Easter Bunny Murder (12 page)

Bob was smiling. “
Jelly Beans
is a sculpture that graced Mrs. Van Vorst's foyer for many years; it is a work by the acclaimed sculptor Karl Klaus. Mrs. Van Vorst was one of the first to recognize Klaus's genius. His works now go for millions of dollars. The work was promised to the Museum of Fine Arts, but we believe it was sold to a Saudi citizen instead. That's one reason why we're asking the DA to investigate.”

“What is Mr. Reilly's relationship to Mrs. Van Vorst?” asked Ted.

“I am a former son-in-law,” he said, smiling genially. “I was also married to Little Viv.”

“The same Vivian as him?” asked Withers, rudely pointing to Andrew Duff.

Peter was unfazed, still smiling. “The very same.”

“And how much is the old lady worth? Can you tell me again?” asked Mayes, once again going straight to the heart of the matter.

“Something in the neighborhood of a hundred million dollars,” said Bob.

“And they won't give her clean sheets?” asked Deb, struggling to understand.

“Only once a week,” said Willis. “And then the top sheet goes on the bottom. She gets one clean sheet and one clean pillowcase a week.”

“Well, it is better for the environment,” said Deb. “Less laundry, less nitrogen in the water.”

“I don't believe the environment is a concern here,” said Willis, in a voice so dry Lucy expected it to crack.

Lucy raised her hand. “What do you hope to achieve? What would be the best possible outcome?”

Bob gave her a grateful smile. “The best outcome would be that Mr. Willis goes back to Pine Point and takes complete control of the house and provides a proper and appropriate standard of care for Mrs. Van Vorst. As for the criminal allegations, we expect a full investigation. It's up to the DA to decide what steps to take after that, but we expect charges will ultimately be brought against the Allens and Weatherby. If that happens, we expect the court to dismiss the Allens as Mrs. Van Vorst's legal guardians and to name a new guardian.”

“Who would that be?” asked Lucy.

“That would be up to the court,” said Bob. He looked around and saw no more raised hands. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “And, please, take some of those Danish.”

 

When Ted and Lucy got back to the
Pennysaver,
the expected media storm was already brewing. The phones were ringing constantly, e-mails were streaming in, and the fax machine was spewing out sheet after sheet. Phyllis was doing her best to keep up with it all, but she was clearly overwhelmed.

Ted quickly assessed the situation. “Phyllis, you handle the fax and anybody who comes in; Lucy, you keep an eye on the e-mails and don't forget those stories I need. I'll handle the phones.” He sat down and reached for the phone, then slapped his hand to his forehead. “We've got to get something on our website.”

“I'll do it,” said Lucy. “I'll write something up quick.”

The
Pennysaver
office was usually pretty quiet, so Lucy found it exhilarating to be in the center of a breaking story. She pounded out her version of the press conference and posted it, then turned to the e-mails. She could hear Ted taking the calls, dismissing inquiries from other news outlets as politely as he could and chatting up the callers who had new information. From time to time, scraps of conversation penetrated her thought processes:
You were a cleaner at Pine Point and you saw Vicky kick Nanki-Poo? You recently sold Henry a Rolex watch? Your brother used to cut the grass at Pine Point but he was fired? You work at Walmart and you're sure you helped Vicky find some cheap track suits for her grandmother? When was that?

On and on it went, with callers reporting large and small instances of bad behavior by Vicky and Henry. They may have thought they were insulated and protected in their chauffeur-driven limousine or behind the gates at Pine Point; they may have thought they were anonymous on the streets of Beacon Hill; they may have thought the townhouse was private and secure. But they were mistaken. Now it seemed everyone from the Merry Maids who cleaned the townhouse to the bank teller who cashed their checks to a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus had tales to tell. Even a few members of the boards at the Museum of Fine Arts and the Boston Ballet were eager to dish about Vicky's bad manners.

Only Weatherby leaped to their defense.

“Wow, that was fast,” said Lucy, firing up the printer. “Weatherby has already issued a response.” She handed Ted a copy.

“Figures,” snorted Ted. “He says the sale of
Jelly Beans
was entirely necessary to enable VV to stay in the comfort and familiar surroundings of her own beloved home in light of recent stock market losses. He claims Mr. and Mrs. Allen have no motive other than preserving and protecting VV's assets so she may enjoy a peaceful and pleasant environment in her final days.”

“Good luck with that,” said Lucy, who had followed a tip to check out You Tube. There she found a video of Vicky, clad in a leopard-skin coat, arguing with a waiter on one side of a split screen. The other side showed a frail VV, clad in the same coat, getting out of a limousine. “This video makes it look like Vicky's actually snatched the leopard coat off poor VV's aged back.”

Phyllis leaned over her shoulder, studying the computer screen. “Talk about nerve,” she fumed.

“It might've been a gift,” said Lucy, clicking the mouse. “Oh, here we go. A tiara!”

“Check out those earrings,” said Phyllis, who loved bling. “I think VV was wearing them with the leopard coat.”

A few clicks and they were watching VV get out of the limo once again, wearing a fabulous pair of diamond and pearl earrings that Lucy recognized. “She wore those a lot. I've seen her wear them at the Easter egg hunt.”

“Not anymore,” said Phyllis. “Now Vicky wears them.”

“How much do you think they're worth?” asked Lucy, deferring to Phyllis's expertise.

“Depends,” said Phyllis, zooming in for a close-up. “Those are some pretty hunky diamonds; 'course, they might not be top quality. It's hard to tell from the photo, but conservatively speaking, I'd say a couple hundred thousand, minimum.”

“Interesting,” mused Lucy, who was flipping through her notebook, looking for the notes she'd taken at the finance committee meeting. “One pair of earrings would cover the entire middle school budget shortfall. If they can't find the money, they're going to fire an art teacher, a couple of teacher's aides, and one part-time maintenance man.” She sighed. “Puts it all in perspective, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” agreed Phyllis. “Especially since that shop at the outlet mall does some pretty good fakes for seven ninety-nine; three pairs for nineteen ninety-nine.” She shook her head, showing off a pair of sparkly bangles.

The
Pennysaver
was going to press at noon Wednesday, much to the relief of the exhausted staff members. All three had been hard at work until eleven o'clock the night before, scrambling to get their normal work done despite the constant interruptions, and had come in early that morning. They might be at the epicenter of a breaking story of national interest, but
Pennysaver
readers would still want to know about the free movie at the library on Friday evening and the latest developments in the annual budget battle.

Ted had edited the last story and was ready to send the final copy to the printer electronically when the fax machine whirred into action.

Lucy and Ted froze at their desks and Phyllis went over to the machine. “Stop the presses,” she said with a sigh.

“Really?” Lucy was hoping it was a joke.

“Really. The DA is bringing charges of elder abuse, fraud and embezzlement against Vicky and Henry,” she said, handing the paper to Ted.

“Call Aucoin!” ordered Ted, naming the district attorney. “What about Weatherby? No charges against him?”

Lucy crossed her fingers and dialed. She was sure the DA would not be available. She tapped her foot nervously, listening to the rings, and much to her amazement heard Phil Aucoin's voice on the line.

“Lucy Stone at the
Pennysaver
,” she said. “I gotta be quick, I promise. We're on deadline.”

Aucoin laughed. “Go ahead, Lucy.”

“First, what's the basis for the charges against the Allens?”

“We received information that we determined to be credible, and that was supported by Weatherby.”

“That was my next question. Why no charges against Weatherby?”

“He's cooperating with the investigation.”

“He's gone state's evidence?” asked Lucy.

“Yup.”

Lucy had a mental image of the rats leaving a sinking ship. “Self-preservation?”

“Of a sort. He'll certainly be disbarred, but he may be able to avoid jail time. Judges don't look kindly on lawyers who abuse their clients and I'm sure he's aware of that. It was really his only option.”

“One last question. Are you looking at the deaths of Maxine Carey and Van Duff?”

Aucoin sighed. “At the moment, I have no evidence that the deaths are suspicious, but I'm open to the possibility. I'd be only too happy to nail those two with murder,” he said. “That's off the record, by the way.”

“Got it,” said Lucy, clicking away on the keyboard. “Thanks.”

“Good work, Lucy,” said Ted, reading her quick recap of the conversation. “I just stuck it on top of the lead story. We're done.”

“Don't kid yourself,” said Phyllis with a wry grin. “This thing is just beginning.”

Chapter Twelve

O
nce the paper was finally sent to the printer, Lucy had the afternoon to herself. The
Pennysaver
was a weekly and there was no sense writing stories that would be old news by the time the next issue came out. She usually spent Wednesday afternoons catching up with grocery shopping and other errands, but today she had an appointment to get her car inspected. Much to her surprise, she found Barney sprawled in one of the recliners in the waiting room at Al's Auto Care, watching a Red Sox game on the TV provided for customers' entertainment.

“A hundred forty million and the guy is zero for five,” fumed Barney, as she took the chair next to him.

“The Sox are not getting off to a good start this year,” she said, flipping the lever and raising the foot rest. “Bill's pretty disgusted. He didn't even watch the end of the game last night.”

“Me, either.” Barney's chin sank into his jowls, making him look a bit like a tired old basset hound. “Looking on the bright side, there's still a hundred and fifty games to go.” He groaned as the batter struck out on a high fly, ending the inning. “He coulda bunted and got on base—what was he thinking?”

Lucy shrugged. “I guess a hundred and forty million doesn't buy brains.” She turned and looked at him curiously. “So what are you doing here, wasting the taxpayers' money?”

“We've got to get the cruiser inspected, just like everybody else, and it needs new tires.”

“They couldn't have dropped it off so you could do something else?” she asked, playing devil's advocate.

“I guess the chief didn't think of that,” he said, wincing as the Toronto batter sent the ball flying toward the Green Monster. “You got anything particular in mind that I should be doing?”

“Well,” began Lucy, “I was wondering about Maxine's car. The one that went over the cliff? I just wondered if anybody's taken a look at it.”

“Not as far as I know,” said Barney, smacking his fist down on the arm of the chair and pounding it as two Toronto runners made it to home plate. “A fumble? He fumbled a high fly that my wife could catch.”

“How is Marge?” asked Lucy. “And Eddie? How's he like the community college?”

“Marge is fine. She's turning the house upside down with spring cleaning. Eddie's looking for a job, something with flexible hours that won't interfere with his classes.” His face brightened with pride. “He got all A's on his midterms.”

“That's great,” said Lucy, who knew that Eddie, a vet, had struggled with drug addiction after his return from tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. “He's a smart kid.”

“Yeah, but he's got a long row to hoe if he's going to be a physical therapist.”

“He'll make it,” said Lucy. “I'm sure of it.”

“Well, it's been nice,” said Barney, getting the high sign from the service manager and standing up. “Looks like the cruiser's ready to roll.”

Lucy caught his sleeve. “Just a quick question—off the record. Do you think they're going to check out Maxine's car? Horowitz said something about staff cuts at the crime lab.”

He stood there, twirling his cap on his finger. “I really don't know. It's in the impound lot around back . . .”

“You mean it's right here?” asked Lucy.

He nodded. “Yeah, the town's got an arrangement with Al. It's easiest, 'cause he does the towing. But don't you get any ideas about asking one of the guys here to take a look at it,” he said, catching her eyes in a level gaze. “I'm warning you, Lucy. That would be tampering with evidence.”

“I'd never dream of doing any such thing,” said Lucy, who had of course been planning to do just that.

“Better not,” he said, hitching up his belt and settling his cap on his head. She watched him through the plate glass windows as he drove off in the cruiser, then turned back to the TV. The game had ended, the Sox had lost fourteen to three, and a trio of talking heads were analyzing the game.

“The Red Sox are not performing up to expectations,” one was saying.

“That's right, they were favored for the World Series when the season began,” said another.

“It's hard to say whether the defense or offense is worse,” said the third, as Lucy finally spotted the remote lying on a chair. She quickly changed the channel, checking out the latest news on NECN. It was odd to see the county courthouse in Gilead on TV, but there it was, with a reporter standing front and center.

“Victoria and Henry Allen were seen entering the courthouse a little over an hour ago,” the perky blonde in a lime green suit was saying. “They have been sequestered in the chambers of Family Court Judge Marian Foster since their arrival, along with their former attorney, George Weatherby.”

A film clip ran, showing the well-dressed, perfectly groomed couple making their way through a crowd of reporters. Henry, looking ever the gentleman, in his gray suit, was trying to shield his wife from the crush of reporters thrusting microphones in her face. Even though Vicky was facing serious charges, she managed to look as if she was on her way to a garden party rather than entering a courthouse, dressed in a pale green suit complete with matching headband and pearls. There was an awkward moment when George Weatherby held the door for them; the two glared at him before rushing into the building.

“Attorney Bob Goodman, who is bringing suit against the Allens on behalf of Vivian Van Vorst's former butler, James Willis, is also at the meeting in the judge's chambers, along with several other family members.”

The screen switched from the reporter to the news desk, where the anchor posed a question. “What can we expect from this meeting, Jessica?”

“That's not really clear, Ed, but courthouse sources say it is likely that Judge Foster is reviewing the guardianship arrangements for Vivian Van Vorst. Victoria Allen is presently the aged millionaire's guardian and the judge may want to change that considering the charges of elder abuse, embezzlement and fraud that have been leveled against the Allens.”

“And when will they be arraigned on those charges?” asked Ed.

“Tomorrow,” replied Jessica, who was nearly knocked off her feet as the courthouse door opened and the Allens were once again surrounded by a scrum of reporters. “No comment, no comment,” was all Henry had to say, and Vicky wasn't talking at all.

The two maintained their silence at the arraignment, too, where they answered the district attorney's long list of charges against them with two words: “Not guilty.”

Lucy, who was standing in the back of the packed courtroom, didn't believe them and neither did the judge. Superior Court Judge Anthony Featherstone set bail at a quarter of a million dollars for each of the defendants and ordered them to surrender their passports, citing the possibility that they might flee the country. Further, acting on the advice of Family Court Judge Marian Foster, he stripped Victoria Allen of her guardianship and named Bob Goodman as VV's temporary guardian, responsible for her care. The cameras rolled as the two were led from the courtroom in handcuffs for a brief stay in the holding cells until bail could be arranged. Lucy thought that Vicky's and Henry's expressions probably resembled Marie Antoinette's, when she faced the mob and was dragged from Versailles.

Outside the courtroom, Bob was making an announcement in the lobby. “As you know, I've been appointed Vivian Van Vorst's temporary guardian and my first piece of business will be to rehire James Willis to his former position as butler. Mr. Willis has assured me he will take immediate steps to improve Mrs. Van Vorst's living conditions and to maximize her comfort. Judge Foster has also ordered a complete medical evaluation of Mrs. Van Vorst's health and that will be undertaken immediately.” He chewed his lip, gathering his thoughts. “I think that's all for now. Thank you.”

“What about the money?” asked one reporter.

“That's up to the DA,” said Bob. “I understand he's already began an audit, but you'd have to ask him.” Then he was shouldering his way through the crowd and was gone before Lucy could ask the question that was on the tip of her tongue: “Are you demanding an investigation into the deaths of Maxine Carey and Van Duff?”

 

Back at the office, Lucy tried calling Bob, but couldn't get through. She was trying for the fifth time when she heard her cell phone go off in her purse and scrabbled frantically, tossing wallet and cosmetic bag and keys on her desk until she finally found it. It was too late, of course; the call had gone to voice mail.

The caller's voice was unfamiliar; she identified herself as a nurse calling from a hospital in Palm Beach. “I'm calling for your daughter Elizabeth. She's just come out of surgery, she's doing fine . . .”

Surgery? What on earth? Lucy could barely wait for the message to end so she could reply to the call. Heart pounding, she waited while the phone rang and rang and was finally answered.

“I just got a call about my daughter, Elizabeth Stone,” she began.

“That's right. Elizabeth is here and she's doing fine, she's just coming out of the anesthesia.”

“What happened?”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss a patient's treatment. We take patient confidentiality very seriously . . .”

“But I'm her mother!” wailed Lucy.

The voice became very low. “It was an emergency appendectomy.” Then the voice was louder. “You'll be able to talk to her in a couple of hours,” she said. “Or I can refer you to the doctor.”

Lucy considered. “I don't suppose the doctor will be able to tell me much . . .”

“Not without a signed consent from the patient,” said the voice.

“I understand,” said Lucy, who was already making plans to get the next flight to Florida.

It was early the next morning when she got to the hospital in Florida, and rushed into Elizabeth's room. Elizabeth was asleep and almost as pale as the white hospital sheets; if it wasn't for her dark, spiky hair Lucy wouldn't have recognized her vital, lively daughter. She took her hand in her own and stroked her hair and Elizabeth's eyes opened.

“Mom!” Her voice was weak and scratchy, but her smile was genuine Elizabeth.

“How do you feel?”

“Horrible. Like I was run over by a truck.”

Lucy wanted to hug her daughter, but was afraid of hurting her so she contented herself with squeezing her hand, the one without the I.V. “What happened?”

“Remember those cramps I told you about . . .”

Lucy was suddenly stricken with guilt. She'd dismissed the pains when Elizabeth told her about them and had suggested they were probably menstrual cramps.

“Well,” Elizabeth continued, speaking slowly, “it was appendicitis and the darn thing actually ruptured but I thought it was the flu and then I collapsed at work yesterday and they rushed me here by ambulance and apparently removed a good part of my insides.”

The door opened and a plump, fresh-faced doctor who looked just about old enough to have finished high school entered, chart in hand.

“I'm Doctor Mahoney,” he said, extending his hand.

“I'm Elizabeth's mom, Lucy Stone.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stone. Would you mind stepping outside for a moment while I examine Elizabeth?”

“No problem,” said Lucy, smarting a bit from the dismissal. It wasn't so long ago that she was in charge of Elizabeth's health. She remembered standing by the examining table in Doc Ryder's office, hugging her little one to her chest while the doctor administered inoculations or peered into her ears or down her throat. “Looks like a touch of strep,” he'd say, speaking to her over the child's downy head. Now, those days were gone and she wasn't even included in discussions of Elizabeth's treatment.