Mother's Day Murder (16 page)

“Is it complicated?” asked Bill.

“Nah,” said Chad. “My mom can do it.”

For pete’s sake,
she fumed.
Remind him to drive carefully.

“I’ll have to look into it,” said Bill as Sara appeared at the top of the stairs.

Observing their reaction as they watched Sara descend, Lucy was convinced she knew just how Dr. Frankenstein felt. She had created a monstrously attractive girl. They were both speechless, gazing upward, as this slender yet buxom blond vision in skinny jeans and a halter top bounced down, holding a sweater over her arm.

“Hi, Chad,” Sara said coolly. “Bye, Dad. Bye, Mom,” she added, and with a toss of her ponytail, she was gone.

“Damn, Lucy,” exclaimed Bill as the door closed behind them. “You didn’t tell me she was going to look like that.”

“What? You see her every day. A little lip gloss and a few curlers don’t make that much difference.”

He stood in the hallway, clearly dismayed, as Chad gunned the motor of his sports car and shot down the driveway, then squealed the brakes, making the turn onto Red Top Road. “I guess it was the way he looked at her.”

Lucy had no pity. “Like she was good enough to eat?” she asked, with a smug smile.

“Don’t,” he protested, with a small moan. “What’s the number for the cable company?”

“It’s in the book,” said Lucy. “C’mon, Zoe. Let’s go visit baby Patrick.”

Patrick was having his bath when Lucy and Sara arrived at Toby and Molly’s house. The two-month-old was nestled into a contoured baby tub, and Toby was carefully wiping each tiny toe, each little ear, with a miniature washcloth. Patrick wasn’t exactly loving it, but he wasn’t crying when Toby squeezed the cloth and dribbled warm water on his tummy.

“All finished,” said Toby, lifting the slippery little newt out of the water and handing him to Lucy, who wrapped him in a fluffy towel. She pressed her nose against his nearly bald head, sniffing the sweet smell of baby shampoo.

“Can I put on his diaper?” asked Zoe.

“Sure,” laughed Molly. “And his jammies, too. Everything’s on the changing table.”

Soon a sweet and clean Patrick was nestled at his mother’s breast, taking his bedtime meal, and Toby was pulling board games out of the hall closet.

“Trivial Pursuit?” suggested Toby.

“Takes too long,” said Molly. “I want to get some sleep before he wakes up for his midnight feeding. And the two o’clock. And the four.”

Lucy remembered what it was like and gave her a sympathetic smile.

“Scrabble?” asked Toby.

“Mom always wins,” said Zoe.

“Clue?” he proposed.

“We haven’t played that in a long time,” said Molly.

“Let’s go for it,” said Toby, spreading out the board on the coffee table. Soon the cards were distributed, and they were advancing around the board.

As they played, Lucy wished real life was as neat as the game. There were no messy emotions in Clue: it didn’t matter if it was Professor Plum in the library, with a lead pipe, or Miss Scarlet in the hall, with a rope. Nobody shed a tear; no emotions were involved. These crimes had no consequences, and solving them was simply a matter of elimination and a lucky guess or two. The game was over in an hour or so; it didn’t take more than a year to solve these crimes, a year in which Corinne’s grieving parents struggled to simply get through every day.

“Your turn, Mom,” said Toby.

“Right,” said Lucy, picking a card. “Okay. I’m guessing it’s Colonel Mustard in the dining room, with a candlestick.”

Toby handed her the envelope, and she pulled out the three cards. “Ha! I was right,” she said, displaying them.

“How’d you do it?” demanded Zoe.

“Just a hunch,” Lucy said, thinking of Tina’s murder. If only solving it was as simple as playing Clue. She knew it was on the tennis court, with a gun, but who did it? The lawyer, the doctor, or the expert marks-woman?

T
he phone on the kitchen wall was ringing when Lucy and Zoe returned home. Bill, who had cranked the stereo up to maximum volume and was playing his old Neil Young records in the family room, hadn’t heard it.

“Hello,” said Lucy, pressing the receiver to her ear. All she could make out through Neil’s guitar licks was a series of squeaks. “Hold on. I can’t hear,” she said, turning to Zoe. “Ask Daddy to turn down the music.” A few seconds later, rock and roll didn’t die, but Neil became somewhat subdued.

“Okay. I can hear you now,” she said, but all she heard was gulps and sobs. “Sara?” she guessed, leaping into panic mode. “What’s the matter?”

“Ma…Ma…oh, Mo-o-om,” wailed Sara.

“Whatever it is, it’s all right,” said Lucy, her heart racing. “We’ll come get you. Where are you?”

Sara’s voice was small, punctuated with sobs. “I’m in jail.”

When Lucy and Bill got to the police station, they weren’t alone. A number of parents were standing awkwardly in the entry area. Some looked as if they’d risen from their beds and thrown on some clothes; others were dressed for an evening out. They all shared the same expression, a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

The door leading to the interior of the station opened, and Dot’s oldest son, Chief Kirwan, appeared. He was young for the job, a rising star. A shining beacon of responsibility, a follower of the straight and narrow path, a law-and-order man. Until now, that had never bothered Lucy.

“When can I see my kid?” demanded one father, a burly guy with a three-day stubble, plaid pajama bottoms, and a Red Sox sweatshirt.

“I know you’re anxious about your children,” said the chief. “I assume you’re all here because you received phone calls?”

They all nodded.

“We’ll deal with each case individually, on an alphabetical basis,” said the chief. “That way we can protect your child’s right to privacy.” He paused. “But first, I have some general information for you. At around twenty hundred hours, we received a noise complaint from a Shore Road resident. An officer was sent to investigate, and he found a number of cars parked in the Audubon preserve parking lot and heard loud music and voices emanating from an abandoned cabin adjacent to the preserve. He also found discarded packaging from alcoholic beverages.”

Lucy’s and Bill’s eyes met. Lucy was biting her lip; Bill’s jaw had tightened, and a vein in his temple was throbbing.

“The officer called for additional units, and thirteen individuals, ranging in age from fourteen to seventeen years of age, were subsequently arrested on charges of underage drinking, noise violations, trespassing, littering, and violating the open burning bylaw.”

“Trespassing?” inquired one mother, dressed in high heels, a little black dress, and pearls.

The chief nodded. “The Audubon preserve is closed from eight p.m. to five a.m. They were parked illegally. The cabin is also on posted property.”

“Oh,” said the woman, squeezing her clutch purse so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“Okay, let’s get started,” said the chief, consulting a clipboard. “Aronson.”

“Here,” answered a heavyset man with a dark five o’clock shadow. Sighing, he followed the chief through the door.

“Looks like it’s going to be a long night,” said Lucy, settling her bottom against the wall.

“Humph,” was all Bill said.

The little sympathy Lucy had for Sara evaporated when she was finally reunited with her daughter. Sara stank of booze, her hair was a tangled mess studded with dried leaves, and her clothes were stained with soot from the illegal campfire.

“What were you thinking?” Lucy demanded as they finally left the police station and got in the car.

“Rotten cops,” declared Sara. “We were just having fun.”

“You were breaking the law,” said Lucy.

“Several laws,” added Bill.

“We weren’t hurting anybody,” insisted Sara, sullenly.

“You were making enough noise that somebody complained,” said Lucy. “And what if the fire had gotten out of control? And how were you going to get home? Was there a designated driver, or was everybody drinking?”

Sara stared out the window.

“Was everybody drinking? Answer your mother, Sara,” said Bill.

“Everybody. But it was only beer. You can’t get drunk on beer.”

Sara herself provided evidence to the contrary. Her mood improved as they drove along, and she was feeling no pain when they pulled into the driveway. “Whee,” she sang out as Bill made the turn. “Home at last! I love you, house! I love you, Mom. You too, Dad. Oh, here’s Libby. I love you, Libby. You’re the best dog ever.”

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Zoe, who had been waiting for them.

“She’s drunk. It’s not a pretty sight, is it?” demanded Lucy.

“She seems nicer than usual,” said Zoe as her sister engulfed her in a hug. “Ugh. You stink!” she protested, struggling to extricate herself.

“It’s late, Zoe. Time for you to be in bed,” said Lucy.

Casting a reproachful look over her shoulder, Zoe began climbing the stairs.

“I’ll make coffee,” said Bill.

“I’ll get the shower running,” said Lucy.

“I want to dance!” proclaimed Sara.

Sara didn’t want to dance the next morning.

“I feel sick,” she moaned when her mother met her outside the bathroom. “And my head aches.”

“The wages of sin,” said Lucy.

“What?”

“Otherwise known as a hangover,” said Lucy.

“I want to die,” said Sara.

“Definitely a hangover,” said Bill.

“Scrambled eggs for breakfast?” asked Lucy, brightly.

“I’m going to be sick,” said Sara, disappearing into the bathroom.

When she finally emerged, Lucy had aspirin and coffee ready. Bill was also ready, with an ultimatum.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Sara,” he began. “Your mother didn’t want you to go out last night, and it seems she was right. I thought you were mature enough to behave responsibly, but I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” said Sara, her head bowed and her eyes cast down.

“Sorry isn’t good enough,” said Bill. “I’m having serious doubts about letting you go to the prom.”

Sara’s head snapped up. “Dad! You wouldn’t!”

Bill nodded gravely. “Don’t test me,” he warned. “That dress is returnable.”

“Don’t I deserve a second chance?” begged Sara, using her sweetest voice.

“We’ll see,” said Bill. “But for now, you’re grounded.”

Slowly, painfully, Sara rose to her feet and crossed the family room. Except for the fuzzy slippers, she might have been Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine.

“Drama queen,” muttered Lucy.

When Monday morning rolled around, Lucy found she was eager to get to work. The weekend had seemed endless, with Sara moping about the house and Bill’s simmering anger. Even the dog had seemed on edge, unable to settle down and pacing from room to room, nails clicking on the wood floors.

But the short ride to the office wasn’t the peaceful interlude she had hoped for. She had no sooner turned off Red Top Road when she heard sirens, lots of sirens. When it became clear that one of the sirens was from an ambulance, which was rapidly gaining on her, she pulled off the road, then followed it. She was a reporter, after all, and traffic accidents were news, especially one as serious as this seemed to be.

She didn’t have far to go. The crash had taken place just outside town, where Packet Road crossed County Road. There was a stop sign at the intersection, but it seemed the driver of an SUV had missed it and been hit by an oil delivery truck. The scene was a smelly mess. The oil truck was lying on its side, leaking stinking fuel. The SUV seemed to have exploded on impact; little could be seen except the crumpled frame, where firemen and EMTs were working to free the trapped driver. Debris was everywhere: bits of insulation, broken glass, a tire, soda cans, and fast-food wrappers, all blowing in the breeze.

Lucy parked on the side of the road and got out, surveying the scene before reaching for her camera and snapping photos. It was easier to deal with the accident by reducing it in size, framing it with her camera’s viewfinder. Stumbling, she lowered the camera and looked down, discovering she’d become entangled with the strap of a woman’s handbag. It struck her as incredibly poignant, this intimately personal item lying there in the middle of the road. She bent and picked it up. A folded piece of paper fell out, and Lucy also retrieved that. It was a notice from the school nurse, addressed to Mrs. Amanda Connell, advising her that her son, Matthew, grade four, had failed an eye exam and should be seen by an optometrist. Lucy slipped it back inside the handbag, which she took over to the nearest cop, Officer Barney Culpepper, who was directing traffic around the scene.

“Thanks, Lucy,” he said, carefully placing it by his feet as he held up his hand for a FedEx truck to stop so the ambulance could go by. It was soon screaming down the road at top speed, with lights flashing, and Barney waved the FedEx truck on. “Terrible thing,” he said, shaking his head and making his jowls quiver.

“Two victims?”

“Yeah, both drivers. Thank God they were alone.”

“Yeah. The SUV driver is a mother. Amanda Connell. There was a note from the school that fell out of her purse.”

“Not that nice lady who works for Dr. Hume?” said Barney, shaking his head.

Lucy felt as if bells and whistles and flashing lights were going off in her head. This couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? How come, all of a sudden, two of the most important women in Dr. Bart’s life were in trouble?

Barney was still talking about how Doc Ryder had sent him to see Dr. Hume a couple of months ago because he had high blood pressure, and how nervous he’d been about seeing a specialist, a surgeon, but Amanda Connell had talked to him and asked about the weather before she took his blood pressure, and it turned out that he only had to take pills, but Lucy was only half listening. She was remembering Phyllis saying something about Dr. Hume’s receptionist, something about him having an affair with her.

Bart’s mistress,
thought Lucy.
First, his wife goes to jail, and then his mistress has a terrible accident.
“How’d it happen?” she asked.

Barney held up his hand for the second ambulance. “She must’ve missed the stop sign. I dunno. Doesn’t seem likely, but you know how it is. If you follow the same route every morning, you might kinda go on automatic pilot.”

“Maybe her brakes were bad,” said Lucy.

“There’s no hill or anything, and she was coming off a windy road. Wouldn’t have been goin’ real fast. You’d think she coulda downshifted or something.” He stared at the wreckage. “She musta been goin’ awful fast. Doesn’t seem like her.”

“Maybe somebody tampered with her car,” suggested Lucy.

“That’d explain the accident,” said Barney. “But who’d do a thing like that?”

Who indeed?
wondered Lucy as she sat down at her desk to write up the story. The first call she made was to Bart’s office, but there was no answer. The hospital wasn’t forthcoming, either, refusing to release any information. She tried the fire station, using the business number, and got Dot Kirwan’s youngest daughter, Bobbi.

“How’s the baby?” asked Lucy, who knew Bobbi had delivered around the same time as Molly. They’d been in childbirth classes together.

“She’s great—almost twelve pounds already—and she sleeps through the night,” bragged Bobbi. “How’s little Patrick?”

“Adorable,” said Lucy, unwilling to admit that he was a bit of a fussbudget. “We’re all crazy about him.”

“Wouldn’t it be great if you could keep ’em little?” asked Bobbi.

“It sure would,” agreed Lucy, thinking of Sara’s weekend adventure. “Listen, Bobbi, I wondered if you heard anything about the two accident victims this morning? Do you know their conditions?”

“Not officially,” she said, “but the truck driver seemed to have hurt his back or shoulder, something along those lines. Not life threatening.”

“What about the woman in the SUV?” asked Lucy.

“The guys didn’t think she was going to make it. She had a lot of internal bleeding. It’s a shame.”

Lucy was silent for a moment, digesting this information. “Any ideas how it happened?”

“Not really. The state police will investigate if it’s a fatal.”

“Well, thanks,” said Lucy. “Give the baby a hug for me.”

“Roger, wilco,” said Bobbi.

Sighing, Lucy returned to her keyboard, but with nothing to go on but hearsay, there was little she could do except outline the story. That wasn’t a problem: the deadline wasn’t until noon Wednesday, so she had plenty of time to gather official quotes and fill in the details. She did what she could, then closed the file and turned to the ever-present listings, but her mind kept straying back to the accident. She kept trying to reach Bart, but there was no answer at home, and when she called his office, her call was switched to the answering service, where the operator finally lost patience with her.

“Believe me, I’ll make sure the doctor gets your message as soon as he calls in,” she said. “There’s no need to keep calling.”

Lucy knew she was right, but it was like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She finally decided to call Bob Goodman, on the off chance he had a way to contact Bart.

Bob had heard about the accident, he said, and had been trying to contact Bart, too, but with no luck. “Poor guy can’t catch a break,” he said. “First, his wife is charged with murder, and now his nurse is gone. Talk about bad luck.”

“Yeah,” said Lucy, ending the call. She was beginning to suspect it wasn’t just bad luck. “Hey, Phyllis,” she said, swiveling in her chair. “Doesn’t Elfrida have a kid in fourth grade?”

“Yup. Justin.”

“Does he know Matthew Connell?”

“Mattie’s his best friend.”

“So Elfrida knows his mom?”

“Kinda sorta. Amanda’s got attitude. Thinks she’s better than just about everybody.”

“But she overlooks Elfrida’s reputation and lets Mattie play with Justin?”

“Yeah. She’s a single, working mom. She’d probably let him play with the spawn of Satan, just to get him somewhere after school.”