You would have thought the football team scored a touchdown, she thought, stomping along the sidewalk that tilted this way and that from frost heaves. Nobody cared that a precious bit of the town’s heritage was going up in smoke. Nobody but her.
The
Pennysaver
office was empty when she arrived. Phyllis, the receptionist, and Ted, who was publisher, editor, and chief reporter, were most likely at the fire. Good, she thought, he could write the story. She took off her parka and hung it on the coatrack, filled the coffeepot and got it brewing, and then she booted up her computer. She was checking her e-mails when the little bell on the door jangled and Ted entered.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, unwrapping his scarf. “Don’t you know Jake Marlowe’s house is burning down?” He had removed his Bruins ski cap and was running his fingers through his short, salt and pepper hair.
“I was there. I left.”
“How come?” His face was squarish and clean-shaven, his brow furrowed in concern. “That’s not like you, leaving a big story.”
“The crowd freaked me out,” she said, wrapping her arms across her chest and hugging herself. “Sara was there—she was part of it, screaming along with the rest.”
“You know what they say about a mob. It’s only as smart as the dumbest member,” Ted said, pouring himself a mug of coffee. “Want a cup?”
“Sure,” Lucy replied. When he gave her the mug she wrapped her fingers around it for warmth. “I always liked that old house,” she said, taking a sip. “I sometimes imagined it the way it used to be. A painted lady, that’s what they call those fancy Victorians.”
“Marlowe didn’t take care of it. It was a firetrap. Truth be told, it should’ve been condemned and it would’ve been if Marlowe wasn’t such a big shot in town. But he was on the Finance Committee and the fire chief wasn’t about to mess with him, not with Marlowe constantly pushing the committee to cut the department’s budget.”
“I wonder where Marlowe was,” Lucy mused, setting her cup down. “I didn’t see him in the crowd. Did you?”
Ted tossed the wooden stirrer into the trash and carried his mug over to his desk, an old rolltop he’d inherited from his grandfather, who was a legendary New England newspaperman. “Nope, he wasn’t there.”
“Maybe he went away for the holiday,” Lucy speculated. “Probably for the best. It would be awful to watch your house burn down.”
“Yeah,” Ted said, clicking away on his keyboard. “I’ve got a meeting this afternoon over in Gilead. Do me a favor and follow up with the fire chief before you go home.”
Lunch was long past and Ted had gone to his meeting when Lucy noticed the rattling of the old wooden Venetian blinds that covered the plate glass windows, indicating the fire trucks were finally returning to the station down the street. A few minutes later Phyllis came in, wearing a faux leopard skin coat and sporting a streak of soot on her face. “Jake Marlowe’s house burned to the ground!” she exclaimed. “What a show. Too bad you missed it.”
“I was there for a while,” Lucy said. “Your face is dirty.”
“Oh, thanks.” Phyllis hung up her coat and went into the tiny bathroom, lifting the harlequin reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck as she went. “Look at that,” Lucy heard her saying. “It’s soot from the fire. And no wonder—that old house is still smoldering.”
“It was some blaze,” Lucy said.
Phyllis sat at her desk and applied a liberal glob of hand lotion. “I wonder how it started,” she said.
“There was an explosion,” Lucy said, suddenly remembering the boom that had disrupted the SAC demonstration.
“Must’ve been gas—I don’t know why people mess around with that stuff. It’s awfully dangerous.”
“I wonder,” Lucy said, reaching for the phone and dialing. In a moment of madness, when he was looking for publicity for a food drive, Chief Buzz Bresnahan had given her his personal cell phone number. Lucy was careful not to abuse the privilege, but today she figured his secretary would be blocking calls.
“Lucy,” he barked. “Make it fast.”
“Okay. Any idea how the fire started? Was it a gas leak?”
“Not gas. We’re not sure. The fire marshal is investigating. It’s definitely suspicious.”
“Any injuries?”
“No, I’m happy to say,” Bresnahan replied. “Gotta go. You better check with the fire marshal’s office. I’m pretty sure this is going to turn out to be a case of arson.”
“Arson?” Lucy asked, but Buzz had already gone.
Chapter Two
S
everal firemen and a police patrol remained at the site of the fire through the weekend, watching for flare-ups and keeping thrill seekers and souvenir hunters away from the smoldering pile of rubble. On Monday the fire marshal’s team arrived, along with two trained dogs, Blaze and Spark. It didn’t take Blaze very long to make a disturbing discovery: the ruins contained a badly burned body, most probably that of the owner, Jake Marlowe.
Lucy finally got confirmation from police chief Jim Kirwan on Wednesday, just before deadline. “Yup, Lucy,” he said, “it was definitely murder. Somebody sent Marlowe a mail bomb. It blew up in his face when he opened it.”
“Are they sure it was actually Marlowe?” Lucy asked. “I thought there wasn’t much left.”
“It was definitely Marlowe. His body was in the kitchen. Well, where the kitchen used to be. And Dr. Frost, the dentist who lives next door, recognized some bridgework he did for Marlowe.”
“How can they tell it was a mail bomb?” Lucy asked. “Didn’t the fire destroy the evidence?”
“I don’t know the details; all I know is what the state fire marshal tells me and he says it was a mail bomb. No doubt about it.”
“Was it mailed locally?”
“Uh, that he didn’t know,” Kirwan admitted. “We’ve got the post office working on it, but the assumption is that it was a local job. Think about it: Marlowe wasn’t very popular around town. A lot of people have lost, or are about to lose, their homes to Downeast Mortgage. And Marlowe didn’t do himself any favors with that FinCom vote cutting town employees’ hours. No, we’ve got suspects coming out of the woodwork, lots of them.” He chuckled. “Which reminds me, Lucy. Who’s holding your mortgage?”
Lucy found herself grinning. “Nobody. We paid ours off last year.”
“Lucky devils,” Jim said. “I wish I hadn’t refinanced back in two thousand seven when all the so-called financial experts were saying it was the thing to do. Now I’m underwater, like most everybody else in town. I owe more than the house is worth.”
“Just hang on,” Lucy advised. “Prices will go back up; they always do.”
“I dunno,” Kirwan said. “This is one time I kinda feel for the guy who did it. Truth is, I would’ve liked to do it myself.”
“I’m assuming that’s off the record,” Lucy said.
“Uh, yeah,” Kirwan said.
Sitting in Jake’s Donut Shop on Thursday morning—this longtime Tinker’s Cove institution was named after its owner, Jake Prose—Lucy was staring at the front page photo of Marlowe’s burning mansion and mourning the quote she couldn’t use. What a bombshell that would have been! Police chief goes rogue! If only she hadn’t promised to keep his revealing statement off the record.
“Hey, Lucy.” It was her best friend, Sue Finch, and Lucy hopped up to greet her with a hug.
“Some fire,” Sue said, glancing at the paper as she took her seat and shrugged out of her shearling coat.
Lucy tapped the head of a small figure standing in the crowd. “That’s Sara. She was supposed to be in class but she was out demonstrating with the college’s Social Action Committee.”
“So Sara’s suddenly developed a social conscience?” Sue asked, removing her beret and smoothing her glossy black pageboy with her beautifully manicured hands. “I’m only asking because that leader, Seth, is pretty good looking.” She was pointing to the photo of Seth, his fist raised in defiance.
“You think she’s interested in him, not the issues?” Lucy asked. She hadn’t considered this possibility.
Sue rolled her eyes. “Yes, I do. And by the way, what do I have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?”
Norine, the waitress, was on it. “Sorry, Sue. I got distracted,” she said, setting a couple of mugs on the table and filling them. “Ever since the fire I just can’t seem to concentrate.” She shuddered. “I didn’t like Marlowe—nobody did—but that’s a terrible way to go.”
“You said it,” Pam Stillings chimed in, arriving with Rachel Goodman. Pam was married to Lucy’s boss, Ted, and she and Rachel completed the group of four friends who met for breakfast every Thursday at Jake’s.
“That poor man,” Rachel added, lowering her big doe eyes and shaking her head. Rachel was a soft touch, who provided home care for the town’s oldest resident, Miss Julia Ward Howe Tilley.
“He wasn’t poor,” Lucy said, knowing perfectly well that Rachel hadn’t been referring to Marlowe’s finances. “He was making a bundle off those mortgages and almost everybody in town has one. Chief Kirwan told me he’s got more suspects than he can count.”
Norine arrived with coffee for Rachel and green tea for Pam, who ate only natural, organic foods. “You girls want the usual?” she asked. Receiving nods all round, she departed, writing on her order pad as she went.
“Let’s not talk about the fire,” Rachel suggested. “I’ve got big news.”
“Go on,” Sue urged. She didn’t like dramatic pauses unless she was making them.
“I’m directing the Community Players’ holiday production,” Rachel announced. “It’s Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol,
and I want you all to audition.”
“Count me out,” Sue said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t act my way out of a paper bag but I’ll be happy to handle the refreshments.”
“Great,” Rachel said. “But I think you’d make a fabulous Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“That’s a joke, right?” Sue asked suspiciously.
“Yeah,” Rachel admitted. “But I do think Lucy would be great as Mrs. Cratchit. She’s so warm and motherly.”
“Me?” Lucy didn’t recognize herself in that description.
“Actually, yes,” Sue said. “You are warm and motherly, even grandmotherly.”
Lucy gave her friend a dirty look. “I adore Patrick,” she said, naming her son Toby’s little boy, “but you have to admit I’m a young grandmother.”
“My grandmother wore thick stockings and lace-up oxfords with heels,” Pam recalled. “White in the summer and black after Labor Day. I don’t think they make them anymore. Her breasts went down to her waist and she wore her gray hair in a bun.”
“Fortunately for Lucy they’ve invented underwire bras and hair dye,” Sue remarked.
“And sneakers,” Lucy added, naming her favorite footwear as Norine delivered her order of two eggs over easy with corned beef hash and whole wheat toast. Norine passed Rachel her usual Sunshine muffin, gave Pam her yogurt topped with granola, and refilled Sue’s cup with coffee.
“Auditions are tonight,” Rachel said. “Will you come, Lucy? And how about you, Pam?”
“Ofay,” Lucy agreed, her mouth full of buttery toast.
“I’m too busy for rehearsals,” Pam said, “but I can do the program for you. I’ll get ads and Ted can design it and get it printed.”
“That would be great,” Rachel said. “Any money we make will go to the Hat and Mitten Fund.”
They all nodded in approval. The Hat and Mitten Fund, which provided warm clothing and school supplies for the town’s needy children, was a favorite charity.
“Maybe we could give part of the money to the Cunninghams,” Lucy suggested. “They’re having a hard time right now. Their little girl, Angie, has kidney disease and there are a lot of expenses their health insurance doesn’t cover.”
“That’s a good idea, Lucy,” Pam said, a member of the town Finance Committee. “Lexie is one of the town employees whose hours were cut.”
“How awful for them,” Rachel said. “Just having a sick child is bad enough, but now the Cunninghams have all these financial worries, too.”
“They may lose their house,” Lucy said.
“Oh,” Pam groaned. “I feel so responsible.”
“But you voted against those cuts,” Sue said.
“The vote was three to two,” Pam said. “Frankie and I were the nays—we were outnumbered by the men.” She paused. “But now that Marlowe is no longer with us there’s a vacancy on the board. Right now we’re evenly divided. Taubert and Hawthorne have one goal: keep taxes low. Frankie and I aren’t exactly big spenders, but we have a more moderate approach. We need to fill that vacancy with another moderate who understands the value of town services.”
“And town employees,” Rachel added.
“You’re right,” Pam said. “Marlowe actually called them parasites who were sucking the taxpayers dry.”
“Sounds like a real sweetheart,” Sue said sarcastically.
“Not really,” Pam said. “So if you can think of anybody who’d be willing to take on a thoroughly thankless task by joining the FinCom, let me know. We want to choose someone at the next meeting.”
“Ted did put an announcement in the paper,” Lucy said. “Maybe you’ll get some volunteers.”
“It’s a bad time of year to recruit a new member,” Pam said. “Everybody’s busy with Christmas.”
“That’s true,” Lucy said, remembering that her husband, Bill, had recently expressed a desire to become more active in town affairs. Maybe this was something he’d be interested in doing. She filed that thought for later and turned her attention to her friends.
“Don’t forget the auditions tonight,” Rachel was saying. “At the Community Church. Can I count on you, Lucy?”
“Okay,” Lucy agreed. The audition would make a nice human interest story and she was certain there was no way she was going to get a role. She was no Mrs. Cratchit, for sure.
After leaving Jake’s, Lucy spent a few hours at the
Pennysaver,
filing news releases and typing up events for the Things to Do This Week column. As Phyllis had pointed out, there were more listings than usual, because of Christmas. All of the churches were holding bazaars, the Historical Society was having a cookie sale, and the high school was giving a holiday concert. Going beyond Tinker’s Cove, the Gilead Artists were having a small works sale, the South Coast Horticultural Society was holding a gala Festival of Trees and the Coastal Chorale invited one and all to join them in singing Handel’s
Messiah
.
“If you did all these things you wouldn’t have any time to shop or wrap presents or send Christmas cards,” Lucy observed.
“Nobody sends Christmas cards anymore,” said Phyllis, who ought to know because her husband, Wilf, was a mail carrier. “They e-mail holiday greetings.”
“I never thought of that,” Lucy said.
“Well, don’t,” Phyllis said. “The postal service is having enough problems. They need the business.”
“They can count on me,” Lucy said. “I always send cards and I like getting them. I put them up around the kitchen door.”
She was typing the listing for the preschool story hour when she had an unsettling thought. “Phyllis, did Wilf deliver that postal bomb they think killed Jake Marlowe?”
Phyllis wrapped her fuzzy purple sweater tightly across her ample bosom and blinked behind her pink and black harlequin reading glasses. “I think he must have,” she said in a very small voice. “I know the state police have questioned him.”
“They don’t think . . .” Lucy began.
“I certainly hope not!” Phyllis exclaimed. “He was just doing his job, delivering the mail. He doesn’t know what’s in the packages—how could he?”
“Of course not,” Lucy said. But she was thinking how terrible it would have been if the bomb had exploded early. And seeing Phyllis’s bleak expression, Lucy knew her coworker was thinking the very same thing.
When Lucy left the office she checked her list of errands. She needed to cash a check at the bank, the wreaths she’d ordered from the high school cheerleaders were awaiting pickup, and she had to do her weekly grocery shopping. First stop, she decided, was the drive-through at the bank, which was at one end of Main Street. Then she’d zip down Parallel Street to the school, avoiding traffic, and get the wreaths. From there she could sneak into the IGA parking lot from the back, missing the traffic light on Main Street.
She hadn’t forgotten about the fire, but she was distracted, making plans for Christmas as she drove along Parallel Street, so it was quite a shock when Marlowe’s burned house came into view. She immediately slowed the car, taking in the scorched chimneys, the flame-scarred walls, and the stinking, blackened pile of debris surrounded by a fluttering yellow ribbon of
DO NOT CROSS
tape that was all that remained of the once magnificent house. She’d seen fires before, of course. Fires were big news and she’d had to cover quite a few in her career, but she’d rarely seen one that was so completely destructive. Marlowe’s burned-out house was a frightening sight, especially to someone like her, who also happened to live in an antique house.
Batteries, she reminded herself, pressing the accelerator. Don’t forget to buy fresh batteries for the smoke alarms.
Not surprisingly, the IGA was out of nine-volt batteries, even the expensive brand-name ones. “We’re expecting a shipment on Saturday,” said Dot Kirwan, the cashier, who also happened to be police chief Jim Kirwan’s mother. Her son Todd was also a police officer, and her daughter, Krissy, the town’s emergency dispatcher. Dot was well connected and Lucy cultivated her as a prime source of information. “There’s been a run on them since the fire. You’re supposed to change the batteries when you put your clock back in the spring but it seems that a lot of folks aren’t going to wait. They’re doing it while it’s fresh on their mind.”
“Any progress on the fire?” Lucy asked, as she began to unload her cart.
“Not that I’ve heard,” Dot said. She had permed gray hair cut short and wore a bright red smock with her official IGA name tag pinned on her left breast. “They sent some stuff to the crime lab, but I don’t think they’re going to learn much more than they already know. It was a mail bomb—anybody could’ve sent it.”
“Anybody who knows how to make a mail bomb,” Lucy said.
“There’s instructions on the Internet,” Dot said. “You could make one, if you wanted.”
“Well, I don’t,” Lucy said.
“Me, either.” Dot scanned a package of veggie burgers, a mainstay of Sara’s diet. “Tell the truth, I kind of miss old Jake. He was a regular customer, came in most days.”