Chapter Twenty-two
A
fter thinking over Rachel's warning, Lucy decided the safest course of action would be to cook the potatoes, slice them, toss them with a bit of olive oil and vinegar and chill them thoroughly in the refrigerator in a couple of plastic containers she'd bought just for the purpose. She would add the mayonnaise and hard-boiled eggs at the last minute. It would mean leaving the ball game and dashing home just before the picnic, but she wasn't going to risk the possibility of contamination. As it was, she planned to set the trays of potato salad in a bed of ice, considering the forecast of sunny skies and ninety degree temperatures.
The cupcakes were another matter. They were so full of sugar and cake-mix preservatives that she didn't have to worry about them spoiling. She brought them along when the family arrived at the softball field behind the Tinker's Cove High School. The others went ahead while she took the cupcakes over to the long tables covered with red-and-white check tablecloths set up in the shade of the building and she added them to the mouth-watering array of brownies and cookies. Several large watermelons were cooling in a tub of ice water.
Members of the volunteer fire department were already firing up the huge grills constructed out of fifty-five-gallon steel drums and the sharp chemical scent of charcoal starter filled the air. A small refrigerator had been set up temporarily behind the tables to hold hot dogs and hamburgers but there was no room for salads. A cluster of Crock-Pots filled with fragrant molasses-baked beans were connected to a power source by a spider's web of extension cords. It was going to be quite a feast.
“Where's your potato salad?” demanded Sue, planting herself in front of Lucy.
“At home. I'll get it at the top of the ninth, I promise,” said Lucy, aware that she was babbling. “Rachel's got me terrified about food poisoning.”
“I didn't know you murder suspects were so picky,” said Sue. She was dressed for the occasion in a red-and-white striped T-shirt and a blue denim mini skirt and had added a red, white and blue ribbon to her straw hat.
“Ha, ha,” replied Lucy, scowling. “I was going to tell you what a fantastic job you've done organizing all this but now I don't think I will.”
“It's pretty amazing, if I do say so myself,” said Sue. “I've even arranged for some surprises.”
“Like what?”
“Wait and see,” said Sue.
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The sun was shining, balloons were bobbing in the breeze and the discordant notes of the high school band tuning their instruments were heard as Lucy made her way to the packed bleachers where Bill was saving a seat for her. Some of the players, including Toby, were out on the field, warming up, stretching their muscles and tossing balls back and forth. Groups of teenage girls clustered near the dugouts, arranging themselves to advantage in the midriff-baring outfits that were currently the rage. Younger kids were chasing each other, playing endless games of tag. The very youngest, the babies, were tucked in backpacks and strollers, or were napping on blankets spread out on the grass under the trees. It looked to Lucy like a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Who's got the best team?” she asked Bill, taking her seat beside him. “Should I root for the Bait Buckets or the Nail Bangers?”
“It's hard to say,” he said, watching the Bait Bucket's pitcher warming up. “Jeff Sprague was named to the state all-star team when he was in high school, but the Nail Bangers have some solid hitters.”
“I guess I'll cheer for everybody,” she said, shifting over to make room for Elizabeth, who had climbed up the bleachers to join them.
“Don't bother, Mom,” she said. “I'm sitting with Molly. I just want to use your sunscreen. Did you bring any?”
“Sunscreen?” This was the last thing Lucy had expected.
“Yeah, Mom. You can't be too careful. Sun causes wrinkles, you know, and I sure don't want to end up looking like you.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Lucy, rummaging in her bag. “Isn't Molly the girl that Toby's seeing?”
“Yeah. That's her talking to him.”
Lucy abandoned her task and checked the field, where a petite blond in a pink halter top was standing beside Toby. She was shifting her weight from one side to the other, moving her hips provocatively, and had her hand on his arm.
“I work with her at the inn,” continued Elizabeth. “They hooked up a few weeks ago.”
“Hooked up?”
“Yeah, you know, Mom. They're, uh, a couple now.”
Lucy looked at Bill, who was nodding approvingly at his son's choice. He was also smirking.
“Do you mean they're . . . ?” Lucy's eyebrows shot up. “Is that where he's been spending the night?”
“Yeah, Mom. He's twenty-one, you know.”
Lucy watched as Toby and Molly parted with a kiss, he to join his teammates in the dugout and she taking a seat in the stands.
“Sunscreen, Mom?”
“Oh, right.” A bit dazed, Lucy resumed her search and found the tube.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Elizabeth skipped down the bleacher steps and Lucy turned to Bill.
“Did you know about this? What do you think? Isn't he awfully young?”
“Had to happen sooner or later.” He shrugged philosophically and stood up as the VFW color guard began marching onto the field.
Lucy was watching Molly, but she couldn't really learn much from the back of the girl's head. She turned instead to the color guard, who looked especially sharp as they went through their paces, following Scratch Hallett's barked orders. The high school band took their places behind the color guard and then a group of singers filed onto the field.
“Who are they?' asked the woman next to Lucy. “I don't recognize them.”
“Oh my goodness,” said Lucy, recognizing Mike Gold's curly head of hair. “I think it's the naturists.”
“At least they're wearing clothes,” fumed the woman.
“They are indeed,” said Lucy, placing her hand over her heart as they began singing the National Anthem.
As she sang, Lucy's eyes drifted over the scene: the brightly colored flags snapping in the breeze, the aged members of the color guard standing at attention, the red faces of the high school band members whose uniforms were too warm for the weather and the earnest faces of the chorus. Tears sprang to her eyes as they always did when she heard the Star-Spangled Banner and she was glad she was wearing sunglasses.
The singers belted out the last words of the songâ“and the home of the free”âand everyone cheered and clapped and whistled as the town's oldest resident, Miss Julia Ward Howe Tilley, was driven onto the field in a red mustang convertible. The car circled the playing field and Miss Tilley waved to everyone, her pleasantly pink face wreathed with an aureole of fluffy white hair. The car stopped at home plate and she was helped from the back seat and led to a spot about fifteen feet from home plate. There Howard White presented her with a brand new ball.
“This ought to be good,” muttered Bill. “I'll bet she can't throw it four feet.”
“You might be in for a surprise,” said Lucy.
Miss Tilley bounced the ball a few times in her agespotted hands, leaned forward, winked at the pitcher and hurled it straight into the glove.
Everyone cheered and clapped enthusiastically as she made her way to the seat of honor behind home plate.
“Play ball!” yelled the umpire, and the game began.
First up to bat for the Nail Bangers was Eddie Culpepper, Barney's son. He was the same age as Toby and Lucy remembered the days when they were on the same Little League team. Quite a few players from that team were playing today: Tim Robbins was playing, as well as Ted's son Adam. Not Richie Goodman, he was spending the summer in Greece studying ancient ceramics. And come to think of it, Wesley Pratt had been a member of that team, too, though Lucy remembered he rarely showed up for practices. She scanned the field and the bench, but there was no sign of him.
Hearing a solid thwack she looked up just in time to see Eddie send up a high fly, which was neatly caught by Chuck Swift. That's how the first half of the inning went, with the Nail Bangers getting some promising hits, but no runs thanks to the Bait Buckets' competent fielding. After the third out the Nail Bangers took the field, with Eddie pitching. He had quite an arm, but Tim Robbins had been an all-star player when he was in high school. He sent the ball speeding through first and second base and past the fence, rounding the bases to applause and groans.
After a while Lucy lost interest in the game, simply enjoying sitting in the sun and people watching. Maybe she was crazy, but it looked to her as if folks were a little more prosperous these days. A lot of the kids had new summer clothes instead of thrift shop shorts and tees, she'd noticed some new trucks in the parking lot, and a lot of the young wives had frosted their hairâat ten dollars a foil, that was something that tended to get skipped when money was tight.
“Those naturists have really given the local economy a boost,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” asked Bill.
“People have got money again. Just look around. And it can't be the lobsters, so it must be the influx of naturists.”
“That, or the fireworks,” said Bill, groaning as Toby hit a low ball directly to the first baseman who easily caught it.
“But there aren't any fireworks,” said Lucy, puzzled.
“I mean the smuggling.”
“Smuggling?”
“A lot of the lobstermen have been buying fireworks in Canada and New Hampshire and taking them down to Massachusetts. They're illegal there, they don't sell them in stores and people will pay a lot of money for them.”
Lucy was horrified. “They should be illegal everywhere, you know. They're dangerous. Are Chuck and Toby doing that?”
“Have to ask them,” said Bill, narrowing his eyes and watching closely as the next runner made it to first, by a hair.
“I will,” said Lucy, her eyes returning to a certain blond head of hair, “I have a lot of questions for Toby. But first I have to go get the potato salad.”
Bill was on his feet, cheering as Tim Robbins whacked another homer high above the scoreboard.
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Driving home, Lucy's emotions were in turmoil. Her little boy wasn't a little boy any more. He was practically setting up housekeeping with that girl. And smuggling! She hoped he wasn't involved with that. She remembered the blown-out watermelon, she believed fireworks were dangerous, you didn't have to convince her. How many people would get hurt because of the illegal fireworks the fishermen were smuggling? Kids could lose fingers, even eyes, or be horribly burned, but that didn't dissuade these fishermen from making a quick buck.
Though she had to admit, fireworks were legal in lots of places. And to be fair to the fishermen, they worked hard trying to make an honest living, but were constantly frustrated by fisheries' regulations, unpredictable weather and dramatic fluctuations in fish and shellfish populations due to disease, pollution and even natural causes. There was also a long tradition in Tinker's Cove of making money whenever and however you could, dating back to eighteenth-century mooncussers.
No wonder she couldn't make much headway in this murder investigation. Folks in this town were slippery and devious. They all had secrets. Here she'd lived next to the Pratts for years and she had no idea what their family life was really like. Had Calvin lived in terror of Pru? Had Wesley grown up simmering with resentment, even hatred for his mother? It certainly seemed likely, but she hadn't known about it. But the more she thought about it, the surer she was that Pru had been killed by either her husband or her son, or perhaps both of them working together. Just how she was going to prove this, though, was one detail she hadn't worked out yet.
Checking her watch, Lucy discovered it had only taken five minutes to make the drive from town. She'd be back in plenty of time for the picnic. She hurried into the house and went straight to the refrigerator, taking out the trays of cooked potatoes, the jars of mayonnaise and, well, where were those eggs?
She'd left an entire dozen, hard-boiled, in a bowl with a little note on top that said “NO!” in capital letters. Such notes had been Lucy's solution to the problem of snacking husbands and children, who were continually on the watch for anything edible. They had learned over the years to respect these notes, or risk incurring Lucy's wrath. That wrath was building, as she scrabbled around the shelves, shoving pickle jars and plastic containers aside in a frantic search for the eggs. All she turned up, was the note, which had landed on top of the crisper.
What was she going to do? She was known for her potato salad, everybody loved it. And it always had eggs. The eggs gave it a lovely golden tint, and added a nice flavor note. Damn it! She wanted the eggs.