Valentine Murder (16 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Valentine Murder
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Every time he told a lie, Pinocchio's nose grew a little longer.
W
hen the alarm went off the next morning, Lucy confused it with the scream of an ambulance. She had a brief, terrifying image of a black-and-chrome truck hurtling through the snow and crashing into the Subaru. But when she opened her eyes, she was safe in bed beside Bill.
She rolled over, reaching for the alarm clock, and moaned in pain. She was getting a bit old for sledding, she decided. Everything hurt: arms, back, and most painful of all, her thighs.
“I'm not as young as I used to be,” she moaned, cautiously pulling herself to a sitting position.
“Why don't you lie in for a bit,” suggested Bill. “I'll bring you breakfast in bed.”
“Oh, no,” said Lucy. “I don't dare. If I lie down, I might never get back up.” She sighed, and groped for her slippers with her feet. “There is one thing you could do for me.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Put my slippers on for me,” she asked plaintively.
 
 
After the kids had left for school, Lucy sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. She had filled Bill's lunchbox and was waiting to say good-bye to him. But when he appeared, reaching over her shoulder for the box, she held his arm.
“Do you know anybody who has a black-and-chrome pickup?” she asked.
“Probably. Why do you want to know?”
“One came tearing up the road yesterday, when the kids were sledding. It was a close call. We were lucky.”
Bill sat down, scratching his bearded chin. “Ed's got one like that, I think.”
“That's right. I saw it at the food pantry. It could've been that truck.”
“He's a pretty careful driver, though,” said Bill, shaking his head. “Doesn't sound like him.”
“Maybe someone who works for him?”
“If I see him, I'll ask him.” said Bill, standing up. He stroked her cheek with his hand. “If the kids want to slide, have 'em stay in the yard, okay?”
 
 
If confession is good for the soul, Lucy figured her soul must be in tiptop shape this morning. She thought she'd handled telling Bill about the kids' near miss pretty well. She'd told him just as he was getting ready to leave the house, his mind already on the day ahead. And by asking him about the truck, she'd neatly positioned him as her helper, not her critic.
A psychological masterpiece, she decided, having left Zoe at Kiddie Kollege and heading over to
The Pennysaver
office. If only she could manage Ted as well.
The little bell on the door tinkled as she pulled it open, causing Ted to look up from his desk.
“Hi, Lucy. Have you got the story?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Please don't yell. I'm in a lot of pain.”
“What happened?”
“I was in kind of an accident yesterday. I was sledding with the kids and a big truck . . .”
“Are you all right?” Ted hopped to his feet and began clearing files off a chair. “Sit down.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, allowing herself to groan as she lowered herself onto the seat. “I'm just sore all over.”
“What about the kids?”
“They're fine. It was just a near miss, but I was too upset to work on the story.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said, magnanimously. “Actually, I have some features left over from this week that I didn't use. What a week—murder, suicide, theft all tied up in a neat little bundle. It doesn't get much better than this.” He paused and shook his head regretfully. “If only they'd been lovers.”
“Who? Bitsy and Hayden?” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Not much chance of that.”
“I know, I know,” Ted hastened to say. “I was only saying that it would have been a nice touch.”
“Well, it would have made the whole thing more understandable,” admitted Lucy. “I can't for the life of me think what would possess Hayden to do these things.”
“Horowitz is pretty definite about it—he was quite chatty, in fact. Pretty unusual for the great stone face.”
“He thinks he's got a nice, tidy case, all tied up with a bow,” fumed Lucy. “He isn't going to go looking for loose ends, is he? He wants the case closed. He didn't know Hayden—he doesn't know how ridiculous this whole thing is.”
“Oh, ho,” mused Ted. “So you don't agree with the official solution?”
“Not by a long shot,” admitted Lucy. “Hey, thanks for being so nice about the story. I absolutely, positively promise I'll have it for you next week.”
“I've heard that before,” said Ted, looking doubtful.
 
 
It was barely ten when Lucy left
The Pennysaver
office, walking carefully down Main Street to her car. The sidewalk was clear but there were icy patches and the last thing she wanted to do was fall. The way she felt, she'd never get up again. The ibuprofen she'd taken earlier was helping, but her arms and legs still ached.
In the car, Lucy considered her options. Zoe wouldn't be out of Kiddie Kollege until twelve. She could spend that time in a hot tub; the only problem was she didn't know anybody who had one. Besides, she wouldn't be able to relax—not even in a hot tub—until she sorted out her emotions, still unsettled from yesterday's near tragedy. She couldn't shake the feeling that Gerald was somehow involved, ridiculous as that seemed. Nevertheless, he had no sooner given her a clear warning to mind her own business than the frightening incident with the truck had occurred. Besides, she had definitely gotten the sense that Gerald was hiding something, but how could she find out what it was?
She put the key in the ignition and adjusted the rear view mirror, catching sight of the gift she had wrapped for Miss Tilley. With everything that had been happening, she had forgotten all about it. No time like the present, she decided, slipping the Subaru into drive and turning up the heater.
 
 
Rachel greeted her warmly when she opened the door.
“Lucy! What a nice surprise! Come on in out of the cold—I've got the kettle on.”
“That sounds great,” said Lucy, with chattering teeth. “Why is it that the car heater doesn't kick in until you're wherever it is that you're going?”
“Just one of those things, I guess,” said Rachel, taking her coat. “Sit down by the fire.”
Miss Tilley was seated in her usual rocking chair on one side of the fireplace, a brightly colored, crocheted afghan covering her legs.
“Don't you make a cozy picture,” began Lucy, holding out the present. “This is for you. To let you know how badly I felt about quarreling with you last week.”
“There's no need for an apology,” said Miss Tilley, as she took the present. Her eyes were bright with amusement. “I'm a quarrelsome old biddy. Such behavior shouldn't be rewarded, should it, Rachel?”
“Absolutely not,” said Rachel, as she carried in the tea tray. “You'll undo all my efforts to civilize this old witch.”
“I could take it back . . .” began Lucy.
“Never mind.” Miss Tilley flapped her hand, shooing her away. “Since you've gone to all this trouble I don't want to disappoint you.”
“All right, then,” said Lucy, taking a cup and cautiously seating herself in the comfortable armchair on the other side of the fireplace. “I'll let you keep it. I hope you like it.”
Miss Tilley's fingers trembled as she unwrapped the present, another sign of her increasing debility. Lucy didn't watch her struggle, but studied the bright flames dancing in the fireplace and concentrated on relaxing her painful, tensed muscles.
“This is lovely! Thank you,” exclaimed Miss Tilley.
Lucy looked up and smiled at her. “I thought it might remind you of Josiah's Tankard.”
“It does—it's very similar, isn't it?” She ran her fingers over the smooth surface and wrapped them around the handle. “You really didn't need to do this, you know.”
“I know,” Lucy said, smiling. “I wanted to.”
“Where shall we put it?” asked Rachel. “On the mantel?”
Before Lucy could suggest the tavern table, Miss Tilley pointed to it. “Over there, I think. In the light from the window.”
Rachel carried the tankard across the room and placed it on the little round, pumpkin-colored table. It seemed to sit happily there, quietly glowing, as if it had found a home.
“Perfect,” said Rachel, and they all nodded in agreement, admiring the effect. “Well, it's back to the kitchen for me—I've got to keep an eye on my pudding or it will burn.”
Lucy took a sip of tea, but spluttered when Miss Tilley abruptly posed a question.
“Have you got to the bottom of this business at the library yet?” the old woman asked.
“Not quite,” admitted Lucy. “But Horowitz thinks he's got the whole thing wrapped up.”
“That's ridiculous. Hayden wouldn't have hurt a fly.” Miss Tilley's tone was definite.
“You know,” began Lucy, determined to confess yet another sin, “when I decided to get you a tankard I asked Corney and Hayden for some advice about pewter. Horowitz said Hayden may have misunderstood my interest—he said it might be my fault that he killed himself.”
“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”
“This is just a theory,” began Lucy, “but what if Josiah's Tankard isn't genuine? What if Hayden had switched it? That would be quite a motive for suicide.”
“I've had my doubts for a while,” admitted Miss Tilley, surprising Lucy with her complacency. “I didn't want to alarm the board unnecessarily, but I was going to suggest having it appraised by an expert. Something about it isn't quite right—but I don't for one minute think Hayden made the switch.”
“When did you first notice it?”
“When we had it out the last time—it seemed lighter than I expected.”
“When was it last authenticated?” asked Lucy. “Is there documentation of any kind?”
“There is, and I tried to check it, but the file was missing. I meant to pursue it, but I came down with the flu and I never got around to it. Gerald probably knows where it is.”
“Of course,” said Lucy, leaning forward and reaching for the teapot. “More for you?”
Miss Tilley shook her head, and Lucy refilled her own cup. Settling back in her chair, she decided to ask Miss Tilley about her old friend. “How is Gerald these days? He seems to be managing so well as president of the board, but all this must be taking a toll on him.”
“Oh, Gerald's used to managing crises—he used to be president of Winchester College, you know. He faced down mobs of protesting students in the sixties—he'd only been on the job a couple of weeks when they staged a huge demonstration. And since then it's been one thing after another. Why, just before he retired the college trustees voted to ban alcohol on campus—poor Gerald had to tell the fraternities!” Miss Tilley cackled merrily. “I guess if he could handle that, he could handle anything.”
“He must have been glad to retire,” ventured Lucy.
“I don't know about that.” Miss Tilley was suddenly solemn. “I hated having to retire, and I suspect Gerald felt the same way. It's hard to give up something you love.”
“I'm sure it is.” Lucy's voice was soft. “But he seems quite busy. I suppose he's on a number of boards. He must have investments to manage. And then there's golf and traveling. I've heard retirees say that they're busier in retirement than they were when they worked.”
“I don't think that's quite the case with Gerald.” Miss Tilley folded her hands in her lap and looked out the window at the bird feeder where a blue jay had suddenly alighted, scattering the chickadees and titmice that had been gathered there. “Blue jays are such bullies,” she said. “I wouldn't allow it, if they weren't so handsome.”
“Lunch is almost ready,” said Rachel, appearing in the doorway. “Will you stay, Lucy?”
“No, thanks. I have to pick up Zoe. I didn't realize it was so late.”
“Well, come back anytime,” said Rachel, pulling Lucy's coat out of the hall closet. “You're always welcome.”
“Especially when you bring presents,” added Miss Tilley, nodding toward the tankard.
“Honestly, she's no better than a five-year-old,” clucked Rachel.

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