LStone 20 - Easter Bunny Murder Page 4

  “But still she hangs on,” said Lucy, thinking VV must have been declining for a very long time. It was last August, after all, when Pam was told she was too ill to see visitors.

  “If you ask me, she lives for those little dogs of hers. Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum. She adores them.” Maxine rolled her eyes. “Though they’re not getting proper care, either. The girl who used to walk them has been fired, the nurses won’t do it, Willis won’t do it. So you can imagine what happens. The place is beginning to stink.”

  Lucy’s jaw dropped. “My word.”

  “The worst of it, though, is the food,” continued Maxine, rolling her eyes and waving her arm in front of her. “They have a new cook, but she’s not really a cook at all. She opens cans and microwaves things; she wouldn’t know what to do with a fresh vegetable if it bit her. It’s absolutely atrocious!”

  Lucy pressed her lips together and avoided looking at Phyllis. “I understand these cuts are necessary because VV’s assets have declined.”

  “I don’t know about that. She was very, very rich and if she isn’t rich anymore it’s because her money has been mismanaged.” Maxine pursed her glistening scarlet lips. “Or stolen. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Lucy figured she might as well ask the question that was bothering her. “And you think these same three are responsible for Van’s death?”

  Maxine’s eyes widened and she nodded her head. “Absolutely. They were all there, you see, for a family conference.”

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Lucy. “There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of foul play.”

  Maxine got to her feet. “I just know it, that’s all. I feel it here.” She clenched her hand into a fist and pressed it to her heart. “I’ve never been more certain of anything and I’m going to prove it, if it’s the last thing I do!”

  And with that, she stalked across the room and out the door, leaving the bell jangling furiously behind her.

  “Well,” said Lucy, exhaling.

  “Well,” agreed Phyllis. “What are you going to do?”

  “I guess I’m going to follow up. These are serious accusations.”

  “And if it’s true, it’s a heck of a story,” said Phyllis.

  “That, too,” said Lucy. She put in a call to Doc Ryder but he wasn’t available, so she left a message and got busy with the listings. She was trying to make sense of a confusing Easter service schedule the Episcopalians had submitted when her phone rang. It was Elizabeth calling from Florida.

  “How are you doing?” asked Lucy. “I haven’t heard from you for a while.”

  “I’ve been busy, Mom. You know how it is.”

  Lucy was used to hearing this excuse. “So how come you’ve suddenly found time in your busy schedule to call me?”

  “I don’t feel good, Mom.”

  Lucy’s maternal antennae were suddenly picking up ominous vibrations. “Really? What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve got these awful cramps. Honestly, Mom, I thought I was going to die last night.”

  A second light on Lucy’s phone lit up, probably Doc Ryder returning her call. She needed to wrap this up quickly because she knew from experience that he wouldn’t try a second time.

  “Do you think it could be your period? You’ve had bad cramps before. What time of the month is it?” she asked as the phone began ringing.

  “It’s a little early . . .”

  “Better early than late,” quipped Lucy. “Honey, I really have to go. I’ve got another call.”

  “Okay, Mom. Thanks.”

  Lucy didn’t reply. She was already hitting that blinking button. As she suspected, it was Doc Ryder. “Thanks,” she said, “I know you’re busy.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. People can’t afford health insurance so they wait until they’re desperate and then they show up at the ER. Already today I’ve had a late-stage melanoma, a diabetic coma, and a kid with measles—these people should all be getting regular medical care.”

  It was a familiar refrain, and Lucy had written several stories about the need for improved medical care in the region. “You should send them over the border to Canada,” she said.

  “I wish I could,” said Doc Ryder. “But you didn’t call me about the need for a national health system, or did you?”

  “No. Actually, we just had a visit from Van Vorst Duff’s ex-girlfriend and she claims he’d just had a physical and passed with flying colors. She thinks he was murdered.”

  “I examined his body and I can assure you I didn’t find any bullet wounds, bruises or stab wounds. He wasn’t strangled, garroted or hanged and there were no signs of poisoning. I determined that his death was due to natural causes and no autopsy is required.”

  “She says he had no cholesterol problems to speak of and low blood pressure.”

  “It happens, Lucy. What can I tell you? A seemingly healthy person drops dead. Everybody thinks that if they exercise and don’t smoke they’ll live forever but, trust me, it doesn’t happen. Everybody dies sooner or later. It just happened sooner for him. Remember that kid from Gilead, the basketball player? Seventeen with a scholarship to Bates? He fell down dead in the middle of a game.”

  Lucy remembered. The tragic death had stunned the entire region and terrified every parent whose child played in school sports. “That kid had an aneurysm, right? Is that what happened to Van?”

  “It could have been. To tell you the truth, I only did an external exam, enough to satisfy myself that death was due to natural causes.”

  “I thought there were always autopsies after an unattended death,” said Lucy.

  “Well, his death wasn’t unattended. He died in the ambulance, on route to the hospital. And, he smelled of alcohol. That could’ve been a factor.”

  Lucy remembered Van staggering as he grabbed the metal grille to push it open, and how he’d stumbled as he’d approached the children, spilling eggs from his basket.

  “Look, if I had my way, I’d request a complete autopsy on everybody who dies. It’s good science, we learn a lot from autopsies. But families resist. They don’t want their loved ones cut open and dissected. And even when there’s some question about a death, and I’m not saying there was in this instance, funding is extremely limited. I don’t have the time or the money to do what I’d like to do as the town doctor. We were lucky to be able to get enough flu vaccine for the seniors last fall.”

  “I know,” said Lucy. “But you’re satisfied Van’s death was natural? Nobody conked him on the head or anything?”

  “Lucy, as I understand it, he was wearing a giant padded bunny head.”

  “So I guess that means blunt trauma is out of the question?”

  He laughed. “I’d say so.”

  “Well, thanks for your time. It was nice chatting with you.”

  “Right. Oh, and Lucy, Bill is due for a blood pressure check.”

  Lucy was flooded with a sense of guilt. She knew he’d cancelled an appointment and she hadn’t reminded him to reschedule. “I’ll get right on it,” she promised, hanging up and writing a reminder to herself.

  “So what’s the story?” asked Phyllis. The fax machine began to spew out a sheet of paper.

  “Doc Ryder has no reason to suspect foul play in Van’s death,” said Lucy, walking across the office to the fax machine.

  “Well, Maxine does seem to have a flair for the dramatic,” said Phyllis.

  “You can say that again,” said Lucy, scanning the fax, which had just come from the local funeral home.

  VAN VORST DUFF, of Boston, age 46, died unexpectedly on April 3.

  Van was born in Milton, Massachusetts, where he attended Milton Country Day School. He graduated from Lawrence Academy in Groton, Massachusetts and attended Colgate University in Hamilton, New York.

  A keen sportsman and nature lover, Van volunteered his time and energy to numerous organizations devoted to conserving the world’s natural resources and preserving wildlife.

  He is survived by a
daughter, Juliette Duff of New York City; his mother, Vivian Duff of Nantucket, Massachusetts; his father, Andrew Duff of Brookline, Massachusetts; his sister, Victoria (Duff) Allen, and her husband, Henry Chatsworth Allen of Boston; and his grandmother, Vivian Van Vorst of Tinker’s Cove.

  Burial will be private.

  Memorial gifts may be made to the International Wildlife Consortium, 12 Water St., Suite 2, Milford, MA 01757.

  “What’s so interesting?” asked Phyllis. “The lunch menu from the Hot Pot?”

  “It’s Van’s obituary,” said Lucy, giving her the sheet of paper. “It sure doesn’t say much.”

  “Burial will be private,” read Phyllis with a snort. “Figures. They wouldn’t want a bunch of curious gawkers there.”

  “Or the press,” said Lucy.

  “I guess he never had a job,” observed Phyllis.

  “He probably didn’t need the money,” said Lucy. “He volunteered.”

  “That’s like working here,” said Phyllis. “Considering how little Ted pays us, we’re practically volunteers.”

  Lucy laughed. “Did you notice who isn’t mentioned?”

  Phyllis nodded. “Maxine.”

  “Pretty interesting, if you ask me,” said Lucy, tapping her finger on her chin. “I wonder if she’s on to something.”

  Chapter Five

  “I could have a chat with Elfrida,” offered Phyllis.

  “Would you?” asked Lucy eagerly.

  Phyllis shrugged. “Sure. I’ll put her on speakerphone so you can hear, too.”

  Lucy listened to the rings, which sounded very loud. Elfrida was in no hurry to answer, but finally they heard her breathy Marilyn Monroe voice. “Pine Point, this is the kitchen,” she whispered.

  “It’s your aunt Phyllis. I’m just calling to see how you’re holding up, what with Van’s death and all.”

  “It’s awfully sad. I liked Van. I mean, I didn’t really know him very well, but he was nice. A real gentleman.” Lucy wasn’t sure how to take this—Elfrida was a notoriously poor judge of men.

  “I suppose VV is very upset,” said Phyllis.

  “I’m sure she is, but those nurses, Lupe and Sylvia, don’t exactly confide in me. They want this, they want that, they’re constantly demanding rice pudding and chicken broth and when I tell them to help themselves, they get all huffy and nasty. Like I have to open the refrigerator and hand them the plastic package—like they can’t find the packs of rice pudding themselves? Now they want me to order some fancy Belgian beer for VV, something about B vitamins, I don’t know. What I do know is if I start buying expensive stuff like that, Mr. Weatherby will have a fit! He goes over all the bills with a fine tooth comb, believe me.”

  Lucy was having a hard time keeping a straight face—she could just imagine Elfrida telling the nurses off—but Phyllis was clucking her tongue sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do, getting ready for the funeral.”

  “Tell me about it,” moaned Elfrida in her soft voice. “Willis was just in, giving me a list of foods to prepare. It all has to be done by Thursday and I don’t know where to begin. What are tea sandwiches? You can’t make sandwiches out of tea, can you? And he wants dozens and dozens. And tea cakes! I never heard of them. What are they?”

  “Like pound cake, I think,” offered Phyllis. “The sort of thing people can pick up in their fingers. No messy icing.”

  “I’m not very good at cakes. I’ve only used mixes. I usually buy the kids’ birthday cakes at the IGA, all decorated,” said Elfrida. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” There was a small silence. “And, you know what? They’re not using paper plates! VV has hundreds of dishes and cups and saucers and glasses and I’m supposed to wash them all by hand, because t hey’re very fragile.”

  “You’re going to need extra help,” said Phyllis.

  “Exactly. That’s what I told Willis. I’m a cook, not a scullery maid!”

  “What did he say?” asked Phyllis.

  There was a little pause before Elfrida answered and Lucy wondered if Willis had made some disparaging remark about Elfrida’s cooking—she had certainly left herself open to it. “He’s going to check with Mr. Weatherby about hiring some temporary help.”

  At this point, Lucy couldn’t resist joining the conversation. “You know, my friend Sue and I would be happy to help. Nobody makes a better tea sandwich than Sue!”

  For the first time in the conversation, Elfrida seemed to perk up. “Really? What about those pound cakes?”

  “No one better than Sue. And I’m one heck of a dishwasher.”

  “Well, thanks for offering. I have to get approval from Willis, he’s the butler, but I’m pretty sure I can get him on board.”

  Lucy knew that when Elfrida wanted to wind a man around her little finger, she usually succeeded. “Well, I’m here at the office. Let me know, okay?”

  Phyllis switched off the speakerphone but continued her leisurely chat with her niece, inquiring about all of Elfrida’s children and their various problems. Like many childless people, Phyllis never hesitated to offer advice on discipline, dealing with school administrators, and even how to get the little ones to bed. Lucy, meanwhile, called her best friend, Sue Finch.

  “I need to ask a big favor,” she began when Sue answered.

  “Uh-oh,” replied Sue with a chuckle.

  “I’ve gotten a tip that Van’s death was suspicious and I want to go undercover at Pine Point, and I need you to help.”

  Sue was suspicious. “How exactly do you think I can help?”

  “Well, we’re going to be kitchen help. Elfrida needs help with the food for the funeral.”

  “You want me to be a sous-chef?” Sue considered herself a bit of a gourmet.

  “Nothing that fancy. Just tea sandwiches and cakes.”

  “No way, not with my back,” said Sue, who had recently retired from the classroom at Little Prodigies, the child care center she owned with Chris Cashman. “I can’t stand for hours on end, not anymore. All those years in the classroom did me in.”

  “You can sit,” said Lucy. “You don’t have to stand to mix up cakes and cut sandwiches.”

  Sue was doubtful. “Maybe. But answer me this: How are you going to investigate this hot tip when you’re stuck in the kitchen?”

  “Details, details,” said Lucy, who hadn’t quite worked that out herself. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” She crossed her fingers and took a deep breath. “So, will you help?”

  “Maybe,” said Sue, who enjoyed bargaining. “If the price is right.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  The deadline for the Pennysaver was at noon Wednesday and at five minutes past, Lucy pulled up in front of Sue’s house and honked. A minute or two later, Sue appeared at the door, carrying a roomy tote bag. “What have you got there?” asked Lucy, as Sue seated herself in the car.

  “My knives, of course,” said Sue, holding the bag so Lucy could peek inside.

  “We’re making sandwiches, not butchering a pig,” said Lucy, eyeing the formidable batterie de cuisine.

  “You never know,” said Sue placidly. “It’s better to be prepared. So how much are we getting paid for this gig?”

  This was the question Lucy had been dreading. “Mmmmm . . . ,” she began, braking suddenly as a large garbage truck pulled out in front of them. “Did you see that?”

  “Hard to miss,” said Sue, “but don’t change the subject. How much?”

  “Minimum wage.”

  “I haven’t worked for minimum wage since I graduated from college!” exclaimed Sue. Indeed, even though she was going to spend the afternoon up to her elbows in egg salad and cake batter, she was impeccably dressed in a wool pants suit and a cashmere sweater and had applied her usual flawless makeup. Her glossy black hair was styled in a neat pageboy and her nails were freshly manicured.

  “Look, you can take my pay, too,” offered Lucy, dressed as usual in jeans and running shoes, topped with a mach
ine-washable acrylic sweater beneath a tired parka. Her short haircut was also of the wash-and-wear variety. “I’m doing this because it’s the only way I can get into the house for the funeral.”

  “That’s not necessary,” mumbled Sue. “But, why do you think Van’s death was suspicious, apart from your suspicious nature, that is?”

  “I saw Van collapse,” admitted Lucy, “and I assumed it was a heart attack or a stroke or something like that. But his ex-girlfriend came to the Pennysaver office on Monday, and she insists his death was no accident. Furthermore, she says Van’s sister Vicky and her husband and their lawyer are all in cahoots, trying to get control of VV’s money.”

  Sue knit her brows together. “Sounds to me like you’ve got us walking into a hornet’s nest.”

  Lucy grinned. “The trick is not to get stung.”

  When they reached the mansion, Sue was all for marching right up to the front door but Lucy restrained her. “We’re the help, remember? Back door.”

  Sue gave her a withering glance. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Lucy shook her head and her curls bounced. “No. Elfrida warned me. Back door.”

  It was really sort of interesting, thought Lucy, as they trudged along the oyster shell drive to the rear of the house. Up until now, she’d only seen the mansion from the point of view of a visitor and, as the architect clearly intended, had been impressed by the grandeur of the place. Now, as a worker, she was discovering the necessary service area that was cleverly concealed by a stone balustrade and leafy shrubs. Descending a rather shady, dank staircase, they found themselves in front of a locked door. A doorbell was marked with a neatly painted sign, PLEASE RING.

  Lucy rang.

  Nothing happened.

  She rang again, and nothing happened.

  Sue was just about to press the button one more time when the door opened and they were confronted with the imposing figure of Willis the butler. As always, he was dressed in a single-breasted black suit, with a white shirt and somber gray and black striped tie. His face had a well-tended look, clean shaven and pink cheeked, but his hawklike nose gave him a formidable aspect. “Yes?” he inquired, looking down at them.