Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (20 page)

“Al Roberts.” Lucy couldn’t believe this. What was the problem? They had to get a squad car over to Downeast Mortgage, immediately. It was a matter of life and death.

“You think he’s going to blow up Downeast Mortgage?” Krissy sounded doubtful.

“And himself. I found a suicide note.”

“But no body?”

“No! But I’m pretty sure . . . it says something about insurance money and that he hopes there’ll be
enough left
of him to donate his kidneys.”

“I don’t have an available unit,” Krissy said. “They’re all out at an accident on the interstate.”

“Call mutual aid,” Lucy snapped. The town’s rescue services had agreements with neighboring towns to provide help in an emergency.”

“I can only call mutual aid for an actual emergency,” Krissy explained.

“But that will be too late!” Lucy tried not to yell.

“Look, I’ll send a unit over to Downeast as soon as one’s available. That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry, but it’s not like anybody’s bleeding in the street.”

“Not yet,” Lucy said, flipping her phone shut and running out to her car. She repeated those words as she sped over the narrow, snow-banked roads to town. “Not yet, Lord, please, not yet. Not yet. Let me get there in time. Please. Not yet.”

It was eerily quiet when she pulled up in front of Downeast Mortgage. There had been no explosion, no boom, everything was in place. Normal. Then the door flew open and Elsie Morehouse suddenly bolted down the steps, and it wasn’t normal at all. Elsie was standing on the sidewalk, without a coat in ten-degree weather, screaming bloody murder, tears streaming down her face. Lucy grabbed the blanket she kept in the car in case of a breakdown and ran to Elsie, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. Then she produced her phone and called the police department again.

“Tell them,” she ordered, holding the phone.

“He’s got a bomb,” Elsie sobbed. “He says he’s going to blow up Mr. Scribner.”

“Move away from the building,” Krissy ordered, in a calm, cool, and professional tone of voice. “I’ve got mutual aid on the way, the bomb squad, too. But the highway’s closed due to the accident.... Move away from the building.”

Lucy closed the phone and dragged Elsie down the street. Her gaze fell on the car, which she had left right in front of the Downeast building. No way, she thought, this isn’t going to happen. There was no way she was going to lose her perfectly good but aged car, not when the insurance would only pay book value. Enough was enough, she thought, her blood rising. This had to stop.

She told Elsie to stay put and she ran back up the street to the Downeast building. At the door she paused for a moment, took a deep breath, then pulled it open. She stepped into the reception area where Ben Scribner was sitting behind Elsie’s desk, tied to a chair, white as a sheet. Al Roberts was standing behind him, strapping his homemade bomb to Scribner’s chest. “I don’t want to do this, but you wouldn’t get the message,” he was saying. “I’d wear it myself, but I don’t want my kidneys to get damaged.”

“Good thinking,” Lucy said, frantically scrolling through the directory on her phone, looking for Lexie’s contact info.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Roberts demanded. His eyes were bright, and his chin had a couple of days’ worth of stubble.

Lucy held up the phone. “I’m calling your daughter, Lexie, so you can say good-bye.” Her fingers were shaking; she’d missed the directory key and the phone was telling her to reset her ring tones.

“Get out of here!” Roberts ordered. “I’m gonna blow this place to kingdom come, and don’t think I won’t.” He paused, then added in a self-satisfied tone, “This bomb is just as big as the one I sent to Marlowe, and you know how that worked out.”

Hearing this, Scribner grew even paler, and Lucy could see that his chin was quivering.

Roberts chuckled, a harsh, staccato sound. “You’d think this bastard here would get the idea, but nothing changed. The foreclosures didn’t stop. Not even when his precious niece got hurt.”

“What?’ Scribner blinked, like a blind man who had suddenly recovered his sight. “What’s this about Florence?”

“He rigged an accident—the stage scenery fell on her.” Lucy couldn’t master her voice, which quavered. “She’s okay,” she added.

“I didn’t know,” Scribner said.

“You don’t know anything, that’s the problem,” Roberts said. “It’s just business to you, not people’s homes and lives.”

Lucy took a deep breath. “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to Lexie,” she said, hoping she sounded a lot braver than she felt. “This will ruin her life, you know.”

Roberts was quick to reply. “I’m doing it for her, and Angie.”

“You’re doing it to get back at Scribner and Marlowe and everybody you think did you wrong,” Lucy said. “Lexie will never forgive you.”

“She’ll get the insurance money.”

“They won’t pay for suicide,” Lucy said, not sure if this was true or not.

“I checked. They will.”

“What if the bomb doesn’t kill you?” Lucy asked. “What if you survive and then you have to go to jail? There’ll be no insurance then.”

There was a sudden burst of noise from outside—a siren cut short. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. The noise alerted Roberts that police had arrived and time was running out.

“You can trust me on this—there’ll be no survivors,” Roberts said. “Which is why you should get out of here. I’ll give you five. . . .”

Scribner’s eyes rolled up into his head and his chin dropped forward onto his chest.

“Hold on, what’s the rush?” Lucy was backing toward the door.

“You called the cops,” Scribner accused. “I’m not bluffing. Get out if you know what’s good for you. Four.” He paused a long moment, then said, “Three.”

Roberts’s eyes were glittering, and he was panting, hyperventilating. Lucy was utterly convinced he intended to blow himself, Scribner, and herself, too, into eternity. Heart pounding, Lucy turned and made a dash for the door when she was deafened by an enormously loud bang. Glass shattered. There was smoke and she couldn’t breathe. She was coughing and her eyes were filled with tears. Her throat stung and she couldn’t swallow. She collapsed, falling to the floor, discovering she was completely helpless and couldn’t move. She thought of Bill, of the kids, and then she didn’t think of anything at all.

When she came to, she was in an ambulance, and there was an oxygen mask over her face. A medic was leaning over her and she grabbed his arm.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said. “Teargas. You had a reaction to the teargas.”

“Bomb?” Her throat was raw and her voice came out as a croak.

“Didn’t go off,” he said. “The bomber’s in custody. The other guy’s fine—he refused treatment.” He glanced up as the ambulance braked to a stop. “Well, here we are,” he said, as she was wheeled into the emergency room. “Is there somebody you want me to call?”

Lucy shook her head. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to explain to Bill, not yet. Even worse, what was she going to tell Rachel?

I
t was truly ridiculous, Lucy thought, standing in the wings of the Community Church stage and waiting for her cue, but she felt more nervous about going onstage than she did when she charged into Downeast Mortgage that morning. Then Tiny Tim took his place in front of the toy shop window and she bustled onstage in her numerous petticoats and long, full skirt, carrying an enormous shopping basket. She was no longer Lucy Stone but instead was Mrs. Cratchit, fussing about whether nasty old Scrooge would allow her husband to spend Christmas Day with his family.

She was momentarily knocked out of character when her entrance was met with enthusiastic applause and even a few cheers. Word must have spread about her role in preventing the bombing, she realized as she waited for the audience to quiet down so she could deliver her line. She refused to think about that; in fact, she’d spent most of the day concentrating on not thinking about the entire episode.

“What were you thinking?” Bill had demanded, when she was released from the emergency room.

“I didn’t think,” Lucy had admitted, her voice a croak because her throat was still sore. “I didn’t want the car to get blown up.” She paused. “I know it was crazy.”

“I’ll say,” Bill had muttered.

“I hope my voice comes back before tonight,” she’d whispered. “I need to stop at the pharmacy and pick up some lozenges and throat spray.”

She spent a quiet afternoon watching TV and sucking on lozenges and spraying her throat, and by supper time found her voice was almost normal. The phone rang quite a bit but she ignored it, telling herself she was saving her voice. The truth was she didn’t want to talk about the confrontation with Al Roberts, didn’t even want to think about it. Most of all, she didn’t want to think about what was going to happen to Al, who would most probably spend the rest of his life in jail for sending the mail bomb that killed Jake Marlowe. So instead she flipped through old magazines and ate ice cream for lunch and searched the On Demand menu for old movies. Bill came home early and whipped up a creamy fettuccine Alfredo for dinner, but she didn’t have much appetite, due to stage fright.

When she arrived at the church at the appointed time, Rachel greeted her with a hug. “I called and called.... I was afraid you couldn’t go on tonight.”

“Sorry,” Lucy said. “I didn’t answer the phone because I was saving my voice.”

“You’re forgiven.” Rachel embraced her again. “Break a leg!”

Everyone in the cast was keyed up, and Lucy was afraid their nervousness would get in the way of their performances, but was pleased to discover it had the opposite effect. They were all on the top of their game and outdid themselves, and when Tiny Tim delivered the final line, “God bless us, everyone!” the hall erupted in cheers and stamping and clapping that went on for a very long time. The cast took one curtain call after another until they finally gave up and just stood there, clasping hands and basking in the outpouring of emotion. It was as if actors and audience were joined in one huge explosion of happy Christmas spirit.

Afterward, when Lucy had changed out of her costume, she was met at the dressing room door by Sara, who was holding an enormous bouquet of white carnations and red roses.

“For you, Mom,” she said. “You were great.”

This was the last thing Lucy expected, and she gave her daughter a big hug. “This is so sweet,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t been very sweet lately and I’m sorry,” Sara said.

Lucy’s shoulders were shaking—she was crying her heart out. After holding herself together all day, she found she couldn’t stop sobbing. Bill was there, holding her, and Rachel, too. Sara and Zoe were hugging each other, also crying.

“There, there, it’s okay,” Bill said, soothing her, and Lucy was trying to apologize for being so foolish, but couldn’t seem to stop crying. Until finally, she did.

“You’ve had a tough day,” Rachel said, wiping her own eyes and handing Lucy a wad of tissues.

“Let’s go home,” Bill urged.

“No,” Lucy said, wiping her eyes.

“No?” Bill was surprised.

“I’m starving. Let’s get a pizza.”

“Great idea!” Bill agreed. “Let’s go!”

On Monday morning, Lucy’s spirits were still high when she went to work, buoyed by the equally successful performances on Saturday evening and Sunday afternoon. Everyone agreed that
A Christmas Carol
was the Community Players’ best production in the group’s twenty-year history. Lucy suspected that the group members may have had short memories, as it seemed to her that they always believed their last show was their best. Still, she was smiling when she pushed the door open and set the little bell to jangling.

“Shhh,” Phyllis warned, pressing a raised finger to her lips.

“What’s going on?” Lucy asked.

“Ted’s meeting with Ben Scribner,” she said, looking serious. “They’ve been in the morgue for at least half an hour.”

“What’s it about?” Lucy asked.

“I don’t know, but Scribner was all business when he arrived, demanding an immediate meeting with Ted.”

“You don’t think he’s calling the note, do you?” Lucy asked anxiously.

“That would take some nerve,” Phyllis declared, “after what you did.”

“Don’t think I won’t tell him that to his face,” Lucy said, raising her voice.

At that moment the door to the morgue popped open and Lucy braced herself for bad news. Which, considering the fact that the two men were smiling and shaking hands, she immediately realized would not be necessary.

“This is excellent,” Ted said. “I’m going to put my best reporter on it right away.”

“On what?” Lucy asked, furrowing her brows.

“Ben here is developing a plan to sell back all the foreclosed homes to their previous owners at the current, reduced value with new, affordable mortgages,” Ted said. “He’s also offering refinancing on favorable terms to all mortgagors, including me, who are struggling to keep up with payments due to the recession.”

“What’s the catch?” Phyllis asked, suspecting a trick.

“No catch!” declared Scribner, who for once looked relaxed and cheerful, actually seeming happy. “It’s due to this lady here,” he said, with a nod to Lucy. “She risked her life to save my miserable skin and it got me thinking. The truth is, Jake Marlowe and I got carried away. We got greedy. We didn’t think about the people we were dealing with, and only thought about the money we were making. But when I was sitting there with that bomb strapped to my chest, I wasn’t thinking about how much money I’d made. I was thinking that I’d wasted my life. And then you came, little lady, and gave me a second chance. Believe me, I’ve done some thinking and I’m not going to waste a single second of the time I’ve got left.”

“That’s . . . wonderful.” Lucy was not quite sure what to say. It seemed to her that the earth had tilted on its axis and things were suddenly topsy-turvy.

“It’s also good business,” Scribner added, his blue eyes twinkling shrewdly. “What’s the sense of a town where all the houses are empty and decaying? Truth is, I can’t sell these properties. I’ve got too many on my hands and it’s costing me money just to keep up with repairs and maintenance. Nope, this’ll make our town, our community, stronger, and people will want to live in Tinker’s Cove. Prices will start to go up again, and the sooner the better.”

“It’s too bad you didn’t figure this out sooner,” Phyllis said, adding a “hmph.” “Coulda saved a lot of trouble.”

Scribner’s face clouded. “I know. I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for Al Roberts. I know there’s no excuse for what he did, but Jake and I, well, we certainly contributed to his troubles. I’m going to make sure he gets a good lawyer, and I’m going to help his family any way I can, especially that little girl.” He let out a big breath. “The truth is, I owe Roberts a huge debt. Jake Marlowe was a miserable person and now I’m free of him. I’m free to be myself and I’m determined to be a better person.”

Hearing this admission, the three
Pennysaver
employees were dumbfounded. Finally, Ted spoke. “Is that for the record?”

“Hell, no!” Scribner said, his face reddening. “And don’t think I won’t sue!”

Then they were all laughing, laughing until their tummies hurt and they had to sit down, and finally they couldn’t laugh anymore.

Word of Scribner’s conversion spread through town as everyone was eager to share the story of his remarkable change of heart. Christmas spirit seemed to grow with every telling; people smiled and laughed and greeted each other cheerily as they hurried to complete their preparations for the big day. The people in line at the post office to mail cards and packages shared jokes and stories, people shopping for last minute presents waited patiently for the salesclerks to ring up their purchases, and shoppers at the IGA paused to chat with each other and exchange favorite holiday recipes. In Lucy’s memory there had never been such a merry Christmas season in which everyone enjoyed such cheerful fellowship and genuine goodwill.

Lucy almost hated for it to end, but the number of remaining doors on the Advent calendar was down to two. And then there was only one and it was Christmas Eve. The presents were all bought and wrapped, the cookies baked, the tree decorated. The whole family went to church for the candlelight service; Patrick was adorable as a little lamb in the Christmas pageant. Afterward they all went on to Florence Gallagher’s open house, bearing covered dishes for the potluck supper.

Florence’s house was packed with people, but the jolly crowd was eager to make room for more. The table was loaded with delicious things to eat, carols were playing, everyone was eating and drinking and toasting the holiday. There was a hushed moment when Ben Scribner appeared, carrying a huge cooked turkey from MacDonalds’ farm store, and Florence rushed to greet him with a big hug. Then others joined in the greeting, shaking hands and patting him on the back. Watching, Lucy thought he probably hadn’t been greeted so warmly in many years, perhaps never.

She was chatting with Miss Tilley, telling her that the Angel Fund had swelled to over five thousand dollars thanks to a couple of large donations, including one from a secret giver she suspected was actually Ben Scribner, when she noticed Rachel and Bob, kissing under the mistletoe. She gave Miss Tilley a nudge, and the old woman smiled at the sight. “I’ve been so worried about Rachel,” she said. “But now it looks like things are back on track.”

“Moving in the right direction, anyway,” Lucy said, taking a sip of eggnog.

A few minutes later Sue popped in, saying she couldn’t stay long because she was on her way to New York. “Geoff’s in surgery,” she said. “He’s getting a new kidney. He’s part of a donation chain, which is actually the longest one they’ve done so far, with more than twenty exchanges. And guess what? Little Angie’s getting a kidney, too! She’s actually getting Sidra’s kidney.” She laughed. “My daughter’s kidney is coming home to Tinker’s Cove! Imagine!”

“It seems a toast is definitely called for,” Miss Tilley said, tapping her glass with a spoon.

Everyone fell silent, waiting expectantly, as Miss Tilley called for all to “charge their glasses,” using the old-fashioned phrase. When everyone’s glass had been filled, she raised hers: “To friends and family, to Tinker’s Cove . . . God bless us, everyone! Merry Christmas!”