Candy Corn Murder (16 page)

Chapter Fifteen

W
hen Lucy got to the office on Wednesday morning, deadline day, she found Ted scowling at his computer monitor. “Lucy,” he said as she hung her jacket on the coat stand, “I'm surprised at you. This Buck Miller story is nothing but a puff piece.”

“Uh-oh,” said Phyllis, who was checking the classified ad copy, peering closely at the computer screen through her harlequin reading glasses. “That doesn't sound like our keen investigative reporter.”

Lucy reached deep into the recesses of her mind, into the places where things she didn't have to remember were stored, and recalled the story, which she'd written weeks ago. Ted must have been holding it for lack of space due to the Pumpkin Fest coverage.

“You don't need to tell me,” she replied, seating herself at her desk, “but it was all I could get with Corney breathing down my neck. She took control of the interview and wouldn't let him say anything.”

“Well, I'm not printing this unless they pay for ad space,” said Ted.

“Want to hold it a week? I'll call and see if I can get another interview with Buck.”

“Good idea,” said Ted.

Lucy really didn't expect to be put through to Buck when she dialed the number she'd been given, but much to her surprise, it turned out to be his cell phone. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Wow,” she replied, somewhat at a loss for words. “I thought I'd have to fight with a receptionist to get to talk to you.”

“No way. It's the modern world. I take my own calls.”

“Good for you,” she said. “The thing is, my editor wants to run a bigger story. . . .”

“Great,” replied Buck.

“So I need to talk to you again. Is that okay?”

“Sure. What works for you?”

“This afternoon,” suggested Lucy, throwing it out there as a starting point for negotiation.

“Fine. What time?”

Lucy hadn't expected him to agree. The deadline was at noon, but sometimes things ran late at the
Pennysaver.
“How about three?”

“See you then,” he said.

“At the store?” she asked. “Like last time?”

“Do you mind coming out here to the main office?” he asked somewhat apologetically. “They're painting the conference room at the store. Corney's idea.”

“Not at all,” said Lucy, who couldn't be happier at the way things were working out. “Thanks for making time for me.”

“No problem. See you at three.”

“Must be my lucky day,” she said to Ted as she hung up the phone. “I've got an interview with Buck this afternoon.”

“Doesn't seem like the kid is very busy,” said Ted.

“They're probably not giving him much to do,” said Phyllis. “Breaking him in gradually.”

“Or maybe Tom Miller isn't keen on sharing,” said Ted.

Lucy bit her lip. “I hadn't thought of that,” she said. “You think the older generation isn't that happy with the younger generation?”

“It's only natural,” said Phyllis. “Lord Grantham certainly wasn't very excited about Matthew's newfangled ideas for the estate.”

“Who?” asked Ted, cocking an eyebrow at Phyllis.

“
Downton Abbey,
” said Lucy, filling him in. “Lord Grantham ran out of money because the estate was mismanaged, and his son-in-law Matthew wanted to modernize things.”

“But his daughter and Matthew's wife, Lady Mary, sided with her father,” said Phyllis.

“It was a tense situation,” added Lucy, with a smile.

“You know what's a tense situation?” demanded Ted. “It's coming up on ten o'clock, and I don't have a front-page story!”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy. “You've got Ev's death at the festival, the cellar full of pot. What more do you need?”

“A confirmation from the state cops, that's what I need,” said Ted.

Lucy didn't understand. She'd written the story right after she'd been in Ev's house with Barney. “I was there. I saw the pot,” said Lucy.

“I still need official confirmation,” said Ted. “Maybe it was oregano.”

“I'm pretty sure Lucy knows oregano,” said Phyllis.

“I do. I grow it in my garden.” Lucy shifted uneasily in her chair, making it squeak. It almost seemed as if Ted was having doubts about her credibility as a reporter. The town's grapevine was notorious, and he might well have heard that the cops had interviewed Bill a second time. “The cops came back yesterday,” she said. “They weren't very nice.”

“I don't think he's guilty, not for a minute,” said Ted quickly, “but maybe you're a bit too close to the case to be impartial.”

“This is a community newspaper, and we all live here,” said Phyllis, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes. “None of us are impartial. It's impossible. I mean, even the classifieds get my goat. That Eugene Simpkins is trying to sell his van for ten thousand dollars, and I know he drove it off a boat ramp last summer—into salt water, no less—and it's not worth two cents.”

“I'm not trying to trick anybody into buying a rusty truck,” said Lucy. “I know Ev worked for Bill, and the cops have been questioning him, but believe me, that just makes me even more eager to get to the bottom of the story.”

“But you have to understand that this is starting to get awkward . . . ,” began Ted.

“I understand,” said Lucy, getting up and walking over to the coffeepot. She took the empty pot into the bathroom to fill it and found herself blinking back tears while the water ran. This was so unfair! Furious with herself, she brushed the tears away and went back outside to fill the coffeemaker. She sniffed a few times while she counted out the scoops of coffee. “Allergies,” she said, by way of explanation.

“So Bill didn't know about the pot?” asked Ted.

“Not a clue,” said Lucy. “He thought he was doing Ev a favor by paying him fifteen dollars an hour.”

Ted glanced at his computer. “About time,” he said, leaning forward and scrolling through the text on his monitor. “The state cops say the pot in Ev's cellar had a street value of over thirty-five thousand dollars, the equipment was worth sixty thousand, and there's evidence he'd been growing the stuff for some time.”

“That's hard to believe, isn't it?” asked Lucy. “You know as well as I do that cops always inflate the value of seized drugs to make themselves look good. And who was he selling it all to?”

“If they know, they're not saying,” said Ted. “Just that it was a sizable operation, most likely linked to organized crime.”

“It's hard to believe something this big could go on without people noticing,” said Phyllis.

“That's a lot of pot. There must've been trucks to pick it up,” said Ted. “You'd think the neighbors would've noticed.”

“Maybe the neighbors were part of it,” suggested Lucy. “The economy's bad. A lot of people in town are unemployed and could use some cash.”

“A town-wide conspiracy, and we didn't catch on? We're supposed to know what's going on in Tinker's Cove,” said Ted.

“Maybe it's not town wide. Maybe it's company wide,” suggested Lucy, voicing a thought that had just popped into her head.

Ted seized on the idea. “Country Cousins?”

“Tell me another one,” protested Phyllis. “They're right up there with motherhood, apple pie, and the American way of life.”

“Sounds like a terrific front to me,” said Lucy, warming to the idea. “They've got trucks and warehouses, and nobody would suspect a thing. And get this, Ev designed their security system.”

“How do you know that?” asked Ted, raising an eyebrow.

“He told us. He even gave Bill a bunch of the old stuff so he could set up a system around the pumpkin patch.” The wheels were turning fast in Lucy's head. “Think about it, Ted. A security system would be critical if Country Cousins is involved in illegal drugs, and who better to put it in than the guy who's growing the dope?”

“What a story, if it's true,” said Ted, shaking his head. “But it's not. Country Cousins doesn't need to go into illegal activity to make money. They make plenty by selling boat shoes and fishing gear.”

“You're probably right,” said Lucy, but she wasn't entirely convinced. She thought she might be on to something big. If Country Cousins was peddling pot, along with canoe paddles and polo shirts, it would be a big story, but more than that, it would prove Bill's innocence. But how could she get proof? She could hardly come right out and ask Buck if Country Cousins' exciting new direction included illegal drugs. Or could she?

 

It was a quarter past three when Lucy arrived at the Country Cousins complex out by Jonah's Pond. There had been a computer glitch sending the paper to the printer, and in the end, Ted had loaded the copy onto a thumb drive and had sent Lucy to deliver it to the print shop outside Camden. She had had to hurry to get back to town by three and was driving a bit too fast when she arrived at the Country Cousins complex and braked so hard at the gatehouse that she was thrown forward against the steering wheel.

“Whoa there,” said the guard, a burly man in his fifties.

“Lucy Stone from the
Pennysaver,
” she told him, and he produced a computer notebook. Finding her name, he tapped it with a stylus. Whatever happened to clipboards? she wondered as he lifted the bar so she could drive through.

The fenced complex of buildings was bigger than she remembered; a couple of steel buildings had been added since she was last on the site. A large sign directed her to the executive offices, and she followed the arrow, driving past neat, numbered warehouses with concrete loading docks. Many of the docks were occupied by trucks in the process of being loaded or unloaded; some had the Country Cousins logo, while others were clearly from suppliers. It was a busy place, and at one point she had to brake for a forklift that was backing into her path. The driver wheeled about when she tooted her horn, and gave her a friendly wave.

The executive offices were housed in an older, three-story brick building that was located at the rear of the property, overlooking the pond. Lucy guessed from the neat rows of windows that it had been built in the nineteenth century, perhaps as a mill or a factory of some sort. Unlike the gray steel buildings, which were strictly utilitarian, this one had a landscaped patch of greenery by the front door and now featured colorful clumps of chrysanthemums set amid ornamental grasses.

Lucy parked in one of the spaces labeled for visitors and hurried inside, where a pleasant receptionist directed her to the second floor. She hated being late and ran up the stairs, so she was out of breath when she was showed into Buck's luxurious office.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, panting slightly from the exertion. “I'm running late because I had to drive up the coast.”

Buck had stood up to greet her and leaned across the broad expanse of teak that served as his desk, now empty except for one of those executive toys comprised of dangling stainless-steel balls that bounce against each other. “No problem,” he said. “I was just brainstorming our next campaign.”

Lucy could understand why Corney found Buck so attractive. He was tall and slim, and had an engaging way of cocking his head and grinning when he made eye contact.

“Want to give me a scoop?” she invited. “A heads-up?”

“I'm afraid I haven't worked out the details,” he said. “Can I offer you something to drink? We have coffee, tea, local apple cider. . . .”

“Water?” asked Lucy, who had worked up quite a thirst.

“Sure.” He didn't call his secretary but instead opened a wooden cabinet that housed a small fridge, with a Keurig machine perched on top. After withdrawing a bottle of water, he twisted the cap off and handed the water to her.

Lucy surveyed the large, high-ceilinged office, which had two enormous windows that overlooked Jonah's pond. From here she could clearly observe the beach area, where, she was interested to see, the yellow police tape was gone. Turning her attention to the room itself, she checked out the seating options, which included a couple of chairs in front of the desk, or the sofa and upholstered chairs on the opposite side of the room.

“Let's sit over there,” said Buck, with a nod at the sofa. “It's a lot more comfortable.”

Lucy was tempted to sink into the plush sofa but instead chose one of the chairs. She sat down and put her bottle of water on the coffee table. “What a great office,” she said, glancing at the framed Wyeth print that hung over the sofa. It pictured an open window with a blowing lace curtain, probably painted at the Olson House in Cushing.

“Sure beats a cubicle,” he said, taking the sofa. He leaned back and casually propped an ankle on his knee.

“Well, as I mentioned on the phone,” said Lucy, pulling a notebook from her bag and opening it, “my editor wants to enlarge the story. He wants to know how the company is responding to the challenges of the global marketplace. . . .”