Back To School Murder #4 (17 page)

“You mean you helped her get the job, because she would become an administration voice for the Revelation Congregation?” challenged Lucy.

“There's absolutely nothing wrong with people who share the same values working together,” insisted DeWalt. “There was no formal agreement or anything, no deal. I just got an impression that she would be cooperative, that's all.”

“But your wife was not so sure?”

“Zephirah is more perceptive than I am,” admitted DeWalt. “She says I'm always preaching, and it's probably true. She was struck by something that occurred during dinner. I was explaining the beliefs of the Revelation Congregation, and I told Carol we believe in a literal interpretation of the Bible. For example, wives should be submissive to their husbands. For some reason, Carol really took exception to that. Zephirah said I must have touched a nerve—those were exactly her words. Touched a nerve.”

“Well, she was a modern working woman,” said Lucy. “That's not such an odd reaction.”

“No,” agreed DeWalt. “I wouldn't have thought twice about it, except for what Zephirah said.”

“So, once Carol was hired, did she cooperate with you?”

“She surely did. In fact, she was always running to me with reports about this one or that one. Especially Sophie. Sophie lost the room assignments. Sophie was spending too much on school supplies. Sophie was too old. I began to think she was trying to get Sophie fired.”

“What did you do?”

“I confronted her and counseled patience. After all, Sophie is due to retire in a few years, and there was no reason why the job wouldn't go to Carol. I told her that I'm a minority on the committee, and even if I wanted to get rid of Sophie, I could never get the other members to go along with it. Not to mention Superintendent Eubanks.”

“How did Carol react?”

DeWalt scratched his chin thoughtfully. “She seemed angry. In fact, I remember telling her that she should let go of her anger. I tried to get her to come to Sunday service.”

“Did she?”

“No.” He folded his hands in front of him. “If she had, it all might have ended differently. Very few people who accept the Lord Jesus Christ as their Savior get themselves murdered—at least that's been my experience.”

To Lucy, this seemed a bit self-serving. “But even though you knew Carol was no angel, you practically raised her to sainthood at the memorial service. How could you do that?”

“We have to use the tools the good Lord gives us. I don't think Moses stopped to pull the Egyptian soldiers out of the Red Sea, do you?”

Lucy's eyes were round with shock. “It seems to me that Carol is worth a lot more to you dead, than she ever was alive,” she blurted out.

“Are you suggesting that I killed her?” Something in DeWalt's tone turned her spine to ice.

“Oh, not at all,” Lucy hastened to reassure him. This was not where she wanted the conversation to go. Next thing she knew, she'd be battling for her life in the baptismal tank.

“I feel the need to seek the Lord,” said DeWalt, falling to his knees and pressing his hands together. “Will you join me in prayer?” he asked, as he bowed his huge head.

“No, but thanks for asking,” said Lucy, getting to her feet and heading for the door. “I'll just leave you to your prayers.”

Lucy was exiting the renovated theater when she was startled to hear her name called. Looking up, she saw Miss Tilley glaring at her.

“What were you doing in there?” the old woman demanded.

“Interviewing DeWalt,” said Lucy. “For
The Pennysaver
.”

“It doesn't seem to me that the paper ought to be giving him any free publicity,” she said, with a little sniff.

“You need have no fears on that account,” said Lucy with a smile. “I was just asking him about Carol Crane.”

“You're investigating her murder, aren't you?” Miss Tilley narrowed her eyes shrewedly.

“I'm trying,” said Lucy, “but I don't seem to be getting very far.”

“My dear old poppa used to say that success was five percent inspiration and ninety-five percent perspiration.”

“That's good advice,” said Lucy. “I'll have to tell the kids that.” She took the old woman's arm. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

“I was just headed home, from the library. I have to keep an eye on that new woman—she's a bit shaky on the Dewey decimal system.” Miss Tilley had officially retired as librarian several years ago, but she still felt a certain responsibility toward the Broadbrooks Free Library.

Once Lucy had gotten her settled in the front seat, with the seatbelt fastened, she started the car. “Tell me,” she began as they pulled away from the curb, “what do you think of DeWalt?”

“He's a fake. They all are, all these newfangled religions. I learned all about it by watching Norah.”

“The talk show?” Lucy was surprised. “I didn't know you watch TV.”

“It fills the time,” said Miss Tilley, causing Lucy to look closely at her elderly friend. Filling time had never been a problem for her before.

“Don't look at me that way!” she snapped. “I'm not getting feeble or anything. It's an interesting show, that's all. Norah is a very intelligent woman.”

“She must be—she's the highest paid woman in America, after all. So tell me, what did Norah have to say about churches like the Revelation Congregation?”

“They take advantage of people who are unhappy, or stupid. They pressure the members to make large contributions. Some of them even dole out punishment to the members who aren't up to snuff. It's nothing at all like being a Unitarian, though even that isn't quite what it used to be. You never hear Emerson or Thoreau mentioned these days.” She rolled her watery blue eyes in disgust.

“DeWalt seems so certain that he's doing the work of God,” mused Lucy. “How can he be so sure?”

“Because he's an egomaniac,” said Miss Tilley flatly as Lucy pulled up in front of her antique Cape Cod-style house.

She sat smoothing her gloves while Lucy climbed out of the car and opened the door for her. Taking her by the elbow, Lucy helped her out of the car and walked her to the door.

“I can manage perfectly well on my own,” Miss Tilley informed her.

“Of course you can. I'm just trying to show you how polite I am.”

“Poppa always said to judge people by their actions, not what they say. In that regard, Reverend Smythe comes up a bit short.”

“Oh?” asked Lucy.

“I've heard”—Miss Tilley leaned forward and whispered in her ear—“he has
prolonged
prayer sessions with some of the women in his congregation.”

“Wouldn't surprise me a bit,” said Lucy, patting the old woman's hand. “Take care now.”

“I will,” said Miss Tilley, opening her door and disappearing inside.

Checking her watch, Lucy saw it was later than she'd thought, and the day-care center would soon be closing. Pressing her foot to the gas, and hoping the police were too busy with Carol's murder to set any speed traps, she raced across town. As she drove, she thought about her talk with DeWalt.

Miss Tilley was right about him, she decided. The old woman had confirmed her own doubts. DeWalt had been hiding something, and Lucy suspected he was a lot closer to Carol than he admitted. Why else would he make a point of bringing his wife into the conversation?

If DeWalt had been involved with Carol, thought Lucy, he certainly got more than he'd bargained for. Had Carol made demands? Had she threatened to expose him? If she had, he would have had a motive to murder her. And from what she knew of him, he would probably have convinced himself that he was just doing God's will. There was nothing more dangerous, she decided, than an egomaniac with a direct pipeline to the Almighty.

Lucy pulled up at the day-care center and braked. Pressing her hand to her forehead and rubbing hard, she tried to push all thought of the murder from her mind. She and Zoë had been separated so much since she began working, she thought, with a sharp stab of guilt and longing. The little toddler deserved her complete attention. They were really overdue for some special mommy-daughter time.

A
rriving at the office on Thursday, Lucy plucked a fresh
Pennysaver
off the pile on the counter. She winced to see Josh Cunningham's picture, prominently placed above the fold. The unkempt, hounded figure in the grainy black and white photo bore little resemblance to the cheerful, confident coach she'd chatted with only a few weeks ago.

She read the story through one more time, looking for some discrepancy, some flaw in the DA's argument that would prove his innocence. She didn't find anything and, sighing, turned the page.

She took in her breath sharply when she spotted, right there on page three, her story about the parental notification bill. “By Lucy Stone” was printed in bold black letters beneath the headline. She was sitting there, grinning like an idiot, when Ted came in.

“Hi, Lucy.” He paused and studied her. “First time?”

Lucy nodded. “I can't believe that something that's this much fun is actually legal.”

“I know,” agreed Ted. “That's how I feel, too. If I actually made any money at this, I'd have to feel guilty. Fortunately, that's not a problem.”

“There's more to life than money,” said Lucy, absentmindedly stroking the paper.

“That's for sure, 'cause so far I've seen damn little money but plenty of life.” He paused and said slowly. “I got a call from Phyllis last night.”

“How's her mother?”

“Much better. The chemo is going very well, and Phyllis said her mother doesn't really need her. She's coming back.”

“That's wonderful,” said Lucy, wishing she meant it. Happy as she was for Phyllis, and her mother, she dreaded losing the job. “When will she be back?”

“Tomorrow,” said Ted with a little shrug. “Lucy, you've been great. I wish I could keep you on, but I really can't afford it. I was up half the night crunching numbers.”

“I knew it was only temporary,” said Lucy, thinking that you have to be careful what you wish for. Only yesterday she had been wishing for more time to spend with Zoë. Now she'd have it in spades. She gave a weak little smile. “It sure was fun.”

“If you want to try your hand at freelancing, I can always use features.”

“I might just do that.” Lucy tried to sound enthusiastic, but it was difficult. Features meant interviews with prize-winning gladiola growers, and gabby old men who collected antique matchbooks.

“That's terrific,” said Ted, pulling out his chair and sitting down at his desk, spreading the paper out before him. “Damn,” he muttered.

“What's the matter?”

“Typo. In an ad, no less.”

“Oops,” said Lucy, but instead of her usual squeak, her voice was flat.

 

That afternoon, her final paycheck safely deposited in the bank, Lucy and Zoë were home well ahead of the school bus. Zoë was upstairs napping, and Lucy was catching up on the reading for her course when the three older children arrived.

“How come you're home?” asked Toby, lifting the top off the cookie jar.

“Phyllis is back. Ted doesn't need me anymore.” Lucy swallowed down the lump that had formed in her throat.

“Does that mean you're going to be home all the time now?” asked Elizabeth suspiciously.

“I guess so,” said Lucy, sitting down at the kitchen table, ready for a companionable after-school chat. “I'm going to miss working. It was fun.”

“Yeah,” said Elizabeth, dropping her book bag on the floor and heading for the stairs.

“Do you want a snack?” Lucy asked Sara.

“I'm full. We had cupcakes. It was Jared's birthday. His mom made them.”

“Wasn't that nice?” enthused Lucy, thinking that perhaps she could volunteer at the school now that she had more time.

“Do we have any shoe boxes?”

“Probably. Why?”

“I need to make a diorama.”

“Of what?”

“Life at the North Pole. I'm going to use my plastic penguin.”

“Better make it life at the South Pole, then. There aren't any penguins at the North Pole.”

“There aren't?” Sara was doubtful.

“No.”

“Shit,” said Sara.

“What did you say?” Lucy was about to lecture her second-grade daughter on the evils of profanity when a loud crash was heard upstairs.

“Get out of my room, you dork!”

“What's going on?” Lucy charged up the stairs.

“Toby was in my room!”

“I only wanted to borrow a CD,” explained Toby.

“Well, then you should ask. Shouldn't he, Mom? I mean, it's bad enough that I have absolutely no privacy and have to share my room with a baby—”

“I'm not a baby!” exclaimed Sara, who had followed her mother up the stairs.

“You all better quiet down, or you will wake up the baby,” advised Lucy. “Toby, how about getting started on your homework. Sara, check the hall closet. I think there are some empty shoe boxes in there.” Lucy put her arm around Elizabeth's shoulder and led her to her bed. “How are you doing?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Just wondering. Things have been kind of rough lately, with the asthma and all.”

“I'm okay.”

“Are you taking your medicine?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“How come you didn't go to field hockey practice?”

“The new coach doesn't know anything about the game.”

“Don't be silly.”

“It's true, Mom. She was calling corners when they should have been long shots!”

“So, she has a lot to learn. You're the one missing out if you don't go.”

“Yeah, you're right. I'll go tomorrow.”

“How's Lance? You haven't mentioned him lately.”

“He hasn't been in school all week. Probably sick or something.”

“Did you call?”

“Yeah. No answer.”

“That's odd.”

“God, you make such a big thing about everything. He doesn't have to answer the phone if he doesn't want to. There's no law or anything.”

“That's true,” said Lucy, smiling agreeably. She wasn't going to let Elizabeth irritate her. Besides, Zoë was beginning to stir.

Scooping the baby up for a hug, Lucy changed her diapers and carried her downstairs. She was busily exploring the pot cupboard, and Lucy was making the salad, when Bill came home.

“Hi! How was your day?” she asked brightly.

“Okay.” He pulled a beer out of the fridge. “How about you?”

“I've had better. Ted told me he doesn't need me anymore.” It wasn't any easier to say the second time.

“Just as well,” said Bill. “There's plenty for you to do here at home.”

“I know, but I really liked working.”

“You knew it was only temporary,” said Bill, belaboring the obvious.

“It's still hard to take. I thought that once Ted learned how good I am, he'd want to keep me.”

“Humph,” snorted Bill. “Nobody's indispensable.”

 

When the whole family was seated at the table, Lucy made her big announcement.

“Guess what? I have a story in
The Pennysaver!
With my name and everything!”

“Cool,” said Toby. “Could I have some more potatoes?”

“That's great, honey,” said Bill, handing her an empty salt shaker. “Would you mind filling this?”

“If you're getting up, I'd like some more milk, please,” said Toby.

“Me, too,” said Sara.

“Me!” exclaimed Zoë, mimicking her.

“How about you, Elizabeth?”

“No, thanks. I don't want to be fat like Toby.”

“Elizabeth!” said Bill sharply as Lucy turned and went into the kitchen.

Alone, she heard the voices of her children, squabbling at the table. She reached up into the cupboard, got the salt, and refilled the shaker. Replacing the package, she closed the cabinet door and leaned her head against it. It was ridiculous to feel so upset. After all, moms were appreciated only on Mother's Day. That's why they invented it. So they could treat you like a household appliance the rest of the year.

Lifting her head, she opened the fridge and reached for the gallon container of milk.

 

“You look a little down.”

Lucy turned and faced Professor Rea. “I guess I am.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No,” said Lucy.

Quentin began gathering up his lecture notes. “Well, then, let me see if I can't cheer you up.” He studied her, adopting the attitude of a doctor making a diagnosis. “I have just the thing. How would you like to see my photographs of the Brownings' flat in Florence? How can you resist a peek at their private life together?”

“I can't,” said Lucy, smiling slowly. After all, she told herself, she was only going to his apartment to look at some photos. There was nothing the matter with that, was there?

 

Quentin Rea's apartment was on Main Street, above the Carriage Trade, a rather expensive dress shop. As they climbed the stairs, carpeted with an Oriental runner, Lucy wondered what to expect. Her experience of bachelor apartments was limited—she had met Bill when they were both in college, living in dorms. After graduation they had lived together for a year or two, and then got married. She had never before visited a man alone in his apartment, she realized, thinking it was about time. She was forty years old, after all.

Smoothly unlocking the paneled door, Quentin opened it with a flourish. “My humble abode,” he said, stepping aside for her to enter.

Humble
was not the word Lucy would have chosen to describe Quentin's living room. He had left a lamp burning, and Lucy stepped into a generously proportioned room with two large windows overlooking the street. It was filled with gleaming antique furniture, the floors were covered with intricately patterned Persian rugs, and low bookcases lined the walls.

Lucy studiously avoided meeting his eyes, studying instead his collection of paintings by some of the better local artists. Lucy recognized the distinctive abstract style of Liv Caldecott, and the whimsical primitives of Ric Dreyfus. Tucked away in a corner in a special little cabinet she spotted a Chinese water pipe.

“Shades of Coleridge,” she exclaimed. “May I see it?”

“I'd be honored,” said Quentin, gently opening the glass door. He lifted out the pipe and handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers in the process. Her hands shook as she took it, and she concentrated on trying not to tangle the chains that dangled from the mouthpiece.

“Where did you ever find this?” she asked, making a great show of admiring the cloisonné design of water lilies and the assorted brass fittings. She was beginning to think it was a mistake to come. In such an intimate setting every word seemed heavy with meaning, every gesture sensual.

“It was my grandfather's.”

“Your grandfather smoked opium?” asked Lucy, finally raising her eyes to meet his.

“No,” said Quentin, smiling and revealing his whiter than white teeth. “He smoked Prince Albert pipe tobacco. My aunt brought it back from India for him. She was in the Army there during the Second World War.”

“It's very lovely. Is it valuable?”

“Not really. A couple of hundred dollars, maybe. It's precious to me,” he said, replacing it in the cabinet. “My grandfather was very proud of it—he even made this little case for it.”

“Where you close to him?”

“He taught me to love books—he started me off on Dickens and Sir Walter Scott.”

“You know, they don't teach those books in school anymore. Not even
Ivanhoe
.” This was a topic close to Lucy's heart, and a safe detour from the one-way road to intimacy they seemed to be following.

“Your expression just then…” began Quentin.

“What about it?” Lucy was suddenly self-conscious.

“You looked so, oh, I don't know. Engaged, I guess. Interested. Alive. You don't know how rare that is. I've been teaching for a long time now, and most of my students look like cows. You're different. I enjoy watching you—you react to everything.”

“It's a curse,” said Lucy, warming to his flattery and beginning to relax. “I can never keep a secret.”

“Do you have secrets?” He tossed off the question as he squatted in front of one of the bookcases, looking for a volume.

“No,” said Lucy, standing beside him and resting her hips on the top shelf. She sighed, and added, “And even if I did, I don't think anybody would bother to try to find them out.”

“What do you mean?” asked Quentin, pulling a book and turning to casually settle himself beside her.

“I started out as a person,” said Lucy, putting her growing sense of discontent into words. “But that all ended when I became Mom. I stopped being a person and became a role.”

“You have your job at the paper. Isn't that fulfilling?” His voice was gentle, concerned.

“I was only filling in for someone. They don't need me anymore.” This time, with him, she couldn't stop the tears from flowing.

He drew her to him and she sobbed into his shoulder. He folded his arms around her and patted her back. “There, there,” he murmured.

All the tension and anxiety of the last few weeks, all the fears she had resolutely pushed deep into her subconscious, came welling to the surface and overflowed. She indulged her emotions and abandoned herself to her tears. Finally, she drew a deep, shuddering breath and he pressed a fresh handkerchief into her hand. She wiped her eyes, and then looked up at him.

He bent down and kissed her. She knew she should resist, but she didn't. Feeling his tongue brush her lips, she parted them. He held her more tightly, pressing her to him and she felt herself melting against him.

At that moment, she wanted to stay in the comfort of his arms forever. She wanted to taste him and smell him, and feel his warmth deep within her. He slipped his tongue deeper into her mouth and she wrapped her fingers in his soft, springy hair. She felt his hand on her breast and she leaned into it, feeling a surge of desire run through her body.