Candy Cane Murder (36 page)

 

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 to 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.”

“Could I look?” asked Lucy.

“I don't think that's such a good idea,” said the guard, shaking his head.

Lucy bit her lip in disappointment. “Is there some way…?”

“I'll jes' run down and see what I can find. You keep an eye on things up here for me, okay? If anybody comes lookin' for me tell 'em I'll be right back.”

“Okay,” said Lucy. She'd never been in a jail before but she had the distinct impression they were generally somewhat stricter than this. If she were so inclined, she realized, spotting a big metal hoop filled with keys, she could let everyone out.

She wasn't so inclined, however, and was sitting on a convenient chair when the guard returned carrying a dusty cardboard box. “You're in luck,” he said. “I found a big, thick file. Emil Boott must have been here for quite a while.” He set the box on the counter and took out a fat manila folder, which he opened. “Yup. Twenty years for embezzlement,” he said, closing the file and sliding it across the counter to her.

Lucy's heart was beating fast as she took the file. What secrets did it hold? But when she'd gone through every page she wasn't much wiser. As the careful notations documenting his days in the prison showed, Emil Boott was a model prisoner. His photo, a close-up much clearer and larger than the group shot in the museum, revealed a rather ugly, pockmarked face and Lucy could well imagine why Miss Tilley was afraid of him, but his records showed he was the mildest of men. He never denied embezzling several hundred thousand dollars from his employer, the Brown and Williams Glass Company, but he claimed he planned to give the money to workers who had been cheated out of overtime wages due them.

The jury hadn't been convinced, and even if they had been sympathetic, Judge Tilley's instructions made it clear that if they believed Boott had broken the law he must be found guilty. Embezzlement, he told them, was not a minor crime but an assault on the very foundations of civilized society. As for Boott, he accepted his punishment without bitterness, according to Sheriff Cobb's notes, and was soon assigned to the prison's woodworking shop. From there he moved on to a work-release program and was eventually assigned on a permanent basis to Judge Tilley's household. Upon his release, after serving his sentence of twenty years, he wrote a remarkable letter to the Sheriff.

Dear Sheriff Cobb
, he wrote,
It is with great sadness that I will soon depart these walls that once appeared so forbidding but within which I found a true home. It is here that I learned the good Lord above forgives us all if only we ask for forgiveness. It is here that I learned the value of work and friendship. And it was through my work here that I met that most remarkable of women, Mrs. Leonora Tilley, whose kindness toward me, a vile criminal, I shall always remember. If anyone is certain of admission to Heaven it is certainly she and I hope that by following the pure path of virtue which she has showed me that I will someday join her there. Your most grateful and humble servant, Emil Boott.

Lucy sat for a long time, reading and rereading the letter. Finally, the guard asked, “Lady, are you all right?”

“Yes I am,” she said, folding the paper and returning it to the file. “I'm fine.”

And so was Emil Boott, she decided, as she left the prison. He may or may not have been a Depression-era Robin Hood who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, but she was convinced he would never have harmed a hair on Mrs. Tilley's head.

 

“So how'd it go?” asked Rachel, opening the door for her. The two little boys were sitting side by side on the couch, apparently under Big Bird's spell.

“I found the information I was looking for,” said Lucy, recounting her discovery of the letter, “but it only proved Emil Boott didn't kill Mrs. Tilley.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Rachel. “Maybe he had a guilty conscience and was trying to prove his innocence.”

“Ah, Dr. Freud, thank you for that insight. I never would have thought of that.”

Rachel smiled and shook her head. “You would assume, though, that with his criminal record he would have been a suspect if there was any indication of foul play.”

“There was never an investigation,” said Lucy. “After all, she'd been sick for a long time. Her death was not unexpected.”

“I saw a lot of TB when I was in the Peace Corps,” said Rachel. “I was in Haiti and it's practically epidemic there. People die of it all the time.”

“So you think that's what killed her?”

“Probably,” said Rachel, joining the boys on the couch as the familiar tune for
Mr. Roger's Neighborhood
began to play. “Want to stay for Mr. Rogers? I love Mr. Rogers.”

L
ucy and Bill didn't need an alarm clock: Toby woke them up every morning around six o'clock. On Christmas Eve he was reliable as ever but Lucy ignored his cries, hoping Bill would go so she could catch a few more minutes of sleep. Then she remembered Bill's burned and bandaged hands and got up. Bill hadn't heard a thing, he was sleeping soundly.

Toby was standing up in his crib when Lucy went into the nursery. She shivered a bit in her in flannel nightgown but Toby was warm and toasty in a fleecy footed sleep suit. She picked him up and nuzzled his head with her chin, surprised to find that his hair was damp. He didn't seem to have a fever so she couldn't imagine where the dampness came from. She looked around the room for a leak and discovered a dusting of snow on his pillow. It had snowed during the night, she realized, and some of the snow must have blown through a crack in the wall. No wonder she was chilly, she realized, staring at the snow. The temperature in the unheated room must be below freezing, or the snow would have melted.

This was crazy, she thought, hugging Toby close and carrying him downstairs where it was somewhat, but not a whole lot warmer, and sat him in his potty seat. “We're going to have a white Christmas,” she told him, listening for the tinkle. “It's Christmas Eve and tonight….” She bit her tongue. There was no sense getting the little guy all excited about Santa Claus because the truth was that Santa didn't have much for him. Most of the fifty dollars she was going to spend on half-price toys at the IGA had gone for the electric frying pan and Crock Pot. That meant all Toby was going to find under the Christmas tree were the two packages Bill's folks had sent him, and the $50 savings bond her mother had sent.

The tinkle began and ended and Lucy didn't move. Really, all she wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep through Christmas.

“Up!” Toby, still perched on the potty seat atop the toilet was growing impatient. Lucy helped him down, zipped up his sleep suit and watched him run into the kitchen. Well, she thought, at least he didn't know what Christmas was supposed to be like. Maybe the tree would be exciting enough for him.

The tree, she thought, her emotions taking a nose dive. Bill had cut the tree a couple of days ago and set it outside in a bucket of water, intending to bring it inside on Christmas Eve. Now he wouldn't be able to do it, so she would have to cope with the bucket of ice and the eight-foot tree all by herself. Could she do it?

A clatter, alas not the “clatter and pawing of each little hoof,” but a clatter of pots spilling onto the floor brought her into the kitchen. Toby had found his favorite toys. Goodness knows she had no use for them, without a stove. But the Crock Pot, she discovered when she lifted the lid, did a fantastic job cooking oatmeal overnight. Too bad she couldn't fit a turkey in there for Christmas dinner.

When Lucy and Toby finished their bowls of oatmeal there was still no sign of Bill so Lucy made a tray and took it upstairs to him. She found him sitting in bed, awkwardly holding a pencil and scratching away at a yellow legal pad.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

“Just doing some figures,” he said, putting the pad aside so she could set the tray on his lap. “Oatmeal, again,” he said.

Lucy almost started to remind him that it was cheap and filling but caught herself. Christmas Eve was going to be hard enough this year and there was no sense dwelling on the negative. “It's oatmeal à la Crock Pot,” she said, with a big smile. “Surprisingly good. I even put in some brown sugar and a few raisins.”

“Ooh, goody,” said Bill, rather sarcastically. “I hope you didn't blow the budget.”

“Is that what you're doing?” asked Lucy, glancing at the legal pad. “Budgeting?”

Bill shrugged. “Since I can't work I thought I'd put together some financial projections, figure out what materials we need, see where we stand.”

Lucy was collecting clothes for herself and Toby, intending to take them downstairs where it was warmer to get dressed. “Don't take too long,” she said. “I'm going to bring in the Christmas tree so we can decorate it.”

“Can you manage? It's pretty heavy.”

“Sure I can,” said Lucy, flexing her arms in a muscle-man pose. “‘I am woman. Hear me roar.'” She raised her chin and gave a wolf howl and Bill actually smiled for the first time since the explosion. Christmas presents didn't have to be wrapped, she reminded herself as she went downstairs. Sometimes a smile would do.

 

Lucy was singing “Deck the Halls” when she and Toby went out to get the tree, and Toby was chiming in on the fa la la la las. Some six inches of snow had fallen, but it was light, fluffy stuff, and Lucy had no trouble shoveling it off the porch and making a path to the car. Toby had a little shovel, too, but he preferred to roll around in the snow like a frisky little puppy. Lucy knew it wouldn't be long before he was wet and cold, so she immediately addressed the issue of the tree, which was now frozen solid in the bucket. She considered loosening it with boiling water, but without a stove she didn't have a way to boil water. The hair dryer might work, she decided, but she'd have to find an extension cord.

The really good thing about two-year-olds, Lucy decided as she stood outside in the snow attempting to defrost the tree with the hair dryer, was that they really didn't know how things were supposed to be so they didn't mind when things didn't go according to plan. So long as Toby got his three meals and two snacks, his
Sesame Street
and bedtime story, things were fine with him. She watched as he knocked the snow off the bushes, making snow showers, and gave the tree a budge. It moved, and she noticed that a small puddle was beginning to form in the bucket. She wiggled it a bit more and the puddle grew larger. Toby was now climbing onto the bottom porch step and jumping off into the snow, repeating the process again and again. Then he decided to go up two steps.

“Don't do that,” she warned, as he launched himself, landing hard on the bottom step instead of the soft snow. He started to wail and she turned off the hair dryer.

Bill was still working on the figures when she took Toby inside. She stripped off his wet clothes, set him in the high chair next to Bill and gave him a cup of instant hot cocoa, made with lukewarm water from the kitchen tap. Then she was back outside and this time the tree came out of the bucket. She hugged it in a prickly embrace and dragged it across the lawn to the front door, then pulled it trunk first up the stoop and into the front hall. Then, because her heart was thumping, she sat on the stairs to rest and catch her breath. Now all she had to do was set it in the stand, string the lights, get the ornaments out of the attic, and trim it. Not bad, since she had all day. But first, she realized, hearing Bill yelling in the kitchen, Toby must have finished his cocoa and wanted down from the high chair.

“You smell like a pine tree,” said Bill.

“It put up a heck of a fight, but I won. I've just got to get it in the stand, put the lights on and it will be ready for the ornaments.”

“Don't forget that box your mom gave you at Thanksgiving,” reminded Bill, as she lifted the tray so Toby could scramble down. “I think it's in the pantry.”

Lucy had forgotten all about it, but when they visited at Thanksgiving her mother had insisted she take the ornaments, old family pieces she said she no longer used since she'd bought a small artificial tree. Lucy hadn't even looked inside the box, she'd been tired from the long drive and Bill had unloaded the car. Now, as she set the box on the table and peeked inside she saw shining and glittery reminders of her childhood. There was a red and silver plastic trumpet that made a horrible noise if you blew on it, a “Baby's First Christmas” card picturing a baby lamb that hung from a twisted red cord, several heavy glass kugels in the shape of grapes.

“I wasn't allowed to touch these,” said Lucy, lifting out the red and green and silver ornaments. “They're very old.”

“They're really beautiful,” said Bill.

Lucy remembered her mother hanging them carefully, one by one, on sturdy bottom branches of the tree. Lucy always held her breath until the delicate operation was complete, and waited impatiently for the magic moment when her father would plug in the string of lights and the kugels would glow as if lit from within.

Suddenly nostalgic, Lucy decided to call home.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, by way of greeting, when her mother answered the phone.

“It's not Christmas yet and it's not merry, either,” said her mother.

“That's why I called,” said Lucy. “To cheer you up. And to thank you for the ornaments. I'd forgotten how beautiful the kugels are.”

“Don't let Toby play with them.”

As if she would. Lucy sighed. “How's Dad?”

“They're giving him oxygen.”

“Does it help?”

“He keeps pulling off the mask.”

Lucy knew her father hated having anything on his face or head, not even hats or Halloween masks. “He hates…”

“I know, I know,” replied her mother, sounding tired. “He could try to cooperate. It's only for his own good.”

“I guess you'll be spending Christmas at the hospital.”

“Of course.”

Suddenly, Lucy felt quite bereft. She wanted—she needed—her parents' attention right now, but she couldn't have it. Her father was hovering near death and her mother was so consumed with caring for him that she hadn't even asked Lucy how she and Bill and Toby were doing. “Well, I'll be thinking of you,” she said.

“I'll call if there's any change,” said her mother, then hung up.

“And ho, ho, ho to you,” said Bill, who had been listening. “I could call my parents and then we'd be so depressed we could commit suicide and end it all.”

“You should call them,” said Lucy. “They sent that nice box of presents….”

“That was my mom,” said Bill.

“And you'd feel better if you worked things out with your dad. I feel better, I do, just hearing my mother's voice.”

“Liar,” said Bill.

“Well, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing I tried.”

“That's something I guess. You're a good daughter.”

“And you're a bad son,” said Lucy, perching on his lap and stroking his hair. Bits here and there felt stiff and brittle, singed from the explosion. “You should call them.”

“You know that's why you fell for me,” said Bill, changing the subject. “The good girls always go for the bad boys.” And then he turned her face toward his with his bandaged hand and kissed her.

“Bad boys are the best kissers,” said Lucy, coming back for seconds.

 

A couple of hours later it really was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. Now that the tree was decorated the living room's half-finished sheetrock walls, stained ceiling and uneven floorboards weren't so noticeable. Swedish meatballs were cooking in the Crock Pot, giving off a spicy, beefy aroma. When Toby woke from his nap Lucy got the popcorn popper going for a snack and popped a Christmas video in the VCR.

“Light the tree for him,” said Bill, settling beside them on the couch.

Lucy hopped up. “Good idea,” she said, crouching on all fours and reaching behind the tree to retrieve the end of the cord. She plugged it into the socket—and everything went black.

“What the hell!” exclaimed Bill. “This shouldn't happen. The first thing I did was have the house rewired.”

“Well I guess it wasn't done right,” said Lucy.

“Maybe it's a blackout,” said Bill. “Maybe everybody's lights are out.”

“Maybe you ought to go down in the cellar and check the circuit breakers,” said Lucy.

“Maybe you could light a candle, in the meantime,” said Bill.

“We don't have any candles,” said Lucy. “Get the flashlight.”

“The flashlight's dead,” said Bill.

“Don't we have any batteries?”

“I used 'em up.”

“Well you should've bought more.”

“You're right, I should have, but I didn't. They're expensive and I've been trying to economize.”

Lucy's jaw dropped. She had no idea things were this bad. “I can't do this, Bill,” she said, her voice steely. “We're going to have a baby in a few months and I am not bringing that baby home to this.” She waved her arm. “Do you know there was snow in Toby's crib this morning? Snow! Inside the house, in his bed, on our child. That is unacceptable.”

“I'll caulk the window….”

“No.” Lucy shook her head. “I'm not staying. I don't know where I'm going—maybe my mother's, maybe your folks', maybe a friend, I don't know—but I am taking Toby someplace where there are walls that keep out the weather and lights that work and a stove that cooks.”

Bill looked at her for a long time. “You're right,” he finally said. “I'm a failure. I tried, and I can't do it. I was kidding myself. I'll never be a restoration carpenter. It's time to go back to Wall Street.”