Valentine Murder (10 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Valentine Murder
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CHAPTER TEN
After they had been wandering in the woods for a very long time, Hansel and Gretel came upon a cottage made of gingerbread and candy.
O
n Monday morning, Lucy wasted no time in making good her resolution to make a donation to the food pantry. After leaving Zoe at the rec building for nursery school, she headed straight for the IGA. There, armed with the flyer that came in the Sunday paper, she took advantage of all the buy-one-get-one-free promotions, and filled her cart with boxes of pasta and jars of spaghetti sauce, cans of tuna fish and soup, and bags of rice and beans. All nutritious, filling stuff. She also bought a box of confectioner's sugar and a bag of conversation hearts; Valentine's Day was just around the corner, and she always made pink-frosted cupcakes trimmed with heart candies for the kids.
When she arrived at the community church, Lucy saw she wasn't the only one making a delivery. Ed Bumpus was unloading a box from the back of his gargantuan pick-up truck, a glossy black model perched on oversized tires and trimmed with lots of shining chrome. Lucy didn't feel very friendly toward Ed—she hadn't liked his attitude at the board meeting—but she could hardly ignore a fellow member.
“That's quite a truck you've got there,” Lucy said, admiring the cab, which was trimmed with a sun visor and topped with a row of roof lights. A big, black Lab dog was sitting inside.
“My wife says I'm no better than a little kid—I gotta have my toys,” he said, hoisting the heavy box onto his shoulder.
“What have you got in there?” asked Lucy, following him down the path to the church basement.
“Moose,” grunted Ed. “I give 'em one every year.”
“Did you shoot it yourself?” asked Lucy, remembering the shotgun rack inside Ed's truck.
Ed turned to face her, his puffy face even redder than usual. “Usually, I do, but this year, I struck out. My cousin got this one, but don't tell the pastor, okay?”
“You've got a deal.”
The basement door popped open as they approached, and the minister, Clive Macintosh, greeted them. He was new to the job, having arrived in Tinker's Cove only last summer.
“Well, well, what's all this?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.
“Moose. Wrapped and frozen and ready to cook,” said Ed, dropping the box on a table with a thud and heading back out to get another.
“Terrific,” said Clive, professing enthusiasm but looking somewhat doubtful.
“It's a Maine thing,” Lucy hastened to reassure him. “Trust me—people will really appreciate it.”
Clive looked at the box suspiciously. “How do you cook it?”
“Just like beef—it's not gamey,” Lucy said, placing her bags of groceries on the table, too. She wished she'd thought to buy something a little more interesting. “These are just the usual nonperishables. Macaroni. Tuna. That kind of stuff.”
“We can sure use it,” said Clive, his eyes widening as Ed appeared with another box. “We're having a hard time keeping up with the demand. The committee members tell me it's the worst they've ever seen.”
“It's the weather,” said Lucy. “It's been so cold that people are using more heating fuel than usual—that means there's less money for groceries.”
“Well, we're certainly very grateful,” said Clive as Ed set the box on the table.
“Think nothing of it. It's my pleasure,” said Ed, panting a little from the exertion. “See you get this in the freezer, now.”
“I will, and thanks again,” said Clive as Lucy and Ed went through the door.
“He's a funny little guy,” said Ed as they made their way up the walk to the parking lot.
“He's from some posh town in Connecticut,” said Lucy. “I don't think they eat moose there.”
“Can't be much of a place, then,” said Ed, thoughtfully propping his elbow on the side of his truck. “Say, have you heard anything more about this Bitsy mess?” He wrinkled his forehead, jamming his bristly eyebrows together in concern. “Has that cop been botherin' you?”
“Oh, no.” Lucy waved her hand dismissively. “That was just a joke. I've known him a long time. I'm not really a suspect.”
“Wish I could say the same,” muttered Ed. “He's been nosin' around my crew, gettin' in the way and askin' a lotta questions.”
“He's just doing his job,” said Lucy.
“Well, I wish him doin' his job didn't keep me from doin' mine.”
Lucy nodded. She knew how much Bill, and most contractors, hated interference on their job sites. “Did you find out what he was asking about?”
“Lot of stupid stuff, if you ask me. I don't think he's got any more idea of who killed Bitsy than my dog here.” He jerked his head toward the cab. “I heard you're kind of a detective yourself. Whadda you think?”
“Me?” Lucy didn't like the way Ed was staring at her with those beady eyes of his. She felt a bit like that poor moose, caught in the sight of one of his shotguns. “You heard the pastor—it's no secret how desperate people are this winter. I think Bitsy must have interrupted a robbery, something like that. Whoever did it is probably scared and laying real low. I don't think they're going to solve this anytime soon.”
“Yeah,” grunted Ed. “I think you're right.” He opened the door to his truck and reached across the seat, giving the dog a pat on the head. “Say hi to Bill for me,” he said, hoisting himself into the seat.
 
 
“Sorry, Lucy, but Ralph's not here,” said Hayden, a few minutes later when Lucy stopped by with the tankard. “He's over in Gilead, checking out an estate sale.”
“That's too bad—I was hoping he could tell me if I had found a treasure or not,” said Lucy, unwrapping the tankard and setting it on the table in the shop. “What do you think?”
“Very nice,” said Hayden, examining the tankard. “I think it's lovely. Excellent craftsmanship. Nice patina. How much did you pay?”
“Fifty dollars.”
He nodded approvingly. “That's a steal.”
Lucy beamed with pride. “You really think so?”
“I do,” affirmed Hayden. “But I ought to warn you—I'm no expert on pewter.” He turned the tankard over and checked the bottom. “Interesting.”
“What's interesting?”
“I don't want to get your hopes up, but you see how smooth it is? Josiah's Tankard, the one at the library, is like that, too. It means the piece was made in a mold. Later pieces were worked on a lathe and have finishing marks on the bottom. That means this tankard has quite a bit of age.”
“Are you sure?” Lucy couldn't quite believe her luck.
“Yeah. Miss Tilley asked Ralph and me to examine Josiah's Tankard a few months ago so we could write a description for the insurance policy. It was quite an experience—very hushhush. After dark. The library was closed, of course. She even had a police officer standing by when we opened the case.”
Lucy chuckled. “I can just imagine.” She paused. “Then you think it's good enough to give to her as a present?”
“I'm pretty sure, but if you want to be extra safe, why not check with Corney? She has quite a nice pewter collection, you know.”
“I didn't know,” said Lucy, “but that's a very good idea. Thanks.”
 
 
Lucy was hesitant to drop in on Corney unexpectedly, whom she barely knew, so she stopped first at the Quik-Stop to call. When she pulled the car up to the pay phone, she pulled in beside a dark blue Chevy sedan with its engine running. Climbing out of the Subaru, she noticed the sedan was occupied. Probably someone waiting for a companion who had dashed into the store.
She didn't waste time making the call—the temperature was well below freezing. Corney was home, testing a recipe, and said she'd love to see the tankard. Lucy was encouraged at her reaction. Not only would she learn more about the tankard, but she might be able to pick up some more information about Bitsy. Hurrying back to her warm car, Lucy glanced at the occupant of the Chevy.
He was hunched over the steering wheel and for a moment Lucy thought he might be sick. When she looked closer, however, she saw he was busily scratching away at a lottery ticket. Not a single ticket, she realized with a shock, but a stack of tickets at least an inch thick. He was so absorbed in this activity that he didn't even notice her.
Embarrassed, as if she had seen him doing something obscene, she quickly turned away and got into her own car. She started the engine and backed out too fast, skidding a bit on the icy parking lot. Regaining control of the car, she turned onto Route I and headed for Corney's place on Smith Heights Road, the most expensive section of Tinker's Cove, where enormous seaside mansions belonging to wealthy summer people clung to stony perches overlooking the sea.
How much did a stack of tickets like that cost, wondered Lucy as she drove along. Fifty dollars? A hundred dollars? Why would anyone spend that much money and then spend the morning sitting in a freezing parking lot? It didn't make any sense. You'd have to be crazy to do something like that. Or, she realized, possessed by an uncontrollable urge to gamble. An urge that was every bit as strong as an alcoholic's desire for a drink, or a drug addict's need for a fix.
Lucy shivered and made the turn onto Smith Heights Road. There, she was hardly warmed by the oceanfront view; cold surf was pounding the ice- and snow-covered rocks far below the road. A few black ducks were bobbing about in the waves and Lucy wondered how they could survive in such inhospitable conditions.
Corney said she wouldn't have any trouble finding the house, and she didn't. The jumbo-sized mailbox was clearly labeled “Corney Clarke Catering,” but the topiary shrub in the shape of a chef was also an indication she was in the right place.
Corney's lengthy driveway was clear of snow right down to the blacktop and Lucy wondered how this was accomplished. Her own driveway contained a good deal of packed snow, despite Bill and Toby's best efforts. It had snowed practically every day since Christmas and shoveling walks and drives clear was a constant problem for most people, but apparently not for Corney.
Knocking on the door, Lucy noticed the Christmas wreath was already gone, replaced with a gilded wood pineapple. The pineapple, she knew, was a symbol of hospitality.
“Hi, Lucy, come on in,” said Corney, opening the door. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater, topped with a spotless white chef's apron.
“Excuse my mess,” she said, waving a hand at a breathtakingly attractive living room. Two white sofas draped with brightly colored quilts faced each other in front of a fireplace, moss green carpeting covered the floor, and brass accent pieces caught the fitful morning sunlight. The windows were filled with blooming narcissi and their sweet, heady scent filled the air. How come they didn't flop, wondered Lucy, who had started many a gravelfilled bowl of bulbs with the children. And how come they were all in bloom at the same time? All Lucy ever managed to grow were thin, straggly leaves that had to be propped up until they grudgingly produced a sickly blossom or two.
“Let's go in the kitchen,” said Corney. “I'm baking and I need to keep an eye on things.”
Lucy hesitated for a minute, reluctant to risk soiling Corney's floor with her boots. She needn't have worried, she realized; the hallway to the kitchen was paved with terra cotta tiles. She followed Corney on into the kitchen, where a huge, black, professional-style stove radiated a gentle warmth. A center island was covered with trays of scallop-shaped cakes and the aroma of butter and almonds was almost intoxicating.
“Boy, those smell good,” said Lucy, climbing up onto an oak stool. Corney hadn't offered to take her coat, so she unzipped her parka and slipped her gloves into the pockets.
“They do, don't they?” agreed Corney, opening the oven and extracting a baking sheet. “Everyone loves madeleines and I think they're a nice alternative to those pink-frosted cupcakes everyone makes for Valentine's Day.”
“I tried them once, but they stuck to the pan,” admitted Lucy, refusing to think of the sugar and candy hearts sitting in her car, destined to be made into pink-frosted cupcakes.
“You have to butter the tins generously, and be sure to flour them, too,” advised Corney. She gave the sheet a quick twist, and a dozen madeleines obediently popped out of their shellshaped depressions. Corney slid them onto an antique wire rack and then faced Lucy. “So, what brings you here? I hope you don't want to talk about Bitsy—that was too awful. The sooner I can forget, the happier I'll be.”
“I won't be able to forget until we know who killed her and why,” said Lucy, somewhat self-righteously. She quickly added, “But I'm not here to talk about Bitsy. I wanted to ask your opinion about a tankard I bought. It's a gift for an old friend, and I want to be sure it's a good piece. Hayden told me that you collect pewter.”

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