Authors: Leslie Meier
Chapter 13
W
hen Lucy got back from the press conference, Ted had left the office and Phyllis was stuffing subscription renewal notices into envelopes.
“How was the press conference?” she asked.
“About usual. Not very informative.”
Phyllis went on folding and filling the envelopes; she could do it in her sleep. “Have they got much of a case against Fred?”
“Not unless they’ve got more evidence than they gave at the conference,” said Lucy, looking at her with interest. “Why’d you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied with a shrug. “It doesn’t make sense to me. If your wife works for the town and has friends in the police department you’d have to be crazy to kill her, and I don’t think Fred is crazy. He’s very shrewd. And self-interested. He doesn’t do anything unless it benefits him.”
“How come you know so much about him?”
“Last year I collected donations for the Eastern Star’s benefit auction.”
“Did he donate something?”
“Yeah. A closet system. But he insisted that we feature it in our ads for the event, he specified what size print we used for his name, and he insisted on a receipt so he could get a tax deduction.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Well, yeah. All the donors got a receipt as a matter of course. But he demanded his right up front. He couldn’t wait for the treasurer to get around to it, if you know what I mean. He hounded the poor woman to distraction over it when her husband was in the hospital for a quadruple bypass.”
“I guess you’d say he’s a stickler for details?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Not somebody who’d impulsively stick a kitchen knife in his wife’s back?”
“No. Definitely not.” Phyllis considered. “He might hire a contract killer—but he’d want a receipt for his taxes!”
Lucy chuckled. “Maybe you could be a character witness for him.”
“Not likely.” She gathered the envelopes together and gave them a sharp smack against her desk, creating a neat pile. “Did they say anything about the homeless guy? I keep wondering what brought him to Tinker’s Cove, anyway? I mean, it’s not like there’s a food kitchen or a shelter, is there?”
“He was at the funeral. That’s where I first saw him, anyway. I guess he must have some connection to Mimi.” Lucy shrugged. “Fred said she didn’t have family so maybe he was an old boyfriend or something.”
“Maybe he was just a crazy guy who liked funerals.” Phyllis was applying polish topcoat with all the care of Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
“Nobody goes to funerals for fun,” said Lucy, coming to a decision. “I’m going to call Fred’s lawyer and see if Fred’s ready for a visitor.”
“He wouldn’t talk to you before,” said Phyllis, waving her hand back and forth as if conducting the Boston Symphony.
“That was before he went to jail,” said Lucy. “Maybe he’s lonesome.”
Phyllis wasn’t convinced and neither was Fred’s lawyer. “The last thing I want him to do is talk to the press,” said Will Esterhaus, speaking from his Portland office.
“But this is different,” said Lucy. “I’m from the local paper, and there’s a lot of sympathy for him here in Tinker’s Cove.”
“I think not,” said Esterhaus. “He is charged with killing his wife, after all. I doubt there’s a great deal of sympathy for him.”
“Small towns have big hearts,” said Lucy.
Across the room, Phyllis rolled her eyes as she unscrewed the top of a bottle of correction fluid.
Now it was Lucy’s turn to roll her eyes as she thanked the attorney for his time which, she thought sourly, was all she got from him.
“You could start the listings,” said Phyllis, dabbing the white fluid onto her checkbook register.
Lucy was too restless to start that job, just the thought of spending the afternoon at the computer made her legs twitch. “Not today,” she said, grabbing her bag. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, Mohammed will have to go to the mountain.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” yelled Phyllis, raising her voice to be heard over the jangling bell on the front door.
Not quite sure where to begin, Lucy drifted down Main Street toward the harbor. She intended to ask anyone she might see there if they had observed the homeless man but at eleven o’clock on Monday morning the sidewalk was practically deserted. The summer people had all gone home, the kids were back in school, and the only people peering into the shop windows seemed to be shoulder-season tourists.
She intended to talk to the fishermen at the harbor who had discovered the body but as soon as she turned the corner onto Sea Street and saw the smooth blue water of the cove, flat as a pancake, she realized her mistake. The entire fleet would be out today, taking advantage of the calm weather. Discouraged, she decided on Plan B and went back to the
Pennysaver
to get her car. There was no harm in seeing if Preston and Tommy had changed their minds and were ready to talk to a friendly neighbor.
“I already told you,” said Preston, pausing to let the lawnmower idle while he mopped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, “we don’t want to talk to nobody.”
“How’s Tommy doing?” asked Lucy, undeterred.
“He’s fine. Okay? So just leave us alone.”
“I’ve been wondering about that homeless guy,” continued Lucy, squinting in the bright sun. “Do you have any idea why he attended your mother’s funeral?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Preston, losing patience. “And if you don’t stop bothering me, I’m going to call the cops.”
“I was only trying to help,” said Lucy, beating a hasty retreat.
“Busybody,” muttered Preston, giving the mower a push.
Lucy was climbing back into her car, intending to go home and make herself some lunch, when she spotted Frankie coming down the drive towards her mailbox. Frankie, she remembered, was rumored to have been having an affair with Fred Stanton. At least that’s what Chris seemed to think. Lucy gave her a wave and hurried down the street to meet her at the box, which had been embellished with paint and a carved wooden head and tail to look like a mermaid.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” began Lucy, seizing on the unusual mailbox as a pretext for a conversation. “This is so adorable. Where did you get it?”
“It is cute, isn’t it?” said Frankie, giving her a big smile as she extracted a pile of letters and a Delia’s catalog. “But I don’t know where it came from. It was a housewarming gift from an old friend. I can ask her where she got it, if you want.”
“Would you? That would be great,” said Lucy enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t want to copy you but maybe they have other styles. Like whales. Or maybe I could get one like my dog. Labs are pretty popular and they put them on a lot of stuff.”
“You know, ever since Mimi was, well, you know, I’ve been thinking of getting a dog.”
“You have?”
“Yeah. For security. But I never had a dog,” said Frankie. “Say, have you had lunch?”
“Uh, no,” said Lucy.
“Well, I was just going to make myself a salad. Why don’t you join me and tell me all about Labs.”
“Okay,” said Lucy. “I’d love lunch, but I don’t think you want a Lab for protection. They love everybody.”
“That’s the trick, isn’t it,” said Frankie, as they walked up the drive. “I want a dog that’s a good pet, but one that will let me know if an intruder’s coming. One that barks at the right time, if you know what I mean.”
“We all want that dog,” said Lucy, following her through the door and into her kitchen. “Tell me if you find it.”
Lucy hadn’t really given the matter much thought, but she hadn’t expected Frankie’s house to look the way it did. Since Frankie was a single mom with a teenage daughter, she was prepared for a somewhat casual, messy approach to home décor, probably featuring cheerleading pom-poms and a generous scattering of shoes and other teen detritus. Something like her own house, where antiques and flea market finds were haphazardly mixed with family hand-me-downs and a few upholstered pieces purchased from a discount furniture store.
Frankie’s kitchen couldn’t be more different from Lucy’s if it were on the moon. Pristine white enamel cabinets gleamed beneath an uncluttered granite countertop which featured a colorful porcelain rooster. A round white table stood on the terra cotta tile floor and, instead of a week’s worth of mail and newspapers, the only thing it held was a Quimper tureen. The matching chairs were also bare of anything except charming yellow and blue Provençal print cushions.
“This is really nice,” said Lucy. “It looks like a house in a magazine.”
“Thanks,” said Frankie. “I guess because I’m in real estate I know the importance of interior decoration.”
“I could certainly learn a thing or two from you,” said Lucy, studying the great room that extended beyond the kitchen island. There a couple of over-stuffed white love seats with colorful flowered accent pillows were set at right angles around a low coffee table holding a neat stack of magazines and a fresh flower arrangement. A coordinating entertainment center probably held the TV and DVD player, but its louvered doors were discreetly closed. Lucy sighed, thinking of her family room, where the huge TV held center stage because Bill didn’t want to have to fuss with a lot of doors and things when he collapsed into his battered corduroy recliner to watch Monday night football.
“Are you planning to redecorate?” asked Frankie, who was busy slicing and chopping an assortment of vegetables and arranging them on two plates.
“Not anytime soon,” said Lucy. “We’ve got one daughter in college and two more coming.”
“Maybe you should consider taking a real estate course,” said Frankie. “I’m sure you’d do quite well, certainly better than at the paper.”
“Most anything would pay more than the paper,” admitted Lucy. “But I love it. I couldn’t give it up.”
“Good for you,” said Frankie, setting the table with blue woven placemats, crystal goblets, and cheery napkins that matched the seat cushions. “How about we celebrate our good fortune with a glass of wine? I’ve got a nice buttery chardonnay.”
“Oh, why not,” said Lucy, throwing caution to the wind. She didn’t usually—make that never—drink wine with lunch but then she usually had peanut butter and jelly. This was a grown-up lunch and she might as well have a grown-up drink.
Frankie took a large bottle out of the refrigerator and filled the goblets right up to the brim before setting the bottle in a marble cooler. Then she brought the plates of salad to the table and gestured for Lucy to sit down. “Bon appetit!”
“This is really lovely,” said Lucy, spearing a piece of goat cheese. “Do you eat like this every day?”
“I try to.” Frankie shrugged. “I’m French, at least my family is, and this is the way I was brought up. Food, mealtimes, were always important to us.”
“No fast food?”
“My mother didn’t know the meaning of the phrase.” Frankie was lifting her glass. “She was all about slow food. Cassoulet that took days to prepare, pork pies, homemade sausage, fruit tarts…” She waved her hand. “I could go on and on.”
“My mother was more the ‘dump a can of Campbell’s cream soup into it and call it a casserole’ kind of cook,” said Lucy.
“The important thing is that she was there for you,” said Frankie, waving her fork for emphasis. “That’s why I went into real estate—so I could be home for Renee. At first I only worked during school hours and, now that I’ve built up my clientele, I pretty much work from home. I’m here when she needs me.”
“I have flexible hours, too,” said Lucy. “For me the problem is getting Sara to tell me what’s on her mind.” Before she quite realized what she was doing, Lucy was pouring out her worries about Sara and the way the football players were harassing the cheerleaders. “The only way we’re going to stop this is if somebody goes public, but I can’t get Sara to tell me what’s really happening and she flat-out refused to let Ted, he’s my editor, interview her for the
Pennysaver
.”
“You can’t blame her,” said Frankie. “No one wants to be a whistle-blower, especially at her age. She wants to be popular.” She nodded knowingly. “These girls will do anything to be popular.”
“Has Renee talked to you about this?”
“Renee is old for her years.” Frankie took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth, savoring it, before she swallowed. “She spent six weeks in France this summer, with her cousins. She came back very sophisticated.” Frankie grinned. “She thinks American attitudes to sex are silly. At least that’s what she says. I suspect it’s not quite that simple for her.”
“There’s going to be a meeting Thursday night, about rumors of hazing on the team. Will you go?”
“Of course.”
Lucy put her fork down and sat back in her chair. Wine with lunch was a terrific idea. She felt relaxed and completely at peace. “It’s so quiet here,” she said. “You don’t even get road noise from Red Top Road. And Prudence Path seems deserted.”
“It seems like that but it isn’t really.” There was a little gleam in her eye. “There’s a lot of coming and going.”
Lucy swallowed the last of her wine. It seemed as if Frankie had something she wanted to tell her. “I noticed you didn’t join the chorus at the bus stop yesterday when Fred was arrested. Do you think somebody else did it?”
“I don’t think Fred did it, that’s for sure.” She paused, refilling her glass. “Those other women, they don’t really know Fred. He’s a good guy.”
Lucy swallowed hard. She had to ask. “I’ve heard rumors that you know him extremely well.”
Frankie nodded. “I do. He asked me to sell those new condos he’s building on the other side of town and we’ve been working together on a marketing plan.”
So much for the grapevine, thought Lucy. “Is he the sort of guy who’d abuse his wife, like they say?”
“He yells and screams, sure, but that’s just his style. He’s loud. My father was like that. A lot of bark but no bite.” She smiled at the memory, then raised an eyebrow. “I can tell you, I would rather have a man who gets it all out than some sneaky-Pete who goes around knocking at the neighbor’s back doors when I’m not looking.”
Lucy grinned mischievously. “And who does that?”