Bake Sale Murder (16 page)

“What did the vet say?” she asked Bill, who was filling her bowl with water.

“She’s gonna be fine. But she can only go out on the leash, no exercise, for two weeks. And we have to check her incision for swelling and redness every day.”

Lucy stroked the dog’s silky ears. “What did you eat, you silly girl?”

“This,” said Bill, producing a bit of plastic.

Lucy took it from him and turned it over, studying it. It seemed to be a rather old Massachusetts driver’s license, from the days before holograms and digital photos, when they simply laminated a cardboard license with plastic. The name was gone, but the photo was still quite clear. In fact, Lucy realized, the face on the license looked a lot like Tommy Stanton. But it couldn’t be him, because his license would be a freshly minted Maine license with a black electromagnetic strip on the back. Then she remembered the wallet and felt for a moment as if Bill had slipped an ice cube down her back. The face looking up at her through the cloudy plastic was the face of the homeless man. A man who bore a very strong resemblance to Tommy Stanton.

Chapter 16

A
s she studied the tattered bit of plastic and cardboard Lucy’s thoughts suddenly came into focus. She’d suspected all along that the homeless man was connected with Mimi and his strong resemblance to Tommy certainly seemed to confirm it. It also served to deny Fred’s assertion that Mimi had no family. She did have a family, but not, perhaps, a family she wanted to acknowledge. Perhaps a very troubled family, if the homeless man was any indication. A family that both Mimi and the homeless man had left behind.

Lucy carried the card over to the kitchen sink and held it under the bright down-light there, but the name and address remained illegible. The license number, however, was faintly discernible and Lucy eagerly wrote it down. First thing tomorrow she’d call the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles and get the man’s identity. She would finally fill in the
who
in her story.

“Why exactly do you want this information?” inquired the voice on the other end of the line, a voice with a strong Boston accent.

“Like I said,” Lucy began, for the umpteenth time, “I’m a reporter with the
Pennysaver
newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine. A homeless man was recently found dead here and I’m trying to identify him from a fragment of his driver’s license. All I have is the number and his photo.”

“What happened to the card?” asked the voice, pronouncing card without the
r
.
Cahd
.

“Actually, my dog ate it.”

“They’re plastic. That shouldn’t hurt it.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and leaned her elbows on her desk. There was no point in losing patience with the clerk, not if she wanted her help. All she could do was hope to interest her in the story. “It’s one of the old paper ones with a laminated coating.”

“Really? That’s before my time.”

“The dog’s teeth did some damage.”

“My dog ate my wedding ring but she pooped it out.” The voice paused. “I made my husband buy me a new one.”

“Good thinking,” said Lucy. “Actually, it made my dog sick and she had to have an operation.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She’s recovering nicely, but after all we’ve been through it would be great if you could help me identify this guy. Like I said, the license is all we have to go on.”

“Sorry. I can’t divulge that information.”

“Why not?”

“We only give information like that to law enforcement. It’s a privacy issue.”

“The guy is dead.”

“It’s department policy. I’d get in big trouble.”

Lucy didn’t want Little Miss Boston to get into trouble. “Okay, just one more question. Do you actually have the information from such an old driver’s license on file somewhere?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, thanks for your help.” Why did she keep saying this to people who didn’t help her at all?

“No problem. It was nice talking to you. I hope the dog’s okay.”

Lucy got the last word. “Have a nice day,” she said.

“That didn’t sound as if you meant it,” said Phyllis, whose long nails, painted magenta today with a scattering of glitter to match her harlequin reading glasses, were clicking against the keyboard.

“I didn’t,” grumbled Lucy. “It was classic passive-aggressive behavior. I wanted to wring her unhelpful little neck.”

“So much hostility and so early in the morning, too,” clucked Phyllis. “You should try to have a more positive attitude.”

“That’s what my exercise coach says,” muttered Lucy, reaching for the phone. Seeing Phyllis’s eyebrows shoot up she offered a quick explanation. “
Fun and Fitness with Debbie
every morning.”

Amazingly, Barney was actually at his desk in the police station. Lucy had seen it, a cluttered monument to disorganization, and understood why he tried to avoid it.

“Cruiser’s in the shop,” he explained. “Brake linings.” He sighed a long sigh. “I’m catching up on paperwork.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lucy. “Would you like a diversion?”

“Not if it will get me into trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I just want you to run a Massachusetts driver’s license for me. I think it belongs to the homeless guy. In fact, I’ll even give it to you and you can get credit for identifying him.”

“So who is he?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. All that’s left is his photo and the number. No name or address.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“In the woods. The dog actually found it, in an old wallet. She ate most of the wallet and the license, too. She had to have surgery.”

“Gee, that’s quite a story. But how do you know it belonged to the homeless guy?”

“Trust me. I’ve got a real strong hunch.”

“Okay, come on down,” said Barney.

He was chatting with the dispatcher when Lucy got to the station and promptly escorted her into an interview room. “It’s more private here,” he said.

“And neater,” observed Lucy.

“Yeah. So let me see it.”

Lucy produced the license and Barney leaned over it. “He looks a lot like Tommy Stanton,” Barney said.

“I know. I think they’re related. I think he came to town because of Mimi.”

“So you think whoever killed Mimi also killed him? That it wasn’t an accident?”

“Well, I’ve been talking to people who saw him around town and nobody mentioned he was ever drunk, and there was no sign of liquor in his little campsite in the woods.”

“You can show me where it is?”

“Sure. So how about getting his name and address?”

Barney picked up the phone and within minutes he was copying the information in his big block letters: Thomas Preston O’Toole with an address in Jamaica Plain. “The license expired in 1985,” he said, sliding the paper across the table to her.

“Mimi named her sons after him,” said Lucy. “Who do you think he was? A brother?”

“The age is right. He was about forty. She was a little older.”

“I wonder what happened, what split them apart?”

“I can run a records check,” offered Barney, just as his name was called on the station intercom. “I gotta go,” he said, “I’ll call you later.”

Lucy felt exhilarated, and slightly frantic, as she hurried back to the
Pennysaver
office. It was exciting when a story began to gel and she found the pressure both exhilarating and scary. But it was already Tuesday. Could she pull it all together by noon tomorrow?

Google was no help at all. There were no matches for Thomas Preston O’Toole, no matches for Preston O’Toole and 4,830 matches for Thomas Preston, most of which seemed to be random notations that included the name Thomas.

“Lucy, what exactly are you doing?” demanded Ted, who had been watching her scroll through the listings for some time.

“I Googled the homeless guy, but I’m not finding anything.”

“Uh, that’s a surprise,” he said, rolling his eyes. “He was homeless, that means he wasn’t connected to society, right?”

“Well, everybody’s in Google, right? Even me. And he might have been somebody important before he became homeless. Or he might have been named after a famous relative.”

“I think you’d be better off with a criminal records check,” said Ted.

“Barney ran one for me. It came up empty.”

“Call the parish priest,” advised Phyllis, oracle-like from her spot behind the reception counter.

“What?” Lucy was puzzled.

“O’Toole is an Irish name and Jamaica Plain is in Boston, that means he’s most likely Boston Irish. They’re usually faithful churchgoers. I bet the parish church has some information, baptism, first communion, stuff like that.”

Lucy remembered Mimi’s funeral service at the Catholic church, and the fact that O’Toole had attended it. “That’s a good idea,” she said, casting a questioning look in Ted’s direction. “Just one phone call?”

“Just one,” said Ted. “Then you can follow up for next week’s edition. Right now, I need you to get the movie listings.”

“I’m on it, Chief,” said Lucy, doing a quick Google search for Catholic churches in Jamaica Plain and turning up St. Thomas Church. A call to the office, however, only yielded the information that the secretary was new to the area and hardly knew anyone and the priest was away on his annual retreat. Unfortunately, only Father Montoya could authorize the release of official church information.

“There is someone you might try,” she said. “Father Keenan retired a few years ago and he was here for years.”

“Where is he now?” asked Lucy.

“His health isn’t good. He’s at a retirement home for clergy in New Hampshire.”

Lucy perked up when she heard the address; it was only about a couple of hours drive away. She could go later in the week, after deadline. “Thanks so much,” she said.

“Movies,” muttered Ted. “We need the movie listings.”

Lucy was a little nervous going to breakfast with the girls on Thursday morning. She hadn’t seen Sue since the Labor Day cookout and was worried she was angry with her. But when she approached the usual table in Jake’s Donut Shop, Sue’s smile was as friendly as ever.

“Hi, guys,” said Lucy, taking her seat. “You won’t believe what happened to me,” she began, eager to tell them all about her adventures with Libby.

“You won’t believe what Sue’s been up to,” interrupted Pam, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“Really?” Lucy felt the wind go out of her sails. “Tell me all about it.”

“Well,” began Sue. “To make a long story short, I’m going into business with Chris Cashman.”

Lucy’s chin dropped. “What?”

“I knew something like this would happen,” said Rachel, nodding sagely. “It was inevitable.”

“I have to admit I didn’t see this coming,” said Lucy. “I thought you were archenemies.”

“Oh, I don’t know why I got so upset about that bake sale,” said Sue, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “It was just silly. And when Chris called me after the Board of Appeals meeting and said she got approval to operate her investment business from her house…”

“You’re going to go into financial planning?” Lucy couldn’t believe it. Sue’s favorite maxim was “You’ve got to spend money to save it.”

“No, silly, I don’t know anything about finances. I’m opening a day care business and Chris is going to be a silent partner.”

Lucy knew that Sue had run the town’s first daycare center for several years, filling a vital need for young working families who couldn’t otherwise afford child care. She had since retired but the center was still flourishing.

“This is going to be different,” continued Sue. “This is going to be a bit more upscale, designed for professional parents who want the very best for their kids. We’ll have foreign languages, educational games, a fitness program, music appreciation—I’m pretty excited about it. We even have a name: Little Prodigies Preschool Center.”

“That sounds great but do you think there are enough professional parents who can afford it?” asked Rachel. “Something like that’s going to be pricey.”

“Chris has done a lot of research,”

“Of course,” said Lucy and Pam, simultaneously.

“…and she says there are plenty of couples looking for top quality care for their kids. The population has really changed in the past few years. The old folks are dying off, there’s been an influx of professionals who work at home, or commute to businesses that have moved out of the urban centers. There’s that new industrial park in Gilead; it’s full of computer and biotech outfits.”

“But how did Chris know that you have a background in early childhood education?” asked Lucy.

“She was asking around for daycare options and somebody told her to call me for some referrals and one thing led to another.” She looked at her watch. “Well, sorry, I’ve got to run. I’m meeting Chris. We’re going to check out some possible properties.” She stood up and picked up her purse. “Wish me luck!”

She left in a chorus of good wishes, leaving behind her amazed and befuddled friends.

“I’m floored,” said Lucy. “I thought they hated each other.”

“The last I heard, and I heard quite a lot, she was going on and on about what a bossy upstart Chris was,” said Pam.

“It makes sense, if you think about it,” said Rachel, who had majored in psychology. “Like minds attract and, let’s face it, this town is too small for both of them. They either had to get together and make peace or one of them was going to have to leave.”

“This is going to be good for Sue,” said Lucy. “She definitely needed a new interest.”

“Those two are bound to make a success of it,” said Pam. “Do you think we can get in on the ground floor, before they go multinational?”

Lucy was in good spirits when she got to work, but unlike the week before, this Thursday the phones were ringing like crazy. And it wasn’t because of Lucy’s two-inch story about the possible identification of the homeless man based on the discovery of the driver’s license, which was all Ted agreed to print without more information.

“Ted got the tax rate wrong,” said Phyllis. “He printed $66.87 instead of $6.87 per thousand.”

“Oops,” said Lucy, uncomfortably aware that she had proofread his story on the new rate and hadn’t noticed the mistake. “I think it must’ve been a typo at the printer’s,” she said hopefully.

“Uh, no. It’s right here in the dummy. I don’t know how we missed it.” Phyllis slapped her forehead. “I looked at it, too. Never noticed.”

“Oh, well, these things happen,” said Lucy philosophically.

“It isn’t the irate taxpayers that are so bad. It’s the town treasurer. He’s fit to be tied and Ted’s over there now, trying to calm him down.”

“I don’t suppose he’ll be happy with a correction?”

“No. Blood. He wants blood.”

“Poor Ted.”

“Poor us, you mean,” said Phyllis. “I don’t want to be here when Ted gets back.”

“Neither do I,” said Lucy, planning her escape. She was thwarted, however, by a phone call from Will Esterhaus, Fred’s lawyer.

“That was some cheap trick,” he said, skipping the formality of a greeting and getting right to the point.

“Well, if you think about it, the tax rate couldn’t possibly be nearly seventy dollars per thousand, that would be ridiculous. If people took the time to think about it they’d realize it was a mistake. A typo. We’re human after all. Mistakes happen.”