Mistletoe Murder (15 page)

Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Mistletoe Murder

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

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“Lucy, I'm so scared I don't think I can stand it. I'm afraid I'll pee in my pants,” Marge said with a moan, clutching Lucy's hand. The two were in the backseat of a cruiser, speeding down the highway to the hospital in Portland.

“I know,” agreed Lucy. “He's a killer. He killed Sam Miller, and he almost succeeded in killing Barney. I hope we're in time.”

“How am I going to pretend I don't know he's guilty? I keep thinking about Carolâhe doesn't even know his own wife is dead.”

“Just try to forget. Make believe it's yesterday. Dave's just the minister of your church, trying to help you make a difficult decision.”

“I don't think I can. My stomach's killing me. I think I have to throw up.”

“Here, suck on this,” said Lucy, giving her a broken candy cane she found in the bottom of her purse. “You need a little sugar.” Seeing Marge so shaken and white-faced, she continued, “You've got to pull yourself together, Marge. This is the only way that they can make a case against Davidson. Barney won't be safe until he's put away.”

“I know. I guess I've always been a little bit afraid of him,” admitted Marge. “The minister, you know, like a teacher but with God backing him up.”

“I don't think God's on his side anymore. Besides, I'll be there for you. And Horowitz, and probably half the state police. All you have to do is be yourself.”

Marge took a little quivering breath and squared her shoulders as they pulled up in front of the hospital. A trooper helped them out of the car, and they hurried through the door and into the lobby. When the elevator doors opened a nurse met them and led them to the room next to Barney's, where Horowitz was waiting for them.

“Okay,” he told Marge. “Everything is set. There's a video camera in the room, and a tape recorder, too. You'll be under observation at all times. My men”âhe indicated two state troopers in the roomâ“are only a few steps away. You're absolutely safe, and so is your husband. All you have to do is make Davidson incriminate himself. He has to tell you to kill him, or he has to take some action that would kill Barney. Do you understand?”

Marge's eyes were enormous, her mouth tiny as she nodded.

“Okay. You go on in the room and wait for him. We'll have him paged.”

“Good luck.” Lucy smiled and patted her hand. “You can do it.”

Lucy watched as Marge left the room, then reappeared on the video screen. Horowitz and the two uniformed state police officers stood behind her, also watching the screen.

“I have two men dressed as orderlies in the hall,” said Horowitz. Just then, they heard the public address system call for Reverend Davidson to go to room 203, and Horowitz said, “Now we just have to wait.”

Cool and self-contained as always, he stood watching the video monitor. To Lucy the scene on the screen looked like something from a daytime soap opera. There was the hospital room filled with flowers and cards. There was the bed surrounded with blinking and beeping pieces of machinery. There was the patient lying still, unconscious.

They watched as Marge settled herself on a chair next to Barney's side. They saw her take his hand in her own and stroke it gently. They heard her soft words as she greeted him. Still unconscious, he showed no reaction to her presence but lay peaceful and still, defenseless as a napping baby.

Marge looked up sharply, and suddenly Dave Davidson appeared on the screen. She stood up awkwardly as he embraced her.

Watching the screen, Lucy shivered. How could evil be so self-effacing and mild-mannered? She preferred the directness of Cool Professional to the hypocritical helpfulness of the minister. The men around her tensed. One officer was nervously fingering a walkie-talkie, and the other stood by the door with his pistol in his hand. They were ready to spring the trap.

“This is a sad business,” said Davidson, withdrawing from the embrace and patting Marge mechanically on the back.

“Well . . .” Marge sighed. “His condition never changes. I'm afraid this will go on for years.”

“I've seen that happen. It's a terrible thing to watch.” The minister shook his head mournfully. “Now he's still robust and peaceful, but not for much longer, I'm afraid. As the weeks and months go on, he'll gradually deteriorate. You'll see him getting thinner and thinner. He'll curl up into a fetal position. His hair will become dry, his skin coarse and white. His eyes and cheeks will sink and he'll look like a corpse, but they won't let him go. The doctors, these scientists”âhe spat out the wordâ“will keep him alive no matter how hopeless his condition. It's a living hell. You will suffer watching him, and make no mistake, he will be suffering, too. His spirit is yearning to be set free.”

Even on the screen Lucy could sense the intensity and magnetism of Davidson's appeal.

“He's not afraid,” crooned the minister in Marge's ear. “He wants to be released, to climb a sunbeam and join the angels.”

Marge's eyes shone with faith and desire. “What must I do?” she asked.

“It won't be hard,” he assured her. “All you have to do is unplug the equipment.” He dismissed the battery of machinery with a wave of his hand. “Then Barney's soul will slip away. He will find the peace that passeth all understanding.”

“Will you help me?” asked Marge. “Will you stay with me?”

Lucy saw a flicker of hesitation cross Davidson's face, but then he murmured, “Of course.”

“Thank you,” whispered Marge. “I think I'm ready. Should we do it now?”

“Yes,” said Davidson, taking her hand and leading her to the outlet behind the bed. Lucy stood transfixed as she saw Dave push Marge's hand toward the plug.

“Just unplug it,” Davidson whispered. “Nothing simpler.”

He placed Marge's hand on the plug and wrapped her fingers around it. Covering her hand with his, he pulled. The machinery sighed, and suddenly the room was deathly quiet.

Lucy realized she was holding her breath and gasped for air. Horowitz hissed, “Go.” The officer with the walkie-talkie spoke into it. “Now. Grab him.”

They rushed from the room, and Lucy watched as they reappeared on the screen. “David Davidson, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Barney Culpepper. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

Lucy went to the doorway and watched as they led Davidson, handcuffed, down the long hospital corridor. Entering Barney's room, she saw that Marge had already replaced the plug. She put her arm around her shoulders and stood with her, watching Barney's chest rise and fall.

“It doesn't seem to have done him any harm, but I think I'll call the nurse just to be sure,” said Marge. She had just bent to ring the call button when Barney's eyes flew open. She jumped back in shock.

“What's going on here?” Barney demanded.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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“Of course they were having an affair,” said Emily Miller, her white head bobbing and her blue eyes twinkling over her tea cup.

Her ancient friend, Miss Tilley, nodded. “I said so all along, if you remember.”

“It was certainly a surprise to me,” Lucy confessed.

Once again she was having tea with the two old friends, and this time she was dressed for the occasion. She was wearing a brand-new blouse and sweater she'd bought at the Country Cousins January overstock sale. Her ankles were clamped together neatly, a linen napkin was perched on her knees, and she was using her very best manners. In fact, she felt rather like a child at an adult party, a sensation she was doing her best to overcome.

“No, I didn't know, and I don't think most other people did, either. I was sure George Higham did it,” she admitted, taking a sip of tea and nearly choking on its odd, smoky flavor.

“It's Lapsang souchong, dear. Perhaps you'd like something milder?” inquired Miss Tilley.

“Oh, no, this is fine. In fact, I rather like it,” Lucy insisted bravely.

The two old women exchanged a glance.

“I've always thought you had possibilities, Lucy Stone. You always chose such eclectic reading material,” remembered Miss Tilley. “Now, do tell us all about that dreadful afternoon.” She settled back in her chair and took a sip of tea, rolling it over her tongue and savoring it.

“I'd taken Marge to the hospital to visit Barney,” Lucy began. “She told me that Dave Davidson was encouraging her to pull the plug on Barney. He kept telling her that Barney would never recover, and that the kindest thing to do would be to end it. It made me suspicious because the nurses told me Barney was getting better.”

“How is he doing, Lucy?” asked Mrs. Miller.

“He's doing wonderfully. Every day he's stronger and remembers more. I will never forget how he came out of that coma. One minute he was unconscious, and the next he was wide awake, demanding to know what was going on. It was amazing.”

“Of course, if the Reverend Mr. Davidson had had his way, it would have been very different,” Miss Tilley added tartly. “Such a wicked man.”

“I always tried to avoid him after church,” confessed Lucy. “I never liked him. He made me uneasy. Of course, I never thought he was a murderer until I saw the sculpture.”

“Carol's sculpture? That did surprise me,” said Miss Tilley.

“The sculpture? I never did like her work, either,” observed Lucy.

“No, no, dear. Not the sculpture. So original. No, the way she hanged herself. I would have expected her to react differently. I rather liked her, you see. She didn't behave the way a minister's wife is supposed to. She never went to church; she had a career of her own. I admired that. I was very disappointed to hear she'd killed herself.”

“True grit,” commented Mrs. Miller. “She didn't have it.”

Mrs. Miller certainly had grit, thought Lucy. She would never let anyone see her grieve for her son.

Grief, like love, was private.

“Well, it must have been pretty devastating,” said Lucy. “First her husband had an affair with Marcia; that would be awful for any woman. And then she figured out he'd murdered Sam, and almost murdered Barney. It would be pretty hard to take, especially if she loved him.”

“Young people are so romantic,” Mrs. Miller said.

“I wouldn't call this romantic,” said Miss Tilley. “Not in the true sense of the word. I would call it maudlin.”

The other women nodded automatically. After fortyyears as a librarian no one argued with her about facts. Or definitions.

“What about the sculpture? How did it make you realize Davidson was the murderer?” asked Miss Tilley.

“The black hose. Carol had wrapped it all around the sculpture. It was the same hose Dave used on Sam's car.” Lucy dropped her voice. She hated talking about Sam with his mother.

“A public declaration of his guilt?” Mrs. Miller asked a little shakily. Lucy was reminded again that this must still be hard on her.

“I think so,” she said. “Barney had stumbled on the hose when he mentioned to Carol that he needed something for Eddie's car. The Cub Scouts are having the Pinewood Derby this monthâyou know, they race little wooden cars that they make themselves. Well, Barney was looking for some scraps of rubber to make a bumper for Eddie's car. Knowing Carol was a sculptor and apt to have bits and pieces around, he asked her if she had something he could use. When she gave him a bit of black rubber hose, he recognized it as the same hose that was used on Sam Miller's car. Barney was going to take it to the police lab the day after Christmas, but he never made it. Dave must have realized Barney had the evidence that could convict him, and decided he had to get rid of him. He parked out near the point, and when Barney came round the bend he turned on his high beams. Barney swerved right off the road.”

The two women clicked their tongues. “I wonder how many of the Ten Commandments he actually broke,” Miss Tilley mused. “Definitely the seventh, and the sixth, of course.”

“He was covetous, and he lied,” Lucy added.

“And Marcia certainly became more important than God to him. She had that effect on a lot of men, including Sam, I'm sorry to say.” Mrs. Miller helped herself to another piece of banana bread.

“He did remember the Sabbath,” said Miss Tilley, determined to be fair. “And I must say I never heard him swear. That's more than many Christians can claim.”

Lucy and Mrs. Miller chuckled.

“I don't know what he can expect in the next life, but I hope he will be punished in this life.” Mrs. Miller smoothed the napkin in her lap.

“Oh, yes. Detective Horowitz told me they have an airtight case. Carol left a detailed suicide note, and of course they videotaped him trying to convince Marge to pull the plug.”

“And you saw the police arrest him?” asked Miss Tilley.

“How did he react? When he knew the game was up?” Mrs. Miller sounded serious.

“He seemed angry,” Lucy reported. “He didn't say anything, but he looked furious.”

“I hope he's punished,” said Mrs. Miller. “I hope he doesn't get off on some sort of technicality.”

“I don't think he will,” said Lucy. “What about Marcia? And your grandson? Will they come back?”

“I don't think so. She's living in Paris. She writes to me, you know. I think Tinker's Cove was a bit tame for her. I may visit them this summer.”

Lucy smiled at her. The resilience of this old woman amazed her. She reached for a piece of banana bread, chewed it thoughtfully, and, sipping her tea, she observed the two old women. Miss Tilley with her large, strong features covered with a tough netting of wrinkles, her long white hair drawn up in a bun; and Mrs. Miller, with a round face just like a dried apple-head doll and her carefully curled and blued hair. In the life of Tinker's Cove they were forces to be reckoned with. As ardent conservationists they had been instrumental in creating the Tinker's Cove Conservation Trust. Miss Tilley had spearheaded the local literacy program, and she was a frequent contributor to the letters column in the
Pennysaver
. Together the two women acted as a collective conscience for the town. They were vital, strong women who were interested in the world around them.

Lucy thought of funerals she had attended where all the women of her generation were in tears, their faces bleak and uncomprehending, their knuckles white as they clutched crumpled tissues. Death was unbelievable to them, an assault on everything they worked so hard to maintain.

The older women, Lucy had noticed, never seemed as distressed. They rarely cried but sat silently through the service, gathering in small groups afterward to comfort each other. When it was time to speak with the bereaved they knew what to say, while Lucy and her friends could only babble clichÃ©s such as “Call me if there's anything I can do.”

She had always admired the acceptance and assurance of these women; she had hoped that in time she would grow to be like them.

She thought of her mother. Her mother had never accepted death the way these women did. Although she was in her sixties, the death of her husband had left her as raw and hurt as if she were a young bride. Her mother had never developed the self-protective detachment so many older women grew.

Lucy wondered what life held for her and how she would cope. Would she maintain her naivete and her vulnerability, as her mother had, or would she turn into someone as wise but as cynical as Miss Tilley?

“We've been keeping an eye on you, Lucy.” Miss Tilley interrupted her thoughts.

“Yes, you seem . . . well, interesting,” agreed Mrs. Miller. “You're not afraid to get involved.”

“My husband wouldn't agree with you,” observed Lucy. “He's always telling me to mind my own business.”

“Oh, husbands,” Miss Tilley said dismissively.

“I'm afraid I'd better be getting back to mine. He's watching the kids today.” She stood up reluctantly and said her good-byes. But as she drove home she kept thinking of the two old women.

Pulling into the driveway, Lucy was surprised not to see any sign of the kids. Maybe Bill had gotten a video for them, but she thought they really ought to be outside on such a nice day. As she opened the front door, she didn't hear the TV, and she was surprised when Bill met her in the kitchen.

“Where are the kids?” she asked him.

“Your friend Sue took them over to the new playground in Gardner.”

“She did? Why'd she do that?”

“Well, she's your best friend, and she thought you might enjoy a little time alone with your husband.”

“I don't suppose you had anything to do with that,” Lucy said, smiling.

“I might have,” said Bill, slipping his arms around her waist.

Lucy raised her face to his and was rewarded with a long, loving kiss.

“Oh, Bill,” said Lucy. “If I let you have your way with me, will you respect me afterwards?”

“I hope not,” said Bill, leading her upstairs.