Mother's Day Murder (12 page)

B
ack at the office, Lucy was trying to write a moving description of Tina’s bare-bones burial service, but Phyllis, who had already gotten several critical reviews from her friends, was expressing her disapproval.

“I never heard of a funeral without some sort of refreshments for the mourners,” she said indignantly. “I mean, people give up their time to stand around a grave. The least you can do is give them a bite to eat.”

“It was very brief,” said Lucy, eyes fixed on her computer screen. “The whole thing didn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

“And what was that all about?” demanded Phyllis. “Nobody had a nice word to say about the woman? She was on all those committees, she did all that work, and nobody wanted to recognize that?”

“This was just the burial,” said Lucy. “There’s going to be a memorial service later, when things have settled down.”

“If you ask me, now’s the time to have the service. People’s nerves are all on edge. We could all use some closure.”

“It would have been a media circus,” said Lucy. “I don’t blame him, really. He probably wants to remember his wife for herself, for her achievements, rather than as the victim of a sensational murder.”

“Mark my words,” predicted Phyllis. “There isn’t going to be any memorial service. People always say there will be because they’re too lazy or cheap to organize a decent memorial. I bet she never gets a tomb-stone, either.”

Lenny had been very subdued, but he hadn’t really shown any emotion at all, and Lucy wondered if Phyllis might be right. “I like to think Bill and the kids would shed a tear or two if I died tomorrow,” she said.

“Don’t tell me! He didn’t even cry?” Phyllis was incredulous, her eyes practically popping through her black-and-white-striped reading glasses.

“Not a tear, not even a sniffle, from him or Heather, for that matter. But,” Lucy quickly added, “a lot of people have trouble expressing emotion.”

Phyllis shook her head. “That poor woman.” She clucked her tongue. “We all cried at my mother’s service. Even the garbageman was in tears. You’d think Tina’s husband could work up a tear or two. And I hear Bar’s husband is no better.”

Lucy remembered Bart’s composure at the Mother’s Day brunch, when his wife was making a scene. “He does seem to be a bit of a cold fish, I’ll give you that. I guess it goes with being a surgeon. You wouldn’t want him getting all upset when he opened up your chest, now would you?”

“Cold fish?” sputtered Phyllis. “Not on your life.”

Lucy was surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Well, like my dear departed mother used to say when she was still alive and before we gave her a big funeral, with a mahogany casket and four hired limousines and a catered reception with hot hors d’oeuvres, the word at the hospital is that Dr. Bart is hot to trot.”

Lucy stopped typing. “Are you saying that Dr. Barton Hume, the eminent cardiac surgeon, church deacon, and deputy sheriff, is looking for romance outside the bounds of marriage?”

“Well, he asked Elfrida if she’d like to see his koi collection.”

Bart? Koi? Elfrida? Lucy felt as if she’d entered an alternate universe. “How does he know Elfrida?”

“Ever since she got that job at the hospital. In billing.”

“Elfrida’s working in the billing department at the cottage hospital?” Lucy could only imagine the chaos that Phyllis’s cousin would cause.

“Can you blame her? With six kids and another on the way, she’s desperate to get out of the house. Plus, she needs the health insurance.”

“So you’re telling me Bart Hume hit on a pregnant woman?”

“She never shows much until the sixth month or so.”

“Even so. He’s married. She’s married….”

“Separated. And, of course, she does have a bit of a reputation for being, well…” Phyllis paused, searching for the right word.

Lucy supplied it. “Affectionate?”

“Exactly.”

Lucy went back to her story, struck with the possibility that the reality of these two supermoms’ lives was very different from the appearance of perfection they presented to the world. Until the shooting, she had taken them at face value as two accomplished, talented women who found themselves with time on their hands and turned to good works, as many women fortunate enough not to have to work for their supper have done for centuries. But now the rumor mill was running at top speed, grinding out speculations that Tina had not been the adored center of the Nowak household, and that Bart’s attention wasn’t focused on his jailed wife’s plight. Were the gossips on to something, or was it just a lot of spite?

Lucy finished up the story, then sat for a moment, considering what to do next.

“When’s Ted due back?” she asked.

“He’s going to be at that global warming conference at the state university all day,” said Phyllis. “He might even stay overnight, if he runs into some friends and they organize a dinner and he has a few drinks.” Or maybe, thought Lucy, he’d be meeting with a possible buyer. It would be the perfect occasion if he was intending to cash in and sell the little independent weekly to a chain.

“I didn’t realize that,” said Lucy, deciding there was no sense worrying about something she had no control over. Instead, she considered the possibilities opening before her now that she was free to choose her next assignment. “Have you got the listings under control?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” said Phyllis. “Why? Are you thinking of leaving early?”

“Not exactly,” said Lucy, reaching for her bag and checking that her camera and notebook were inside. “I’ve got an interview.”

“Who with?” asked Phyllis.

“The Gun Woman of the Year.”

But first, before she tackled Bar, Lucy wanted to follow up on Ted’s suggestion that she check the court records for possible malpractice suits against Dr. Bart. The county jail was an imposing presence, rather like a grim medieval castle, that stood on a hill overlooking the parking lot and the other buildings in the county complex: the courts, the district attorney’s office, and the agricultural extension building. Her business was in the clerk’s office at the superior court, where she went straight to one of two computers that contained lists of all the pending civil suits.

She clicked on the
SEARCH
icon and typed in “Dr. Barton Hume,” but came up empty. She also typed in Bar’s name, but there was no match. Lenny’s name came up in a few class action suits, but they had to do with pollution by oil and paper companies. He was also representing the National Fund for Endangered Wildlife in an effort to block a real estate development company. But she couldn’t find anything that involved either of the Humes.

Leaving the stately courthouse, Lucy started the long climb up to the jail, which was surrounded by miles of chain-link fence topped with vicious-looking razor wire. Lucy hated going there. She even hated looking at the building, which was so obviously a prison, but the worst part was actually going inside and hearing that solid metal door clank shut behind you. It made even a brief visit feel like a life sentence. But the women’s wing, to give the correction authorities some credit, was slightly less grim than the men’s. For one thing, it was located in a newer, more modern section built in 1960s cinder-block bland. The windows weren’t barred, although Lucy suspected they were made of extra-thick glass, and the women were housed in dormlike rooms rather than barred cells. There were no luxuries, to be sure, but the place was clean and didn’t smell.

Bar, however, was not pleased with her accommodations or her companions. “Watch out for that one. The least little thing sets her off,” she whispered to Lucy, indicating a very large, pasty-faced woman with short red hair, who was the only other inmate in the common room, which also served as a visiting room.

“Who you looking at?” demanded the woman, giving Bar a hard stare with eyes that reminded Lucy of little round rabbit poops. “You talkin’ about me?” Like Bar, she was dressed in loose blue pants and a white T-shirt.

Her presence made Lucy uncomfortable; she’d hoped to speak to Bar alone. She wasn’t quite sure what to do but figured a friendly gesture couldn’t hurt and extended a hand. “Hi! I’m Lucy. What’s your name?”

“Why you want to know?” demanded the woman.

“Just being friendly,” said Lucy, continuing to smile. She was no psychiatrist, but it seemed pretty obvious to her that the woman had some mental problems.

The red-haired woman hesitated, apparently weighing the pros and cons of revealing this information before deciding to give it up. “It’s Ann,” she muttered. “Ann Flood.”

“Ann is such a pretty name,” said Lucy. “You don’t hear it much anymore.”

“It’s kinda plain,” admitted the woman. “I named my daughters Amethyst and Sapphire.”

It was clear to Lucy that this homely, confused woman had given her daughters fancy names because she hoped their lives would be better than hers, and she was deeply touched. “They’re your family jewels,” she said. “How old are they?”

“Eight and five,” mumbled Ann, dropping her aggressive attitude. “I don’t get to see ’em too much. They live with my mom now, over in Bridgton.”

“I’m sure they miss you,” said Lucy. “My friend, here, Bar, has a daughter, too.” When Bar remained silent, Lucy prompted her. “How old is Ashley now?”

“Almost seventeen,” said Bar, reluctant to be drawn into the conversation.

“Has she come to visit?” asked Ann.

“No,” admitted Bar. “Her father and I decided it was better if she didn’t come.”

“Yeah, prob’ly for the best,” agreed Ann. “Well, I’ll let you two get on with your visit.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy, watching as she shuffled out of the common room.

“You see the sort of people I have to put up with,” complained Bar, rolling her eyes. “That woman spat at a guard the other day.”

“Everybody has bad days,” said Lucy, checking to make sure she was really gone.

“Is this a friendly visit, or are you here to interview me?” asked Bar in a challenging tone. They were seated at a round table with fixed stools, like the ones in fast-food restaurants, only this one was scratched and gouged.

“A little of both,” said Lucy. “I came on my own, at Bob Goodman’s request. I don’t have to write a story, if you don’t want.”

“Oh, I want,” declared Bar. “I want everyone to know how badly I’m being treated, how unfair this is, how I’m absolutely one hundred percent innocent!”

“Got it,” said Lucy, opening her notebook, along with a ballpoint pen, the only things she was allowed to bring in with her. “You know the prosecutor thinks this is an open-and-shut case, don’t you?”

“I was framed!” exclaimed Bar. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m not a criminal. I’m a law-abiding citizen. I shouldn’t be here.”

“The judge thought differently,” said Lucy. “He denied bail.”

“Can you believe it? You work all your life to make things better, to be a good person, and this is what you get! When I think of all the money I raised for the hospital and the library and the schools, well, it really makes me mad. All for nothing. Nobody took the time to look at the whole picture, to ask what kind of person I am. They just put gun woman and dead person together and locked me up. Even that rat of a prosecutor. I campaigned for him!”

“There were eyewitnesses who identified you.”

“A blond woman! It could’ve been any one of millions of women. I’m not the only blonde in town. And anybody could buy a wig, couldn’t they?”

Lucy nodded, writing it all down. “But you had a long-standing feud going with Tina. Everybody knew that.”

“Friendly competition, that’s all it was! Isn’t this America? Isn’t competition supposed to be a good thing? Don’t we encourage our kids to compete? Isn’t competition the name of the game?”

“Sometimes it goes too far,” suggested Lucy.

Bar rolled her eyes. “Look, calling it competition was really an exaggeration, don’t you agree? I mean, let’s face it, Tina was a lovely woman—you won’t find me speaking ill of the dead—but she really couldn’t hold a candle to me, now could she? She was married to a sleazy lawyer. I’m married to an eminent surgeon. Her daughter is smart, but not exactly Mensa material, if you know what I mean. My house is on the National Register of Historic Places. Hers has a grass roof! My house is filled with Sheraton and Hepplewhite antiques. Her furniture comes from IKEA. I went to Rosemary Hall and Vassar. She went to public high school and some college I never heard of.” She gave Lucy a condescending smile. “I could go on and on, but my point is that I had no reason to be jealous of Tina, and I had no reason at all to kill her.”

“Okay,” agreed Lucy. “Who did?”

“Lots of people! She was crude. She could be very insulting if you disagreed with her.”

“Right,” said Lucy. “But murder?”

“She was quite outspoken about keeping abortion legal,” said Bar, pursing her lips.

“You think she was on one of those pro-life radicals’ hit lists?”

“Search me. I don’t have any contact with those people, but she very well could have been.”

Lucy made a note to follow up on Bar’s suggestion.

“And then there’s the fact that her husband is a personal injury lawyer—an ambulance chaser. He must have made a lot of enemies through the years.”

Lucy’s research at the courthouse indicated this wasn’t true, but she decided not to contradict Bar, in hopes of getting more information. “How so? Doesn’t he help people who were wrongfully injured get some compensation?”

Bar scoffed at that idea. “You’ve seen too many TV commercials.” She looked straight in Lucy’s eyes. “Have you ever been sued?”

“Actually, no.”

“Well, let me tell you, it’s a horrible experience. You’re bombarded with paperwork, you have to answer questionnaires and give depositions under oath, you have to hire a lawyer to represent you at great expense, while the person who’s suing you pays his lawyer only if he wins, and you can’t sleep, worrying that you’re going to lose everything you’ve worked so hard for. It’s a complete and utter nightmare. And even if you win the case and the jury agrees that you’ve done nothing wrong, you’re stuck with enormous legal bills.”

“I hadn’t realized,” said Lucy. “Have you actually gone through that yourself?”