Bake Sale Murder Page 17

  “You won’t believe what Sue’s been up to,” interrupted Pam, her eyes wide with astonishment.

  “Really?” Lucy felt the wind go out of her sails. “Tell me all about it.”

  “Well,” began Sue. “To make a long story short, I’m going into business with Chris Cashman.”

  Lucy’s chin dropped. “What?”

  “I knew something like this would happen,” said Rachel, nodding sagely. “It was inevitable.”

  “I have to admit I didn’t see this coming,” said Lucy. “I thought you were archenemies.”

  “Oh, I don’t know why I got so upset about that bake sale,” said Sue, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “It was just silly. And when Chris called me after the Board of Appeals meeting and said she got approval to operate her investment business from her house…”

  “You’re going to go into financial planning?” Lucy couldn’t believe it. Sue’s favorite maxim was “You’ve got to spend money to save it.”

  “No, silly, I don’t know anything about finances. I’m opening a day care business and Chris is going to be a silent partner.”

  Lucy knew that Sue had run the town’s first daycare center for several years, filling a vital need for young working families who couldn’t otherwise afford child care. She had since retired but the center was still flourishing.

  “This is going to be different,” continued Sue. “This is going to be a bit more upscale, designed for professional parents who want the very best for their kids. We’ll have foreign languages, educational games, a fitness program, music appreciation—I’m pretty excited about it. We even have a name: Little Prodigies Preschool Center.”

  “That sounds great but do you think there are enough professional parents who can afford it?” asked Rachel. “Something like that’s going to be pricey.”

  “Chris has done a lot of research,”

  “Of course,” said Lucy and Pam, simultaneously.

  “…and she says there are plenty of couples looking for top quality care for their kids. The population has really changed in the past few years. The old folks are dying off, there’s been an influx of professionals who work at home, or commute to businesses that have moved out of the urban centers. There’s that new industrial park in Gilead; it’s full of computer and biotech outfits.”

  “But how did Chris know that you have a background in early childhood education?” asked Lucy.

  “She was asking around for daycare options and somebody told her to call me for some referrals and one thing led to another.” She looked at her watch. “Well, sorry, I’ve got to run. I’m meeting Chris. We’re going to check out some possible properties.” She stood up and picked up her purse. “Wish me luck!”

  She left in a chorus of good wishes, leaving behind her amazed and befuddled friends.

  “I’m floored,” said Lucy. “I thought they hated each other.”

  “The last I heard, and I heard quite a lot, she was going on and on about what a bossy upstart Chris was,” said Pam.

  “It makes sense, if you think about it,” said Rachel, who had majored in psychology. “Like minds attract and, let’s face it, this town is too small for both of them. They either had to get together and make peace or one of them was going to have to leave.”

  “This is going to be good for Sue,” said Lucy. “She definitely needed a new interest.”

  “Those two are bound to make a success of it,” said Pam. “Do you think we can get in on the ground floor, before they go multinational?”

  Lucy was in good spirits when she got to work, but unlike the week before, this Thursday the phones were ringing like crazy. And it wasn’t because of Lucy’s two-inch story about the possible identification of the homeless man based on the discovery of the driver’s license, which was all Ted agreed to print without more information.

  “Ted got the tax rate wrong,” said Phyllis. “He printed $66.87 instead of $6.87 per thousand.”

  “Oops,” said Lucy, uncomfortably aware that she had proofread his story on the new rate and hadn’t noticed the mistake. “I think it must’ve been a typo at the printer’s,” she said hopefully.

  “Uh, no. It’s right here in the dummy. I don’t know how we missed it.” Phyllis slapped her forehead. “I looked at it, too. Never noticed.”

  “Oh, well, these things happen,” said Lucy philosophically.

  “It isn’t the irate taxpayers that are so bad. It’s the town treasurer. He’s fit to be tied and Ted’s over there now, trying to calm him down.”

  “I don’t suppose he’ll be happy with a correction?”

  “No. Blood. He wants blood.”

  “Poor Ted.”

  “Poor us, you mean,” said Phyllis. “I don’t want to be here when Ted gets back.”

  “Neither do I,” said Lucy, planning her escape. She was thwarted, however, by a phone call from Will Esterhaus, Fred’s lawyer.

  “That was some cheap trick,” he said, skipping the formality of a greeting and getting right to the point.

  “Well, if you think about it, the tax rate couldn’t possibly be nearly seventy dollars per thousand, that would be ridiculous. If people took the time to think about it they’d realize it was a mistake. A typo. We’re human after all. Mistakes happen.”

  “I don’t mean the tax rate, though that’s just typical of the sort of sloppy journalism you practice. I’m talking about the article about the homeless man. It’s absolutely irresponsible to link him with the Stanton family like that.”

  “Well, I did find his driver’s license,” said Lucy.

  “You have absolutely no proof of any connection between the license and the man whose body was found in the harbor.”

  “It was in his campsite,” said Lucy, defending her story. “And I made it quite clear that the ME will now be looking for dental records or DNA to make a positive identification.”

  “It was in the woods. Anybody could drop a wallet there, it may have been there for years.” He paused. “The most likely case is that Mimi herself dropped it there.”

  Lucy was beginning to feel less sure of her discovery. Esterhaus had a good point.

  “That would be some coincidence, wouldn’t it? I mean, years ago, some guy who was related to Mimi Stanton was wandering around in the woods where her husband was eventually going to build a home for their family? I don’t think so.”

  “I’m warning you. We expect a full retraction or we’ll be seeing you in court.”

  Lucy swallowed hard. The little bell was jangling and Ted was just coming through the door. “I think you better talk to my editor,” she said, putting him on hold.

  “Call for you on three, Ted,” she said, grabbing her bag. Sometimes there was really no option except retreat, if you wanted to live to fight another day.

  Outside, Lucy paused to sniff the crisp fall air. The temperature was finally dropping and a few trees had already changed color. Fall was definitely on its way and she was looking forward to the drive to New Hampshire. Opportunities like this, when she could spend time alone on the open road with her thoughts, rarely came her way. She started the car, turned the radio to her favorite oldies rock station, cranked up the volume, and checked the gas gauge. Before she went anywhere, she was going to have to fill up the rental car.

  Lucy was standing at the Quik-Mart self-serve pump watching the numbers scroll upward and congratulating herself that she wasn’t driving a Hummer, not that she’d ever seriously considered the idea, when Preston roared in on his Harley. Now that would get even better mileage, she thought, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he wasn’t a reckless hooligan with no regard for other people’s desire for peace and quiet; maybe he was a responsible steward of the planet.

  “I thought it was you,” he said, pulling to a stop behind her car. “Who do you think you are?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked calmly, trying not to react to Preston’s angry tone.

  “That story. Saying the homeless guy was related
to my mother.”

  Lucy felt her throat tighten. “I said it was likely, since your mother’s maiden name was O’Toole and she came from the same Boston neighborhood. Plus the fact that he was in town at the time of her funeral. But I made it quite clear that only the medical examiner can make a positive ID.”

  “That could all be coincidence. I don’t know this guy, I never heard of him and neither did my dad.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re not related,” said Lucy, replacing the hose on the pump. “Maybe there’s some reason they drifted apart.”

  “Yeah, and I bet you’d like to find out all about it, wouldn’t you?” Preston was jabbing his finger angrily at her.

  Under the circumstances, Lucy thought it wisest not to mention her plans for the day.

  “Well, listen, you,” he said, snarling at her. “You leave my family alone—or else!”

  Then he gunned the motorcycle and sped off, raising a cloud of dust.

  Chapter 17

  “Don’t you threaten me!” yelled Lucy, but she knew the gesture was futile. He certainly couldn’t hear her over the noise of his engine. Her words only served to vent her anger and frustration, and her fear. She didn’t like being threatened, especially after two murders. He certainly didn’t mean that she might be next, did he? The thought gave Lucy pause. Was Preston the murderer? Did his father go to jail to protect him?

  What exactly did that “or else” mean?

  Lucy started the car, but driving to New Hampshire no longer seemed like such a good idea. For one thing, Zoe would be coming home from school in an hour or so and she didn’t want to leave her alone in the house, not with Preston’s threat hanging over them. It would be far more sensible, she decided, to make the trip tomorrow morning when the girls were safe in school.

  But even that plan seemed doomed to failure when Sara refused to eat any breakfast Friday morning, complaining she was too nauseous.

  “Maybe you should stay home,” suggested Lucy. She was already rearranging her schedule and planning to work from home.

  “I can’t,” moaned Sara. “There’s a game today and I can’t miss it.”

  “Why not rest this morning and if you feel better I can take you to school later?”

  “It’s an away game and there’s a pep rally first thing this morning.”

  “They never had pep rallies before,” said Lucy.

  “They never had a winning team before,” said Bill, his mouth full of bagel. “Face it, that second half against Gilead was incredible. Matt Engelhardt is one amazing quarterback. Let her go.”

  “Not if she’s sick…”

  “I feel okay, Mom, I really do.”

  “You can’t go on an empty stomach. Not if you’re going to be leading a pep rally. And where is this away game?”

  “Lake Wingate.”

  “See!” Lucy turned to Bill. “That’s at least an hour from here, maybe more. What if she gets sick on the bus?”

  “I won’t get sick on the bus,” said Sara.

  “I’m not very happy about this. Not after what happened on the bus after the last away game.”

  “That was just a combination of youthful high spirits and a very tired coach. You can be sure it won’t happen again, not after that meeting,” said Bill. “Everybody will be on their best behavior.”

  “Dad’s right, Mom. Coach Buck really chewed out the players and told them that if anything like that happens again they’re off the team, no exceptions.”

  Lucy was running out of arguments. “Okay,” she said. “Take some nutrition bars, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Sara, giving her a hug.

  Lucy’s day was back on track. She would stop in at the Pennysaver office to check in with Ted and then she would head across the state to St. Bernard’s Home in Salem to talk to Father Keenan. She packed lunches for Bill and Zoe, gave Sara’s cheerleading outfit a quick touch up with the iron, sent everyone off with a kiss, fed the dog, tidied the kitchen, took a shower, blow-dried her hair, got dressed, and was finally ready to go. Except that when she got out to her little rental car she discovered it had four flat tires. Preston had apparently made good on his threat, she decided, as she called the rental place.

  “Four flat tires? I never heard of such a thing,” said the agent.

  “They just don’t make ’em like they used to,” said Lucy, pretending ignorance. She was not about to admit any responsibility for the tires; the rental company and the insurance company would have to sort it out. “How soon can you get it fixed?”

  “We’ll have somebody out there right away,” promised the agent.

  Lucy doubted it, but she took up her position by the front window to watch for the repair truck anyway. Car trouble was a lot like a toothache, she decided, because it was hard to think of anything else. So she stood there, watching for the truck, impatiently tapping her foot.

  She had a clear view of Prudence Path and watched as the school bus arrived and the kids filed aboard, followed moments later by Coach Buck’s departure in his minivan. Five minutes later she heard the familiar roar of Preston’s Harley when he left for school. He didn’t have a passenger so Tommy was apparently still recovering at home. With his mother dead, his father in jail accused of murder, and his younger brother to care for, it was no wonder Preston was acting out. Lucy could almost forgive him, but not quite.

  Next to leave was Scratch Westwood, the vet, driving his aged Jeep. Lucy wondered if it was true that he had been having an affair with Mimi and if that explained Willie’s mood swings. He was followed in short order by Chris Cashman’s husband in his little Honda. The clock in the hall ticked, the road was empty, there was no sign of the repair truck. Lucy was thinking of calling again when Chris Cashman’s big Expedition came into sight; Lucy wondered if today was KinderGym or French lessons or maybe AquaBabies. Thank goodness she’d raised her babies in simpler times when getting together with some other mothers and their little ones for a once-a-week playgroup was considered sufficient stimulation. A few minutes later, Willie Westwood came screeching up to the stop sign in her Wagoneer; she tapped the brakes in a token stop and was off. Golly gee, that woman sure loved her horses; she couldn’t wait to get to them. Then, once again, it was quiet. Only Frankie, Bonnie, and Tommy remained on Prudence Path and soon it would likely be only Tommy, when Frankie went to work in the real estate office and Bonnie headed out to run her errands. Lucy didn’t like the idea of him being there all alone but there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

  Finally, the repair truck chugged up the hill and turned into her driveway.

  “Whoa, what happened here?” demanded the mechanic, a slight young fellow with sun-bleached hair and grimy hands.

  “I don’t know,” said Lucy. “This is how I found the car this morning.”

  “Somebody slashed these tires,” he said, showing her the cuts in the black rubber. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  “You better file a police report or the insurance won’t pay.”

  “Really?” Lucy had been hoping to get on the road as soon as possible.

  “Really.”

  It took the mechanic almost an hour to change all four tires, and then Lucy spent another half hour at the police station, filing a report that morphed into a complaint against Preston. Lucy knew it was necessary, but she didn’t feel comfortable about it as she finally began the trip. The last thing she wanted was for the situation to escalate.

  As she turned into the carefully landscaped grounds of St. Bernard’s Home, Lucy belatedly wondered if she should have called ahead. For all she knew, Father Keenan could have one of the terrible diseases of aging like Alzheimer’s, ALS, or Parkinson’s. Or perhaps he was fit as a fiddle and maintained a busy schedule of golf and bridge. She’d been foolish to assume he had nothing better to do than sit and wait for her to come and ask him questions. But when she asked for him at the reception desk she was relieved to be sent out back to the gard
en, where she found him picking tomatoes.

  “Father Keenan?”

  “How can I help you?” replied a tall, lean man wearing a black cotton shirt with a backwards collar, farmer’s overalls and a straw hat. His creased face was deeply tanned and he had bright blue eyes.

  “I’m looking for information about a family in your parish,” said Lucy. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I surely do,” said the priest, with a shrug. “And I wouldn’t mind getting off my feet for a bit.”

  “I’m Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine,” said Lucy, extending her hand.

  His grip was warm and strong. “I guess you know who I am. Formerly parish priest and now gardener.”

  “A very fine gardener,” said Lucy, eyeing the basket of ripe, red tomatoes. “Those are gorgeous. What’s your secret?”

  “I talk to them,” said Father Keenan, a twinkle in his eye. “They say they like the carbon dioxide in your breath but I prefer to think plants enjoy a bit of company. As do I.”

  “I’m afraid this goes back quite a few years,” began Lucy. “I’m looking for information about a family named O’Toole. They had a daughter named Mary Catherine and a son named Thomas Preston. I think they may have lived in Jamaica Plain.”

  She was surprised to see a spark of recognition in the old man’s eyes. “I remember them well. They were adorable children. She was the older and she took great care of her little brother. I always thought what a wonderful mother she would make.” He sighed. “It was a great tragedy, what happened to their father. It was in all the papers at the time, I’m sure you’ll remember it.”

  “I didn’t grow up around here,” said Lucy. “I was raised near New York City.”

  “Even so, it made national news. It was that shocking. Their father was a police officer, one of Boston’s finest. He was shot attempting to stop a bank robbery. Shot and killed. His wife, a lovely woman but very fragile, never got over it. She took her own life shortly after.”