“I take it you’re not interested in buying an ad,” Pam said.
“You’d be right.” Scribner revealed his teeth in something that was more like a grimace than a smile.
“And I presume you don’t want to donate to the Angel Fund,” Lucy said.
“Exactly right.”
“We won’t bother you further,” Pam said.
“Good.” Scribner dismissed them with a curt nod and they left, practically on tiptoes, closing the door quietly behind them.
Back outside, they shivered and pulled on their gloves.
“Wow, what a cheapskate,” Lucy said.
“We shouldn’t be judgmental,” Pam said. She taught yoga and had studied Eastern religions. “He’s having a difficult time coping with his loss.”
“You’d think that would make him more understanding of others’ problems, more compassionate.”
“Grief takes everyone differently,” Pam said.
“He didn’t seem grief stricken to me,” Lucy said. “He seemed put out that his partner died and left him with a lot of extra work to do.”
“You could be right,” Pam admitted, pausing in front of Fern’s Famous Fudge. “I hear that all the time, you know. If people are poor it’s their own fault—they should just work harder. But there’s only so many hours in the day and wages have gone down, not up, in the past few years, and that’s if you can even get a job.”
“I blame those big box stores,” Lucy said.
“You’ve got a point. They pay minimum wage and they don’t give any benefits, and worst of all, they don’t give people a full week’s worth of hours. They keep them on call, have them come in when they need them, which means they can’t get a second job because they don’t know when they’ll be called to work.”
Lucy bit her lip, thinking this sounded a lot like her working conditions at the
Pennysaver
. Pam’s husband, Ted, didn’t offer health insurance, and she and Phyllis often joked that their wages made them more like volunteers than employees.
“I know,” Lucy said. “People used to make a living working in the local stores, but those little businesses can’t compete with the national chains.”
“Look at the empty storefronts,” Pam said, with a wave of her hand. “The Mad Hatter, Chanticleer Chocolates, Mainely Books—they’re all gone.”
Lucy lowered her voice and nodded toward the pink and white striped curtains that hung in the windows at Fern’s Famous. “Sara told me this morning she went in to see if they needed help for the holidays and Dora told her business is so bad she can’t use her.”
“Tell me about it,” Pam moaned. “Ads are down at the
Pennysaver.
Fern’s Famous cut their budget, and a lot of businesses aren’t advertising at all. Ted’s really worried. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going.”
Lucy’s heart skipped a beat and her tummy tightened. As much as she complained about her working conditions, she loved her job. She couldn’t imagine her life without it. “That’s awful,” was all she could say.
“Oh, don’t worry. He’s been drawing on the home equity line to make up the difference.” Pam laughed. “We’ll be fine as long as this recession doesn’t go on too long.” She paused, pulling the door open and holding it for Lucy. “And if real estate values recover.”
“Hi, ladies,” Dora said, greeting them from her spot behind the counter. “What can I do for you?”
Lucy inhaled the warm, seductive scent of chocolate and gazed at the vintage picture that hung on the wall as Pam launched into her spiel. If only life was like that picture, full of sunshine and chocolate and smiling cows and apple-cheeked children. But it looked as if it was going to be a long, hard winter in Tinker’s Cove this year.
Chapter Six
W
hen Lucy got to the office on Monday, Phyllis was at her desk but Ted hadn’t come in yet. She didn’t hesitate to unburden herself of the disturbing knowledge that had bothered her all weekend, following Pam’s admission of financial trouble.
“I was out selling ads for the Community Players’ program with Pam on Saturday,” she began, unwinding her scarf and removing her jacket. “She told me some pretty scary stuff about our jobs.”
Phyllis smoothed her sparkly, beaded cardigan over her significant bust and leaned forward, propping her elbows on her desk. “Really? What did she say?”
Lucy went over to the chest-high reception counter that separated Phyllis’s work space from the rest of the office. “She said Ted is borrowing against their home equity line to keep the
Pennysaver
going—and she doesn’t know how long they can keep doing it.”
The thin lines that were all that remained of Phyllis’s eyebrows rose above her reading glasses and she nodded, causing her double chins to quiver. “Now that you mention it, I’m not surprised. Ads have been way down.” She plucked a copy of the
Pennysaver
from the pile on the counter. “See how thin it is? That’s because there’s hardly any ads. He’s even got a full page house ad touting lower ad rates.”
“I feel really stupid,” Lucy admitted. “Here I’m supposed to be a reporter and I never noticed. I’ve been so wrapped up in Christmas and the show and the kids I didn’t notice what was going on right under my nose. Now it turns out I might not have a job—and at Christmas, too.”
“That’s when the pink slips always come out, which is pretty ironic if you ask me,” Phyllis said.
“Right. Just when people’s budgets are stretched to the max buying presents and fancy food and all the Christmas stuff. Even the electric bill goes sky high, what with all the lights.”
Phyllis’s expression was thoughtful as she examined her freshly manicured nails, done in Christmasy red and green stripes. “But if you’re realistic, it’s not much of a job,” she said in a consoling tone. “My pay barely covers my manis and hair appointments.”
Lucy scowled, acknowledging that she had a valid point. “If I get some overtime my check might cover the week’s groceries and a tank of gas—but it’s my job and I like it.”
“I know. It’s kind of fun. . . .” Phyllis paused, then added, “Some of the time. But face it, I can’t remember the last time we got raises. And there’s no benefits, none. It’s not a real job like Wilf has with health insurance and a pension plan.”
“I hate to rain on your parade,” Lucy said, “but the postal service is in trouble, too. They’re talking about huge layoffs.”
“They’ll work it out, they always do,” Phyllis said, adding a long sigh. “Frankly, I’d be more than happy if he would take early retirement. I’ve been sick with worry ever since that bomb. He must’ve delivered it, you know. He handled it. What if it went off? It could’ve been him who got killed and not mean old Jake Marlowe.”
Just then the little bell on the door jangled and Ted marched in, apparently full of vim and vigor. “What’s up? How come you’re gossiping? Don’t you have any work to do?”
“Just keeping our fingers on the pulse of news in Tinker’s Cove,” Lucy said, hurrying over to her desk.
“And what exactly is so interesting this morning?” Ted asked, stuffing his gloves in the pocket of his parka.
“Cuts in postal service,” Lucy said. “I think we ought to interview the postmaster, see what the effect would be. Talk to Country Cousins—they send out all those catalogs.”
Ted hung up his coat on the old-fashioned stand that tipped this way and that with each new addition. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Lucy. Why don’t you get on it?”
“Righto,” Lucy said, booting up her computer. While it clicked and groaned with the effort of turning itself on, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Now, in addition to the town committee meetings that she routinely covered, she also had two stories that required a lot of research: foreclosures and postal cuts. Sighing, she reached for the phone, dialing the post office. She was listening to it ring, unanswered, when Wilf Lundgren arrived with the morning mail.
“Hi, sweetie,” he greeted his wife, setting the bundle, neatly fastened with a big rubber band, on the counter.
“Hi, yourself,” she said, slipping the band off and giving it back to him. “You can use this again.”
“Sure will,” he said, beaming at her. Wilf had a round face and his cheeks were red from the cold; he was wearing the regulation blue gray postal uniform. “How’s your day been so far?”
“Looking better now that you’re here,” she replied, with a wink.
“Cut it out, you two,” Ted groaned. “You’re making me sick.”
“Party pooper,” Phyllis snapped. She turned to Wilf. “Have you got a date for lunch?”
“Do now,” Wilf said, turning to go.
“Hold on,” Lucy cried. “Don’t go. I need to talk to the postmaster, but nobody’s answering the phone.”
Wilf adopted a concerned expression. “What for? Do you have a complaint?”
“No, no. I’m just doing a story about these proposed service cuts, that’s all.”
“I can give you the postmaster’s private line, but you’ve got to promise not to say I gave it to you,” he said.
Lucy jotted it down. “Thanks.”
Ted was pouring himself a cup of coffee. “How’s everybody holding up over there?” he asked, taking a long drink. “Are they worried?”
Wilf shrugged and shifted his heavy bag from one shoulder to the other. “Trying not to,” he said. “It’s out of our control. There’s nothing we can do about it. It’s like that bomb that I delivered to Marlowe. It coulda gone off in my bag—lucky for me it didn’t. Maybe we’ll get lucky and keep our jobs. Maybe we won’t.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it!” Phyllis exclaimed, with a shudder. “It makes me crazy just to think about that thing going off.”
“Yeah,” Lucy agreed. “It’s scary to think anybody could wrap up an explosive and mail it.”
“You said it. It looked like a Christmas present. Even had a
Do Not Open Till Christmas
label.” Wilf shoved out his lower lip. “He should’ve waited; he’d still be alive if he hadn’t been such a greedy bastard.”
“This isn’t the first time there have been mail bombs,” Lucy said. “And there was that anthrax scare. People don’t realize that being a postal worker is so risky.”
“It’s the first time we ever had a package bomb here in Tinker’s Cove and I sure hope it’s the last,” Wilf said, glancing at the regulator clock on the wall and heading for the door. “I gotta get going. I’m behind my schedule.” He tipped his hat to Phyllis and added a wink. “See you later, babe.”
Lucy was laughing; she’d thrown her head back and sent her wheeled desk chair scooting backward. “He’s wild about you, Phyllis!” she hooted.
Phyllis pursed her lips primly, but her cheeks had gone quite pink. “Our anniversary’s coming up.”
“How long is it now?” Ted asked.
“Four years.”
“And you’re still like newlyweds,” Lucy said.
“It’s true,” Phyllis said, as the fax machine went into action with a whirring sound. “I think it’s because we married late. I don’t think either one of us ever thought we’d find the right one.”
“I guess you were smart to wait,” Lucy said, as Phyllis handed her the fax.
“It’s from the funeral home. Marlowe’s memorial service is Friday afternoon.”
“I don’t imagine there’s much of a body since he was already cremated in the fire,” Ted said, causing the two women to groan.
“Who’s paying for it?” Lucy wondered. “I don’t think Marlowe had any family and I can’t imagine Scribner would spend a penny he didn’t absolutely have to.”
“Unlikely,” Ted agreed.
“There won’t be much of a spread,” Phyllis predicted. “Probably nothing but tea punch and lemon cookies. I don’t know if it’s worth going. There probably won’t be much of a turnout. Marlowe wasn’t very popular.”
“Maybe not,” Lucy said, “but chances are whoever sent that bomb will be there, and I’m going to be there, too.”
“I don’t think the bomber will be wearing a sign, Lucy, and your week is filling up,” Ted said, going through his e-mails. “The state fire marshal’s holding a press conference tomorrow morning, in Augusta. I’ve got that publishers’ conference, so you’ll have to cover it.”
“What time?” Lucy asked, thinking she would need at least an hour to drive to the state’s capitol.
“Ten.”
“That’s not too bad, but it will take most of the morning. I don’t think I’ll have time for those feature stories.”
“Next week, then,” Ted said, uncharacteristically accommodating.
On Tuesday, Lucy was on the road by eight-thirty, which turned out to be a very good thing. She made good time on the drive to Augusta, but her GPS completely failed her when she got to the office park where the state fire marshal’s office was located. It was a maze of confusing roads and it took her some time before she located the public safety building, where the office was located. Once there, she encountered strict security and had to provide her credentials and allow her bag to be searched; only then was she allowed to pass through the metal detector.
It all seemed to be a lot of fuss about nothing. When she got to the press room she found only a handful of reporters had bothered to show up. The room was clearly set up for an important event: a large video screen stood behind a long table equipped with microphones, and chairs had been set out for at least fifty people. Lucy took a seat next to Bob Mayes, who was a stringer for the
Boston Globe
.
When state fire marshal Sam Carey took his seat, along with three or four others, he was obviously disappointed at the lack of interest. “This has been a remarkably successful investigation, and was conducted in record time,” he announced. “I’m a big believer in giving credit where credit is due, and a good deal of credit goes to the Tinker’s Cove Fire Department, which provided important evidence.” He gave a nod to Buzz Bresnahan, the Tinker’s Cove fire chief, who was seated at the end of the table.
Lucy caught Buzz’s eye and gave him a little wave as she copied the quote in her long, narrow, spiral-bound reporter’s notebook.
“I’m going to pass this over to Phil Simmons, the fire investigator who led the investigation into the fatal Tinker’s Cove fire,” Carey said, passing the mic to a large, heavy man with curly brown hair and a thick beard.
“Let me begin by saying this investigation was considerably simplified by the fact we knew the fire originated with an explosion. We have the incident records from the TCFD, which responded to a loud explosive blast at precisely oh-nine-one-six hours on November twenty-third. According to this report, the structure at Thirty-five Parallel Street was close to flashover point when the first engine arrived at oh-nine-twenty hours. This is consistent with observed test fire patterns in which a temperature of six hundred degrees was reached between one hundred seventy-three and two hundred fifty-six seconds.”
Lucy did a quick computation, discovering that it only took a little more than four minutes for a fire to grow out of control.
“Response was hampered by the fact that the home owner was a hoarder and access to the home was blocked by falling debris. The fire was also fed by this debris, which included a large amount of newspaper. Responders had no choice but to allow the fire to burn and concentrated their efforts on protecting adjacent homes.
“I’ll hand this over to Chief Bresnahan now, and he can give you his personal response to the situation.”
Buzz Bresnahan was dressed in his official fire chief suit, the one he wore to all the funerals, and all that navy blue and gleaming brass made him look a lot more impressive than the plaid shirt and jeans he usually wore. He squared his shoulders and leaned forward to speak into the mic.
“The heat from the fire was already quite intense when we arrived and flashover occurred before we got any hoses operational. Access to the structure was blocked, but the initial explosion had blown out a couple of windows in the kitchen area, which allowed oxygen to feed the fire. This abnormally high fuel load along with the abundant oxygen made for a very hot fire. Added to this was the heavy load of hoarded materials on the second floor, which caused the second story to collapse.” He paused. “I’ve been criticized for not taking a more aggressive approach to this fire but my first responsibility is to the firefighters and I was not about to endanger their lives. It was only a matter of minutes before that fire reached at least a thousand degrees and it would have been suicide for anyone to attempt to enter the structure.”
Lucy wrote it down:
a thousand degrees
. She couldn’t imagine such heat. Her oven went to five hundred degrees, tops. A thousand degrees would be twice as hot. No wonder the fire had been so destructive.
“I made the decision to let the fire burn itself out and then to do everything I could to recover what evidence we could for the state crime lab to analyze,” he concluded.
“That brings us to the next stage of the investigation,” Phil Simmons said. “Jim Cronin is with the Fire Debris Analysis Unit and he’ll tell us what they were able to discover.”
“People think most of the evidence is destroyed in a fire but that is not necessarily true,” said Cronin, a tall, intense man whose hair was thinning. “We used two of our fire dogs, Blaze and Smoky. Blaze is trained to identify human remains and Smoky’s specialty is accelerants. They were both successful. Blaze found a badly damaged body, which was identified by dental work as that of Jake Marlowe. Smoky indicated debris containing accelerant, and using chromatography we identified two sources: PETN, a nitroglycerin-style compound that we think created the initial explosion, and kerosene, most likely from a heater, which would explain the rapid ignition that took place.”