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Authors: Leslie Meier

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BOOK: Mistletoe Murder
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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If Barney Culpepper were a dog, thought Lucy as she opened the kitchen door for him, he would be a Saint Bernard. Doorways were always too small for him and ceilings too low; he had to bend his head as he came through the doorway into the kitchen. As he stood there unzipping his jacket, his cheeks seemed to droop into jowls. Slowly he took off his regulation blue jacket and tossed it on the corner chair, ran his hands through his shaggy brown hair, and squared his burly shoulders before sitting down at the kitchen table.
When Lucy had first met Barney, back in the granola years, she'd thought of him as a typical redneck. He was a recent Vietnam vet, and she'd been a bit leery of him, expecting him to explode into violence whenever he encountered members of the college-educated peace brigade who were moving into Tinker's Cove. But when the battery in the Malibu she'd been driving died one day, he'd gone out of his way to get her car going again. She'd been struck by his quiet, assured helpfulness.
Then she began meeting him on some of the same volunteer committees she was serving on, especially the Cub Scouts and the School Improvement Council. She had come to respect his willingness to work, and his practical approach. He was the sort of man you could count on; sometimes she wished she'd had a big brother like Barney.
She eyed the well-thumbed copy of
Modern Mercenary
that he placed on the table in front of him and gave him the little box containing the Pinewood Derby car kit.
“Eddie won last year, didn't he?” she asked. “He made a fast little car.”
“It broke, though, on the last heat. This year he wants to put on a rubber bumper. That kid's always thinking,” Barney said proudly.
“You know, I've never seen one of these magazines before,” she said, sliding a cup of coffee in front of him and picking up the magazine.
“Now, Lucy. I'm not sure you should get involved in this.”
“What do you mean, ‘get involved'? I found Sam Miller's body. I worked for him. I live in this town. I
am
involved, and I'm not just going to shut my eyes and pretend I'm not. I can't let people get killed practically in my backyard. I have a family to raise.”
“That's what I mean. Your kids need you. This could be dangerous.”
“Don't you think it's dangerous living in a place where people get murdered in their own cars? I won't stand for it,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “Besides, Christmas is two days off and I'm going to be cooped up with my mother and Bill's folks, and I'll go crazy if I don't have something else to think about. Where are the ads?”
“In the back,” Barney said, capitulating.
Lucy leafed through the magazine quickly, noting the ads for weapons and camouflage suits and the action-packed adventure stories complete with lurid illustrations. There was even a comic strip,
Mercenary Max.
The classified ads were just after the comic.
“You know, this kind of reminds me of
Boy's Life,
” Lucy commented absently.
“Naw.
Boy's Life
is for kids. This is for men.”
“Oh.” Lucy smiled to herself. “Here we are, ‘Courageous Captain at your service.' He sounds more like a stud for hire than a hit man.”
“He probably is. I got a few calls for that kind of service myself,” admitted Barney, blushing.
“You did?” Lucy's voice rose.
“I turned 'em down, of course.”
“Hmmm,” Lucy said thoughtfully. So much for Sue's theories. “None of these ads have phone numbers. They're all boxes.”
“That's right. If you're a professional killer, you're hardly going to put your phone number in an ad. If you kill somebody, you don't want to leave a trail of phone calls, especially long distance. No, you get a post office box using a false name, or you can have the magazine give you a box number. Then they hold the mail and send it on to you. That's what I had them do.”
“So we just have to write to these ads?”
“Yeah, just drop ‘em a line, tell 'em to call at a certain time.”
“I thought phone calls were out,” said Lucy.
“They'll use a pay phone.”
“Oh.” Lucy rummaged in the Hoosier for paper and envelopes. “Somehow I thought this would be more exciting.”
“Let's just hope it doesn't get too exciting. Lucy, you'd better have a good story ready when they call.”
“How's this? I want somebody to kill my husband because he's mean to me.”
“Mean to you?”
“Say he beats me. Brutally. I saw that on
60 Minutes.
”
“Okay. It's a little lame, but hell, I guess it's happened before. How much are you going to offer for doing the job?”
“Twenty-five thousand?”
“Sounds good.”
“Do you think they'll go for it?”
“Well, if they do, we've got a possible suspect. But I don't think most of these ads are genuine. Real hit men probably don't advertise. Most of 'em are probably just guys looking for a little excitement like I was. Or selling sex like Courageous Captain there. But it's worth trying, I guess. After all, somebody did call me.” He scratched his chin. “You never know, we might get lucky.”
“What do we do then?” Lucy asked.
“Then we take it one step at a time. We can try to set up a meeting. Very carefully. Don't do anything without me.” Culpepper's voice was earnest. “I want to keep an eye on things.”
“Okay,” Lucy agreed. “This guy looks serious. ”Man for Hire. Professional and efficient.' Gives me the willies. What should I write?”
“How about, ‘If interested in twenty-five thousand dollars, call . . .' and put down your phone number and the time you want him to call,” advised Barney.
Lucy thought for a minute. “I don't want him to call when the kids are home, so it has to be during school hours.”
“Now you're thinking like a pro,” Barney teased.
“Don't laugh. My kids could scare off the meanest, toughest criminal. And I certainly don't want hit men calling during Christmas when Bill's folks are here. What would they think?”
Barney shook his head. “It'll take a couple of weeks if the mail's forwarded.”
Lucy checked her calendar. “How about nine-thirty
A.M.
on Wednesday, January fifth?”
“Sounds good.” Culpepper ran his finger down the column of ads. “Put down ‘Man for Hire' at nine-thirty, ‘Pest Control'—I don't think he's serious—at ten, and ‘Bad Guy' at ten-thirty. Is that enough for one day?”
“We can fit one more in at eleven, but then I have to pick up Sara at nursery school.”
“ ‘Ex-marine' sounds promising, put him down for eleven. Then on Thursday you can have ‘Combat Veteran' for nine-thirty and ‘Cool Professional' for ten. That's it.” He put down the magazine.
“You know,” said Lucy, licking an envelope, “this is an awful lot like paying bills.”
“A lot of life is like that.” Barney smiled ruefully. “I wanted to be a cop because I thought it would be real exciting. High-speed car chases, shoot-outs, the works. Like on TV. You know what I spend most of my time doing? Paperwork! Paperwork and traffic duty. I sure didn't expect that.” He shook his head and took a big gulp of coffee.
“You drink too much coffee. It's not good for you.”
“Gotta take a risk sometimes, Lucy. Have that extra cup of coffee, drive without a seat belt, have one beer too many. You know what I mean?”
“I do. I always hated Nancy's slogan, ‘Just say no.' So prim and proper. I'd rather say yes.”
“Lucy, I hope you're not going out on a limb for me.” Culpepper was looking straight at her, and the direct eye contact was making her uncomfortable. She shifted on her seat and glanced away.
“Now, don't get all mushy on me, Culpepper. I have an ulterior motive.”
“Uh-oh.” Now it was Barney's turn to shift uncomfortably on his seat.
“Yup. Pack twenty-seven needs a new cubmaster next year.”
“They do?” Culpepper gulped.
“They sure do. I figure you're the perfect man for the job.”
“Lucy,” said Culpepper, rising and reaching for his jacket, “if I'm not in jail, I'll be glad to do it.”
 
 
Lucy watched as he drove away, then went upstairs to see how Sara was doing. Her fever was down and she was demanding food, so Lucy set her up on the couch, where she could watch TV and nibble on some toast. Then she put a casserole together for supper and prepared for the afternoon onslaught when Toby and Elizabeth came home from school.
Much to her relief, her mother and the Subaru returned intact. Lucy showed her where the salad fixings were in the refrigerator; then she left for work.
At Country Cousins, she punched the time clock and hung her coat up slowly; ever since the layoffs she hadn't enjoyed going to work. She missed Bev and Karen and the others; the phone room seemed empty without them.
“You know, I used to like working here,” Ruthie said as they went to their computers. “The pay wasn't very good, but there used to be a nice atmosphere.”
“I know what you mean. Now, I'm always expecting to get laid off, and I don't think I'd mind if I was,” admitted Lucy.
“Oh, they won't lay you off. You're a good producer. They always go for the ones who are going to retire or have a baby—the ones who actually use the benefits.” Ruthie sounded bitter but resigned.
“Is that why Karen and Bev were laid off? That's terrible.”
“Look for yourself, Lucy. You can see who survived the cuts. I haven't noticed any drop in sales, have you? I think they just wanted to get rid of the deadwood.”
“Sales always drop off after Christmas,” Lucy reminded her.
“But they never had layoffs before. Not when Sam was in charge,” Ruthie argued. “Lower payroll means higher profits. This'll be a feather in somebody's cap.”
“Do you think George was behind this?”
“Doesn't really matter whose idea it was, does it? The whole board of directors had to approve it. They don't care about people like us.” Ruthie clicked on her computer and started pounding away angrily at the keyboard.
Lucy was kept busy all night trying to keep up with the calls. She frequently had several callers waiting, something that had never happened to her before. The customers weren't very pleased at having to wait to place their orders, and by the time she could take her break, her tact was exhausted.
She sat alone in the break room, sipping her diet soda and reading last week's
Pennysaver.
George Higham stopped in the doorway and looked at her, but she shot him such an evil glance that he beat a hasty retreat.
She was sure George had masterminded the layoffs. Ever since Sam Miller's death, George had been the one to watch. His star was certainly ascending, and Lucy thought she knew why. Of all the people at Country Cousins, he seemed to have gained the most from Sam's death. She took a long pull on the can of soda and took a deep breath. She'd love to be able to prove that George had killed Sam.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
#9001 Fire starters. These pieces of genuine Georgia fatwood make starting a fire easy and quick. Five pounds in a decorative gift box. $25.
“It's Christmas Eve! Tomorrow is Christmas!” shouted Toby as he ran into the kitchen.
Lucy finished pouring herself a cup of coffee and smiled at Bill, who was sitting at the table reading the
Herald
.
“You know what they say about Christmas Eve, don't you? It's supposed to be the longest day of the year,” Bill said in a teasing voice.
“No, it isn't,” answered Toby. “December twenty-first, the day of the winter solstice, is the shortest day. Now the days are short and the nights are long.”
“Oh,” said Bill. “I must have had it wrong. To me, Christmas Eve always seems longer.”
Lucy sighed. “I wish it was the longest day. I need a long day to fit in everything I have to do.”
“I want to work on the Dempsey house this morning and make up some of the time I lost earlier this week. I'll try to knock off a little early so I'll be here when my folks arrive.”
“Okay. I have to go grocery shopping and do some last-minute errands.”
“What about us? What'll we do?” Toby demanded.
“You're going to stay home with Grandma,” asserted Lucy. “Maybe she'll show you how to make popcorn chains.”
“I have a better idea,” said Helen, entering the kitchen and heading straight for the coffeepot. “We'll eat the popcorn and make paper chains.”
“Okay,” agreed Toby. “That sounds like fun.”
 
 
Lucy felt light-hearted as she slammed the hatchback shut on twelve brown bags of groceries. She'd put in a busy morning doing a lightning job of housecleaning by dusting the tabletops, fluffing the couch pillows, and bundling all extraneous objects into a large trash bag, which she'd stuffed in the back of her closet. When she'd left the house her mother had been vacuuming the rugs and the girls had been chattering away with her, asking what Christmas was like when she was a little girl. Now Lucy had just one errand left, and that was to pick up the kittens.
She carefully followed the directions she'd been given and soon found herself on a road she didn't know in a part of town she'd never seen before. Scattered along the road, like toys left on the living room floor and then forgotten by a careless child, were worn-out house trailers, shacks constructed from bits and pieces of other buildings, and an assortment of battered, rusting cars and trucks. Lucy pulled up in front of a little brown house with rough-sawn siding that had probably once been a hunting camp.
She stepped cautiously onto a rotting step and knocked timidly on the door. She was surprised when it was opened by a pretty girl with dark hair. She didn't look more than seventeen, wearing a bright T-shirt and jeans and balancing a plump, nearly naked baby on her hip. Her eyes were suspicious and defensive as she looked Lucy over, but she had an air of vulnerability that Lucy found attractive.
“I've come about the kittens,” explained Lucy, indicating the plastic cat carrier she was holding.
“Oh, great, come on in!” said the girl, revealing a beautiful, wide smile. She opened the door and stood aside. “I'm Lisa Young,” she said, introducing herself. “Never mind the house. Honestly, with this heater it's full blast or nothing. Now, where are those kittens?”
From her spot by the door Lucy received the full blast of the heater, but she knew that in really cold weather the camp, perched as it was on cement block pilings, must be freezing. She unzipped her jacket and tried not to look as if she were inspecting the one-room house. Houses like this were common on the back roads, but she'd never been inside one before.
At first it was difficult to see much. It was dark in the house even though a bare bulb was burning in the center of the ceiling. Sheets of plastic had been taped over the windows to keep out the wind. As her eyes adjusted Lucy saw that the stud cavities had been filled with batts of fiberglass insulation; in places pieces of recycled paneling with worn and rounded edges had been nailed over the insulation. One end of the room was the kitchen, with an early-model propane stove that was also a heater. There was a table covered with an ugly plastic cloth and an assortment of chairs. A tiny plastic tree with twinkling lights stood on the table. There was no sign of running water or even an indoor bathroom. A dented and rusty refrigerator hummed noisily, bearing a picture of a Biafran child. His head was enormous, his eyes huge, and his tiny sticklike arms were crossed over his protruding ribs. Beneath the picture was written, “Before you yell about mac and cheese again, be grateful for what you got.”
Lucy swallowed hard and looked at the other end of the room. There an old sheet hung from a length of cord, separating a neatly made double bed from a set of camp-style bunks. All of the beds were covered with handmade log cabin quilts, faded with washing and drying in the sun. Sitting on the top bunk was a tiny little girl, a replica of her mother, with her dark hair and full lips.
“I was playing with the kittens, Ma,” she complained.
“It's time to say good-bye to them,” Lisa said firmly.
“We'll still have Tiger Lily, right?”
“That's right.” She scooped up the kittens and held them against her chest for Lucy to see. “This one here is Midnight because he's black, and this one is Jumbles, and here is Boots. We weren't very original, but we wanted them to have names. You'll probably want to name 'em yourself.”
“I'm sure my kids will have some ideas,” said Lucy, smiling a bit too broadly. “Let's put them in the carrier, okay? I feel so lucky to have found them. Our cat was killed, and my kids are pretty upset. Having their own kittens will make Christmas special,” she gushed, suddenly wondering how this family was going to celebrate Christmas. “Is ten dollars apiece okay with you?”
“What?” Lisa's face was blank.
“Ten dollars. I'm afraid I can't go much higher.”
“They're free. I'm just glad to get rid of them. Pet food's expensive and you can't use food stamps for it.”
“Well, I won't take them unless you let me pay,” said Lucy, holding out three ten-dollar bills.
“Okay. I won't say I can't use the money. Thanks.”
As Lucy carried the kittens out to the car, she was overwhelmed with guilt. She'd never thought of herself and Bill as wealthy; every month they had to juggle the bills, and the Visa balance stubbornly refused to shrink. But today the sum of their material possessions embarrassed her.
As she put the kittens on the backseat she noticed a box of candy canes poking out from one of the grocery bags. Remembering the very tiny Christmas tree on the table, she dug a little deeper and pulled out a roasting chicken, aware that she had a freezer full of food at home as well as money in the bank. She rummaged through the other bags and added cranberry sauce, stuffing, potatoes, a few cans of vegetables, and a bottle of apple juice. Looking for something sweet, she shrugged and tossed in a bucket of dastardly mash ice cream. Give till it hurts, she thought.
She was tempted just to leave the bag on the porch, but instead she made herself knock. When the door opened she said, “I'm really so grateful for the kittens, won't you please take these groceries?”
Lisa pulled herself up to her full height and said unsmilingly, “Thank you, but I already have Christmas dinner planned. We're having macaroni.”
Lucy smiled encouragingly. “My husband and I had tofu and brown rice for Christmas once. We decided never again. Please take it.”
Lisa shrugged and then smiled, accepting the bag of groceries. “Merry Christmas!” she said, and shut the door.
 
 
“Now, little kittens, how am I going to keep you a secret until tomorrow?” Pulling the car off the road a few feet before her driveway, Lucy put the carrier on the floor behind the driver's seat and tossed a blanket over it. Then she pulled in the driveway and started unloading the groceries. She carried one bag and a gallon jug of milk into the kitchen, pausing at the door to see if any of the kids were around. She heard a low murmur from the front of the house, so she put the groceries on the table and dashed back to the car. Covering the kittens with the blanket, she ran as quickly as she could back to the kitchen and scooted down the cellar stairs. She put the carrier next to the furnace and, apologizing to the kittens for confining them, was back in the kitchen before the kids realized she was home.
“Help me with the groceries, Toby. Grandma and Grandpa Stone will be here any minute.
“How'd everything go?” she asked her mother.
“Come and see the tree!” demanded Sara. “We made it so pretty.”
Helen shrugged. “All right, I guess.”
“Well, it sounds as if you've been busy. Let me see the tree,” said Lucy, allowing the girls to pull her along.
Just then they heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. Bill's folks had arrived. The house was soon full of confusion and bustle as hugs and kisses were exchanged, groceries put away, and suitcases and shopping bags full of presents carried in.
At last, Bill's parents were settled, and everyone was gathered around a cheerful fire in the living room. The scene looked Christmas card perfect: the lush tree twinkling in the corner, three children playing quietly on the rug, the adults relaxing on the couch and easy chairs. Lucy perched on the edge of her grandfather's cane chair, took a deep breath, and tried to still the butterflies that were churning in her stomach. Now she ought to be able to relax. After working toward it for weeks, Christmas was finally here. The house was clean, the cookies baked, the presents wrapped. Everything was under control, she realized, except for the people. She was so worried that her mother's depression would return and dampen the holiday, or that Bill's father, always unpredictable, would say exactly the wrong thing.
She had always found the elder Mr. Stone intimidating. She would never forget the first time she had met him. She had been terribly nervous and as Bill's fiancee had wanted to make a good impression. She hadn't known what to say when Mr. Stone suggested that she escort Brother, Mrs. Stone's retarded brother, to the bathroom. She could still remember the blood rushing to her face as she stammered out an excuse, and Bill had rushed to her rescue, leading Brother out of the room. That meant she was left alone with Mr. Stone, who'd muttered something and left the room, too. All by herself in the Stones' living room, she had felt totally abandoned and suspected that she had failed some important test.
She had always marveled that Bill's mother never seemed upset by her rude husband. She was a small, plump, cheerful woman who serenely managed to smooth the feathers that her husband continually ruffled. Now she was sitting on the couch with Helen, and the two women were chatting together.
Bill's father was sprawled on the recliner, puzzling over a fishing reel Toby had asked him to fix. Suddenly he looked up and demanded, “Don't you have any cookies? What's Christmas without cookies?”
“I've got cookies.” Lucy snapped to attention. “Would you like some coffee or tea to go with them?”
“Sure, whatever,” he answered gruffly.
“Tea would be very nice,” said Mrs. Stone. “Can I help?”
“No, I can manage. Just relax,” answered Lucy.
“Of course, there's only one really good Christmas cookie. You don't have 'em. They're Italian. Called pizza or something.”
“Do you mean pizelle?” asked Lucy.
“Yeah. They're made on a little waffle iron thing. Had 'em once and never forgot 'em.”
Lucy couldn't help smiling as she went off to the kitchen, because high up on a shelf in the pantry, in her tin of cookies from the cookie exchange, were six lovely pizelle made by Lydia Volpe. Lucy hummed as she put the water on to boil and set out cups. She added three glasses of milk for the children, and then she climbed up the stepladder and carefully brought down the cookies. She arranged them attractively on her special Christmas plate, clustering the delicate pizelle together. When the kettle shrieked she poured the tea and proudly carried the tray out of the kitchen. She couldn't wait to see the expression on Grandpa Stone's face.
BOOK: Mistletoe Murder
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