Tippy Toe Murder (3 page)

“It’s been an eye opener,” said Sue,
shaking her head sadly. “There’s so much abuse. It’s crazy. It’s out of
control. One of the advocates told me more women were killed by husbands and
lovers during the Vietnam years than soldiers were killed overseas, and it’s
getting worse.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Lucy. “Except
for Franny, I don’t know any battered wives.”

“Oh yes you do.”

Lucy thought for a minute and then leaned
forward. “Who?” “I can’t tell you. But believe me, there’s plenty of women
afraid for their lives and for their children, right here in Tinker’s Cove.”

Sue paused and slowly shook her head.

“The kids, that’s the part that really gets
me. Have you seen that story in this morning’s paper? Some poor woman gone to
jail rather than hand her kid over to an abusive father. The judge, male, of
course, won’t let her out until she tells where the kid is. It makes me so mad.
They call it a war against women, but if we fight back they slap us in jail. It’s
not fair.” Surprised at her own vehemence, Sue cracked an apologetic smile. “I
tend to get carried away on this subject. Oh, well, I gotta go, Lucy. I didn’t
realize it was so late. The plumber’s coming at eleven and I don’t want to miss
him.”

“That’s okay,” said Lucy. “I’ll get the
check.”

She watched her friend leave the coffee
shop, and then made her way slowly to the cash register. She knew she had no
business feeling light-headed, she’d just had a glass of juice, but for a
moment the floor tilted crazily beneath her. Home ought to be a safe place, a
haven.

“Is everything okay?” asked the cashier, a
motherly woman with her gray curls confined in a hair net.

“I must have stood up too fast,” said Lucy,
reaching in her purse. Where would she go, she wondered as she waited for her
change, if she couldn’t go home?

There is no charge for the
performance—donations welcome.

The store was quiet after Sue and Lucy
left. Franny perched on her stool behind the counter and leafed through a pile
of old invoices. She could hear an occasional
humph
from Mr. Slack
in his office, and she heard Ben knocking around in the back room, where he was
supposed to be sweeping.

Franny wasn’t as happy about Ben’s coming
to work in the store as his grandfather was. In the past she’d pretty much had
the place to herself, but now that the boy was coming in, the old man was
constantly popping out of his office and interfering.

Through the years, although she was
officially only a cashier, she’d gradually taken over the running of the
business. She was used to having things her way, and she resented Ben’s
presence.

To give him his due, the boy really seemed
to take to the business. He had a way of stroking various items, as he put them
on the display shelves or stowed them in drawers, that reminded her of his
grandfather.

Perhaps it was one of those family traits
that get passed along, but it was unnerving to see the teenager working his big
hands the same way the old man did. He even had an oversized nut and bolt he
kept in his pocket. He fiddled with them just the way Slack fondled that
precious gold pocket watch of his.

Most upsetting of all, now that Ben was
working in the hardware store, his friends had started hanging around. Franny
could feel her stomach hardening and twisting into knots when they arrived,
pushing and shoving one another and tripping over their huge basketball shoes.
It was a wonder they didn’t knock over a display rack or topple one of the
neatly stacked pyramids of paint cans. They seemed to be everywhere at once,
and she couldn’t possibly keep an eye on all of them.

Actually, she was a little afraid of them.
While they dressed like kids, she knew they were actually young men. They were
bigger than she was and full of rough male energy.

From what she observed it seemed Ben was
their leader and they were reporting to him. She was sure they were up to no
good. Their whispered conversation was full of winks and nudges, and they
constantly checked over their shoulders to see if they were being overheard.
She tried to keep her distance, but if she had to approach them to help a
customer, she noticed they would move away or fall silent. Whenever Mr. Slack
appeared, they disappeared.

Returning to the invoices, Franny went
through them one more time. She couldn’t understand it. According to the
paperwork, the store had received enough batteries to last through the summer,
based on her best estimate using last year’s figures. They’d gotten twenty
boxes each of AA and D batteries, the most popular sellers, and ten boxes each
of the other sizes.

Last week she’d noticed the display rack
was nearly empty, and she’d asked Ben to fill it.

“Can’t,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes. “They’re
all gone.”

“There should be plenty in the storeroom,”
she’d insisted, looking curiously at his two buddies, who were lounging by the
paint display. They seemed to find the conversation extremely amusing. “Go
check again.”

“There’s no point. I’m telling you, they’re
all gone. Look, I’m taking a break now,” he’d said, signaling his friends to
follow him outside.

Sure enough, she couldn’t find any
batteries in the storeroom, either. She was sure they hadn’t been sold; she
would have noticed the unusual number of sales and ordered more. Where had they
gone?

It was very disturbing, especially since
she’d been having such a hard time lately making up the bank deposit. That was
always the first task of the day. She would take the previous day’s take out of
the safe and add up the checks and cash, square them with the total sales
figure, and fill out the deposit slip. Then Mr. Slack would put the whole
business in a blue vinyl zippered pouch and take it to the red-brick bank across
the street.

For the past few weeks, however, she hadn’t
been able to get the figures to match, even though she was especially careful
whenever she made change. Every morning the cash was five or ten dollars short.
She checked and rechecked her figures. She knew she wasn’t making mistakes in
addition, and she wasn’t giving out the wrong change.

Only one answer seemed possible to Franny,
especially when she realized the trouble began after Ben came to work in the
store. Franny suspected the boy loved the business just a little bit too much
and was appropriating some of the merchandise and cash for himself and his
friends.

Franny found this behavior shocking. Why
didn’t he simply come right out and ask his grandfather for whatever he wanted?
She was sure the old man would give it to him. In fact, he seemed to get more
than enough from his parents. Fred and Annemarie spoiled him rotten, showering
him with faddish clothes and video games, even a car. Franny didn’t approve.

“Franny, there’s something I’d like to see
you about. That is, if you’re not too busy,” said Slack, standing in the open
doorway.

“Sure, Mr. Slack. What’s the problem?”

“We had better go into the office,” he
said. He turned and Franny followed him, taking a seat in the plain wooden
visitor’s chair. She watched as he seated himself in his creaky old swivel
chair, rubbed his long nose with his flat fingers, and pushed his glasses up
where they belonged. He sucked his wrinkled cheeks in, popped his top denture
loose, and shoved it back in place with his tongue. It made a satisfying click.

“What’s the problem, Mr. Slack?” repeated
Franny, growing impatient. She wanted to get back to those invoices.

“You know perfectly well, Franny. These
figures don’t match up,” said the old man, pointing to the ledgers on his desk.
She could see that he was very angry. Each papery cheek had a bright red spot
the size of a quarter, and the wattles under his chin were shaking.

“I know,” agreed Franny, relieved that he’d
brought up the subject. “The cash is short by a hundred and forty dollars, and
the inventory is off, too.”

“Do you have any explanation?” The old man’s
blue eyes may have faded some, but he could still work up a pretty nasty stare
through those wire-rims.

“I think it’s shrinkage, sir,” she
answered. “Someone’s stealing from the store.”

“And who might that person be?” Slack was
really mad now; Franny could hear his dentures clicking furiously.

She hesitated before answering. She was
sure Ben was the thief, but she was reluctant to accuse the boy.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled.

“Well, I do. And Franny, I expect complete
restitution by Friday, or your position here will be terminated!”

Franny felt as if she’d been kicked in the
stomach. Too shocked to speak, she felt her eyes filling with tears.

“I will not tolerate thievery!” The old man
pounded on his desk with his fist, making her jump. He was truly in a state,
and Franny was afraid he might have a stroke or a heart attack. She decided the
best thing to do would be to leave him alone to calm down, so she crept back to
the cash register.

“After all these years, how could he think
she was a thief?” she fumed, angrily brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop
coming. If anything, he’d been stealing from her. She’d been working in the
hardware store for fifteen years, and always at minimum wage. You would have
thought it would break him, the way he carried on when Congress raised it to
four twenty- five.

It was painfully clear that she’d stayed
too long in Slack’s musty old store, allowing a temporary job to become
permanent. She’d always meant to look for something that paid better, but she’d
kept putting it off. Too lazy. Too afraid of the probing questions an
interviewer might ask. And, she admitted to herself, she enjoyed being in the
center of town and chatting with the customers. Business was never exactly
brisk, but it was steady, and she never felt rushed or pressured the way the
girls who worked in the mall did.

She heard the old man shuffling around in
his office and glanced at the clock. It was noon. He soon appeared, carefully
setting his ancient straw Panama on his head and straightening his jacket.

“Don’t forget what I told you, Franny,” he
warned as he struggled with the door.

Franny involuntarily held her breath as the
door finally gave way, only to slam shut, barely missing his heels. It would
serve him right, she thought, if it did catch him. The door had warped years
ago, but he’d stubbornly refused to hire a carpenter to fix it. She watched as
he marched stiffly past the plate glass windows. An upright Yankee businessman.
A cheapskate.

“What am I going to do?” she asked herself.
She had to straighten it out as soon as possible; she didn’t want to lose her
job. What if he started talking about her, bad-mouthing her all over town? Who’d
hire her then?

A tap on the glass door roused her from her
thoughts, and she smiled weakly at Fred Earle, the postman. He pushed the day’s
mail through the slot and gave a friendly wave before going on to the next
store. Franny picked up the assortment of bills and advertisements and began
sorting them. One catalog caught her eye; it was for security equipment.

As she looked through the pages featuring
motion sensors and video cameras, an idea began to take shape in her mind. It
was only Tuesday, and she had until Friday. Perhaps she could catch Ben
shoplifting on videotape and give Mr. Slack the evidence he needed. She knew
just where she could get a video camera. Lucy Stone had one, and she lent it to
anyone who asked.

A video was the answer.

Franny straightened her shoulders; her eyes
gleamed with excitement. She’d show them. Franny Small was going to fight back.

Little ones are encouraged to nap before
the performance.

Returning home, Lucy was surprised by the
sense of relief she felt. It was probably some sort of nesting instinct gone
haywire, but lately every time she left home she couldn’t wait to return. The
sturdy old farmhouse had always been a source of comfort to her, and she and
Bill had worked hard to make it attractive, but never before had she felt so
attached to it.

I’m getting to be like a turtle, she
thought, wanting to carry my house on my back. Instead, when she’d left that
morning she had stuffed the loose knob from the newel post in her bag.

“Whatever could I have been thinking?” she
wondered as she replaced it. The house was unusually quiet; today she could
enjoy the rare luxury of having it all to herself. Bill was at work, Toby and
Elizabeth were at school, and four-year-old Sara was playing at a friend’s
house.

The baby inside her gave a kick and she
laughed. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you. What’ll we have for lunch, kiddo?

Rummaging in the refrigerator, Lucy
resolved to eat a healthful, well-balanced meal of moderate portions. She
pulled out a bowl of leftover spaghetti, sprinkled it with parmesan cheese, and
began eating it cold. When that was finished, she made herself a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich, then rounded off her meal with a handful of chocolate-chip
cookies and an enormous glass of milk.

Feeling rather drowsy, she lumbered off to
the couch in the family room so she could put her feet up for a little while.
She resolutely set aside the mystery she was reading and dutifully opened the
latest book on painless childbirth, but she found she couldn’t concentrate. The
slim volume soon slipped from her fingers as she drifted off to sleep.

Her sleep was not peaceful, however, but
filled with disturbing dreams. In one dream she was lying on the same couch,
but the newborn baby was at her side. Her attention was drawn to the ceiling,
where she was horrified to see light fixtures sprouting like flowers in a
time-lapse film. She had a dreadful sense that things were out of control. She
had to get rid of the extra chandeliers that were growing constantly larger,
taking up more and more space, but she didn’t know what to do.

The scene suddenly shifted and she found
herself standing in the nursery doorway. Flames flickered around the crib of
her neatly swaddled child. She snatched the little bundle up and held it
tightly against her breast, overwhelmed with relief that her baby was safe.

Without warning, she was perched on a high
bridge, where the infant inexplicably slipped from her arms and drifted slowly
away from her through the air. The white receiving blanket unfurled and floated
away, baring the baby’s tiny arms and legs. She stood watching, arms
outstretched, as the naked infant continued a slow descent toward the river
beneath the bridge.

At first the river was only a thin, shiny
ribbon of silver, but it grew wider as the baby fell closer. When the tiny body
finally met the water, there was a huge slow-motion splash as it disappeared,
the entry point marked only by a spreading circle of ripples.

Unable to turn away, she watched until a
white shape rose slowly from the depths to remain floating a few inches beneath
the surface of the water. The features gradually became clear. They were not
those of her baby. It was the round, wrinkled face of Caroline Hutton.

Lucy woke with a start, horrified to see
she’d slept for more than two hours. She heard the childish voices of Toby and
Elizabeth, home from school—arguing, as usual. She staggered into the kitchen
to greet them, still groggy.

Brother and sister were too busy shoving
each other away from the cookie jar to notice her, but they stopped struggling
when they heard her voice.

“How was school?” she asked, filling the
water kettle.

“Okay,” mumbled Toby, his mouth full of
cookies. His growing body seemed to require constant refueling.

“Do you have much homework?”

“Are you kidding? School’s almost over.
Today we watched a video.”

“All day?”

“Almost. We had art and gym and stuff.”

“Oh. How about you, Elizabeth?”

“I helped Mrs. Wright clean out the
closets.”

Eight-year-old Elizabeth, Lucy knew, was
helpful and competent.

“Where’s Sara?” asked Elizabeth. “Don’t we
have a dance rehearsal?”

“She’s over at Jenn’s. Mrs. Baker’s
bringing them both to the rehearsal. You’d better start getting ready. We have
to leave in a few minutes.”

Lucy rubbed her eyes, made a cup of hot
decaf, and asked herself for the umpteenth time if the pregnancy was a mistake.
After all, she and Bill were lucky to have three healthy children.

And until she had to quit her job answering
the night phones at Country Cousins, they’d been financially secure. Now she had
less money, less energy, less patience, less everything.

Well, not quite less of everything, she
admitted, gently scratching the itchy, tightly stretched skin over her enlarged
tummy.

Despite her long list of complaints, Doc
Ryder kept reassuring her that she was exceptionally healthy. He dismissed
heartburn, backache, shortness of breath, exhaustion, and swollen feet with a
wave of his hand and advised her to remain active.

“Don’t be afraid to exercise,” he told her.
“Your grandmother probably plowed the back forty before lunch, had the baby,
and plowed the front forty before cooking supper.”

Lucy blinked, remembering a stately, buxom
matron who never left the house without her hat and gloves. “My grandmother did
no such thing and you know it,” she hissed. “She stayed in the hospital for two
weeks and was waited on hand and foot.”

“Most of my mothers only stay for
twenty-four hours after delivery,” said the doctor. “They can’t wait to get
home.”

“At seven hundred dollars a day, who can
blame them?” Lucy remembered snapping at him. Setting her empty cup in the
sink, she called Elizabeth.

“Mom, I have to have my hair in a bun,” the
little girl informed her. “Tatiana said so.”

Lucy knew better than to risk disobeying
the temperamental dance instructor, so she meekly brushed Elizabeth’s silky
blond hair and twisted it into a sloppy bun that ended up being more bobby pins
than hair.

“That’s the best I can do,” she told
Elizabeth. “We’ve got to go or we’ll be late. C’mon, Toby. I’ll drop you at
Eddie’s house.”

The high school auditorium was a confusing
whirl of activity when they arrived about twenty minutes later. Lucy paused for
a moment in the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior
after the bright sunlight outdoors.

Tatiana, dressed in tights and leotard, her
dark hair twisted into a perfect chignon, was giving directions to several
teenage dancers who were sprinkling rosin on the stage. The noise, as the girls’
high-pitched voices reverberated against the painted concrete-block walls, was
deafening. The rows of seats were full of mothers and their little ballerinas,
all dressed in a rainbow of leotards.

Lucy was happy to see her youngest,
four-year-old Sara, seated beside her best friend, Jenn, in a nearby row. Jenn’s
mom, Karen Baker, waved Lucy over.

“Thanks for getting Sara dressed,” said
Lucy, sliding in beside her. “How’d you get her bun so perfect? I really
botched Elizabeth’s.”

“I used gel. Works like magic.”

“Oh,” said Lucy. “I wish I’d thought of
that.”

“It’s your first year,” said Karen. “As
long as you do exactly what Tatiana says, everything will be okay. This is the
big show, you know, and she gets nervous. Did you get the pink notice?” Lucy
nodded.

“Do exactly what it says. No underpants,
strings tucked in, rouge and lipstick, and absolutely no bangs,” recited Karen.
“Oh, and no crossed straps on the costumes, either. Have you sewn the straps on
yet?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Sew them on straight,” advised Karen;
then, noticing Lucy’s terrified expression, she laughed. “Honest, it’s not so
bad. And it’s worth it in the end. The girls love performing.” Karen lowered
her voice. “With everything that’s happened, I just hope the show goes on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard Tatiana’s real upset about that
woman who disappeared—Caroline Hutton. Tatiana was her student, you know.”
Karen nodded sagely. “So far, everything’s gone smoothly today. Keep your
fingers crossed. There they go.”

The mothers watched as the ballerinas took
their places backstage and the rehearsal began. As the notes of a Viennese
waltz swirled through the auditorium, Lucy watched the little dancers perform.
She was impressed. Although she’d been dropping the girls off for Saturday
rehearsals for several weeks, this was the first time she’d seen what they were
doing. It was an ambitious show, and although the rehearsal was rough in spots,
Lucy could see it was going to be a success.

The older girls were amazing, she thought,
up on their toes, leaping and turning, their faces taut with concentration.
Their efforts made Lucy appreciate how difficult ballet really is, especially
the toe work. She was awestruck at the discipline and hard work these girls had
invested in years of lessons and practice.

The music ended in a crescendo, all the
dancers were assembled for the finale, and Tatiana began bringing each group
forward to rehearse their curtsies. When the three high school girls who were
Tatiana’s star students finally stood alone center-stage, Lucy found herself
applauding them furiously. Feeling tears pricking her eyes, she blinked hard,
trying to hold them back.

“Never mind. It always gets me, too,” Karen
confided, handing her a tissue. “Come on, we have to go around backstage to get
the girls.”

Lucy followed her through a maze of
hallways, finally locating her daughters in a cluster of other small
ballerinas.

“You were perfect,” she told them. “I’ve
never seen anything so beautiful.” Shepherding them through the crowd, Lucy
resolved to study the pink notice very carefully.

Pulling into the driveway a few minutes
later, she was horrified to discover it was almost five-thirty and she hadn’t
given a thought to dinner. She was taking a package of hamburgers out of the
freezer when she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. Bill was
home.

“Hi,” she said as he came in, letting the
screen door slam behind him. Noticing his flushed face, she asked, “Tough day?”

“Hot. I was putting down roofing.”

“Why don’t you take a quick shower? I’ll
have some burgers ready in a minute.”

“Burgers, again?” he complained, pulling a
can of beer out of the refrigerator.

“How about a Coke?” suggested Lucy.

“What do you mean?” he growled. “I worked
hard all day and I want a beer. Got a problem with that?”

“I don’t,” said Lucy, awkwardly bending to
pick up Mac, their large black tomcat, who had wandered into the kitchen,
attracted by the aroma of cooking meat. She opened the door and gently tossed
him outside. “Don’t forget you’re coaching tonight.”

“Oh,” he groaned, collapsing heavily onto a
pressed-oak chair. “I forgot. Oh, what the hell,” he shrugged, popping the tab.
“I’ve been looking forward to this beer all afternoon.” “Fine example you are.
For our youth, I mean,” said Lucy, gently brushing a lock of hair off his
forehead.

Bill pulled her onto his lap. “I’m a good guy.
I come home every night, don’t I? I give you my checks. I help with the kids.
What do you want?” There was a tone of self-pity in his voice that Lucy hadn’t
heard before.

“I’ve got everything I want,” she said,
standing up and kissing the top of his head. “But I better get those burgers
cooked or you’ll be late for the game.”

“You know, Lucy, I remember when dinner was
a special part of the day. We used to eat with forks.”

“I remember that, too,” said Lucy, flipping
the hamburgers. “The kids were younger then. That was before ballet lessons and
Little League.”

“How about tomorrow? Could we have mashed
potatoes and gravy?”

“No.” Lucy shook her head sadly.

“Why not?”

“Awards Night at the school. Toby’s getting
a perfect-attendance award.”

“No kidding,” said Bill, taking a pull on
his beer.

“Supper,” called Lucy. “Come and get it!”

As the three children seated themselves at
the table, Lucy passed around the hamburgers and a plate of carrot sticks.
Toby, dressed in his baseball uniform, reached for the ketchup. The girls
waited their turns impatiently.

“I kind of like these simple suppers,”
admitted Lucy. “The kids never ate the cooked vegetables anyway. I think they
like this better.”

“I guess,” said Bill, taking an enormous
bite. “So, how was your day?”

“About usual,” answered Lucy, thinking
guiltily of the hours she’d spent napping on the couch while Bill was hammering
down asphalt shingles in the hot sun. “Everybody’s still talking about Caroline
Hutton. Why do you think she disappeared?”