Yule Log Murder Page 7

  Determined to carry on like a showbiz trouper, Lucy ignored the uncomfortable heat and raised her voice in the ancient carol. “ ‘Let none come into this hall, But that some meryment they bringe,’ ” she sang, enjoying herself. “ ‘If they say they cannot singe, some other sport then they muste bringe,’ ” she continued, when she was suddenly thrown to the ground. She struggled to raise herself, but found she was unable to resist the strong arms that were rolling her on the hard stone floor. People were shrieking and she was practically smothered by a rug that was thrown over her; then dazed and confused, she was helped to her feet by Chris Waters.

  “Oh, Lucy, what a close call!” exclaimed Rachel, hugging her.

  “What happened?” she asked, rubbing her shoulder, which was beginning to ache.

  “Your skirt caught on fire,” said Sue. “Look!”

  It was true, she discovered, when she looked over her shoulder and felt the coarsely woven fabric, now charred and partly burned away.

  “Chris Waters saved you,” said Pam. “Lucky you. A lot of women wouldn’t mind rolling around with him.”

  “It wasn’t as much fun as you might think,” said Lucy, looking in vain for the actor so she could thank him. Her attention was caught instead by Ross Rocket, who was berating his assistant, a young woman in a white shirt and black jeans, with her dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.

  “How do you explain this?” he was demanding, pointing to a chalk mark on the floor.

  “I can’t explain it,” she replied, pointing to a stone flag several feet away. “I put the mark there.” She paused. “Somebody changed it, and I suspect she’s no longer with us.”

  “So that’s how it’s going to be? Every time somebody screws up, it’s going to be poor Bobbi’s fault? Well, I don’t buy it.”

  The girl bowed her head in submission. “Okay, whatever you say, Ross. You’re the boss.”

  “Darn right. So make the correct mark so we can salvage something from this disaster.”

  The girl bent down, chalk in hand, while Ross approached Lucy. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m a little sore,” admitted Lucy.

  “You’re gonna need a new costume,” he said, sounding as if the incident was her fault. “You’ll have to sit this scene out and we’ll get you fitted tomorrow, okay?”

  Before she could answer, he was striding off, taking his usual position at the edge of the set. “Okay, let’s move on. Jolly yeoman singing, nobles beaming. Places, everyone.”

  Feeling somewhat shaky, Lucy seated herself in one of the director’s chairs. She intended to leave and go home as soon as she felt stronger, but found herself watching the filming with interest. Until now, she’d been one of the actors, albeit only an extra, but she’d been focused on the demands of her part. Making sure she was in the right place and singing the right song had required a lot of concentration. But now, she was a bystander, fascinated by the process she was witnessing.

  When she watched a movie, the scenes unfolded seamlessly, but that was not how the filming actually worked, at least not under the direction of Ross Rocket. He interrupted the scene numerous times, usually to bark instructions to his wife, Juliette. As for Juliette, she didn’t seem irritated when he repeatedly corrected her, and she maintained a professional attitude. In fact, her eyes rarely strayed from Ross, watching him obsessively as he interacted with other cast and crew members. Lucy hadn’t noticed this before, but Juliette seemed to grow anxious whenever Ross consulted with the script girl. She wasn’t exceptionally pretty, thought Lucy, but she was petite and bouncy, and wore tight tops that revealed quite a bit of cleavage. Even more of that impressive cleavage was revealed when she and Ross put their heads together and bent over the script.

  A beautiful model like Juliette would seem to have little to fear from a less attractive woman, but Lucy knew that every woman was insecure about something. Juliette had long, glossy hair that Pantene claimed was “touchable”; she had wide-spaced hazel eyes with long lashes that Maybelline insisted were “voluptuous”; Revlon advised that any woman could appear to have “amazing” cheekbones, just like Juliette’s, if they bought the company’s amazing new bronzer. But Juliette was also whippet thin and nearly six feet tall, which looked great on a fashion show runway, but probably wasn’t ideal when she was alongside Ross, who was a good six inches shorter.

  Lucy’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Ross finally shouted, “Cut,” and dismissed everyone for the night. The schedule for the next day would be online first thing in the morning, he added, instructing everyone to check it and issuing dire warnings to latecomers.

  Lucy had changed out of the damaged costume and was then heading toward her parked car when she noticed Chris Waters, also walking down the driveway.

  “Chris!” she called, hurrying after him. “I just want to thank you. You probably saved my life.”

  “Are you okay? No burns?” he asked, those big brown eyes clouded with concern.

  “I think I’ll be a little sore tomorrow,” she replied, shrugging. “That was quite a workout.”

  “I’m sorry, but I thought halfway wasn’t good enough. All I could think about was getting the fire out.”

  “Believe me, I’m grateful,” she said as they resumed walking along the tree-lined drive, which was lit by old-fashioned lanterns on posts. “It could have been so much worse.”

  “I’m just glad I was there. I wish I’d been there for Bobbi, you know?”

  “Some people on set don’t seem very upset about her death,” said Lucy, remembering Ray and Peter’s conversation.

  “I know, and it upsets me. Bobbi was a nice kid and she didn’t deserve to die just because she liked to get attention. That’s what it was all about, you know. She wanted to be noticed.”

  “You’re very perceptive,” Lucy said as they approached her car.

  “In this business, it’s a curse,” he said. “I wish I could be more like Juliette and let it all go, like the song. Not get bothered.”

  Lucy leaned against her car, fingering the keys in her pocket. “I’m not exactly a pro, but Ross doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing, does he? It’s his first attempt at directing, right?”

  “It’s a shambles, that’s what it is. I can’t believe I let my agent rope me into this disaster. I could be home in New York, trimming the Christmas tree with my husband. . . .”

  “You’re married?” asked Lucy. “Millions of hearts will be broken if the news gets out.”

  “My agent works very hard to keep my marriage, and the fact that I’m gay, a big secret,” admitted Chris. “It drives Karl crazy.”

  “Karl’s your husband?”

  “Yeah.” Chris smiled. “He’s a doctor. He doesn’t like it that we can’t be honest about our relationship.”

  “Well, I think he’s a lucky man. Thanks again,” said Lucy, clicking her fob and unlocking the car door. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Righto,” said Chris. “We’ve had murder and fire, what can possibly go wrong tomorrow? Flood, famine, pestilence?”

  “I sure hope not,” said Lucy, climbing into her car and starting the engine.

  Chapter Seven

  When Lucy got home and mounted the porch steps, carrying a bag of last-minute stocking stuffers she’d picked up at the chain drugstore, she thought she glimpsed Bill through a gap in the window curtains, sitting in his usual spot at the kitchen table. He often sat there before heading to bed, catching up on the sports pages of the newspaper while eating a late-night snack. But when she stepped inside, she saw it wasn’t Bill who was chewing on that chicken leg, it was Toby.

  “Gosh,” she said, with a big smile, “for a moment I thought you were your father.”

  “It’s probably the beard.”

  Lucy set the bag down on a chair, hung her jacket on a coat hook, and crossed the kitchen, standing beside him and ruffling his brown hair. “More than that, I think,” she said. “It was the way you’re sitting, just like h
e does.”

  “Must be the genes,” he said.

  “Or the blue jeans,” quipped Lucy, repeating a family joke.

  “You try to escape, you even go to Alaska, but you can’t escape those twenty-three pairs of little chromosomes. . . .”

  Toby was smiling, but Lucy wasn’t entirely convinced he was joking. “Some people would say you won the genetic lottery. You’re tall, good-looking, intelligent. You’ve got twenty-twenty eyesight and you didn’t even need braces. And don’t forget, you’re a white male with all the privileges that entails.”

  Toby groaned. “I know, Mom. I’ve heard quite a lot about that lately.”

  Lucy thought he probably had, and decided to change the subject. “So what did you have for supper?” she asked, opening the fridge and peering inside. “I didn’t get any dinner.”

  “I don’t know what they had here, we ate with Molly’s folks. You sure are busy,” observed Toby. “We came all this way, thinking you’d be thrilled to spend Christmas with Patrick. He’s your only grandson after all.”

  Lucy took out a promising-looking plastic container and popped the lid, discovering some leftover chili. “I am thrilled, but I’ve got a lot going on right now,” she said, wishing she’d had some advance notice of the visit. “I’ll have more time this weekend, I promise,” she said, putting the container in the microwave. “I can’t believe Christmas is almost here.”

  “Don’t do that,” warned Toby. “The plastic poisons the food.”

  “I’ll risk it.” Lucy pushed the start button. “Hasn’t killed me yet.”

  “You always were one to live dangerously.” Toby leaned back in his chair, just like Bill often did.

  Lucy watched the plastic dish go round and round in the microwave. “I don’t go looking for trouble,” she finally said as the machine beeped. She carefully removed her dinner, using a pot holder, and carried it over to the table, setting the hot container on a magazine that happened to be lying there. Then she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down, prepared to eat her late supper. She took a sip of wine, swallowed, and next thing she knew, the thought that she’d been repressing all day just popped out. “Do you really think it’s a good idea for Molly to go to Germany?”

  He got up and went to the fridge, grabbed a can of beer, and popped the tab as he returned to the table. “Don’t you?” he asked, then tipped the can and took a big gulp.

  “Well, since you asked, I don’t think it’s a good idea for a couple to go their separate ways.”

  “What if it was me, called to save the right whales? Would you feel the same way? Or what if the country was attacked and I joined the army? Folks in the military are routinely separated for long periods.”

  “That’s different. Molly is not saving right whales, or the country, for that matter.” Lucy took a big spoonful of chili.

  “That’s harsh. Molly sacrificed a lot so I could go back to school. She even put up with me switching majors, which meant she had to support me for an extra semester, and then grad school, too. And when this Alaska job came up, she didn’t hesitate for a moment. She’s always been there for me, and now that Patrick’s in school, she feels it’s her turn.” He drank again. “How can I say no?”

  “But you always stayed together,” protested Lucy. She suspected Toby was merely repeating Molly’s argument, which he’d heard over and over until he finally capitulated.

  “I know,” he said, sounding rather wistful. “We were fortunate to be able to do that, but the program Molly wants happens to be in Heidelberg.”

  “There’s nothing here in the U.S.?”

  “Sure, but not in Alaska. I’d have to give up my job and Patrick would have to change schools, and it just seemed better for us to stay put for the time being. And if she has to go off on her own, she figured she might as well get the best course of study, which is definitely Heidelberg.”

  “I see,” admitted Lucy, scraping the last of the chili from the bowl. “But are you sure there isn’t more to it than that?”

  Toby set his beer down on the table. “Like what, Mom?”

  Lucy searched for the best way to say what she was worried about, and it finally came to her. “Oh, you know. My mother used to call it the seven-year itch?”

  Toby sat for a moment, then laughed. “Mom, you’re too much,” he said, getting up and shoving his chair under the table. “Too much,” he repeated, bounding up the kitchen stairs.

  But you didn’t answer my question, thought Lucy, as she tucked the empty container and wineglass into the dishwasher. Didn’t really answer it at all, she thought, picking up the bag of gifts and taking it upstairs for wrapping.

  * * *

  Phyllis was sitting at her desk behind the reception counter when Lucy got to work on Friday, but she wasn’t quite her usual, colorful self. There was no bright sweater today, only a muddy brown turtleneck, and her hair, which she often colored with temporary dye to match her outfit, was just her natural light brown sprinkled with gray. The lack of color hadn’t extended to the reading glasses perched on her nose, however, which were rainbow striped.

  When the little bell on the door jangled, she turned to greet Lucy, but there was no smile. “Hi” was all she said.

  “What’s up?” asked Lucy, taking in this subdued version of Phyllis.

  “Elfrida got bail, so she’s back home, but she’s got a monitoring bracelet and has to stay in the house, except for doctor appointments and meetings with her lawyer. She couldn’t go to work, even if she still had a job.” She sighed. “I don’t know how she’s going to manage to feed the kids without any income, much less pay Bob’s bills.”

  “There’s the food pantry, and Bob won’t press for payment,” said Lucy, hanging up her coat. “What about housing?”

  “The house isn’t much, it belonged to my sister, who died of breast cancer. She left it to Elfrida, so she owns it free and clear.”

  “That’s a blessing,” said Lucy. “What is Aucoin charging her with?”

  “Second-degree,” said Phyllis, her voice breaking.

  Lucy went around the counter and wrapped her arm around Phyllis’s shoulders, giving her a hug. “Don’t you worry, we know she’s innocent, and the case against her will fall apart. I bet she doesn’t even stand trial.”

  “But why would they charge her then? They must know something we don’t. They must have some evidence, right?”

  Lucy knew the DA was no fool and wouldn’t bring charges unless he had evidence to support them, but didn’t want to further dampen Phyllis’s spirits. “Time will tell,” she said, “but the important thing is to keep the faith and support Elfrida and her kids every way we can.”

  “The best way would be to figure out who really did kill that Bobbi.”

  “I know,” said Lucy. “I know.”

  She gave Phyllis another encouraging squeeze and then went over to her desk, where she powered up her PC. When it finally allowed her to access her e-mails, she saw that Ross had kept his promise and posted the day’s filming schedule. Right on top, in bold, was the news that extras were no longer needed. Checks would be mailed.

  Not even a thank-you or a job well done, fumed Lucy, feeling rather disappointed that her film career was ending so abruptly. On the other hand, she admitted, she still had a lot to do to get ready for Christmas, and she would have more time to spend with Patrick and his parents. A mixed blessing, she conceded, as she scrolled through the e-mails, trolling for newsworthy items. She adored Patrick, even if she thought there was some grandmotherly work to do in the matter of manners, and it was always wonderful to reconnect with Toby. It was Molly who was the fly in the ointment, she thought, wondering what had happened to the sweet and bright girl Toby had married. She really couldn’t understand Molly’s decision to go to Germany for a year, essentially abandoning her little family. It was very troubling and it was a huge stumbling block in her relationship with her daughter-in-law, which until now had been loving and cordial. Truth be told, thoug
ht Lucy, as she repeatedly hit the little down arrow, passing up opportunities to donate to good causes and to take advantage of amazing sales, she really felt sick about the way Molly had changed.

  The bell jangled, announcing Ted’s arrival, but all Phyllis managed by way of greeting was a sad little nod. Lucy did a bit better, tossing off a curt little “hi.”

  “I guess I missed the memo. Is the world ending or something?” he asked, unwrapping his muffler.

  “Ha-ha,” replied Lucy.

  “It’s not ending, but it’s certainly upside down,” said Phyllis.

  “Right.” He hung up his jacket and strode across the room to the coffee machine and grabbed the carafe, carrying it into the tiny bathroom and filling it with water. Once he had the machine started, filling the office with the aroma of fresh coffee, he began rallying the troops.

  “Things are indeed out of whack, but we’re not giving up. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. So we’re going to put the pressure on the DA and ask the tough questions. We’re going to do a profile of Elfrida, highlighting the challenges a single mom faces and presenting the kids’ achievements. Angie was on the dean’s list last semester, if I remember correctly, and didn’t one of the boys make the All-State band or something?”

  “Albert. He plays French horn,” said Phyllis.

  “You know them best, Phyllis, so write up a list of everything you can think of, okay? Certificates, Scouts, karate belts, whatever. We want it all. And, Lucy, you can work on the single-mom angle, get some info from social workers, teachers, doctors.... I don’t have to tell you, you know the drill. No one better than you. We’ll have people out in the streets with pitchforks and torches, demanding justice for Elfrida.”

  It was a good plan, thought Lucy, who was more than willing to do her part, but there was a serious drawback. She recalled Molly’s reaction when she asked her to let Patrick play with little Arthur and she knew that Molly wasn’t alone in her opinion of Elfrida. A lot of people in town thought of Elfrida as a party girl with lax morals who hadn’t been able to make even one of her several marriages stick. It wasn’t going to be easy to change their minds, but she was certainly going to try. She was flipping through her list of contacts, looking for likely candidates to interview, when her phone rang and she picked it up.