Easter Bunny Murder (3 page)

“Keep me posted,” said Molly.

Lucy bent down and kissed Patrick on the top of his head. “Be a good boy,” she said.

“Grrr,” he replied.

Lucy was smiling when she got back in the car for the short drive out Prudence Path and down Red Top Road to home. The old farmhouse was as welcoming as ever, with its sharply peaked roof and spacious porch, but when she stopped at the mailbox, she noticed the blue sky was filling with clouds. Typical in Maine, where people said if you didn't like the weather, you should wait a minute.

When she lowered the window to reach into the mailbox, she noticed the temperature was falling and felt cold drops of rain on her hand. It looked as if spring was over, at least temporarily. She parked the car in her usual spot and hurried along the brick path lined with shivering crocuses, clutching her light jacket tightly at the collar and dodging the pelting sleet that was quickly turning into a downpour.

Inside the warm kitchen, Libby, her lab, rose slowly from her bed and stretched, wagging her tail in greeting. Lucy set the carton of Easter eggs along with the bills and a plastic-wrapped issue of
Glamour
magazine on the kitchen table, thinking that her daughters, Sara and Zoe, would probably get in a fight over it. Then she took her jacket off and hung it on the hook, giving her damp hair a shake. Nobody seemed to be home. It was the perfect time to wrap up this story, so she called for an update on Van's condition.

Willis answered, announcing “Pine Point” in his usual clipped tone.

“This is Lucy Stone, from the
Pennysaver
,” she said. “I was just wondering if there's any news about Mr. Duff's condition.”

There was a long silence while she waited for a reply. Finally, Willis spoke, but seemed to have a difficult time getting the words out. “I'm very sorry to say we've just learned that Van Vorst Duff passed away en route to the hospital.”

Chapter Three

L
ucy was thoughtful as she drove to work on Monday morning. She knew Van's death would be a big story and she wasn't all that eager to cover it. She wasn't getting any younger, she noted wryly, and neither was Bill. The sudden death of a man who seemed to be in his prime was a grim reminder of their own mortality. How would she cope if Bill suddenly had a heart attack? And what about poor Bill, if she died suddenly? Did he even know where she kept the important papers—the birth certificates, the insurance policies, and the deed to the house? Would he know what bills to pay first, and which could wait? Could he tell the difference between her good jewelry and the costume stuff? What if he sent her mother's pearls to a thrift shop? And what about the silver? Could he tell it from the stainless? My goodness, she realized with a shock, they didn't even have wills.

She had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach by the time she reached the
Pennysaver
office, which was in a Main Street storefront, and swung into the parking area behind it, and was resolving to have a serious talk with Bill as soon as possible. This very evening, if she could pull him away from the Bruins game on TV.

“Why are you looking so glum?” asked Phyllis, when she entered the office. “The sun's shining, the birds are singing, it's a beautiful spring day.”

“It's probably global warming,” muttered Lucy, hanging up her jacket on the coat tree. “We're doomed. The ice caps are melting, the ocean's rising, and soon we'll be swimming for our lives.”

Phyllis perched her harlequin reading glasses on her nose. “You know what they say.
No one gets out alive.
”

“You're right. But I'd rather leave later than sooner. Not like poor Van—he was only in his forties.”

“Ouch,” said Phyllis. “Wilf is fifty-two. Of course, he's in excellent shape; he walks all day long.” Phyllis's husband, Wilf, was a mail carrier. She furrowed her brow and examined her manicure; her nails were painted a bright shade of green. “He does eat fast food for lunch, though. I wish he wouldn't. Just one soft drink a day is supposed to be bad for you, even if it's diet. And the fries, well, everyone knows they go straight to your arteries and clog them up.”

“Tell me about it. Bill won't touch brown rice—I lost that battle years ago. He's a meat and potatoes man and he has to have meat loaf at least once a week.” Lucy sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. “He'll eat salad—if it's slathered with blue cheese dressing. And fruit . . .”

“If it's in a pie served with a scoop of ice cream,” finished Phyllis.

“How are we going to keep them alive?” asked Lucy.

“It's not going to be easy,” said Phyllis, with a sharp nod. “I heard on some financial planning show that the average age women become widows is fifty-eight.”

Lucy's jaw dropped. “No.”

“Yes. It's a statistical fact.” Phyllis shuffled some papers. “Look at VV. I bet she's been a widow longer than she was married.”

Lucy's computer was finally ready and she Googled Vivian Van Vorst, learning that Phyllis was right. “She was married for twenty-five years. Old Horatio died in 1969. She's been a widow for more than forty years.” Her eyes met Phyllis's. “Is that what we have to look forward to?”

“I hope not. Wilf and I have only been married a couple of years,” said Phyllis. “Did I mention that Elfrida is the new cook up at Pine Point? She says it's pretty dismal there these days.”

“Elfrida!” Lucy's eyebrows shot up. Elfrida, Phyllis's niece, was known for her numerous marriages and even more numerous offspring. “I didn't know she was a cook.”

“She's not, but things have gone downhill at the mansion. There are no more fancy dinners, she says. Just invalid food for VV and soup and sandwiches for the staff.”

“Invalid food? What's that?”

“You know, mostly those vitamin shakes that come in a can. Sometimes she gets a little soup or yogurt.”

“Poor old thing.”

“Elfrida says she's confined to her room. There are a couple of nurses who live in the house and they take turns caring for her. She doesn't have any visitors anymore, just her granddaughter Vicky and Vicky's husband, Henry. Elfrida says the staff all hate them, and that lawyer, too.” She paused, thoughtfully sucking on a finger. “Weatherby, George Weatherby. That's his name. When he shows up, Elfrida says, they all make themselves scarce. They say that if he finds you, he'll probably fire you; they're cutting back on staff.”

That explained a lot, thought Lucy. “So there were no plans for the Easter egg hunt after all?”

“No. Elfrida says Van arrived Saturday morning and was really upset when he learned there wasn't going to be a hunt. He went up to the attic and dug out the bunny costume and then he went into town and bought up all the plastic eggs and candy he could find. When he got back to the house, he had a big argument with Willis. Willis didn't want to let the people into the estate. But when they began gathering at the gates, Willis finally agreed to let him give the eggs to the kids.”

“That's when he died,” said Lucy.

“VV's the one I feel sorry for,” said Phyllis. “Elfrida said Van asked the nurses to get her to the window so she could watch, and she saw the whole thing. She was horribly upset, they had to sedate her, and it's no wonder. Imagine outliving your grandchild. It's not normal.”

“You said it,” agreed Ted Stillings, whose arrival had set the little bell on the door jingling. “That's the trouble with living to a ripe old age. You end up without any friends and hardly any family.”

“You're bright and cheerful today,” said Lucy, watching her boss hang up his jacket and seat himself at the old-fashioned roll-top desk he'd inherited from his grandfather, a legendary New England newsman.

“I'm just trying to look on the bright side,” said Ted, in a defensive tone. “Die young, stay pretty. Now Van won't have to get old and frail like his grandmother. He died in his prime. It's not such a bad way to go.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Lucy. “I'm planning on living to a ripe old age. I want to see little Patrick grow up into a fine young man, and I want a lot more grandchildren, too. I won't mind getting wrinkles and white hair, not if I can stay interested and involved.”

“But that's the rub. Poor VV isn't interested or involved anymore,” said Ted.

“She looked great at the egg hunt just last year,” protested Lucy. “She was dressed to the nines—I think she was wearing a Chanel suit—and she had a gorgeous flowery hat. White gloves, even. She looked like the queen. She was healthy and clearheaded and she really enjoyed herself when she handed out those silly awards. Reddest hair, most freckles, you know the drill.”

“That was then, this is now. A year can make a big difference. She's failing,” said Ted. “She's ninety years old, after all.”

“You know, that's why I don't like to read biographies,” said Phyllis. “They start out just fine, the little genius is born and grows up, overcoming obstacles and achieving great things, and then there's the inevitable decline and death. It's the same story, over and over.”

Lucy realized she had to agree. She'd just finished a new, highly acclaimed account of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis's life and had found the last chapter terribly sad and depressing. Wealth and fame, even beauty, didn't really matter. In the end, it all came down to the same thing. “I wonder when she began to fail,” said Lucy.

“Sometime over the summer, I think,” said Ted. “Pam told me VV didn't make her usual August contribution to the Hat and Mitten Fund. She always donated a thousand dollars for school supplies.” Ted's wife, Pam, was one of Lucy's best friends and chaired the Hat and Mitten Fund, which provided school supplies and warm clothing for the town's underprivileged kids.

“When the check didn't arrive, Pam called Pine Point and they referred her to VV's lawyer, George Weatherby. He told her he'd get a check in the mail immediately, and he did, but it was only for twenty-five dollars!”

“You're kidding!” exclaimed Lucy.

“Nope. You can ask Pam.”

“I will,” said Lucy, reaching for the phone. It wasn't often that she got permission to talk with her friends when she was at work.

Pam didn't have time for a long chat, however. She was getting ready for the yoga class she taught at the senior center. “I really had to scramble to make up for VV's missing donation,” she told Lucy. “The Seamen's Bank gave me two hundred and I got a hundred each from the Methodists and Baptists. The Lions and Rotary pitched in, too, but I ended up filling up the backpacks with donated snacks from the IGA instead of school supplies.”

“The kids probably liked the snacks better,” said Lucy with a chuckle.

“You're probably right. But I really missed having tea with VV. She used to invite me up to the house to give me the check and I always had a lovely time. We'd sit out in the garden and she was so funny and engaged; she'd ask me about the kids we were helping. She knew quite a few of them by name, you know, and followed their progress.” Lucy heard her sigh. “I called the house and asked if I could visit VV, but Willis said no, she wasn't up to it. It's really sad. I guess one good thing is she probably doesn't know what happened to Van.”

“That's not what I heard,” said Lucy. “It seems she was watching from the window and saw the whole thing.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” moaned Pam. “Well, I gotta go. My elderly yoginis will be wondering where I am.”

Lucy was thoughtful as she replaced the receiver on her phone. It seemed as if this lawyer, George Weatherby, was getting awfully involved in VV's affairs, and she was beginning to wonder whose interests he was truly representing. It was hard to believe that VV's finances were in such dire shape that she couldn't afford to maintain staff and to make her usual charitable contributions. The stock market had taken a terrible tumble recently, but it was recovering. It wasn't that long ago that VV had been included in
Maine Business Journal
's list of the state's richest residents. She wasn't at the top of the list, but she was there. What had happened? Where had all her money gone?

Phyllis interrupted Lucy's thoughts, handing her a stack of press releases. “Ted says space is tight this week and he wants to know how many inches we need for listings,” she said.

“I'll get right on it,” Lucy said. She was leafing through the press releases, organizing them by date, when her phone rang. It was Roger Wilcox, chairman of the town's board of selectmen, but he had other business on his mind.

“I'm just checking to make sure you got the press release about the hospital auxiliary's Las Vegas night,” he said.

“Good timing,” said Lucy. “I was just getting started on the events listings.” She flipped through a few sheets of paper, quickly finding the one she wanted. “Here it is. The thirtieth, right?”

“That's it. To tell the truth, I'm hoping you can play it up a bit. Maybe do a little feature or something?”

“A feature?” she repeated, and Ted shook his head, making a throat-cutting gesture. “I don't think so. Ted tells me space is tight this week.”

“It's a very worthy cause, you know,” Roger said. “I'm chairman of the hospital's board of directors and I can assure you this addition to the ER is desperately needed. It will benefit the entire community.”

“I wish I could help,” said Lucy. “I did do a story about it a few months ago when you were looking for donations.”

“I know, Lucy, and we certainly appreciated the coverage. It was a very positive story.” Roger paused. “I'm afraid our situation has changed since then,” he said. “A promised contribution, a major contribution, in fact, has been withdrawn. We need to come up with an additional hundred thousand before we can break ground.”

“That's a lot of money. You certainly can't raise that at a Las Vegas night.”

“Of course not. But events like the Las Vegas night draw attention to our project and help attract donors.”

“I understand,” said Lucy. “Perhaps I can help. I could do a story about the need to make up for the lost contribution.”

“Oh, no! Don't do that!”

“Why not?” Lucy was puzzled. She was sure townsfolk would respond to a plea for contributions.

“We're after major contributors, and they won't donate unless they believe the project is viable. The first hint of trouble and they'll snap their purses shut.”

“That doesn't make sense,” said Lucy.

“I know, but that's the way it is. You lose one contributor and next thing you know, they're all drifting away. I could just strangle W–W–W . . .”

Lucy was on it quicker than a tick on a hound. “Weatherby? Was it VV's lawyer?”

“
Whoever
, that's what I was going to say. I could just strangle
whoever
it was who made the decision to cut this much-needed gift. But it's all off the record, anyway.”

Roger was usually a calm center of rationality when the selectmen's meetings threatened to get out of hand, so she was quite surprised at his frantic tone and hurried to reassure him.

“Off the record, absolutely. I won't breathe a word of it, I promise. And I bet I can find a picture we can run. A picture's worth a thousand words, right? In fact, I'm sure we've got a file photo of you at the roulette table at last year's Las Vegas night.”

“That'll be great, Lucy. Thanks.”