“Just call the plumber or the mechanic,” Lucy sensibly advised.
“But the expense,” her mother protested.
“You've got plenty of money. I think you're really worried about yourselfâwhether you can cope without Daddy.”
“I miss him so much. I still expect him to walk through the door at five-thirty every night.”
“I keep seeing men who remind me of him,” confided Lucy. “I'll be in a parking lot and I'll see a man who holds his head a certain way, or who has a cap like Daddy used to wear, or a red-and-black plaid jacket. For a second I'll think it's him. Then I remember, and I feel so sad. It must be much worse for you.” Lucy glanced at the shriveled figure beside her.
“It's awful. But I know I've got to pick up and get going. Maybe I'll volunteer at the Red Cross or something.”
“That's a good idea,” Lucy encouraged.
Helen managed a shrug and a wan smile. When it came time to board the plane, Lucy gave her an awkward hug and stood watching as her mother made her careful way through the gate, never turning to look back.
Later that night, Lucy and Bill went out to a movie, and on the way home they stopped at a package store and bought a bottle of champagne. The inexperienced babysitter hadn't been able to get the kids to bed, so they all sat together on the couch and watched TV, counting down as the ball dropped at Times Square. Lucy gave the kids tiny liqueur glasses of champagne, and they felt very grown-up as they drank a toast to the new year.
On New Year's Day Lucy, Bill, and the kids watched the Tournament of Roses parade and took down the Christmas tree. With the tree gone and the presents put away, the house suddenly seemed much bigger. Lucy was looking forward to Monday, when life would return to normal. Bill would go off to work, Toby and Elizabeth would ride the yellow bus to school, and she would drop Sara off at nursery school. Then she would take down the Christmas cards and decorations, she would clean out cupboards and drawers, she would prepare the house for the long winter ahead.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
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The cleaning frenzy began as soon as Lucy had the house to herself. She scrubbed the bathroom, mopped the kitchen floor, and changed all the beds. She sorted through the kids' clothes and toys, bagging up the outgrown and tossing out the worn, torn, and broken. She took all the cushions out of the chairs and sofas and found crumpled foil candy wrappers, a small plastic Toto figure, and eighty-seven cents in change. She didn't know what to do with the Christmas cards, so she bundled them together and tucked them away in the bottom desk drawer. The washing machine and dryer hummed steadily in the background as she cleaned and tidied the old farmhouse. She tossed out last year's magazines, unearthed the lemon oil and rubbed the antiques until they gleamed, and replaced the battered old poinsettias with fresh house plants.
On Wednesday morning she was on her knees in the kitchen, emptying the cupboards so she could replace the lining paper. When the phone rang she rose awkwardly to her feet and stepped carefully around the pots, pans, and small appliances that were spread out on the floor.
Expecting the caller to be one of her neighbors, she was surprised when a deep male voice said, “This is Man for Hire.”
“What?” said Lucy, noticing that there was quite a thick layer of dust on top of the wall phone.
“You answered my ad,” the voice growled. “Man for Hire.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, realization dawning. “Man for Hire. How nice of you to call. And so punctually, too,” she added, noting that the Regulator read precisely nine-thirty. “That's important, I think. Punctuality is desirable in this matter.”
I sound like a fool, thought Lucy. This is harder than I thought. I've got to get to the point.
“I'll get right to the point,” she said, unconsciously repeating herself. “The reason I need your services is that I'm not happy with my husband.”
“That's not an unusual problem, ma'am,” rumbled the voice. “If you employ me, you will find that I make every effort to satisfy. I never let my ladies down.”
“You work only for women? Isn't that odd?” asked Lucy.
“I only swing one way, ma'am. If you want more variety, you'll have to get somebody else.”
“Variety? What do you mean? I give you the picture, you do the job.”
“Ma'am, you must be looking for a hit man. I provide other services.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, color rising to her cheeks. “I'm not interested in
that
, but thanks for calling.”
She put the receiver back on the hook and stood looking at it as if it would suddenly leap off the wall and attack her. Then, holding her sides with both hands, she slid onto the floor, sputtering with laughter.
Pulling herself together, she checked the clock. Her conversation with Man for Hire had taken only a few minutes; it would be at least twenty-five minutes before the next call. What was his name? She couldn't remember. In fact, it seemed eons ago, almost another lifetime, that she and Barney had sat together at the kitchen table answering the ads in
Modern Mercenary.
At exactly ten o'clock, the phone rang. Lucy took a deep breath, and while she waited for the second ring she rehearsed what she planned to say. She picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”
“Lucy, this is Dave Davidson. I didn't wake you up, did I?” As minister, Dave knew that a lot of the women in the parish who worked the night phones at Country Cousins took naps at odd times during the day.
“No, Dave, I'm up and about. But I am expecting an important call. Could I call you back later?”
“ âThis will only take a minute.” Dave spoke in quiet, measured tones. “Can you host the coffee hour on March twentieth?”
Lucy sighed. “I guess so.”
“Good. I'll put you down. You'll get a reminder the week before.” His voice was very sincere as he added, “Thank you. Go in peace.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, wondering how it was that whenever Dave Davidson asked her to do a favor, she ended up thanking him. She had no sooner replaced the receiver than it rang again. She snatched it up, reminded herself to calm down, and said cautiously, “Hello.”
“Pest Control here.”
“Thank you for calling. I have a job and I wonder if you'd be interested.”
“Pest control's my business, ma'am,” said the voice, chuckling.
“Well, the pest I want removed is my husband,” said Lucy.
“It usually is.” The voice sounded resigned. “It's sad, really. Marriage isn't what it used to be.”
“I'm afraid I don't have any alternative. Divorce is out of the question.”
“Of course. A direct route to poverty.”
“Absolutely,” Lucy agreed. “My husband has quite a lot of life insurance.”
“How nice. You'll be able to maintain your current lifestyle. It's really a shame to spend all that money on hiring a professional when you could do it yourself.”
“I haven't the faintest idea about how to kill someone,” Lucy said indignantly. “That's why I want to hire you.”
“There are definite advantages to doing it yourself,” the voice informed her, sounding like a friendly hardware salesman. “Wives have so many opportunities; the average home is full of dangers that can be fatal to the unsuspecting husband.”
“Really?” Lucy was incredulous.
“Absolutely. A slip in the bathtub, a short circuit in the hair dryer, cyanide in the Tylenol, there's even the bad mushroom, although that is a bit old-fashioned. If you would just give it some thought, I'm sure you could come up with a surefire method. After all, nobody knows him better than you.”
“Is this what you advise all your clients?” demanded Lucy.
“Well,” the voice admitted, “you're actually my first client.”
“Then you aren't the man I'm looking for,” said Lucy. “I'm looking for someone with experience.”
“I understand,” the voice said mournfully.
Lucy replaced the receiver, feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland. Had she really had this conversation? “Curiouser and curiouser,” she muttered to herself as she opened the undersink cabinet and got to work.
When the phone rang at ten-thirty, Lucy was sitting at the kitchen table, relaxing with a cup of coffee and a piece of toasted raisin bread.
“This is Bad Guy,” announced the voice. “Have you been a naughty girl?”
“No, but I'm thinking of doing something very naughty,” she said in a playful tone. “Are you interested?” This was sort of fun.
“I'm always interested when little girls are naughty,” affirmed the voice. “I bring my own paddles, whips, and chains.”
Lucy slammed the receiver on the hook and stood leaning on the counter, afraid her legs wouldn't support her. This was too much. And the worst part was that she couldn't tell anybody about it. Sue would love this. Lucy just couldn't believe these things really went on. Did they? Was it all make-believe? Did grown-ups really do this stuff? What was the world coming to? She wondered if she would ever be able to look at people in quite the same way.
When eleven oâclock came and went and the phone didn't ring, Lucy was relieved. Although the house was cleaner than it had been in months, every surface gleaming and twinkling in the bright winter sunlight, she knew it was largely an illusion. Decades' worth of dust was packed into every crack and seam, impossible even for the vacuum to suck out. She washed her hands and face, combed her hair, and carefully applied lipstick and eyeliner. Her face in the mirror' looked the same as it had yesterday, but she felt different somehow. She remembered hearing as a teenager that once you lost your virginity it showed in your face. When she had finally gone all the way with an earnest second-string soccer player during freshman year of college, she was both relieved and disappointed that she couldn't see any change in her features. Grabbing her bag and keys, she decided to take Sara out for lunch at Jake's Donut Shop. It would be a treat for Sara, and she wanted to get away from the telephone for a while.
Â
Â
The next morning the phone rang promptly at nine-thirty. No matter what she might think of the characters who advertised their services in
Modern Mercenary
, Lucy had to admit they were certainly punctual. They must consult their field watches frequently, she thought.
“This is Combat Veteran, answering your note,” said the voice in the tone of one reporting for duty. “I am ready to go into action anytime, anywhere in the world. Asia, Africa, Latin America are all no problem for me.”
“That's certainly good to know,” Lucy said, impressed. “This job is in Maine.”
“Maine! You must be crazy, lady. Maine in the winter! Poor tactics, extremely poor. Don't you know what happened to Napoleon in Russia?”
Lucy smiled as she replaced the receiver and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. She reached for the oven cleaner and got to work. Half an hour later she was closing the door on a spotless oven when the phone rang. The voice on the other end was warm and reassuring.
“This is Cool Professional, answering your letter.”
“Terrific,” said Lucy. “I'm looking for someone to kill my husband.”
“I'll want fifty thousand dollars. Twenty-five up front, and twenty-five afterward. Cash. I don't wait for insurance payoffs. Send me his name and address, a picture, and his schedule.”
“As simple as that?”
“Absolutely. Perhaps you'd like to think about it for a while?” he asked courteously. “Maybe you can work something out.”
“No, I've made up my mind.”
“Fine.”
“Just a minute,” said Lucy. “Would you answer just one question for me? Have you ever killed anybody in Tinker's Cove, Maine?”
“I've never even heard of Tinker's Cove,” said the voice.
Lucy believed him. Just because he was a killer didn't mean he was a liar, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY
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As she looked around the house, Lucy realized there was nothing left to do. Four days of steady work, fueled no doubt by postholiday letdown and premenstrual hormones, had wrought a miracle. Call
Country Homes
magazine, she thought to herself, send photographers immediately. This will probably never happen again. As she wandered from room to room, admiring the handsome antiques she and Bill had collected over the years, the afternoon stretched emptily ahead of her. Sara had a play date at a friend's house and wouldn't be coming home. Lucy climbed upstairs to change out of her grubby cleaning clothes, thinking perhaps she would spend the afternoon checking out the after-holiday sales in Portland, and noticed the bags of outgrown clothes piled on the landing.
There were some nice things in those bags: warm footed pajamas, cozy sweat suits, winter jackets, and even a pair of hardly worn snow boots bought late last winter that Sara couldn't cram her feet into this year. Lucy hated just to toss those things in a Salvation Army bin; she tried to think of someone she knew who could use them. Unfortunately none of her friends had girls younger than Sara, and her playmates all wore clothes larger than the things in the bags. Then she remembered Lisa Young's little girl. Surely she could use those clothes. Her thoughts were interrupted by Bill's voice.
“Lucy, are you home?”
“What are you doing home this time of day?” she asked, bounding down the stairs.
“I'm looking for some lunch, woman. Where's Sara?”
“At Caroline's.”
“You're alone? There are no kids?” Bill was like a bird dog catching scent of a hot trail.
“That's right,” Lucy admitted.
“Thank you, God,” he said, reaching for her.
“Sorry, Romeo. It's the first day of my period.”
“Why do you have to sound so pleased about it?” complained Bill, dropping his arms. “What's for lunch?”
“Turkey soupâhomemade.” Lucy hauled a big enamel pot out of the refrigerator. “And tuna fish sandwiches.”
“I guess you're not such a bad wife after all,” Bill conceded. “So what're you going to do this afternoon? Curl up on the couch with the kittens and a mystery?”
“I thought I'd drop off those outgrown clothes down Bump's River Road.”
“Bump's River Road? I don't want you going down there,” said Bill.
“I've already been down there,” Lucy said. “That's where I got the kittens.” She picked up Mac, who had climbed up her pant leg following the tuna fumes, and scratched his head.
“Well, don't go there anymore. A lot of weird people live down there.”
“They're not weird. They're just poor,” Lucy said reasonably. “Look how well the kittens turned out.”
“Those people live that way because they want to, Lucy. Nothing's stopping them from working like the rest of us. Now listen to me,” he said, using his authoritarian father voice, “don't go down there. Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy,” said Lucy, clearing the table. As she stood at the sink rinsing off the lunch dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, she watched Bill climb into his truck and drive off. She hated it when he treated her like a child. She
was
a woman, all grown up, the mother of three children. She managed all their money, she dealt with teachers and doctors. She was capable of making decisions for herself, thank you. Besides, she kept remembering that dark-haired little girl in her torn shirt. She was just the right size for Sara's outgrown things.
Lucy loaded the bags into the Subaru and started the engine. She'd be back in plenty of time to make supper.
It was a beautiful day for a drive. The trunks of the trees lining the road were almost black and contrasted sharply with the light dusting of snow that lay on the ground. Thanks to the bright sun and the mild temperature, the snow on the road had melted. Lucy whizzed by in her little station wagon, humming along with the radio and enjoying driving all by herself for a change. She passed farms with snow-covered fields, the old farmhouses with attached barns far outnumbering the new houses on the road. As she drove farther from Tinker's Cove the farms thinned out and the road was lined with thick woods on either side.
The turnoff for Bump's River Road was just past an old store and gas station. This was a genuine country store that had made no attempt to pretty itself up for the tourists; the faded signs on the outside advertised cut plug tobacco and Nehi soda, but they were overlaid with newer signs for the state lottery. A teenaged boy stood in the doorway, his long hair hanging down either side of his face and his snowmobile suit unzipped to the waist, revealing his skinny chest. He watched as she turned off the state road.
The day she had gotten the kittens she had been in a hurry, intent on following the directions she had been given, and she had not really paid attention to the scenery. Today as she passed the worn-out, shabby homes surrounded by junk-filled yards, she was horrified. Up close, in the unblinking winter sunlight, the houses looked flimsy and unsubstantial. How would these people survive the cold winter? When she had lived in the city she had grown used to seeing homeless people outside the grocery store and the bank, and there were neighborhoods she passed all the time on the train that she'd never visit. In the city she had always been aware of poor people, but since she'd moved to Tinker's Cove she'd assumed that poverty was a city problem. In the country, unless you went looking, you weren't likely to encounter real poverty.
Pulling up in front of Lisa Young's place, she smiled at the little girl sitting on the step, playing with a Barbie doll. She was absorbed in make-believe, stroking the doll's bright yellow hair and talking to it in a high-pitched sing-song voice. She didn't look up until Lucy spoke to her.
“Hi there. Is your mom home?”
The little girl disappeared inside and soon Lisa appeared at the door, wearing the same defensive expression Lucy remembered from her earlier visit.
“Do you remember me? I took the kittens before Christmas.”
“Sure.” Lisa stood in the doorway, the little girl clinging to her side.
“Well, I wanted to thank you. My kids really love the kittens, but that's not why I'm here,” explained Lucy. “I cleaned out my daughters' closets, and I've got a lot of outgrown clothes that I think will fit your daughter. What's her name?”
“Crystal,” said Lisa, still expressionless.
“I really think these will fit Crystal. Would you like to see?”
“Sure.” Lisa shrugged and grudgingly followed Lucy to the car. Lucy put down the tailgate and began spreading out the garments, feeling like a saleslady as she pointed out the virtues of each item.
“This is really warm, isn't it cute?” she said, holding up an appliquéd bathrobe. “And this sweater used to be Elizabeth's favorite. She cried when it got too small.” Lucy shook her head, neatly folding the sweater and replacing it in the bag.
“How much do you want?” asked Lisa.
“Nothing.” Lucy was shocked. “I usually give things like this to a friend, but none of my friends have a little girl the right size. Couldn't Crystal use these?”
Lucy smiled at Crystal, who was fingering a bottle-green velvet dress with a lace collar and pearl buttons.
“Okay,” said Lisa, picking up the bags. “Thank you kindly.”
“You're very welcome. Can I help you carry them?”
“I can manage,” said Lisa. Lucy watched her as she stepped up onto the sloping porch and went into the little cabin, closing the door firmly behind her.
Lucy turned and climbed back into the car. Do people know about this? she wondered as she turned the key and drove slowly down the muddy track. These people might as well be living in the nineteenth century, she thought, noticing that most of the houses had little outhouses behind them. How would Crystal adjust to school? How would she cope with flush toilets, bell schedules, and computers?
Deep in thought, Lucy hadn't been paying close attention to the road. But it was too late. She'd managed to sink all four tires in the slushy mud. She opened the car door and scouted for something to put under the tires to give her some traction. She saw a yard just a bit up the road that was filled with junk. She picked her way carefully along the muddy road, glad that she'd worn her waterproof boots.
There must be something here I can use, she thought, looking about for a few boards or pieces of plywood; even a flattened cardboard box would do. She glanced at the house that was in the center of this junkyard, but no one seemed to be home. She picked her way around a broken washing machine, past bits and pieces of automobiles and lots and lots of tires, and finally found a pile of old asphalt shingles. She was bent over, picking up a generous handful, when she heard a low growl. Turning around, she saw a large, shaggy brown dog coming toward her at top speed, teeth bared and ears flat.
She dropped the shingles, scrambled up a pile of building debris, and, reaching for the branch of a big old pine tree, pulled herself to safety with just seconds to spare. Panting from fright and exertion, she wrapped her arms around the trunk of the tree and rested her forehead against it. She was perhaps seven or eight feet from the ground. The dog had climbed up the pile of debris and was standing on his hind legs, barking frantically at her and snapping his teeth at her feet. She was safe enough since he couldn't climb the tree, but she sure couldn't go anywhere.
After a while the dog stopped barking and jumping. Instead, he stood on all fours, eyeing her patiently, prepared to wait. I've played this game before, he seemed to be saying to her. Every now and then he'd bark sharply, making her jump, and then he'd resume his patient wait. Lucy shouted for help, and the dog again began barking frantically and jumping up, nipping at her feet. Lucy looked hopefully at the house, praying that someone was home who could help her. Miraculously, the door opened and a large, fat man in overalls scrambled out holding a shotgun.
“Don't shoot!” Lucy shouted. “The dog's got me stuck in this tree.”
She watched in horror as the man slowly and deliberately raised the gun to his shoulder and fired. Instinctively she crouched as the shot rang out. She saw the dog's legs go out from under him as he collapsed on the junk heap, whimpered once, and went still.
Perhaps the dog belonged to someone else, Lucy thought as she jumped down from the tree. Maybe it was a nuisance dog he'd been looking for an excuse to shoot. She advanced toward the man, smiling. He had smooth round cheeks and blue eyes and smiled back at her. Then he raised the shotgun to his shoulder. Lucy ducked behind a big old steel desk just as he fired off the second round.
Lucy peeked out from behind the desk, saw that he was busy reloading, and ran for more secure cover behind a big stump of elm.
“God,” Lucy prayed, “don't let this be happening to me. Let me wake up, let it be a bad dream. Please. I know. Bill was right, I was wrong. Now, get me out of here.” She cringed behind the stump, shaking violently as two more shots rang out. The man wasn't coming any closer, she saw. He was still standing in the same spot, reloading again. If only he'd stop smiling at her. Damn it, that smile was familiar. She just couldn't place it. Maybe he would run out of ammunition and give up. It would be getting dark soon; maybe she could creep away in the darkness. Maybe she'd die like the dog, shot by a smiling idiot.
“Harold, put that gun down,” said a voice. “Harold, I mean it. This is an order. Put it down, right now.”
Raising herself just enough so she could see over the stump, Lucy saw Lisa standing at the edge of the yard, pointing her finger at the man as if he were a naughty child. Obediently he dropped the gun and shambled off to the house.
“Is that all I had to do?”
“Yeah. You just gotta let him know who's boss. He shouldn't have a gun. Dunno why they let him have it. I can't believe he shot his dog. He'll be sorry when he realizes what he done. You okay?”
“I feel a little shaky,” admitted Lucy. “My car's stuck.”
“You can use those shingles,” Lisa informed her, walking back toward her house.
“Thanks a lot, I guess,” Lucy muttered, scooping up some shingles. She spread them in front of the car tires, and by accelerating very slowly and carefully in four-wheel drive, she got going again.
She felt guilty about leaving the shingles in the road, but she absolutely could not make herself climb out of the car. Maybe they'll help someone else, she thought. Keeping her foot firmly on the accelerator and willing the car forward with every ounce of energy she had, she finally made it up Bump's River Road and pulled onto the hardtop at the store.