LStone 20 - Easter Bunny Murder Page 12

  “Yeah,” agreed Phyllis. “Especially since that shop at the outlet mall does some pretty good fakes for seven ninety-nine; three pairs for nineteen ninety-nine.” She shook her head, showing off a pair of sparkly bangles.

  The Pennysaver was going to press at noon Wednesday, much to the relief of the exhausted staff members. All three had been hard at work until eleven o’clock the night before, scrambling to get their normal work done despite the constant interruptions, and had come in early that morning. They might be at the epicenter of a breaking story of national interest, but Pennysaver readers would still want to know about the free movie at the library on Friday evening and the latest developments in the annual budget battle.

  Ted had edited the last story and was ready to send the final copy to the printer electronically when the fax machine whirred into action.

  Lucy and Ted froze at their desks and Phyllis went over to the machine. “Stop the presses,” she said with a sigh.

  “Really?” Lucy was hoping it was a joke.

  “Really. The DA is bringing charges of elder abuse, fraud and embezzlement against Vicky and Henry,” she said, handing the paper to Ted.

  “Call Aucoin!” ordered Ted, naming the district attorney. “What about Weatherby? No charges against him?”

  Lucy crossed her fingers and dialed. She was sure the DA would not be available. She tapped her foot nervously, listening to the rings, and much to her amazement heard Phil Aucoin’s voice on the line.

  “Lucy Stone at the Pennysaver,” she said. “I gotta be quick, I promise. We’re on deadline.”

  Aucoin laughed. “Go ahead, Lucy.”

  “First, what’s the basis for the charges against the Allens?”

  “We received information that we determined to be credible, and that was supported by Weatherby.”

  “That was my next question. Why no charges against Weatherby?”

  “He’s cooperating with the investigation.”

  “He’s gone state’s evidence?” asked Lucy.

  “Yup.”

  Lucy had a mental image of the rats leaving a sinking ship. “Self-preservation?”

  “Of a sort. He’ll certainly be disbarred, but he may be able to avoid jail time. Judges don’t look kindly on lawyers who abuse their clients and I’m sure he’s aware of that. It was really his only option.”

  “One last question. Are you looking at the deaths of Maxine Carey and Van Duff?”

  Aucoin sighed. “At the moment, I have no evidence that the deaths are suspicious, but I’m open to the possibility. I’d be only too happy to nail those two with murder,” he said. “That’s off the record, by the way.”

  “Got it,” said Lucy, clicking away on the keyboard. “Thanks.”

  “Good work, Lucy,” said Ted, reading her quick recap of the conversation. “I just stuck it on top of the lead story. We’re done.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” said Phyllis with a wry grin. “This thing is just beginning.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Once the paper was finally sent to the printer, Lucy had the afternoon to herself. The Pennysaver was a weekly and there was no sense writing stories that would be old news by the time the next issue came out. She usually spent Wednesday afternoons catching up with grocery shopping and other errands, but today she had an appointment to get her car inspected. Much to her surprise, she found Barney sprawled in one of the recliners in the waiting room at Al’s Auto Care, watching a Red Sox game on the TV provided for customers’ entertainment.

  “A hundred forty million and the guy is zero for five,” fumed Barney, as she took the chair next to him.

  “The Sox are not getting off to a good start this year,” she said, flipping the lever and raising the foot rest. “Bill’s pretty disgusted. He didn’t even watch the end of the game last night.”

  “Me, either.” Barney’s chin sank into his jowls, making him look a bit like a tired old basset hound. “Looking on the bright side, there’s still a hundred and fifty games to go.” He groaned as the batter struck out on a high fly, ending the inning. “He coulda bunted and got on base—what was he thinking?”

  Lucy shrugged. “I guess a hundred and forty million doesn’t buy brains.” She turned and looked at him curiously. “So what are you doing here, wasting the taxpayers’ money?”

  “We’ve got to get the cruiser inspected, just like everybody else, and it needs new tires.”

  “They couldn’t have dropped it off so you could do something else?” she asked, playing devil’s advocate.

  “I guess the chief didn’t think of that,” he said, wincing as the Toronto batter sent the ball flying toward the Green Monster. “You got anything particular in mind that I should be doing?”

  “Well,” began Lucy, “I was wondering about Maxine’s car. The one that went over the cliff? I just wondered if anybody’s taken a look at it.”

  “Not as far as I know,” said Barney, smacking his fist down on the arm of the chair and pounding it as two Toronto runners made it to home plate. “A fumble? He fumbled a high fly that my wife could catch.”

  “How is Marge?” asked Lucy. “And Eddie? How’s he like the community college?”

  “Marge is fine. She’s turning the house upside down with spring cleaning. Eddie’s looking for a job, something with flexible hours that won’t interfere with his classes.” His face brightened with pride. “He got all A’s on his midterms.”

  “That’s great,” said Lucy, who knew that Eddie, a vet, had struggled with drug addiction after his return from tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. “He’s a smart kid.”

  “Yeah, but he’s got a long row to hoe if he’s going to be a physical therapist.”

  “He’ll make it,” said Lucy. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, it’s been nice,” said Barney, getting the high sign from the service manager and standing up. “Looks like the cruiser’s ready to roll.”

  Lucy caught his sleeve. “Just a quick question—off the record. Do you think they’re going to check out Maxine’s car? Horowitz said something about staff cuts at the crime lab.”

  He stood there, twirling his cap on his finger. “I really don’t know. It’s in the impound lot around back . . .”

  “You mean it’s right here?” asked Lucy.

  He nodded. “Yeah, the town’s got an arrangement with Al. It’s easiest, ’cause he does the towing. But don’t you get any ideas about asking one of the guys here to take a look at it,” he said, catching her eyes in a level gaze. “I’m warning you, Lucy. That would be tampering with evidence.”

  “I’d never dream of doing any such thing,” said Lucy, who had of course been planning to do just that.

  “Better not,” he said, hitching up his belt and settling his cap on his head. She watched him through the plate glass windows as he drove off in the cruiser, then turned back to the TV. The game had ended, the Sox had lost fourteen to three, and a trio of talking heads were analyzing the game.

  “The Red Sox are not performing up to expectations,” one was saying.

  “That’s right, they were favored for the World Series when the season began,” said another.

  “It’s hard to say whether the defense or offense is worse,” said the third, as Lucy finally spotted the remote lying on a chair. She quickly changed the channel, checking out the latest news on NECN. It was odd to see the county courthouse in Gilead on TV, but there it was, with a reporter standing front and center.

  “Victoria and Henry Allen were seen entering the courthouse a little over an hour ago,” the perky blonde in a lime green suit was saying. “They have been sequestered in the chambers of Family Court Judge Marian Foster since their arrival, along with their former attorney, George Weatherby.”

  A film clip ran, showing the well-dressed, perfectly groomed couple making their way through a crowd of reporters. Henry, looking ever the gentleman, in his gray suit, was trying to shield his wife from the crush of reporters thrusting microphones in her f
ace. Even though Vicky was facing serious charges, she managed to look as if she was on her way to a garden party rather than entering a courthouse, dressed in a pale green suit complete with matching headband and pearls. There was an awkward moment when George Weatherby held the door for them; the two glared at him before rushing into the building.

  “Attorney Bob Goodman, who is bringing suit against the Allens on behalf of Vivian Van Vorst’s former butler, James Willis, is also at the meeting in the judge’s chambers, along with several other family members.”

  The screen switched from the reporter to the news desk, where the anchor posed a question. “What can we expect from this meeting, Jessica?”

  “That’s not really clear, Ed, but courthouse sources say it is likely that Judge Foster is reviewing the guardianship arrangements for Vivian Van Vorst. Victoria Allen is presently the aged millionaire’s guardian and the judge may want to change that considering the charges of elder abuse, embezzlement and fraud that have been leveled against the Allens.”

  “And when will they be arraigned on those charges?” asked Ed.

  “Tomorrow,” replied Jessica, who was nearly knocked off her feet as the courthouse door opened and the Allens were once again surrounded by a scrum of reporters. “No comment, no comment,” was all Henry had to say, and Vicky wasn’t talking at all.

  The two maintained their silence at the arraignment, too, where they answered the district attorney’s long list of charges against them with two words: “Not guilty.”

  Lucy, who was standing in the back of the packed courtroom, didn’t believe them and neither did the judge. Superior Court Judge Anthony Featherstone set bail at a quarter of a million dollars for each of the defendants and ordered them to surrender their passports, citing the possibility that they might flee the country. Further, acting on the advice of Family Court Judge Marian Foster, he stripped Victoria Allen of her guardianship and named Bob Goodman as VV’s temporary guardian, responsible for her care. The cameras rolled as the two were led from the courtroom in handcuffs for a brief stay in the holding cells until bail could be arranged. Lucy thought that Vicky’s and Henry’s expressions probably resembled Marie Antoinette’s, when she faced the mob and was dragged from Versailles.

  Outside the courtroom, Bob was making an announcement in the lobby. “As you know, I’ve been appointed Vivian Van Vorst’s temporary guardian and my first piece of business will be to rehire James Willis to his former position as butler. Mr. Willis has assured me he will take immediate steps to improve Mrs. Van Vorst’s living conditions and to maximize her comfort. Judge Foster has also ordered a complete medical evaluation of Mrs. Van Vorst’s health and that will be undertaken immediately.” He chewed his lip, gathering his thoughts. “I think that’s all for now. Thank you.”

  “What about the money?” asked one reporter.

  “That’s up to the DA,” said Bob. “I understand he’s already began an audit, but you’d have to ask him.” Then he was shouldering his way through the crowd and was gone before Lucy could ask the question that was on the tip of her tongue: “Are you demanding an investigation into the deaths of Maxine Carey and Van Duff?”

  Back at the office, Lucy tried calling Bob, but couldn’t get through. She was trying for the fifth time when she heard her cell phone go off in her purse and scrabbled frantically, tossing wallet and cosmetic bag and keys on her desk until she finally found it. It was too late, of course; the call had gone to voice mail.

  The caller’s voice was unfamiliar; she identified herself as a nurse calling from a hospital in Palm Beach. “I’m calling for your daughter Elizabeth. She’s just come out of surgery, she’s doing fine . . .”

  Surgery? What on earth? Lucy could barely wait for the message to end so she could reply to the call. Heart pounding, she waited while the phone rang and rang and was finally answered.

  “I just got a call about my daughter, Elizabeth Stone,” she began.

  “That’s right. Elizabeth is here and she’s doing fine, she’s just coming out of the anesthesia.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss a patient’s treatment. We take patient confidentiality very seriously . . .”

  “But I’m her mother!” wailed Lucy.

  The voice became very low. “It was an emergency appendectomy.” Then the voice was louder. “You’ll be able to talk to her in a couple of hours,” she said. “Or I can refer you to the doctor.”

  Lucy considered. “I don’t suppose the doctor will be able to tell me much . . .”

  “Not without a signed consent from the patient,” said the voice.

  “I understand,” said Lucy, who was already making plans to get the next flight to Florida.

  It was early the next morning when she got to the hospital in Florida, and rushed into Elizabeth’s room. Elizabeth was asleep and almost as pale as the white hospital sheets; if it wasn’t for her dark, spiky hair Lucy wouldn’t have recognized her vital, lively daughter. She took her hand in her own and stroked her hair and Elizabeth’s eyes opened.

  “Mom!” Her voice was weak and scratchy, but her smile was genuine Elizabeth.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Horrible. Like I was run over by a truck.”

  Lucy wanted to hug her daughter, but was afraid of hurting her so she contented herself with squeezing her hand, the one without the I.V. “What happened?”

  “Remember those cramps I told you about . . .”

  Lucy was suddenly stricken with guilt. She’d dismissed the pains when Elizabeth told her about them and had suggested they were probably menstrual cramps.

  “Well,” Elizabeth continued, speaking slowly, “it was appendicitis and the darn thing actually ruptured but I thought it was the flu and then I collapsed at work yesterday and they rushed me here by ambulance and apparently removed a good part of my insides.”

  The door opened and a plump, fresh-faced doctor who looked just about old enough to have finished high school entered, chart in hand.

  “I’m Doctor Mahoney,” he said, extending his hand.

  “I’m Elizabeth’s mom, Lucy Stone.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stone. Would you mind stepping outside for a moment while I examine Elizabeth?”

  “No problem,” said Lucy, smarting a bit from the dismissal. It wasn’t so long ago that she was in charge of Elizabeth’s health. She remembered standing by the examining table in Doc Ryder’s office, hugging her little one to her chest while the doctor administered inoculations or peered into her ears or down her throat. “Looks like a touch of strep,” he’d say, speaking to her over the child’s downy head. Now, those days were gone and she wasn’t even included in discussions of Elizabeth’s treatment.

  The door opened. “Elizabeth asked me to get you,” the doctor said. “She wants you to hear the plan.”

  Lucy smiled and went back to Elizabeth’s side, once again taking her hand.

  “This was a bit more than the usual appendectomy because the rupture went untreated for so long,” said Doctor Mahoney. “Elizabeth’s going to need to stay in the hospital for several days, maybe a week, until we can get her temperature down and get her back on solid food.”

  Lucy nodded. “And after that?”

  “She’s going to need quite a bit of care, at least at first. She shouldn’t go back to work for at least six weeks.”

  “Six weeks!” Elizabeth raised a weak protest.

  Lucy was trying to think of the best way of dealing with an invalid. “Can she fly? Can I take her back to Maine?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see how her recovery goes, but I think that will be all right. You need to wait for my okay, though, and I’d advise making arrangements with the airline for a wheelchair. She won’t be able to walk long distances in the terminal.”

  Lucy nodded, trying to take this all in. Elizabeth was always the picture of health; whenever she visited home she ran a couple of miles every other day. Now, suddenly, she wouldn’t
be able to walk to the gate at the airport.

  “Well, I have other patients to see,” said Dr. Mahoney, nodding at Lucy. “Nice to meet you. If you have any questions, call my office.”

  Then he was gone and Lucy sat down in the chair next to Elizabeth’s bed. “Looks like I’ll be getting that Florida vacation I always wanted,” she said with a wry smile.

  “What about Grandma and Grandpa?” asked Elizabeth.

  Lucy shook her head. Bill’s parents lived in Florida but they’d taken to renting out their place and spending most of the year in Mexico, where costs were lower. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

  “You can stay at my place,” offered Elizabeth, her eyes drooping. “Take my keys.”

  “Good idea. In fact, I think I’ll go freshen up and let you rest.”

  “Use my car . . . ,” said Elizabeth, nodding off.

  Lucy opened the drawer in the bedside table and found Elizabeth’s purse and took her keys. When she held them up for Elizabeth to see, she found her daughter was already sleeping. “See you later, baby,” said Lucy, planting a kiss on Elizabeth’s forehead.

  Lucy took a cab to Elizabeth’s bright and tidy little apartment, which was decorated with IKEA furniture punctuated with a few antiques and estate sale finds. Lucy made herself a cup of coffee in the efficient kitchenette and carried it out to the tiny terrace overlooking the pool and garden area filled with colorful tropical plants. She sat there for a few minutes, enjoying the lush landscape, which was so different from Maine in spring, and called Bill.

  “Six weeks? You’re going to stay down there for six weeks?” he asked, after she’d assured him that Elizabeth was expected to make a full recovery.