Bake Sale Murder (17 page)

“I don’t mean the tax rate, though that’s just typical of the sort of sloppy journalism you practice. I’m talking about the article about the homeless man. It’s absolutely irresponsible to link him with the Stanton family like that.”

“Well, I did find his driver’s license,” said Lucy.

“You have absolutely no proof of any connection between the license and the man whose body was found in the harbor.”

“It was in his campsite,” said Lucy, defending her story. “And I made it quite clear that the ME will now be looking for dental records or DNA to make a positive identification.”

“It was in the woods. Anybody could drop a wallet there, it may have been there for years.” He paused. “The most likely case is that Mimi herself dropped it there.”

Lucy was beginning to feel less sure of her discovery. Esterhaus had a good point.

“That would be some coincidence, wouldn’t it? I mean, years ago, some guy who was related to Mimi Stanton was wandering around in the woods where her husband was eventually going to build a home for their family? I don’t think so.”

“I’m warning you. We expect a full retraction or we’ll be seeing you in court.”

Lucy swallowed hard. The little bell was jangling and Ted was just coming through the door. “I think you better talk to my editor,” she said, putting him on hold.

“Call for you on three, Ted,” she said, grabbing her bag. Sometimes there was really no option except retreat, if you wanted to live to fight another day.

Outside, Lucy paused to sniff the crisp fall air. The temperature was finally dropping and a few trees had already changed color. Fall was definitely on its way and she was looking forward to the drive to New Hampshire. Opportunities like this, when she could spend time alone on the open road with her thoughts, rarely came her way. She started the car, turned the radio to her favorite oldies rock station, cranked up the volume, and checked the gas gauge. Before she went anywhere, she was going to have to fill up the rental car.

Lucy was standing at the Quik-Mart self-serve pump watching the numbers scroll upward and congratulating herself that she wasn’t driving a Hummer, not that she’d ever seriously considered the idea, when Preston roared in on his Harley. Now
that
would get even better mileage, she thought, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he wasn’t a reckless hooligan with no regard for other people’s desire for peace and quiet; maybe he was a responsible steward of the planet.

“I thought it was you,” he said, pulling to a stop behind her car. “Who do you think you are?”

“What do you mean?” she asked calmly, trying not to react to Preston’s angry tone.

“That story. Saying the homeless guy was related to my mother.”

Lucy felt her throat tighten. “I said it was likely, since your mother’s maiden name was O’Toole and she came from the same Boston neighborhood. Plus the fact that he was in town at the time of her funeral. But I made it quite clear that only the medical examiner can make a positive ID.”

“That could all be coincidence. I don’t know this guy, I never heard of him and neither did my dad.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not related,” said Lucy, replacing the hose on the pump. “Maybe there’s some reason they drifted apart.”

“Yeah, and I bet you’d like to find out all about it, wouldn’t you?” Preston was jabbing his finger angrily at her.

Under the circumstances, Lucy thought it wisest not to mention her plans for the day.

“Well, listen, you,” he said, snarling at her. “You leave my family alone—or else!”

Then he gunned the motorcycle and sped off, raising a cloud of dust.

Chapter 17

“D
on’t you threaten me!” yelled Lucy, but she knew the gesture was futile. He certainly couldn’t hear her over the noise of his engine. Her words only served to vent her anger and frustration, and her fear. She didn’t like being threatened, especially after two murders. He certainly didn’t mean that she might be next, did he? The thought gave Lucy pause. Was Preston the murderer? Did his father go to jail to protect him?

What exactly did that “or else” mean?

Lucy started the car, but driving to New Hampshire no longer seemed like such a good idea. For one thing, Zoe would be coming home from school in an hour or so and she didn’t want to leave her alone in the house, not with Preston’s threat hanging over them. It would be far more sensible, she decided, to make the trip tomorrow morning when the girls were safe in school.

But even that plan seemed doomed to failure when Sara refused to eat any breakfast Friday morning, complaining she was too nauseous.

“Maybe you should stay home,” suggested Lucy. She was already rearranging her schedule and planning to work from home.

“I can’t,” moaned Sara. “There’s a game today and I can’t miss it.”

“Why not rest this morning and if you feel better I can take you to school later?”

“It’s an away game and there’s a pep rally first thing this morning.”

“They never had pep rallies before,” said Lucy.

“They never had a winning team before,” said Bill, his mouth full of bagel. “Face it, that second half against Gilead was incredible. Matt Engelhardt is one amazing quarterback. Let her go.”

“Not if she’s sick…”

“I feel okay, Mom, I really do.”

“You can’t go on an empty stomach. Not if you’re going to be leading a pep rally. And where is this away game?”

“Lake Wingate.”

“See!” Lucy turned to Bill. “That’s at least an hour from here, maybe more. What if she gets sick on the bus?”

“I won’t get sick on the bus,” said Sara.

“I’m not very happy about this. Not after what happened on the bus after the last away game.”

“That was just a combination of youthful high spirits and a very tired coach. You can be sure it won’t happen again, not after that meeting,” said Bill. “Everybody will be on their best behavior.”

“Dad’s right, Mom. Coach Buck really chewed out the players and told them that if anything like that happens again they’re off the team, no exceptions.”

Lucy was running out of arguments. “Okay,” she said. “Take some nutrition bars, okay?”

“Okay,” said Sara, giving her a hug.

Lucy’s day was back on track. She would stop in at the
Pennysaver
office to check in with Ted and then she would head across the state to St. Bernard’s Home in Salem to talk to Father Keenan. She packed lunches for Bill and Zoe, gave Sara’s cheerleading outfit a quick touch up with the iron, sent everyone off with a kiss, fed the dog, tidied the kitchen, took a shower, blow-dried her hair, got dressed, and was finally ready to go. Except that when she got out to her little rental car she discovered it had four flat tires. Preston had apparently made good on his threat, she decided, as she called the rental place.

“Four flat tires? I never heard of such a thing,” said the agent.

“They just don’t make ’em like they used to,” said Lucy, pretending ignorance. She was not about to admit any responsibility for the tires; the rental company and the insurance company would have to sort it out. “How soon can you get it fixed?”

“We’ll have somebody out there right away,” promised the agent.

Lucy doubted it, but she took up her position by the front window to watch for the repair truck anyway. Car trouble was a lot like a toothache, she decided, because it was hard to think of anything else. So she stood there, watching for the truck, impatiently tapping her foot.

She had a clear view of Prudence Path and watched as the school bus arrived and the kids filed aboard, followed moments later by Coach Buck’s departure in his minivan. Five minutes later she heard the familiar roar of Preston’s Harley when he left for school. He didn’t have a passenger so Tommy was apparently still recovering at home. With his mother dead, his father in jail accused of murder, and his younger brother to care for, it was no wonder Preston was acting out. Lucy could almost forgive him, but not quite.

Next to leave was Scratch Westwood, the vet, driving his aged Jeep. Lucy wondered if it was true that he had been having an affair with Mimi and if that explained Willie’s mood swings. He was followed in short order by Chris Cashman’s husband in his little Honda. The clock in the hall ticked, the road was empty, there was no sign of the repair truck. Lucy was thinking of calling again when Chris Cashman’s big Expedition came into sight; Lucy wondered if today was KinderGym or French lessons or maybe AquaBabies. Thank goodness she’d raised her babies in simpler times when getting together with some other mothers and their little ones for a once-a-week playgroup was considered sufficient stimulation. A few minutes later, Willie Westwood came screeching up to the stop sign in her Wagoneer; she tapped the brakes in a token stop and was off. Golly gee, that woman sure loved her horses; she couldn’t wait to get to them. Then, once again, it was quiet. Only Frankie, Bonnie, and Tommy remained on Prudence Path and soon it would likely be only Tommy, when Frankie went to work in the real estate office and Bonnie headed out to run her errands. Lucy didn’t like the idea of him being there all alone but there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

Finally, the repair truck chugged up the hill and turned into her driveway.

“Whoa, what happened here?” demanded the mechanic, a slight young fellow with sun-bleached hair and grimy hands.

“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “This is how I found the car this morning.”

“Somebody slashed these tires,” he said, showing her the cuts in the black rubber. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

“Of course not. Why?”

“You better file a police report or the insurance won’t pay.”

“Really?” Lucy had been hoping to get on the road as soon as possible.

“Really.”

It took the mechanic almost an hour to change all four tires, and then Lucy spent another half hour at the police station, filing a report that morphed into a complaint against Preston. Lucy knew it was necessary, but she didn’t feel comfortable about it as she finally began the trip. The last thing she wanted was for the situation to escalate.

As she turned into the carefully landscaped grounds of St. Bernard’s Home, Lucy belatedly wondered if she should have called ahead. For all she knew, Father Keenan could have one of the terrible diseases of aging like Alzheimer’s, ALS, or Parkinson’s. Or perhaps he was fit as a fiddle and maintained a busy schedule of golf and bridge. She’d been foolish to assume he had nothing better to do than sit and wait for her to come and ask him questions. But when she asked for him at the reception desk she was relieved to be sent out back to the garden, where she found him picking tomatoes.

“Father Keenan?”

“How can I help you?” replied a tall, lean man wearing a black cotton shirt with a backwards collar, farmer’s overalls and a straw hat. His creased face was deeply tanned and he had bright blue eyes.

“I’m looking for information about a family in your parish,” said Lucy. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“I surely do,” said the priest, with a shrug. “And I wouldn’t mind getting off my feet for a bit.”

“I’m Lucy Stone, from the
Pennysaver
newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine,” said Lucy, extending her hand.

His grip was warm and strong. “I guess you know who I am. Formerly parish priest and now gardener.”

“A very fine gardener,” said Lucy, eyeing the basket of ripe, red tomatoes. “Those are gorgeous. What’s your secret?”

“I talk to them,” said Father Keenan, a twinkle in his eye. “They say they like the carbon dioxide in your breath but I prefer to think plants enjoy a bit of company. As do I.”

“I’m afraid this goes back quite a few years,” began Lucy. “I’m looking for information about a family named O’Toole. They had a daughter named Mary Catherine and a son named Thomas Preston. I think they may have lived in Jamaica Plain.”

She was surprised to see a spark of recognition in the old man’s eyes. “I remember them well. They were adorable children. She was the older and she took great care of her little brother. I always thought what a wonderful mother she would make.” He sighed. “It was a great tragedy, what happened to their father. It was in all the papers at the time, I’m sure you’ll remember it.”

“I didn’t grow up around here,” said Lucy. “I was raised near New York City.”

“Even so, it made national news. It was that shocking. Their father was a police officer, one of Boston’s finest. He was shot attempting to stop a bank robbery. Shot and killed. His wife, a lovely woman but very fragile, never got over it. She took her own life shortly after.”

“Who raised the children?”

“They went into foster care, I believe.” He shook his head. “Like I said, it was very sad.”

“Were the robbers caught?”

“I believe so. There was a trial, I remember. Very sensational. It was during the last years of the Vietnam War, you see, and they had some crazy idea of robbing the bank to finance some sort of protest against the military-industrial complex. They were defended by a prominent leftist lawyer from Harvard, his name escapes me right now but it will come back to me eventually.” He smiled apologetically. “Usually it does, but sometimes it takes a day or two. Funny, I can remember his long, curly hair but I can’t remember his name.”

“I know the feeling,” said Lucy.

He smiled. “Now it’s my turn to ask the questions. Why do you want to know about the family O’Toole?” A faint trace of an Irish brogue crept into his speech.

Lucy hesitated before answering. It was warm on the stone bench and the garden was peaceful and quiet. The only sound was the hum of cicadas and she could smell the peppery scent of the tomato leaves. She didn’t want to bring violent death into this lovely place.

“I’ve heard it all before, you know,” he prompted her. “I have heard things in the confessional that would curl your hair.”

“I can well imagine,” said Lucy. “They’re both dead. Mimi, I mean Mary Catherine, was stabbed in her kitchen. Her husband has been charged with the crime. Her brother was homeless but somehow he heard about the funeral and came to Tinker’s Cove but they found his body in the harbor, drowned.”

Father Keenan picked up one of the tomatoes and stroked its silky skin with his callused thumb. “Did Mary Catherine have any children?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, eager to give him some good news. “Two boys. Preston is eighteen and Tommy is fifteen.” She saw no need to mention Tommy’s suicide attempt or Preston’s threats. “Nice boys.”

“It must be a very difficult time for them.”

“Yes.” She watched as a praying mantis made its cautious way along a leafy tomato branch. Its green color was perfect camouflage. She would never have noticed it if it hadn’t moved. “I’ve tried to help but they’re very…private.”

“I will pray for them. And for the souls of Mary Catherine and Thomas Preston.” He turned to her. “Are you Catholic?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Do you pray?”

Lucy considered the question. She didn’t pray regularly, but there were times when she did. “Occasionally.”

“Ah,” he said. “I find prayer very helpful. You should try it more often.”

“Thank you for your help,” she said, getting to her feet. “You’ve been the answer to a prayer.”

His face reddened. “I try,” he said, tipping his hat.

As she meandered through the hills of New Hampshire toward the Maine border and home, Lucy thought over what Father Keenan had told her about the O’Toole family. Fred had been truthful when he told her that Mimi had no family. Their parents dead, they had been raised by foster parents. Lucy wondered if they had been placed together in the same home, or if they’d been separated, as was often the case.

It seemed a cruel twist of fate that Mimi’s sons were close to being in the same situation, though Preston at least was older than Mimi and her brother had been. How old were they when their father was killed? How long after that did their mother take her life? Father Keenan had said she was “fragile.” Did that mean their mother suffered from mental problems even before the shooting? Lucy found that the information she’d gotten from Father Keenan was creating more questions than answers. She couldn’t wait to get back to her computer and put Google to work.

She had just passed the “Welcome to Maine” sign when her cell phone rang. Normally, Lucy didn’t like to talk on the cell phone when she was driving; she’d seen too many near misses by drivers who were completely oblivious to the cars around them as they engaged in a fascinating conversation. But today she practically had the road to herself and she would make it brief, tell whoever was calling that she would get back to them as soon as possible.

“Mo-o-om!” wailed Sara, when she answered

Lucy felt the car swerve a bit. “What’s the matter?”

“I wanna go ho-o-me.”

“Calm down and tell me what’s the matter,” insisted Lucy, pulling into a convenient rest stop.

“I just wanna go home.”

“Are you sick?”

Sara produced a sound that could be taken as either affirmative or negative, Lucy couldn’t decide which. Whatever it was, it was clear Sara was in some sort of distress and needed her.

“Where are you?”

“Lake Wah-wah-wingate.”

Lucy pulled a map out of the glove compartment and discovered she was only about 25 miles away. “I can be there in about half an hour,” she promised.

“Hu-u-urry,” wailed Sara.

“Just take it easy,” said Lucy, ending the call and peeling out of the rest area with the gas pedal pressed to the floor. This was definitely one of those times that called for prayer. “Lord,” she said, raising her eyes skyward, “please let there be no state troopers for the next 25 miles.”