Halloween Party Murder Page 7

  As she listened to Andi’s back and forth with the reporters, Lucy had to admit that Andi had earned her grudging respect. She’d certainly managed to revive her lackluster campaign with new energy by accusing Bob Goodman of being a male chauvinist, but Lucy wondered if the accusation would stick or if the issue would actually matter to voters. George Armistead had held his seat for decades, and he could hardly be described as a feminist. Eventually, the questions died down, and Andi closed the press conference by declaring that she was ready, willing, and able to take on both George Armistead and Bob Goodman at the upcoming debate.

  As Lucy gathered up her things and made her way to the door, she was met by Haley Glass. “Lucy, I’m so glad you could come,” she said, blocking the exit.

  “Just part of the job,” said Lucy.

  “I know you and Bob Goodman are friends,” said Haley, “and your publisher, too, I think.”

  Lucy didn’t like the sound of this. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

  “Nothing at all. I’m sure you and Ted strive to maintain the highest journalistic standards.” She paused. “But it would sure look funny if Ted endorsed his friend as the best candidate, wouldn’t it?”

  Lucy found herself laughing. “Readers know and trust Ted; they know he’s fair and honest, and his endorsements are thoughtful and well-reasoned. He will endorse the candidate he feels will best serve the community.” She paused. “Satisfied?”

  “Of course, that’s all I’m asking for.”

  “Well,” said Lucy, climbing on her high horse, “you didn’t need to ask. It’s a given.” And with that, she brushed past Haley and marched out the door.

  When she got back to the office, however, her sense of satisfaction at putting down Haley quickly evaporated. “A new poll from Winchester College is just out,” said Ted, looking glum. “Bob’s lead has dropped five percent.”

  “But he’s still ahead?” asked Lucy. It occurred to her that even though professional ethics required impartial reporting, it was impossible for journalists to remain personally impartial, especially when they were covering friends. Or, she realized with a sense of dismay, enemies.

  “Barely,” said Ted. “Believe it or not, George Armistead is gaining. His ‘old-fashioned morals’ issue is working for him. Never mind income disparity, climate change, institutional racism, and voter suppression; according to George, the most pressing issue facing the nation is moral decay.”

  That was a bit of a surprise to Lucy. “What about Andi?”

  “Her numbers are flat.”

  “I have a feeling they’re going to start climbing; she’s accusing Bob of perpetuating male dominance by defending Ty Moon.”

  “Smart move,” said Phyllis, playing with the orange bead necklace resting on her ample bosom. “Combines the moral issue and a play to women voters.”

  “Time will tell,” said Ted, philosophically. “Write it up, Lucy, okay? Run the poll as a sidebar with the Andi Nardone press conference.”

  “Okay, boss.” Lucy got to work, resolutely shelving her fondness for Bob and striving to present Andi’s accusations in a completely straightforward manner, even though they angered her. Her instinct was to defend Bob, a man she knew well and highly esteemed, but that wasn’t her job. Besides, she had every confidence that Bob was more than capable of defending himself at the debate and would score an easy win over both his opponents.

  Her confidence was shaken, however, when a press release arrived from the DA announcing he was dropping all charges against Ty; Lucy feared Andi would claim that as further proof of the old boys’ network in action. “We simply don’t have enough evidence to go forward,” said Phil Aucoin, when Lucy called to follow up on the announcement. “A supply of drugs, including various opioids, cocaine, and heroin, was found in the bathroom vanity, but there were no prints and no evidence at all linking them to Ty Moon. That house was like a sieve, people were in and out for weeks preparing for the fundraiser. Anybody could have stashed them there.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Maybe somebody was dealing; all those volunteers coming and going would have been great cover for a dealer. Remember, this was an artsy crowd, probably not averse to a little recreational drug use. Or maybe the drugs were going to be distributed at the party.” He sighed. “All I know is, the forensics simply weren’t there. And as for motive, that didn’t pan out either.”

  Her next call was to Bob, who shared her fears that voters would take Aucoin’s action as proof that Andi Nardone’s accusations rang true. “Now people will think there’s some sort of underhanded dealing between me and the DA’s office. All us guys sticking together . . .”

  “That’s outrageous,” said Lucy, who knew that Bob and Phil Aucoin had their differences, which sometimes erupted in contentious conflicts in and out of court.

  “Honestly, I’m happy for Ty, but this couldn’t have come at a worse time for me, what with Andi Nardone’s claims of sexism and the debate only days away.”

  It was after one o’clock when Lucy hit the SEND button and decided to treat herself to a couple of cider donuts from MacDonald’s farm stand. Not the most nutritious lunch, she reminded herself, but she hadn’t had even one cider donut this fall, and she knew they would soon be gone, along with the brightly colored foliage on the maple trees.

  It was only a short drive to the farm stand, which offered a corn maze, pick-your-own pumpkins, and dozens of varieties of apples. Apple cider was also featured, along with the delicious donuts. Lucy found herself browsing among the bins of apples, eventually deciding on a peck of winesaps, and it was there that she spotted Juliette Duff.

  Lucy had helped Juliette during a family tragedy a few years ago, so she didn’t hesitate to greet the famous supermodel. While some models looked marvelous in photographs but tended to be gaunt and emaciated in real life, Juliette looked terrific all the time, whether she was posing for Vogue in a designer ball gown or shopping for apples in jeans and a sweatshirt. She had perfect proportions, and each feature was exactly where it should be; her gorgeous blond hair looked natural, even though it wasn’t, and she had an easy-going, friendly attitude that seemed to say, “I’m just a regular girl.”

  “Hi, there,” said Lucy, greeting her with a big smile. “Are you here for long?” She knew that Juliette’s career kept her away from her home in Tinker’s Cove for much of the time.

  “I’ve got a week off, and this is my favorite season. I love the apples and”—she sighed and rolled her eyes—“the cider donuts.”

  “Me, too,” said Lucy. “I’m having a late lunch. Want to join me?”

  “Sure.” The two women supplied themselves with a half-dozen donuts to share, along with a jug of apple cider, and seated themselves on a convenient bale of straw.

  “I’m sorry about Heather,” began Lucy, “I know you were friends.”

  “It’s terrible, and they accused Ty! I felt so bad for him.”

  “They’ve dropped all charges,” said Lucy, biting into her donut.

  “That’s a relief.” Juliette was studying her donut, as if considering where to begin eating it. “He adored Heather; he would never hurt her.”

  “That was my impression, too,” said Lucy, polishing off her first donut. “I got to know him a little bit when we were working to set up the haunted house. I really liked him. He was fun and so creative. And a hard worker.”

  “That’s Ty.” Juliette took a tiny bite of her donut and chewed thoughtfully. “I’ll give him a call.”

  “I know he’d love to hear from you. He really needs his friends now.” Lucy was considering eating a second donut but didn’t want to seem piggy in front of Juliette, who still had only taken a few tiny bites of hers.

  “I suppose people are being terrible,” said Juliette, who’d experienced the hate mail that was the downside of a high-profile career.

  “He’s been lying low,” said Lucy, deciding that the donuts really were rather small and reaching into t
he bag for another. “I gotta say, I never suspected Heather of using drugs, especially after all she’d been through with chemo. Did you?”

  “I think a lot of people use medical marijuana during chemo,” said Juliette, speaking slowly and thoughtfully.

  “She was doing more than that,” said Lucy, realizing that she’d almost finished that very small donut. “The cops found cocaine, oxy, all sorts of bad stuff, including heroin, in the bathroom.”

  Juliette sighed. “There’s a lot of drugs in the modeling world, I’m afraid. Mostly diet pills, amphetamines, stuff like that, but I’ve always stayed clear of them. I don’t even take aspirin.”

  Juliette was wrapping up the remaining half of her donut in a paper napkin, and Lucy wondered if she was actually saving it for later. “If I have a headache, I go for a walk, get some fresh air. Or do some yoga, something like that. I know myself pretty well, and if I have aches and pains, I know just what to do. Or if I’m anxious, I go for the deep breathing. I concentrate on the in and out and clear my mind.”

  “What if you’re hungry?” asked Lucy, thinking about a third donut.

  Juliette laughed. “I’m always hungry. That’s just the way it is.”

  “Wow,” said Lucy, unscrewing the cap on the cider and filling the paper cup decorated with the MacDonald Farm logo that was offered with cider purchases. “I wish I could be like that.”

  “Believe me, when I retire, I’m going to eat everything, and I mean everything! Every darn thing that I’ve been denying myself, starting with pizza!”

  Lucy laughed. “Good for you.” She drank some cider, savoring its delicious tangy taste and the slight fizz that tickled her tongue. “I don’t suppose you know where Heather got her drugs, do you?”

  Juliette filled her cup halfway with cider and took a sip, then stared into the cup, running her finger around the rim. “No idea,” she said. “If I did, I’d be tempted to commit murder myself.”

  “I know how you feel,” said Lucy, biting into that third donut.

  Chapter Eight

  Okay, thought Lucy, starting her car. So Juliette pleaded complete ignorance about illegal drugs—good for her. She drove carefully through the busy parking lot and paused at the road, wondering which way to go. Left would take her back to town and the office, but right would take her to Shore Road and Rosie Capshaw’s studio at the Van Vorst estate. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, uncertain about what to do, and then, impulsively, turned left. She’d only interviewed Matt and Luisa Rodriguez briefly, on the phone, and hadn’t really pressed them for information. Now, she decided, she could put it off no longer and headed for their restaurant, Cali Kitchen, where she knew the lunch rush would be ending and the staff would be preparing for the dinner crowd.

  Reaching the restaurant, which was located on the harbor, Lucy parked in the town parking lot, which was now filling up with white-shrink-wrapped yachts stored high and dry for the winter. Making her way to the restaurant, Lucy remembered when it had been an Irish pub that had fallen on hard times and had attracted a rough crowd. That had all changed when Rey Rodriguez, Matt and Luisa’s father, bought the place and transformed it into a trendy eatery offering an international fusion menu. Gone were the gingham curtains, sticky tables, and dusty fake geraniums, replaced with blond wood, gleaming chrome, and uncluttered windows offering harbor views. Also gone were the four-dollar beers; now a craft brew would cost eight or nine bucks, and a glass of white wine would set you back a cool twelve dollars.

  Stepping inside, Lucy saw a handful of diners were lingering over their lunches and enjoying the view of the cove and the lighthouse perched out at Quissett Point; a couple of servers were clearing away the ketchup bottles and lunch menus and setting the empty tables with white cloths and candles. Matt was behind the bar, staring at a computer screen, and he greeted her with a big smile. “Kitchen’s closed, Lucy, but I could make you a sandwich,” he offered.

  “I’m not here to eat, Matt. I’m working on a story, and I’ve got a few questions I’m hoping you can help me with.”

  “Sounds like trouble,” he said, biting his lip and giving a half-smile.

  “Just background stuff, completely off the record.”

  “Now I am worried,” he said, closing the laptop. “Shall we sit in a booth?”

  “Good idea,” replied Lucy, following him to the far corner of the dining room.

  Sliding onto the salmon-colored leather banquette, Lucy thought she and Bill really ought to eat out more. It would be lovely to come here of an evening and relax, have a delicious dinner without the bother of deciding what to make and gathering the ingredients, cooking it all, and cleaning up afterward. Of course, it would cost a lot more than one of her homemade meatloaf dinners, so she pushed that thought aside and smiled at Matt, who was seated opposite her.

  “I’m sure you know about Heather’s overdose,” she began.

  “That was awful,” said Matt. “Luisa and I were at the party . . .”

  “I don’t remember seeing you there . . .”

  “She was Wonder Woman, and I was a bumble bee . . .”

  Lucy could easily picture Luisa as Wonder Woman but couldn’t quite see tall, dark, and handsome Matt as a bumble bee. “I wish I’d seen you buzzing around,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I was mostly in the kitchen, keeping the platters filled.” His expression was serious. “And then, well, you know what happened. All of a sudden, the party was over. We cleaned up and left.”

  Lucy remembered the sense of desolation and shock that had befallen the revelers after Heather was taken away in the ambulance. “The DA has dropped all charges against Ty.”

  Matt’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Yeah,” admitted Lucy, “but it opens the question of who gave Heather the drugs? And did that person know it was fentanyl?”

  “And why do you think I know the answers to those questions?” As Lucy had feared, Matt’s tone was challenging, defensive.

  She knew she was venturing into sensitive territory and had to be as diplomatic as possible. “Well, it’s no secret that restaurant work is demanding, and sometimes people, um, well, self-medicate . . .”

  Matt laughed. “So you think I’ve got a drug dealer on my list of contacts?”

  Lucy was quick to backtrack. “Listen, I’m not making any judgments. I just thought you might have heard something from an employee, or maybe had to let somebody go . . .”

  “Luisa and I have worked very hard to keep this a drug-free establishment. We’re very clear about our policies when we hire somebody, and if there’s the least sign that somebody is using, we give them a warning and offer help with treatment. If the problem persists, we regretfully let them go.”

  Lucy glanced around the restaurant, now empty of diners, where there was a sense of quiet purpose as the workers went about setting the tables. Soothing jazz played on the sound system, and one server was at the bar, filling small glass vases with fresh clusters of chrysanthemums. “I know how seriously you take this issue,” said Lucy, making eye contact. “I’m asking because of Bob, Bob Goodman. Andi Nardone is accusing him of sexism because he was defending Ty. If I can prove somebody else supplied the drugs to Heather, her accusation will be groundless; Bob was simply defending an innocent man.”

  “But you said the charges against Ty have been dropped.”

  “Right. But suspicions linger, especially when it’s the husband. The spouse is almost always the prime suspect. And the charges were dropped because there wasn’t enough evidence to prove the case, not because the DA decided Ty is innocent.”

  Matt nodded. “You and Bob are friends, right?”

  “For a long time,” said Lucy, smiling at Luisa, who had come out of the kitchen and was distributing the flower arrangements. “Bob’s a good man. I’d really like to see him win this election.”

  “Andi Nardone’s a good woman,” countered Luisa, setting one of the vases of bronze chrysa
nthemums on their table. “And electing her will help even the balance of power in the male-dominated legislature.”

  “She’s not as qualified as Bob . . .”

  “She’ll bring a fresh point of view and represent women’s interests . . .”

  “So will Bob.”

  “Be realistic, Lucy,” said Luisa, with a nod toward her brother. “A man can claim to support women’s rights; he can even actually do it, but it’s not the same. How can a man know what’s really important to women? I bet Bob’s wife takes care of all the nitty-gritty details of life so that Bob can concentrate on his work, right? Does Bob go the dry cleaner? Does he remember to pick up bread and milk? Prescriptions? I bet his wife makes sure his underwear drawer is full and dinner’s on time every night, right? How would he manage without her?”

  Lucy found herself smiling at this description of Rachel, which was spot-on. “I see your point,” she admitted. “But it does seem a bit unfair to accuse a lawyer of chauvinism simply because he defended a person accused of a crime who happened to be a man. Wasn’t Ty entitled to have a strong defense, and his rights protected? If you ask me, Andi is implying he’s guilty when everybody is presumed innocent until proven otherwise.”

  Luisa rolled her eyes. “It’s never quite like that, now, is it? And one big reason is people like you, the media, who seize on sensational crimes and dig up every nasty little salacious detail.”

  “Only because we’re trying to discover the truth!”

  “Wouldn’t that be better left to the courts?”

  Lucy felt deflated; she didn’t like to argue, especially when she wasn’t scoring many points. She didn’t want to give up, though, and desperately reached for something, anything that would convince Luisa and Matt to help her. “Well, it looks as if the courts aren’t interested in finding out the truth about Heather’s death, so it’s up to people like you and me.” She paused. “Do you really think Ty gave Heather the lethal drugs?”