Bake Sale Murder Page 18

“Who raised the children?”

  “They went into foster care, I believe.” He shook his head. “Like I said, it was very sad.”

  “Were the robbers caught?”

  “I believe so. There was a trial, I remember. Very sensational. It was during the last years of the Vietnam War, you see, and they had some crazy idea of robbing the bank to finance some sort of protest against the military-industrial complex. They were defended by a prominent leftist lawyer from Harvard, his name escapes me right now but it will come back to me eventually.” He smiled apologetically. “Usually it does, but sometimes it takes a day or two. Funny, I can remember his long, curly hair but I can’t remember his name.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Lucy.

  He smiled. “Now it’s my turn to ask the questions. Why do you want to know about the family O’Toole?” A faint trace of an Irish brogue crept into his speech.

  Lucy hesitated before answering. It was warm on the stone bench and the garden was peaceful and quiet. The only sound was the hum of cicadas and she could smell the peppery scent of the tomato leaves. She didn’t want to bring violent death into this lovely place.

  “I’ve heard it all before, you know,” he prompted her. “I have heard things in the confessional that would curl your hair.”

  “I can well imagine,” said Lucy. “They’re both dead. Mimi, I mean Mary Catherine, was stabbed in her kitchen. Her husband has been charged with the crime. Her brother was homeless but somehow he heard about the funeral and came to Tinker’s Cove but they found his body in the harbor, drowned.”

  Father Keenan picked up one of the tomatoes and stroked its silky skin with his callused thumb. “Did Mary Catherine have any children?”

  “Yes,” said Lucy, eager to give him some good news. “Two boys. Preston is eighteen and Tommy is fifteen.” She saw no need to mention Tommy’s suicide attempt or Preston’s threats. “Nice boys.”

  “It must be a very difficult time for them.”

  “Yes.” She watched as a praying mantis made its cautious way along a leafy tomato branch. Its green color was perfect camouflage. She would never have noticed it if it hadn’t moved. “I’ve tried to help but they’re very…private.”

  “I will pray for them. And for the souls of Mary Catherine and Thomas Preston.” He turned to her. “Are you Catholic?”

  Lucy shook her head.

  “Do you pray?”

  Lucy considered the question. She didn’t pray regularly, but there were times when she did. “Occasionally.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I find prayer very helpful. You should try it more often.”

  “Thank you for your help,” she said, getting to her feet. “You’ve been the answer to a prayer.”

  His face reddened. “I try,” he said, tipping his hat.

  As she meandered through the hills of New Hampshire toward the Maine border and home, Lucy thought over what Father Keenan had told her about the O’Toole family. Fred had been truthful when he told her that Mimi had no family. Their parents dead, they had been raised by foster parents. Lucy wondered if they had been placed together in the same home, or if they’d been separated, as was often the case.

  It seemed a cruel twist of fate that Mimi’s sons were close to being in the same situation, though Preston at least was older than Mimi and her brother had been. How old were they when their father was killed? How long after that did their mother take her life? Father Keenan had said she was “fragile.” Did that mean their mother suffered from mental problems even before the shooting? Lucy found that the information she’d gotten from Father Keenan was creating more questions than answers. She couldn’t wait to get back to her computer and put Google to work.

  She had just passed the “Welcome to Maine” sign when her cell phone rang. Normally, Lucy didn’t like to talk on the cell phone when she was driving; she’d seen too many near misses by drivers who were completely oblivious to the cars around them as they engaged in a fascinating conversation. But today she practically had the road to herself and she would make it brief, tell whoever was calling that she would get back to them as soon as possible.

  “Mo-o-om!” wailed Sara, when she answered

  Lucy felt the car swerve a bit. “What’s the matter?”

  “I wanna go ho-o-me.”

  “Calm down and tell me what’s the matter,” insisted Lucy, pulling into a convenient rest stop.

  “I just wanna go home.”

  “Are you sick?”

  Sara produced a sound that could be taken as either affirmative or negative, Lucy couldn’t decide which. Whatever it was, it was clear Sara was in some sort of distress and needed her.

  “Where are you?”

  “Lake Wah-wah-wingate.”

  Lucy pulled a map out of the glove compartment and discovered she was only about 25 miles away. “I can be there in about half an hour,” she promised.

  “Hu-u-urry,” wailed Sara.

  “Just take it easy,” said Lucy, ending the call and peeling out of the rest area with the gas pedal pressed to the floor. This was definitely one of those times that called for prayer. “Lord,” she said, raising her eyes skyward, “please let there be no state troopers for the next 25 miles.”

  Chapter 18

  When Lucy arrived at Lake Wingate High School she didn’t have to go looking for Sara; she was sitting on the front steps of the sprawling brick building waiting to be rescued. A bank of clouds was building in the west, and the wind was whipping her hair across her face. Lucy could hear crowd noises and the amplified voice of an announcer calling the plays, punctuated by the band playing a few bars of the school fight song from the football field behind the school.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Lucy, as her daughter got in the car. It was obvious she had been crying and equally obvious that she didn’t want her mother to know it.

  “I just don’t feel good,” said Sara, staring straight ahead.

  “How don’t you feel good? Tired? Nauseous? Headache? Fever?” Lucy took her foot off the brake and proceeded down the drive at a reasonable speed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Which?” demanded Lucy, placing her hand on Sara’s forehead to check for a fever.

  “All of them.”

  “You don’t have a fever,” said Lucy, turning onto Main Street and heading for the highway.

  “I guess I’m just tired. I should’ve stayed home, like you said. It’s probably PMS.”

  Lucy wasn’t buying it. Sara had always been healthy as a horse and hardly noticed her periods. “Are you sure something didn’t happen on the bus? Did those players harass you again?”

  Sara was quick to deny it. “No, Mom. Nothing like that happened.”

  Even though she was convinced her daughter was lying she also knew it was futile to keep questioning her. The more she prodded, the more tightly Sara would clam up.

  “Well, just relax. We should be home soon,” said Lucy, intending to have a talk with Renee and Sassie, and their mothers, too. This couldn’t go on and Lucy was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  Lucy switched the radio on to Sara’s favorite station and soon Sara began to relax, tapping her fingers along to hits by Britney, Jessica Simpson, and Madonna. When a fast food restaurant came into view, Lucy asked if she’d like a Coke or something and Sara surprised her by asking for a whole meal. So much for being sick, thought Lucy, but she wasn’t about to press the issue.

  It occurred to her that Sara took a lot for granted: a pleasant home, three nutritious meals a day, a loving and supportive family, medical and dental care, stylish and appropriate clothing, a good school system, friends. These were just the basic building blocks for healthy development, but not all kids were lucky enough to have them. And even if they did have them, they could lose them, like Preston and Tommy had. It struck Lucy that the Stanton family was repeating some terrible cycle of destruction that began with the death of Mimi’s father and mother. The sins of the father visited on the children? In this cas
e it seemed more like the misfortunes of one generation being passed down to the next.

  One thing was different, however. Because Preston and Tommy were older they wouldn’t have to go into foster care, at least Preston wouldn’t, and if he wasn’t found to be a suitable guardian for Tommy, at least he’d only be in care for a few years. Lucy had heard plenty about the deficiencies of the foster care system and could cite several recent news stories about abuse and neglect. She was sure that most foster parents were decent folk who tried their best but the need was so great that a few rotten apples always seemed to slip through. Even the best-intentioned foster parents could be undone by the demands of the job. She wondered what Mimi and her brother’s experience had been; she had a feeling it hadn’t been good.

  She was thinking along those lines when she turned into her driveway and saw Tommy and Preston standing there. Her first impulse was to lock the car doors and call 9-1-1 but Sara leaped out of the car before she could put that plan into action. She was certain the boys had come to confront her about the report she’d filed against Preston at the police station that morning.

  But when she extricated herself from her seat belt she found Sara was smiling flirtatiously at Preston, swinging her hips and twirling her hair around her fingers.

  “What’s up?” asked Lucy, joining the group.

  “I just wanted to apologize for being a jerk,” said Preston. Tommy nodded in agreement.

  “If you want me to drop charges, I don’t think I can do it,” said Lucy. “It’s a rental car so it’s out of my hands.”

  “He didn’t slash your tires,” said Tommy. “He was home with me all night.”

  Lucy looked at Preston through narrowed eyes. “Really?”

  “Really,” said Preston. “I understand why you thought it was me, because of the stuff I said at the gas station. But I didn’t really mean that.”

  “He’s been upset,” said Tommy, “because of everything that’s happened.”

  Preston, despite his black motorcycle leathers and long hair suddenly looked very young to Lucy, with his skinny wrists and barely-there mustache.

  “You’ve been really nice, offering to help and all, and I want you to know that Tommy and I appreciate it.”

  This dramatic shift in attitude seemed a little too good to be true. “What changed your mind?” she asked.

  “Dad’s lawyer, Mr. Esterhaus, he got us this counselor and she’s helped us sort things out.”

  “That’s good,” said Lucy, who was feeling a whole lot better about the boys’ situation.

  “Well, we gotta be going,” said Preston.

  “Just one other thing,” said Tommy, making eye contact with Sara. “My dad didn’t, well, he didn’t do it.”

  “Yeah,” added Preston. “That’s for sure.”

  “Listen, guys, I found out some interesting stuff. Why don’t you come in the house so I can tell you about it.”

  “Okay,” said Preston, with a shrug.

  Inside the kitchen, Libby welcomed them by attempting her usual wiggles and jumps though she was unable to give them the full routine because of her stitches. Lucy sent Sara upstairs to take a shower and sat the boys at the kitchen table, where she passed out cold cans of soda, which they promptly drained in one gulp, setting the cans carefully on the table in front of them.

  “I interviewed this priest today, Father Keenan. He’s retired now but he used to work at a church in Jamaica Plain and he knew your family. Well, your mother’s family.”

  The boys relaxed attitude suddenly changed. Lucy felt as if they were hanging on her every word.

  “You don’t know anything about your mother’s family?” she asked.

  They shook their heads. “Mom always said she didn’t have any family. She was raised by a series of foster parents and the less said about them, the better,” said Preston. Tommy nodded in agreement.

  “Well, she did have a family. Her father was a Boston cop who was shot during a bank heist. Her mother was left with two kids, your mom and her brother, but she died soon after.” Lucy decided to omit the fact that Mimi’s mother had committed suicide.

  “And this homeless guy who drowned? He really was her brother? Our uncle?”

  Lucy nodded. “His name was Thomas Preston O’Toole. You were both named after him.”

  “This is really blowing my mind,” said Preston. “I wonder why she never tried to contact him.”

  “Maybe the past was so painful she didn’t want to open it up.” Lucy didn’t say what she thought was the more likely reason: that Mimi felt reopening the past would be dangerous. It certainly seemed that the key to her murder would be found in the past. “If you think of anything, anything at all that might help, please tell me. And remember, if you need anything, my offer’s still good.”

  Lucy stood in the doorway as the boys left, but when Preston started his motorcycle there was no hideous roar. It turned over smoothly and quietly and purred as he rolled down the driveway.

  “What happened?” asked Lucy.

  “Tommy told me,” chirped up Sara, who had come back downstairs, her hair still damp from her shower. “He got a new muffler. The lawyer advised him it would help community relations.”

  Esterhaus sounded like one smart cookie, thought Lucy, making a mental note of the name. You just never knew when you might need a good lawyer.

  Lucy waited until after supper, when Sara had gone out to the movies with her friends and Zoe was upstairs getting her homework out of the way before the weekend, to tell Bill about the day’s events.

  “Something’s going on with that football team that isn’t right,” insisted Lucy. “I just feel it.”

  “Yeah, they’re winning,” said Bill. “They beat Lake Wingate twenty-one to six today. Amazing.”

  “What are you saying? That it’s okay for the boys to haze each other and harass the cheerleaders so long as they keep winning?”

  “Well, whatever’s going on, you can’t argue with the result.”

  Lucy couldn’t believe her husband, Sara’s doting father, was talking like this. “Are you actually telling me you’d sacrifice your daughter’s well-being for a winning season?”

  Bill shifted uncomfortably in his recliner, making it squeak. “No. Of course not. But maybe she just needs to develop a little tougher skin. That’s what this stuff is all about and to tell the truth, if it’s hazing that’s producing the desire to win, well I can’t say I think it’s such a bad thing.” He shrugged. “We all go through it one way or another. You’ve got to pay your dues.”

  “Well, the team may be winning but Sara’s throwing up every morning before school. This can’t go on.” Lucy leaned forward. “I think she should talk to a counselor.”

  Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “Like a psychiatrist?” He shook his head. “She’s not crazy.”

  “But she is unhappy. I can’t get her to tell me what’s going on but maybe she’d open up to a professional. They know all sorts of techniques for establishing trust and getting kids to open up to them.”

  “Why would she trust a stranger when she won’t trust her parents?”

  “Apparently…” began Lucy, but she was interrupted by Libby’s frantic barking. The dog’s hair was standing straight up on her back as she paced from window to window, growling and barking.

  Lucy looked at Bill. “Probably just a skunk,” he said, as the window behind his chair suddenly shattered with a crack like a gunshot. They both dove to the floor, where Lucy lay on her stomach, panting with fear. Bill began crawling, propelling himself by his elbows, and unplugged the lamp, plunging the room into semi-darkness. Then he grabbed the phone cord and pulled the instrument to him.

  “What was that?” demanded Zoe, standing in the doorway.

  Lucy’s heart was in her throat. “Get down,” she hissed. “I think somebody’s out there with a gun.”

  Zoe began wiggling across the rug to her mother.

  “Stay put. There’s broken glass.”

&n
bsp; “I’m scared, Mommy.”

  “Everything’s okay,” said Bill. “The cops are coming. All we have to do is stay low.”

  Moments later, they heard the approaching siren of a police cruiser coming up Red Top Road. When they heard the scrunch of tires in the drive and saw the powerful lights reflected on the wall they cautiously got to their feet and Bill went to the kitchen door.

  Lucy switched the overhead light on and surveyed the damage. It wasn’t a shot after all that had broken the window, she discovered, but a baseball-sized rock with a piece of paper wrapped around it.

  “Don’t touch that,” she warned Zoe, hurrying into the kitchen. There she found Bill and Officer Josh Kirwan, Dot’s youngest, who looked barely old enough to vote.

  “It was a rock,” Lucy informed him. “With a note.”

  “What does the note say?”

  “I didn’t touch it. Don’t you want to check it for fingerprints?”

  “Oh, right,” said Officer Kirwan, nervously fingering his notebook. “I better call this in to the station.”

  “I’ll make some coffee,” said Lucy, figuring it was going to be a long night. She gave Zoe a hug. “You go on back upstairs and start getting ready for bed.”

  “But tomorrow’s Saturday,” she protested.

  “Okay. You can watch the TV in my room.”

  Officer Kirwan went outside to check that the rock thrower was gone and to look for evidence. Lucy and Bill sat at the kitchen table, listening to the coffee pot drip and hiss.

  “I wish we could read that message on the rock,” said Lucy.

  “It’s probably not anything you want to hear,” said Bill.

  “Even so. It might have something to do with Mimi’s death.” She sniffed the comforting smell of coffee. “Maybe the murderer threw the rock.”

  “Maybe you better calm down and let the police handle this.”

  Lucy wasn’t at all encouraged when Detective Horowitz arrived, followed immediately by a white crime scene van and two technicians. They went straight into the family room, carrying an assortment of equipment cases and powerful lamps. Lucy had that odd feeling you get when your house isn’t quite your own. After what seemed an eternity Horowitz emerged with the note encased in a clear plastic bag. As ever, he seemed gray and tired with his thinning hair, rumpled suit, and pale eyes.