I’m writing a family history, you see, and I want to include him. Do you have records going that far back?”

  “Don’t get much call for ’em but I s’pose we do, down cellar.”