“Now, as to the cause of death, I’m going to pass this over to Dr. Fred Singh, in the medical examiner’s office.”
Dr. Singh had a full head of black hair, thick glasses, and was wearing a white lab coat. “This was a very badly damaged body,” he began. “I didn’t have much to work with. I was able, however, to get a positive identification from the victim’s dentist, who recognized bridgework that survived the fire more or less intact. Damage to remaining bone fragments indicate both hands were amputated by the blast. It was also possible to determine that there was considerable damage to the thorax, which leads to the conclusion that death was instantaneous due to the explosive blast, and not a result of the fire.”
Amputation, bone fragments, not much to work with
. . . the words rattled around in her head and she felt dizzy.
Death was instantaneous....
That was a mercy, at least, but why would anyone intentionally and deliberately wish to inflict such a terrible fate on a fellow human being? It made her feel queasy, sick to her stomach, to imagine such evil.
“So this Marlowe was beyond saving, right?” she heard someone ask. It was Frank Harris, from the
Portland Press Herald,
seated just in front of her. She focused on the back of his neck, dotted with freckles, and the collar of his blue and green plaid shirt, and the nausea passed.
“Correct,” Singh said. He looked around. “Any more questions?”
Lucy hoped not. She wanted to get out of there and into the fresh air, but Bob Mayes raised his hand and got a nod. “So this explosion was the result of a package bomb, is that right?”
Sam Carey decided to answer that one. “Yes. The postal service was able to provide us with information that a package was delivered to the house shortly before the explosion, and PETN is consistent with that type of device. The postal worker who delivered the package remembered it because it was wrapped in festive paper, and had a
Do Not Open Till Christmas
label. He said it weighed about a pound, also consistent with the force of the explosion.”
Lucy wasn’t going to think about it, wasn’t going to entertain the possibility that it could have been Wilf, instead of Marlowe, who was killed by the bomb. Not sweet, kind Wilf, who loved Phyllis and was loved back. Not for even one second. She was shaking her head to banish the thought when Bob Mayes followed up with a second question.
“So is there some sort of Ted Kaczynski guy out there, sending mail bombs?” he asked.
“I sure hope not,” Carey said, “but only time will tell. I can tell you this: the state police, assisted by my department as well as the local Tinker’s Cove PD, are vigorously investigating this crime.”
Chapter Seven
O
n the drive back to Tinker’s Cove Lucy found herself rehashing the press conference, despite herself. The details she’d learned were truly horrible. She hadn’t really thought about the damage a mail bomb could do to a human body, and now she knew more than she wanted to know. Worst of all, however, was the notion that some insane person might at this very moment be busy building more mail bombs and disguising them as Christmas gifts. It really took the fun out of Christmas, she thought with a shudder, when you were afraid to open the packages that were such a feature of the holiday season. Even worse, she’d done most of her shopping this year on the Internet, which meant a steady stream of packages was already coming to the house.
It was almost lunchtime when she reached Tinker’s Cove, so she took a detour through the McDonald’s drive-through, but when she studied the menu she had another surge of nausea and ended up driving on without ordering. Phyllis and Ted were both out, so she quickly typed up the press conference story, skipping over the most gruesome details. The
Pennysaver
was a family newspaper, she rationalized, and she didn’t want to give anybody nightmares. It was bad enough knowing she’d have trouble sleeping tonight herself.
She had finished the story and was sending it to Ted’s file for editing when Phyllis arrived, carrying several large shopping bags with the Country Cousins logo.
“Christmas shopping?” Lucy asked.
“Yeah.” Phyllis set down the bags and unbuttoned her coat. “Ted’s at that conference today and I figured I might not get another chance to shop for Wilf. Togetherness is great—but I want his presents to be a surprise. I got him that fancy thermal underwear he’s been talking about—and some snazzy pajamas.”
“I’m all done, thanks to the Internet,” Lucy said, wishing she could go home and take the dog for a walk, anything to clear her head and lift her mood, but that was out of the question so close to deadline. She needed to work on something that would catch her interest, so she decided to tackle the foreclosure story, and called Annie Kraus, who now worked part-time in the health department.
When she identified herself and explained the reason for her call, Annie was reluctant to talk. “I don’t know, Lucy,” she said. “I don’t want everybody in town to know about my troubles.”
“I don’t have to use your name,” Lucy said.
“People will know it’s me,” Annie objected.
“Well, if they already know, they might as well get the whole story,” Lucy replied. “People need to know that low taxes come with a high price.”
“That’s a good one, Lucy,” Annie said.
“Maybe a headline,” Lucy said.
“Okay. Well, what happened to me and Larry is pretty much the same thing that happened to a lot of people. We found a cute little house that was just perfect for us. It was the cheapest house in town, but even so it was priced quite high. They were eager to help us over at Downeast, however, and signed us up with an adjustable rate mortgage. It started out at a very low interest rate but then it jumped up after a few years. By that time prices were already falling, the mortgage was for more than the house was worth, but we were managing to make the payments. Just managing. Then my hours were cut and it didn’t make any sense for us to sacrifice everything to keep the house. The stress was taking a toll on our relationship, Larry and I weren’t really getting along, so we decided to separate and I went back home to live with my parents.”
“What about Larry?” Lucy asked, thinking that losing his wife and his home could certainly make a fellow angry. That anger might have motivated him to send the mail bomb.
“Oh, he reenlisted in the coast guard. He’s on a high-endurance cutter somewhere in the Caribbean, fighting the war against drugs.” She paused. “He’s got a leave coming up and I’m hoping we’ll get back together.”
“I hope it works out for you,” Lucy said, thanking Annie and crossing Larry off her list of suspects, feeling rather ashamed of herself for suspecting a man who was serving his country.
The next town employee on her list was Nelson Macmillan, who was now a part-time natural resources officer. When she called him he was more than happy to chat; he said he had a lot of free time on his hands these days.
“It was an investment,” he said. “I was caught up in the real estate craze, and it seemed like a no-brainer. My 401(k) wasn’t growing like I thought it should, certainly not like real estate, so I cashed out, took the penalty and tax hit, and put it all into a building lot. I had about seventy-five thousand and I financed another seventy-five and thought I’d retire a rich man when I got around to selling it.” He chuckled ruefully. “It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to keep up the payments. I had seniority, terrific performance evaluations. What could go wrong?”
“The stock market took a dive, too,” Lucy said. “Your 401(k) would’ve lost value, too.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” Nelson said. “And I would’ve been okay, really, if I hadn’t had my hours cut.”
“So you must be pretty mad at the Finance Committee,” Lucy suggested.
“They were faced with a tough situation, too. Tax revenues were down—what could they do? They had to balance the budget. I don’t blame them.”
Lucy wondered if he was really telling the truth. “You’re very philosophical,” she said.
“I don’t know about that. Truth is, I’m better off than a lot of folks. I own my house free and clear, got enough for groceries and bills. I took a loss, sure, but it was a loss I could afford. The ones I feel sorry for are the folks who are losing their houses—they’re the ones who are really hurting. Especially the ones with kids.”
“You’re right,” Lucy said, putting a question mark next to his name. She suspected Nelson Macmillan might be a lot angrier than he was willing to admit.
One more call, she decided, and then she’d make herself a cup of tea. She dialed Frankie La Chance, her neighbor on Prudence Path who was a real estate agent. Frankie would be able to tell her how the foreclosures were affecting the local real estate market, as well as the increasingly tight rental market.
Frankie answered on the first ring, which rather took Lucy by surprise. “You must be sitting by the phone,” she said.
“You know it,” Frankie said. “Calls are few and far between and I don’t want to miss one.”
“That bad?” Lucy asked.
“It’s the worst I’ve ever seen,” Frankie said. “Houses that were going for five or six hundred thousand are on the market for two or three, and nobody’s buying. Believe me, now’s the time to invest. Prices have never been lower, but nobody’s got any capital.”
“What about rentals?” Lucy asked. “My daughter says rents are going up.”
“Is Sara looking for a rental?” Frankie asked, quick to sense a possible opportunity. “I’d be happy to help her find one.”
Lucy chuckled, thinking it wasn’t very long ago that Frankie spurned rentals, saying they were too much trouble for a small commission. “She’d like to get a place of her own but she doesn’t have any money,” Lucy said.
“She’s not alone, that’s for sure,” Frankie said. “And she’s right—rents are going up a bit, because people have to live somewhere when they lose their homes.” She paused. “Is this for the paper?”
“Uh, yeah,” Lucy said. “I’m doing a story on foreclosures. Do you mind if I quote you?”
“Oh, no, I’m grateful. Just be sure to mention my company, La Chance and Raymond Real Estate.”
“Will do,” Lucy said. “Thanks for your time.” She added her notes from the call to her developing story, then got up to fill the kettle.
“Put in enough for two,” Phyllis said. “I brought in some cocoa mix. With mini marshmallows.”
“I better stick to tea,” Lucy said, still not trusting her tummy. She unwrapped a tea bag and dropped it in her cup, tore open a packet of cocoa mix, which she poured into Phyllis’s mug, then went over to the window to check the sky. Snow had been predicted but you wouldn’t know it from the bright blue, cloudless sky. Of course, New England was known for rapid weather changes. If you didn’t like the weather, people said, just wait a few minutes. Nevertheless, it seemed a shame to be stuck inside on such a fine day. She’d rather be out in the woods behind her house with Libby, cutting greens to decorate the house and searching for the perfect balsam Christmas tree.
The kettle whistled and Lucy filled the mugs; she was just giving Phyllis her cocoa when the police scanner went off. Lucy didn’t recognize the code but she knew the address.
Once again it was Downeast Mortgage.
Abandoning her tea, she grabbed her jacket and headed out the door. The fire trucks were already racing down Main Street, and she followed on foot, figuring the car would only be an encumbrance.
She was out of breath when she joined the small crowd of bystanders that Barney Culpepper was urging to step back. The reason was clear: a gaily wrapped package with a
Do Not Open Till Christmas
label was lying on the sidewalk in front of the Downeast Mortgage office. She stared at it, eyes wide with terror, aware of the terrible damage it could inflict if it was what it seemed to be: a second bomb.
“We don’t want a tragedy,” he was saying, as a couple of firemen began unrolling a bright yellow
Do Not Cross
tape, creating a spacious perimeter around the package and moving the bystanders some distance down the street. “You don’t want to be anywhere near that thing if it goes off.”
“How long before the bomb squad gets here?” Lucy asked. The details she’d learned that morning about the bomb that blew up Marlowe’s house were all too fresh in her mind and she eyed the package warily.
“Any time now. Lucky for us they were at a training session in Knoxport.”
Lucy studied the package, a rectangular shape wrapped in red and green Christmas paper. “How’d it get here? It doesn’t look like it was mailed.”
“It wasn’t,” Barney said. “Elsie found it hanging from the knob in a plastic grocery bag—you know how people do, when the door is locked.”
Lucy knew. She’d often done the same thing, leaving a requested book or returning a potluck dish, when nobody answered the door. “Do you really think it’s a bomb?” she asked. “The bomb that killed Marlowe was sent in the mail.”
“We’re not taking any chances,” Barney said, as the bomb team’s special van arrived with a containment trailer in tow. The team, which consisted of four extremely fit-looking young men in blue uniforms and one German shepherd dog, assembled outside the vehicle. Soon one member was dressed in bulky protective padding, and the dog was also togged out in a flak jacket. Lucy snapped photos as the dog and its handler cautiously approached the suspect package.
It was a tense moment and everyone who was watching seemed to be holding their breath. When the dog froze, keeping his eyes fixed on the package, there was a general inhalation followed by a burst of panicked chatter. “It’s the real thing,” said one woman. “Oh my God,” said another, white-faced with tension.
Then the dog and its handler withdrew to the van while another bomb squad member conferred with fire chief Buzz Bresnahan. Moments later the crew opened one of the van’s doors and pulled out a metal ramp, allowing a remote-controlled robot to descend. All eyes were on the robot, watching as it approached the package.
Lucy worked her way through the crowd until she was beside Buzz. “That’s quite a gadget,” she said.
“They call it Andros,” he said. “They got it with Homeland Security money. It’s got an extendable arm and four video cameras.”
Lucy studied the mechanical marvel, which ran on four wheels, had one arm, and a video camera for a head. “It looks like something a kid could make out of Legos,” she said.
“No way. This is highly sophisticated machinery. It was just luck that the squad was so close today,” Buzz said. “Otherwise we’d have had to wait for them to make the trip from Bangor.”
“Pretty lucky.” Lucy noticed Ben Scribner and Elsie, standing in a tight group along with other evacuees from nearby businesses. They were all wearing worried expressions and generally looking quite miserable in the cold. Only a few had thought to grab coats or jackets. Scribner was more warmly dressed than most, in a Harris tweed jacket, but he was visibly shivering. Lucy wondered if he was reacting to the chilly weather or actually quaking with fear. Elsie, who seemed capable of handling any challenge, was wearing a fur-trimmed parka and had pulled the hood up so that it covered her face. Maybe she was protecting her complexion from the cold, Lucy thought. Or maybe she wanted to hide her fear? Or perhaps she was concealing a different emotion?
Lucy’s attention was diverted by the robot, which was advancing toward the package, moving at a stately pace and emitting a humming noise. When it was within a few feet it stopped and the arm was maneuvered so that it picked up the package. Then Andros rolled backward along the sidewalk until it reached the containment trailer, where the suspect package was deposited. The trailer was sealed, Andros returned to its compartment, and the bomb squad members, including the dog, returned to their van and drove off, leaving the yellow tape fluttering around an empty sidewalk.
Lucy got busy, requesting comments from a few of the bystanders. Dora Fraser, from the nearby fudge shop, was full of praise for the bomb team. “If that thing had gone off,” she said, “my store would’ve been blown to kingdom come.” Cliff Sandstrom, who worked at the liquor store across the street, shared his concern about a second package bomb. “I hope this isn’t the work of some maniac,” he said, furrowing his brow.
Lucy also wanted to get a reaction from Ben Scribner, but there was no sign of him on the street and when she tried the office door she discovered it was locked. She knocked, but nobody answered. Pulling out her cell phone, she called, but her call went to voice mail. She left a message, then walked back to the office, reviewing the photos in her digital camera on the way.