Chocolate Covered Murder Page 5

  Wilf shifted his weight from one sturdily booted foot to the other. “Don’t think so.”

  “Oh.” Lucy crossed off another name. That left her with the Sturtevants.

  “Oh, gosh, no!” exclaimed Wilf, vehemently.

  “What? They seem very happy,” said Lucy, who often saw them walking their dog, an aged schnauzer.

  “Too happy, if you ask me,” said Wilf, with a leer.

  “You can’t make an expression like that without telling us more,” said Lucy.

  “That’s right,” added Phyllis. “Besides, you know you’ll tell me later and I’ll tell Lucy, so you might as well tell us both now and get it over with.”

  “Well,” Wilf began, in a low voice, “they get a lot of mail in plain brown wrappers, if you know what I mean. And you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Eeuw,” groaned Phyllis. “He’s eighty if he’s a day.”

  “And she’s got more whiskers than that dog,” said Lucy, crossing off the last name on her list.

  The fax machine was whirring when Wilf left and Lucy got up to get the message, which she figured was one of the lunch menus that arrived around this time every morning. Instead, she found that the funeral home had sent Max Fraser’s obituary.

  It was written in the usual flowery style, announcing that “Maxwell Fraser has passed over to that distant blessed shore where he will be joyously reunited with his mother Andrea and father Phil, Gramps and Gran, Uncle Harry and Auntie Maude.”

  Taking it back to her desk, she passed the stack of new papers, with her photo of the rescuers carrying the stretcher with Max’s body on the front page. She hoped he was enjoying the family reunion, but, personally, she had her doubts. She figured Max would rather be zooming from cloud to cloud on his snowmobile.

  She started typing the text, editing as she went. When she finished removing all the hyperbole and religious references, she was left with two short sentences. She had to have more so she reluctantly reached for the phone to call Max’s ex-wife, Dora. Dora had just answered when Bill arrived, toolbox in hand, to fix the door.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you at such a difficult time,” she began, after identifying herself, “but I need some information for Max’s obituary.”

  “It’s no bother, heck, I oughta be glad he’s gone, right?” Dora sniffed. “That man was nothing but trouble.”

  Lucy knew Dora had a reputation for cracking jokes so she wasn’t surprised at Dora’s glib comment. There was something in Dora’s voice, though, that gave her pause.

  “I know you were divorced,” said Lucy.

  “Right. Seven years ago. But I couldn’t get rid of him. He kept turning up, like a bad penny. Worse than that. Like one of those coins you’ve got in your purse that you can’t quite tell what the hell it is, it’s all stuck with candy wrapper or something. Could be a penny, maybe a dime. You know you should get rid of it, but how?” She sighed. “That was Max.”

  Lucy found herself nodding in agreement. “Do you happen to know his mother’s maiden name? The funeral home left it out.”

  “Gooch.”

  Lucy wasn’t sure if this was a joke or not. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” Dora giggled. “She was a Gooch from Gilead.”

  Lucy suspected Dora was a bit hysterical and decided she better wrap the interview up. “What about Max’s education?”

  “He graduated from Tinker’s Cove High, did a year in Orono at the university.” She snorted. “He flunked out, of course. I used to tell him he majored in partying.”

  “He was quite the sportsman,” prompted Lucy.

  “If you call drinking a sport,” said Dora.

  Okay, thought Lucy, we won’t go there. “One child, Lily, right?”

  Dora’s voice softened. “Lily, yeah. Max got one thing right.”

  “What about clubs he belonged to? Church?”

  “Rod and Gun, o’course. That’s all, I think.”

  “Awards?”

  “Well, he won that snowmobile race, practically bankrupted himself doing it.” Dora paused and Lucy heard her sniffling. “But if you ask me, I don’t think his death was any accident. Max was smart about some things. He knew how to take care of himself.”

  “Do you think he was murdered?” asked Lucy. Bill, who was removing the pins from the door hinges, paused and gave her a look.

  “I ... I ... I don’t know what to think.” And with that, Dora sobbed and hung up, leaving Lucy confused and wondering what she meant. She’d said she was glad Max was finally out of her life for good, but Lucy wasn’t convinced. There’d been something in her voice that indicated real sorrow.

  “You’re awful quiet all of a sudden,” commented Phyllis, who was filing press releases by date in an accordion file.

  Bill was hanging a tarp over the empty doorframe in a feeble effort to keep out the cold while he planed the door. “I don’t want you getting involved, Lucy,” he said. “You better leave this up to the police. If Max was murdered, that means the killer could be right here in town. You don’t want to get tangled up with any murderer.”

  “Of course not,” said Lucy, deciding she could use some fresh air. “How about some hot coffee?” she asked. When Bill and Phyllis jumped at her offer, she got up and grabbed her anorak. Once she got outside, however, she had second thoughts. The snow was continuing to drift down and the sidewalk was slippery underfoot. She needed to move, though, so she started off in the direction of Jake’s. Normally she would drive even that short distance, but walking would burn a few calories and clean out her lungs. If the sun came out, she’d get a bit of vitamin D, but a glance at the cloud-covered sky made that a dim possibility. But most of all she wanted to think over what Dora had said.

  Max knew how to take care of himself.

  He sure did, thought Lucy, walking past the hardware store with its display of snow shovels in the window. And he’d been ice fishing on Blueberry Pond for years. He would certainly know where the soft tricky spots were. The ME said he’d gotten a knock on the head. How did that happen? Did he slip and fall, hitting his head? She supposed it was possible, but she doubted it. She’d seen the careful, deliberate way Max had worked to free her car and remembered how he’d checked it over, making sure it hadn’t been damaged. The more she thought about it, she decided as she reached Jake’s, the more likely it seemed that Max’s death was no accident.

  She was just leaving the café with her cardboard tray of coffees, one regular for Bill, one black with skim for Phyllis, and plain black for herself, when she met Frankie La Chance on the sidewalk. Frankie lived with her daughter, Sara’s friend Renee, on Prudence Path, off Red Top Road near the Stones’ house.

  “Lucy! I’ve been meaning to call you,” exclaimed Frankie, in her charming French accent.

  “Same here,” said Lucy. “I understand Renee is working at Fern’s Famous along with my Sara.”

  “Which means they will need rides,” said Frankie. “I am hoping we can carpool. What do you think?”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” said Lucy. “What is your schedule like?”

  “It’s all over the place, but I can commit to Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

  “That gives me Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday,” said Lucy. “Not good, but better than every day.”

  “Good.” Frankie nodded. “I must run. I’ve got a couple who want to buy a house.”

  “Good for you!” exclaimed Lucy, who knew Frankie was a real estate agent. “Does this mean the market is turning around?”

  “I wish,” moaned Frankie. “They’re older, a retired couple, I think they have money. Very cultured, they talk about art and music. Awfully particular. I’ve showed them a lot of places already, but nothing has been quite right. They have excellent taste; they’re staying at the Queen Vic while they look.”

  Frankie started to go but Lucy caught her arm. “I have to write a story about an older couple who’ve made love last—do you think they’d be good subjects?”

 
Frankie broke into a broad grin. “Absolutely!”

  “You say they’re at the Queen Vic?”

  “Yes. Roger and Helen Faircloth are their names. You can say I suggested them to you.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, vowing to call them as soon as she got back to the office.

  The heavy blue tarp was still hanging in the doorway when she arrived, as Bill had set the door on sawhorses and was working away at it with a plane. Phyllis, who was bundled up in her winter coat, took the hot cup gratefully, and so did Bill.

  “I’m almost finished,” he said, taking a long swallow and setting his cup aside.

  “Can I help?’ asked Lucy.

  “Nope,” he said, running the plane over the edge of the door a few more times and then rehanging it on its hinges. He pushed it shut, and the latch clicked easily. “All done.”

  “Good work,” said Lucy, seating herself at her desk and sipping her coffee. “What are you doing next?”

  Bill had settled in Ted’s chair, enjoying his coffee break. “I’m going to see about a job on Parallel Street, a bathroom remodel. What about you?”

  “I’ve got to set up some interviews,” said Lucy. “And I’ve got to pick up Sara and Renee.”

  Bill nodded and began packing up his tools.

  When he was gone, Lucy reached for the phone and called the Queen Victoria Inn. Helen Faircloth did indeed sound quite charming on the phone, but she and her husband were not available this afternoon or Friday since they would be house hunting. Lucy set up an appointment for Saturday afternoon, at the inn. Then she got to work on the birth announcements, one of the paper’s most popular features, noticing a decided uptick in the number of unmarried parents. She sent an e-mail to Ted, suggesting they do a feature story on the trend, and at five o’clock she left for the day, heading over to Fern’s Famous to pick up Sara and Renee.

  Parking in front of the fudge shop, she had a clear view through the plate glass windows. There was no sign of Sara or Renee, who she guessed must be busy in a back room, but she saw Lily, Max and Dora’s daughter, standing by the cash register, staring off into the distance. Then she turned and smiled and Lucy saw the girls, pulling on their jackets and coming toward the door, so she gave a quick honk to let them know she was waiting.

  “How’d it go?” she asked, as they piled into the car.

  “We got to make fudge,” said Sara. “It’s easy.”

  “We can eat as much as we want,” said Renee.

  “Better watch that,” advised Lucy. “It’s very fattening.” She pulled out into the road. “Did I see Lily working there?”

  “Yeah,” said Sara.

  “I thought she was at college in Rhode Island,” said Lucy. “Did she come home because of her dad’s death?”

  “She’s taking a semester off,” said Renee. “She wanted to go back, but her parents weren’t able to manage the tuition so she’s working and saving.”

  Lucy sometimes thought she could drive the route home blindfolded, she’d done it so many times, so her mind was free to ponder this new information, wondering how Max’s death would change Lily’s situation. There might be a small estate; nobody died absolutely penniless. There might be a life insurance policy, a bit of property, even a stamp or coin collection. But even if Max didn’t leave much behind, Lily would qualify for more financial aid now that she was fatherless and would probably be able to resume her education.

  Lucy knew that money, especially the lack of it, was a frequent bone of contention between divorced couples. She’d never seen Max’s name on the lists of deadbeat dads that the paper received from time to time, but Barney had said he was worried about money that night he’d spent in the lockup. No wonder; the recession was hitting lots of people, and Max was probably no exception. But if Max suddenly had had a reduced income, it could mean that he was worth more dead than he was alive. And that, she thought, as she braked for a stop sign, was a dangerous situation to be in.

  Chapter Five

  The Queen Victoria Inn was a survivor from an earlier, more gracious time, when the wives and children of prosperous Boston and New York businessmen would spend the entire summer at the coast, enjoying the cooling breezes and languid atmosphere. Back then the rocking chairs on the front porch would be filled with gossiping matrons, fanning themselves and keeping an eye out for their children’s matrimonial prospects. Those days were gone and now most of the guests could manage to get away from their high-pressure jobs for only a weekend and spent much of their vacation barking orders into cell phones or pecking away at laptop computers.

  The Faircloths were different, Lucy discovered, when she met them in the inn’s spacious dining room for afternoon tea on Saturday. Unlike the handful of others scattered at the cloth-covered tables, they weren’t hunched over any electronic devices whatsoever. They were simply sitting and chatting and obviously enjoying each other’s company.

  “Hi! I’m Lucy,” she said, joining them.

  Roger Faircloth immediately leaped to his feet and pulled out a chair for her. He was tall and moved easily despite his age, which Lucy guessed must be close to seventy. His abundant hair was snow white, his face was tanned, and he was beautifully dressed in gray flannel slacks, tasseled loafers, and a camel cloth blazer. His blue oxford-cloth shirt was topped with a jaunty striped bow tie.

  “Thank you,” murmured Lucy as she lowered herself onto the chair Roger slid beneath her. She wasn’t used to this sort of treatment and was frankly relieved when she found she’d succeeded in connecting with the moving chair.

  “Allow me to introduce my wife, Helen,” he said, taking his seat and signaling to the waitress.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” said Helen, who was every bit as good-looking as her husband. Her shoulder-length blond pageboy was streaked with gray, but her subtly made-up face exhibited only a few well-moisturized lines. She was wearing a blue twinset, which matched her eyes, a pearl necklace, and a tailored pair of slacks. A rather large diamond glittered on her finger, along with a broad gold wedding band.

  “Well, I’m very grateful to you for agreeing to this interview. Tea is on me, of course,” said Lucy, eager to get that detail out of the way.

  “Absolutely not,” said Roger, as the waitress, Caitlin Eldredge, appeared to request their preferences. Roger chose a hearty Lapsang souchong, but Helen and Lucy opted for Earl Grey. Moments later, Caitlin arrived with a steaming silver pot for each of them as well as a tiered silver stand containing scones, assorted cakes, and tiny sandwiches.

  “Please, help yourself,” invited Helen. “A young person like you must have a hearty appetite.”

  “Not so young,” replied Lucy, “and I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”

  “It’s a struggle, isn’t it?” agreed Helen. She turned to her husband with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat for both of us.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said, piling the little triangular sandwiches on his plate.

  “Roger can eat as much as he wants and never gains a pound,” said Helen. “It’s so unfair.”

  “My husband, too,” said Lucy, opening her notebook. “I understand you’re here in town looking for a house.”

  “Yes,” said Roger, polishing off a salmon sandwich and reaching for another. “We definitely are. Tinker’s Cove is a beautiful town and we think, no, we know it will suit us perfectly.”

  “What prompted the move?” asked Lucy.

  “Oh, we’ve lived in Connecticut for most of our marriage, that’s over forty years.”

  “Remarkable,” said Lucy.

  “Not so remarkable. It’s easy to stay married when you’re in love,” said Roger, beaming across the table at Helen. “She’s every bit as pretty as the day I married her.”

  “Oh, Roger,” protested Helen, her cheeks turning pink. “You’re embarrassing me.” She turned back to Lucy. “Isn’t he impossible?”

  “I think you’re fortunate to have such a loving relationship,�
�� said Lucy, feeling she was in danger of losing control of the interview. “So why did you leave Connecticut?”

  “Oh, our house burned down,” said Helen, with a little shrug.

  “That’s right,” agreed Roger, buttering a scone. “Total loss.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Lucy was shocked. “That’s terrible.”

  “When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade,” said Helen, brightly. “We decided to look at it as an opportunity. When you’ve lost everything, you see, at first it’s very terrible. You’re shocked. The photos, the artwork, the antiques, all turned to ashes.”

  “We were quite serious collectors,” said Roger. “We had an early Warhol, a Basquiat... .”

  “I never liked those much, dear. It was the Wyeths I hated to lose,” said Helen.

  “For me, it was the antiques. That Goddard highboy... .”

  “Brown University had just made inquiries, too. They wanted to buy it.”

  “Buy it!” hooted Roger. “They wanted us to leave it to them.”

  “Doesn’t matter now,” said Helen, with a sad smile. “It’s gone.” She took a deep breath and straightened her back, taking a sip of tea. “It’s all gone, but we decided not to look at it as a loss but to move on. We’d always wanted to live on the coast—I just love Maine, you see. And if I can’t have a Wyeth landscape on my wall, I can have one right outside my window.”

  “That’s a wonderful attitude,” said Lucy. “Can you tell me how you met?”

  “I was in London, modeling,” said Helen. “It was the Swinging Sixties.”

  “I wasn’t swinging, I was at the London School of Economics. I call it the Slogging Sixties.”

  “We met on a double-decker bus,” said Helen. “The bus swerved ’round a corner and I lost my balance. I landed right in his lap!”

  “Talk about luck! This beautiful girl lands in my lap. I took it as a sign that she was meant for me.” Roger finished off his scone and reached for a tiny square of chocolate cake.

  “So you married and came back to the U.S. and settled in Connecticut?” asked Lucy.