Back To School Murder #4 (13 page)

B
ack in the Subaru, Lucy wasted no time getting back to the office. Once there, she immediately called the
Bridgton Gazette
and spoke to the editor. He obligingly agreed to fax her a copy of the story he had printed about the elementary school fire last spring. It would take a while, however, so Lucy busied herself with the obituaries.

She was halfway through an account of Susan Peters Thompson's life—she enjoyed sewing and was a member of the Ladies' Aid Society—when she heard the door open. Looking up, she was surprised to see Quentin Rea.

Today, Lucy was a bit surprised to notice, he was no longer the grief-stricken figure of the night before. He was grinning broadly, casually holding his jacket over his shoulder with one finger. He gave his sandy hair a toss and cocked his head, waiting for her to speak.

“What brings you here?” she asked, swallowing hard.

“I want to place a want ad,” he said as his eyes met hers.

Lucy quickly ducked beneath the counter, reaching for a blank form. She slid it across the counter to him, and he picked up a pencil. His hands were nice, she thought, with thick fingers that looked as if they did more than turn pages.

She felt awkward, standing there while he filled out the form, so she sat back down at her desk and resumed typing the obituary. Interestingly enough, she discovered, Mrs. Thompson also raised Airedales.

“I'm all set,” he said. “I'm only asking thirty-five dollars, so it's a free ad.”

“That's right,” said Lucy, glancing curiously at the form. “You're giving up rollerblading?”

He grinned and shrugged. “Too hard on my knees—I have an old ski injury.”

“I'm sure someone will snap them up,” said Lucy, giving him the carbon and filing the rest of the form.

It was a signal for him to go, but he didn't turn to leave. Instead, he looked around the office.

“So this is the famous
Pennysaver?
You know, this place has got a lot of atmosphere. Look at this floor—it's black with ink.”

“Yeah,” said Lucy. “Notice the smell? Ted swears it's hot lead, from the old linotype machine.”

“I don't doubt him,” said Quentin, coming around the counter to Lucy's desk. “What are you working on? A piece of investigative journalism?”

He stood behind her chair, and Lucy got a faint whiff of his spicy cologne. It was nice, she thought to herself. Of course, Bill would never wear cologne.

“It's an obituary—my work here is pretty much confined to obits and legals and classifieds. I was just helping Ted the day I called you about Carol Crane.”

“Poor Carol,” he said, adding a sad little sigh. “Listen, are you hungry? I'm starving. Why don't we go out to lunch?”

“I don't usually…” Lucy began.

“There's a great place not far from here—the Queen Victoria Inn. It's a bed and breakfast, but they serve lunch and tea. I bet you'd love it.”

Lucy felt her resistance crumbling. She'd heard so much about the Queen Vic, as her friends called it, but hadn't been there yet herself. Everyone loved the place, and, she rationalized, a leisurely lunch would give her an opportunity to question the professor about Carol Crane. “I've always wanted to try it,” she said.

“Let us delay no longer,” he said, gallantly offering her his arm.

Lucy took it, feeling for a moment as if she were wearing silk and a bustle instead of her usual jeans and polo shirt. When they got to the door, however, she took the opportunity of removing her hand from his arm. She was uncomfortable with the implied intimacy.

“Tinker's Cove is a real treasure trove of antique houses,” he said as they strolled down Main Street, past a row of stately old nineteenth-century mansions, “but there aren't many grand old Victorians, are there?”

“Most of the houses are older,” agreed Lucy. “They were built by sea captains in the days of sailing. The village went into a slump after the Civil War and not much was built. Only the Ezekiel Hallett house, which burned down a few years ago, and the Queen Vic. It was built as a guest house by a rather famous actress when she retired. Her name was, believe it or not, June Summers.”

“Really,” Quentin stated, raising an eyebrow. “How do you know all this?”

“My husband's a restoration carpenter,” said Lucy, glad to find a way of working Bill into the conversation. “He knows all about most of these buildings.”

“He knows their secrets, eh?”

“A lot of them do have stories to tell,” said Lucy, beginning to relax. “Some of them were stops on the Underground Railroad, others had tunnels to the sea—for smuggling. Even the Queen Victoria has a hidden door that connects two bedrooms.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Quentin, bounding up the steps to the gingerbread-encrusted porch. “The Victorians had the same passions we do—they just kept them covered up.” He held the door open for her.

Stepping into the dim hallway, Lucy felt as if she had stepped a hundred years into the past. Thick Oriental carpets covered the floor, a round table holding a bell jar filled with stuffed tropical birds stood in the center of the room. The walls were covered with a luscious rose-patterned paper.

A young woman in an old-fashioned maid's outfit, complete with lace cap and apron, greeted them and led them to the conservatory. There she seated them on cushioned wicker armchairs drawn up to a little round table. Although there were several other tables in the room, all filled with people, each table was quite private thanks to the lavish distribution of potted palms and ferns.

A waitress soon brought a tray containing a teapot and cups, and a silver cake stand featuring plates of tiny sandwiches, pastries, and scones.

“Shall I pour?” asked Lucy, mindful of her feminine responsibility.

“Thank you,” said Quentin, settling himself comfortably. “Do you know what Henry James once wrote? ‘There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.' Of course, this is lunch so we'll have to pretend it's teatime.”

“It is pleasant,” said Lucy, taking up the teapot. “It's a shame that we're all in such a rush these days that we rarely take time for relaxation. Sugar? Cream?”

Quentin shook his head and took the cup from Lucy, his fingers brushing hers in the process. Lucy tried not to notice.

“Delicious,” he said, gazing steadily at her over the gold rim of his teacup.

“Would you like a sandwich?” asked Lucy, ignoring his stare and studying the arrangement of food.

“Good idea,” he said, piling several onto his plate. “I'm famished. The academic life isn't quite as leisurely as people think.”

“I have a confession to make,” said Lucy, nibbling on a tiny, crustless sandwich. “I accepted your invitation because I wanted to ask you about Carol Crane.”

“Why?” he asked with a defensive little shrug. “I told you everything I know.”

“I don't believe that,” said Lucy. Her voice was soft, and she tilted her head, inviting him to confide in her.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me,” said Lucy. “I just can't figure her out.”

“Well, as you've guessed, we were once quite close. I don't mind admitting that her death has really shaken me up. She was so young.” His voice broke and he took a swallow of tea. “I'll tell you what I know—and you can even print it. But I don't want you to use my name.”

“That's fine with me. You can be a source close to the deceased,” said Lucy, leaning forward eagerly.

“Well…” Quentin paused, collecting his thoughts. “She grew up in Quivet Neck, on the coast. It's one of those places where there's a lot of old money. Big seaside mansions. Yachts. Tennis. The Club. All for the summer people. Old money. The people who live there year round form what used to be called the servant class. They work in the big houses, or the club. There's a huge social gulf between those who summer on Quivet Neck and those who just happen to live there.

“Carol's mother died when she was quite young and she lived with her father, who was a janitor in the local school. College was out of the question—never even thought of. The best Carol could have hoped for, really, was to find a husband with a good year-round job—an auto mechanic, maybe.”

Lucy nodded. She knew all about the economic realities of life in coastal Maine.

“All that changed, however, when Carol got a job as a lifeguard at the club and saved a little boy who fell into the deep end of the pool while his mother was busy sipping her fifth gin and tonic. His very grateful parents offered to pay her way at the local community college. So, off Carol went to North Megunticook County Community College. After two years there she went on to the state university, where I met her.” He paused, and picked up his cup. “I say,” he said, adopting an upper-class British accent, “is there any more tea in that pot? This reminiscin' is thirsty work, don't you know.”

“I'm sorry,” said Lucy, feeling a bit as if she'd strayed into a Dorothy Sayers novel as she lifted the pot. “I've been neglecting my duties.”

Quentin drained the cup and, refreshed, resumed his narrative.

“I don't think Carol really liked the state university very much. Too big, too many people. It was easy to get lost in the crowd. Of course, she soon remedied that. There was a shuttle bus that provided transportation on the campus. Most of the drivers were older men, retirees from the railroad. One day Carol was on a bus when the driver suddenly collapsed. The bus happened to be at the top of a very steep hill, and Carol managed to get it under control, saving the lives of all aboard. Everyone knew her after that.”

“Are you saying she staged that accident somehow?” asked Lucy.

“I'm sure she did,” said Quentin. “She used to give the driver homemade fudge now and then—she could easily have poisoned him.”

“But why?” asked Lucy. “What was she after?”

“Adulation. Admiration. Attention. She had to have it.”

“And she didn't care who she hurt to get it?”

“Not a bit,” Quentin said. “To Carol, people were just there for her to use. She was ambitious and manipulative, and she could be quite cruel.”

Raising her eyes to meet his, Lucy saw the hurt revealed there. She knew without being told that Quentin had been one of those Carol had taken advantage of and then discarded. Impulsively, she reached across the table and covered his hand with hers.

“I hope you won't abuse my trust,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“I would never do that,” promised Lucy.

“I believe you.” He withdrew his hand and placed it over hers. She felt his warmth as he began gently stroking her fingers. He slowly smiled, and she noticed his lips were generous and full. What would it be like to kiss him, she wondered, realizing he was leaning across the table, drawing closer to her.

“Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed, pulling her hand away and checking her watch. “Look at the time. After one. I have got to go.”

“Do you?” A teasing smile flitted across his face.

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, jumping to her feet and jostling the table. “Let me give you something toward the check.”

“Never mind. Please, let it be my treat.”

“But I was interviewing you.”

“It was my pleasure. I hope we can do it again soon,” he said, taking her hand and bending down to kiss it.

“I doubt it—I'm awfully busy,” said Lucy, snatching her hand away as if she had been stung.

“Then I'll see you in class,” said Quentin.

“In class,” agreed Lucy, tossing the words over her shoulder. It wasn't until she was outside the inn, back on the sidewalk, that she began to relax. Still breathing heavily, she struggled to catch her breath as she hurried along.

Feeling rather ridiculous—after all, she was hardly a blushing maiden—Lucy refused to deal with her jumbled and confused feelings toward Quentin. She resolved to deal with them later and firmly shoved them into a back corner of her mind, while she considered this new picture of Carol.

A poor, motherless girl with no prospects. A girl whose father was a janitor, who no doubt yearned to be like the girls at the club. They enjoyed an endless summer, with no responsibilities. They were free to sun themselves, free to play tennis and go sailing, free to go to dances and flirt with the boys. Carol, on the other hand, had to work all summer and still couldn't afford clothes like the girls at the club wore.

Their fathers were lawyers and doctors and businessmen. Men who wore suits and told other people what to do. Her father was a janitor, who cleaned up after other people.

No wonder she seemed phony, Lucy thought, as she crossed the street to
The Pennysaver
. She was inventing herself as she went along. She thought of an interview she had read in which a famous TV star recalled her humble origins as the daughter of sharecroppers. “I'm always afraid I'll wake up and find myself back in that shack,” she had confessed.

Carol had probably felt the same way, thought Lucy, opening the door to
The Pennysaver
office. She had come a long way from Quivet Neck, and she wasn't planning on going back.

Entering the office, Lucy checked the phone messages—an address change and a missing paper—and the fax machine, flipping through the accumulated papers until she found the
Bridgton Gazette
story.

What she read confirmed her worst suspicions. The fire was eerily similar to the Tinker's Cove bombing, right down to the front page photo of a soot-smudged Carol Crane holding a rescued child in her arms.

CHILD SAVED BY PRINCIPAL
, proclaimed the headline. The fire, like the bombing, had not been as serious as originally thought. While there had been plenty of smoke, actual damage had been limited. And just like little Tommy Spitzer in Tinker's Cove, Jeremiah Holden had been trapped in a supply room. And even though he insisted he had been locked in, his claims were discounted by investigators. The boy was deaf, after all, and it was difficult to communicate with him. It was generally agreed that he had panicked and locked himself in.