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Authors: Leslie Meier

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BOOK: Chocolate Covered Murder
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“I saw her with Eddie Culpepper—do you think they're serious?”
“I hope not. She's way too young for that,” snapped Flora, looking up as Renee and Sara came through the door from the rear of the shop. “Well, here're your girls. See you tomorrow.”
For some reason that Lucy couldn't understand, Flora's words sent the two girls into paroxysms of laughter.
“What's so funny?” asked Lucy, as they all got into the car.
“Nothing,” said Sara, giggling as she fastened her seat belt.
“Flora said you were packing up mail orders,” said Lucy, starting the car and switching on the headlights. “Was it interesting?”
The girls didn't answer but started laughing again. Something was screamingly funny and Lucy couldn't help wishing she was in on the joke.
Chapter Nine
S
ociologists estimate that forty to fifty percent of American marriages end in divorce and the numbers are even higher for second (sixty-seven percent) and third (seventy-four percent) marriages. Even couples who stay together tend to drift apart, according to a recent survey by the Association of Retired Citizens (ARC), which reported a marked decrease in romance among couples age sixty and older. Some lucky couples, however, defy the odds. Take, for example, Helen and Roger Faircloth, who insist they are still in love after more than forty years of marriage.
Interviewed recently at the Queen Victoria Inn, where the couple is staying while house-hunting in the area, Mr. Faircloth declared, “It's easy to stay married when you're in love. ” Beaming at his wife, he added, “She's every bit as pretty as the day I married her.”
The couple met in London on a double-decker bus in the Swinging Sixties. Mrs. Faircloth was pursuing a modeling career and Roger was a student at the London School of Economics. In the years since....
Lucy flipped through the notes she had taken during her interview with the Faircloths but found them surprisingly thin. She should have written the story up immediately after talking with them, but she'd procrastinated, aware that the deadline for the
Love Is Best on the Coast
supplement was weeks away. Now it was Wednesday, deadline day, the story was finally due, and she couldn't remember what happened between their fabled meeting in London and the Connecticut house fire that prompted their decision to relocate to the Maine coast.
“If I can't have a Wyeth landscape on my wall, I can have one right outside my window.” That was a great quote from Helen, and Lucy certainly planned to use it in her story, but where were the hard facts? What sort of career did Roger have? He certainly didn't spend forty years gazing at his beloved, like some lovesick swain.
And what about Helen? Did she continue to model? Lucy knew they didn't have any children; it was their “one regret,” according to Helen. So what did she do for all those years besides dust the antiques and cook gourmet dinners for Roger? They said they'd collected art and antiques, they'd referred to a Goddard highboy, paintings by Warhol and Basquiat, all gone in the fire. “When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade.” That's what Helen had said in a remarkable display of resiliency.
Lucy considered. They were resilient. Maybe she could do something with that. A quote from a marriage counselor would fill some space, she thought, but she still had a huge hole in the middle of her story. There was no way of getting around it, she had to call the Faircloths for more information. She knew they were still in town, she'd seen them just the other day, walking hand in hand on Main Street.
When she got Roger on his cell phone, he apologized profusely but said it wasn't a good time to talk.
“This will only take a minute,” Lucy pleaded, glancing across the office at Ted, who was hunched forward, peering at his computer screen and pounding away on his keyboard. “I'm on deadline. If you could just tell me a little about your career
... .
”
“Sorry. It's really impossible. I must go, I'm in the middle of a meeting with my realtor.”
“I see. I'm sorry to interrupt,” said Lucy, ending the call.
“That's no way for a reporter to talk,” snapped Ted, glaring at her from his desk. “Call him back. Say the phone died and cut you off.”
Lucy remembered the set of Roger's jaw at the Queen Victoria Inn; there was no way she was going to badger him. “He won't answer,” said Lucy. “He's in a meeting.”
“I need that story, I've got twenty inches to fill,” said Ted.
“I know, I know.” Lucy was already dialing one of her sources, a marriage counselor she'd quoted before. When she got through with him, however, she had only added an inch or two to the story. Maybe Frankie could help her out, she thought, dialing the real estate office. The phone was ringing when Lucy remembered Roger had said he was in a meeting with his realtor.
Much to her surprise, Frankie answered.
“Hi, it's Lucy. I'm sorry if this is a bad time.”
“No, it's fine,” said Frankie. “I was just working on some comps—but I'm glad you called. I've got a showing later. Can you pick up the girls?”
Sure, no problem,” said Lucy. “So the meeting with the Faircloths is over?”
“What meeting?”
“I just spoke with Roger and he said he was in a meeting with his realtor.”
“Well he wasn't meeting with me,” said Frankie, “and he better not be meeting with any other realtor, because I have a signed contract with him.”
“Maybe I misunderstood,” said Lucy, who was pretty sure she hadn't. “You know how I'm writing about them and their amazing love story? Well, I've kind of run into a wall and I'm hoping you can help me out.”
“Sure,” said Frankie. “What do you need?”
“Some background. Roger's career, for example. Stuff like that.”
There was a long pause before Frankie spoke. “Sorry, but all I know is that they used to live in Connecticut and their house burned down. I guess some stuff was saved because they're always saying they need room for the Duncan Phyfe sideboard and debating where they can hang the large Max Bohm seascape to best advantage.” She sighed. “To tell the truth, I'm getting a little tired of the Faircloths. I have shown them every house in five towns and nothing is quite right. I told them maybe they should build, but they say they want to move into something right away, they don't want to wait a year while a house is built.”
Lucy knew when she was beat. “Can you give me some warm and fuzzy quotes about how they are still in love?”
“Of course,” said Frankie, “just give me a moment.”
Lucy was listening to Frankie and typing in her flattering description of the Faircloths' relationship when she remembered that little awkward scene about paying the bill at the Queen Victoria Inn. When she'd finished, she found herself asking Frankie if she thought the couple were genuine.
“What do you mean?” asked Frankie.
“I don't know. They just seem a bit off. When we had tea at the Queen Vic, the waitress asked Roger to pay cash, something about his credit being cut off. And now, all of a sudden, he doesn't want to talk to me. It just makes me wonder.”
“That's the trouble with being a reporter,” said Frankie. “You don't trust anybody.” She paused. “But they have left the Queen Vic, they said it wasn't quite up to their standards. They've moved to the Salt Aire.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, impressed. She knew the Salt Aire Resort and Spa was strictly top-of-the-line, the most luxurious—and most expensive—hotel in Tinker's Cove. “I guess I do have a suspicious mind, but it did seem odd for this guy who's got such very expensive tastes to argue over a restaurant tab.”
“That's how the very rich are, Lucy,” said Frankie. “Especially the ones with old money. They pinch every penny.”
Lucy thought of some of the summer people who occupied the big shingled “cottages” on Shore Road—they ran up big bills at shops in town and were slow to pay. It was a common complaint among the local merchants. “I'm sure you're right,” said Lucy. “Thanks for the quote.”
“Uh, Lucy, talk about trust, I got a real unpleasant surprise last weekend.”
“What happened?”
“I was doing an open house—they're an older couple, desperate to sell because he's got cancer and isn't expected to live long and she can't keep up the big old place on her own. You probably know them, the Potters.”
“Oh, yeah. They've got that nice colonial on School Street.”
“It's a steal. Needs a little work but a bargain for the right buyer. And they're such a nice couple, I really want to help them out and get it sold.”
Lucy was wondering where this was going. Was it just a sales pitch? “Yeah, well, I'll keep it in mind.” Then a thought came to her. “You know Eddie Culpepper is back and he might be looking for an investment... .”
“That's the weird thing, Lucy. He came, along with Lily Fraser.”
Ah, young love, thought Lucy. It was enough to warm the cockles of your heart. “I guess they're getting serious.”
“I'm not so sure that's a good thing. When the Potters came home, they discovered his OxyContin had been stolen, right out of the medicine cabinet.”
Lucy's jaw dropped. “You don't think Eddie and Lily took it?”
“I don't know what to think,” said Frankie. “I blame myself. I should have told the Potters to take the meds with them, it just slipped my mind.” She paused. “And I should have kept a closer eye on those kids. I got distracted, an old client of mine came in and we got chatting. I think that's when it happened, Eddie and Lily were upstairs by themselves.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I'm not sure,” admitted Frankie. “But I've been wracking my brain and that's the only time I think it could have happened. The bottle was in the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet and they were the only people who were up there without me.”
Lucy had a terrible sinking feeling. “Did you report it?”
“We had to; OxyContin is a controlled substance and Mr. Potter needed to get a new prescription. But I didn't name Eddie and Lily and I noticed they didn't sign in. The officer said it happens all the time. Kids steal drugs from their parents, home health aides steal from their patients, staff members steal from hospitals and pharmacies. And then there's the phony prescriptions, the people who go to a bunch of doctors and get multiple prescriptions.”
Lucy had no idea. “For this OxyContin?”
“Yeah. Either they're hooked themselves, or they sell it. A single pill goes for eighty dollars.”
That was a lot of money, thought Lucy. “Who buys it?”
“Addicts. It's very addicting, and once they're hooked they need three or four pills every day, or they start feeling sick. Withdrawal symptoms.” Frankie paused. “When they can't afford the OxyContin they use heroin. It's much cheaper.”
A year or two ago, thought Lucy, she would have been shocked. But not now. The police and court reports showed a big increase in drug-related crimes and the town had seen several violent drug-related deaths in recent years. Doc Ryder had expressed concern about the number of overdoses he was seeing in the emergency room. It wasn't just Tinker's Cove, either. Even the governor's wife was trying to raise awareness of the problem.
Still, Lucy resisted the idea that either Lily or Eddie might be using drugs. “They're both good kids... .”
“I know,” agreed Frankie. “That's why I didn't name them. I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt.”
“That's exactly right,” said Lucy. “I can't believe either one of them would do this awful thing, steal painkillers from a dying man.”
“You're right, I'm sure you're right,” said Frankie, but her tone of voice gave her away. She wasn't convinced and neither was Lucy.
 
That afternoon, Lucy ran a few errands before picking up Sara and Renee at Fern's Famous, and Zoe at Chanticleer Chocolate. The work permit had come through and today was Zoe's first day, but Lucy wasn't happy about it. She'd been in a bad mood as she went about town, making a stop at the town dump before picking up groceries and dry cleaning.
The rear of the Subaru wagon was full of green reusable grocery bags, dry cleaning hanging from the back of the front seat where she'd hooked the hangers around the headrest supports, and a couple of big boxes now empty of bottles she'd recycled, on the back seat.
“Gee, Mom, is there room for us?” asked Sara, when she opened the car door.
“Just stack up those boxes inside each other,” said Lucy.
“They don't fit,” complained Sara, struggling to jam one box inside the other. “This one's too big.”
“Turn it sideways,” said Lucy, wondering how a girl who got all A's in geometry couldn't figure out how to stack a couple of cartons.
“Got it,” said Sara, succeeding in combining the two boxes and making room in the back seat.
The two girls jumped in and immediately began whispering and giggling.
“Can you let me in on the joke?” asked Lucy, accelerating into the road. “I had no idea chocolate was so much fun.”
“It is at Fern's,” said Sara, prompting a fresh round of giggling. “Especially around Valentine's Day.”
“Come on, tell me,” said Lucy, in a playful tone. “I've had a tough day and I could use a laugh.”
“Well,” began Sara. “Promise you won't tell?”
Lucy didn't get it. What was so funny and had to be kept secret, too? It didn't make sense, especially since you'd think the mood would be somewhat subdued at Fern's following Max's death. “Sure,” she said. “I won't tell.”
BOOK: Chocolate Covered Murder
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