Candy Cane Murder (28 page)

December 1983

O
nly a week until Christmas. Not that it felt like Christmas. Lucy Stone was crouched awkwardly on the cracked linoleum kitchen floor in front of an elderly gas range, trying to reach all the way back inside the broiler despite her six-month pregnant belly to relight the oven pilot light that was always going out. No wonder, considering how drafty the old house was.

The flame finally caught and she sat back on her heels, gathering up the collection of wooden matches she'd used and groaning a bit as she hauled herself to her feet. She tossed the matches in the trash and washed her hands in cold water—it took a while for the balky hot water heater to produce anything remotely warm, much less hot—before returning to the cookie batter she was mixing. Spritz cookies, just like her mother always made. Except this year she had to make them because she wouldn't be seeing her mother, or her father, this Christmas. They were staying in New York City because Dad was making a poor recovery from heart surgery and was lingering in the hospital, needing all Mom's attention. That left Lucy, who could use some attention herself, out in the cold.

Literally out in the cold, she thought, switching on the mixer to cream the butter and sugar together. It didn't get much colder than coastal Maine and that's where she was, in the nowhere town of Tinker's Cove. It was certainly a far cry from the Upper West Side of New York City, where she and Bill and Toby, who was almost two, had lived in a tight three-and-a-half rooms overlooking Central Park. But what did space matter when you had the entire park with playgrounds and a zoo and even a carousel, and the American Museum of Natural History and the Metropolitan Museum of Art just steps away? When you could hop the subway to Battery Park for a breath of sea air and a walk along the water? Or a night out at a Broadway show? Or a quick trip to Bloomingdale's where they sprayed you with the newest fragrances and you could find the cutest little outfits for Toby?

Lucy switched off the mixer and set it on the kitchen table, then began adding the flour by hand. It was hard work but she was glad to have something to occupy her, something that would make it seem more like Christmas. Which was weird, she thought, because Tinker's Cove was one of those picture-perfect New England towns that looked as if it could be on a Christmas card. But even though the air smelled piney and the houses all had wreaths with red bows and the big fir tree in the center of town was decked with colored lights, it wasn't nearly as festive as Rockefeller Center where they set up a proper Christmas tree above the skating rink and played Christmas carols on loudspeakers and Fifth Avenue was filled with shoppers carrying bags that bulged with presents.

Just the thought of presents made Lucy groan. There weren't going to be presents this year, at least not the lavish presents of Christmases past. She and Bill had agreed to exchange one modest gift apiece, reserving the rest of their limited budget for toys for Toby. Limited being the operative word here, thought Lucy, who had a fifty-dollar bill folded in the back of her wallet and was keeping an eye on the assortment of trucks and stuffed animals at the IGA, anxiously hoping they held out until Christmas Eve when Dot, the friendly cashier, promised her prices would be cut by half.

Somehow she hadn't expected it would come to this when she agreed to Bill's plan to dramatically change direction, exchanging a well-paying job as a stockbroker and their comfortable life in the city to realize his longtime dream of living in the country and working with his hands. Back then he'd just gotten a fat bonus and it seemed that they could easily afford the fixer-upper farmhouse they'd found in Tinker's Cove. He'd learn by doing, he said, gaining the skills of a restoration carpenter by refurbishing the big nineteenth-century house room by room. But everything was more expensive than they anticipated and the fat bonus shrank rapidly, going to the hardware store and the lumber yard and the electric company and the grocery store and the oil company. Especially the oil company. When Bill tore out the old, rotted plaster and lath he discovered there was no insulation, and sometimes not even proper studs, in the walls. Which meant it was always cold even though the furnace ran constantly, burning oil at a ferocious rate.

Even worse, Bill's career change had alienated him from his parents. Bill Sr. and Edna had seemed so jolly, so easygoing when Lucy first met them but that had all changed when Bill announced his plan to give up corporate life. Bill Sr. had listened stony faced as Bill explained his reasons for quitting the brokerage firm he bitterly referred to as “Dewey, Cheatham and Howe.”

“They don't care about the clients, Dad, all they care about is making a big profit. There's so much pressure to churn accounts to generate commissions, to sell limited partnerships and other products that aren't going to produce a dime until most of my clients are long gone. And there's the insider trading. I tell you, it's just a matter of time before the SEC gets on to these guys.”

“You have a responsibility to your employer, son,” said his father, looking grim. “They're paying you handsomely to make money for them. It's not some sort of welfare scheme, you know.”

“You said it,” snapped Bill. “They've got me taking from the poor and giving to the rich and I'm not going to do it. We're going to get out of this filthy town and go somewhere where the air is clean and people are honest.”

“I'm warning you, son,” said Bill Sr. “I can't approve of you putting your family and your livelihood at risk like this. Don't come whining to me looking for a handout when the wolf is at the door.”

Lucy smiled grimly to herself. Despite Bill's high hopes they hadn't found either clean air or honest people. The local weather forecast announced frequent bad air days, thanks to prevailing winds that carried pollution from the entire country. And the big story last week in the town's little newspaper alleged that a sweet-faced church secretary, beloved by the entire congregation, had embezzled several thousand dollars for a trip to Las Vegas. Bill had succeeded, however, in bringing the wolf to the door, but there was no way he was going to give his father the satisfaction of asking for help. That would be admitting defeat and Bill wasn't about to do that. So they wouldn't be seeing the elder Stones this year, either.

So here she was, she thought, looking around the kitchen and not liking what she saw. There were no cabinets, no counters, just a stained old Kenmore gas range that was at least twenty years old that stood next to a nasty old porcelain sink with exposed plumbing beneath. The refrigerator stood across the room in lonely splendor, its white porcelain door speckled with rust and its rounded top a slippery slope for anything that she set on top of it. Which she did, having no other place to store things she didn't want Toby to get into. The wallpaper, a flamboyant pattern featuring black swirls punctuated with red and yellow teapots, was torn, and the patches of plaster that were revealed were painted in various colors of green and beige. Lucy regularly washed the green speckled linoleum that covered most of the worn wood floor but no matter how hard or how often she scrubbed, it still looked dirty and dingy. And this, she thought with a sigh, was just the kitchen. She didn't even want to think about the rest of the house, especially the breezy, rattle-trap room that served as a nursery where Toby was napping under a pile of quilts and blankets.

The cookie dough was ready, she realized, mixed to perfection as she fumed about her situation and she chuckled to herself. Anger and resentment were good when you needed muscle power, but not good for the soul. Or for relationships, she thought, hearing Bill banging nails in the living room. It was definitely time she adopted a more positive attitude. It was Christmas after all, and she wanted their first Christmas in their own home to be special.

Lucy was smiling as she stuffed the dough into the cookie press and screwed on the end cap. She heard the hiss of the burner as the oven heated and she switched on the radio, turning the dial until she found a station playing Christmas carols. She hummed along, turning the crank and squeezing out perfect little rosettes onto the cookie sheets. When she'd filled both sheets she placed a bit of glazed cherry in the center of each cookie and slipped the pans into the oven, which the thermometer she'd hung from the rack indicated was a perfect three hundred and fifty degrees.

Toby was stirring upstairs so she climbed the rickety back stairs that led to the second floor bedrooms. She pushed open the door and peeked inside, ignoring the walls that had been stripped down to the studs and the windows that rattled and went straight to the crib, where Toby was sitting in a nest of blankets and talking to himself.

“Did you have a nice nap?” she asked, lifting him out of the crib, nosing his tousled hair and sniffing his sweet baby scent, then took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom where he stood on a stool while she undid his overalls and then slid him on the blue plastic kiddie seat that sat on the toilet. The bathroom was another room that didn't bear close examination, she thought, refusing to look at the spotted mirror on the medicine cabinet and the cracked pink tiles. She checked the diaper he still wore for naps and found it dry; something to smile about. “You're getting to be such a big boy!” she exclaimed, and was rewarded with a tinkle. “You went in the toilet! Just like Mommy and Daddy!”

Finished, he raised his arms and bounced in the seat. Lucy slid him off and stood him on the floor where he squirmed and wiggled as she pulled on training pants and hooked his overall straps. At the second click he bolted shoeless for the door and she grabbed him by the back of his OshKosh's. “Shoes,” she said, leading him back to the nursery where he protested loudly as she wrestled him into a pair of almost new Stride Rite oxfords that were already getting a bit tight. She was out of breath as she helped him down the back stairs to the kitchen.

Funny, she thought, helping Toby onto his booster seat. The cookies ought to be nearly done by now but there was no delicious buttery smell. She filled his sippy cup with milk and then reached for the oven door, intending to give him a warm cookie. But when she peered inside the oven she discovered it was no longer hot, it was barely warm and the cookies hadn't even browned.

She bit her lip and walked across the room to the refrigerator, where she reached for the box of graham crackers that was sitting on top. She opened it and pulled one out for Toby. She stood there, looking at the dry little brown square of cracker, and burst into tears.

“What's the matter?” Bill was at her side in a flash, his hammer still in his hand. “Are you okay?”

“No, I'm not okay,” she said through clenched teeth. “I'm not okay at all. I can't live like this. Look at us! We're living in a wreck!” Her voice rose and she went on, unable to stop herself. “This is a big mistake. You're never going to be able to turn this dump into a house. You don't know what you're doing. It's been months and we don't have walls, or electric outlets or hot water. We're freezing and it's only December. I hate to tell you buddy but there're two, three more months of winter to get through.” She marched over to the stove and pulled out the cookie sheets with her bare hands, slamming them onto the table and raising a little cloud of flour. “And the oven doesn't work!” she shrieked, shaking with sobs.

“That's simple,” he said, taking the box of matches off the shelf and dropping to his knees, where he lit a match and reached into the broiler producing a satisfying whoosh. “See, all fixed,” he said, leaning back on his heels and giving her a satisfied smile.

“It's not fixed,” she said. “It'll go out again, next time the wind blows through these pathetic excuses for walls.”

“Mo',” mumbled Toby, holding out his sippy cup for a refill.

Bill stayed in place, head bowed, while Lucy got the milk container out of the refrigerator. “I know it's tough, Lucy, but I'm really making progress.”

“Great. That's terrific,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And what are Toby and I supposed to do in the meantime?”

Bill got to his feet and picked up Toby, hoisting him high above his head and making him shriek with delight. Then he settled him on his shoulders. “We're managing. We're doing okay. You're just feeling overwhelmed right now.”

Lucy looked at him, at his sweet sincere face and his sparkling blue eyes. He needed a haircut and a hank of brown hair kept falling into one eye; he shook it back and grinned at her. She couldn't resist that cocky grin. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I know you're working hard.” The oven, which had been hissing, fell silent as the pilot light went out again. “I just wanted to make my mom's Christmas cookies.”

“We'll get it fixed, I promise. I'll call Sears right away. Meanwhile, you need to get out of the house. You should take some time to yourself, go into town, do a little shopping. Toby and I will hold the fort, right Toby?”

Toby giggled. He loved sitting on his father's shoulders.

Lucy considered. It had been quite a while since she'd had any time to herself. “Okay,” she said. “That's a good idea. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, swinging Toby down to the floor and taking his hand. “Come on, buddy. Let's find your tools. We've got some hammering to do.”

When Lucy left the house, she could hear them both banging away. Bill was nailing up sheetrock and Toby was imitating him, pounding the pegs on his toy workbench. I wonder how long that will last, she thought, closing the door behind her.