Christmas Card Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “This is such a luxury, having a pied-à-terre in the city,” enthused Lucy, biting into her grilled cheese sandwich. “And, of course, it’s great to visit with you, too.”

  “I’m not exactly downtown,” said Sara. “It’s quite a long ride on the T, you know.”

  “It’s a lot closer than Tinker’s Cove, and it’s great to be able to spend the night and not have to rush back home.” Lucy paused to take a spoonful of soup. “And you’ve made the place so cute. You’ve added some nice little touches with things you brought from home, like the candles and throw pillows.”

  “I know, Mom. I wish I could do more, but it’s not my place. And I’ve really been looking forward to your visit.” Sara sighed and stirred her soup. “It’s a little hard getting started in a new place. I like my job, but it gets a bit lonely on weekends, you know. It’s hard to meet people.”

  “I remember,” said Lucy, who tactfully didn’t mention that this was one of the reasons she’d decided to make the trip. “It takes time, but it will all work out.” She thought of her recent visit to Cromwell College. “You know, I bet Winchester could give you names of recent grads who are in the Boston area. They might even have a club here.”

  “That’s brilliant,” said Sara, perking up. “What made you think of it?”

  “Oh, I’ve been doing some digging, trying to find out about this woman who lived in our house. You know your dad’s remodeling our bedroom—”

  “I didn’t know.” Sara furrowed her brow. “What about my room? Where will I stay when I come home?”

  Lucy was quick to reassure her. “You can bunk with Zoe. Or in the guest room if you want more privacy.”

  “Well, I guess you and Dad are entitled to spread out,” she said, somewhat begrudgingly.

  “We just got tired of bumping our heads on the ceiling,” insisted Lucy. “Anyway, to make a long story short, he found an old Christmas card.” Lucy got up and dug in her purse, which she’d left on Sara’s futon. “Here it is.”

  “Cute Santa.” Sara opened the card and her eyes widened in shock as she read the message. “Oh, my! Not very nice.”

  “I think it was sent to a girl named Dorcas Pritchett and I’m really curious about what she did to make the sender so angry.”

  “Probably just some teenage spat. A rejected boyfriend, something like that. You know how emotional teenagers can be.”

  “So I do,” agreed Lucy, thinking that even twentysomethings were prone to extreme emotional swings. She took back the card. “This seems like more than that to me. And the more I learn about Dorcas Pritchett, that’s her name, the more I’ve come to think she was a rather unpleasant young lady.”

  “Wow, all from a Christmas card.” Sara got up to clear the table, and Lucy went into the tiny bathroom to freshen up before heading into town, noting with approval the recent addition of some colorful towels and a matching bath mat.

  * * *

  The two exited from the Red Line at Downtown Crossing, but Washington Street was so crowded with holiday shoppers that they decided to walk through the Common and Public Garden to Newbury Street, where the prices in the boutiques were higher, which they figured would hopefully discourage some of the shoppers. After venturing into a few of the exclusive shops, Lucy decided that four-hundred-dollar belts and thousand-dollar raincoats were way beyond her means, too.

  “Is there anything else around here that we could do?” she asked. “A museum or something?”

  “The Boston Public Library is worth a peek, it’s got murals by Sargent.”

  “Great,” enthused Lucy. “I love libraries.”

  She found the murals rather a disappointment, since they were in muted colors and quite different from Sargent’s usual lush and lively style, but the research department caught her attention. “Let’s poke around in here,” she suggested. “Maybe we’ll find something about Dorcas.”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I just have an inquiring mind,” said Lucy, heading straight for one of the computer stations. “Come on, it’ll be interesting.”

  Sara sighed heavily, but followed her mother and took a seat beside her, looking at the screen over her shoulder. Entries for Dorcas Pritchett, Doris Pritchett, as well as just plain Pritchett, came up empty, and Red Top Road, Tinker’s Cove, Maine, only elicited a map. Forays into the sites of the Boston newspapers didn’t produce information about Dorcas, but did give a lively picture of the social scene when Dorcas was a student at Cromwell College. Kennedy’s assassination was the big story, but there were also reports about the birth control pill, the civil rights movement, and the nation’s growing involvement in the Vietnam War.

  “So all this was going on and Dorcas was stuck in that conservative Bible school?” asked Sara, amazed. “No wonder she left after a year.” Sara was thoughtful. “I wonder if she went on a Freedom Bus to the South. That’s what I would have done.”

  Lucy disagreed. “I don’t think so. It’s more likely she ran off with a man.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I dunno.” Lucy laughed. “I guess that’s what I would have done.”

  “Well, it’s probably more likely than becoming a Freedom Rider. And there’s the fact that she must have returned home, because that’s where you found the card.”

  Lucy thought a timeline was beginning to emerge. “So she went to college, got involved with someone that she made very mad for some reason, and then she ran home to her strict parents.”

  “Maybe she just went home for the holidays. Most people do.”

  Lucy sighed, logging off the computer. “You’re probably right. So, what’s next? Grab the Green Line to the MFA?”

  Sara shook her head. “Nah. Let’s go back down Boylston Street. There are some discount stores over there.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Lucy grabbed her purse and headed out, always eager to find a bargain.

  * * *

  Next morning Lucy made Sara’s favorite blueberry pancakes for breakfast, having brought some frozen Maine berries, as well as a jug of local maple syrup. The two enjoyed the special treat, but Sara’s face fell when Lucy announced she had to leave and started packing her overnight bag.

  “I really miss home,” Sara admitted, brushing away a tear. “Weekdays are okay, when I’m at work, but the weekends are sooo long.”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d head for the Laundromat. You might meet somebody there, and if not, you can check your phone for clubs and classes. You could even go to church. You could make an eleven o’clock service.”

  “I guess I’d rather stay here and wallow in self-pity while the laundry piles up.”

  Lucy smiled and gave her daughter a hug. “It’s your choice. And remember, only a few more weeks and you’ll be home for Christmas.” Lucy paused. “And don’t bring all your dirty laundry with you, like your brother used to do.”

  “I won’t,” promised Sara, adding, “And don’t be disappointed, Mom, if I don’t get any hateful Christmas cards from nonexistent spurned boyfriends.”

  “I won’t be,” promised Lucy, zipping her bag. When she was togged out in her winter coat and ready to leave, Lucy gave Sara a big hug. “See you soon.”

  “Drive safe, Mom.” Sara opened the door and held it for Lucy, watching as she made her way down the walk and along the sidewalk to her car. She was still standing in the doorway, waving, when Lucy drove off.

  * * *

  Moving away from home and starting a career was a terribly stressful, lonely time, thought Lucy, wishing she could do more for Sara than offer advice. It was also a dangerous time, when young women out for a good time could get into trouble, going off with the wrong guy. As she drove, she reassured herself that Sara was a sensible girl, maybe even a bit too cautious. She chuckled to herself, thinking that Sara would probably require references and a credit check before agreeing to go out on a date.

  She was zipping through the O’Neill Tunnel, empty on Sunday
morning, when her thoughts turned once again to Dorcas. What had brought her back home? Was it simply the holiday break? Or had she returned to recover from some traumatic experience? A breakup? A pregnancy? Or something worse, like a crime of some sort? Was she the victim of a rape or a mugging? If not the victim, maybe a witness? Perhaps she’d been required to testify about someone, and that person hadn’t appreciated it. Especially if she’d lied.

  Lucy was on the Zakim Bridge, catching a glimpse of “Old Ironsides” and the Bunker Hill Monument, when she decided she was letting her imagination run away with her. This was all nothing but speculation without more information about Dorcas.

  It was then that she remembered the town clerk’s presentation at the selectmen’s meeting and her assertion that there was a lot of information in the town’s real estate records. That was the place to start, she decided. At the very least she’d get some names and dates, and maybe even the name of the law firm that handled the sale of the house. Somewhat encouraged, she decided to skip her plan to stop at L.L.Bean in Freeport and to head straight home instead. She could order whatever she wanted online and they’d send it right to the house. Besides, she was eager to see the progress on the master suite, and while she was Christmas shopping on the Web, she might as well take a few minutes to check out bathtubs and vanities.

  Chapter Eight

  When Lucy woke on Monday morning, it was snowing heavily. There was already a couple of inches on the ground but the forecasters expected the storm to move off shore by late morning.

  Bill, however, was doubtful. “It looks to me like we could get at least a foot, maybe more,” he said, standing at the kitchen window with his mug of coffee.

  “Are the plows out yet?” asked Lucy, joining him at the window.

  “One went by a few minutes ago, but the road is already covered again.”

  Lucy sipped her coffee. “Thank goodness for all-wheel drive.”

  Bill turned to face her. “You’re not going to work, are you?”

  “I’ve got to. I can’t cover the storm from here. This is New England, after all. We’re hardy folk, used to snow and hurricanes and whatever Mother Nature can throw at us.”

  “Lucy, you are not a native New Englander, you grew up in the Bronx.”

  “It was a very suburban sort of neighborhood, you know. We had trees and lawns and all that.” She sipped her coffee, remembering her father taking her sliding down a steep snow-covered road on his prized, six-foot-long Flexible Flyer sled early one morning before people began to stir. It was one of her earliest memories, so she must have been quite young, but she’d loved the sense of speed while safely enclosed in Daddy’s arms. “And we had plenty of snow.”

  “I think you should wait until the snow stops and they’ve cleared the roads,” insisted Bill.

  Lucy watched as a big yellow school bus passed the house. “You’re overreacting, Bill. The forecast calls for three to six inches and they haven’t even closed the schools. This storm is news and I’ve got to cover it. Ted’s going to be busy with that parole hearing, so it’s up to me.”

  “Not much you can report if you’re stuck in a snowdrift,” argued Bill.

  “My phone is charged, and I’ve got blankets and food, a shovel, and plenty of kitty litter, and the town plows will be out.” She drained her mug and put it in the dishwasher. “There won’t be much traffic, either. I’ll probably be safer out there today than on a normal summer Saturday when the roads are filled with tourists.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” he said, putting his hands on her waist and pulling her close. She felt his beard on the back of her neck. “Be careful, okay?”

  “Always,” she said, turning around and wrapping her arms around his neck, raising her face for a kiss.

  Bill obliged and she lingered in his arms for a moment or two before pulling away. “Time and tide wait for no one,” she said, sighing.

  “Make that time and Ted,” he said with a wry smile.

  “You can say that again.” Lucy began the process of putting on snow pants, boots, jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves. By the time she was ready to leave the house, she noticed another inch had accumulated, and she thought anxiously about the kids at school. If it kept snowing at this rate, they were going to have a tough time getting home, she decided, clomping through the snow to her SUV.

  Thanks to the excellent work of the Tinker’s Cove DPW, she found the roads were in pretty good shape and she made it to work without incident, except for a teeny bit of fishtailing when she braked for the stop sign at the bottom of Red Top Road. After that, she drove extra carefully, well below the posted speed limit.

  * * *

  Lucy was surprised to find Phyllis in place behind the reception desk at the Pennysaver office, togged out in her Irish fisherman’s sweater and lined jeans.

  “I’m glad to see you, I thought I’d be all alone here,” said Lucy.

  “I got a ride with my neighbor, he’s got a new plow on his truck and wanted to try it out.”

  Lucy pulled off her gloves and began unwinding her scarf. “I’m beginning to think he may get to use it quite a bit. Bill thinks the weatherman got this one wrong. We’ve already got at least four or five inches and it doesn’t look like it’s stopping anytime soon.”

  “I think they should’ve canceled school,” said Phyllis, watching the enormous flakes swirling down outside the window. “I can’t imagine what that superintendent was thinking.”

  “Like everyone else in Maine, he was thinking that when you live in New England, you simply deal with the weather, you don’t let it stop you.”

  Just then, the police scanner squawked, reporting an overturned truck on Route 1. “Good thing I didn’t get my coat off,” laughed Lucy, rewinding her scarf. “Give Ted a call and tell him I’m on it, okay?”

  “Will do. And be careful out there.”

  With a wave Lucy was out the door and back in her SUV, which today she was able to park right in front of the office. Driving down Main Street, she noticed that while some of the shops were closed, an equal number were open, including Jake’s Donut Shack, the hardware store, the IGA, and all three banks.

  She saw from the approach that traffic was already backed up on the northbound side of Route 1, so Lucy made her way cautiously along back roads until she was well past the accident and was able to approach it on the southbound lane. The tractor trailer was on its side, having apparently flipped over as the driver attempted to turn onto the exit ramp, and was partly blocking the northbound lane. Officer Barney Culpepper was directing traffic around the crash, bundled in his official navy blue police jumpsuit, with boots and gloves. The only parts of his body not covered were his eyes and his nose, which was very red.

  “Hi, Lucy.” He hailed her as she approached through the swirling snow. “First accident today, but it won’t be the last.”

  “This turn always gets ’em,” observed Lucy. “How’s the driver?”

  “He was lucky, not a scratch.” He waved on a small pickup truck. “I wish folks would just stay home. What’s so important that it can’t wait a day?”

  “Some folks don’t have a choice, like that truck driver,” said Lucy. “And you and me.”

  Barney’s words stuck with her as she drove very slowly and very carefully back to town. There was no sign that the snow was diminishing, it was falling so fast and hard that the plows couldn’t keep up with it and the pavement was quickly filling with snow. It was slippery but manageable now, but Lucy knew that if it kept up at this rate, the region’s main road would soon be impassable. All-wheel drive could only do so much, and the snow would soon be too deep for anything but snowmobiles. It looked as though some drivers on the highway would be marooned in their vehicles before long, and if Route 1 was in bad shape, she could only imagine what the side roads would be like.

  Maybe she was being too pessimistic, she thought, when she finally made it to Main Street and parked once again in front of the Pennysaver office. So far, so g
ood, and the snowfall surely couldn’t keep up at this rate indefinitely. When she got out of the car, she took a few moments to savor the view as snow blanketed the quaint seaside town, which was pretty enough to be the December photo on a calendar. Come to think of it, not only Main Street but the cove, with its colorful lobster boats and the lighthouse on rocky Quissett Point, did show up frequently on calendars, notecards, and in the travel sections of Sunday newspapers.

  It was only a few steps from the car to the office, but in the few minutes she paused to admire the view, she had accumulated so much snow that she looked like a snowman, she realized, catching sight of her reflection in the plate glass windows. Enough of this woolgathering, she would no doubt have plenty of work as long as the power held. Oh, right, she sighed, yanking open the door. There was no way the lights would stay on in a storm like this, once the heavy snow began to break tree limbs and snap power lines.

  “Thank goodness,” said Phyllis, when Lucy stepped inside the warm office. “I was beginning to worry about you. They’ve changed the forecast. The storm has stalled or something, and now they’re calling for a record snowfall.”

  “It’s no picnic out there,” said Lucy, stamping her feet and shaking off the snow before removing her winter gear, beginning at the top with her hat and working down to her boots. A large, heavy mat covered the floor between the door and the reception desk, so she didn’t have to worry about the snow that fell from her clothes, but she did have to find a warm spot where they would dry. The office still had old-fashioned steam radiators, so she strewed her things atop them, where they soon sent up a woolly scent.

  “Ah, winter,” she cooed, holding her hands out to feel the heat.

  “Looks like we’re in for it,” announced Phyllis, checking her phone for an update. “They’re saying we could get as much as two feet. Everybody’s supposed to shelter in place as the roads are expected to become impassable.”

  “That’s not good,” said Lucy, thinking of the drivers stranded on Route 1, the kids stuck in school, and herself, no doubt spending the night in the chilly, dark office. “I better get as much done as I can before we lose the power,” she said, settling herself at her desk and powering up her PC.