Mistletoe Murder Page 7

  “Probably the warrant for the special town meeting. Haven’t you seen it?”

  “No, I’ve been a little out of touch lately,” said Lucy, glancing at her mother.

  “Everybody at school was talking about it. It calls for a one-year moratorium on all building, and sets aside most of the undeveloped land in town as conservation land. Sam Miller had been working on it before he died. It’s kind of his legacy to the town.”

  “No wonder Culpepper’s upset,” commented Lucy. “First the layoffs and now this. There won’t be any jobs left in town.”

  “I heard about that. Are you okay?”

  “So far.” Lucy shrugged, watching as Barney Culpepper grabbed a young man wearing a ragg sweater by the shoulders and shook him.

  “Who’s that?” asked Lucy.

  “Jonathan Franke, the new APTC director,” answered Lydia. “Association for the Preservation of Tinker’s Cove,” she added for Helen’s benefit.

  Conversation in the coffee shop had stopped. Everyone watched to see if there would be a fight, but Culpepper merely dropped his hands and mumbled something to Franke, who left.

  “It’s just not fair,” the officer said to his companions. “People in this town care more about osprey and owls than they do about people. I’ve worked here my whole life, but I can’t afford to buy a house. In fact, my rent’s going up next month and I don’t know how I’m going to pay that. ”

  His companions nodded and murmured assent.

  “Now they want to stop building houses for a year. What’s that going to do to you, Mark?”

  “I’ll have to go someplace else, I guess. Especially since Patti got laid off last night. I sure as hell ain’t gonna make it here.”

  “I’m thinking of switching to remodeling,” admitted Frank Martignetti, a master builder known for his expensive custom homes.

  “Good luck,” said Culpepper. “You’ll have a devil of a time getting anything approved by that planning commission. Nope, this town is a good place to live if you’re an owl or a salmon, but it really stinks if you’re a workingman.” He set his police cap squarely on his head, shifted his holster, and stalked out the door.

  “Gosh, I hope nobody’s double-parked out there,” Lucy quipped.

  “He has a point, Lucy. It’s very hard for young people to get a start here,” said Lydia. “Most of my students’ parents are really struggling.”

  Lucy nodded. “The average house costs about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Right,” said Lydia. “Say he makes twenty-five thousand, and she makes twelve, that’s thirty-seven thousand a year. Most people don’t even make that; a lot of our kids get subsidized lunches. But, say a family is doing pretty well, they’re both working, they still can’t afford twelve hundred a month for a mortgage payment—and that’s if they’ve managed to get together thirty thousand for a down payment.”

  “We’re lucky we bought when we did.”

  “We are, too. But you know there was talk of affordable housing for town employees like cops and teachers. Not that I like being considered a town employee lumped in with the road crew and the water department.” Lydia’s dark eyes flashed. “ I’m a professional with a master’s degree. But it would have helped some of the younger teachers. If this plan is passed by town meeting, I don’t know what will happen to that.”

  “I didn’t realize Sam Miller was behind all this. Maybe that’s what Dave Davidson was talking about in his sermon. It didn’t make sense to me,” Lucy confessed.

  “Maybe. Maybe it was just something Marcia put him up to saying. Socking it to the family that Sam didn’t want to be like them, he just wanted to be one of the folks. She hated the Millers. You know what else I heard?” Lydia’s eyes grew large and she dropped her voice. “I heard she had an affair with Culpepper.”

  “No.” Lucy giggled. “With Culpepper? The woman who brought Donna Karan dresses to Tinker’s Cove?”

  “And sculptured nails!” Lydia laughed.

  “And black eyeliner!”

  “Don’t forget black stockings.” The two women burst out laughing.

  Noticing that her mother had withdrawn from the conversation and was just sitting at the table fingering her napkin, Lucy reached over and caressed her hand.

  “What do you say we make a quick trip to Portland? There’s a big toy store there.”

  “I don’t want to buy them toys.” Helen shook her head. “They have too many toys already.”

  Lucy tapped her fingers on the table. “We’ve been to every store in town, and you didn’t find anything. What do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll know it when I see it,” she said, frowning.

  Lucy rolled her eyes and looked at Lydia, who asked, “Have you been to Sandcastles?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A little shop behind the fire station. It’s cute. She does T-shirts and sweat suits. She’ll monogram them or put designs on, whatever you want.”

  “There wouldn’t be time now to have something monogrammed,” Helen argued.

  “Oh, sure there is. She can probably do it while you wait.”

  “Let’s check it out, Mom. Thanks, Lydia. See you later.”

  Just as Lydia had promised, Sandcastles was located on pilings behind the fire station. As they walked along the boardwalk the cold wind from the bay whipped their clothes and faces. Lucy took her mother’s arm and guided her along protectively, afraid the wind would be too much for her. Once inside the little shop filled with brightly colored clothes, they began to warm up.

  Energized by Jake’s coffee, Lucy convinced her mother to buy each of the girls a sweat suit printed with dancing hippos. While they waited the proprietor applied rhinestones in strategic places, a detail Lucy knew would thrill Sara and Elizabeth. For Toby they found a warm sweat shirt with a surf design.

  “Lucy,” complained her mother, “I didn’t really plan to spend this much.”

  “The kids will love them. How much did you have in mind? I’ll make up the rest.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I’ll manage.” She sighed.

  “Good.”

  “I’m not made of money, you know.”

  “And you’re not the actress, either,” said Lucy, piloting her mother back along the boardwalk to the car. “Christmas only comes once a year. Let’s try to enjoy it, okay?”

  “I’m trying,” answered the older woman.

  “I know you are,” Lucy said, and as the wind whipped round them in a savage burst, she felt tears sting her eyes.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  #1009 This rugged compass is an essential survival tool that no hiker should be without. Sturdy plastic case with a leather strap. $11.

  Waking up the next morning, Lucy experienced an almost paralyzing sense of dread. She knew with certainty that something awful was going to happen today but couldn’t remember what. She checked the calendar, but no dentist appointments were penciled in and she hadn’t forgotten anyone’s birthday, but she knew that there was something unpleasant in the offing. When the phone rang promptly at eight, it all came clear.

  “Lucy, this is Marge Culpepper.”

  “Hi, Marge.”

  “Listen, Lucy. I can’t help you with the Cub Scouts this afternoon. I’ve got to take my mother to the doctor.”

  “Cub Scouts?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? You and I promised to fill in for Kathy—she’s leaving today to spend Christmas with her family in Pennsylvania.”

  “I did forget. I haven’t got anything planned.”

  “Well, you’ve got until two-thirty to think of something. I wish I could help you, but Mom’s feeling pretty poorly. You know, it’s a nice day and not too cold. Why not take them for a hike?”

  “That’s a good idea. They can work off some of their excess energy.”

  “Sure. And I’ll send my husband over with some hot cocoa. It’s the least I can do. He’ll be at Indian Rock at, say, three-fifteen.
Okay?”

  “Sounds great. Thanks, Marge.”

  Lucy hung up the phone and started washing the breakfast dishes. At least now she knew why she was depressed. Cub Scouts always depressed her.

  Of course, Toby loved being a Cub Scout. He loved wearing his blue-and-gold uniform to the after-school meetings every Wednesday. He was doggedly working his way through the wolf book, bringing it to her to sign after he finished each task and proudly supervising the addition to his uniform of each bead and patch that he earned. Toby was the ideal scout, and Lucy felt guilty that she couldn’t be the ideal den mother.

  She did help out from time to time, and when she did she always took two aspirins before the meeting. No matter how much time she spent planning activities and projects, it never took the boys more than five or ten minutes to lose interest. Then came the choruses of “We’re bored” and “What’s next?” As far as Lucy could tell, all the boys really wanted to do was wrestle with each other and pick on Stubby Phipps, who, they all agreed, was a nerd. Oh, well, she sighed, maybe today would be different.

  Leaving her mother in charge of Sara and Elizabeth, Lucy was waiting in the elementary school cafeteria at two-thirty for den five to assemble.

  “Where are we going today?” asked the boys.

  “We’re going to hike up to Indian Rock,” she announced enthusiastically.

  “A hike. . . .”

  “I’m too tired.”

  “We’ll never make it, it’s too far.” They groaned in protest.

  “You sound more like Girl Scouts than Cub Scouts,” Lucy teased.

  “But what about a snack?” demanded Stubby. “Aren’t we going to have a snack?”

  “No snack!” Den five was dismayed.

  “I’ve heard a rumor that an old Indian, the last of the Sockatumee tribe, may have left a peace offering at Indian Rock.”

  “What? What tribe?”

  “Haven’t you heard of the Sockatumees?” Lucy asked incredulously. “Don’t you know their secret word?”

  “What secret word?” Toby was suspicious.

  “I’ll teach it to you. Repeat after me. Oh!”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh-wa.” Lucy waited.

  “Oh-wa,” repeated the boys reluctantly.

  “Oh-wa-ta,” said Lucy, drawing out each syllable.

  “Oh-wa-ta,” the boys intoned.

  “Oh-wa-ta-foo.” Lucy smiled.

  “Oh-wa-ta-foo,” repeated the boys.

  “Oh-wa-ta-foo-lie.” Lucy restrained the urge to giggle and kept her voice low, stretching each syllable out as long as she could.

  The boys repeated after her, “Oh-wa-ta-foo-lie,” really beginning to get in the spirit of magic Indian words.

  “Oh-wa-ta-foo-lie-yam,” droned Lucy, and the boys shouted back:

  “Oh-wa-ta-foo-lie yam!”

  Lucy beamed at them. “Now, say it faster.”

  “Oh, what a fool I am!” they screamed.

  “Gotcha!” said Lucy.

  “You tricked us,” Toby reproached her.

  “I didn’t spend five summers at Camp Wah-wah-tay-see for nothing,” Lucy confided, leading the boys out the door and across the baseball field, where the trail to Indian Rock began. “Now, let’s see who’ll be the first to reach Indian Rock.”

  “Last one there is a rotten egg,” shouted Eddie Culpepper, and the boys ran ahead along the trail, except for Stubby. Stubby was a little overweight, and he was content to walk along beside her.

  “Mrs. Stone, did you really spend five summers at camp?”

  “I did.”

  “My mom wants me to go to camp this summer.” Stubby didn’t sound very happy about the idea.

  “Don’t you want to go?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like sports much,” Stubby confessed. “I like to read. The Three Investigators are my favorites.”

  “Toby likes them, too. There’ll probably be time to read at camp. I used to read Nancy Drew books. Lots of the girls had them, and we’d borrow the ones we hadn’t read.”

  “Yeah? I still don’t think I’ll like it.”

  “You might be surprised.” Lucy smiled. “We’d better catch up with the others.” She had been keeping track of the boys’ progress by listening to their voices, but she hadn’t heard them for a while.

  When they rounded the last bend in the trail she was relieved to see the seven other members of den five perched on the huge boulder.

  “Stubby Phipps, Stubby Phipps,” Rickie Goldman chanted. “It ought to be Chubby Hips, Chubby Hips.”

  “That’s enough, Rickie,” reproved Lucy. “Who knows the story of Indian Rock?” She was wondering where Officer Culpepper and the hot chocolate were.

  “It was left here by a glacier,” Stubby said. “Mr. Hutchins told us about it.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Lucy, who knew better than to dispute anything a teacher said. “But I was thinking of the Indian legend. Does anybody know that?”

  The boys were quiet, so she began.

  “The story goes that a long time ago there was an Indian chief named Maushop. Maushop was a great chief, and his people loved and respected him. His tribe was very rich and they had lots of corn in their storehouses, and deerskins and wampum. But even though he was very rich, Maushop’s greatest treasure was his little son, Queeg. Maushop loved watching Queeg play and grow. Maushop taught him to fish and hunt and track, and Queeg grew up to be the best hunter in the whole tribe.

  “But then a sickness came and many people died. It was a hard time for the tribe, and there was a great deal of suffering. The people came to Maushop and said that since he was the chief he should do something.

  “So Maushop climbed up the hill where we’re standing and called to the Great Spirit.

  “The Great Spirit answered, but he demanded that Maushop give him something that was dear to him.

  “So Maushop went home, wondering what he could offer to the Great Spirit. He looked at his favorite bow and arrows, the moccasins his wife had sewn for him, even his best knife. While he was doing this Queeg entered the lodge, and Maushop knew what was dearest to him. So he told Queeg to go to the top of the hill.

  “Queeg climbed the hill, just like you did today. Maushop followed behind him, and when Queeg got to the top he called out to the Great Spirit. ‘Great Spirit, here is my offering, my dearest son.’ Then a great eagle came out of the sky and swooped down, grabbing Queeg in his enormous talons and carrying him off.

  “Maushop stood there, all alone, crying for his son. The Great Spirit spoke to him. ‘Because of your great sacrifice the people will live and prosper. To remind them of your great sacrifice, I will put a mark here so they will remember Queeg and how you loved him very much, but you loved your people even more.’ Then the eagle came flapping out of the sky, holding this rock in his talons. He dropped it here, and it’s been here ever since.”

  The boys were quiet, looking thoughtfully at the rock and glancing at the sky.

  “I don’t believe it,” Eddie announced.

  “Me neither,” agreed Rickie.

  “But it was a good story, Mrs. Stone,” Stubby reassured her.

  A sudden squawk made them all jump, and Lucy looked up. Officer Culpepper was pulling into the parking lot in his police cruiser. He climbed out of the black-and-white car and walked over to the group, carrying a large Thermos and a bag of doughnuts.

  “You boys ready for some hot cocoa?”

  Rickie had already opened the bag and the boys were pushing and shoving, grabbing for the doughnuts.

  “Hey,” he thundered. “That isn’t how scouts behave. Get in line. Take turns. There’s enough for everybody.”

  “That’s amazing,” commented Lucy as the boys obeyed. “I’d give anything for a voice like yours.”

  “Well, Bill probably wouldn’t like it very much.”

  “No. I don’t think he would.” Lucy laughed. “It would make being a den l
eader a lot easier, though.”

  “Is’pose,” agreed Culpepper, taking an enormous bite of doughnut.

  “Any new developments in the Sam Miller case?” asked Lucy. “Have they found out who did it yet?”

  “Not that I know,” Culpepper said. “Of course, I’m just a town cop. They don’t tell us much. We’re just supposed to direct traffic and find lost bicycles and leave the investigating to the state police.” He shrugged. “Last year the town wouldn’t even give us a cost-of-living increase. Nobody thinks much of us.”

  “These scouts certainly think you’re something special,” said Lucy, indicating the boys, who were admiring the officer’s uniform and cruiser.

  “Is that a real gun?” asked one of the boys.

  “It sure is. It’s a police-issue nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson,” he answered, drawing the revolver from its holster. Lucy eyed the gun distrustfully. “Don’t worry, Lucy. I made sure the safety’s on.”

  Culpepper held the gun out in the flat of his hand for the boys to admire, then twirled it around his finger a few times before replacing it at his side.

  “What else have I got in my belt? This here’s my walkie-talkie. We use this when we’re working in a team—say, for the Fourth of July parade or a search. A situation like that.” He held up the instrument for the boys to see and then stowed it in his belt.

  “I tell you, this belt gets heavy. At the end of the day I’m sure glad to take it off. Now these,” he said, “these are handcuffs. Who’ll volunteer?”

  All the boys stuck out their hands, but Culpepper picked his son, Eddie, and clapped the cuffs on him. “Now, see if you can get loose,” he challenged. The boys gave Eddie all sorts of advice, but no matter how he twisted and turned the cuffs held fast.

  “Okay, I’ll unlock him. I’ve got the key right here.”

  A sudden burst of sound from the radio in the cruiser caught Culpepper’s attention as he unlocked the cuffs. “I have to answer that. Want to see how the radio works?”

  The boys all followed him over to the black-and-white vehicle. Lucy remained leaning against Indian Rock, overwhelmed by a sudden sense of recognition. She’d heard that sound before. But when? Not in the course of daily life; she’d heard it in connection with something major. How else could she explain the uneasy feeling that threatened to overwhelm her? She followed the boys over to the cruiser and tried to remember if she’d seen a police cruiser at her father’s funeral. Death. She knew the sound meant death.