Easter Bunny Murder (19 page)

“Lucy and the kids will get it all, right?” asked Bill. “It's automatic.”

“Not necessarily,” said Bob. “What if you've got an illegitimate kid somewhere? That child could make a claim on the estate.”

“I don't have any illegitimate children.” Bill was firm on this point.

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? And, these days, with identity theft, somebody could pretend.”

“Good luck to them,” said Bill, laughing. “Part of nothing is still nothing.”

“You're being naïve,” said Bob. “But I've got to get home to my good wife. You think it over and give me a call when you're ready.”

“Don't wait up,” said Bill.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “He's impossible.”

“Come on, wife, make me supper,” said Bill in a teasing voice as Bob drove off.

“Just for that,” replied Lucy, slipping her arm around his waist as they walked together to the house, “you can call and order a large pizza supremo—with everything.”

Chapter Eighteen

O
nce the trial was over, Tinker's Cove settled into its usual sleepy summer pace. Most of the town committees suspended business for the summer and town hall was quiet except for the occasional summer visitor who wanted to buy a fishing license or dump sticker. With little news to report, the
Pennysaver
turned to features and Lucy enjoyed interviewing local folks and writing up their stories.

Lucy was just leaving Hetty Greenlaw's place—Hetty's hobby was crossbreeding day lilies and she was quite excited about a striking brown-and-yellow hybrid she'd developed—when her cell phone rang. Much to her surprise, the caller was Miss Tilley.

Even odder, Miss Tilley was asking her for advice. “Lucy,” she said, “I'm at my wit's end and I simply don't know what to do.”

“What's the problem?” asked Lucy, resting her bottom against her car, which was parked in the shade of a big maple tree.

“It's VV. She's terrified her health will fail.”

“That's too bad,” said Lucy, choosing her words carefully. The woman was ancient and she couldn't go on forever, but Miss Tilley would naturally be upset at the prospect of losing a friend. “I'm very sorry to hear that.”

“Well, we all have to go sometime,” said Miss Tilley, brushing off her sympathy. “The thing is, I promised to do something for her, but I don't quite know how to go about it.”

“Can I help?” offered Lucy.

“Of course you can help,” sputtered the old woman. “Why do you think I'm calling you?”

“Okay,” said Lucy. “I'll do what I can. What's the problem?”

“It's complicated. Too complicated to explain on the phone.”

“Shall I come over?”

“Yes. That would be best.”

“When do you want me?”

“Now!” exclaimed Miss Tilley. “I want you to come right now!”

“I'll be right there,” promised Lucy, opening the car door. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Five,” snapped the old woman.

Lucy was still chuckling when she pulled up in front of Miss Tilley's gray-shingled Cape, where a rose of Sharon bush was in full bloom by the front door. She knocked and Rachel answered, greeting her with a big smile.

“Miss Tilley wants to speak to you privately,” she said with an amused grin, “so I'm just off to the grocery store.”

“Take your time,” said Miss Tilley with a flap of her hand. “Why not stop at the library, too? See if they have that new Martha Grimes.”

“Will do,” said Rachel, closing the door behind her.

“Come on in,” ordered Miss Tilley. “Don't dillydally.” Lucy obeyed, seating herself by a window where a fan provided a cooling breeze. “Now, what is this all about?” she asked.

“I'm only telling you all this in strictest secrecy,” warned Miss Tilley. “This is not for the newspaper, or idle gossip. It's a highly confidential, personal matter.”

“I understand,” said Lucy, wondering what on earth could be so sensitive that it required such secrecy, especially now when presidents had sex with interns and governors sired love children with maids. “You can trust me.”

Miss Tilley seemed doubtful, but continued. “The thing is, I promised to do something for VV. She's afraid she doesn't have much longer to live and, well, it really has to be done before she dies, but I don't know how to begin.” She paused, then blurted out her shocking news. “Remember how she said I missed out on life because I hadn't had a lover?”

Lucy nodded.

“Well, it turns out she had a child, you see, a child that she gave up for adoption.”

Lucy took the news calmly. “When was this?” she asked. “I presume it was some time ago.”

Miss Tilley seemed disconcerted, as if she'd expected a bigger reaction.

“It's no big deal,” said Lucy. “This sort of thing happens all the time. Didn't you ever watch
Oprah
?”

“No I didn't,” snapped Miss Tilley. “And I don't approve of these modern ideas. In my day, you got married and then you had children and you didn't spare the rod when you raised them.”

This gave Lucy an idea. “I presume the child was illegitimate?”

“Not at all. VV tells me she was married, briefly. Just before the war. Her husband was going overseas and she didn't feel she could care for the baby—I can't say I approve, but she was always ambitious and thought she had better things to do than mix up formula and change diapers. Anyway, the long and short of it is that she went off to Reno, that's what you did then, and got a divorce and gave the baby—it was a little girl—to some relatives of her husband's. They were infertile, apparently, and desperately wanted a child, so it all worked out for the best.” Miss Tilley sniffed. “To hear her tell it, you'd think she'd done them a big favor, giving up her baby, but she really just wanted out of the whole situation.”

“But now she wants to see the child before she dies, is that it?” asked Lucy.

Miss Tilley let out a great sigh. “Exactly.” She paused. “And she wants me to find her.”

Lucy was definitely intrigued. “Do we have a name?”

Miss Tilley got up from her rocking chair and made her way briskly across the room to her secretary, where she pulled open one of the little drawers above the writing surface and extracted a faded piece of paper which she unfolded before presenting it to Lucy. “This is her birth certificate.”

Lucy read it with interest, noting that VV was named as the mother, profession, housewife. The father was listed as Michael Woods, U.S. Army Air Corps. And the child was named Margaret Saxby Woods, weighing a healthy seven pounds ten ounces and measuring nineteen inches long. She was born almost seventy years ago to the day, which gave Lucy pause. “She might not be alive,” she said

“And she may have moved to Arizona, for all I know,” said Miss Tilley. “Or maybe she's living right around the corner.”

Stranger things have happened, thought Lucy, thinking of a pair of twins she'd read about recently who had grown up in ignorance of each other, although they lived on the same city block. “It would be a lot easier if she were a he, since boys' names don't change when they get married,” she said, adding a promise, “but I'll do the best I can.” She scratched her head. “What about the father? Michael Woods? Did he ever turn up?”

Miss Tilley's voice was tight with disapproval. “VV says she doesn't know.”

Lucy was incredulous. “She doesn't know if her husband lived or died?”

“No.” Miss Tilley shook her head. “She pranced off to Washington and met Horatio and never looked back.”

Lucy knew these things happened, but she found VV's behavior shocking. “My goodness,” she said. “I suppose things are different in wartime.”

“Not that different,” said Miss Tilley. “But I think she is feeling a certain amount of remorse as she looks back on her life. She wants to make amends, she said.”

Lucy nodded. “Well, I'll do what I can to help.”

“I knew I could count on you,” said Miss Tilley. “Now, if you'll scoot into my bedroom, you'll find a box of Fern's Famous fudge in the bottom drawer, beneath my nightgowns.”

“You're not supposed to have fudge,” scolded Lucy.

“I know, that's why you have to be quick. Rachel will be back any minute!”

 

Lucy liked to think of herself as an investigative reporter and she had developed some considerable research skills, but she was the first to admit she didn't know much about genealogy. In truth, she could name all of her grandparents but was ignorant of three of her great-grandparents. One grandmother, who died when Lucy was eight, used to claim that her forebears were “thieves and pirates” and Lucy was never sure if she was joking or not. She had an entire drawer of old photographs that she couldn't bear to throw out, but couldn't identify, either, and odd bits of silver with unfamiliar initials that had been passed down through the family. Some day, when she had the time, she intended to do the research and fill in the blanks, but that day had not yet come. All of which meant that when she sat down at her desk and unfolded the birth certificate Miss Tilley had given her, she had no idea where to start. What had become of Margaret Saxby Woods?

For that matter, what had become of her father, Michael Woods? He had been in the service during World War II, but Lucy knew from experience that it was difficult to get information from the Department of Defense about individual soldiers. She had tried in the past and knew the department was slow to respond to requests and that many records had been lost or destroyed.

On the other hand, the
Pennysaver's
morgue was a trove of information, containing every issue of its predecessor, the
Courier and Advertiser
which had begun publication in 1851. The problem was that none of it was cataloged, which meant she would have to go through the big old bound volumes page by page. Unfortunately, she decided, that was probably her best bet, as it would have been the local newspaper which would have reported information about the region's soldiers and sailors.

She had the office to herself. Ted was meeting with the accountant and Phyllis had taken the afternoon off to attend a funeral, so she flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED so she wouldn't be disturbed, and closeted herself in the morgue, beginning with the volume for January–June, 1940.

Sneezing at the dust, she slowly turned the fragile yellow pages, scanning the print for anybody named Saxby or Woods. She did find a notice announcing that Michael Woods, son of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Woods, had successfully completed basic training at Fort Dix in New Jersey, but that was all. There was no birth announcement for Margaret Saxby Woods, and she saw no obituaries for any people with those names. When she checked her watch and saw it was after four o'clock, and realized she'd only gotten through the volumes for 1943, she decided she had to find a better way. On a hunch, she stopped by at the town office on her way home and had a chat with the town clerk.

Carolyn Kidd was whippet thin and full of energy. Her curly red hair seemed to explode from her head as if she'd stuck her finger in an electric socket. “What can I do for you, Lucy?” she asked with a big smile.

“I'm looking for information about a person . . .”

“What sort of information?” Carolyn leaned forward, listening intently.

“Anything, I guess. Birth, death, taxes . . .”

“What era are we talking about?” asked Carolyn.

Lucy realized the town had been settled in the late 1600s and the town records might go back for centuries. “He was a soldier in World War Two, that's all I know.”

“Well, nowadays births and deaths go right into the computer and I can access them with a few keystrokes, but the older records are still on paper. His birth certificate would be in storage, down in the cellar. If he died recently, that would be in the database.”

“It's worth a try,” said Lucy. “I'm looking for Michael Woods, and his daughter, Margaret Saxby Woods.”

Carolyn perched on a chair and started clicking away on a keyboard, tapping her foot and clicking her tongue as she peered at the screen. “I got nothing, Lucy,” she finally said, shaking her head. “But, like I said, the computer only goes back to the eighties, the nineteen eighties. I'd love to get the older records in the database, but it's drudge work and I don't have the manpower.”

Lucy nodded. “Well, thanks anyway. Have a good weekend.”

“You, too, Lucy.”

Saturday dawned chilly, gray, and rainy. Bill decided to spend the day cleaning the cellar. The girls both had summer jobs, so Lucy was free to continue her research in the morgue. She didn't mind; flipping through the old papers was interesting and gave her a picture of life in Maine during the war. There were stories about gas rationing and German U-boat sightings, drives to collect metal and paper, and the inevitable reports of local men and women killed overseas. Michael Woods wasn't among them, though, and Lucy was halfway through the fifties when she finally saw his name in bold black print.

It actually came as a bit of a shock; she'd pretty much given up, distracted by stories about new buildings at Winchester College, plans to build a war memorial on the town green, and a hilariously funny guest editorial by the Methodist pastor warning about the dangers of rock and roll music. She was still chuckling when she turned the brittle page and saw the obituary. “
Michael Woods, 36, died unexpectedly Monday evening,
” she read. His service in the U.S. Army Air Corps, in North Africa and Italy, was noted, as was a series of jobs as an insurance salesman, encyclopedia salesman, and, finally, automobile salesman. The list of surviving family members was small; there was no mention of a wife or children, but he did leave a sister, Hilda O'Dwyer, and a niece, Margaret O'Dwyer.