Candy Cane Murder (29 page)

She slid behind the wheel of Auntie Granada, the secondhand Ford they'd bought for her to drive. It was another expense they hadn't anticipated. Coming from the city they'd been shocked to discover there was no public transportation in rural Maine and that everyone had to provide for themselves. But Auntie Granada was one of the few things in their new life that actually worked and Lucy enjoyed cruising along the country roads with the radio blasting oldies. “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” was playing as she turned out of the driveway onto Red Top Road and headed for town.

But where to go in town, she wondered, as she hummed along to the tune. There was no Bloomingdale's in Tinker's Cove, just a quaint little country store called Country Cousins that sold duck boots and rugged plaid shirts and corduroy pants. They had nothing at all for children, and only a few decidedly unstylish items for women. Definitely not the sort of place you went to spend your mad money.

Proceeding down Main Street she passed the newspaper office and the police and fire stations, eventually coming to Jake's Donut Shack. She considered stopping there and treating herself to a hot chocolate, but dismissed the idea. The few times she'd gone inside she'd felt uncomfortable, as if Jake's was some sort of exclusive club. Everybody seemed to know everybody else and regarded outsiders with suspicion. It was the same, Bill had told her, at the local fisherman's bar down at the harbor. The Bilge had a faithful clientele of regulars who were practically hostile to newcomers.

Reaching the end of Main Street, Lucy turned down Sea Street to the town pier, where she circled the parking lot. Nothing going on there, just a lot of boats sitting on shore and a lot of ice covering the harbor.

Well, so much for my afternoon out, thought Lucy, I might as well go home. So she headed back along Main Street where she noticed lights glimmering through the arched windows of the squat gray stone building that housed the Broadbrooks Free Library. Maybe they'll have some new magazines, she thought, turning into the parking lot. Or maybe even a new mystery.

The librarian looked up from the cards she was sorting at the main desk when Lucy entered. She was a white-haired crone but she greeted Lucy with a warm smile and a cheery hello. “Are you interested in anything particular?” she asked, eager to be helpful.

“Not really,” said Lucy.

“Ah,” said the old woman, looking at her shrewdly. “Just need a bit of a distraction?”

“That's it exactly,” said Lucy.

“You're new in town, aren't you? You and your husband bought that old farmhouse on Red Top Road, right?”

Lucy was amazed. “How'd you know?”

The old woman flapped a veined and spotted hand. “It's a small town,” she said, with a shrug. “You've taken on quite a challenge with that place. I understand the building inspector was just about to condemn it.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Lucy. “But my husband is determined to fix it up.”

“Well, more power to him.”

Lucy smiled ruefully. “He'll need it.”

“It must be difficult for you,” said the librarian, nodding at Lucy's tummy. “Especially with a toddler on your hands.”

Lucy was taken by surprise at the woman's directness and was embarrassed to feel tears pricking at her eyes. She turned away, blinking furiously. “I'm managing,” she finally said.

“Oh, dear,” fretted the old woman, “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“It's been a difficult day,” admitted Lucy, wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue she found in her coat pocket.

“Well, I have just the thing,” said the librarian, coming round the desk and taking her by the elbow. “Come on into my office. I have a comfortable chair there and I can give you a cup of tea. Would you like that?”

“I'd love it,” said Lucy.

 

It was warm and toasty in the office and the librarian, who introduced herself as Miss Tilley, brewed a bracing cup of tea. Lucy found herself downing several cups as she related the day's mishaps and actually found herself laughing as she described her struggles with the oven.

“I very much doubt that Sears will get to you before Christmas,” said Miss Tilley, nodding sagely. “There's just the one repairman and I happen to know he's flat out.”

“That's too bad,” said Lucy, her face sinking. “I really wanted to make those cookies.”

“Why not make them at my house?” suggested Miss Tilley. “My oven's working fine.”

“Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble,” demurred Lucy. “Besides, I can't really leave my little boy.”

“Bring him along. I love children.”

Lucy looked at the prim old lady, in her spotless white blouse with a cameo pin at the neck and her dark plaid skirt. “I don't think…”

“Nonsense. I'll expect you bright and early tomorrow. At eight. That will give us plenty of time because the library doesn't open until three on Thursdays.” She peered at her through her wire-rimmed glasses. “You know where I live?”

Lucy suddenly felt inadequate. “I know I should but I'm afraid…”

“No reason you should know. You just moved here. I'm on Parallel Street, which is aptly named because it's parallel to Main Street, at the corner of Elm. Do you know it?”

“I do,” said Lucy.

“And now, before you leave, perhaps I could suggest a few books. Do you enjoy mysteries?”

 

Lucy's spirits were much brighter as she drove home. She had a small stack of well-thumbed mystery novels on the seat beside her and she was taking a different route, following Miss Tilley's directions. It took her along Shore Road, past enormous summer cottages perched high above the bay. The view of rocky shore studded with tall pines, the dazzling expanse of blue ocean and the overarching blue sky was absolutely spectacular and Lucy began to feel once again that living in Maine wasn't so terrible after all.

New York City had nothing like this, in fact, the city could be pretty depressing sometimes. The subway smelled awful, the streets were full of litter, there was graffiti everywhere, and you couldn't walk down the street without having to step over at least one homeless person. And most important of all, Bill had truly been miserable at his job and that was something she couldn't tolerate. More than anything she wanted him to be happy.

Coming to the end of Shore Road, Lucy turned onto Packet Road which Miss Tilley assured her would eventually lead her to her own Red Top Road after she passed a cluster of houses. Lucy was exploring this new territory with interest and when she noticed a sign advertising a yard sale she impulsively pulled off the road and followed the hand-drawn arrow down a narrow dirt track of a driveway, eventually coming to a stop in front of a ramshackle log cabin. With a sagging porch and broken windows patched with cardboard and rags, it seemed to be in even worse shape than her house.

Undaunted, she turned off the ignition and got out of the car, eager to see what bargains she might find. Lucy had discovered soon after moving to Maine that yard sales offered the biggest bang for the buck, and a buck was just about all she had to spend. You never knew what might turn up, maybe she'd find a present for Bill, or a toy she could recycle for Toby. He wouldn't mind if it didn't come in a box, brand new.

But this yard sale didn't really deserve the name. There was only one small card table of household goods, with a carton beneath. And the items for sale verged on the pathetic: a stack of empty margarine tubs, a plastic ice cube tray, a few tattered copies of
Family Circle
magazine, and a plastic Christmas wreath that had faded from green to beige. Lucy was turning to go when the door opened and a young woman popped out.

“Hey!” she yelled. “I didn't hear your car.”

“That's okay,” Lucy yelled back. “I was just leaving.”

The woman was zipping up her jacket, a dirty white parka that had long ago lost its puffy look and had gone flat. She tucked her dirty blond hair behind her ears and shuffled across the dirt yard in leopard-print fuzzy slippers. She wasn't wearing socks and her bird-thin ankles were blue from the cold.

“Did you see the box?” she asked, taking Lucy's arm. “There's some good stuff in there.”

Lucy knew she was stuck. The woman, actually really only a girl, now that she had a good look at her, wasn't going to let her go unless she bought something and Lucy didn't blame her. For the first time in her life she was experiencing poverty and she recognized this woman as a longtime sufferer. The woman turned her head quickly, looking over her shoulder, and Lucy spotted two little children peering out of the broken window. She realized that this pathetic excuse for a yard sale was probably an effort to raise some money for Christmas.

“Well,” said Lucy, reaching for her wallet. “I guess you can never have too many containers for leftovers.”

The woman smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. “These work great,” she said, nodding enthusiastically and reaching for the pile of margarine containers. “Fifty cents?”

“Sure,” said Lucy, plucking two quarters from her purse and reminding herself that she wasn't getting rooked, paying a ridiculous price for something she didn't need, but should consider it charity.

Encouraged by the sale, the woman pulled out the cardboard box from under the table. “Take a look,” she said. “Some of this stuff is old.” She paused. “Real old. Like antique.”

Lucy planned to take a cursory look and then make a quick escape, but her eye was caught by a gleaming flash of red and white. She leaned closer, to investigate, and pulled out a giant candy cane made of…of what? She thought it was plastic but now that she was holding it she thought it was glass.

“What's this?” asked Lucy.

“A glass cane,” said the woman, shrugging. “Go figure.”

“There must be some story behind this,” said Lucy, intrigued.

The woman didn't answer. She was looking down the drive where an aged blue pickup truck was lumbering towards the house. “Do you want it?” she asked, obviously nervous. “You can have it for a dollar.”

“Okay.” Lucy pulled out a dollar, the last of her week's grocery money.

“Thanks,” said the woman, stuffing it in her pocket. She tilted her head toward the truck. “You better go now.”

Lucy turned and saw a heavyset man with a bushy red beard getting out of the truck. Like nearly every man in Maine, he was wearing a plaid wool shirt-jacket, blue jeans, and work boots. “What's going on here?” he demanded, clumping across the yard and grabbing the woman by the wrist. “Didn't I tell you, didn't I say no way?”

“C'mon Kyle, you're hurting me,” whined the woman, trying to twist away.

“I don't really…I mean, I'd be happy to give this back, if it's a problem,” said Lucy, eager to defuse a situation that seemed to be getting out of control.

“You get out of here,” snarled Kyle, spraying her with spittle. “This is between Dora and me.”

Lucy looked questioningly at Dora, who nodded her head in quick little jerks.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“GET OUT!” bellowed Kyle. “I got a shotgun, if you need convincing.”

“No,” said Lucy, backing away. “I'm convinced.”

She was shaking when she got back behind the wheel of the car. She started the engine and backed around, catching sight of Kyle and Dora in the rearview mirror just as Dora broke free of his grip. Kyle raised his hand, and for a minute Lucy thought he was going to hit Dora, but instead he turned and waved at her, giving her a big gap-toothed smile.

Lucy stuck her hand out the window and waved back, signaling that she'd gotten the message. Everything was cool. He wasn't abusive, not at all. She'd just witnessed an unfortunate misunderstanding and the sooner she forgot all about it, the better. It was none of her business, was it?

Or was it? Lucy wasn't sure, as she bounced down the dirt track. She was certain Dora was a victim of domestic abuse but she hadn't seen enough to go to the police, and she doubted there was much they could do in any case. From what she'd read, most abused wives declined to press charges against their abusers for fear of even worse violence in retaliation.

But one thing was certain, she decided, trying to quell the queasy feeling in her stomach. She wasn't feeling sorry for herself any longer. There were people a lot worse off than she was, and it was time to count her blessings: a gentle husband who loved her, an adorable baby boy, a new friend. And if the glass cane was really an antique, it would make a great Christmas present for Miss Tilley.

W
hen she arrived at Miss Tilley's neat little antique house Lucy began to feel hopeful that their old farmhouse might someday look like something. Taking in the polished wide plank floors, the windows with their tiny panes of hand-blown wavy glass and the smoothly plastered walls and ceilings she found herself sighing in admiration. “What a lovely house,” she said, setting Toby and her tote bag on the floor so she could take off her coat. She looked around eagerly taking in every detail as she pulled off his boots and mittens and unzipped his snowsuit: the gleaming antique pine furniture, the glowing colors of the Persian rug, the table top Christmas tree trimmed with tiny glass balls, the silvery sheen of the pewter plates displayed in a hutch, the portrait over the fireplace where a bright fire blazed merrily.

“My father,” said Miss Tilley, indicating the rather stern gentleman pictured in the oil painting. “He was a judge.”

“He does look judgmental,” said Lucy, quickly biting her tongue. “No, I didn't mean that. Judicious. He looks quite judicious.”

“He was named after General William Tecumseh Sherman, you know, the Civil War general, and I was named after Julia Ward Howe.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “It's a family tradition, naming people after relics of the past.”

Lucy scooped up Toby, who was heading for the fire, and perched him on her hip. “Toby was named after my great grandfather Tobias.”

“It's a good old-fashioned name,” said Miss Tilley, leading the way to the kitchen.

“We were trying to avoid the Js,” said Lucy, using her free hand to grab the tote bag that was overflowing with toys, extra clothes and diapers, a bowl of cookie dough, a cookie press and baking tins. “Names like Jason, and Justin, and Jennifer are all the rage now.”

“I have noticed quite a few of them at the library.”

“Oh, my,” said Lucy, startled to see an enormous black and chrome Glenwood coal stove taking pride of place in the middle of the Miss Tilley's kitchen. “That's a beautiful stove but I don't know how…”

“Never mind that old thing,” said Miss Tilley, dismissing the gleaming monster. “I have a modern electric stove, too.”

Indeed she did. A slim electric model was tucked into a bank of cabinets that was built against one wall and also included a double stainless steel sink set beneath a window with red and white gingham curtains. A porcelain-topped table sat in the middle of the room, on top of a cozy red and blue braided rug, and a hutch stood against the wall, filled with blue and white Canton china. Lucy felt as if she'd wandered into a Tasha Tudor book.

“I prefer the table for baking,” said Miss Tilley, reaching for Toby. “Now, young man, we need to let your mother get on with her cookies.”

Lucy expected Toby to resist but instead he smiled and reached out with his arms. The transfer was smoothly made and Miss Tilley carried him into the living room where she joined him on the rug and engaged him in building towers of blocks which they knocked down with a ball. Toby found this enormously entertaining and Lucy could hear him laughing as she set about the business of scooping dough into the press and squeezing out the shaped cookies onto the tins, then she decorated them with bits of candied fruit and colored sugar before popping them into the oven. Soon the whole house was filled with the buttery scent of baking cookies. Lucy was just sliding the last pan into the oven when Miss Tilley appeared, leading Toby by the hand.

“I think this young man is ready for a snack,” she said, pulling an antique oak high chair out of the corner and setting it by the table. Lucy hoisted him into the chair and put a couple of warm cookies on the tray while Miss Tilley poured a small glass of milk. “Those cookies smell absolutely delicious,” she said.

“Please, have some. I'm going to leave you some, too,” said Lucy, with a nod to the overloaded wire cooling racks that were covered with dozens of perfect cookies, golden and brown around the edges. “I really appreciate…”

“Nonsense,” said the old woman, with a wave of her hand. “We've enjoyed ourselves, haven't we, Toby?”

Toby took a bite of the cookie he was holding in his fat little hand. “Mmm,” he said.

“I agree,” said Miss Tilley, after taking a bite of cookie. “Mmmm.”

Toby laughed and kicked his feet. “Mmmm.”

Lucy was amazed at how Miss Tilley could turn the simplest thing into a game, making sounds that Toby imitated, playing peekaboo, reciting “This Little Piggy” while wiping his fingers with a washcloth. Soon the last cookies were out of the oven and Toby was rubbing his eyes.

“Why don't you put him down for a nap?” suggested Miss Tilley. “Then you could get off your feet for a bit while I wash up these pans.”

“Oh, I couldn't let you…” protested Lucy, even though her feet and back were killing her.

“I insist,” said Miss Tilley, using the voice that had maintained quiet in the library for thirty-odd years. She nodded toward a little downstairs room, the borning room she called it, and Lucy settled Toby on a daybed, removing his shoes and covering him with a handmade crocheted afghan. A copy of
The Night Before Christmas
was lying on the bedside table so she sat on the side of the bed and read him a few pages, closing the book when he was settled into a deep sleep and going out to the living room. There she found Miss Tilley waiting for her by the fire, along with two glasses of golden sherry and a plate of cheese twists.

“I think we both deserve a bit of a treat,” said Miss Tilley, lifting her glass.

Lucy was about to protest that she rarely drank alcohol, and never in the morning, but the scene was so inviting that she changed her mind. “This looks lovely,” she said, sinking into the down couch cushions.

“It is,” said Miss Tilley, taking a sip and smacking her lips. “Dry Sack. Yummy.”

The sherry was delicious and Lucy finished hers before she remembered the glass cane which she had left out in the car. She jumped to her feet. “I almost forgot,” she exclaimed. “There's something in the car I need to get.”

She hurried out and came back with the cane, awkwardly wrapped in white tissue with a big red bow. “I have a Christmas present for you.”

“Oh, you shouldn't have,” protested Miss Tilley, stretching out her hands to take the gift.

“I hope you like it,” said Lucy. “When I saw it I thought of you.”

“That is intriguing,” said Miss Tilley, examining the oddly shaped package. “May I open it now?”

“Please do,” said Lucy, eagerly anticipating the joyful reaction she was certain the cane would evoke.

But when Miss Tilley tore off the tissue there were no smiles, no raptures, no expressions of thanks. There was only shock and stunned silence as a single tear traced a path down the old woman's wrinkled face until it reached the corner of her mouth and she quickly licked it away with a flick of her tongue.

Lucy was dismayed at her reaction. “I didn't mean to distress you,” she said.

“Forgive me,” she said, as if coming out of a trance. “I was just overcome. This is wonderful. So thoughtful of you. An antique glass cane.”

“I'll take it back. I'll get you something else,” said Lucy. A bottle of Dry Sack came to mind. It would be expensive, but at least she could be sure Miss Tilley would enjoy it.

“Not at all.” Miss Tilley got to her feet and laid the cane on the mantel. “This is remarkable, a wonderful find. And so festive.” Her voice became soft and reflective. “I haven't seen one of these in years.”

“So you know what it is. You've seen one before?”

“Oh, yes. There used to be a glass factory in town many years ago and canes like this turned up frequently. But of course they're fragile and I suppose a lot of them got broken and now they're quite rare. This one is a real find.” She looked at Lucy. “Do you mind telling me where you got it?”

Lucy blushed, embarrassed. “Actually, well, it was at a yard sale.”

“A yard sale,” mused Miss Tilley, reaching for the sherry bottle. “Would you like a bit more?”

“None for me, I have to drive home,” she said, watching the old woman refill her glass, setting the bottle on the table beside it.

“Where was this yard sale?” asked Miss Tilley, emptying the glass of sherry and refilling it.

“Out on Packet Road.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “Kyle and Dora. How interesting.”

“That's right,” said Lucy, who continued to be surprised at the way Miss Tilley seemed to know everyone in town.

Miss Tilley sighed. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

“Not at all,” said Lucy, wishing desperately that Toby would wake up and she could get out of there, away from her embarrassing gaffe and back home. But Miss Tilley was not about to be deterred.

“It was Christmas Eve,” she began, taking another sip. Her eyes had lost their focus and she was looking inward, seeking the past. “I was just a girl. I'd been out skating on Blueberry Pond and when I got home the house was quiet. Very quiet, which was unusual, because my mother was an invalid and there were usually people around, a nurse, a cook, a maid. There was always someone in the kitchen, people going up and down the stairs. It was the stairs, you see. She'd fallen down the cellar stairs. Mama was there at the bottom, crumpled in a heap, and there was a glass cane, red and white like this one, on the floor beside her. Smashed to smithereens.”

Horrified, Lucy's hand flew to her mouth. “I had no idea,” she said.

“Of course not. How could you have known?” Miss Tilley's voice was thoughtful. “Nobody knew, really. It was all kept very quiet. Papa didn't want people to know the details, that Mama was wandering about the house as if nobody was taking proper care of her. He let people assume that she died a respectable death in bed, surrounded by her loving family.”

Lucy's mind was full of questions but she wasn't at all comfortable asking them. She sat, trying to think of something appropriate to say, and watching as Miss Tilley refilled the glass yet again.

“It was horrible. He made me help, you see. He made me help carry Mama upstairs to her bed.”

“Who did?” It popped out before Lucy could stop herself.

“Papa did. He took her by the shoulders and told me to lift her by the ankles. He said she wouldn't, she couldn't be very heavy, not after being sick for so long, but she was heavy. We kind of bumped her up the stairs, two long flights. And then he sent me back downstairs to sweep up the glass and tidy the basement while he put her in a fresh nightgown and tied her hair with a ribbon and tucked the covers around her, folding her hands around a Bible and laying them on her chest.” Miss Tilley looked her straight in the eye. “Then he called the doctor.”

Lucy found her eyes going to the portrait over the mantel. The stern, righteous man pictured there suddenly didn't look quite so respectable. That gleam in his eye, was it the light of truth and justice, or was it something more sinister?

Lucy thought of her own great grandfather Tobias. He wore flannel shirts and khakis in the house, where he spent his days reading and watching baseball on TV from his armchair in the living room and making wooden furniture in his basement workshop, but he never went outside in such casual clothes. He put on a starched white shirt, a dark suit, shiny black shoes and a hat for the short walk down the street to buy the newspaper. “Times change,” said Lucy. “When I was a little girl I wore white gloves to church. And my great grandfather wouldn't go out of the house without a hat.”

Miss Tilley nodded. “Straw between Memorial Day and Labor Day, felt for the rest of the year.”

“Exactly,” said Lucy, smiling. “So it's not surprising that your father would want to protect his family from gossip. Every funeral's the same: everybody wants to know all the details. Did she smoke? Was it expected or was it sudden? Did she suffer? I can see why he wanted to keep some things private. He wanted to preserve your mother's dignity, even in death.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” said Miss Tilley. “Mama rarely got out of the house except to go to church on Sunday even before she got sick. She may have looked like a fine lady then, in her silk dress and her flowery hat, but at home she worked like a slave. Everything had to be just so for Papa. She even ironed his morning paper before he read it.”

Lucy had never heard of such a thing and her eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, yes,” continued Miss Tilley. “He had to have fresh linens on his bed every night, fresh towels every day, starched napkins and those shirts of his.” She rolled her eyes. “The slightest little wrinkle, even a pucker from the iron and he'd have a fit. My goodness, the hours my poor mother spent at the ironing board. There was no permanent press then and if there had been Papa certainly wouldn't have allowed it. When I think of her, before she got sick, I think of her standing at that ironing board, her sleeves rolled up and her hair falling down, her face shiny with sweat.”

“She didn't have any household help?”

“Not until she got sick.”