Tippy Toe Murder (8 page)
“This will be my fourth,” said Lucy,
patting her tummy.
“Four! Aren’t you lucky! I didn’t have Fred
until rather late in my marriage. I was thrilled to finally have a baby.”
“And a son, too. Your husband must have
been pleased.”
“I think he was, in his way,” recalled
Kitty. “Of course, like many people his age he didn’t believe in showing
affection. He was afraid that sparing the rod spoiled the child. People don’t
think that so much anymore.”
“Sometimes things change for the better,”
observed Lucy, wondering how to broach the subject she wanted to discuss. “I
don’t quite know how to begin,” she said, leaning forward, “so I guess I’ll
just plunge in. I came here to ask you to tell your husband that the video
camera he took from Franny Small yesterday really is mine. I need it back to
tape my daughters’ ballet rehearsal. Tatiana only allows cameras at the dress
rehearsal, and it’s today. At three-thirty.”
Kitty’s face was blank. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about.”
“My video camera,” said Lucy, taking a deep
breath. “Franny borrowed it to prove to Mr. Slack that she isn’t the one
stealing from the store. He caught her with it, and fired her. He also
confiscated the camera, and I want it back.”
“He fired Franny? When did all this happen?”
“Yesterday,” said Lucy. She could
practically hear the wheels turning in Kitty’s head as she put two and two
together.
“Thank you for telling me, Lucy. This explains
why Morrill was so upset last night.”
“Didn’t he tell you what happened?”
“He did say something about it being
Annemarie’s fault. That’s all.”
Lucy was amazed at this lack of
communication between husband and wife. “How long have you been married?” she
asked.
“More than fifty years,” said Kitty. “I can
hardly believe it myself. Times were hard all those years ago. It was during
the Depression. My folks were sure happy when Morrill started showing an
interest. It meant one less mouth to feed.”
“They forced you to marry him?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t mind. I figured taking
care of this nice house would be lots easier than haying and milking on my
folks’ farm.”
“Kind of like getting a better job?” Lucy
was fascinated.
“Yup,” said the old woman, breaking into a
broad smile. “Of course,” she said, slapping her knee and cackling, “I don’t
think Morrill has any intention of letting me retire.”
Lucy joined in Kitty’s laughter. She couldn’t
help admiring her. Kitty was clearly a survivor, and Lucy suspected it was her
sense of humor that got her through.
The laughter stopped abruptly when Lucy
realized Sara was no longer playing quietly on the rug.
“Where’s she gotten to?” exclaimed Lucy,
dashing through the swinging door into the dining room, past the long mahogany table,
which still held the remains of Morrill’s solitary breakfast. Lucy cast an
anxious glance up the tall staircase and frantically checked the front and back
parlors.
She found Sara in the study, lifting a bell
jar off a pair of stuffed bluebirds. The birds were sentimentally nestled
together on a branch of flowering apple. The flowers were made of blown glass,
and the whole arrangement was probably priceless. It looked as if it belonged
in a museum.
“Sara! Don’t touch!” scolded Lucy,
replacing the glass dome. “You mustn’t go wandering about in other people’s
houses.”
“No harm done,” said Kitty. “I bet Sara
would like a cookie.”
Back in the kitchen, she sat Sara at the
scrubbed pine table, gave her an enormous molasses cookie, and poured a glass
of milk for her. “I bake cookies, but I rarely have a young visitor to eat
them,” said Kitty. “These used to be my grandson Ben’s favorites. I only have
one grandchild, but he’s a good one.”
“You must be proud of him,” said Lucy
politely. “He was very helpful to me the other day. He put a bag of fertilizer
in my car. Finish up, Sara, we have to go.”
“So soon?” Kitty would have preferred a longer
visit.
“I’m afraid so,” said Lucy, lifting Sara
out of the chair. “I’ll be stopping at the hardware store this afternoon. Do
you think you could talk to your husband before then about the camera?” “I’m
afraid not, Lucy. I’ve learned it’s better if I don’t interfere.”
Disappointed, Lucy led Sara to the door. “Well,
thank you for the visit. What do you say, Sara?”
“Thank you for the cookie,” whispered Sara.
Lucy was on the doorstep, turning to go,
when she noticed Caroline Hutton’s was the house next door. She spoke without
thinking.
“You’re Caro’s neighbor! Have you heard
anything?”
The old woman shook her head. “I can’t
believe Caro would go off without telling me. We had an arrangement. I have her
house key and I always take her mail and water her plants when she goes away.”
Lucy noticed she had crumpled her apron and
was nervously kneading it in her hands.
“There’s food in the refrigerator, and a
gas furnace. I don’t know what to do.”
Lucy understood Kitty’s anxiety. Her own
mother had found the responsibilities of home ownership overwhelming when she
was suddenly widowed. With Lucy’s encouragement she soon decided to move to a
small apartment in a retirement community.
“Would you like me to go over with you?”
asked Lucy, patting the old woman’s hand.
“Would you?” Kitty’s eyes lit up. “I’ll get
the key.”
As she watched Kitty scurry off, Lucy
carefully arranged her features. Kitty didn’t need to know how eager she was to
search for clues in Caro’s house.
There will be an
opportunity to photograph each class before the dress rehearsal.
While Lucy waited for Kitty, she watched
Sara turn circles on the lush grass lawn. Huge old trees shaded the Slacks’
back yard, making it an ideal place for children to play in the summer. She
wondered if Fred had been allowed to invite his friends over for noisy games
like Cowboys and Indians or Capture the Flag.
“Doesn’t she get dizzy doing that?” asked
Kitty.
“That’s why she does it. She likes getting
dizzy. Come on, Sara. We’re going next door.”
Crossing the driveway, Lucy took note of
the neat exterior of Caro’s house. It was much smaller than the Slacks’ house,
of course, but it had a character all its own. It was a modem,
architect-designed dwelling with bleached cedar siding, an oversized brick
chimney, and a huge picture window. It didn’t look anything like the other
houses in Tinker’s Cove.
“How did she get permission to build a
house like this?” asked Lucy.
“It’s older than you think. It was built in
the fifties, before we had the historical commission. Morrill doesn’t like it
much; he says it looks like a gas station.”
“It sure is different,” said Lucy, waiting
while Kitty unlocked the sliding glass door. Heavy homespun drapes concealed
the interior.
Once inside, Lucy decided the house was
surprisingly elegant. It was uncluttered, serene, vaguely Oriental. The living
room was sparsely furnished, but it contained a state-of-the-art entertainment
system, neatly housed in polished teak.
A small hall led to two bedrooms, simply
furnished in Danish modern. The master bedroom was distinguished by a shaggy
rya rug; otherwise it was almost identical to the smaller guest room.
“The police searched, but they didn’t find
anything. This house doesn’t have any hiding places,” said Kitty.
“It’s so neat,” exclaimed Lucy, thinking of
her own slapdash housekeeping.
“It was always like this. Never anything
out of place. The kitchen’s this way.”
In the sleek, galley-style kitchen Lucy
helped Kitty empty out the refrigerator. It was well stocked with salad greens
and other perishables; it was not the refrigerator of someone who was planning
to take a trip.
Lucy followed Kitty downstairs to the
cellar. It was just as tidy as the rest of the house. The walls were lined with
shelves containing flowerpots, paint cans, and a few oversized stock-pots.
There was a washer and dryer, and a huge furnace that sprouted ducts like
tentacles. It had probably been installed when the house was originally built.
A pilot light burned fiercely behind the grate.
“I don’t like gas,” clucked Kitty. “It’s
awfully dangerous.”
“It should be turned off,” advised Lucy. “The
weather’s warm now and the pipes won’t freeze.”
Kitty looked at the furnace skeptically.
“I think you just flip this,” said Lucy,
pointing to red emergency switch. “Shall I?”
“I’m sure you know best.”
At Lucy’s touch the furnace sputtered, then
fell silent.
“Much better,” said Kitty.
Returning upstairs, Lucy found Sara seated
on the sofa, turning the black pages of an old-fashioned photo album.
“What did I tell you, Sara?” she demanded, taking
the book. “You mustn’t touch other people’s things.”
“I’m sorry,” whispered the child, pouting
and studying her new sneakers.
“That’s okay,” chuckled Lucy, undone by
Sara’s adorable expression. “Where did you find this?”
“There.” Sara pointed to a drawer in the
coffee table.
Lucy pulled the drawer open and spotted a
second album; this one had a carved wooden cover. She took it out and carefully
turned a few of the fragile pages. She thought of her own family albums and how
she had sat with her mother, asking the same questions over and over. “Who’s
that? Where’s that? When was that picture taken?” Each photograph was a
document indicating relationships, friendships, times, and places. Family
albums contained a wealth of information.
“Put it back, Mommy,” reminded Sara.
Lucy began to replace the albums, then
hesitated. The temptation was too great. They might contain a clue that would
explain Caro’s disappearance.
“Mrs. Slack,” she began.
“Lucy, I see the cesspool truck’s at my
house. I’d better run if I’m going to catch him before he drives all over the
lawn.”
“Go on,” urged Lucy. “I’ll lock up here.”
“You’re a dear,” exclaimed Kitty, hurrying
off. Sara followed her to the door and stood watching as the old woman ran
awkwardly across the driveway.
Promising to work things out with her
conscience later, Lucy closed the drawer and tucked the albums into her African
basket shoulder bag. She took Sara’s hand and glanced around to make sure
nothing was disturbed. Then she left the house, carefully locking the door
behind her.
Pictures and videos
are to be taken during the dress rehearsal
ONLY!
It was early afternoon when Lucy pulled
into a vacant parking spot in front of Slack’s store and shifted the Subaru
into park. It was just like Morrill Slack to confiscate the camera, she
thought. He obviously didn’t have any respect for Franny, or anyone he
considered his inferior, even his wife. He lived in the past, when a small
group of men like himself controlled almost all the wealth in Tinker’s Cove and
the rest of the population eked out a meager living as hardscrabble farmers and
fishermen. He had little knowledge of the modem world, in which videos were
almost as common as snapshots.
Thinking of last night’s award ceremony,
Lucy was determined to get the camera back. The evening had started out
miserably enough. In fact, when she’d taken her seat in the school auditorium
she’d doubted she would get through it. Bill’s face was stony, the girls were
fidgety, and Toby looked quite nervous up there on the stage. It was crowded,
noisy—and very hot, thanks to the greenhouse effect created by evening sunlight
pouring through the windows.
The school principal stood up; the room
quieted down. He ordered the shades drawn and assigned several sixth-grade boys
to do the job. The school band began playing “The Star- Spangled Banner” and
everyone stood up.
As the band struggled through the difficult
song, Lucy glanced at Bill and their eyes met, just as a particularly sour
trumpet note sounded. She giggled, he broke into a grin, and they began to
enjoy the evening.
It was almost embarrassing, they agreed
later, that Toby won so many awards. They had expected the attendance award, of
course, and were pleasantly surprised when he won a book prize for an essay on
prejudice. When he was called up to receive the fourth-grade mathematics award,
Bill squeezed her hand. When he also received the science award, and a
certificate for outstanding scholarship, they could barely contain their pride.
Their son was the very picture of a humble
scholar as he went back and forth from his seat to receive his awards. When the
principal described him as an extraordinary young man, Toby blushed mightily,
shuffled his feet, and hung his head. It was only afterward, when Ted Stillings
snapped his picture for the paper, that he allowed his pride to show. Standing
on the sidelines, observing his glowing face, Lucy wished she could have
recorded the ceremony.
She couldn’t recapture Toby’s big moment,
but she certainly wasn’t going to miss the one and only opportunity she’d have
to videotape the girls’ ballet recital.
Checking her watch, she saw it was just a
little bit past one and she still had to buy blank tapes. Then she had to pick
up Sara at Sue’s house, where she had temporarily parked her. Lucy didn’t want
any distractions while she coped with Morrill Slack.
She hoped there wouldn’t be any difficulty.
Her swollen feet were killing her and she wished she were back home taking her
usual after-lunch rest on the couch. She also had a wicked case of heartburn;
she probably shouldn’t have had that second cup of decaf this morning. Her back
ached and, as almost always, she had to pee. She was in no mood to tolerate any
nonsense from a cranky old fart like Morrill Slack.
Squaring her shoulders and bracing her
legs, she yanked the stubborn door open and marched into the store. It was
something of a letdown to discover that nobody seemed to be around. There was
no sign of Slack, or even Ben, in the place. Franny’s usual spot at the cash register
was empty. Lucy peered down the aisles and called out a hello, but there was no
answer. She wondered if the store was closed, and began to feel uneasy. Perhaps
she should come back another time.
“What other time?” she reminded herself.
She needed the camera now. She didn’t even have time to go over to the Slacks’
house. Spotting the office door slightly ajar, she decided to give it a try.
After all, the old guy might be hard of hearing. She knocked smartly, which
made the loose glass rattle. The unlatched door swung slowly inward. There she
found Morrill Slack slumped forward on his desk, motionless.
Lucy ran to him and reached for the phone
to call the ambulance. The receiver was unpleasantly sticky, but it was only
after she’d hung up that she noticed blood on her hand. Forcing herself to
focus, she saw the entire desk was splattered with blood. Slack’s head, she
realized with a growing sense of horror, had been brutally bashed in and it
very much looked as if her video camera had been used to do the job. It was
lying next to Slack’s head on the desk, and bits of tissue and bone clung to
it. Lucy’s gaze shifted back to the old man. One pale blue eye was still open,
and stared dully through the cracked lens of his eyeglasses. Her last thought,
as she fainted dead away, was that he looked like a fish on ice.