Easter Bunny Murder (21 page)

“I was hoping
you
could find out if she was in New York. Don't they have CCTV in the garage?”

“They didn't have it, but they're getting it now.” She snorted. “Figures, doesn't it? Close the barn door after the cows have gotten out.” She paused. “I really think you'd have a better chance on your end. After all, there are eight million people in New York; it's easy for someone to get lost in the crowd.”

“I can try.” Lucy bit her lip. “How's Juliette?”

“She's holding her own. Little Viv is staying with her at the hospital, so she's safe, too, for the time being. I'm not taking any chances.”

Lucy's next call was to Willis, but once again she got voice mail. Doesn't anyone answer their phone anymore? she wondered, leaving a message requesting that he call her as soon as possible.

She was plunging the cooked green beans into an ice water bath when Willis called her back. “This might not be appropriate, but I really need to know the answer: Has Izzy Scannell taken any time off lately?”

“I'm afraid that is rather inappropriate,” he replied. “Employment records here at Pine Point are confidential. I don't share that information with anyone. Why do you want to know?”

Lucy was flummoxed; she could hardly tell Willis she suspected Izzy of murder, even if she did. She had a basic understanding of the laws of slander and it wouldn't do to make unproven accusations about the woman to her supervisor. “Well,” she began, trying to think of a plausible excuse for her question. “It's like this. My girls do volunteer work at Heritage House and they're very worried about her mother, and I just wanted to be able to reassure them that Izzy has been able to spend time with her.”

“Oh.” To be honest, Lucy didn't think Willis would buy her ridiculous excuse and there was a long silence before he spoke. “I think I can tell you that your fears are unfounded. Miz Scannell is well aware of her mother's condition. She's actually been working a reduced schedule for the past few weeks so she can be with her during her final days.”

Lucy was shocked. She had no idea her wild guess was so close to the truth. “Final days? It's as serious as that?”

“I'm afraid so,” said Willis. “She called Friday, from the nursing home, and said she didn't think it would be very long. I told her to take as much time as she needs.”

“Well, thank you,” said Lucy. “My girls will feel much better knowing she's with her.”

“I understand,” said Willis. “And I must congratulate you on rearing such compassionate young women. You don't often see that level of concern for others among today's young people.”

“Uh, thanks,” said Lucy, feeling like a complete hypocrite. Even worse, she was going to have to maintain this charade if she was going to find out if Izzy was actually at the nursing home the previous Friday. As Lucy knew only too well, having done it herself, you could make a call from anywhere and say you were someplace else.

Chapter Twenty

L
ucy felt like a rat, an absolute rat, but she had to know. Izzy seemed like a really nice person, but that didn't actually mean much. Every time you read about a serial killer in the paper or watched a report on the TV news, the neighbors always seemed to describe the killer as “nice enough but kept to himself,” dismissing even the terrible smells emanating from the back yard. “Well, of course we noticed it,” they'd say, “but we thought it was something to do with his taxidermy hobby.” Or a gas leak. Or a failed septic system. Anything, except what it really was. Some truths were too difficult to accept, so the mind manufactured excuses as a way of denying what it already knew.

But she didn't know, Lucy reminded herself, as she drove over to Heritage House on Friday morning. She had her suspicions, but she didn't know. And even if she did manage to pry the information she was seeking out of a nurse or resident, it wouldn't be conclusive proof that Izzy was a murderer. A piece of the puzzle, but not proof.

But if Izzy was with her mother last Friday, the day Juliette was attacked, it would prove that she couldn't have been the attacker. Once she realized that, Lucy felt much better about her inquiry. She wasn't trying to prove Izzy was a killer, she told herself, she was trying to reassure herself that Izzy was innocent.

And with that thought firmly in mind, she parked the car under a tree and crossed the blast furnace that was the Heritage House parking lot and stepped inside the air-conditioned lobby. She was intending to ask the receptionist for directions to the activity director's office when the elevator doors opened and Izzy stepped out, accompanied by a woman in green scrubs, probably a nurse. Intrigued, Lucy feigned interest in the sign announcing the day's activities and watched.

Izzy, she saw, was wiping her eyes and the nurse was hovering in a concerned manner. “Why didn't you call me?” asked Izzy, her voice thick with tears. “It isn't right, you should have called me.”

“She slipped away, between checks . . . ,” said the nurse, speaking in a soothing voice.

Izzy turned on the woman. “You mean she was all alone?” she demanded in an accusatory tone.

“She drifted off in her sleep,” said the nurse, refusing to be ruffled. “It was very peaceful.”

“There's no excuse for this,” insisted Izzy. “If I'd known she was that close, I would have stayed with her. Nobody told me. She was all alone when she died. I should have been there.”

“I understand how you feel,” said the nurse. “But it's really up to God. We can't predict with certainty when a soul will be called.”

“Oh, now you're trying to fob me off with religious nonsense!” Izzy was furious, and for a moment Lucy thought she was going to assault the nurse.

The receptionist must have thought so, too, because a muscular male orderly suddenly appeared and was crossing the lobby in Izzy's direction. Seeing him, she suddenly bolted for the door. “This isn't the last of this!” she yelled. “I'm going to report you to the state authorities, don't think I won't!” Then she was gone, leaving the door swinging behind her.

The nurse let out a big sigh of relief. “Thanks,” she told the orderly. “That was getting intense.”

“No problem,” he said with a grin.

The two walked off together, down a hallway, and Lucy remembered the errand that had brought her to Heritage House. She was turning toward the reception desk when she spotted a tiny, white-haired woman sitting in one of the couches beneath the over-size chandelier that seemed to be a required fixture in all nursing homes. The woman smiled at her and beckoned.

“You're from the newspaper, aren't you?” she asked when Lucy approached.

“I am,” admitted Lucy.

“I saw you at the birthday party.”

“That was quite a do,” said Lucy.

“Sit down. Take a load off,” invited the woman, patting the sofa.

“Thanks,” said Lucy, perching beside her. “I'm Lucy Stone.”

“I'm Dottie Pickett, but I don't want to see my name in the paper. What I'm going to tell you is strictly off the record, agreed?”

Amused, Lucy nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Madge didn't die a natural death,” she said, whispering. “They gave her morphine. I saw it.”

“Really?” Lucy knew that morphine was often administered to terminal patients to ease their deaths.

“They didn't tell that to the daughter, did they?” Dottie nodded. “It's a conspiracy, they're killing us off. They do it when there's no family to protect us.”

Lucy saw an opening here. “So Madge really died alone?”

“That's the only way they can do it. If the daughter was here, she'd never have allowed it, would she?”

“I suppose not,” said Lucy. “Was her daughter here a lot? I know Madge wasn't well.”

“She visited more than some, I'll give her that,” she replied in a grudging tone.

“Was she here last Friday?” asked Lucy.

“We always have fish on Friday,” said Dottie with a big sigh. “I don't like fish.”

“Was the daughter, Izzy, with Madge last Friday, the day you had fish?”

Dottie looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap. “Friday. Friday is fish day. My mother used to cook fish on Friday and the house would stink until Sunday.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don't like fish.”

Lucy figured she'd gotten all the information she was going to get from Dottie. “I don't like it much, either,” she said, smiling and standing up. “It's been nice talking with you.”

“Don't forget.” Dottie raised a crooked finger. “Everything I told you is off the record.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Lucy, noticing with annoyance that the receptionist had left her post. She went up to the desk, intending to wait, but when five and then ten minutes passed, and there was no sign of her, she gave up. She'd have to do this another time, she decided, aware that Ted would be wondering where she was.

As she expected, Ted didn't mince words when she walked through the door, setting the little bell jangling. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “And I haven't seen any copy yet.”

“It's coming,” she said, wondering what the fuss was all about so early in the weekly news cycle. “I've got the finance committee meeting for you. I just need to touch it up a bit.”

“Selectmen's meeting?” Ted sounded like a high school principal who'd found cigarettes in the girls' room.

“I didn't make it,” admitted Lucy. “But I've got the agenda and I'll make a few calls.”

“Roger Wilcox called, wondering if you were sick,” said Ted, brandishing his evidence.

“Nothing happens in the summer, anyway,” said Lucy.

“No, nothing much, except Horace Winters is resigning and there's going to be a special election.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, biting her tongue so she wouldn't say the word she wanted to say. “I'll get right on it.”

She couldn't get Horace himself on the phone—he was out fishing—but his wife explained that his doctor advised him to avoid stress and being on the board of selectmen was certainly stressful and, no, he didn't have a heart condition, but his blood pressure was a bit elevated at his last checkup so they decided it was better to be safe than sorry. And they really would like to get away to Florida for at least part of the winter so they decided resigning was really the sensible thing and this way the town could just add the selectmen's race to the November ballot. There was plenty of time to get the word out and hopefully there would be some good candidates, though, of course, she thought Horace had done a spectacular job. That was the problem really, he took it all too seriously . . .

When Mrs. Winters finally paused for breath, Lucy thanked her for her time and ended the call. She was just about to dial Roger Wilcox, the board chairman, when her phone rang. Much to her surprise, it was Bob, explaining that the wills she had requested were ready.

“Thanks, Bob, I'm kind of busy today,” said Lucy, wondering how she was going to break the news to Bill that she'd taken the bull by the horns and requested the wills.

“These are just the drafts,” Bob reminded her. “So the sooner you and Bill look them over, the sooner I can prepare the final copies.”

“Right,” said Lucy. “I'll stop in on my way home.”

“Great,” agreed Bob. “I'm here 'til six, anyway.”

Lucy did a quick edit of the fin-com story and sent it to Ted, hoping it would keep him busy while she worked on the Horace Winters story. She had just finished that when Phyllis dropped a thick stack of press releases for the “Things to Do” listings, but it was already almost five by then, so she decided to take them home and work on them over the weekend.

“I've got an appointment,” she said, shutting down her computer and stuffing the press releases into her bag. “I'll have these ready by Monday morning.”

Phyllis raised a skeptical eyebrow, but Ted didn't object. “Okay. I want you to stop by at the town playground tomorrow morning and get some photos . . .” Ted was rummaging through the papers spread out on his desk. “There's a clown or something.”

“Will do,” said Lucy. Snapping pictures of local children at the town-funded rec program was a standard summer assignment that she enjoyed, even if it meant working on Saturday.

“Not a clown. It's Family Fun Day with ice cream. Donated by Brown Cow Dairy.”

“Even better,” said Lucy, deciding she'd better leave before he came up with something else for her to do.

It was only a few blocks to Bob's office but she drove. It was on her way home and she knew he was going to leave soon, and she didn't want to miss him. As soon as she stepped through the door, she realized something was wrong. Bob was standing at his desk, phone in hand, an anxious expression on his face.

“What's the matter?” she asked, fearing something had happened to Rachel, or their son, Richie.

“That was Rachel,” he said, replacing the handset in its cradle. “She's worried because VV was supposed to come to Miss Tilley's for afternoon tea and she hasn't shown up yet. She called Pine Point and, according to Willis, VV left hours ago.”

Lucy had that sinking feeling that accompanied a premonition of trouble. “Who was driving?” she asked.

“Izzy.”

It hit Lucy like a punch. “Oh, no.”

“Is that a problem?”

How to begin, wondered Lucy. “It's complicated. Her mother is, make that
was
, VV's child, given up for adoption. She died last night. Izzy's really upset, I saw her at Heritage House this morning. And I think—I don't know for sure—but I think Izzy killed Van and Maxine and attacked Juliette. Juliette's in the hospital.”

Bob's chin dropped. “You're telling me that Izzy's mother was really VV's child?”

“Yes. By her first husband. She gave her up for adoption.”

Bob was no dummy; he saw the implications immediately. “And if she got rid of all the legitimate heirs, Izzy thinks she'll inherit VV's money . . .”

“Would she?” asked Lucy. “Even if she's not mentioned in the will?”

“It depends. She'd probably have grounds to make a claim.” He sat down, shaking his head. “When I took her deposition, she seemed so helpful and concerned about VV.
I
can't believe she's a killer. And for what? Money?”

The question gave Lucy pause. “I think that's how it started,” she said. “But now, I think it's something else. Revenge. Getting even.” She paused. “I think VV is in danger. When I saw Izzy at Heritage House, she was very angry and emotional.”

“I'll call the police,” said Bob.

“I'll start looking for them,” said Lucy.

“Wait, leave it to the police,” protested Bob, but he was too late. Lucy was already out the door and running to her car. When Bob followed, he saw her peeling out of the driveway, taking the turn so fast that her tires squealed.

 

As Lucy sped along, she tried to think of a plan. The obvious thing, she decided, would be to start at Pine Point, because that's where Izzy would have picked up VV. As she drove, she kept her eyes peeled, looking for any sign of VV's town car and taking note of possible hiding places. She tried to put herself in Izzy's place, but it was difficult to imagine being a distraught serial killer who had abducted a frail old woman. Was she planning to hold VV hostage? Was she going to torment her? Kill her?

She had almost reached Shore Road and was passing the Audubon sanctuary when she had a sudden hunch and turned into the drive, just to check it out. She followed the twisty dirt road for a few hundred feet until she could see the parking area, but cautiously stopped short of entering it when she spotted the silver-gray town car. She was scrabbling in her purse, searching for her phone so she could call nine-one-one, when she caught movement out the corner of her eye and spotted Izzy coming out of the woods, alone, pushing an empty wheelchair.

Acting instinctively, she ran into the parking area, confronting her. “Where's VV?” she demanded. “What have you done with her?”

“Oh, Lucy,” began Izzy, smiling broadly. “I'm so glad you're here. You can help me find Mrs. Van Vorst. She insisted we stop here. She wanted to see the osprey nest everybody's been talking about. But while I was getting the wheelchair out of the trunk she wandered off. I immediately went after her but I couldn't find her. She's simply vanished.”

Lucy didn't believe a word of it, but she wasn't about to let Izzy know that. “I'll help you look,” she said. “Just let me get my . . .” She was about to say
phone
, but thought better of it; she didn't want to tip off Izzy that she was planning to call for help. “Bag,” said, turning to go back to her car.