Valentine Murder (6 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Valentine Murder
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That meant they would have to depend on questioning the suspects, but she didn't think these particular suspects were likely to submit themselves to that. They had nothing to gain and everything to lose; it was far safer to say nothing.
Of course, they would talk among themselves—that was human nature. They would have plenty to say to each other that they wouldn't want to share with the police. She drummed her fingers on the table. Tomorrow, she decided, she'd make a point of paying a visit to Miss Tilley. Horowitz could hardly call it meddling—after all, she would only be doing what any good neighbor would do. Paying a friendly visit to an elderly neighbor and having a nice little chat.
“Mom, can I have some more cocoa?” asked Zoe.
Lucy heard the roar of the school bus as it began the slow climb up the hill. Sara and Elizabeth and Toby would be home any minute.
“I guess I better heat up enough for the whole gang,” she said, giving Zoe a little hug and tickling her tummy. “There's nothing like cocoa on a cold day.”
The door flew open and Toby and Elizabeth jostled each other, each trying to be the first one in. Sara brought up the rear, her plump, round face red with anger.
“It's not fair! I never get to use the computer!” she screamed hoarsely at her older brother and sister.
Elizabeth and Toby weren't there to hear her. They had already vanished into the family room, shedding hats and scarves and coats as they went.
Lucy followed, and found them huddled over the computer, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Come on, come on,” chanted Toby impatiently. “This thing takes forever to boot—I don't know why they didn't get a Pentium 90.”
“Too cheap,” commiserated Elizabeth. “I'm amazed they got anything at all.”
“Don't you want some cocoa?” asked Lucy. “How was school?”
“Later, Mom. We're busy.” Toby's eyes didn't waver from the screen as he clicked the mouse with his enormous hand. He was a junior in high school and aleady topped six feet; Lucy had trouble finding clothes and shoes big enough for him.
“Look at the mess you've made—aren't you going to hang up your coats and things?”
“Sure, Mom,” said Elizabeth, brushing her short, dark hair out of her eyes, which were also fixed on the screen. “We'll do it later—we want to do this first.”
Lucy was dismayed but right now she didn't have the energy to make them behave in a civilized manner. “Okay, just don't forget,” she muttered, returning to the kitchen. It could be worse, she thought. They could be experimenting with drugs or sex or vandalizing some building. At least the Internet was supposed to be educational, even if it didn't do much for one's social graces.
“Mom, it's not fair,” insisted Sara, who was pouring herself some cocoa. “I never get to use the computer. Elizabeth and Toby won't let me.”
“We'll have to figure something out,” said Lucy. “Why don't you take Zoe sliding when you finish your cocoa?”
“That's no fun,” grumbled Sara, stuffing her chubby cheeks with cookies. “I want to play ‘Zoroaster'.”
“One cookie at a time, please, and don't forget to chew,” reminded Lucy, reaching for the ringing phone.
“Hi, Ted,” she said, recognizing his voice. Ted Stillings was the chief reporter, editor, and publisher of the local weekly newspaper,
The Pennysaver.
“I guess you must have heard.”
“Gosh, Lucy, you might've given me a call,” he complained.
Lucy occasionally worked at the paper, filling in for Ted's assistant, Phyllis, in addition to writing features on a freelance basis.
“I knew it was too late for this week—the paper came out today.”
“Yeah, but I would've liked to get some on-the-scene coverage for next week.”
“No chance of that, I'm afraid. The state police got right there.”
“Well, you were there. What can you tell me?”
“Not much,” said Lucy. “Like the other directors, I'm shocked and saddened by this dreadful event.”
“Come on, Lucy,” coaxed Ted. “You can't do this to me. You're a reporter, for God's sake.”
“I'm a freelance feature writer,” she corrected him. “And besides, I've already been warned by Horowitz to mind my own business.”
“You know you're not going to let a little thing like that stop you. Come on, tell me what you know.”
“Well,” drawled Lucy, yielding to Ted's coaxing, “Horowitz definitely thinks one of the directors is the murderer, but I just can't see it.”
“Because they're all such upstanding citizens?”
“No—because they were more or less all together all morning. I don't think anybody had enough time. I think it must have been somebody from outside. Bitsy must have had a personal life away from the library. It could have been a jilted boyfriend, somebody like that. What have you heard?”
“I haven't talked to too many people yet. I did get some background stuff—I had her resume in my files, from the selectmen's meeting when she was hired.”
“Where'd she come from?”
“Massapequa, Long Island. She worked in a library there.”
“Does she have family there? An ex-husband?”
“You know, I just don't know. I interviewed her for a profile piece when she first took the job. I pulled it out but it didn't really have much information. When I thought about it, I remembered being kind of frustrated because she wouldn't answer any personal questions. Just talked about all her plans for the library, how much she liked living in Maine, stuff like that.”
“Maybe she had something to hide,” suggested Lucy. “Maybe that's why she was killed.”
“Could be,” admitted Ted, “but so far I haven't found out much. I hope I can turn up something for next week's paper.”
“At least you've got plenty of time.”
“Yeah,” said Ted. “So where's that story on gambling that you tell me you're working on? Can I expect it anytime soon?”
“Soon,” hedged Lucy.
“Like when?” pressed Ted.
“Next Friday?”
“Can't you do it in time for next week's paper?”
“No way,” said Lucy.
“Okay, but I'm counting on you, Lucy. Friday at the latest.”
“I won't let you down,” promised Lucy.
“Sure,” said Ted, sounding skeptical.
As Lucy replaced the receiver she heard a commotion in the family room. Sara had evidently attempted to gain access to the computer, prompting outraged protests from Toby and Elizabeth.
“Enough!” she announced, marching over to the machine and turning the power switch off.
“You're not supposed to do that!” screamed Elizabeth. “You'll wreck it!
“She's right, Mom,” added Toby.
“I don't care,” Lucy said through clenched teeth, placing her hands on her hips. “It's been a very long day and I want some peace and quiet. I want you to pick up your coats and hats off the floor and then go outside and have some good old-fashioned fun in the snow. Do you understand me?”
“Do we have to?” groaned Toby, looking at her as if she were completely mad.
“Yes, you do,” insisted Lucy. “And have a good time, too!”
The kids clattered out obediently; Lucy suspected they'd be sneaking back into the warm house before long. She had better enjoy the peace and quiet while she could. She piled a few pillows at one end of the couch and lay down, closing her eyes and trying to empty her mind of all thoughts.
After a few minutes, she realized it was futile. Her mind was buzzing with questions. Why had Bitsy left Massapequa? Why did she choose Maine, of all places? Did she have a special reason for coming to Tinker's Cove? And if she hadn't come to Tinker's Cove, would she have been murdered? Why did she die?
Before she realized what she had done, Lucy was back on her feet and heading for the kitchen. It was too late today; she had to get supper started. But tomorrow, she decided, she was going to start looking for some answers.
CHAPTER SIX
Little Red Riding Hood decided to pay a visit to her grandmother.
O
n Friday morning Lucy looked out the window and saw a snow squall. The wind was tossing some fine little flakes around, but there wasn't enough snow for school to be closed. Lucy sent up a little prayer of thanksgiving when the school bus carried the three older kids off in the morning, then she started tidying up the kitchen. She was just wiping off the counter when Bill came in looking for his lunchbox before leaving for work. A skilled restoration carpenter, he had been hired by a nearby church to reconstruct a wineglass pulpit that had begun to wobble dangerously, putting the minister on decidedly shaky footing when he gave his sermon.
“What's on the menu today?” he asked, opening the lunchbox and taking a peek.
“A meatloaf sandwich and a thermos of vegetable soup.” Lucy always tried to include something hot. She knew that the congregation's budget didn't provide for heating the sanctuary on weekdays and Bill's space heater couldn't begin to warm the entire church.
“Mmmm,” said Bill, snapping it shut and setting it on the kitchen table so he could zip his jacket. He looked at her thoughtfully. “Lucy, are you all right about this Bitsy thing?”
“As all right as I can be, I guess,” said Lucy. “It isn't as if we were close friends.”
“That's right,” said Bill. “She must have been hanging around with some pretty desperate characters to get herself killed. It's no business of yours, and I hope you'll leave it to the police.”
Lucy started to protest but he grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, folding her in his arms.
“I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you.”
Lucy looked into his eyes and stroked his beard, now tinged with gray. “Don't worry,” she said, placing her hands on his chest and gently pushing him away. “Horowitz has already warned me to mind my own business.”
“Sounds like good advice,” said Bill, putting on his gloves. “I hope you'll take it.”
“I intend to. Besides, I don't have time to investigate—Ted's after me to finish a story for him,” said Lucy, reaching up to pull Bill's watch cap down over his ears. “It's cold out there—stay warm, okay?”
“Okay.” He gave her a quick kiss and was gone.
 
 
A glance at the kitchen clock told Lucy it was a few minutes past eight. If she was lucky, she thought, she might just catch Horowitz at his office.
Before she had time to think better of it, she punched in the number of his direct line. As she listened to the rings she chewed her lip nervously.
“Horowitz.”
“Umm, Lieutenant, uhh, this is Lucy Stone,” she stammered.
“Ah. Good morning, Mrs. Stone.”
“You can call me Lucy,” she invited, wondering what his first name might be.
“That's all right, Mrs. Stone. Is there a reason for this call?”
“Actually, there is. There's something I forgot to tell you yesterday.”
“And what's that?”
“Well, when I went to find Bitsy, a whole box of art supplies was spilled on the stairs. It looked as if she was going to have the kids make valentines—there were lace doilies and red construction paper and scissors and crayons all over.” She paused. “Do you think it's important? Maybe she encountered the killer on the stairs?”
“Or maybe she just tripped,” said Horowitz.
“In that case, wouldn't she have picked up the mess?”
“I doubt it,” sighed Horowitz. “From what I've seen of her, she never cleaned anything up that could be left for later.”
“Have you searched her apartment?” probed Lucy, determined to take advantage of Horowitz's unexpectedly chatty mood.
“We're working on it,” he admitted, before catching himself. “Mrs. Stone, didn't I tell you to leave this investigation to the police?”
“I just thought you ought to know about the spilled art supplies,” said Lucy, sounding hurt. “I was trying to be helpful.”
“Well, thanks.”
The line was dead; Horowitz had hung up.
Lucy replaced the receiver and finished tidying the kitchen, then pried Zoe away from “Bunny Beware” and got her dressed for Kiddie Kollege. As a four-year-old she attended three mornings a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
After leaving Zoe in her basement classroom at the town's recreation center, Lucy stopped in at the day care center just down the hall where her friend, Sue Finch, worked.
When she entered, Sue was helping a little boy out of his winter jacket. She looked up and gave Lucy a big smile.
“I was hoping you'd stop by,” she said, tucking her glossy pageboy behind her ears.
“I guess you heard,” said Lucy. “That's a cute sweater,” she added, noticing the embroidered design that showed Mary coming to school with her little lamb.
“It's not really my style,” said Sue, who prefered tailored, sophisticated clothing. “But the kids love this kind of stuff.” She propped her hand on her hip and cocked her head. “So, tell me all about it. Did you really discover Bitsy's body?”
“Don't remind me,” groaned Lucy.
“Was it awful?” asked Sue, stepping closer and whispering so the children wouldn't hear.
“What do you think? She was shot!”
Sue patted her shoulder. “Poor thing. It must have been quite a shock.” She thought for a minute. “How did the kids take it?”
“Zoe was with me—but she didn't see anything. Actually, she didn't seem bothered at all. In fact, she said Bitsy was mean and story hour wasn't much fun anyway.”
“Kids can be so . . .” Sue looked for a word to finish the sentence.
“Honest?” suggested Lucy.
“That wasn't exactly the word I was looking for, but it will do. Poor Bitsy didn't have a clue about kids.” Sue surveyed the bright and homey day care center, where a dozen little ones were happily occupied.
“I always liked her,” said Lucy. “She was a breath of fresh air after Miss Tilley. She started bringing in new books—the kind people like to read. Bestsellers and popular authors. And she was friendly. Didn't make you feel like a thief for borrowing a book.” She fiddled with the zipper tag on her jacket. “I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill her.”
“She must have had a life outside the library,” said Sue. “I'll bet it was a boyfriend or something.” She narrowed her eyes mischievously. “Isn't it usually the boyfriend? You're the expert, after all.”
“I'm no expert—and I don't think Bitsy had a boyfriend.”
“Well,” said Sue slowly, turning her attention to two little boys at the sand table. “Sand isn't for throwing, Peter. Why don't you see how many shovels it takes to fill the truck?” She turned back to Lucy. “You know, she might have gone just a bit too far with the wrong person.”
“What do you mean?” Lucy was mystified.
“You know—all the personal comments she made. Like when I took out a book about gardening. It was August and Sidra had just gone back to college. Bitsy concluded I was suffering from empty nest syndrome. ‘Looking for a new hobby now that your baby has left home?' she asked. ‘No,' I told her. ‘My daylilies are looking kind of straggly.' ”
“They need to be divided.”
“I know that now,” said Sue, keeping an eye on the sand table. “That's exactly what the book said. And I followed the directions and I expect I'll have outstanding daylilies this summer.” She looked out the window at the lightly falling snow and added, “If summer ever comes.”
“I don't see how something like that could get her killed,” said Lucy. “She just liked to make conversation.”
“Peter—I'm warning you. If you keep throwing sand at Justin you'll have to go to time-out.” Sue turned back to Lucy and nodded knowingly. “Everybody's got secrets, and this is a very small town. It wouldn't be hard to hit a nerve—somebody looking up bankruptcy information or stuff about divorce . . .”
“A book about poisons, maybe?” asked Lucy, but Sue didn't answer. She was headed for the sand table.
“I'll call you later, Lucy,” she said, raising her hand in a wave.
 
 
Lucy thought about what Sue had said as she headed over to the Quik-Stop. Maybe she had a point. Bitsy loved to make conversation but her friendly questions could be misinterpreted, especially by somebody who had something to hide.
Pulling into the parking lot at the combination gas station and convenience store, she wondered if Bitsy had been less popular than she had thought. She braked and climbed out of the car, noticing a fresh scattering of discarded lottery tickets mixed in with the falling snow that was blowing about. She wondered how many more worthless tickets were buried in the accumulated snow that covered the ground.
A bell on the door tinkled when she went inside and a pretty girl at the cash register looked up.
“What can I do for you today?” she asked politely.
“I'm not here to buy anything,” Lucy apologized. “I write for
The Pennysaver
and I'm working on a story about gambling, especially the state lottery. Can you answer some questions for me?”
“Sure.” The girl gave a little shrug.
“First, I need your name,” said Lucy, getting her notebook out of her shoulder bag and uncapping her pen.
“Lois Kirwan.”
“Oh, I know Dot,” said Lucy. In fact, everybody knew Dot, who worked as a cashier at Marzetti's IGA. “Is she your mother?”
“Mother-in-law,” said the girl. “I'm married to Tommy.”
“That's nice,” said Lucy, getting down to business. “Well, what I wondered is how big a business are these lottery tickets? Do you sell a lot of them?”
Lois nodded. “We must sell hundreds, even thousands.”
“Is that in a week?”
“No.” Lois chuckled. “That's in a day.”
“I had no idea,” said Lucy.
“I've seen people spend their entire paychecks on scratch tickets.” She paused and leaned across the counter. “I'm not supposed to—the owner would have a fit if he knew—but I tell them it's a waste of money. You can't beat the system. These tickets come in rolls of five hundred and sell for a dollar apiece. On average, the winning tickets total three hundred dollars. It's a losing proposition. It has to be or the state wouldn't make any money.”
“How much of the store's business is lottery tickets?” asked Lucy.
“Most of it—I'd guess at least half. Then there's cigarettes—that's probably the other half.”
“What about milk and bread?” That was all that Lucy ever bought at the Quik-Stop herself.
“Hardly anybody buys anything here without buying at least one lottery ticket, too. Lots of times, if they have a five or a ten dollar bill, they'll take the change in scratch tickets.”
Lucy was shocked at this extravagance. “Is there a typical buyer?” she asked.
“Everybody buys them. Except kids—we can't sell them if you're under eighteen.”
“What about the people who buy a lot at one time?”
“They tend to be older—and mostly men. There's one man—he's really distinguished looking. Like he's rich. Nice overcoat. Beautiful leather gloves. Drives a big Lincoln. He comes in at least once a week and buys a lot of tickets. Fifty minimum, sometimes a lot more. At least he can afford it. A lot of them, well, you know they're emptying out their wallets and poking around under the car seats to scrape together enough change to buy a ticket. It's sad. It's such a waste of money.”
“They're hoping they'll get lucky and strike it rich,” said Lucy. “Have you had any big winners who bought tickets here?”
“I've never had a big winner on a scratch ticket but we've had some pretty big Lotto winners.” She pointed to a picture frame on the wall behind her that contained three Lotto stubs. “I think one was a hundred thousand dollars. We never had a million dollar winner. George—he's the owner—keeps telling me we're due.” She shook her head in disapproval. “He tells the customers that, too. He thinks the lottery is the greatest. He's always putting up the signs the lottery commission sends.” She paused and rolled her eyes, indicating the large number of colorful advertisements stuck up all over the store. “Like we don't have enough already. And if the Lotto pot is bigger than usual he wants me to mention it to all the customers.”
“Do you ever play?” asked Lucy.

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