Back To School Murder #4 (16 page)

“Always the good mother,” he said, in a teasing tone.

Lucy felt defensive. “What do you expect? I am a mother. I have four kids. It's a lot of responsibility.”

“Of course,” he agreed as they walked down the corridor. “I can't imagine how you do it. I think of my own mother, always worrying about us, never thinking of herself. It's like that for you, isn't it?”

“I don't know,” said Lucy, honestly confused. “Sometimes I think I've been putting them first for too long. Maybe it's time for me to concentrate on myself a little bit. But that's not easy to do. In a way, having a family has allowed me to put things off. Maybe it's time for me to decide what I want to be when I grow up.”

He bent his head, as if to kiss her, but she whirled away.

“Growing up is never easy,” he said, making a smooth recovery. “What do you think you would like to be?”

“A teacher, I guess. Then I could have a career that wouldn't conflict with the family too much. I'd have the same hours as the kids, summers off.”

“Always the kids.” He grinned. “Do you think you'd like teaching?”

“I'm not sure,” admitted Lucy. “I'm not sure of anything.”

“It sounds as if you need some intensive counseling from an experienced advisor,” said Quentin, keeping his voice light and teasing. “Why don't you come over to my place? It's not far from here.”

“Oh…” Lucy felt the blood rise to her cheeks, and she took a step backward. “It's so late, I really have to get home.”

“I understand.” He sounded disappointed.

“Besides,” said Lucy, arching an eyebrow and holding her notebook up to her face as if it were a fan. “You know perfectly well that a proper Victorian lady would never visit a gentleman's quarters unchaperoned.”

“Forgive me,” he said, snapping his heels together and bowing.

They parted, and as Lucy made her way to the parking lot, she wondered if she had made the right choice. In Victorian novels, women who fell from virtue were inevitably punished. But she wasn't wearing long skirts and petticoats; she was a thoroughly modern woman and she was entitled to express herself and seek fulfillment, wasn't she?

“H
e what?” exclaimed Sue. Lucy hadn't been able to resist pausing for a confessional chat when she dropped Zoë at the day-care center bright and early on Wednesday morning.

“Invited me to his apartment for a career counseling session.”

“But you didn't go?”

“Of course not. I wouldn't do a thing like that.”

Sue looked at her skeptically. “You don't sound very sure.”

“I keep having thoughts,” admitted Lucy.

“About him?”

Lucy nodded.

“What kind of thoughts?”

“Oh, about his tongue. And his lips. The way he smiles. His hair. His hands.”

“Ohhh,” groaned Sue. “Can't you think of something else?”

“Oh, sure. I try. But then I'll be doing something and they'll pop up. Mostly I try to substitute Bill. Think of him.”

“Does that work?”

“Not really.”

“This is awful, Lucy. You've got so much with Bill. Home, kids…”

“Mortgage, Visa bill,” countered Lucy. “Not to mention fights and awkward silences and tiptoeing around sensitive subjects. I mean, I love this course, but has he shown any interest at all? Has he even asked me if it's interesting…”

“Stop it!” interrupted Sue. “Look at Deb Altman. She had a perfectly nice marriage and gave it all up for a fling with the plumber. Now she's living in a crummy duplex with three kids and no man in sight.”

“You're right. You're absolutely right. But, you know, it's great to discover that somebody finds you attractive,” said Lucy, remembering how wonderful she'd felt when Quentin looked at her. She'd felt warm and glowing, graceful and desirable.

“Bill doesn't even look at me anymore,” she admitted bitterly. “It's like I'm part of the furniture, something he reaches for automatically when he's in the mood. Like a cold beer in the fridge.” Lucy paused, and added slowly, “And it's nice to know that I can still get interested myself. Sex with Bill is something I'm supposed to do. There's never any flirtation, he never courts me. It's just something he expects. It's part of being married. But the times I really want to do it are few and far between. Know what I mean?”

“I know,” said Sue, letting out a big sigh.

 

At the office, Ted was rushing to finish up a summary of the new septic regulations before deadline and asked Lucy to proofread the stories he had completed. Switching on the computer, Lucy read his account of the case against Josh Cunningham.

Straightening out Ted's garbled typing—he knew perfectly well how to spell but sometimes hit the keys so rapidly that the letters got reversed, producing
nad
instead of
and, ihs
instead of his—she learned that the police had indeed produced Mel Costas, the man Jewel the Ghoul had photographed in the accident on Bumps River Road, as a witness.

According to Mr. Costas, who described himself as an “old family friend” of Carol's, he had spent the night at her apartment. He had only meant to spend the day visiting, but had been having some problems with his truck and decided to spend the night rather than risk driving home. When he left, at a little past eight, he saw Josh pulling into the parking area at the apartment complex.

Police had cleared Costas of any suspicion in the murder. Carol's watch, broken in the struggle with her assailant, had stopped at eight-thirty, the time of Costas's accident.

Costas also told police that Josh Cunningham had approached him some months before about placing a bomb in the school, but Costas maintained he had refused and passed the information along to Carol.

“Howzit comin', Lucy?” George's voice broke into her thoughts. “I need that story toot sweet.”

“I'm almost through,” she said, finishing up and shipping it to him.

 

Leaving
The Pennysaver's
office with another issue safely put to bed, Lucy had the whole afternoon stretching before her. Convinced that the key to Carol's death lay in her life, she wondered how she could get the information she needed so Ted would print her story.

Starting up the car, she drove to the apartment complex on Spring Street. Thinking she might be able to chat up some of the tenants, she pulled into a parking space marked
VISITOR
. Only a handful of cars were in the lot, the play area was deserted, and the benches scattered about on the lawn were empty. Noticing a sign pointing to the manager's apartment, Lucy impulsively followed the arrow and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a doughy-faced woman with a faded dye job wearing polyester pants.

“I'm looking for an apartment,” said Lucy. “I wonder if you have a vacancy.”

“Sorry,” said the woman, starting to close the door.

“That's too bad,” said Lucy. “These apartments look so attractive and I really want to get out of the place I'm living in now.” She leaned forward as if including the manager in a secret. “I've got a one-bedroom in one of those big old captain's houses on Main Street. It's charming, all right, but the plumbing is barely adequate and I'm a little nervous about the wiring. I'd love to get into something newer.”

“You're single? No kids?”

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy. “It would just be me, myself and I.”

“Pets?”

“Oh, no. Too dirty.”

“Well…I might have something. Strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to show the apartment. The previous tenant's stuff is still there. But for you, I'll make an exception.”

“I don't want you to do anything you shouldn't,” said Lucy.

“It's okay. Believe me, she's not gonna be complaining.”

Trotting across the grassy courtyard and into the dim vestibule, she unlocked the door to Carol's apartment.
C. CRANE
was still affixed under the tiny brass knocker.

“The rent is five-eighty a month. Utilities are separate,” she said, opening the door.

Lucy followed her into a spacious combination living-dining room, waiting while the manager hurried over to the large window and opened the drapes.

“Does it come furnished?”

“No, like I said, these things belong to the previous tenant. Just haven't had a chance to get them out yet.”

Lucy saw a white leather couch, with an enormous print of a Georgia O'Keeffe flower hanging on the wall above it. A glass-topped coffee table sat in front of the couch, bare except for a silk flower arrangement. Two matching easy chairs, also covered in leather, and a large-screen TV completed the arrangement. A stereo system was neatly placed on shiny gray shelves, but there were no books or magazines.

In the dining area another, larger glass table was placed beneath a modern chrome lighting fixture. It was surrounded by four chairs, covered in pink and gray material. A second silk flower arrangement occupied the center of the table.

The kitchen was separated from the dining area by a half-wall that formed a counter. It was neat as a pin, and Lucy guessed Carol hadn't cooked much.

“Didn't I hear that somebody died over here? I think it was a murder, wasn't it?” asked Lucy, trying the tap to check the water pressure.

“Don't you worry. These apartments are very safe. Top-quality locks on windows and doors. Whoever killed her, she must have let him in. And the police have got him anyway.”

“That's a relief,” said Lucy, pulling open a drawer and examining the neatly stacked stainless steel flatware inside it. The kitchen was fully equipped with new appliances including a stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher. There was even a garbage grinder in the sink.

“It's very nice,” said Lucy. “You should see what I'm coping with now. Could I see the rest?”

“The bedroom's here,” said the manager. Her mules flapped against her cracked heels as she led the way down the carpeted hall.

The bedroom contained a king-size bed, covered with a sateen bedspread printed in a swirling art nouveau design. Another gigantic O'Keeffe flower hung above the bed.

“Is this where…” asked Lucy.

The landlady nodded. “There was hardly any mess, you would have thought she was sleeping.”

Lucy quickly scanned the room. She knew she shouldn't linger; it would appear unnatural. The dresser was clear except for a Japanese lacquered jewelry box and a watch. There were no clothes lying about. She opened the closet and peered in. Everything was neatly hung up. As she knew, Carol favored pink and pastel suits and dresses. Rows of high-heeled pumps were arranged on the floor, standing in pairs.

The bathroom was just as neat. The vanity sink held a large assortment of cosmetics, but they were carefully arranged in a lucite organizer. The pink towels hung on the rack, carefully folded in thirds. Even the wastebasket was empty, except for a folded sheet of paper. Instinctively, Lucy reached for it. It was the Revelation Congregation's monthly newsletter.

“I'll have to think it over,” Lucy told the landlady, who was waiting impatiently by the apartment door. “The rent is quite a bit more than I'm paying now.”

“Better not wait too long,” she advised, locking the door behind them. “These apartments never stay vacant very long.”

Heading back to her car, Lucy wondered if it had been worth the bother to see the apartment. It revealed very little about its occupant—it had looked more like a furniture store than a home. And what, she asked herself, was Carol doing with the Revelation Congregation newsletter? Was she a member? She decided to head over to the old Bijou theater and pay DeWalt a visit.

 

The Revelation Congregation had bought the abandoned Bijou when the membership outgrew the town hall basement. Now the marquee no longer advertised film classics, but the big black letters were used to spell out brief Bible verses. Today, Lucy noticed as she parked the car, the message was “God have mercy on me, a sinner (Luke 18:13).”

She doubted, as she pulled open the ornately carved door, that DeWalt had himself in mind when he chose the verse. He did not seem like one who considered himself a sinner. No, he was a crusader for truth attempting to save evildoers from themselves and their wicked ways.

Once in the former lobby, Lucy waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Hearing the hum of a vacuum cleaner, she opened the doors to the theater, finding to her surprise that it had been converted quite tastefully into a sanctuary. A large cross hung where the movie screen used to be, and the once solid walls had been pierced with windows boasting Gothic arches. It didn't look that much different from the Tinker's Cove Community Church that Lucy attended now and then.

“Can I help you?” asked the man who had been pushing the vacuum cleaner.

“I'm looking for DeWalt Smythe.”

“His office is upstairs, where the balcony used to be. Just take those stairs.”

Lucy thanked him and climbed the single flight, finding a neatly carpeted hallway at the top. A table with a bowl of chrysanthemums stood under a window on one side: three doorways were on the opposite wall. One was ajar, and had the word
PASTOR
painted on it. Lucy tapped gently.

“Come in,” boomed DeWalt's voice.

Lucy pushed the door open and entered. It wasn't quite the booklined study of Dr. Howes, her minister, but looked instead like the office of a small business with a metal desk and file cabinets. A fax machine sat on a stand to one side, and a graph charting the growth of the church hung on the wall. The line climbed steadily upward, seeming to indicate that as more members joined the church, the closer they would all be to heaven.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” began Lucy.

“Not at all. That's what I'm here for.” He chuckled paternally and spread out his open palms. “To be bothered. To care. To help. I always try to remember the words of our Saviour Lord Jesus Christ, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' That's the twenty-fifth chapter of Luke, verse forty. But of course, you are not the least of anything, Mrs. Stone, and I am always happy to see you. Won't you sit down?”

He offered her a steel chair, with a rigid plastic seat. Lucy sat down.

“Well, DeWalt, I'm trying to write a tribute to Carol Crane for
The Pennysaver
and I've been running into a lot of dead ends. I was hoping you could help me.”

DeWalt shifted in his seat, which was one of those expensive new types designed especially for executives. It sprouted knobs everywhere, making it infinitely adjustable to comfortably support the contours of almost any corporate body.

“What did you want to know?” he asked.

“Well, I know you were on the search committee that hired Carol. In fact,” continued Lucy, making a small leap of faith, “I heard that you lobbied strongly for her with the other committee members.”

“Indeed I did,” said DeWalt, puffing out his chest. “Carol was an outstanding candidate. She was highly qualified and came with very positive references.”

“I've discovered that her references weren't genuine,” said Lucy. “In fact, it seems she planted the bomb herself, in order to get attention. It's part of a pattern—she set a fire in Bridgton, and staged accidents when she was in college.”

DeWalt stared at her, open-mouthed. “I had no idea,” he sputtered. “I thought she was…”

“A shining example of Christian womanhood,” supplied Lucy. “At least that's what you called her at the memorial service.”

He rolled his heavy head from side to side. “My wife warned me about her, but I didn't listen.”

“Your wife?” Lucy was surprised.

“When Carol came to be interviewed—this was in July, I think—she stayed with us. It's not unusual. Rather than spend school district dollars on motels, the committee members put up the candidates.

“As I got to know her, I discovered that we shared similar views on education. Carol seemed just as interested as I am in restoring Christian family values to the schools.”