Bake Sale Murder (14 page)

“Willie’s husband. What’s his name? Scratch. She maybe loves her horses a little too much because Scratch is definitely looking for love in lots of places.”

Lucy thought Scratch, who was a skinny string bean of a man with thinning hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a stoop was an unlikely Lothario. “Really?”

Frankie was well on her way through her second glass of wine. “He came knocking on my door but I sent him on his way.” She made a little moue with her mouth. “He’s not my type. Too English. No fire.”

“He must have a few smoldering embers,” observed Lucy.

Frankie laughed. “Well, I think Mimi found a way to fan his flames, if you know what I mean.”

“Mimi?”

Frankie nodded.

“Do you think he killed Mimi?”

Frankie shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t hurt a flea. He’s a vet, you know. He loves all the fuzzy little creatures.”

Lucy thought she was right. But what about his wife? “Does Willie know about this?”

“Sure. Why do you think she hates me so much? She knows Scratch would hop into bed with me if I gave him the least encouragement.”

“Did she know about Mimi?” asked Lucy, wondering if Willie might have been jealous enough to kill Mimi. If she had, it might explain her recent odd behavior.

“I think she must have. It’s a pretty small street, after all.” Frankie got up and removed the empty plates. “I have a bit of crème brulee left over from last night. Would you like some? And coffee?”

“Sure,” said Lucy, “why not?” If this was how Frenchwomen stayed slim, she was all for it.

When Lucy got home she wasn’t convinced the French diet really worked, not for Americans, anyway. Her pants felt tight and she could definitely use a nap. Libby seemed to sense her guilt, greeting her with a wagging tail and reproachful eyes.

“Okay, I admit it,” she told the Lab. “I had wine at lunch.”

The dog hung her head.

“And crème brulee.”

The dog slid to the floor, front legs extended and hind legs tucked under her. She sighed and rested her chin on the floor as Lucy sat down at the table and began sorting the mail. A reminder notice that the dog was overdue for her one-year checkup gave her an idea. There was no harm in switching vets, especially since she really ought to support her neighbors. She picked up the phone and made an appointment with Dr. Westwood. She wanted to meet this Lothario and decide for herself if he qualified as a murder suspect.

Hearing her name mentioned in the conversation, Libby got up and rested her chin on Lucy’s knee. She stroked the dog’s silky ears and her woofily, whiskery chin. Libby responded by wagging her tail. Lucy could hardly believe a year had passed since Toby and Molly gave her the squirmy little puppy. They named her Liberty to commemorate the fact that she joined the family on the Fourth of July.

“You’re a real live niece of your Uncle Sam,” sang Lucy, and the dog wagged her tail enthusiastically. “Born on the Fourth of July.”

Lucy got to her feet. “Well, not exactly born on the Fourth of July but you get the idea. How about a walk?”

Libby was on her feet, ready to go.

Lucy grabbed the leash, just in case they encountered a porcupine or other wild creature, and they headed across the backyard to the trail leading to Blueberry Pond. Lucy sniffed the piney air and scanned the blue sky for clouds; not a one. It hardly seemed fair that the kids had to go back to school when the weather was so fine. Libby agreed, running ahead with her tail held high as she followed scents left by various forest dwellers.

Lucy’s mind wandered as she walked, thinking over her conversation with Frankie. She’d never imagined Willie’s husband Scratch was less than a model husband; she’d never thought of Mimi as anything but a nuisance. It made her wonder what else was happening on Prudence Path, what passions were simmering below the surface. Or maybe not so far below the surface. Willie had certainly changed lately, becoming much crankier and nervier. Did she have a guilty conscience? She hadn’t been assigned to work at the bake sale until the afternoon; she would have had time to stab Mimi before dashing off to the stable.

Suddenly, she panicked, realizing she’d lost track of Libby. Lucy began calling the dog’s name, hoping she hadn’t followed some deer trail into unfamiliar territory and gotten herself lost. When she caught sight of the dog trotting towards her after calling her name only a few times, Lucy was relieved—until she realized the dog had something in her mouth.

“Give it!” she ordered, fearing the worst. She knew from experience that Labs were equal-opportunity diners, and would eat anything ranging from a dead bird’s wing to horse apples to rocks and sticks.

Libby squirmed away just as Lucy grabbed her collar and attached the leash. “Open!” she said, using her most authoritative voice. The dog hunkered down, clamping her teeth on the object.

Lucy put her foot on the leash and placing one hand on top of her snout and the other on the bottom attempted to pry the dog’s mouth open. Libby struggled but eventually gave up and allowed Lucy to extract a soggy black wallet. From all appearances, the dog had been chewing on the wallet for quite a while and all that was left was a couple of strips of leather loosely held together at the narrow end by a few stitches. There was no money or ID. Lucy held the dog firmly and tossed the ragged fragments into the bushes, thinking no more about them as she and Libby headed for home.

Chapter 14

T
hursday evening, Lucy ignored Sara and Zoe’s protests that they had too much homework and were too tired besides and left them in charge of cleaning up the supper dishes while she went to the parent meeting. When she approached the high school, however, she couldn’t help noticing that the people filing into the lobby hardly seemed concerned or anxious—they seemed to be in pretty high spirits.

She felt uneasy when she spotted Matt Engelhardt and Justin Crane, recalling her unpleasant experience with them in the weight room, but other people were greeting them like heroes. The two were surrounded by enthusiastic fans who slapped them on their backs and punched their arms. She even overheard Jake telling them to drop by the Donut Shack anytime for a free meal and Stan Beard, who owned a used car lot, promising them a “really good price” on a nearly new automobile.

Disgusted, she headed over to the bake sale table.

“How are sales?” she asked Pam, who was standing behind a table of baked goods along with Rachel.

“Pretty slow. I’m hoping they decide they want to pick up a snack on their way out of the meeting,” said Pam. “Did you see Bonnie?”

“Uh, no,” said Lucy. “Why?”

“Well, she volunteered to help but there’s no sign of her,” said Rachel, sounding worried.

For an awful moment Lucy’s heart squeezed into a tight little ball. Not again. But then they saw her standing by the doorway, with a twin held fast in each hand.

“Over here,” called Pam. Under her breath she added, “How’s she going to work the table with the twins in tow?”

“Something’s wrong,” whispered Rachel. “The twins aren’t matching.”

It was true. For the first time since she’d known them, the twins weren’t wearing matching ensembles. In fact, little Belle, or maybe it was Belinda, was wearing a sneaker on one foot and a sandal on the other.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Bonnie, who was out of breath. “The sitter never showed.”

“Not Sara, I hope,” said Lucy.

“No. She couldn’t do it. She said she had too much homework. A new girl.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Rachel. “We can manage. You take care of the girls.”

“Are you sure?” asked Bonnie, attempting to hold on to the girls who were twisting and pulling at her arms. “They could just sit behind the table. They promised to be good.”

“It’s getting close to bedtime and tomorrow’s a school day,” said Rachel. “They’d probably be happier having their baths and listening to a story.”

Bonnie’s face relaxed. “If you’re sure it’s okay…”

“It’s okay. Go home,” said Pam.

“I’ll make it up to you,” promised Bonnie, heading for the door.

When she’d left, Pam turned to Lucy. “What’s going on? She seemed awfully distracted, didn’t she?”

Lucy shrugged. “Maybe she’s nervous about the coach keeping his job. Or maybe she’s thinking that moving to Prudence Path wasn’t such a good idea,” she said. “I was talking to Frankie today and it’s quite the hotbed of intrigue.”

“Oh, you two!” exclaimed Rachel. “Always looking for secrets and motives! Maybe she just had a hard time getting the twins organized. You know what it’s like with kids and it must be even harder with twins.”

“Twice as hard,” admitted Lucy.

They had a brief flurry of business when a group of JV players arrived for the meeting. They were fresh from practice and needed to refuel. The cheerleaders, on the other hand, avoided the table like the plague. From inside the auditorium there was a sudden hush and Lucy left her friends and took a seat in the back row, next to Willie.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she sniffed, shifting in her seat.

Lucy wasn’t quite sure what to say. She didn’t know if Sassie had told her mother about the incident on the team bus or not. “Of course I’m interested—especially since Sara’s a cheerleader,” she said, hopefully opening the way for more discussion if Willie wanted it. She didn’t.

“I noticed you’ve been spending an awful lot of time at Frankie’s place,” she said, glaring at Lucy.

“I was only there once,” began Lucy, aware of the absurdity of defending her social life to a neighbor. She was used to small town life, where secrets have a very short shelf life, but this was ridiculous. She turned away and turned her attention to the meeting.

There was a decent turnout, but the auditorium was hardly packed and, as she’d noticed earlier, there was a distinct lack of tension in the room. The boys on the team seemed relaxed, sitting in a group off to the side, sprawling in the seats. On the stage, the superintendent was sitting at a table along with Coach Buck, the athletic director and several assistant coaches.

“We’re here today because some serious allegations have been brought to my attention concerning possible hazing on the football team, at the August training camp in particular,” began Superintendent Sabin, setting off a small buzz among the audience members. He ignored it and continued, “…and I’ve asked our Athletic Director Phil Bearse to look into them and make a report.”

“Thank you, Dr. Sabin,” said Phil, when the microphone was passed to him. “I’m happy to report that I’ve conducted an extensive investigation and I have been unable to substantiate these allegations. Everyone I’ve spoken to, and that includes all the team members, their parents, their coaches—everyone seems to agree that the August training camp is an extremely worthwhile program that offers the players a positive experience. That is exactly what the camp is designed to do and I’d like to ask Coach Burkhart to expand on that if he would.”

“Thank you, Phil,” said Coach Buck, taking the microphone. He went on to outline the goals and methods used at the training camp and Lucy found herself studying the players for their reactions. Will Worthington had joined his two buddies, completing the group of players she’d interviewed in the weight room. They were sitting together, nudging each other and laughing. Nobody had taken the seats on either side of them but Lucy didn’t know if this was simply a coincidence or if their teammates were avoiding them. Or maybe it was some sort of dominance thing, like who was allowed to sit with the cool kids at their table in the lunch room.

Lucy’s attention was drawn back to the speakers when the superintendent announced he was opening the meeting to questions from the audience. She waited expectantly for someone to challenge the smug group assembled on the stage but no one did. Only one hand was raised, that of Tony Marzetti, owner of the IGA and president of the Tinker’s Cove Chamber of Commerce.

“This sort of thing is just a shame,” he said. “It’s an obvious attempt to besmirch the reputation of our team at the very time we should be congratulating them. For the first time in I don’t know how long, maybe ever, the Warriors stand a real chance of beating the Gilead Giants. We’re off to a great start this season and I think the teams deserve a big hand. C’mon everybody, let’s show our appreciation!”

And everybody did. The room erupted in cheers and applause while Lucy slipped out the back. She wasn’t the only one. As she left the brightly lit lobby and crossed the dim parking lot she thought she saw Frankie moving through the parked cars, but when she called out to her there was no response. She must have been mistaken, she decided, heading for home.

The newscaster was announcing the Dow had dropped one hundred eighty points and was at an eighteen-month low and Lucy was worrying about the kids’ college fund, which she hoped her financial adviser had invested prudently, while she pedaled steadily on her exercycle in the family room. She had recently started riding the exercycle for twenty minutes every morning as a way of warming up for her half-hour workout with Debbie, the blond and tanned exercise entrepreneur who came to her house at seven a.m. via the cable TV. “There’s no need to go to a gym,” Debbie said, “when you can work out with me every morning in the privacy of your own home.”

And even though Lucy thought Debbie had the brain of a pea, she had to admit she felt a lot better since she’d been doing the workout. And, as Debbie never failed to remind her, it was better to exercise in the morning before getting caught up in the day’s activities. “If you wait until after supper, you’ll be too tired,” Debbie said, and Lucy knew it was true. The most she could manage then was a short walk, or a game of ball with the dog.

“Mom!” came a cry from the kitchen. “Libby’s throwing up.”

Lucy dismounted from the exercycle, wondering if she’d brought this on by thinking of the dog. Did it work like that? If she’d thought of the toaster, for example, would it burst into flames? Or the cesspool. Would it overflow if she thought about it? Was it better, as Debbie advised, to think happy thoughts? Would her life be perfect then?

In the kitchen, she discovered Libby standing over a pile of soggy dog kibble, apparently trying to decide if it would go down better the second time.

“No!” ordered Lucy, opening the door and shooing her outside. Reluctantly, tail between her legs, the dog obeyed. Lucy grabbed some paper towels and started cleaning up the mess. Instead of dwelling on the loathsome dietary habits of dogs, or the possibility that something was seriously the matter with Libby, Lucy decided to take Debbie’s advice and think positively. In cleaning up the mess, she told herself, she was maintaining a hygienic, healthy environment for her family. She was beautifying the house. And really, didn’t the cleaner bring up the grain on the wooden floor beautifully? It looked so nice, in fact, that she gave the entire kitchen floor a wipe.

The floor was gleaming when she left the house, but she was running late. Not that she was thinking about that. No, she was only thinking bright and beautiful thoughts today, she told herself, pausing a moment to take in the clear blue sky and the clump of purple asters and yellow goldenrod blooming by the mailbox. No, she refused to think about that sham of a meeting last night, when the hazing allegations were swept under the rug. And she wasn’t thinking about whether Toby and Molly would be able to buy the house they wanted, and she wasn’t thinking about the upcoming quarterly tax payment, or how Sara was coping with high school and cheerleading, or if Elizabeth was safe and sound in Boston, or even about Mimi’s murder and the mysterious homeless man. No, she was looking for more goldenrod which was why she didn’t notice Chris Cashman’s Ford Expedition shooting out of Prudence Path right into her left fender.

“Ohmigod! Are you all right?” yelled Chris, from her perch in the SUV, high above Lucy’s Subaru.

To tell the truth, Lucy wasn’t sure. She was definitely shaken up and thoughts of whiplash and hairline fractures were chasing away all the lovely goldenrod dreams. She took a few deep breaths, to calm herself, and decided to try getting out of the car and on her feet. Moving slowly and carefully, she unlatched the door and pushed it open about twelve inches, stopping when she heard the protesting screech of metal on metal.

“Well,” she said, squeezing through the opening and surveying the damage, “I seem to be okay but my car’s not.”

“I’ll call the police,” said Chris, flourishing her tiny little cell phone.

“Good idea,” said Lucy, observing that although her car seemed to have major front end damage, Chris’s enormous SUV seemed unscathed.

“Oh, look at that!” exclaimed Chris, joining her and examining the front of her SUV. “My paint is scratched.”

“You went through a stop sign,” said Lucy, who didn’t appreciate Chris’s attitude.

“I know,” admitted Chris, who was rather haphazardly dressed in a pair of ratty sweatpants and an ancient Wellesley T-shirt. “It was my fault. I was in a hurry because I ran out of all-natural yogurt for the girls’ breakfast and I needed to get to the store and back before Brad left for work and then there was the stock market fiasco—you know the Dow is down nearly two hundred points?—and how am I going to tell my poor widows they don’t have the money they thought they did and…”

“I understand,” said Lucy. “It could happen to anybody. You do have insurance, right? Why don’t we exchange information, while we wait for the cops?”

As Lucy expected, Chris was a model of efficiency and extracted a neat little folder from her glove compartment with all the necessary papers. After a bit of searching, Lucy also produced the current, crumpled registration card and an empty plastic sleeve designed to hold it that was imprinted with the name of her insurance company. That bit of business completed, the two women looked hopefully down the road for an approaching police car. Seeing none, Chris suggested moving the cars to the side of the road.

“I don’t think we should, not before the cops get here, “said Lucy. “If anybody comes along they can get by.”

Nobody was coming, there was no sound except the chirping of birds and the buzz of cicadas. The sun was shining, the day was warming up, and the air was filled with the scent of a few late-blooming wild roses. High in the sky, a flock of geese in a straggly V formation was headed south, encouraging each other with an occasional honk.

“What a morning,” said Lucy, full of appreciation for the natural beauty that was all around her.

“You can say that again,” moaned Chris. “First this, and now Brad is going to be late for his meeting and there’s no way I’m going to be able to get Pear and Apple to their Gymboree class.” She was tapping her foot impatiently. “At this point I’m just hoping we make it to French class.”

“Aren’t they a bit young for that?” asked Lucy.

“Oh, no. The younger, the better. Children’s brains absorb language easily, they have to so they can learn to talk. Think about it: they have to absorb an enormous amount of information. But as they get older they lose that ability. That’s why kids who’ve been kept in closets or raised by wolves or whatnot,” Chris shrugged and shook her head, “well, they have a very difficult time learning any language skills at all. Sometimes they remain mute.”

Lucy couldn’t help wondering what other interesting bits of information filled Chris’s hyperactive brain, and what she might have observed from her house on Prudence Path. “You’re an intelligent woman,” she began. “I’m curious what you think about the murder. Do you think Fred did it? That Mimi was an abused wife?”