Bake Sale Murder (12 page)

There wasn’t a breath of wind in the woods, the birds were quiet, and the only sound was the late summer hum of cicadas. Lucy trudged along the path getting sweatier and itchier with every step and considering whether she dared take a cooling plunge in the pond when she stumbled on a rock. Looking down, she realized it was part of a fire ring and she immediately squatted down to see if the ashes were still warm. Perhaps the homeless man had been camping there within the last few hours. The fire was cold, but she continued to squat, imagining herself in his place. The campsite was not in a clearing, in fact she would never have noticed it if she hadn’t stubbed her toe on the rock, but as she looked around she eventually made out a pile of brush. Upon closer investigation she realized it was a crude shelter for sleeping. Encouraged, she searched the site for a cache of food or other personal belongings but there was no sign of either. If this was indeed the homeless man’s campsite he had been very careful to make it as unobtrusive as possible. There was no sign of any empty cans or trash of any sort. Of course, she had no way of knowing if he would return or if he had moved on. She decided to leave the food and coffee, just in case. She’d come back tomorrow in hopes of catching him and she could pick up any litter then.

In the meantime, she decided the best course of action would be to question people in town. She knew he’d been spotted Dumpster-diving behind the IGA and some of the workers there might have noticed him. Or he might have been hanging around the harbor, hoping for a handout or just making conversation.

She was on her way back to the car when her cell phone rang; it was Sara.

“Mom! Where are you?”

Guilt-stricken, Lucy checked her watch. “Ohmi-gosh, I had no idea it was so late. I’m so sorry. I’ll be right there.”

“Can you hurry up? Sassie and I have been waiting for hours.”

“I’ll be as fast as I can,” she promised, hurrying through the woods.

She was quite surprised then when she arrived at the high school just in time to see the girls piling into Willie’s big Wagoneer with numerous animal stickers plastered on the rear bumper. “You didn’t need to come,” she said, pulling around and coming up beside the SUV. “I was working on a story and got distracted, but I came straight over as soon as Sara called.”

“This seems to happen quite a lot,” said Willie, waspishly. “I understand you have a busy schedule and it’s no trouble for me, really.”

“My schedule is unpredictable,” said Lucy, her face reddening. “But I’m never very far away. All the girls have to do is call and I can be here in a few minutes. There’s no need for you to put yourself out.”

“I’d rather do it myself than worry that the girls will be left hanging around.”

“It was only for a few minutes,” protested Lucy.

“I know you don’t think you’re irresponsible, Lucy, but sometimes it seems to me you’re awfully casual when it comes to fulfilling your commitments.”

Lucy felt as if she’d been slapped. “I don’t think I’m irresponsible,” she said, “but I’ll certainly make sure I’m on time from now on.”

“It’s so important to set a good example,” continued Willie. “If we want our children to be prompt we can’t very well keep them waiting ourselves, can we?”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Lucy, who was heartily sick of the whole issue. “So to make up for today, I’ll pick them up Monday.”

Willie nodded in agreement but didn’t look convinced as she drove off with Sara in the back seat.

Lucy followed, trying to decide if she really was irresponsible. She did have a somewhat loose approach to time, she admitted to herself. It came from years of juggling her job, a demanding one that involved deadlines, with the needs of her family. Perhaps she’d taken advantage of her family, expecting them to be flexible because deadlines weren’t.

She was mulling this over as she proceeded down Main Street, following Willie’s rather stately pace and fighting the urge to zoom off down a side street because that would probably be proof positive that she was irresponsible, when her cell phone rang again. This time it was Pam.

“Am I irresponsible?” asked Lucy.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind, it’s not important,” said Lucy. “What’s up?”

“Well, Ted told me about the parent meeting and I was wondering if we ought to set up a table and sell the leftover baked goods. What do you think?”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“So you’ll help?”

Lucy looked for an out. “If I don’t have to cover the meeting.”

“Ted said he’ll do it.”

Lucy was trapped and she knew it. “Okay, then,” she said. “You can count on me.”

Chapter 12

P
rudence Path seemed to return to normal when the weekend rolled around. Coach Burkhart was mowing his lawn and keeping on eye on the twins, who were riding their bicycles up and down the street. Chris Cashman’s husband, Brad, could be seen in his driveway, changing the oil in the family SUV. Snatches of pop music could be heard coming from the LaChances’ deck where Renee was sunbathing. Willie was on her knees, weeding the flower bed and casting disapproving glances in Renee’s direction. Only the Stanton house remained closed and silent, except for one brief excursion Sunday morning when Fred left and returned a half hour later with Tommy. After that, its inhabitants remained closeted inside.

As Lucy came and went, going about her weekend errands, she wondered what was going on behind that impressive front door. The whole town had pretty much decided that Fred was guilty, it was all anyone was talking about. The boys must have heard the rumors. What was it like for them, cooped up with him? Did they suspect him as well, or had they closed ranks against outsiders, convinced of his innocence? And when, everyone wondered, would the police get around to arresting him?

The answer came on Monday morning, when the moms and children had gathered to wait for the bus. Lucy had accompanied the girls, hoping to pick up some neighborhood gossip, and had no sooner joined the group when the entire Tinker’s Cove police force of three cruisers, lights flashing but without sirens, swooped onto Prudence Path and halted in front of the Stanton house. The women fell silent, watching as four officers took up positions behind their cruisers, weapons at the ready, and two others marched up to the Stantons’ front door and knocked. The door opened, there was a brief conversation and then Fred Stanton stepped out, was handcuffed and escorted without incident to one of the waiting cruisers. Then, as quickly as they had arrived, the police were gone.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Frankie.

“I suspected him all along,” said Willie. “He has such a temper.”

“More than a temper,” said Bonnie. “I’d call him abusive. I bet poor Mimi tried to leave and that’s when he killed her.”

Lucy had heard the scenario before. The cycle of abuse, the increasing tension, the explosion into violence. The abusive partner’s obsessive need to control and dominate the other even to the point of murder if the victim tried to escape. Somehow it didn’t quite fit.

“Mimi had friends on the police force,” said Lucy. “She knew about the resources for battered women and she had plenty of support from her coworkers, she doesn’t sound like an abused wife to me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Bonnie, sounding un-characteristically sure of herself. “Abuse crosses all socioeconomic lines; anyone can be a victim.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” said Frankie, challenging her.

“I used to be a social worker. I’ve seen this sort of thing more times than I can say.”

“What about Tommy? What’ll happen to him?” asked Lucy.

“Now that he’s out of the hospital his older brother will probably get temporary custody,” answered Bonnie.

“But Preston’s just a kid,” said Lucy. “How can he be expected to care for a mentally unstable person?”

“He’s eighteen, that makes him legally an adult.”

“Besides,” said Frankie. “Did you see Tommy? They’ve got him so drugged he could barely walk.”

“I can’t believe this,” said Lucy. She couldn’t imagine what sort of system would give an eighteen-year-old motorcycle maniac the responsibility of caring for an extremely fragile suicidal sibling. Leaving the others she walked down the street to the Stanton house and knocked on the door. Preston answered, opening the door only a few inches. He looked, she thought, meeting his dark eyes, like an animal that hadn’t decided whether to defend his den or flee.

“I just wanted you to know that if you need anything, anything at all, we’re right here. Just give me a call.”

“We’re fine.”

“Well, you never know what might come up,” said Lucy. “If you have any trouble I’ll be more than happy to help.”

“You’re that reporter, right?”

“I’m here as a neighbor, that’s all,” said Lucy. “A concerned neighbor.”

“A big nosy-body, you mean,” he said. “Well you can just mind your own business and leave us alone.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, backing away. “I was only trying to help.”

She didn’t know why she bothered to say it, she was talking to a closed door. She started down the street towards home, aware that it was getting late and she really ought to get to work. But first, she decided, since she was so close to the woods she might as well take a quick look and see if the homeless man had returned to his camp. Unwilling to trespass on the Stantons’ property she cut through the Cashmans’ yard. Nobody was out. Chris was probably giving Pear and Apple their one hundred percent organic breakfast or prepping them for one of the day’s activities.

She had no trouble finding the path and hurried along keeping her eyes out for the ring of stones she’d discovered yesterday. She soon found it but there was no sign of a recent fire. Some animal, probably a raccoon, had spilled the coffee and eaten the doughnuts, leaving the ripped paper bag stuck in a bush. Discouraged, she picked up the trash and retraced her steps, heading for home. Somehow the morning hadn’t gone the way she had planned. Instead of a restorative half-hour with a cup of coffee and her own thoughts, she’d witnessed Fred Stanton’s arrest. If that wasn’t upsetting enough, she’d also discovered that Tommy and Preston were left to their own devices and would have to manage as best they could without either mother or father. She knew there was nothing she could do about it, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

When Lucy arrived at work an hour late, Ted was simultaneously talking on the phone, holding the receiver against his shoulder by crooking his neck, picking away at his keyboard with one hand, and waving a handful of papers at Phyllis with the other. Phyllis was also multi-tasking, talking on the phone while applying a fresh coat of Tropical Melon to her nails.

“About time you got here,” he muttered to Lucy, throwing the papers down on his desk.

“The cops arrested Fred Stanton,” she said. “I saw the whole thing.”

“That’s great,” he said, covering the mouthpiece. “You can write a first person account. Then I want you to cover…” He held up his hand, signaling that she should wait for him to continue, and spoke into the phone. “So when do you expect we will know the tax rate?” he asked. “What do you mean, not until October? The fiscal year began July 1, didn’t it?” He slapped his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to her, picking up where he had left off, “…the police press conference. It’s at ten. When you’re there you can ask them about the homeless guy—some of the fishermen found his body floating in the harbor early this morning.”

Lucy sat down hard in her chair. “I can’t believe it.”

“If you ask me, he was an accident waiting to happen,” said Phyllis. “Wandering around town half-drunk.”

“Did he drink?”

“All homeless people do, don’t they? That’s the reason they’re homeless.”

“I think that might be an oversimplification,” said Lucy, recalling the extremely neat campsite she had discovered in the woods. There hadn’t been a single liquor bottle.

“I guess some of them do drugs,” conceded Phyllis.

“Ah, ladies, I hate to interrupt this discussion but it’s almost ten.”

“I’m on my way,” said Lucy, grabbing her bag and rushing out the door. The bell tinkled behind her as Ted resumed his conversation with the town assessor. “So you don’t actually inspect the properties to set their value but you use some sort of mathematical formula?”

Like most reporters, Lucy detested police press conferences. They always seemed to feature the same self-congratulatory parade of pompous officers reciting identical litanies of praise for each other’s organizations: “We could never have brought this case to a successful conclusion without the help of Chief Zero Tolerance and his entire department…” and “I want to acknowledge the selfless dedication of Assistant District Attorney Got Hisman…” and the inevitable “Teamwork is what made the difference.” These productions were as tightly scripted as the annual Oscar awards show, without even the mild suspense offered by the wait for the winners to be announced. And, like those so-called town meetings held by the president, questioning was only allowed by those who had displayed unswerving fidelity to the police community. Any reporter who included the merest hint in a news story that something wasn’t quite kosher about an arrest or an investigation soon became invisible when it was time for questions.

Lucy figured today’s conference would be worse than usual. It was the first since Chief Crowley’s retirement and the new chief, Frank Kirwan, would be eager to strut his stuff. Nevertheless, attendance was necessary, if only to pick up the official press release, and Lucy wasn’t surprised to find a crowd in the basement bomb shelter-turned-crisis management center at the police station. The Boston and Portland media, from TV to radio to newspapers, were well represented. Chief Kirwan would be pleased.

Lucy found a seat in the front and waited impatiently for the dog and pony show to begin, promising herself that she’d get out of there as soon as the press releases were distributed. She hoped that Audrey, the department secretary, had fired up the Xerox machine and was printing them out at this very moment.

But when the procession of officials began filing into the room, led by Chief Kirwan, the secretary and her pile of fresh-from-the-copier press releases were conspicuously absent. There was a collective sigh of resignation from the assembled journalists as they opened their notebooks and switched on the cameras and recorders.

It wasn’t until the official square dance of thank-yous and acknowledgements and hymns to cooperation had ended and the DA was answering questions that the evidence against Fred Stanton was even mentioned, and Lucy found it less than compelling. The fact that Fred’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon was hardly surprising; after all it was his knife, from his house, and he might have used it to cut a ham sandwich. More interesting to Lucy was the mention that a witness reported seeing him leave the house in what the DA described as “an agitated state” on the day of the murder. Lucy had doubts about the value of that information, too. It seemed to her she left the house in an agitated state most mornings due to the fact she was often running late, or the girls were dawdling or the dog had gotten into the trash. There was always something. She raised her hand.

“Yes, there, you in the back,” said the DA, pointing to her.

“I was wondering if you have any information about the body that was found in the harbor this morning? Has the man been identified and was there any foul play?”

There was a flurry of interest from the reporters, but the DA wasn’t giving anything away. “No, we have not made an identification and no, there were no signs that his death was anything but an accidental drowning, but as you know it’s up to the medical examiner to determine the exact cause of death.”

“And when do you expect that report?” asked someone in the front row.

“That also is up to the medical examiner,” said the DA. “Now, I’ll take one more question before closing.”

Lucy was hurrying out of the police station, finally clutching the not-very-informative official press release, when she ran into Barney Culpepper.

“Hi, Barney. How’s Marge coming with the triathlon? And how’s Eddie doing over there in Iraq?”

“Eddie’s counting the days ’til he comes home—and so are we,” he said, looking grim.

“We all are,” said Lucy, who could imagine how worried they must be.

“Marge says I need to get my mind off the war. She wants me to start training with her,” he said, glumly, hitching up his pants. He fastened his belt underneath his sizable belly and it tended to slip. “She’s threatening to get rid of my La-Z-Boy.”

“Oh, no.” Lucy knew how much Barney enjoyed reclining in his favorite chair, watching football and baseball games, even golf if nothing else was on.

“She hid the remote. Said it’s good for me to get up and change the channels on the TV.”

“Well, maybe she has a point,” said Lucy.

“Have you ever tried to switch from channel five to channel sixty-three by pushing that little up button one channel at a time?”

“Can’t say I have,” said Lucy, spotting an opportunity. “Listen, you can watch TV at my house if you do me one itsy bitty little favor.”

“Oh, no. I can’t. The new chief wouldn’t like it.”

“How do you know he won’t like it? I haven’t even told you what it is.”

“C’mon, Lucy. If the chief won’t mind why don’t you ask him, hunh?”

“Because you’re right, he’ll probably mind. But I really want to know if the medical examiner has got a cause of death on that guy they pulled out of the harbor this morning.”

Barney gave his jowls a thoughtful scratch. “It just happens I know somebody who works over there. Luke Martin, remember him? Good little shortstop, maybe a year or two younger than Eddie and Toby.”

“He’s working in the ME’s office?”

“Yeah, flunked out of pre-med.” Barney was already dialing the phone and, after a brief discussion of the Red Sox prospects for the Series, learned that preliminary toxicology tests had revealed a blood alcohol level of 0.19.

“So he was drunk?” asked Lucy.

“Drunk as a skunk,” said Barney.

“Thanks. I owe you big time,” said Lucy, blowing him a kiss and dashing for the door. She was already writing the story in her head as she hurried along the sidewalk to the
Pennysaver
office, but soon realized that apart from the
when
and
where
she didn’t have the least idea as to the
who
,
why,
and even the
what
. The tests seemed to indicate death by misadventure due to drunkenness but Lucy had her doubts. There’d been no sign of booze at the homeless man’s camp, in fact, he was extraordinarily neat and tidy for a drunken bum.