Tippy Toe Murder (4 page)

“She was old. Old people are always
wandering off. You read about it in the papers all the time. They’ll find her
sooner or later.”

“Those people have Alzheimer’s. Caro doesn’t,
and she’s in great shape, too. I’d love to find out what really happened to
her,” said Lucy.

“What could happen in a place like this?”
asked Bill sensibly. “Lucy, I’m sure the police are doing everything they can.
This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Of course it does. This is where I live,”
said Lucy, reddening.

“You’ve got enough to think about with this
baby coming,” reminded Bill. “Mind your own business.”

Lucy resented this comment, but she didn’t
want to fight in front of the children. She kept silent, staring out the
window.

“Hey, Toby, I hear you’re getting an award,”
said Bill, using his jovial paterfamilias voice.

“It wasn’t anything. I didn’t even know I
had perfect attendance,” admitted Toby.

“What do you mean? I’m proud of you. I
never had perfect attendance.” Bill got up from the table and laid his plate on
the counter. “Almost finished, Toby? Tonight’s the night. I bet you get a home
run off that Rockbound Insurance pitcher. I heard he’s only got one pitch, and
it’s not even fast.”

“Go get ‘em, slugger,” said Lucy, giving
Toby a quick hug. She knew he hadn’t gotten a good solid hit yet this season
and was nervous every time he went up to bat.

“Are you coming to watch the game, Mom?” he
asked hopefully.

“I don’t think so, honey. I’ve got a lot to
do at home tonight. Next time, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, lowering his head and
following his father out the door.

“Mom, when’s the baby coming?” asked Sara.

“In about three months. Not very long.”

“Will the baby want to play with my toys?”

“No, stupid. Babies don’t do anything but
eat and sleep, do they, Mom?” said Elizabeth.

“Don’t insult your sister. If you’re done
with supper, how about putting out some food for the cats,” suggested Lucy,
turning to brush Sara’s bangs out of her eyes.

“Don’t worry about the baby,” she told the
little girl. “Just think, pretty soon you won’t be the youngest anymore. You’ll
be a big sister, too.”

Sara scooped up a blob of ketchup with her
finger and sucked it thoughtfully. Then she hopped down from the table. “I’ll
help Elizabeth feed Softy, Mac, and Diana,” she volunteered, proudly naming the
family’s three cats before running off. Lucy sat at the table for a minute,
slowly shaking her head.

She knew it would be hard for Sara to
adjust to the new baby, and she felt sad about it. Guilt, she thought, the
mother’s curse.

As she scraped the dinner plates and set
them in the dishwasher, Lucy’s thoughts turned again to Caroline Hutton. She
realized that although she knew all about Caro, she didn’t really know her. She’d
seen her around town, she knew where she lived and what car she drove, she
greeted her when they met, but she’d never exchanged more than a few words with
her. Of course, Lucy was grateful for the fund Caro had established for the
purpose of encouraging young dancers. It was thanks to that money, which was
administered by the town recreation department, that she could afford ballet
lessons for both girls.

Caro also helped promising local dancers
attend Winchester College’s dance program, and one or two had even gone on to
join prestigious dance companies. Lucy occasionally picked up the college
alumni magazine in the free bin at the library, and she’d been struck by the
many fond references the graduates made to Caro. She was obviously one of those
rare teachers who was truly committed to her students.

It seemed incredible to Lucy that a woman
so many people cared about could just vanish, and she felt a surge of
indignation.

People matter, she thought, snapping the
dishwasher door shut with just a bit too much force and switching it on. A
person shouldn’t be allowed to disappear with a perfunctory search and a news
conference. What was it Chief Crowley had said? Lucy pawed through the pile of
old newspapers stacked in the comer of the kitchen and found the story she
wanted, the press conference announcing the suspension of the investigation.
There it was, in black and white. “This is one mystery we’ll probably never
understand,” the chief was quoted as saying.

I don’t know about that, thought Lucy. I
bet someone who cared, someone who liked to get to the bottom of things, could
find out what happened to Caro. The way to start, she decided, would be to have
a chat with her friend, Officer Barney Culpepper. The police probably knew more
than they were telling.

Lucy caught herself. I’ve been reading too
many mysteries, she decided. Bill’s right. I’ve got enough on my mind. The
kids, the baby, they had to be her first priority. She took the pink notice off
the refrigerator, where she’d stuck it with a magnet when the girls first
brought it home. She read it through, took a deep breath, and called the girls.

“Put on your costumes so I can sew on the
straps,” she told them.

“Straight, not crossed,” warned Elizabeth.

“Straight, not crossed,” she repeated, as
if it were a solemn oath.

Straps on costumes to be worn straight—not
crossed in back.

The mild spring evening was inviting, so
Lucy went out to sit on the back porch while she sewed. Settling herself on the
creaky old glider, she carefully stitched the elastic straps on. That done, she
still had to attach the frilly strip of sequins and ruffles that was supposed
to conceal the elastic.

It was pleasant, sitting outside, listening
to the shrieks of the girls as they played on the swing set. It had been an
especially warm day for mid-June and Lucy didn’t even need a sweater. She knew
it would be hours before the sun set; these long evenings were a luxurious
contrast to the dark, short days of winter.

As she worked, Lucy wondered why she didn’t
sew more. It was relaxing, taking neat little stitches, pulling the thread
through the fabric. Perhaps she would make something for the baby, she thought.
It might be fun to try her hand at counted cross-stitch, or even smocking.
Maybe the baby would be a little girl, and she could make all sorts of pretty
little dresses for her.

Completing Sara’s costume, Lucy held up the
tiny pink tutu to admire it. Back in January when the costumes were ordered,
Lucy had agonized over the seventy dollars the two costumes cost. Now the price
was but a memory, and she had to admit they were adorable. Tatiana always chose
tutus for the littlest girls, with these ridiculous bits of netting attached to
satin bodices, and trimmed with sequins, ruffles, and ribbon rosebuds. I would
love to have worn one of these when I was a little girl, she thought,
remembering how disappointed she had been when an older cousin got married and
neglected to include her as a flower girl.

She put aside the first costume and began
work on the second. Hearing a car turning into the driveway, Lucy looked up and
was surprised to see Franny Small’s little blue Dodge.

“Hi, Franny. What brings you all the way
out here?” she called cheerfully, hoping that Franny hadn’t decided that the
Stones needed a dose of Austrian ravioli. Lucy suspected that one, perhaps even
two of Franny’s foil-wrapped offerings were buried deep in the bottom of the
freezer.

“Oh, it was such a nice evening I thought I’d
take a drive,” explained Franny, sitting down on the rickety aluminum chair
that completed the back-porch furnishings. Lucy longed for white wicker with
flowered chintz cushions, but they couldn’t afford it.

“Actually,” Franny continued, “to be
honest, I want to ask a favor. Could I borrow your video camera?”

“Gosh, I’d love to lend it to you,”
answered Lucy regretfully, “but I want to use it myself on Thursday. It’s the
dress rehearsal for the big ballet show, and it’s the only time Tatiana allows
cameras.” Seeing Franny’s crestfallen expression, she asked, “What do you want
it for, anyway?”

“Oh, Lucy. Mr. Slack thinks I’ve been
stealing from him, and it’s the only way I can think of to prove that I’m
innocent.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Because the money comes out short every
day, and there’s merchandise missing.”

“But it can’t be you!” exclaimed Lucy a
shade too vehemently. She didn’t want Franny to think for a minute that she
doubted her honesty.

“Well, if it isn’t me, and it isn’t him, it
must be his grandson,” reasoned Franny. “He’d rather believe it’s me than Ben.”
“Oh,” said Lucy slowly. “That makes sense.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s Ben. There was never
any problem before he started working at the store. The inventory figures on
batteries are way off, and his friends come into the store all the time, and
they all have those big portable radios. They use batteries, don’t they?”

Lucy nodded, thinking of the small fortune
it cost to keep Toby’s little Walkman operational.

“Even worse,” Franny continued eagerly, “have
you noticed all that writing on the Bump’s River Road bridge?”

“You mean the graffiti?”

“The rude words painted all over it. I
think Ben stole cans of spray paint and gave them to his gang,” concluded
Franny, pursing her lips in disapproval.

“I wouldn’t call them a gang. They’re just
small-town boys. They get bored and get into mischief. How long has Ben been
working in the store? Shouldn’t he be in school?”

“I think he got suspended or something.
Probably for drugs,” said Franny, whispering the last word.

“He seems awfully young to be involved in
drugs,” said Lucy. “Besides, they’re expensive.”

“He’s sixteen, he drives a better car than
I do, and he has access to plenty of cash. A hundred and forty dollars is
missing,” argued Franny. “And you should see the clothes he wears. His shirts
say things like ‘Party Naked’ and ‘Public Enemy,’ and one has leaves all over
it. I think they’re marijuana leaves.” “That’s just the style. All the kids
wear them,” explained

Lucy, thinking back to the good old days
when shirts had stripes and little alligators. “Toby wanted me to buy a shirt
at the mall that said ‘NWA’ and I almost did until he mentioned it meant ‘Niggers
with Attitude,’ laughed Lucy. “And the shoes. He wants Pumps or Airs or
something that cost over a hundred dollars.”

“Did you get them for him?” asked Franny.

“No,” said Lucy. “We compromised on
something a bit more reasonable.”

“Not Ben. His parents buy him whatever he
wants. He’s been spoiled since day one. Even Mr. Slack says so. I guess that’s
why he was so pleased when the boy agreed to work in the store. He thinks he’s
taking an interest in the business. Mr. Slack was real disappointed when Fred
went into real estate.” “Fred’s done awfully well,” said Lucy. “We bought this
house from his outfit, Yankee Village. We have our insurance with him, too. He isn’t
pushy the way you expect a salesman to be. He’s very polite.”

She often saw Fred Slack around town,
usually clutching a roll of plans under his arm as he climbed into his
Wagoneer. He always gave her a hearty greeting and a big smile. It was impossible
not to smile back. He sported a bright-red walrus mustache and favored
outrageously preppy clothes, often wearing slacks covered with spouting whales
or ducks. His ruddy face and round belly seemed to indicate a hearty indulgence
in life’s pleasures. He was nothing like his father, thought Lucy.

“Mr. Slack doesn’t think much of Fred,”
said Franny. “Or his wife.”

“Really? He doesn’t like Annemarie?” Lucy
was amazed. Everyone in Tinker’s Cove agreed that Annemarie Slack was
absolutely perfect. She had renovated and decorated a condemned old captain’s
house on Main Street, saving it from demolition and transforming it into a
showplace that was featured in
Nor’East Life
magazine. Annemarie was a gourmet cook, entertained lavishly and frequently,
managed her own graphics firm, and was frequently seen on her knees weeding the
perennial bed. Worst of all, with her classic features and blond pageboy, she
was extremely attractive. Sue Finch had once remarked that Annemarie Slack made
Martha Stewart look like an underachiever.

“Mr. Slack told me Annemarie is a painted
hussy,” giggled Franny.

“He actually said that?” laughed Lucy. “ ‘A
painted hussy’?” “Yes,” gasped Franny. “With bleached blond hair!” She was
laughing so hard she had to hold her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to
Lucy, once she regained control of herself. “It must be the strain. He told me
he’ll fire me if I don’t make restitution by Friday.”

Privately Lucy thought that getting fired
from the hardware store would be the best thing that could happen to Franny,
but seeing her suddenly stricken expression, she found herself offering her the
camera.

“You can only have it tomorrow and Thursday
morning,” she told Franny. “I absolutely must have it back on Thursday
afternoon.”

“Lucy, I promise I’ll bring it to you on my
lunch hour Thursday. I won’t let you down.”

“I know, Franny. Are you sure this is the
best way to handle this? What if you do get Ben on tape? What’ll happen to him?”
“He’ll get what he deserves, I hope,” said Franny self-righteously. “It will be
good for him. I don’t think he’s ever heard the word no.”

“Kids need so much attention,” said Lucy,
watching as the girls tried to catch one of the cats. “Come on,” she called to
them. “It’s getting late.”

Franny nodded approvingly as the two little
girls ran to obey their mother. “See? If that was Ben, he wouldn’t mind you. He’d
make a point of ignoring you.”

As she walked Franny to the car and watched
her carefully place the camera on the floor behind the driver’s seat, Lucy felt
uneasy. If Slack was so blind that he refused to admit his grandson was
stealing, he probably wouldn’t appreciate having it pointed out to him. Even if
she did manage to capture the young delinquent on tape, Lucy was afraid the evidence
would backfire on Franny somehow.

“Say, Franny. What’s happened to George?
You know, Caro’s dog?”

“Barney Culpepper took him. Says he’s a
good dog, and shouldn’t have to stay in the pound.”

“Any news of Caro?”

“Not a word,” said Franny, shaking her
head. “It’s scary, isn’t it?” She looked up at the mountains behind the house. “There’s
an awful lot of woods around here for a person to get lost in.” She gave a
little shiver, then put the key in the ignition and started the car.

She had just pulled out of the driveway
when Bill and Toby turned in.

“Hi, guys,” Lucy greeted them. “How’d the
game go? Did you win?”

Toby didn’t stop to answer but rushed right
past her and stormed into the house, slamming the screen door for emphasis.
Thank goodness Franny didn’t see that, thought Lucy.

“Your team lost?” she asked Bill.

“Nope,” he said, putting his arm around her
shoulder. “We won. Five zip.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Toby didn’t play very well. In fact, he
struck out. Four times.”

“Oh,” said Lucy with a sigh.

“If anybody else had been coaching, he
probably would’ve spent the game on the bench. I kept sending him up. I figure
he’ll never get a hit if he doesn’t go up to bat. But now he says he wants to
quit the team.”

“Isn’t there something you can do to help
him? Practice here at home?” “It’s the damnedest thing, Lucy. Here in the yard
he’s a great hitter. Never misses. It must be nerves or something. He just can’t
relax when he goes up to bat. It’s killing me,” admitted Bill, sitting down
heavily on the glider. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up one of the tutus.

“Those are the girls’ costumes. Aren’t they
adorable?”

Bill looked skeptical. “How much did those
cost? More than a good glove?”

“I don’t know,” said Lucy, snuggling up
beside him. “How much does a good glove cost?”

“Twenty, thirty dollars.”

“Just look at that sky,” said Lucy,
indicating the billowing mass of dark clouds that were gathering, blocking
their view of the mountaintops. “I think a storm is brewing.”