Candy Cane Murder (35 page)

It was all pseudo psychology, she admitted, turning into the driveway, but she thought there was some truth to it, especially in Miss Tilley's case, but it did make her wonder if she could trust the librarian's assessments of Judge Tilley and Emil Boott. She turned off the ignition and turned around to see if Toby was still awake and that's when she heard the boom and felt the car shake.

The noise, she realized, had come from the house. Something had blown up inside the house. Toby was shrieking in the backseat, strapped into his car seat. She was still sitting in the car, hanging on to the steering wheel for dear life. But Bill was inside the house. She didn't know what to do. She hopped out of the car and ran toward the house, then she ran back to the car, afraid the house might blow up with her inside, leaving Toby an orphan. She was standing, flapping her arms, torn between her husband and her son, when the door opened and a puff of smoke blew out, followed by Bill. She ran to him.

“Ohmigod, what happened?” she cried, taking in his soot-blackened face, singed eyebrows and hair. He was holding his hands out in front of him, the sleeves of his shirt and sweater were burned off and the skin was red and black and blistered.

“I tried to fix the stove,” he said.

“Get in the car,” she ordered.

“No, Lucy. Don't start the car. Get Toby and we'll go to the neighbors.”

“Right, right,” she said, yanking the door open and un-snapping the car seat straps with shaking hands. Bill was already halfway down the drive, walking like an automaton. He must be in shock, she thought, hurrying to catch up to him.

They could hear the sirens before they even reached the road; the neighbors they didn't even know must have called the fire department. So they stood there and waited as an engine and a ladder truck and, finally, an ambulance, screamed to a halt in front of their house. Forty minutes later it was all over. Bill's burns were treated and wrapped in gauze, the gas was turned off, the house was vented, and they were given permission to go inside.

“You got off lucky this time, believe me,” said the fire chief. “The whole house coulda gone, you coulda been cooked. So if I were you I wouldn't attempt any more repairs. Leave the gas appliances to the professionals.”

“Right,” said Bill, thoroughly chagrined.

“Whew, that was a close one,” said Lucy, surveying the damage. The stove had opened and collapsed like a cardboard box, and everything else in the room was covered with a greasy gray film. That included the ceiling, the walls, the sink and refrigerator, the table and chairs, even the floor, which also had big, muddy footprints.

“Like the man said, it could have been worse,” said Bill.

Lucy remembered that awful moment after the boom, when she didn't know if Bill was alive or dead. “I was so afraid,” she said, tears springing to her eyes.

“I know,” said Bill, enfolding her and Toby in his bandaged arms. “I didn't see my whole life go before my eyes but I did see you, both of you,” he said. “And at that moment, I loved you so, so much. It was really, really intense.”

“How about now?” asked Lucy.

“Well, I still love you but I gotta admit I'd trade you both for a pain pill.”

“I'll call Doc Ryder right away,” said Lucy. “He can call a prescription in to the pharmacy.”

When she finished talking to the doctor, Lucy carried Toby upstairs and settled him down in his crib for a belated nap. The tired little boy was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Returning to the kitchen she found Bill staring at the remains of the stove.

“Lucy, what do you say we give each other a new stove for Christmas?”

“My thoughts exactly, Santa,” said Lucy, slipping into her jacket and reaching for the car keys. “But next time, try coming down the chimney, okay?”

“Very funny,” he said. “And hurry back with those pills.”

 

An icy drizzle was falling when Lucy left the house and had turned to snow by the time she got to town. She drove slowly and carefully down Main Street, which was slick with icy patches and, observing the signs that prohibited parking in front of the pharmacy, slid into a spot a few doors down. The sidewalk was icy, too, and she was relieved when she made it to the door without falling.

Inside, at the prescription counter, the pharmacist greeted her and told her the prescription would be ready in a few minutes. Lucy was tired, so she decided to sit in the waiting area. Turning the corner to the secluded nook that held a few chairs and tattered magazines, she found Dora Boott crouching there with a baby in her arms.

“Hi,” she said. “Remember me? I bought the glass cane.”

Dora raised one hand to cover her face as she turned toward Lucy. “Hi,” she said, mumbling into her upturned collar.

Lucy wasn't fooled. It was clear that Dora had recently suffered a severe beating, probably at the hands of her husband. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Baby's sick,” she said, avoiding meeting Lucy's eyes. “Doc said he's got to have some medicine.”

Lucy's eyes fell on the baby, who was lying listlessly in his mother's arms. His face was quite flushed and his hair damp, he obviously had a high fever. “And what about you?” asked Lucy. “Did you have an accident?”

“Yeah,” growled Kyle, suddenly coming around the corner. “She walked into a door.”

“I don't think so,” said Lucy, leveling her eyes at him. “It looks to me as if somebody hit her.”

“C'mon,” he said, grabbing Dora by the arm and yanking her to her feet. “Let's get out of here.”

“But, Kyle,” protested Dora, in a whisper. “We haven't gotten the medicine.”

“I'll come back tomorrow and get it,” he growled, pulling her toward the door.

“But the doctor said he needs it tonight,” she whispered, even more softly.

“Shut up!” he growled, shoving her. “I've had just about enough of you. Now git!”

Bowing her head and curving her body protectively around the baby, Dora obeyed, shuffling down the aisle toward the door in her bedroom slippers. Kyle followed, turning to glare at Lucy before slamming the door open and leaving. The door had just closed behind them when the pharmacist called out “Boott” and plopped the little bag of medicine onto the counter.

Jumping to her feet, Lucy grabbed the bag and raced after them. Running toward the glass door, she could see them standing outside, face to face, on the sidewalk. Dora was apparently pleading with her husband, begging him not to leave without the prescription. Kyle was becoming increasingly frustrated and Lucy could see him raising his hand, ready to smack Dora on the head, as she pushed the door open and went flying across the icy sidewalk, right into Kyle.

Recovering her balance, she watched in horror as he slid in slow motion toward the curb just as a small, gray sedan driven by an elderly woman came skidding sideways across the street. The woman's mouth was an O and her eyes were wide with shock as Kyle stumbled, then momentarily regained his feet and finally fell beneath the car which rolled right over him before coming to a stop. Only Kyle's arm was visible; his hand twitched a few times and then was still.

Speechless, Lucy turned to Dora, who was still hugging the baby.

“Thank you,” she said, looking Lucy straight in the eyes and taking the prescription. She glanced at the tag stapled to the bag and pulled herself up to her full height. “Three ninety-nine,” she said, her voice clear as a bell. “I guess I'd better go inside and pay for this.”

L
ucy just couldn't get over it. She felt sick every time she thought of the accident, which she replayed over and over in nauseating slow motion in her mind. But as awful as Kyle's death was, she had to admit it had its upside. Now Dora and the children could begin a new life without the constant fear of his violent outbursts. And Dora's recovery had been amazingly quick, she didn't seem to have the least shred of grief for her late husband. In fact, the elderly driver of the car that hit him was far more shaken than Dora and had to be taken to the hospital for observation. Not Dora, though. She refused the sedatives offered by the doctor and when the EMTs expressed their condolences she only said, “Well, he had it coming. The wages of sin, I guess.”

Lucy soon discovered there was also a positive side to Bill's accident with the stove, too. Since he couldn't work on the house with his bandaged hands he was free to mind Toby while she went on a fact-finding mission at the appliance store. She felt almost giddy the next morning as she hopped down the porch stairs and slid behind Auntie Granada's steering wheel, without having to break her back wrestling Toby into the car seat. Then she was off, flying down Red Top Road with the radio blaring Donna Summers and BeeGees tunes, mixed in with Christmas carols. She hummed along, tapping her foot to the beat, and before she knew it she was making the turn onto Main Street.

Proceeding at a more sedate pace she passed the library, the Community Church and the town hall. Slack's Hardware and the Appliance Mart were in the next block, but her eye fell on the sign for Sherman Cobb's law office. Funny, she thought as she braked and turned into the parking area beside the little white clapboard building, she'd never noticed it before. But now here it was, right in front of her, and there would never be a better time to ask him about Emil Boott.

When she entered the office's neat little waiting room she was greeted by the receptionist, a tall woman about her own age with long brown hair. The plaque on her desk gave her name:
RACHEL GOODMAN
.

“Hi,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

“I'd like to talk to Mr. Cobb,” said Lucy.

“I'm afraid he's not in,” said Rachel. “His partner, my husband Bob, is available.”

“I'm afraid I need to speak to Mr. Cobb,” said Lucy.

“Bob is a very good lawyer,” said Rachel, smiling. “And I'm not just saying that because he's my husband. He really is.”

“I'm sure he is,” said Lucy, laughing. “I'm not here about a legal matter. I'm doing some research on local history and Miss Tilley, the librarian, suggested I speak to Mr. Cobb.”

“I see,” said Rachel. “Well, he just went out for his morning cup of coffee. He should be back in a few minutes if you want to wait.”

Lucy looked at the comfy plaid couch, the brass lamp and the stack of magazines on the pine coffee table and decided she could spare a few minutes. “Thanks,” she said. “I think I will.”

She tucked her gloves in her pockets and unbuttoned her coat, making herself comfortable on the sofa. Before she'd become a mother she never would have believed that the opportunity to spend a few minutes checking out the latest magazines would seem like such a luxury. She picked up a copy of
People
magazine and began flipping through the pages.

“I've seen you around town,” said Rachel, breaking into her thoughts. “You have a little boy, don't you?”

“That's right. Toby's almost two.”

“And you live out on Red Top Road?”

“I guess I'll have to get used to everybody knowing all about me,” said Lucy. “It wasn't like this in the city.”

“I suppose not,” said Rachel. “Tinker's Cove is a pretty small town. Everybody knows everything about everybody.”

“You said it,” said a middle-aged gentleman, coming through the door. He had salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing a suit underneath his red-and-black plaid jacket.

“Mr. Cobb, this is Lucy Stone. She wants to ask you about some local history.”

“Well, you've come to the right man,” said Cobb, setting his paper cup of coffee on Rachel's desk, hanging his jacket on the coat tree and extending his hand toward Lucy. She grasped it in hers, then Cobb opened his office door with a flourish and she preceded him through it. Once inside he pulled out a chair for her and she sat down, facing his desk. He sat down facing her, carefully setting his coffee on the blotter.

“So it's local history you're interested in,” he prompted.

Lucy looked around the office, which was decorated with Civil War memorabilia including Matthew Brady photographs, a small and tattered Confederate flag in a frame, and a shadow box containing two lead bullets and a minnie ball.

“Actually, I'm looking for information about a man named Emil Boott. He was a trusty who worked for Judge Tilley.”

“Emil Boott, Emil Boott, the name sounds familiar but I don't remember him. Kyle Boott, of course. Now that was quite an accident. Everybody's talking about it.”

Lucy blushed. “I feel just terrible about that,” she said.

He looked at her curiously. “Don't tell me you were the woman who…?”

“I'm afraid I was. I slipped on the icy sidewalk at the same moment that poor woman lost control of her car. It was a freak accident.”

“I'd say it was good work,” said Rachel, appearing in the open doorway. “He was a brute and certainly won't be missed.”

Sherman Cobb pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, and Rachel scurried back to her desk. “May I ask why you want to know about Emil Boott? Is it something to do with the accident?”

“Oh, no. It's just a coincidence. I'm interested in social history, sort of an American
Upstairs, Downstairs
. I'm studying the late Judge Tilley's household, in fact.”

“For a television show? Do you write for TV?”

“Possibly,” said Lucy, aware that she was prevaricating. “Right now I'm thinking more along the lines of a story for a women's magazine. How times have changed, that sort of thing.”

“I expect you'll find they've improved quite a bit,” said Sherman, prying the lid off his coffee. “I'm a Civil War reenactor and I can tell you life wasn't very comfortable back then. Clothes were itchy, shoes didn't fit very well, food was monotonous and a bath was a real luxury.”

“And that's only the male side of things,” said Lucy. “Think of all the work the poor women had to do.”

“It killed a lot of them, you know. The old cemetery behind the Community Church is full of old sea captains who have three or four wives buried beside them. You'd think going to sea would be dangerous but it was more dangerous for the women staying home.”

“Childbirth was the big killer,” said Lucy, patting her tummy. “I, for one, am thankful for modern obstetrics.”

“And disease, well into this century. The judge always maintained that Mrs. Tilley died of exhaustion but most people thought it was TB.”

“Did you know the family well?” asked Lucy.

“Not Mrs. Tilley. I came along after she was gone. But Judge Tilley took an interest in me. You could say he was my mentor.”

“Really?” Lucy was surprised. “Everything I've heard seems to indicate he was rather stern and forbidding.”

“There was that side to him, definitely. But he helped pay for my schooling, right up through law school. And he gave me plenty of encouragement and good advice when I started to practice.” He took a swallow of coffee, then chuckled. “I often wonder what he'd think of the present day system.”

“What do you mean?”

“The judge believed justice should be swift and sure. He actually tended to give rather short sentences, he wanted folks to learn their lesson and get back to work supporting their families. I've talked to some of people he sent to the county jail and they've told me jail was a picnic compared to the talking-to he gave them. Made them think, he did. He wouldn't approve of all these long trials and people sitting on death row for years and years of appeals.”

“Did he ever sentence anyone to death?”

“No. He didn't believe in it. He said that should be left to God.”

Lucy shook her head in amazement. “I had an entirely different impression of him.”

“Don't get me wrong,” said Cobb. “He was a tough taskmaster, believe me. I clerked for him when I graduated from law school and I have never worked so hard.”

“You worked for him, but you don't remember Emil Boott?”

“I worked at the courthouse. I was never invited to the house.”

“Isn't that odd?”

Cobb shrugged. “The judge was a private man. He drew a distinction between his work and his home.”

Lucy nodded, remembering Miss Tilley's assertion that she had grown up in a house of secrets.

“Come to think of it,” continued Cobb, “my father did the same thing. He was the county sheriff, he ran the jail, and you can be sure my mother and I had absolutely no contact with the inmates.”

“There must be records at the jail, right?” asked Lucy.

“Well, this was some time ago, and I don't know if they kept all those old records or not. It's certainly worth checking out, though. I do know that my father would have kept meticulous accounts of the inmates' progress. He was a big believer in prison reform, you see, and thought it was important to rehabilitate the prisoners, not just punish them.”

Cobb's phone gave off a little beep and he glanced at the clock. “I'm sorry, but that was Rachel, reminding me that I have an eleven o'clock appointment.”

“I'd better get going, then,” said Lucy, rising. “I can't thank you enough for your time and your knowledge.”

Cobb blushed. “Nonsense. I enjoyed our little chat.”

Back in the waiting room, Rachel helped Lucy into her coat. “Was Mr. Cobb able to help you?” she asked.

“He was very helpful,” said Lucy, fastening the buttons.

“You know,” said Rachel. “I have a little boy, too. Richie. He was two last month. Maybe we could get together for a playdate? I only work mornings so I'm free in the afternoons.”

“That's a great idea,” said Lucy, jumping at the chance. “What about this afternoon?”

“Let's say two o'clock.” Rachel scribbled down the address.

“Great,” said Lucy, taking the slip of paper. “See you later. By the way, do you know where the county jail is?”

Lucy felt like kicking herself as she proceeded on foot down the street to the appliance store, leaving the car in the parking lot. The sun was actually peeking through the clouds and it seemed too good to waste. But what on earth must Rachel think of her, seizing on her invitation like that? She was probably already regretting getting involved with a woman who knocked people underneath cars and visited the jail. Respectable people stayed as far away from jail as they could, didn't they? She hoped Rachel didn't think she had some personal interest in the jail, like an incarcerated relative, something like that. Then again, she reminded herself, Rachel worked in a law office and her husband was a lawyer, and lawyers often had to go to the jail to interview their clients, at least they did on TV. Maybe she didn't think Lucy's interest in the penal system was at all unusual.

She hoped so, she decided, stepping inside the Appliance Mart and viewing the ranks of harvest-gold, avocado-green, and poppy-red refrigerators and washing machines. What happened to white? she wondered. And how soon could she get a stove delivered?

Not until after Christmas, she discovered.

“I'll take a floor model,” begged Lucy.

“I'm sorry,” said the salesman, writing up the order. “Three weeks is the soonest I can promise.”

“But how am I going to cook?” wailed Lucy.

“My wife finds a Crock Pot quite handy,” said the salesman. “And we have those in stock.”

Reluctantly, Lucy reached for her wallet and unfolded the fifty dollar bill she'd been saving for Christmas presents. She felt badly about it, but as she headed home with an electric frying pan as well as the Crock Pot, she had to admit that life certainly seemed a bit brighter with the prospect of a hot meal.

Bill, however, wasn't quite as enthusiastic. “What do you mean we can't get a stove for three weeks?”

“That's what the man said,” said Lucy, with a shrug.

“And where have you been all this time? Do you know what it's like to be stuck in the house for hours on end with a two-year-old when you don't feel all that well?”

Lucy folded her hands on her tummy and looked at him. Was he kidding? She was about to ask that very question in a rather sarcastic tone when she noticed the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. It certainly wasn't from the heat; the furnace could barely keep the house above sixty degrees.

“I'll get you one of those pain pills,” she said. “Why don't you have a little rest while I make lunch?”