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Authors: Leslie Meier

Turkey Day Murder (9 page)

BOOK: Turkey Day Murder
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“Not easy to do,” agreed Sue. “See you later.”
 
 
Back in the stands, Lucy propped her popcorn in her lap and wrapped her hands around the paper coffee cup. The warmth felt good. She slid a little closer to Bill and rested her head on his shoulder. He turned his head, brushing her forehead with his beard.
“They've gotta turn it around,” he said, as the teams lined up for the kickoff. “Go, Warriors, go!” he roared.
The Warriors' cheerleaders were doing their best, leading the crowd through the familiar litany of cheers. It seemed to work; the Warriors played a lot better in the second half and got two more touchdowns, thanks largely to the heroic efforts of Brian Masiaszyk.
By the fourth quarter, the Warriors were obviously tired and getting sloppy. The Giants started putting pressure on the Warriors, quarterback, Zeke Kirwan. In a desperation move, he threw a long pass that missed and the Giants got possession of the ball. They didn't go for any flashy maneuvers. They just drove down the field like a machine to score a touchdown. When the Warriors got the ball back they couldn't make a first down and the Giants had the ball once again. The Warriors had lost their lead. The game was tied at nineteen to nineteen, and there were two minutes left to play when the hometeam finally got the ball back.
Nevertheless, hopes were high on the Tinker's Cove side of the field. Fans stood and cheered, hoping for a miracle as the teams lined up on the thirty yard line. Maybe Masiaszyk could score again? Maybe it was time for Kirwan to try another Hail Mary pass?
The stands fell silent as the players crouched down, waiting for the referee to signal the snap. All eyes were on the field, practically everyone was holding their breath in the tension of the moment. Raising his arm, the referee seemed to move in slow motion. He had the whistle in his hand and was bringing it to his lips when, suddenly, a woman's high-pitched scream ripped through the stadium.
It was one of the cheerleaders, Megan Williams. She was standing on the sidelines, shaking and sobbing. An EMT approached her and she pointed behind the concession stand; then she collapsed in his arms as he wrapped a blanket around her. He stood holding her as a couple of police officers ran up to them. There was an exchange of words and one of the officers signaled that the game should resume.
Once again the players took their positions, but Lucy knew Ted would expect her to find out what was going on.
“I'll meet you at the car,” she told Bill and made her way down from the bleachers. Once she was on firm ground she ran over to the refreshment stand, oblivious to the struggle that was taking place on the field.
Several more officers had arrived when she joined the small group of curious onlookers. Spotting her friend, Officer Barney Culpepper, she elbowed her way through and went up to him.
“What's going on?” she asked.
Barney considered for a minute, glancing left and right as he removed his cap. Then he brushed his hand through his crew cut and carefully replaced it.
“We've got a homicide.”
Lucy gasped in shock. “Who?”
“Curt Nolan.”
For an instant, Lucy didn't register the name. Then it hit her. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no.”
“You know him?”
“A little.”
Lucy tried to remember when she'd seen Curt last. Of course, it had been yesterday at the pie sale. She could practically see him raising a fork loaded with blueberry pie to his lips, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“You're sure he's dead?” asked Lucy, unwilling to believe the bad news.
Barney nodded. “Brain's bashed in.”
Lucy grimaced but Barney wasn't through. “Murder weapon was right there beside him. Some sort of Indian club.”
The roar of the crowd rang in her ears and she was jostled aside as the police cleared the area. For a second, she got a glimpse of Nolan lying on his back, his face to the sky.
That's where he's gone,
she thought.
Up above the clouds into the bright sunshine beyond
.
CHAPTER 11
“I
can't believe it,” moaned Bill as they were driving home.
“Neither can I,” agreed Lucy, whose face was white with shock.
“Absolutely no defense,” continued Bill.
“I wouldn't say he was defenseless,” said Lucy. “I would've thought he could take care of himself.”
Bill gave her a sideways glance.
“Are we talking about the same thing? I'm talking about the game.”
“Me, too,” lied Lucy.
Bill stared at her. “No, you weren't. You were talking about Curt Nolan.”
“Well, I am going to have to report on it for the paper.”
“Reporting is one thing. Getting involved and trying to figure out who did it is another. You'd better leave that part to the police.”
Mindful of the two girls in the backseat, Lucy didn't want to argue.
“Absolutely,” she said, thinking it was time to change the subject. “So how did the game end? Did we win?”
In the backseat, Sara and Elizabth laughed. In the front, Bill snorted.
“The Giants intercepted the ball. Some guy ran seventy yards for a touchdown. I tell you, there's no excuse for that. Where was the defense?”
“No excuse,” echoed Lucy. “No defense.”
 
 
An hour later, alone in the Subaru as she went to fetch Miss Tilley, Lucy's thoughts returned to Curt Nolan.
No two ways about it, she admitted to herself, he was confrontational. He loved an argument and was never one to go along just to get along. A man like that made enemies, no doubt about that. There were plenty of people in town who had their problems with him, but that didn't mean they would actually kill him. This was New England, after all. The more ornery and cantankerous a person was, the more likely his neighbors were to grant him a grudging respect.
Lucy felt tears sting her eyes and blinked. She was surprised at herself. She wouldn't have thought she cared that much about Curt Nolan.
She remembered the day at the turkey farm, when the kids had been so frightened and he'd come to their rescue by distracting TomTom Turkey. She thought of him at the dog hearing, where he'd defended his pet.
By now the tears were really flowing and she had to pull off the road. This was ridiculous, she told herself as she fumbled in her purse for a tissue. She hadn't even known the man, not really.
But, she realized with surprise as she blew her nose, she had liked him. And why not? There was something awfully attractive about a man who was so comfortable in his own beliefs that he wasn't afraid to stand up for them. Not to mention the fact that he was good with animals and children.
Then her heart felt heavy as she thoughts of Ellie. She was already a widow, and losing Curt would be another terrible loss for her. Even more difficult, in a way, because the death of a good friend didn't elicit the same sort of sympathy that the death of a husband did. It was an awkward situation and people wouldn't know what to say or even if they should say anything at all.
Making the situation worse, thought Lucy, was the fact that Curt Nolan had been murdered. Tinker's Cove was a small town where nearly everybody knew everybody else. There was no random crime here as you would expect to find in a big city. Whoever killed Curt Nolan had done it deliberately, for a reason.
Why?
wondered Lucy.
Why kill him?
It hardly seemed that the murderer would have taken such a huge risk, assaulting him at a crowded football game, just because Curt was occasionally obnoxious. There had to be a reason, thought Lucy, flicking on her turn signal and pulling back into traffic. A reason worth committing murder.
 
 
Arriving at Miss Tilley's little antique Cape-style house, Lucy leaned hard on the doorbell. She knew Miss Tilley—whose age was a secret but who had been old for the twenty-odd years Lucy had known her—was hard of hearing. She also moved slowly these days, so Lucy waited patiently, giving her plenty of time to answer the door.
After it seemed at least five minutes had gone by, Lucy gave the doorbell a second try. When this ring also failed to bring Miss Tilley to the door, Lucy began to worry. Perhaps her old friend had fallen or had taken sick. It happened to frail elders all the time and sometimes they weren't found for days.
Lucy swallowed hard and tried the door. It opened and she went in, preparing herself for the worst.
“Hello,” she called out loudly. Then she paused a moment in the little entry hall, listening for a reply.
“No need to yell,” said Miss Tilley. “I'm right here.”
She spoke slowly, without her usual snappish tone. Lucy thought she sounded tired.
“Is everything okay?” Lucy asked, entering the front parlor.
Miss Tilley was seated in her usual rocking chair by the fireplace but there was no fire in the hearth. The electric lights hadn't been turned on either, making the room dim.
“No. It's not all right. It's dreadful.”
“Are you ill?”
“Oh, no. I'm fine. A horrid, decayed old wreck like me is perfectly fine and a big, strong young fellow like Curt Nolan is dead. Is that all right?”
“No, it's not all right.” Lucy sat on the footstool and put her hand on Miss Tilley's knee. She sat quietly for a moment, then spoke. “How did you hear about it? It only happened a few hours ago.”
“The radio. I was listening to the game.”
This was a new side to Miss Tilley that Lucy hadn't suspected.
“I didn't know you followed football.”
“Just the high school team. I like to keep track of the youngsters.” Miss Tilley had been the town librarian for many years and knew everyone. “Curt played, you know. He was a very good player.”
“I'm not surprised,” said Lucy, spying something in Miss Tilley's hand. “What have you got there?”
“A little change purse.” Extending her wrinkled claw of a hand she held it out for Lucy to see. “Curt made it for me many years ago.”
Lucy took the little deerskin purse and examined the fine beaded design and the fringe decoration.
“It's lovely.”
“I've always treasured it.” Even in the poor light Lucy could see her eyes brighten at the memory. “He was such a sweet child, so interested in Indians. He read everything in the library, then asked me to get him more books from the interlibrary loan. By the time he graduated from high school, he must have been quite an expert. I hoped he'd go on to college to study anthropology or archaeology, but he didn't.” She sighed. “He gave this to me just before he left for the army. It was the Vietnam war and he was drafted. Imagine. He survived all that and came back to Tinker's Cove, only to die at the Thanksgiving football game.”
It was later, when they were in the car, that Miss Tilley finally asked how Curt died.
“Didn't they say on the radio?” asked Lucy.
“No. Just that his body had been discovered.”
Lucy didn't want to tell her. It would only upset her, but there didn't seem any way around it. She drove carefully, watching the road, trying to think of the best way to say it. Finally, she came to the conclusion there was no good way.
“He was assaulted with the Metinnicut war club.”
Miss Tilley drew in her breath sharply. “You mean he was murdered?”
“I don't see how it could have been an accident,” said Lucy.
“That's awful!”
“I know.”
For a few minutes, they drove on in silence. It was when they were turning into Lucy's driveway that Miss Tilley challenged her.
“You have to find out who did this, you know.”
“It's not that easy,” said Lucy, braking. “Bill's already made it very clear he doesn't want me getting involved. And I'm sure the police won't want me poking my nose into their investigation. I can just imagine what Lieutenant Horowitz would say.”
“You're a reporter, aren't you? Asking questions is your job and they can't stop you. Freedom of the press is a constitutional right.”
Lucy was sympathetic, but she wasn't going to be bullied.
“You know perfectly well that means newspapers can print what they want within reason. It doesn't mean reporters have carte blanche to interfere in a police investigation.”
“As a favor for me?”
Lucy found herself looking at Miss Tilley: her faded blue eyes, her wrinkled cheeks, her wispy white hair.
“Please.”
The word hit Lucy like a bucketful of cold water. Over the years Miss Tilley had threatened and argued and cajoled her into doing many things she'd rather not have done, but she'd never before said that word, never said
please.
Lucy blinked hard and smiled.
“Well, if you put it that way, how can I refuse?”
Besides, she told herself, she already had a suspect in mind.
Entering the hall, where she paused to hang up Miss Tilley's coat, Lucy heard voices in the living room, where Bill was entertaining the Barths.
“Lucy,” said Bill, rising to greet them. “I'd like you to meet Clarice and St. John Barth.”
“I'm so glad you could come,” said Lucy.
The Barths were seated together on the couch, and they nodded amiably at her. Clarice was just as she had expected: tiny, trim, and toned, dressed entirely in black. Just looking at her made Lucy feel huge, out of shape, and hopelessly out of style.
In contrast, St. John was shorter and pudgier than she expected. He seemed ready to burst out of his stiffly starched shirt and tightly knotted tie. Seeing Miss Tilley appear behind Lucy, he jumped to his feet.
“I'd like you to meet a dear family friend, Julia Tilley,” said Lucy.
“Nice to meet you, Julia. St. John Barth, here, and this is my wife Clarice.”
Lucy's eyes widened in shock. No one, except a sadly diminished group of contemporaries, ever called Miss Tilley by her first name. Today, especially, Lucy didn't think she'd tolerate such disrespect.
“I'm afraid I'm hopelessly out of date,” Miss Tilley purred. “I prefer to be called Miss Tilley.”
That seemed pretty mild, thought Lucy, relaxing.
“No problem, Miss Tilley,” said St. John with a smile.
“Thank you.”
A gleam appeared in Miss Tilley's eye and she screwed up her mouth.
Oh, no,
thought Lucy.
Here it comes.
“Since we're speaking of names, why do you pronounce yours
Saint John?
Don't you know it's properly pronounced
Sinjin?
”
Clarice bristled and came to the defense of her husband. “It's a family name and that's the way the Barths have been saying it for generations.”
Miss Tilley's back stiffened and Lucy jumped in, hoping to avoid bloodshed.
“The Barths are clients of Bill's,” she said. “They've bought the old Tupper place and are restoring it. It's going to make a lovely home.”
From her place on the couch, Clarice gave a small, smug smile.
“Would anyone like a glass of wine?” asked Lucy.
Receiving nods all around, Bill disappeared into the kitchen.
Lucy helped Miss Tilley get settled in an armchair, then perched on a hassock. She tried desperately to think of something to say.
“Tinker's Cove must be quite a contrast to New York,” she finally ventured to say.
“Oh, it is,” agreed St. John.
BOOK: Turkey Day Murder
13.33Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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