Back To School Murder #4 (21 page)

T
he next morning, Lucy attempted to catch up on the housework she had neglected while she was working at the newspaper. Zoë followed along behind her as she cleaned, pretending her popcorn popper push-toy was a vacuum cleaner. The flu had taken a toll, however; the little toddler soon ran out of energy, and Lucy put her down for an unusual morning nap.

While Zoë slept, Lucy spread the notes and papers she had accumulated about Carol Crane out on the kitchen table. As she went through her notes, carefully checking and cross-checking her sources, a picture began to emerge.

Lucy imagined Carol as a bright, pretty little girl who had grown up poor in rural Maine. Lucy had driven through impoverished towns like Quivet Neck, where people lived in dilapidated mobile homes and decaying farmhouses. Miles from anywhere, without even an IGA, their diet consisted of overpriced white bread and canned goods from the general store. The winter was long and cold, and the motherless Carol would have been stuck at home, alone with her father.

It was certainly a less than ideal situation for a teenage girl, thought Lucy. Nowadays there was a growing awareness of incest and sexual abuse, but that wasn't the case when Carol was left alone in the care of her father.

Recalling that Quentin had told her what Carol's father did, Lucy rummaged through her notes. Flipping through the pages, she finally found it. He was a school janitor.

Lucy smacked her head. No wonder Carol had hated Mr. Mopps. She had even called him Pops, remembered Lucy, and had accused him of spending too much time in the girls' room. What had Lucy heard her say?
I know all about you
. That was it. Mr. Mopps had the misfortune of reminding Carol of her father, so he had to go.

For the first time since she'd started investigating Carol's past, Lucy found herself feeling sorry for her. Carol had always seemed to be the manipulator, tricking and maneuvering others, but now Lucy suspected she was driven by powerful emotions and memories she couldn't control.

Working at the country club, Carol must have learned of a different way of life. Lucy could picture her sitting in her lifeguard's chair, carefully observing everything that went on. She heard how upper-class people talked; she saw how the girls dressed and did their hair. She might even have copied them, but there was little point. There wasn't anybody to impress in Quivet Neck and the locals would just make fun of her for putting on airs. The best she could hope for was to marry young and get out of her father's house and into a place of her own. Her husband might scratch out a living lobstering, or repairing cars. She could work for the summer people, but there wasn't much employment for women in the winter.

Then, when she saved that little boy, a brief window of opportunity opened for her. She was recognized as a hero, probably lavished with attention for the first time in her life. It must have been a heady experience, and one that made an indelible impression on her. She accepted the grateful parents' offer of a college education, and never looked back.

Lucy thought of Carol's apartment—the light-colored fabrics, the blatantly feminine Georgia O'Keeffe flowers, the immaculate kitchen and bathroom. Nothing could be farther from the grubby, crowded, makeshift houses inhabited by poor folks in rural Maine. It was Carol's way of reminding herself how far she had come, and Lucy was convinced that Carol would have done anything to avoid going back to Quivet Neck.

Hungry for respectability, she must have loved working as an assistant principal. She had discovered that it didn't matter that she lacked the credentials as long as she could convincingly play the part. Besides, once she had staged one of her heroic stunts, nobody was likely to ask any questions.

Being in a role of authority must have been the icing on the cake. Lucy bet Carol had derived a great deal of satisfaction from making others suffer, as she had suffered as a child. Poor Mr. Mopps had gotten the treatment Carol would have liked to deliver to her own father.

Was her father still alive, Lucy wondered. If he was, Carol had successfully broken all ties with him. He hadn't claimed her body or arranged for a funeral; he hadn't even collected her furniture and belongings.

Hearing Zoë stirring, Lucy brought her downstairs. They had a quick lunch, and then Lucy planned to go into town to do some errands. But first, there was something she wanted to check out.

 

Lucy dropped Zoë at the day-care center, where she was enthusiastically greeted by Sue. “It's nice to see you're feeling better, Miss Zoë,” she exclaimed, taking the toddler's hand and leading her to the Play-Doh table. “Let's make some cookies for the dolls to eat.”

With Zoë happily occupied, Lucy headed straight for Carol Crane's apartment complex. She was just climbing out of her car when she noticed DeWalt Smythe hurrying toward his own car. There was something slightly furtive about his movements and Lucy wondered if he was coming from one of the prolonged prayer sessions Miss Tilley had told her about.

“Hi!” yelled Lucy, giving him a big wave.

DeWalt stopped suddenly, and something fell from his pocket. Recognizing Lucy, he waved back.

“Visiting a parishioner?” asked Lucy, walking toward him.

“Ah, yes. It's one of the most rewarding parts of my work,” he said, opening the door to his big black sedan. “I wish I had time to chat, but I'm late for a Bible Circle meeting.”

“Wait a second,” said Lucy, bending down to retrieve a white envelope. “You dropped this.”

In his haste to snatch the envelope, DeWalt clumsily dropped it once again. This time the contents, which appeared to be photographs, were caught by the wind and scattered.

DeWalt raced around, frantically trying to gather them before they were carried away. Lucy watched him for a moment until she realized the wind was getting the better of him and she joined in to help, chasing down the photos that skittered just beyond her reach.

As she waited for him to return to the car, Lucy began straightening the handful of photos she had managed to catch. Glimpsing the top one, she gasped. It was a naked man.

Looking more closely, she realized it was a picture of DeWalt. He was smiling coyly, stretched out on Carol's bed beneath her Georgia O'Keeffe flowers.

Lucy tried to pretend she hadn't seen the photo, even though she was pretty sure DeWalt had observed her reaction.

“Here you go,” she said, handing them to him face down.

“It's not what you think,” said DeWalt, whose face was very red. Lucy wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or the exertion of catching the windblown photos.

“It's none of my business,” said Lucy, backing away.

“She tricked me,” insisted DeWalt, pulling himself up to his full height and adopting his ministerial voice. “Like Delilah tricked Samson.”

This was too much for Lucy. “I suppose she promised you a modeling contract,” she snapped.

“Let me explain,” he begged, reaching for her arm. “Please. I don't want you to think I killed her.”

“I don't think anything,” said Lucy, putting up her hands in denial. “I have to go.”

“Lord knows I sinned,” he said, abjectly bowing his massive head. “I've been carrying this around for so long—I have to tell someone.”

“I don't think I'm the one…” objected Lucy, but DeWalt ignored her. She began to understand how enormous his ego really was and his need for instant gratification.

“Lord knows I never intended to sin, but one thing led to another and we became intimate. Next thing I knew, she was snapping photos. I didn't mind—I was flattered. I thought she wanted to have something to remember me by, but that wasn't it at all. A couple of weeks later she told me she would show them to the congregation's executive committee unless I…” He sputtered and stalled; the urge to confess seemed to be weakening. “Well, unless I did what she told me to do.”

“What was that?” asked Lucy.

He heaved a big sigh, and forced the words out in a rush.

“She wanted me to plant a bomb in the school.”

“You did it?” Lucy was stunned.

“I had to,” explained DeWalt, matter-of-factly. “I would have been ruined if these pictures got out. Think of Zephirah.”

“But what about the children?” she asked, outraged. “You decided your reputation was worth the lives of innocent children! Didn't you even think about them?”

“Of course I did. I begged and pleaded with her not to do it, but she was determined. Said it would give her the leverage she needed, since I wouldn't fire Sophie like she wanted me to. She told me it was a very small explosive, and it wouldn't do much damage, and she promised nobody would be hurt. She told me exactly what to do, how to hook it into the wiring. Black to black, red to red and all that.”

“Did she make the bomb herself?” asked Lucy.

“I don't think so,” said DeWalt, nervously fingering the packet of photos. “It was all written out for me, but it wasn't her handwriting. She told me to make sure to destroy the paper and I did.”

“When did you do this?” Lucy could hardly bring herself to believe it.

“The night before the first day of school. I had to do it after eleven-thirty, because that was the time it was set for and she didn't want it to go off until the next morning.” He quickly licked his lips. “I had keys and the school was deserted. I didn't have any problems and nobody saw me.”

“How could you do such a thing? You call yourself a pastor, a minister!” Lucy curled her lips in disgust. “And if all that wasn't bad enough, then you went and started accusing Josh Cunningham!”

“I never accused him of the bombing,” said DeWalt, who had carefully measured and delineated the precise limits of his guilt. “I knew I hadn't killed her and it looked like the police had a good case against him. It seemed that the best way to keep the police from discovering my involvement was to keep them focused on him.”

Lucy had an idea. “Let me see the pictures,” she demanded.

“I don't know who the others are,” said DeWalt, handing them over.

Lucy flipped through them, counting about a dozen in all. There were several of DeWalt, and a couple each of men she couldn't identify. The last three were what she was looking for: snapshots of Quentin, embracing a pretty young thing on the steps of the Winchester College library. Lucy groaned out loud.

“How come the police didn't find these when they searched her apartment after the murder?” she asked.

“They were in the freezer, hidden in a bag of frozen vegetables. She was clever.”

“So clever she got herself killed,” said Lucy, coming to a decision. “I think you better take these to the police, right now.”

DeWalt began to protest, but she cut him off. “Get your lawyer and get over there. I'll follow, but there's something I have to do first.”

DeWalt nodded agreement and climbed in his car. He started the engine, and peeled out of the parking lot so fast that he left rubber tire tracks.

It was only a few feet to the landlady's apartment, but it felt like miles to Lucy, who walked slowly and heavily. She was weighed down and depressed by her discovery. She knew DeWalt was a hypocrite, but she hadn't expected him to be capable of such evil.

She knocked softly on the landlady's door.

“Oh, it's you,” she said, a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Today, Lucy noticed, she was wearing a turquoise sweat suit decorated with little rhinestones around the neck and shoulders.

“Is the apartment still available?” asked Lucy.

“It sure is, honey. Are you still interested?” She raised her penciled eyebrows inquiringly, and Lucy saw that her eyeshadow matched the pantsuit.

“I don't know. Like I told you, it's quite a bit more money than I'm paying. And I'm not sure my furniture will fit.” Lucy produced a tape measure. “Do you mind if I take another look?”

“Not at all, but you've got to go by yourself. I'm waiting for the plumber, and I've got to keep an eye on that landscaper.”

She gave a nod toward a man who was clipping the hedges, then turned to pluck a key off a board covered with hooks. “Be sure to bring it back,” she said, making a quick calculation. “If you want it, let me know. I might be able to adjust the rent.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, feeling a bit guilty. She shouldn't lead the poor woman on like this, since she was probably having a tough time renting the apartment. It was, after all, the scene of a brutal murder.

Walking along the concrete pathway that connected the units, Lucy observed the groundsman who was industriously trimming the privet bushes that softened the square appearance of the brick buildings. The apartments really were nice, she decided, and the owner took good care of them. It was too bad that Carol had been killed here; it would probably take quite a while for the stigma to wear off.

Pulling open the door to the vestibule, Lucy went in and unlocked the door. Stepping once again into the dead woman's apartment, she couldn't help feeling uncomfortable and hurried through the living room into the bedroom. All she wanted was a quick peek, and she'd be on her way to the police station.

In the bedroom nothing had been disturbed and the watch was still lying on the dresser, where Carol had left it.

Lucy picked it up. As she suspected, it wasn't working. It had stopped, so Carol had put on her other watch, the sport watch she rarely wore. Like Lucy's, it might well have been an hour behind due to daylight savings. If that was true, it meant she had died at seven-thirty, not eight-thirty as the police believed. It also meant that Josh couldn't have been the murderer, because he had been having breakfast at Jake's at seven-thirty, in the company of plenty of witnesses. Lucy carefully replaced the watch and turned to go.

“Imagine meeting you here,” said Quentin Rea. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, blocking her exit.