English Tea Murder (22 page)

Autumn pounded her fist on her knee. “It’s all his fault. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“You have a point.” Lucy gave Autumn a quick hug. “But trust me, that kind of thinking is not productive.” She paused. “The most you’re going to get out of him is money for an abortion.”

“I don’t want an abortion. I just said that. And I don’t want to be a single mom. My mom was a single mom and I know what that’s like. And I’m sure not giving up my kid for adoption. I’ve been a foster kid and it’s no fun.” She pressed her lips together. “Nope, I’m gonna make him marry me.”

Lucy felt her stomach tighten. The girl was playing with fire and didn’t know it. “Even if you can blackmail him into marrying you, what sort of start would that be? What kind of marriage would you have?”

Autumn gave her a sweet smile, and Lucy caught a glimpse of the sweet, vulnerable kid underneath the tattoos and piercings and fierce hair. “He said he loved me, and I love him. Love will see us through.”

“You threatened to expose him.” Lucy was dead serious. “He’s a dangerous man. Look how he planned Temple’s murder. He used all of you. He exploited your hurt and desire for revenge for his own advancement.”

Autumn’s eyes were wide. “How do you know about that?”

Lucy sighed. “It’s obvious. He wanted Temple out of the way so he’d get Crighton’s job.” She slumped, as if a huge weight were pressing on her. “And it’s also obvious that he isn’t going to marry you.”

Autumn’s temper flared. “You’re just jealous. He told me you two had a fling, years ago.”

Lucy felt as if she’d been slapped. “I almost made the biggest mistake of my life, but I was smart enough to stop before I went too far.” Lucy’s voice was low, her tone serious. She’d been a reporter long enough to know that young women were very vulnerable. A summer rarely passed without some poor girl’s body turning up swollen in a pond, or decomposed and ravaged by animals in the woods. Sometimes they just disappeared entirely. “You better think this over very carefully. He’s a dangerous man, and there’s a tried-and-true remedy for girls who cause trouble: They get killed.”

Autumn snorted. “Now you’re really being ridiculous. He loves me. You’ll see. He just needs some time to calm down and think it over.” She smiled a ravishing, confident smile. “I’m going to wear black for the wedding.”

“Good thinking,” said Lucy, standing up and smoothing out her pants. “Because it will also work for your funeral.”

Chapter Twenty-two

“D
on’t forget your boots.” Lucy held up a pair of duck boots she’d found in the back of Elizabeth’s closet.

Her oldest daughter rolled her eyes. “I won’t need them.”

“They have rain in Florida.”

“I’m not going to wear those, not ever again.”

Lucy put the boots back neatly in the corner. “We’ll save them for when you come home to visit.”

She knew she was going out on a limb here; she was pretty sure Elizabeth was a lot more interested in getting away from home than coming back for visits. After graduating magna cum laude from Chamberlain College, she’d spent a discontented summer working as a chambermaid at the Queen Victoria Inn and looking for a real job. She’d sent out hundreds of résumés to all parts of the country except New England—an omission that had not gone unnoticed by her mother. Now, after a grueling series of interviews, she’d been hired by the Cavendish Hotel chain and was headed for a training session at their flagship hotel in Palm Beach. They were packing a box of clothes to send ahead so she would only need a carry-on for the flight.

“Yeah,” said Elizabeth, pulling a bulky sweater out of the huge duffel bag she was packing with clothes, “that’s a good idea. I’ll leave the warm clothes here.”

“Better take a few things. They have cold snaps, you know. They sometimes have to light fires in the groves so the oranges don’t freeze on the trees.”

Elizabeth looked at her as if she were crazy. “Where do you get these ideas?”

“The news. I’ve seen it on the TV news.” Lucy’s cell phone was playing her song, and she pulled it out of her pocket. “Lots of times,” she said, flipping it open and seeing her boss, Ted’s, number.

“What’s up?” she asked.

Ted’s voice was apologetic. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’ve got this wedding, Pam’s niece. I’m actually in Connecticut.”

“No problem. I was just helping Elizabeth pack, but I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m getting in the way.”

Elizabeth shook her head but it was a weak protest.

“State police called. They found a body and they’re having a press conference. They need help identifying it. Just get the basics—we’ll run one of those gray-scale photos with a big question mark.
Who was she?
Heaven knows we don’t have much else this week—talk about the dog days of August.”

“There’s a hurricane off the coast,” said Lucy. “They say we might get it.”

Ted perked up. “By Wednesday?”

Wednesday was deadline day. “Next weekend, maybe.”

“Damn. We’ll just have to go with the body. The press conference is two p.m. at the barracks in Shiloh.”

At two o’clock Lucy was seated, along with a handful of reporters and camera crews from the Boston and Portland TV stations, in a basement room used for press conferences. A podium had been set up, backed with an American flag and the Maine state flag, and they billowed gently in the breeze created by a standing fan in the corner. Upstairs was air-conditioned, but thrifty Maine planners had reasoned the basement would be naturally cool. It wasn’t. Lucy lifted her shirt off her sweaty shoulders and fanned herself with her reporter’s notebook.

“They always turn up in August,” said the guy next to her, a stringer for the
Boston Globe.
“I guess they start to smell in the heat. I heard a dog found this one.”

Lucy nodded. “You’re way ahead of me. Where’d they find it? It’s a woman, right?”

“This is unofficial, but I heard some women talking at the gas station. They said it’s a girl. She was stuffed in a plastic bag and dumped in the Metinnicut River. The bag snagged on some rocks or logs or something, and when the water level went down, like it does in summer—”

“I get the picture,” said Lucy.

There was a small commotion as a group of officials were heard coming down the stairs and entering the room. Lucy recognized Strom Kipfer, the Shiloh police chief; Detective Horowitz from the state police, dressed as usual in a rumpled gray suit; and the county DA, Phil Aucoin. Aucoin took the podium while the others arranged themselves behind him in a row.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, fingering a folded piece of paper. “First let me introduce everybody.” He worked his way down the row, spelling names and giving each person’s title. When he finished, he sighed and began reading a prepared statement.

“Early yesterday morning, a woman walking her dog along the bed of the Metinnicut River, which is quite low this year, discovered a large construction-grade plastic bag snagged on a log. The dog pawed the bag, ripping it and revealing a human foot. The woman called nine-one-one and local police responded, determining that the bag contained the body of a woman. Because of the method of disposal, they assumed the woman was the victim of a murder.

“The body was removed by the medical examiner at nine thirty-three a.m. and subsequently examined. There was some decomposition but the cool water temperature and the plastic bag protected the body, and he was able to determine that she was killed by a single blow to the head. She was about twenty years of age, five feet six inches tall, one hundred fifteen pounds, and in good health apart from the fact that she needed dental care. She had short dark hair and numerous piercings.”

Lucy’s head snapped up.
Oh, no,
she thought.

“She was dressed in black leggings, a short skirt, and a black T-shirt.”

Lucy was scribbling it all down.
Let it be somebody else.

“The victim was approximately ten weeks pregnant.”

Lucy’s stomach tied itself into a knot and she felt sick.

“Decomposition was too far advanced to allow for a photograph of the face, but we were able to photograph a tattoo on the woman’s body, and we’re going to distribute that today and ask that you publish it, bearing in mind that some news outlets may have individual policies that prohibit the publication of such potentially offensive material.”

Lucy was holding her breath when the officer handed her a color photo. She exhaled slowly, then forced herself to look. The tattoo was a single letter in Gothic script: a
Q.

The DA asked for questions but Lucy wasn’t listening. She was picturing Autumn, remembering how she’d smiled, imagining herself in a black wedding dress. She’d never got to wear it; in fact, it seemed she had died in the same outfit she was wearing that day in June when they’d talked in the dorm. The day Lucy had warned her that Quentin was a dangerous man. Probably the day she died.

The conference was over. The officials were shaking hands here and there, making small talk with the reporters who were packing up to leave. Lucy was sitting there, her notebook in her lap, her pen in one hand and the photo in the other.

“Is everything all right?” It was her sometime friend Detective Horowitz. Their jobs tended to make them adversaries; as a reporter, she usually wanted more information than he wanted to share. But they were also both aware that they needed each other and had developed a respectful collegiality. As always, he looked tired, and today he seemed unusually concerned.

“Can I talk to you privately?” she asked.

“Sure.”

Lucy got up, dropping the notebook on the floor and wavering unsteadily on her feet. He took her elbow, leading her to a side door that opened into a storage area. She was still clutching the photo in one hand and the pen in the other. “I know who this is,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. She sobbed. “And I know who killed her.”

Two weeks later, Lucy was surprised when Detective Horowitz called her at the office. She’d just sat down, fresh from the airport where she’d waved a brave good-bye to Elizabeth. Truth was, she felt rather down. Elizabeth had never been an easy child, but this summer they’d somehow avoided conflicts, at least most of the time. Lucy had really enjoyed having her eldest daughter home, and she knew she was going to miss her.

Horowitz got right to the point. “Everything you told me checked out,” he said.

“So you’ve arrested him?” asked Lucy. It would be a relief to know Quentin was off the street and behind bars, unable to strike again.

“No.”

Lucy couldn’t believe it. “Why not?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. I need your help.”

“I think I’ve done enough—I gave you the whole case on a platter.”

“I know. I’ve questioned him several times and I’m convinced he did it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“It’s all circumstantial. He denies everything. Well, he admits he had an affair with the girl but insists he didn’t kill her. Which is smart because he knows we can do a DNA test. But even if the kid is his, it’s not proof that he killed her.”

“But there must be other evidence. Blood? Hair? Fibers?”

“Most likely, but we haven’t been able to get a search warrant. The judge turned us down flat—he’s a big believer in academic freedom. He says it would ‘set a terrible precedent if police were allowed to invade college campuses like storm troopers and upset the peaceful and systematic pursuit of knowledge.’ I’m quoting here.”

“That’s unbelievable.”

“Yeah.” There was a long pause. “That’s why the DA asked me to get in touch with you.” Another pause. “Well, actually, it was my idea. Your name came up in the course of the investigation as being someone he’d had a relationship with.”

Lucy was quick to defend herself. “That’s not true. I took a course from him, years ago, and I spent some time with him on the trip to England, but I wouldn’t say we had a relationship. We were friendly, and that’s really an exaggeration.”

Horowitz’s voice was conciliatory. “Look, I’m not making judgments or anything. I’m just asking for some help—and it would make a good story for your paper.”

The man was a devil. Lucy knew when she was beat. If she said no, he’d just call Ted. “What do you want me to do?”

“Wear a wire.”

The female trooper who helped Lucy with the wire apparatus was enthusiastic. “These things have really been improved,” she said, displaying a compact plastic case. “They used to be so bulky, but you can just tuck this baby into your bra. He won’t suspect a thing. It’s even got GPS, but I don’t think we’ll need that today.” They were in the ladies’ room outside the coffeehouse Winchester College had recently added to the student union building. “Professor Rea teaches an eight a.m. class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and he always comes here afterward for coffee. You can pretend you’re here on a story and strike up a conversation.”

“And somehow, in the course of chatting about whether he likes mocha or hazelnut better I’m supposed to get him to confess he’s a murderer? How am I supposed to do that?”

She shrugged. “You’ll think of something. Horowitz says if anybody can, it’s you. He says you’re really . . .” She stopped suddenly, her neck reddening.

“Go on. I can take it. What did he say?”

She smiled in apology. “He said you can be a real pain in the butt, that he’d confess just to get rid of you.” She suddenly turned her attention to the earpiece she was wearing. “He’s here. It’s showtime. And remember,” she added, giving Lucy a shove toward the door, “you’ve got plenty of backup. You’re perfectly safe.”

Lucy’s heart was racing when she stepped out of the ladies’ room and crossed the cozy space with orange walls and a distressed wood floor, past the scattered tables and comfy armchairs, to get in line at the counter behind Quentin. She didn’t say anything and pretended to be going over some notes in her notebook while he ordered. When he turned, coffee in hand, she looked up.

“Hi!” she exclaimed with a big smile.

“Well, hi yourself. What brings you here?”

“Work.” She turned to the kid at the counter, who was probably a student. “I’ll have a small cappuccino.”

“That’ll be three-fifty,” said the kid.

Lucy reached for her wallet but Quentin was quicker. “Let me treat.”

Lucy gave him her best, what she hoped was an absolutely ravishing, smile. “Thanks.”

There was a bit of an awkward pause while they waited for the kid to make the cappuccino. The machine was hissing and sputtering; the air was filled with the delicious scent of coffee. “If only it tasted as good as it smells,” mused Lucy. She made her eyes big. “By the way, congratulations. I hear you’re a professor now.”

“Yeah,” he said with a crooked smile as the kid passed over a cup topped with milky white froth. Lucy took it and followed him to a corner table flanked with French-style leather armchairs. They sat and Lucy’s eyes met his as she took a sip of her cappuccino, making sure plenty of froth stuck to her lip. As she expected, he leaned forward and wiped it away with a finger, which he licked, his eyes never leaving hers. She smiled, a Mona Lisa smile this time. Things were going well—but she felt like throwing up.

“So what’s the big story?” he asked.

“Oh, the body,” she said as coolly as she could.

Quentin seemed to flinch but quickly recovered. He leaned forward, stroking her hand with his finger. “What body? I haven’t heard anything—”

“It’s an old story. They found the body of this girl in the river. It was in the news about two weeks ago.
Mystery girl?
You didn’t see it?”