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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Valentine Murder
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Horowitz was angry, but his gray face didn't pick up any color. The long lines between his nose and mouth simply hardened, like fast-setting concrete.
“Okay,” said Lucy meekly.
She watched as Horowitz snatched the tankard and marched down the steps and climbed into the cruiser, giving the officer behind the wheel a nod. He accelerated, driving off in a cloud of exhaust vapor.
“I'm cold, Mommy,” whined Zoe. “Let's go.”
Moving on automatic pilot, Lucy descended the steps, carefully holding Zoe's hand so she wouldn't slip on the ice. She helped her get settled in the booster and then climbed into the driver's seat, turning on the ignition and pushing the heat to high.
She didn't put the car into gear, though; she just sat there, sorting through her emotions. Hayden was dead. It was all wrong. He wouldn't have killed himself, and he certainly wouldn't have killed Bitsy.
She felt a surge of anger. How could Horowitz accuse her of driving Hayden to kill himself? She hadn't had anything to do with it. Or had she? A sense of guilt stole over her. Maybe she had blundered onto something, asking questions about the tankard. Clutching the steering wheel, she rested her forehead on her hands.
“Mommy! Let's go!” demanded Zoe from the back seat.
She was right, thought Lucy. This wasn't accomplishing anything.
“In a minute,” she said, rummaging in her shoulder bag for the cell phone she carried in case of emergencies. She punched in the number for The
Pennysaver
office.
“Ted? It's Lucy.”
“Hi, Lucy. You got that story on gambling for me?”
“Uh, no,” said Lucy. “I do have something, though. Have you heard about Hayden?”
“Hayden Northcross? No. What?”
“He's killed himself.”
“No way—are you sure of this?”
“Horowitz just told me.”
“Thanks, Lucy. I'll get right on it.”
Lucy pushed the button to end the call and replaced the phone. Then she pulled away from the curb, not quite sure where she was going.
 
 
Lucy took Zoe to McDonald's, partly to reward her for being such a good girl all morning and partly because she didn't want to go home. The bright colors and shiny surfaces of the fast-food restaurant seemed preferable to the quiet house.
Zoe chomped on her cookies and slurped down a cup of hot chocolate, but Lucy found that once she had her apple pie she couldn't eat it. She sipped her coffee instead, trying to put the morning's events in perspective.
Hayden was dead. She still couldn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it. She liked Hayden. She wouldn't have hurt him for the world. She felt a flush of anger and resentment against Horowitz. How could he think she would have pushed Hayden into a corner, leaving him no option but suicide?
And she didn't believe for one minute that Hayden had killed Bitsy. After all, he had genuinely seemed to like her. Lucy ran a finger up and down the side of her coffee cup. This just didn't add up. After seeing Hayden and Ralph together, she was convinced Hayden would never have killed himself. Through the years she had learned something about human relationships, and she would have bet the house that they were truly devoted to each other. Horowitz was definitely on the wrong track.
She turned the empty Styrofoam cup in circles on the Formica table and watched Zoe pop the last cookie into her mouth. More than anything she wanted to get to the bottom of this and Horowitz wasn't going to stop her. She wanted to know who killed Bitsy, and Hayden. Because the more she thought about it, the surer she was that Hayden hadn't killed anyone. Not Bitsy, and not himself.
Noticing that Zoe was finished, Lucy crumpled up the food wrappers and squeezed them into a tight ball. Then, rebelliously leaving the tray on the table instead of carrying it over to the trash container, she took Zoe's hand and led her to the car.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Seven Dwarves placed Snow White's body in a glass casket and covered it with flowers.
T
he reference room was the same as always. The rich patina of the pine paneling glowed softly in the light of the wall sconces, the portrait of Henry Hopkins glowered down from above the unused fireplace, and the big oak table and captain's chairs were in their usual place. But the group of directors gathered at an emergency meeting the next morning were stunned and shocked.
Or doing a good job of appearing that way, thought Lucy, as she studied the faces of her fellow directors.
“First Bitsy and now Hayden,” said Corney. “I can hardly believe it.”
“When I heard the news on my car radio last night I nearly went off the road,” said Chuck. He shook his head slowly. “I just don't understand it.”
Lucy wished she knew a little more about Chuck. He seemed like such a nice guy; she wondered if he really was.
Corney certainly thought he was. She had reached across the table and was giving his arm a consolatory squeeze. Her expression was one of sincere sympathy. Oh please, thought Lucy.
“It's most distressing,” agreed Miss Tilley in a matter-of-fact tone. “But at least the tankard has been recovered.”
That damn tankard, it seemed to Lucy as she studied the old woman's face, was far more important to Miss Tilley than Bitsy and Hayden's lives.
“He was always an odd duck, if you get my drift,” said Ed, hoisting one of his bristly gray eyebrows and twisting his mouth into a leer. He was nervously jiggling his leg and fidgeting with his big, callused hands. He looked around abruptly. “Where the hell's Gerald? I don't have all morning, you know. I've got work to do.”
“He's making copies,” volunteered Lucy. She'd liked Ed when she ran into him at the food pantry but today she wanted to scream at him, telling him to get out and leave the meeting if he had such important business. She didn't want to hear his nasty innuendos about Hayden, or his sexist comments about Bitsy. They were dead and they deserved a minimum of respect and a few minutes of his time. She didn't say anything, however, but sat quietly, twisting her wedding ring round and round her finger. She looked up when Gerald bustled into the room and began distributing copies of the agenda.
“I guess you've all heard the news,” he began. “Our fellow director, Hayden Northcross, took his own life yesterday. I spoke with the police officer in charge of the investigation, Lieutenant Horowitz, and he told me that he believes Hayden was responsible for Bitsy's murder, also.” His voice faltered, but he cleared his throat and continued. “Apparently overcome by remorse, he committed suicide.”
For what seemed to be a very long time, no one said anything. The directors' eyes were downcast; they all appeared to be studying their agendas intently. Finally, Corney broke the silence.
“Hayden killed Bitsy?” she asked. “That's incredible.”
“Did the lieutenant give you any idea why he killed Bitsy?” asked Chuck.
“No.” Gerald sighed. “He wouldn't give me any details, just told me that as far as he is concerned the case is closed.”
There seemed to be a lessening of tension in the room, thought Lucy, as if a general sigh of relief had been expressed.
“I don't suppose we'll ever know,” volunteered Ed. “So let's get on to item two, if you don't mind.”
“I mind,” said Lucy, surprised to hear her own voice. “Two people are dead, two people who cared about this library. Aren't we going to do something in their memory?”
“Absolutely.” Gerald nodded. “I'm open to any suggestions you may have.”
“The obvious thing would be to name the new wing after them. We could announce it at the dedication ceremony,” offered Lucy.
“That could turn out to be embarrassing,” cautioned Chuck. “After all, we don't know all the details yet.”
“I quite agree,” said Miss Tilley in a firm voice. “I understand Bitsy's family is planning a memorial service in Massapequa. I suggest we send flowers. I don't know if plans have been made yet for a service for Hayden, but we could also send flowers when it is announced.”
“I think that's the best course of action, at least for the time being,” said Gerald. He looked around the table and everyone nodded agreement.
“Now that that's out of the way, can we move on?” demanded Ed.
Gerald looked at him sharply, then consulted his agenda. “The next order of business is the reopening of the library. I would like to propose we hire Eunice Sparks as interim librarian—I have her resume here and, as you can see, she is well-qualified and I can personally recommend her. She can start immediately, and I propose we reopen on Monday.”
Gerald passed out copies of the resume and the directors bent their heads over them.
“There's no question that she's a qualified librarian,” observed Miss Tilley. “However, in a situation like this it might be preferable to have someone who is familiar with our library. I would be more than happy to serve in the interim, on a volunteer basis.”
“We certainly appreciate your offer,” said Gerald, quickly. “However, it would not be fair to take advantage of your generosity. You are far too valuable to the library as a member of the board, and as you know, it is against our policy to include employees as board members.” He had expected this reaction from Miss Tilley and had prepared for it, realized Lucy, impressed despite herself.
Heads bobbed around the table; the others were relieved to have this matter dealt with so neatly. Ed shifted restlessly in his seat.
“There is just one remaining matter and then I'll adjourn the meeting,” said Gerald. “We now have a vacancy on the board, and we also need to find a permanent librarian. We already have a nominating committee to suggest new board members—it includes me, Chuck and,” here he paused before adding, “Hayden.”
“I'll take his place,” offered Lucy.
“Any objections?” Gerald looked around the table. “Very well then.”
“I'll head the search committee for a new librarian,” volunteered Chuck.
Predictably, Corney also volunteered.
“I suggest Miss Tilley,” said Ed. “She knows the job better than anyone.”
“That's settled then,” said Gerald, bringing down his gavel.
But he was wrong, thought Lucy, as she buttoned her coat. Nothing was settled at all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Then one day, Bambi's mother told him that hunters had come to the forest.
A
fter the meeting Lucy hurried out to her car. She had no inclination to linger and chat with the other board members. She no longer felt comfortable in the library; she just wanted to get away. When she pulled open the door to the car, yanking hard because it was stiff in the cold, she spotted a foil-wrapped package she had left on the back seat and paused.
With a sinking heart she remembered she had another errand—she had planned to make a condolence call at Ralph's, bringing a sour cream coffee cake she had baked especially for him.
She was tempted to skip it but her conscience got the better of her and she drove across town to the house he had shared with Hayden. She paused before knocking on the door, wondering briefly if she could just leave the cake. Instead, she raised the knocker and pounded it home. It was an ornate knocker, hanging on one of a pair of carved oak doors, with huge black wrought iron hinges and a dangling iron circle instead of a traditional doorknob. That was because Ralph and Hayden had converted a church, abandoned when the Methodists joined the Congregationalists to create the Tinker's Cove Community Church, into a home.
Hearing the click of the lock being unlatched, Lucy braced herself to face Ralph. Even so, she was shocked when the door finally opened, revealing his ravaged face. The dark shock of hair that had reminded her so much of the young Gregory Peck hung limp and greasy today and there were deep hollows under his cheekbones.
“I wanted you to know how sorry I am about Hayden,” Lucy began. “I baked this coffee cake for you.”
“Thanks.” Ralph took the foil-wrapped package and stood looking at it. “Would you like some coffee?” he finally asked. “I know I should eat but I can't face sitting at the table alone.”
“Of course,” said Lucy, swallowing hard. It would be easy enough to make an excuse and flee back to the comfort and security of home, but that would mean abandoning Ralph to his grief and loneliness. “I'd love some coffee,” she said.
Ralph lead her through the spacious living room, formerly the sanctuary of the church, which was now furnished with Victorian sofas and Oriental carpets. They went downstairs, where the old church hall now served as an elegant dining room and the spacious kitchen had been modernized with top-of-the-line appliances and cabinets. While Ralph filled the coffee pot, Lucy sat herself at the huge antique refectory table and sliced the cake.
“This is good,” said Ralph, taking a huge bite and showering brown sugar and nuts onto the table. Embarrassed, he brushed them away. “I haven't eaten much, lately.”
“I wanted to make popovers for you—I remembered you saying how much you like them—but they didn't come out.”
He nodded. “That happened to Hayden, too, until he started using four eggs.” He sighed, and his voice quavered. “He swore by the Moosewood Cookbook.”
“That must have been it,” said Lucy, content to talk about comforting trivialities. “I only used two. Fannie Farmer can be a bit stingy with eggs.”
“Yankee thrift.” He swallowed hard. “We used to argue about it. I said it was a result of the rocky soil and the hard climate. Hayden said it was just meanness of spirit.”
“There was nothing mean about Hayden—he had a generous spirit,” said Lucy, accepting a cup of fragrant Kenyan blend. “It must have been an awful shock.”
“It was—it still is,” said Ralph, sitting down opposite her and spooning sugar into his cup. “I know he's gone—there's no doubt about that—but somehow I can't believe it. I keep expecting him to walk in and say it was all a mistake.”
“That's natural. Everybody feels like that. It's unthinkable, so it can't be true.” She reached out and patted his hand. “After a while, when you feel up to it, maybe you could try one of those support groups that help you cope with loss.”
Ralph snatched his hand away. “I don't know how welcome I'd be, given the circumstances.” He paused. “I think I have to do this my own way.”
Lucy chewed her cake thoughtfully. He was right, of course. As a homosexual grieving the loss of a same-sex partner, he would certainly be the odd man out with the widows and widowers. “It must be terrible,” she said, thinking of how lost she would be without Bill.
“It is. It's indescribable. It hurts physically, you know. I feel like I've been hit by a truck and had my insides ripped out. Even breathing hurts. And the worst part is what the police said. That he killed himself. That he killed Bitsy. That can't be true.”
Lucy looked around the kitchen, the kitchen that had been Hayden's. Gleaming copper pots hung from a rack above the stove. A row of potted herbs stood on the windowsill above the sink. Cookbooks were tucked away, yet ready at hand, in a shelf built into the work island. It was so like Hayden, she thought. Simple. Attractive. Practical.
“I don't think anybody who knew him believes the police theory,” said Lucy.
“I'll never believe he would hurt Bitsy,” insisted Ralph. “He'd never hurt anybody—especially not me. We had all kinds of plans for the future—we'd just bought tickets for a cruise next month. Not to mention the plans we had for the business, and the house. We were going to set up a website and buy new carpet and redo the bathroom. Someone who's going to kill himself doesn't sit up half the night looking at wallpaper books, does he?”
“I don't think so,” said Lucy.
“And that business about stealing the tankard—that's nonsense. He wouldn't do that—he has . . .” Ralph's voice broke as he corrected himself. “He
had
too much respect for antiques. They were his life. He would never do something like that.” He shrugged. “He didn't need to. The business is successful—we were making plenty, believe me.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I don't know.” He ran his fingers through his hair and propped his elbow on the table, resting his head on his hand. “I think it had something to do with the library. First Bitsy and now him.” He picked at a crumb of brown sugar. “I should never have gone away that day—I blame myself. We were both going to go to an estate sale in Lewiston, but he said he had some library business he had to clear up. Told me to go to the sale without him. ‘Make a killing' he said. Those were his last words to me.”
 
 
Lucy felt rotten when she left Ralph. She felt completely inadequate in the face of such raw grief. As a mother, she was used to patching up boo-boos with Band-Aids, giving a kiss and making it all better. There was nothing she could do to help Ralph—her healing powers could not cure his pain.
“What's the matter, Lucy? You look as if you lost your best friend!” exclaimed Sue, who was just leaving the recreation building when Lucy arrived to pick up Zoe.
“I just took a cake to Ralph,” explained Lucy. “He's having a real hard time.”
Sue was serious. “We're all going to miss Hayden. He was some character.” She sighed. “I was going to ask his advice about slipcovering the couch. I was going to have him over for lunch one day—he was always fun, and he would have had some terrific ideas.” She tucked her glossy black hair behind her ear. “Say, do you have any plans for lunch today?”
“Nothing beyond peanut butter and jelly and chicken noodle soup,” admitted Lucy.
“Come on over to my house. We can cheer each other up.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, smiling for the first time that day. “I'll get Zoe and I'll be right over.”
Sitting at the table in Sue's gleaming, streamlined kitchen, Lucy thought how nice it was that she and Sue were able to spend more time together. After Sue had started the day-care program in the community center she had been working fulltime, determined to make the project a success. Thanks to her determination and hard work, skeptical town meeting voters were now convinced of the once controversial center's value, and generally approved annual funding without a murmur of opposition. Now convinced that the center's future was secure, Sue had recently cut back her hours and only worked mornings.
“I want to have some time for myself,” she had told Lucy. “I want to be able to take a walk, or curl up with a good book, or take an afternoon nap. That's not a crime, is it?”
“Certainly not,” agreed Lucy, who had fallen into the habit when the children were little and always seemed to find herself growing sleepy after lunch.
“So, tell me what you think about these sudden deaths,” said Sue, interrupting her thoughts and giving her a handful of silverware to set the table. Zoe was happily ensconced in the living room with a sandwich and a pile of carrot sticks, watching a Disney video.
“I don't know what I think,” confessed Lucy. “The police theory is that Hayden stole the tankard some time ago and replaced it with a fake. Bitsy discovered the substitution and confronted him and he killed her. Overcome with remorse, he killed himself.”
“But you don't believe that,” said Sue, tucking a covered dish into the microwave.
Lucy thoughtfully laid a fork down on the table. “No. You knew Hayden better than I did. Do you think he was a thief? That he would murder Bitsy? I just can't believe it.”
“Me, either,” agreed Sue, ripping apart a head of lettuce to make a salad.
“I do think this all has something to do with the tankard.” Lucy folded a napkin and placed it on the table. “I think whoever stole the tankard killed Bitsy and framed Hayden.”
Sue sliced a radish into neat circles. “But wasn't the tankard found with Hayden's body?”
“It's fake,” said Lucy, opening the cupboard and taking out two plates.
“So the real one is still missing?” Sue's voice was muffled; she'd stuck her head in the refrigerator.
“I just hate myself for thinking this but it must be one of the directors,” blurted Lucy. She paused, remembering how flattered she had been to be asked to join the board and how she had agonized over what to wear to her first meeting. “That probably sounds ridiculous—they're all such respectable, hard-working, civic-minded people.”
“Oh, I don't know about that, Lucy,” said Sue, setting the salad bowl on the table. Hearing the microwave ding, she turned away. “They always seemed like a pretty difficult bunch to me. Bitsy was always complaining about them.”
“Miss Tilley certainly didn't like her much,” volunteered Lucy.
“Yeah, but she's a little old to be a murderer.”
Sue set the casserole on the table and lifted the cover, releasing a wonderful herb-filled fragrance.
“That smells delicious,” exclaimed Lucy. “What is it?”
“Cassoulet.” Sue was smug.
“Wow. Isn't that hard to make?”
“It is complicated, but now that I have more time, I enjoy cooking things that are a little special.”
“It's great,” said Lucy, her mouth full of beans and sausage. “Perfect for a cold winter day.”
Sue sat down and filled her plate. “If you think about it, none of those directors are exactly paragons of virtue. Take Chuck, for example. He's quite a ladies' man, at least that's what I hear. What if he had some kind of relationship with Bitsy? He wants out, she doesn't. It could get messy. Or Corney? Bitsy knew that her so-called original recipes weren't original at all. They came from cookbooks in the library—at least that's what I've heard.”
“Face it—you'd love it to be Corney,” said Lucy.
“You're right,” agreed Sue, taking a bite of salad. “I hate that column of hers. It just infuriates me, the way she latches onto something and pretends she thought it up in the first place. Like at Christmas, she was writing about Yorkshire pudding as if she invented it.” She paused to chew. “Gosh, my grandmother made Yorkshire pudding every year for Christmas, my mother made it, and I make it. We were making it for years before Corney ever heard of it.”

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