Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (14 page)

“We can draw quite a crowd for a demonstration,” he said, looking satisfied with himself.

“But how many go to meetings? How many are actually committed activists?”

“Like your daughter?” he asked, catching her by surprise.

Lucy wasn’t about to show he’d rattled her. “Like Sara,” she said.

“You know, Sara suggested I contact you and ask to be interviewed,” he said. “You called me before I got a chance.”

This was very unexpected news, considering how irritable Sara had been lately. “Really?” she asked, her voice bright with pleasure.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “She said it would be a good way to present our ideas to the public. SAC isn’t just a college group, you know. We’d like people from the community to join us. We’re fighting for them, after all.”

“Traditionally there’s been a sharp division between town and gown—do you think you can overcome that?”

“I hope so,” Seth said. “All we’re after is fairness, a level playing field. It’s not right for one percent to own forty-two percent of the wealth in this country. It’s not right that half the population is living at or below the poverty line. This is the richest country in the world and kids are going hungry, families are losing their homes. It’s time that people stood up for themselves and demanded fairness.”

“How far should they go?” Lucy asked. “Do you condone violence, like the bombing that killed Marlowe?”

“I would never condone violence; I don’t think anybody who’s been to war would,” he said in a soft voice. His expression was troubled, his eyes were directed at hers but he wasn’t seeing her, he was seeing something else, reliving a wartime horror. Then, with a shake of his head, he came back to the present. “If things continue the way they are, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see more violence. That’s what happens when people run out of options. They get desperate.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Lucy said.

He smiled, revealing large eyeteeth that gave him a wolfish look. “When hope runs out, that’s when there’s trouble.”

Lucy had a few more questions and the interview continued for a little longer before she was able to wrap it up. When she had no more questions she asked him if she could snap a photo; he was happy to oblige. When she checked the image in her digital camera she thought it reminded her of something, and when she was walking across campus to the parking lot it came to her. He looked like that famous poster of Che Guevara, she decided, not knowing whether to laugh . . . or cry.

F
riday night was pizza night, when the family gathered around the kitchen table instead of eating in the dining room. It was the one night when Lucy used paper plates and paper napkins, and the kids were allowed to drink soda. That had been more of a thrill when they were little, but there was still something special about Friday. Maybe it was just the fact that the work and school week was over, and they could look forward to sleeping in on Saturday.

Bill always picked up the pizza on his way home, and when Lucy saw his headlights in the driveway she called the girls. They came clumping down the back stairs and sat down at the table, waiting for him to set the big box in front of them. Wine was poured, flip tabs on soda cans were popped, and everybody dived in.

“I interviewed Seth Lesinski today,” Lucy said, her mouth full of spicy cheesy tomato goodness. “He’s a very interesting guy.”

“Mmmph,” Sara replied.

“He mentioned you. He said you’re a ‘committed activist. ’ ”

“Sara?” Zoe scoffed. “He should see her getting dressed in the morning, deciding what to wear and fussing with her hair and makeup.”

“I sure hope he doesn’t see her like that,” Bill said, and Lucy wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

“Da-a-ad,” Sara protested, blushing. “It’s not like that. It’s a movement. Seth’s interested in making history, not . . . you know, romantic stuff.”

“Believe me, Sara, every guy is interested in, uh, romantic stuff.” Bill reached for the bottle and refilled his wineglass.

“Why do you always think the worst of people?” Sara demanded, rising from her chair. “Seth is . . . Seth is amazing! He’s not immature like the boys on campus. He’s got goals and ideas. He fought in Afghanistan.... He’s a hero!” Then she flung down her crumpled paper napkin and ran upstairs, where she slammed her bedroom door.

“I think she really likes him,” Zoe said, finishing off her piece of pizza and reaching for another.

“I think you’re right,” Lucy said, deciding this could definitely be a problem. “Bill, would you please pass the salad?”

After dinner, Bill buried himself in his attic office with the FinCom papers and Lucy got ready to go to rehearsal. Sara didn’t answer when she knocked on her door, asking if she wanted a ride anywhere, but Zoe asked to be dropped at her friend Izzy’s house.

Lucy was a few minutes late when she got to the church hall, but the rehearsal hadn’t started yet. Bob was conferring with Al Roberts on the stage; the scenery hadn’t been replaced but was lying on the stage floor in a neat stack. Rachel was seated alone, going over the script, and a chattering group had gathered around Florence, who was holding court at the back of the room.

Lucy took a seat beside Rachel, who cast her eyes in Florence’s direction. “You’d think she was the star of the show,” she muttered.

“She’s just one of those people who’s got a big personality,” Lucy said. “Bob doesn’t even seem to notice her.”

“He knows he better not,” Rachel growled, causing Lucy to laugh.

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” Rachel said, standing up and clapping her hands. “Places everyone! We’re taking it from the top!”

Lucy watched the opening scene, set in Scrooge’s office, but when the actor playing Bob Cratchit began stumbling over his lines and had to be coached, she found it tedious and began looking for some distraction. Spotting Marge Culpepper sitting a few rows over, knitting a pair of mittens, she went to join her.

“I hope those are for the Hat and Mitten Fund tree,” Lucy said, referring to a tree in the post office that was decorated with donated hats and mittens.

“You know it,” Marge said. “I’ve made six pairs, and I’m aiming for ten.”

“Good for you.”

“I like to keep busy at these rehearsals,” Marge said.

“Maybe I’ll take up knitting, too.” Lucy was marveling at Rachel’s patience when Bob Cratchit got his lines mixed up for the fourth time. “How’s Barney?” she asked.

“Still helping the state cops with the bomb investigation,” Marge said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They’re looking at that college radical, that Seth Lesinski. They think he might have ties to terrorists.”

“He’s ex-army,” Lucy said. “I think he’s the last person. . . . ”

“You never know,” Marge whispered, transferring some stitches onto a stitch holder. “It’s hard for vets. Eddie had his troubles,” she said, referring to her son, who struggled with drugs as a returning vet. “Sometimes they go a little screwy, get mixed up and start to sympathize with the enemy.”

“That seems very unlikely to me,” Lucy said, hearing her voice called. “I gotta go—it’s my big scene.”

“Break a leg,” Marge said.

“Not funny,” Lucy said, taking her place on stage with Tiny Tim. It was a brief scene, over in a minute or two, and when she exited Lucy found Al Roberts watching in the wings.

“How was I?” she asked.

Her question startled Al, and she realized he’d been lost in his thoughts. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t watching.”

“You must have a lot on your mind,” Lucy said sympathetically. “How’s Angie doing?”

“Not very good.” He looked older than she remembered, and terribly tired.

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said. “Is there anything I can do?”

He shrugged. “They’re doing everything they can at the hospital, but Lexie says they haven’t got a match for her kidney and every day that goes by . . .”

“I know,” Lucy said, biting her lip.

“I want to see her before . . . you know. She might not have very long.”

Lucy wondered why he didn’t just go. There was nothing keeping him here in Tinker’s Cove that couldn’t wait. “Why don’t you go to Portland?” she asked.

“My truck needs a starter . . . and then the gas. It’s pretty old, only gets about eleven miles to the gallon, and what with gas up over four dollars. . . .”

“Take my car,” Lucy offered. “I’ll catch a ride home with someone. No problem. I’ll give you my gas card. Go.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Al said, shaking his head. A number of cast members had gathered around them, waiting for their cues.

“Of course you can,” Lucy said. “Let me get the keys for you. Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“No, I don’t—” Al protested, but Lucy was already down the steps and hurrying to the chair where she’d left her purse. When she got back, Al stubbornly refused to take her keys.

“Please. It’s the least I can do.” She noticed Florence, who was standing nearby. “Florence will give me a ride home, won’t you, Florence?”

“Sure,” Florence replied. “Have you got car trouble?”

“No. I’m trying to get Al to take my car so he can visit his granddaughter in the hospital in Portland.”

“Doesn’t he have his own car?” Florence asked. Others had heard the conversation and were beginning to pay attention.

“Got car trouble, Al?” Bob asked.

“I know a great mechanic,” Florence offered.

Al was distinctly uncomfortable with all the attention. His face was turning red and he was fidgeting restlessly, looking for an out. “I’ve got it under control,” he said.

“Listen, if you need gas money, we can pass the hat,” Florence suggested. “All for one and one for all—isn’t that how it goes?”

“Sure,” Marge said. “Angie should see her grandpa.”

The group had surrounded Al, whose eyes had taken on a glazed look Lucy had recently seen on an aged lion surrounded by hyenas in a nature film on TV. “The man needs air,” Lucy said, trying to give him an exit. Nobody paid attention; they were all digging in their purses and pockets for spare cash.

“Here, I’ve got five,” Florence said, offering Al a neatly folded bill.

“Keep it!” he snarled, and everybody fell still. “I don’t want help, not from any of you and especially not from her,” he declared, pointing at Florence. Then he turned and stormed out of the hall.

Speechless, they all watched him go.

“What was that all about?” Florence asked.

“Downeast is foreclosing on his house,” Lucy said. “I saw the notice today.”

“Oh.” Florence looked puzzled. “But why does he blame me?”

“Because of your uncle,” Lucy suggested.

“Well, that’s not her fault,” Bob declared, defending Florence. “That’s a legal matter between Al and Downeast. It’s nothing to do with Florence.”

Something brushed Lucy’s shoulder, and she realized Rachel was standing beside her, leaning close. “Damn,” she whispered, in Lucy’s ear.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Lucy said, not sure but hoping it was.

“Oh, I’m not worried about
that,
” Rachel said. “I’m worried about losing Al. The scenery’s not finished.”

Right, Lucy thought, who didn’t believe her for a minute. “I’ll ask Bill. He can finish it up if Al doesn’t come back.”

Rachel squeezed her hand. “Thanks,” she said, then clapped her hands smartly. “Places everyone! Act two!”

On Saturday morning Lucy and Molly went to the estate sale at Marlowe’s place. The house was gone, the burned wood hauled away and the cellar hole filled in with dirt, but the huge 1866 barn was untouched by the fire and was still standing. It was also full to bursting with stuff, according to the newspaper ad, which promised:
C. 1810 tiger maple Sheraton four-drawer chest, C. 1820 drop-front secretary, empire card table, Civil War-era drum, muffin stand, tilt-top table,
and plenty more. What the ad didn’t mention, and what Lucy and Molly soon discovered as they wandered among the pieces of furniture set out on the lawn, was that almost everything was broken and covered with a thick layer of filth.

“I suppose Bill could fix this,” said Lucy, standing back to study the muffin stand, which was missing a leg.

“How would you clean it?” Molly asked, her lips pursed in disgust.

“Oh, lemon oil works wonders,” said Lucy, who was trying to think where she could put the muffin stand.

“They’re asking twenty dollars,” Molly said, pointing to the orange sticker. “And it’s just the first day of the sale.”

“You don’t think they’re willing to bargain?” Lucy asked.

“Not yet,” replied Molly, who’d just heard a woman’s offer of thirty dollars for an enamel-topped kitchen table with a broken drawer, which was firmly refused. The table was priced at fifty dollars, which Lucy thought was wildly optimistic.

“Let’s keep looking,” Lucy said. “The ad promised old tools and I’d like to find something for Bill. Maybe one of those two-man saws, something he could hang up on the wall in his office.”

“Maybe you’ll find something inside the barn,” Molly suggested.

The sale organizers had tried to organize the contents of the barn, but it was a daunting task and most of the stuff was still stacked in piles. Chests of drawers were topped with wooden crates full of junk and topped with three-legged chairs or bushel baskets filled with even more stuff. There were piles of old newspapers and magazines, stacks of moldy books, a child’s rusty tricycle, empty picture frames, and cracked mirrors.

Spotting an old photo album, long forgotten in the barn, Molly began turning the pages and studying the pictures. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to a pair of women, obviously sisters, dressed in long skirts and hats with enormous brims topped with feathers.

“They must be relations of some sort,” Lucy guessed. “Maybe even Marlowe’s mother or grandmother.”

Molly closed the album. “It makes me feel like a ghoul,” she said.

“Don’t be silly,” said one of the sale workers, a middle-aged woman who had been helping a customer who wanted to take a closer look at a wicker chair. Once the cobwebby chair had been taken down from its lofty perch, she brushed off her hands. “Marlowe sure doesn’t need this stuff anymore, and to tell the truth, I don’t think he thought much of it when he was alive.”

“It doesn’t seem so,” Lucy agreed, looking at the vast barn. “So much stuff. Why was he keeping it?”

“Couldn’t let go of it, that’s my guess,” the woman said. She was wearing a paper nametag that said
HELLO
in big letters. Her name, Liz, was handwritten in the space beneath. “We see this a lot. You wouldn’t believe the stuff people hang on to.”

“Such a waste,” Lucy mused. “He had all this stuff but I don’t think he had any friends. And he had pots of money but he lived in squalor.”

“Well, we’ll make a bit of money out of this sale so he’s doing us some good. His ex-wife—she’s the one who hired us—says she’s donating her share of the proceeds to charity,” Liz said.

“That’s Ginny Irving?” Lucy asked.

“Right. She’s a real nice lady,” Liz said. “Do you know her?”

“I met her at the funeral,” Lucy said, wondering if Ginny might be interested in helping the Cunninghams. She was considering how to approach her when somebody carried off a dressing screen, the faded and stained cloth in tatters, and revealed an old carpenter’s chest.

“Excuse me,” Lucy said, unable to wait to zero in on her find. “It’s been nice talking to you,” she added, over her shoulder, as she made her way between the piles of furniture. As she went she told herself not to get her hopes up. The chest was probably in dreadful condition and if it wasn’t they would undoubtedly want a fortune for it.

When she got closer, however, she discovered the chest was made of mahogany, probably by a ship carpenter. It had rope handles and, once she’d wrestled it free of the milk crate of jelly jars and the potato baskets that were sitting on top of it, she realized the interior shelf with compartments for tools was in pristine condition.

“Those shelves are usually missing,” Molly said, “or broken.”

“Bill would love this,” Lucy said, feeling a sudden, overwhelming need to possess the chest.

“There’s no price on it,” Molly observed.

“What should I offer?” Lucy asked, somewhat breathless with excitement.