Mistletoe Murder (12 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Mistletoe Murder
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“Al,” she said, reading the tattoo on his chest, “I wonder if you'd mind answering a question for me.”
She took a ten-dollar bill out of her wallet and fingered it. “There's a big old dumb guy down there, his first name's Harold. Do you know who I mean?”
“Sure, I know him,” admitted the kid, his eyes on the money.
“What's his last name?”
“Higham. Harold Higham.”
“Oh, really,” Lucy said slowly. She knew she'd seen that smile before. “Well, thanks for the information,” she said, passing him the bill. “I think I'll take one of those small bottles of brandy behind you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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Lucy got back in her car and sat for a few minutes, taking small, unsteady sips of the brandy. She was surprised to see that according to the digital clock it was only two-thirty. It seemed like an eternity since she'd left the house for Bump's River Road.
She turned on the radio and let the brandy do its work, spreading warmth through her body. Gradually her muscles relaxed and she stopped shaking; her teeth stopped chattering; all that remained of her fear was a hard rock in her stomach.
She didn't think she would ever forget Harold Higham's blank, smiling face as he'd raised the shotgun and aimed at her. Who was Harold Higham, she wondered, and what was the matter with him? How was he related to George? They certainly had a family resemblance, but that's where the resemblance ended. George's desk at Country Cousins was always neat and tidy, his navy blue blazer and gray flannel pants freshly pressed. She had just assumed he came from a solid middle-class background, but now she wasn't so sure. She screwed the cap onto the brandy bottle and dropped it into her purse, then put the car in gear and turned onto the state road.
As soon as she made the turn onto the highway, the bright sunlight made her wince. Instinctively, she pulled down the visor and groped for her sunglasses. She was driving right into the sun, and the visibility was very poor. The sun reflected off every bit of ice and smear on the windshield, and to make matters worse, the woods lining the road made deep shadows. She was terrified she wouldn't see a pedestrian or bicyclist in the shadows until it was too late.
A big pickup truck loomed suddenly behind her, tailgating so closely that she was afraid to try to pull over to let it pass. Her nerves already raw, she clutched the steering wheel tightly and tried to maintain a steady forty miles an hour. Her eyes couldn't adjust to the changes in light and shadow as she tried to see the road ahead, keep track of the truck behind her, and check the speedometer.
I have to do something, she decided, and cautiously tapped the brake and turned on her left signal. To her relief the pickup backed off, giving her room to pull over to the side. The driver, a young fellow with his black lab beside him on the passenger seat, honked and waved, and Lucy shook her head.
She was stopped, she realized, right in front of Miss Tilley's antique Cape Cod house. The little white clapboard house hugged the ground, anchored by a huge central chimney. It had been built more than two hundred years ago and was designed to stay warm even in the frigid winter winds. Impulsively Lucy turned into the driveway and marched up to the door. If anyone in town would know about Harold Higham, it would be Miss Tilley.
“Lucy, how nice to see you,” she said, opening wide the solid pumpkin pine door. “I was just having some tea. Won't you join me?”
Lucy glanced at her watch. If she didn't stay long, she could still be home before the school bus.
“Thank you, I will. I'm awfully sorry about dropping in on you like this,” Lucy apologized. “I have a question I want to ask you.”
“I'm always glad to see you, Lucy,” said Miss Tilley, leading the way into the cozy living room. Despite her age she had kept her height and her ramrod-straight back. “Lucy, do you know Emily Miller?” Miss Tilley indicated a tiny figure seated on a wing chair near the fireplace.
“Oh, dear, that fire has gotten low, hasn't it?” Miss Tilley threw another log on the fire and stirred it up with the poker. “There, that's better. Now, Emily, this is Lucy Stone. I think I may have mentioned her to you.”
“Of course, Lucy Stone. It's very nice to meet you.” Although she was tiny and frail, Mrs. Miller's eyes were bright. She seemed to have recovered her strength since the day of Sam's funeral.
“I really don't want to interrupt you,” insisted Lucy. “I'll come back another day.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Tilley in her old library voice. “Just sit down in that rocker, Lucy, and I'll freshen up the teapot.”
Lucy smiled apologetically at Mrs. Miller and did as she was told. Miss Tilley always had that effect on her; she did on everybody. Lucy didn't understand how she did it. Everyone in town knew her name was Julia Ward Howe Tilley, but Lucy had never heard anyone call her Julie, or Julia, or anything except Miss Tilley.
“Julia is so forceful,” Mrs. Miller said, smiling.
Lucy's eyes widened, and she smiled politely at the old woman.
“I am awfully glad you stopped in. We have tea together quite often, and it's nice to have someone new to talk with.”
Miss Tilley appeared in the doorway, carrying a loaded tea tray. Lucy watched as she stepped across a minefield of small, frayed antique rags, but the older woman never missed a step. She sat down gracefully on a straight chair and, lifting a teacup in her left hand, poured a steady stream of steaming tea from the Royal Doulton pot she held in her right hand. She was seeing a perfect demonstration of a lost art, Lucy realized, feeling that she was taking part in some ancient ritual.
“Sugar?” asked Miss Tilley.
“No, thank you.”
“Cream or lemon?”
“Lemon.” Lucy leaned forward to receive the teacup and saucer and settled back in her chair, holding the fragile porcelain carefully. She still felt a bit shaky and was wondering how she could break the tranquil atmosphere with her rather awkward question.
“Lucy, you said you had something you wanted to ask me,” said Miss Tilley, handing a cup to Mrs. Miller.
“I do.” Lucy took a sip of tea. “I was wondering about a man named Harold Higham.”
“However did you hear about him?” wondered Mrs. Miller. “He's not wandering around town, is he?”
“No. I, uh, I encountered him on Bump's River Road today.”
“Whatever were you doing down there, Lucy?” demanded Miss Tilley.
Wondering how she had become the questioned instead of the questioner so quickly, Lucy replied, “I was just taking some outgrown clothes to a woman I know there.”
“I thought playing Lady Bountiful had gone out of style years ago,” Miss Tilley observed tartly.
Mrs. Miller cackled at her old friend's comment.
“You can't just forget those people,” Lucy defended herself. “There's terrible poverty down there. If I can do something to help, what's the matter with that?”
“Well, from the look of you, I'd say your charitable impulses were resisted.” Mrs. Miller chuckled.
“More than resisted, I'd say,” hooted Miss Tilley. “They must have put up quite a fight.”
Looking down, Lucy realized that her jeans were covered with mud and the pocket of her jacket was torn. She must be a sight, she thought, color rising to her cheeks. She laughed.
“Well, I can laugh about it now, but I was pretty scared. The car got stuck in mud, a vicious dog had me treed, and then Harold Higham shot the dog and took a few shots at me.”
The two ladies clicked their tongues sympathetically.
“That's why I stopped by,” Lucy continued. “I was wondering about Harold Higham. Is he related to George Higham?”
“He's his brother,” said Miss Tilley.
“How can that be?” Lucy demanded. “They're so different.”
“George is a remarkable man,” said Mrs. Miller. “He's really his own creation. He pulled himself up by the bootstraps and walked right out of Bump's River Road.”
“When he was a little boy he'd come to the library after school every afternoon. He'd settle himself in a little corner of the children's room and read there until closing time. Then he'd go walking off down the road, a tiny little fellow. I don't think they lived so far out of town then.”
“No,” agreed Mrs. Miller. “They lived in a ramshackle old house next to the Mobil station. It's gone now. It fell down. It was an awful place, a terrible firetrap. I used to worry about them, especially in winter. Lord knows what they used for heat.”
“Probably a woodstove, set right on the floor, with a nice pile of newspapers and kindling kept handy right next to it.”
“I'm sure you're right. It's a wonder it didn't burn down.” Mrs. Miller shook her head.
“The father was a piece of work, I can tell you that.”
“He was a dreadful man,” Mrs. Miller agreed. “He used to lie on the porch steps, drunk as a skunk, throwing things at people who walked by. He called them terrible names, too.”
“The mother died when George was about ten or so, I think,” Miss Tilley remembered. “Poor woman was probably glad to go.”
“She led a terrible life, between the husband and the idiot son.”
“She might not have realized how terrible it was,” observed Miss Tilley. “She wasn't very bright, as I recall.”
“Wasn't there something you could do?” Lucy asked. “Today it would be called child neglect, maybe even worse.”
“People did try, but all they ever got for their efforts was a torrent of abuse from the father. Or worse. Just like you did today.”
“How did George manage to do so well?”
“His teachers encouraged him, and I'd let him stay at the library. Other people took an interest in him. He was always different from the rest of the Highams.”
“Maybe he's not so different after all,” commented Lucy. “Thanks for the tea and the information, but I've got to go. The kids will be coming home from school.”
“It's just as well you're leaving, Lucy. At four o'clock, we switch to sherry,” said Miss Tilley.
“You can't imagine how decadent we can be,” Mrs. Miller twinkled from her chair. “Fortunately, I don't drive anymore. Tom will pick me up and take me home.”
“In a wheelbarrow,” snorted Miss Tilley. “Lucy,” she advised, “be careful. Curiosity is a fine and wonderful thing, but it can also be dangerous. Remember Madame Curie.”
“I promise,” swore Lucy, smiling, “from now on I will avoid radioactive materials. 'Bye.”
Lucy caught up with the big yellow school bus on Red Top Road and followed it the rest of the way home. She put out a plate of cookies and glasses of milk for Toby and Elizabeth and sat with them at the big oak table.
Elizabeth was somewhat disgruntled; her best friend had played with someone else at recess. She consoled herself with a huge number of chocolate-chip cookies and then went off to play in peace by herself before Sara came home.
Toby only nibbled at his cookies, and Lucy instinctively asked him what was the matter.
“The Pinewood Derby is Sunday, Mom, and I haven't even started on my car.”
“Well, you better get started.”
“I don't know how.”
“Let's look at it together.”
Toby brought the little box to the table and took out the block of wood that he had to turn into a car. Lucy turned it over in her hands.
“What style car do you want to make? Have you got any ideas?”
“I want it to look like a Corvette.”
Lucy smiled. “That's pretty ambitious. How about making some sketches. Then Daddy can help you cut it out tonight.”
She ruffled his hair as he bent over the table, the pencil gripped tightly in his chubby hand. She smiled to see him concentrate so hard on his drawing, then went upstairs to change her clothes. It was time to get ready for work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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Lucy stared at the blank computer screen in front of her and hit the return key. The command bar on the top of the screen lit up, and she read, “Good evening, Lucy. Your rep number is 400L. Your total sales for tonight: $14.99.”
“I hate it when it's slow,” she announced to no one in particular.
“Me too,” agreed Ruthie. “It's always slow after Christmas, but I've never seen it this slow.”
“It's depressing with everyone gone, but I can see why they made the layoffs,” admitted Lucy.
“I guess,” Ruthie agreed. “I've been looking for another job.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“Anything. I saw an ad for a ward secretary at the hospital in Portland, and I put my name in for customer service rep at Kmart. There's not much out there, but anything's better than this.”
“I hope you find something, but I'll really miss you,” said Lucy, feeling bereft. “I miss the old gang.”
Lucy's light went on, and she answered with the usual, “Country Cousins, may I help you?”
The voice that answered was clipped and very British. It was the expedition leader of a group planning to map the Andes.
“Never been done, up till now. Done properly, that is,” explained the voice, which went on to order nine sets of polar underwear, nine Arctic Tundra parkas, nine pairs of Arctic Tundra pants, nine pairs of Glove-Mitts, and nine pairs of Sure-Tread boots, “guaranteed under all weather conditions.”
“Do (you need any camping gear?” asked Lucy.
“I'm afraid we do,” complained the voice. “Lost an awful lot of stuff to a yeti in the Himalayas last spring. ”
“Really? I thought they were mythical.”
“It's difficult to be certain,” said the voice. “There's not much oxygen up there; men behave strangely in extreme circumstances.”
“I suppose they do,” agreed Lucy. “Now, what do you need?”
She placed orders for nine down-filled mummy bags (guaranteed to maintain body temperature to -20 degrees), five two-man mountain tents, five flame-glo camp stoves, and a case of pressurized fuel canisters.
“Anything else? Socks, for example?”
“Good show,” said the voice. “You can never have too many socks on an expedition.”
“That has been my experience,” said Lucy, thinking of last summer's camping trip to Mount Desert Island.
“I'll take thirty-six pairs of your very best socks.”
Lucy smiled as she typed in the order—the socks alone, she figured, would come to nearly three hundred dollars.
“Do you want a total?” Lucy asked.
“Not really. We'll just let the Royal Geographical Society worry about that,” confided the voice. “How soon can I expect the shipment? We're scheduled to leave on February first.”
Lucy worked out the details for the geographer and smiled as he rang off with a very British, “Cheerio.”
“Wow,” said Ruthie as Lucy hit the return button and saw her total was now nearly ten thousand dollars.
“Boy, that was something that doesn't happen every day. That man was outfitting a nine-man mountain-climbing expedition. I think I'll call Ted Stillings. Maybe he'll put it in the paper.”
“Might as well,” agreed Ruthie. “There's nothing else going on.”
Lucy stood up and stretched, dug her change purse out of her bag, and headed for the break room, where the pay phone was located. She got a diet Coke from the machine and dialed Ted's number.
“Ted, Lucy Stone here at Country Cousins. I think I've got a scoop for you.” She gave him the details of the order, and he promised to write it up for the paper.
“That's a cute story, Lucy,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Pam told me you've been following Barney's accident. Do they know any more?” asked Lucy.
“Only that something caused the car to go right through the guardrail. Fortunately, it got caught in some trees. If he'd been a little farther along, it would have gone right into the water.”
“Do the police know what caused him to go over?”
“There were tire marks showing that he swerved. Something made him swerve, but they don't know what. If he doesn't come to, they may never know.”
“What about the crime lab?” questioned Lucy.
“They did send stuff to be analyzed. They won't have the results for a couple of weeks, anyway. Hey, don't you read the paper?” demanded Ted.
“I do when I have the time,” Lucy said guiltily. “Which reminds me, I'd better get back to work.”
She hung up and, walking out to the hallway, stood reading the bulletin board and finishing her soda. There was a strict policy forbidding liquids near the computers, and she didn't want to risk angering George.
Where was George tonight? she wondered. She hadn't seen him at all, which was unusual. In fact, peering down the dark tunnel of hallway that led to the executive offices, she didn't think any of the managers were in the building tonight.
Lucy took a last swig of soda and walked slowly down the hallway. All the offices were dark. She stood for a minute outside George's door, then impulsively reached for the knob.
It turned, and immediately she snatched her hand away and jumped back. She hadn't expected the door to be unlocked. She stood in the hallway for a minute, then slipped into the office, closing and locking the door behind her. She flipped on the wall switch and stood for a moment blinking in the brightness. Then she went over to the window and pulled down the shade.
Quickly she worked her way around the small room. She pulled out file drawers and felt behind the files; she peered into a decorative vase. She even checked the wastebasket. She couldn't have said what she was looking for, but when she opened the desk drawer and saw a black revolver, she was sure she'd found it.
She glanced around quickly to make sure she hadn't disturbed anything, switched off the light, and slipped out into the hallway. Her heart was pounding as she walked back to her desk. Whatever had possessed her to do such a thing? What if she'd been caught? What could she have said?
Sitting down at her desk, she realized how foolish she'd been. She jumped when Ruthie asked her if Ted had liked the story.
“I think so. We talked for quite a while; I was asking about Barney. Did I miss anything?” Lucy hoped her nervousness didn't show.
“Mrs. Murgatroyd in Sioux Falls is not happy with the Dipsy-Tipsy bird feeder her son gave her for Christmas.”
“No?” asked Lucy. “Why not?”
“The squirrels still get the bird seed,” Ruthie told her. “She wants to return it for a refund.”
“And what did you tell her?” asked Lucy.
“Just pack it in the original carton, if possible, and include the original invoice, please,” recited Ruthie. “We will be happy to refund the entire purchase price. At Country Cousins, we're not happy unless you are.”
“Very good,” said Lucy. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine.”
“Only nine?” Lucy was incredulous.
“Sorry. Want to balance my checkbook for me?”
“No. I guess I'll make up my grocery list.”
Lucy thought her shift would never end. By the time the clock buzzed at one
A.M.
she was exhausted, twice as tired as she would have been if she'd been busy.
As she drove home along the dark, lonely roads, she kept thinking of Barney, driving along a similar country road on Christmas night. Had a shot suddenly exploded into the darkness, causing him to jump reflexively and swerve right off the road, through the black emptiness and into the trees? Had George fired that shot?
Lucy pulled the car up as close to the house as she could and ran straight into the kitchen without pausing to look, as she usually did, at the night sky.
Reaching the safety of the kitchen, she leaned against the door for a moment, panting, and then turned the lock.
Tiptoeing upstairs, she checked to make sure the kids were safely asleep. Reassured, she went back downstairs and heated some milk for herself. She knew she'd have a hard time getting to sleep.
As she sat at the kitchen table, sipping her hot milk and whiskey, Lucy tried to relax. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't control her thoughts. She kept thinking of the ugly black gun in George's drawer, and poor Barney, his car spinning out of control and plummeting through the darkness to the rocks below.

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