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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Chocolate Covered Murder
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“Broken bones from falls on the icy sidewalks,” said Ted. “The waiting time at the emergency room last week was three hours.”
“We need to let the world know that Maine doesn't shut down in winter,” declared Corney, ready to show her hand.
“It doesn't?” Lucy was skeptical.
“We have so much to offer,” insisted Corney.
“Cabin fever. She's been cooped up too long and now she's hallucinating,” said Ted.
“I'm sure that's it,” said Lucy, laughing.
“Have your fun,” said Corney, slipping off her fur-trimmed hood and giving her short, frosted blond hair a shake. “Let's face it: the economy sucks. Businesses are going bankrupt, people are losing their jobs, even their houses. Things are bad.”
It was true, thought Lucy. Bill, a restoration carpenter, hadn't had a big job in over a year. He was making do, barely, with window replacements and repairs. Her oldest, her son, Toby, who was married and the father of little Patrick, now almost three, had become disillusioned with his prospects as a lobsterman and had taken out student loans to finish up the business degree he had abandoned. Even her oldest daughter, Elizabeth, who had landed a dream job with the Cavendish Hotel chain after graduating from college, was worried about looming layoffs.
“We have to do whatever we can to attract customers and get things rolling again,” said Corney, “and that's what the
Love Is Best on the Coast
Valentine's Day promotion is designed to do.” She smiled, as if explaining basic arithmetic to first graders. “Who cares if it's cold outside? That's better for business. The tourists will have nothing to do except shop and eat and drink. They'll have to spend money.”
Ted was scratching his chin. “So what do you want? I can't write about Fern's Famous losing, they're one of my biggest advertisers.”
“They didn't lose,” said Corney, who always saw the glass as half full. “They came in second, just a hair behind Chanticleer. We have the two best candy shops in Maine right here in Tinker's Cove!”
“I suppose Lucy could do something with that,” speculated Ted. “She can be pretty tactful, when she tries.”
Lucy gave Ted a look. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I know Lucy will do a great job.” Corney turned her big blue eyes on Lucy. “You're going to love Trey Meacham. He's a fascinating guy, and a real visionary. Chanticleer Chocolate typifies the kind of success an enterprising entrepreneur can have in Maine. We're becoming a lot more sophisticated, it's not about whirligigs and fudge anymore. We have top-notch craftsmen and artists making beautiful things—oil paintings and handwoven shawls and burl bowls. And the local food movement is the next big thing: fudge and lobster rolls are great, but there are small breweries, artisanal bakeries, and farmers' markets with hydroponically grown vegetables, free-range chickens, grass-fed beef, all raised locally. That's the market that Trey has captured. His chocolates are very sophisticated, very unusual.”
Phyllis raised one of the thin penciled lines that served as eyebrows. “I like fudge myself. With walnuts.”
“I have absolutely nothing against fudge, especially Fern's Famous Fudge. This is a win-win situation. Two terrific candy shops. The old and the new. Something for everyone.” Corney paused. “And believe me, Lucy, you're going to love Trey.”
“I'm married,” said Lucy. “I have four kids. I'm a grandma.” She paused. “A young grandma.”
“You're not blind, are you?”
Lucy laughed. “Not yet.”
“Well, Trey is very easy on the eyes, and he's got an interesting story. He left a successful business career, got disillusioned with corporate life, and decided to break out on his own. It's been a little more than a year and he's already got several shops in prime spots on the coast. He's a marketing genius. In fact, the Valentine's Day promotion was his idea. He says all the merchants in town need to work together to attract business. Competition is out; cooperation is in. A rising tide raises all ships.”
“Okay, you win,” said Ted, holding his hands up in surrender. “I'm thinking we can maybe do a special advertising promo, a double spread, maybe even an entire special section, if there's enough interest.”
“Now you're talking,” said Corney. “The Chamber's going to have colorful cupid flags for participating businesses, radio spots; we're hoping for some TV coverage. I've got an appointment at NECN with the producer of
This Week in New England
.”
“Sounds good,” said Ted. “Keep us posted.”
“You know I will,” said Corney, flashing a grin. With a wave, she was gone, leaving the door ajar, swinging in the wind.
Phyllis heaved herself to her feet with a big sigh and went around the reception counter, shaking her head as she struggled to shut the door. “You've got to get this door fixed, Ted, before I catch my death of cold.”
“I know a terrific carpenter,” said Lucy.
“Cash flow's a problem,” said Ted. “Can we work out a barter deal?”
Lucy was intrigued; Bill had a lot of time on his hands these days. “What do you have in mind?”
“I have an old guitar... .”
“Absolutely not.”
Ted was making a mental inventory of his possessions. “A typewriter?”
“Donate it to a museum,” said Lucy, laughing.
“A frozen turkey? We didn't eat it at Christmas.”
Lucy was tempted. “It's a start.”
“I'm pretty sure Pam's got all the fixings: stuffing, cranberry sauce, canned yams.”
“Throw in a bag of frozen shrimp and you've got a deal,” said Lucy.
“You're a tough woman, Lucy.”
“I've got hungry kids at home.”
“How soon can we do this?” asked Phyllis, as a gust of wind rattled the door in its frame.
“I'll call him right now,” said Lucy, reaching for the phone.
“Might as well set something up with the chocolate guy, too,” reminded Ted. “What's his name? Meeker?”
“Meacham, Trey Meacham,” said Lucy, as she started dialing.
A sudden burst of static from the police scanner on Ted's desk caught her attention and she paused, finger in the air, waiting for it to clear. The dispatcher's voice finally came through, ordering all rescue personnel to Blueberry Pond.
Lucy looked at Ted. “Are you going or should I?”
“You.” He paused. “I'd go but I've got a phone interview with the governor's wife in half an hour.”
“Really?” asked Lucy.
“Yeah. She's calling for a renewed effort in the war on drugs.”
“Stop the presses,” said Lucy, sarcastically, as she began pulling on her snow pants, boots, scarf, jacket, hat, and gloves. She checked her bag and made sure she had her camera and notebook, also her car keys.
“You better hurry,” said Ted. “You'll miss the story.”
“Yeah, well, I don't want to be a frostbite victim,” said Lucy, stepping out and making sure the door caught behind her.
A frigid blast of wind snapped her scarf against her face and she pulled her hood up over her hat, blinking back tears as she struggled across the sidewalk to her car. Inside, the air was still and cold, and she checked to make sure the heater was set on high as she started the engine. While the engine warmed up, she blew her nose and wiped her eyes, then dug a tube of lip balm out of her bag and smeared it on her lips. She flipped on her signal and cautiously pulled out into the snow-covered road.
The sun was bright and sparkling snow squalls filled the air as she drove down Main Street and out onto Route 1. There was little traffic, except for a police cruiser and an ambulance that passed her, lights flashing and sirens blaring. She followed them, eventually reaching the unpaved road leading to the pond, where a cluster of vehicles were scattered in the clearing that served as a parking area. She recognized Max's huge pickup among them, with his snowmobile in the back.
She turned the engine off, regretting the immediate loss of heat, and climbed out of the car into the icy blast blowing off the pond. She clutched her hood tight around her head and hurried down the path that had been trodden into the snow by booted feet. Ice fishing was a popular pastime this time of year, and several fishermen had even built shacks on the pond. Lucy had never quite understood the attraction of hanging out on treacherous ice waiting for a trap to spring, indicating a bite on the line, but then she didn't understand why people played golf, either.
Reaching the pond, she hesitated. She didn't like walking on ice; she didn't trust it. But there was a small group standing about a hundred feet from the shore, so it seemed safe enough. The temperature had been well below freezing since Christmas, she reminded herself, imagining the ice must be several feet thick. They used to cut huge chunks of ice from this pond, in the days before refrigeration. She'd seen photographs at the historical society of the ice cutters, with their horses and sledges loaded with enormous blocks of ice that were packed in straw and stored in ice houses until needed in summer.
The ice was slippery underfoot and she walked carefully, leaning forward and making sure to keep her hands free for balance, resisting the urge to stuff them in her pockets. Approaching the group, she spotted her friend, Officer Barney Culpepper, and quickened her pace. That was a mistake, as she ended up sliding into him and would have fallen if he hadn't grabbed her by the arm.
“Whoa, Lucy. Take it easy.”
Barney was dressed for the weather in an oversized, official blue snowsuit, his graying buzz cut concealed by a fur-lined hat that had flaps covering his ears. His eyes were watering, and his jowly cheeks were bright red, as was his nose.
“What's going on?” she asked.
“Somebody went through the ice.”
“How can that be? It must be a couple of feet thick,” she said, looking around at the little cluster of wooden fishing shacks.
“Dunno.” Barney shrugged and wiped his eyes with a gloved hand. “Mebbe he made the hole too big, mebbe there's currents that make the ice thin in spots. I dunno. Seems like a terrible way to go.”
There was a sudden surge of activity and Lucy pulled out her camera, thinking it wasn't going to be easy to get a photo in this weather, and with the group of rescuers and fishermen blocking her view. Then the crowd broke apart to make way for a stretcher and Lucy got a clear shot.
She yanked off her glove, stuffing it under her arm, and raised the camera to her eyes, automatically snapping several pictures of the blanketed victim. Then, when she'd lowered her camera, a stiff gust of wind lifted the blanket, revealing the drowned man's bearded face. Horrified, she recognized Max Fraser. Moving woodenly, she followed as the stretcher was carried to the waiting ambulance and was trundled inside. The doors were slammed shut and the ambulance took off, slowly, down the snowy track. There was no need to hurry.
Blinking back tears, Lucy turned to Barney. “Did you see what I saw?” she asked.
Chapter Two
“Y
eah,” said Barney, shaking his head sadly. “It was Max Fraser.”
That was the trouble with living in a small town, thought Lucy. All the victims of horrible accidents were your neighbors and sometimes your friends, or your friends' kids. So were the petty criminals, for that matter. The police blotter, which was printed in the
Pennysaver
every week, was full of familiar names involved in minor tragedies: family quarrels that got out of control, drunk driving arrests, even petty thefts in these tough times. And drugs, always drugs—marijuana, OxyContin, and even heroin.
Of course, everyone knew Max. He was the divorced husband of Fern's granddaughter, Dora, and the father of their only child, Lily. But it wasn't simply the fact that she was acquainted with the victim and even owed him a debt of gratitude that was bothering Lucy.
“He was all tangled up in fishline,” said Lucy. “And there was a lure ...”
“A silver jigging spoon,” said Barney.
“It was in his mouth,” said Lucy. Max was gone, but she couldn't erase the image of the glittering silver lure dangling from his blue lips and nestled in his ice-coated beard. She remembered how glad she'd been to see his smiling face in her car window just last night.
“He was hooked like a walleye,” said Barney. “What a way to go.”
Lucy thought of Max's blue eyes, wide open and crusted with ice, and for a moment felt the earth spin beneath her.
“Whoa, there,” said Barney, grabbing her arm and steadying her. She took a couple of deep breaths and focused on the snow-covered mountain rising behind the frozen pond, as if the picture-postcard scene could erase the gruesome image of Max's death mask from her mind.
“He probably didn't feel a thing,” said one of the bystanders.
Lucy turned and recognized Tony Menard, who she'd interviewed last winter when he won the Lake Winnipesaukee ice fishing tournament in New Hampshire. He was a short, slight man with a French-Canadian accent.
“The cold? Is that what you mean?” asked Lucy.
“More like the booze,” said Tony, with a knowing nod. “He must've been blind drunk, eh? To get tangled up like that in his own line.”
Lucy knew that drinking often went right along with ice fishing. You had to keep warm somehow and alcohol gave the illusion of warmth, for a while, anyway. “Even so,” she said, “how'd he manage to fall through the ice?” She waved her arm. “Those shacks are standing, we're all out here. The ice must be a couple of feet thick.”
Tony shrugged. “The current, maybe. You have to be careful and watch for thin spots.”
“Snow ice,” said Steve Houle, with a knowing nod toward the place where Max's body had been found. Lucy knew he was a volunteer fireman who organized the Toys for Tots campaign at Christmas. “See how it's white over there, not clear?”
Lucy looked and saw what he meant. “Yeah.”
“Well, that happens when the ice melts and refreezes. It's not good.”
Tony's head bobbed in agreement. “Punk ice. It's real dangerous.”
“But wouldn't Max know about it?” asked Barney.
“Sure, but he could fish at night, and not see,” said Tony. “Max was a big risk taker, no?”
“Yeah, his idea of testing ice was to zoom around the lake on his snowmobile,” said Steve.
“You think it's down there?” asked Barney, pulling out his notebook. “Mebbe we should send in a diver.”
“Could be,” replied Tony, his voice rising on the last syllable. “He breaks through, tries to save himself, and his arms go ever' which way and somehow he gets tangled in his line. Could be.”
“He wasn't on the snowmobile,” said Lucy, remembering Max's competence as he towed her out of the snowdrift. “I saw it in his truck.”
“He musta been blind drunk,” said Steve.
“That, too,” agreed Tony, shaking his head. “He was crazy.”
“Yeah, like that old Steve Martin character,” said Steve. “You know, the wild and crazy guy.”
“That's him,” said Tony. “Wild and crazy. We're gonna miss him.”
The two drifted off to join their companions and Barney and Lucy headed back to shore together.
“Max was a good guy, and smart, too. Capable.” She scowled. “I don't think this was an accident.”
Barney gave her a sharp look. “The state police will handle the investigation. A lot depends on what the medical examiner finds.”
Reaching shore, Lucy turned and looked out over the frozen lake, a white circle surrounded by bare trees and dark, pointed balsam firs. The place where Max fell through was a bluish patch, filled with bobbing chunks of ice; a handful of fishermen were gathered a respectful distance away. A column of smoke rose from one of the shacks, the metal smokestack glittering in the sunshine.
“It's a heck of a thing,” said Barney, voicing her thoughts.
“Have you ever seen anything like that before?” asked Lucy. “I mean, with the fishing line and the lure.”
Barney adjusted his thick navy-blue gloves and shook his head. “Can't say that I have.”
“I don't buy the accident theory,” she said. “It seems more like some sort of cruel joke.”
Barney reached for her arm. “Lucy, don't go jumping to conclusions.”
“I'm not,” insisted Lucy. “But you have to admit it doesn't make sense. I interviewed Max last winter, when he won that snowmobile race. That race covers a thousand miles—you have to be a real survivor just to get to the finish line—and he won. I can't see how a man like that could get himself tangled up in fishline and fall through some punk ice.”
Barney started walking toward his cruiser, parked like all the other rescue vehicles any which way in the clearing. “They said he drank a lot and I can tell you from experience that people can do some really weird stuff when they're drunk. And he had plenty of reason to drink lately.”
“What do you mean?”
Barney rested his hip on the door of the cruiser, which sank a bit under his considerable weight, and looked her right in the eye. “This is off the record, right?”
“Sure,” she said, always eager to get the inside scoop.
“He was having a run of bad luck. I happen to know 'cause he was involved in an altercation at the Quik-Stop, and I kept him overnight in the lockup at the station, just to dry out a bit. He was real chatty, like a lot of drunks, and was going on about how there wasn't any work and he needed money, his ex was after him. He also talked a lot about some woman. Tamzin this and Tamzin that. I didn't recognize the name, but he said she works at that new chocolate shop. He said she was trouble; everything was going fine until he met her.” Barney paused, shaking his head. “It's always the same story with these guys; they're always blaming someone and it's usually a woman. You wouldn't believe how often I've heard it.”
Lucy nodded. “Oh, yes, I would.”
Barney opened the car door. “Remember what I said. Don't go jumping to conclusions.” He paused a moment. “I've got some big news myself, but this is strictly off the record.”
Lucy's eyebrows rose. “Sure.”
“Eddie's coming home. Not just on leave, for good.”
Lucy knew Barney's son, Eddie, was a marine and had served in both Iraq and Afghanistan. “That's wonderful news,” she exclaimed. “I bet they'll have a parade.”
Barney shook his head. “No way. Eddie doesn't want a big fuss.”
Lucy thought she could understand. It must be hard to transition from war to peace, from the heat of battle to the chilly quiet of a Maine winter.
“Okay. We'll keep it off the record.” Lucy squeezed his arm. “I'm really happy for you and Marge.” She gave him a little salute and headed for her own car, her emotions in a tangle. What a day! Max dead and Eddie returning home. A loss and a gain, a minus and a plus. Life was crazy, she thought, noticing that the once sunny blue sky was gone; clouds had filled the sky and the temperature was dropping; Lucy's teeth were chattering when she got behind the wheel and started the car. She called Ted while she waited for the car to warm up and gave him the details of the story.
“Do you want me to come in and write it up?” she asked.
“You can do it tomorrow,” he said. “Go on home. You must be frozen clear through.”
“You know it,” said Lucy, ending the call and dropping her cell phone in her purse. Her breath was fogging up the window and she wiped it with her gloved hand, then pulled off her gloves and held her bare hands over the heat vent, rubbing them together. It helped, but there was no remedy for her feet, which were blocks of ice inside her boots. Shivering, she shifted into drive and headed for home.
It wasn't just the cold, she realized. Her emotions were ragged. She didn't know Max well, but she'd liked him. He could have driven right on by when she was stuck in that snowdrift; he didn't have to stop and help her, but he did. In his way, he was a bit like Eddie, who had enlisted straight out of high school to fight terrorists. He wasn't the sort to turn away from a problem. If something needed doing, Max would do it. She remembered a microburst last summer that had knocked out power, including the town's single traffic light. Max had parked his truck and started directing traffic. They'd run a photo of him—standing in the middle of the street, soaking wet and windblown—on the front page.
 
Cold sleet was falling when Lucy pulled into the driveway of the old farmhouse on Red Top Road. The windows were golden, beacons in the darkening afternoon, as she hurried inside. A delicious spicy, beefy, tomato smell hit her as soon as she opened the door. Sara, bless the child, was standing at the stove, stirring up a big pot of chili.
“Oh, it's good to be home,” she said, sinking into a chair and pulling off her boots so she could prop her cold feet on the radiator cover. “I was out in the cold for most of the day and I never warmed up.”
“What happened?” asked Sara, tapping the spoon on the side of the Dutch oven. A high school senior, Sara was tall and slender, dressed in a stylish chunky sweater, skinny jeans, and UGG boots. Her blond hair shone in the lamplight.
“Max Fraser fell through the ice at the pond. He's dead.”
Sara picked up the boots Lucy had dropped on the floor and placed them in a tray by the kitchen door, then helped her take off her jacket. “That's horrible,” she said, gathering up Lucy's hat and gloves and scarf and tucking them in the jacket sleeve before hanging it up on a hook, along with the rest of the family's coats and jackets.
Lucy wiggled her toes, trying to coax some warm blood into her frozen feet. “It seems there's one every winter. I don't know why they keep going out on the ice. I don't trust it.”
“Do you want some tea?” asked Sara.
“No, thanks. I shouldn't be sitting here like a lump, letting you do everything.”
“Take it easy, supper's under control. Zoe made corn bread, the salad's chilling in the fridge. I just have to set the table.”
“Well, in that case, you can pour me a glass of wine.”
Lucy had that glass, and another, before the family gathered at the dining room table. Sara had set the table with red place mats and chunky pottery plates and bowls; the silverware gleamed in the candlelight.
The chili was delicious and Lucy had seconds; the corn bread was crispy around the edges and hot enough to melt the butter she slathered on with abandon. Even the salad was a treat, dressed up with goat cheese and nuts. It was all so delicious that it seemed a shame not to have another glass of wine, so Lucy did. She didn't want to think about the scene at the pond, she was concentrating on counting her blessings.
“That was some dinner,” declared Bill, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his stomach. His beard was streaked with gray, as was his hair, but his stomach was still flat, a fact that irritated Lucy no end. Of course, her job was mostly sedentary, she reminded herself, while his involved physical labor that burned calories.
“I've got news,” said Sara, putting down her fork. “Renee and I got jobs at Fern's Famous Fudge. I've got the paperwork for you to sign.”
Lucy knew Renee La Chance, Sara's classmate who lived with her mom, Frankie, on nearby Prudence Path. “I hope it's not going to interfere with your school work,” she said.
“It's only until Valentine's Day,” said Sara.
“What are the hours?” asked Bill.
“After school and weekends.”
“That sounds like a lot,” said Lucy, wondering if the dinner had been part of a plan to gain her approval of the job.
“Please, Mom.” Sara was on her feet, starting to clear the table. “Like I said, it's only a couple of weeks and I could really use the money. The senior trip is coming up and I don't want to have to ask you and Dad for money.”

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