Valentine Murder (17 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Valentine Murder
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“I'm no better than I ought to be—and neither are you!” shot back the old woman.
“I'm afraid that none of us are,” said Lucy, giving a little wave as she went out the door. “And some of us are a good deal worse,” she muttered as she climbed into the car. She started the engine, shifted to drive, and carefully checked for traffic before pulling away from the curb. It wasn't something she'd care to admit, even to herself, but she didn't want to risk another encounter with that black-and-chrome truck.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Fairy Godmother waved her magic wand and Cinderella's rags became a beautiful ball gown.
S
aturday morning found Lucy sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying a second cup of coffee and reading the morning paper while she waited for Sue to pick her up. The house was unusually quiet; Bill had taken the younger kids ice skating on Blueberry Pond, and Toby and Elizabeth were still sleeping.
Hearing Sue's horn, Lucy struggled painfully into her coat, grabbed her gloves and bag, and hobbled out to Sue's brand-new car, an enormous sport utility vehicle guaranteed to be virtually unstoppable.
“What's the matter with you?” asked Sue, as Lucy hauled herself up into the passenger side seat. Her muscles were still sore and she couldn't help groaning as she strapped the seatbelt on.
“I'm stiff and sore from sledding with the kids.”
“About time you acted your age,” teased Sue, who avoided exercise like the plague. “Serves you right. You should have been sipping tea and nibbling scones safe indoors.”
“You're probably right,” agreed Lucy. “Let's have lunch someplace nice, okay? No fast food.”
“Fine by me,” said Sue, carefully maneuvering the enormous four-wheel drive vehicle, complete with a rhino guard, out of the driveway.
“I always feel so safe in your car,” said Lucy, observing the mounds of snow that lined the road. “It's good to know that if a wild rhino should decide to charge, we're ready.”
“You never know,” said Sue. “It's good to be prepared. Say, are you going to Hayden's funeral tomorrow? I heard Ralph hired Corney to do the food. No expense spared.”
“I guess I should—being on the board and all.”
“Don't give me that—you wouldn't miss it for the world.” Funerals were major social events in Tinker's Cove, and were discussed for months afterward.
“I wonder what she'll serve?”
“Whatever it is, you can be sure she stole the recipe from somebody,” said Sue.
“Are there rules about that? Corney told me that as long as you add something new to a recipe you can claim it as your own.”
“Hmmph,” snorted Sue. “I think it takes more than a pinch of salt or a dusting of parsley to create a new recipe, and I'm not the only one. Laura Winkle—she works over in the courthouse, you know—told me that somebody was suing Corney for copyright infringement. I don't remember who, but I do know they were planning on calling poor Bitsy as a witness. Of course, they can't do that now. Maybe they'll settle out of court.”
“Would something like that be a motive for murder?” Lucy was skeptical.
“Laura said they were asking for half a million in damages.”
“Gee, sounds like a motive to me,” mused Lucy. “Do you think Corney knows how to use a gun?”
“Sure.” Sue chuckled. “Keep watching her column. ‘A quick and easy way to clean your chimney'.”
Lucy laughed. “ ‘Exterminating pests—easier than you thought'.”
“Make your own colander.”
“Painless pumpkin carving.”
“Don't remind me,” moaned Sue. Her attempt to follow Corney's directions for a Victorian lace Halloween pumpkin had resulted in a badly nicked finger that became infected and required a trip to the emergency room and an expensive course of antibiotics. “It isn't that I don't think Corney is capable of murder, I just think she would prefer a less direct method.”
“Like tossing a few toxic mushrooms into the coq au vin?”
“Exactly.”
“But even if she had a motive to kill Bitsy, why did she have to kill Hayden?” asked Lucy, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.
“He could have figured out that she killed Bitsy,” speculated Sue. “And don't forget, he knew a lot about cooking, too. Maybe he knew what a phony she really is.”
“Oh, my,” said Lucy. “Do you think all this animosity might be because you're jealous of Corney?”
“Absolutely not,” insisted Sue. “Why would I be jealous of her?”
Lucy didn't answer; she was looking out the window at the dirty wall of snow that lined the highway. The sky was a dark slate gray and a few flakes were beginning to fall. “I wish winter would end,” she said.
“Me, too,” sighed Sue.
Once they were inside the Galleria, Portland's newest and most elegant mall complete with potted palm trees and fountains, they forgot all about the weather outside. They lingered over lunch in the Parrot's Perch, enjoying glasses of white wine with their salads. Then they ventured into the stores, where the clearance sales were in full swing. Lucy made quick work of her list, and was seriously considering splurging on a designer dress.
“It's a Diane Fish dress—trust me, you can't go wrong,” urged Sue.
“But it's ninety dollars.”
“A steal. See the tag. It was over three hundred.”
“I could wear it to the funeral,” rationalized Lucy, who really wanted it for her Valentine's Day dinner with Bill.
“It's a classic. You can wear it anywhere. Trust me. You'll hate yourself if you don't get it.”
“You think it's that good a deal?”
Sue rolled her eyes. “Just look at it. The buttons are all different. Handmade, I bet. And it has pockets. Removable shoulder pads. You don't find these features in cheap dresses.”
“I know.” Lucy sighed. “It's just that I haven't even paid all the Christmas bills yet.”
“Hey—I just remembered. I got a coupon in the mail. It's like a scratch ticket—it said you can save up to seventy-five percent on sale prices.”
“Really?”
“Probably not,” said Sue, rummaging in her purse. “But you could save something. Ah-ha! Here it is!”
“It doesn't say how much you save,” said Lucy.
“Right. You take it to the salesclerk and scratch the little gray circle. She'll take off whatever percent is printed under it.”
“What if it's only ten percent?”
Sue sighed. “Tell her you changed your mind.”
“And you don't want this ticket?”
“No!” exclaimed Sue. “I really want you to get this nice new dress that is an absolutely terrific bargain and would look great on you and you're really beginning to get on my nerves!”
“Okay. Okay,” said Lucy, taking the ticket. “But I'm warning you—I'm not going to get it unless it's at least fifty percent off.”
“Whatever,” said Sue, waving her arm and dramatically collapsing into a chair outside the fitting rooms.
Lucy approached the cash register, which was staffed by a tired-looking woman with swollen ankles. “Cash or charge?”
“Charge,” said Lucy, producing her card. As if it were an afterthought, she added, “Oh, I have this coupon.”
“Here you go,” said the clerk, handing her a shiny new penny. “Just scratch off the gray circle.”
Lucy worked at the circle, brushing away the rubbery crumbs produced by the scratching. “Wow!” she exclaimed. “It says seventy-five.”
“Good for you,” said the clerk. “Most of them are for ten or twenty percent. That brings your total to twenty-two fifty.”
“That's great!” enthused Lucy. “That's a three-hundred-dollar dress.”
“It pays to shop at Waldrons',” said the tired salesclerk, repeating the store's slogan.
“I guess it does,” nodded Lucy. She took her bag and went over to Sue, who was leaning back in the chair with her eyes closed, a mountain of packages piled on her lap.
“How'd you do?” she asked, without opening her eyes.
“Seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five dollars? Not bad.”
“No—seventy-five percent off.”
Sue's eyes popped open. “You're kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Damn.”
“Something the matter?”
“If I'd known, I would have kept it for myself,” she muttered. “I'm ready for a break—how about a cappuccino?”
 
 
That night, after doling out her purchases to the kids, Lucy went upstairs to try on the new dress. As she took it out of the bag she noticed that some of the scratch ticket crumbles were stuck to the tissue paper. Thoughtfully, she picked them up and with her thumb rolled them against her fingers. They reminded her of something, but she couldn't quite remember what. Brushing off her hands, she lifted the dress and slipped it over her head. She was standing in front of the mirror when Bill appeared behind her.
“Zip me up?” she asked.
“Okay,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “If I can unzip you later.”
“Deal,” said Lucy, turning to face him and wrapping her arms around his neck.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Queen was furious and threw the Magic Mirror against the wall.
“G
od, I hate funerals,” said Bill, giving his tie a tug. He was seated beside Lucy in the hushed, flower-scented sanctuary of St. Christopher's Episcopal Church.
Funeral regulars who had come to the earlier visiting hours to gape at Hayden's embalmed body—“Doesn't he look wonderful?” —were certainly disappointed. Not only was there no open casket, there was no casket at all since Hayden had been cremated. Ralph had chosen to have a memorial service, and a very simple one at that. No eulogies. No sharing of personal remembrances of the departed. Just beautiful music played by a string quartet and a simple reading from the
Book of Common Prayer
.
Looking around the church, Lucy noticed that it was filled with unfamiliar faces. This was not the usual Tinker's Cove crowd; these folks were wearing city clothes and their hair, both the men's and the women's, had been styled by hairdressers with more skill than Moe the Barber or the girls at Dot's Beauty Spot. These people were buffed and massaged, stylish and polished, and Lucy was glad she was wearing her new dress.
“I wish they'd get started,” complained Bill.
“It has started,” whispered Lucy. “It's just music.”
“Hunh,” grunted Bill. “Who are all these people?”
“Antiques dealers, interior designers, Hayden's clients . . . he was very big in the antiques world.”
“Oh,” said Bill, unimpressed. In a few minutes his breathing grew regular and Lucy knew he had fallen asleep. He gave a little snort and she elbowed him, afraid he would start snoring. His eyes opened for a second, then closed, and he was off in dreamland once again.
Lucy relaxed against the back of the pew, allowing her mind to drift with the music. There in the front pew she caught a glimpse of Ralph, somber in his black suit. She remembered having coffee with them, and how much they enjoyed each other. Tears began welling in her eyes and she tried to fight them back. Think about something else, don't think about Hayden. Just listen to the music, she told herself, following the soaring notes of a violin solo.
Her eyes roamed around the church and lit on the cross that stood on the altar. It was unusually simple for an Episcopalian church, she thought, realizing it was made of pewter instead of silver. It had to be the tankard, she thought, chewing on her lip. Two people associated with the library were dead, and the tankard was a fake—there had to be a connection. What had Miss Tilley told her? That Gerald had all the documents authenticating the tankard?
What she wanted, she decided, was to take a look at those papers. What she didn't want, however, was another encounter with Gerald. The man gave her the willies.
She looked around the church and spotted him sitting by a stained glass window with Lucretia beside him. She was being ridiculous, she thought, studying his profile. With his gray hair, his strong, angular nose, and his firm jaw, he was still a handsome man—the very image of New England respectability.
Her lips twitched when she remembered Miss Tilley telling her that most of the highly revered New England sea captains hadn't been above smuggling or blockade running, if the profits were high enough. “Pirates, all of them,” she'd proclaimed.
There was something of the pirate about Gerald, realized Lucy. He took pains to disguise it, she thought, but she had sensed a tension about him, a certain wariness, that indicated hidden depths. Gerald wasn't entirely respectable.
She would call him tomorrow, she decided, and if he suggested a meeting she would insist that she was too busy. She would tell him to return the documents to Miss Tilley; a good idea, she realized, because it would give her request extra weight.
That settled, Lucy bowed her head and sent up a silent prayer that Ralph would find comfort. The music stopped and the priest stepped up to the lectern. “Please join me in saying the words of Jesus Christ: Our father, who art in heaven . . .”
 
 
After the service, Lucy and Bill followed the crowd to the reception in the parish hall. They stood in line and shook hands with Ralph, who looked leaner and handsomer than ever in his dark suit. He, in turn, introduced them to Hayden's parents. Mrs. Northcross was a tiny woman with dyed red hair, dressed in a black suit with a fussy, ruffled white blouse underneath the jacket. Mr. Northcross towered over her, with a bald head and a fringe of white hair. They seemed confused and bewildered by this reversal of the natural order; they hadn't expected to outlive their son.
Lucy took their hands and murmured how sorry she was, wishing she could think of something truly comforting to say. Funerals always made her feel depressed and inadequate.
Bill pressed his hand against her back and steered her toward the buffet set up along the wall on the opposite side of the room. Corney had really outdone herself, thought Lucy, filling her plate with tiny salmon sandwiches, cheese puffs, and stuffed mushrooms.
“Watching our weight, are we?” asked Sue, appearing beside her.
“I didn't have any lunch,” lied Lucy.
“Liar,” said Sue. “The dress looks nice.”
“Thanks.” Lucy took a bite of stuffed mushroom. “When I die I want something like this. Simple and tasteful.”
“And no expense spared.”
“Absolutely. After all, you can't take it with you,” agreed Lucy, watching as Corney refreshed a tray of crudités. “Are you sure about that lawsuit?”
“Not really, it was just something I heard,” admitted Sue, sipping a glass of white wine.
“I suppose I could check at the courthouse.”
“I suppose you could,” said Sue, smiling and nodding to someone across the room. “Don't look now, but your friend the lieutenant is here.”
“He is? Where?” demanded Lucy, scanning the crowded room.
“He's staring right at you,” said Sue. “From behind the coffee urn.”
“Oh, I see him. But he's not looking at me.” As Lucy watched, the detective took something out of his pocket and studied it, then carefully replaced it. “I wonder what he's doing here. After all, the case is supposed to be closed.”
“Well,” said Sue, nibbling on a piece of celery, “I don't think he's here for the food. He's not eating anything.”
“That's Horowitz for you,” said Lucy. “That man doesn't know how to have a good time.” She put down her plate on a nearby table. “Well, that was delicious but now it's time to circulate.”
She made her way across the crowded room to a spot between the windows where Bill was talking with Ed Bumpus.
“I should have known I'd find you talking construction,” said Lucy, taking Bill's arm. “It's nice to see you, Ed.”
“Hayden got quite a turnout,” said Ed, popping a tiny piece of toast topped with beef tartare into his mouth. “Even if some of these folks walk a little lightly in their shoes, if you get my drift.” He chewed thoughtfully. “I can tell you—I was sure glad to see Bill here. There's no question Bill's a straight-up kind of guy. Not like these here . . . well, y'know what I mean.”
“That's Bill,” said Lucy brightly. “He's hard-working, reliable, trustworthy. You can count on him.”
“I know—and that's why I had him look over the figures for the library addition.” He gave Bill a hearty slap on the back. “It means a lot to me to know that if anything is ever questioned I can say, ‘Bill Stone said it was all okeydokey.' ”
“Has anybody been questioning the figures?” Lucy asked curiously.
“Only Chuck,” said Ed, indicating the lawyer, who was chatting with Mrs. Asquith. “That guy gives me a pain in the ass.”
“What do you expect? He's a lawyer,” said Bill, shrugging philosophically.
“He's probably being extra careful, because of everything that's happened,” speculated Lucy.
“I don't care what he is,” said Ed, an angry tone creeping into his voice. “He's got no reason to question me. I've got a reputation in this town, y'know.”
That's right, Lucy thought to herself, and it's not all that good, from what I've heard. “Hey, Ed,” she began. “You know that nice truck of yours? It wasn't out our way lately, on Red Top Road, was it?”
“Not that I know of,” said Ed, a note of caution in his voice. “Why?”
“One just like it came tearing down the road the other day when my kids were sledding. It gave me a real scare.”
Ed popped a huge stuffed mushroom in his mouth and chewed noisily. “Dunno nuffin' 'bout it,” he said, wiping his greasy fingers on his trousers.
“All's well that ends well, I guess.”
“That's right,” said Bill. “The kids shouldn't have been in the road, anyway.”
“Say, Bill,” began Ed, turning his back on her, “whaddya think of these new steel two-by-fours?”
No longer included in the conversation, Lucy headed for the coffee table in search of Horowitz, but he was no where to be seen. She took a cup and sipped at it, peering over the rim, and spotted the detective striding purposefully across the crowded room. As Lucy watched, he took Gerald by the elbow and led him through the doorway.
Lucy followed them into the hallway, where a uniformed policeman was waiting. She watched, astonished, as Gerald was quickly handcuffed and marched outside to a cruiser which spun off rapidly down the street.
Blinking her eyes in disbelief, Lucy looked around the room to see if anyone else had noticed. But the whole thing had happened so quickly that no one seemed to have seen a thing. No one, that is, except for Lucretia Asquith. Tall and trim as ever, she was pale with shock.
Lucy took her arm and led her out of the crowded room and into an empty office.
“What happened?” she asked Lucy, nervously rubbing her hands together.
“Gerald was arrested,” said Lucy, filling a paper cup from the water cooler in the corner and handing it to her. “Do you have any idea why?”
Mrs. Asquith took a sip of water and shook her head.
Lucy noticed a sprinkling of dandruff on the shoulders of her black suit. Suddenly, she remembered the way Gerald had brushed at the papers on his desk.
“He gambled, didn't he?” asked Lucy, thinking of the little gray crumbles she had scratched off the coupon in the store the day before. The words were out before she knew it.
Mrs. Asquith sagged in the chair and Lucy grabbed for the cup before it spilled. She lifted it to the older woman's lips, holding it so Lucretia could take a sip.
“We're going to lose everything,” she whispered.
“Everything?” Lucy was stunned. The Asquiths were worth a pretty penny.
“The house is in foreclosure.”
“Oh, my God.”
Mrs. Asquith nodded grimly. “He always gambled a little bit, but never enough to matter. Then he retired. He couldn't control it anymore. The lottery, scratch tickets, even casinos.”
Lucy chewed her lip. “But gambling's not illegal,” she said. “Why did they arrest him?”
Mrs. Asquith studied her hands in her lap.
“Did he steal?” asked Lucy.
Mrs. Asquith suddenly jerked back in her chair, and her hands flew to her head. She yanked at her hair and then dissolved into tears.
“There, there,” said Lucy, trying to calm her. She was terrified Mrs. Asquith was becoming hysterical.
“I hate him!” she hissed, pounding her hand on the desk. “I hate him for doing this to me.”
“Just hang on,” said Lucy, patting Mrs. Asquith's shoulder and handing her a tissue. She looked nervously toward the door. “I don't think anybody saw but us. Wait here and I'll get my husband. We'll drive you home.”
A shudder ran through the older woman's body, and she began twisting and shredding the paper hankie.
Lucy left, closing the door, and hurried down the hall to the parish room. The crowd had thinned, she noticed. She caught Bill's eye and he came across the room to her.
“I've been looking for you—where've you been?” he asked.
“You won't believe it,” she whispered. “Horowitz arrested Gerald Asquith, just a minute ago. I've got a hysterical Mrs. Asquith in the church office. Can you help me get her home?”
“I'll drive her car—you follow, okay?”
“Thanks.” Lucy was truly grateful; she could always count on Bill.
She surveyed the coat rack and decided a black cashmere with a fur collar and a light dusting of dandruff was probably Mrs. Asquith's. She pulled it off the hanger and led Bill to the office. There, he gently drew Mrs. Asquith to her feet and Lucy draped the coat over her shoulders. Then, Mrs. Asquith's keys in his hand, he hurried off to bring the car around. Lucy slipped into her coat and waited with Lucretia in the hallway until he pulled up in a black Lincoln town car.

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