Turkey Day Murder (22 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Turkey Day Murder
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Lucy's fingers tightened on the camera. There was a big difference between jumping to a conclusion and learning it was true, a big difference between an unidentified body and one with a name you knew.
“I'm not supposed to say,” said Harry.
“You don't have to,” said Brian. “It's pretty obvious. The Bilge has been closed for days, and there's been no sign of him. He must've fallen in or something.”
“Took a long walk off a short pier,” said Dave, with a wry grin. “Can't say I'm surprised.”
“He was known to enjoy a tipple,” said Frank. He eyed the Bilge. “He'll be missed.”
“What a horrible way to go,” said Lucy, shivering and fingering her camera. “In the cold and dark and all alone.”
“Maybe he wasn't alone,” said Dave, raising an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?” asked Lucy. “Do you think somebody pushed him in?”
“Might have,” said Frank. “He made a few enemies in his time.”
Dave nodded. “You had to watch him. He wasn't above taking advantage, especially if you'd had a few and weren't thinking too hard.”
Something in his tone made Lucy wonder if he was speaking from personal experience.
“And he wasn't exactly quick to pay his bills,” said Brian, sounding resentful.
Another siren could be heard in the distance.
“So I guess he won't be missed,” said Lucy.
“No, I won't miss the old bastard,” said Frank. “But I'm sure gonna miss the Bilge.”
The others nodded in agreement as a state police cruiser peeled into the parking lot, followed by the white medical examiner's van.
“The place didn't look like much,” said Brian.
“But the beer was the cheapest around,” said Dave.
“Where else could you get a beer for a buck twenty-five?” asked Frank.
The three shook their heads mournfully, united in grief.
Two of her four kids may be out of the nest, but Lucy knows only too well that mothering is a lifetime commitment. At least she gets to kick back and enjoy a fancy Mother's Day brunch with her brood—that is, before the festivities are interrupted by a nasty scene courtesy of Barbara Hume and Tina Nowak. Opposites in every way, the only thing these mean moms have in common is the need to best each other at every turn, using their teenage daughters as pawns in elaborate games of one-upsmanship . . .
The hostilities only escalate when Bar and Tina team up to host an after-prom party for local teens. Lucy—persuaded to participate so she can keep an eye on her own daughter, Sara—has a front row seat for the fireworks. But even after witnessing the women's claw-sharpening rituals, she never expects to see actual blood spilled—until Tina is shot dead on the public tennis court, right in front of Lucy.
Having witnessed Tina's death, Lucy naturally expects to cover it for the
Pennysaver
, but when her boss snatches the story, she's relegated to backing him up instead of taking the lead. It's an exercise in frustration, especially since Lucy can shake neither the image of Tina's last moments nor the suspicion that the evidence against prime suspect Bar isn't as cut and dried as it seems ...
Lucy is determined to unravel the close-knit knot of suspects, even if she doesn't get the byline. But when the threads threaten to entangle one of her own, Lucy will come face to face with a killer who has a thing or two to learn about motherly love ...
 
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at
Leslie Meier's
MOTHER'S DAY MURDER,
coming in April 2009!
CHAPTER ONE
T
he photo on the front page of the Sunday paper was familiar. N
O
M
OTHER'S
D
AY FOR
C
ORINNE'S
M
OM
read the headline about the plump, sad-eyed woman holding a photo of her pretty teenage daughter. Lucy Stone didn't have to read the story; as a reporter for the weekly
Pennysaver
newspaper, she knew all about it. Corinne Appleton, who had a summer job working as a counselor at the town recreation program in nearby Shiloh, disappeared minutes after her mother dropped her off at the park. The story had been front page news for weeks, then had gradually slipped to page three and finally the second section as other stories demanded attention. But now, ten months later, Corinne was still missing.
“How come you're looking so glum?” demanded her husband, Bill, as he entered the room. “Aren't you enjoying Mother's Day?”
Lucy quickly flipped over the paper, hiding Joanne Appleton's reproachful face.
“My mother always said Mother's Day was invented by the greeting card companies to boost sales,” she said, beginning the struggle to get into a pair of control-top panty hose.
“I always heard it was a creation of the necktie manufacturers,” complained Bill, who often declared he never regretted giving up suits and ties and Wall Street for the T-shirts and jeans he wore as a restoration carpenter in the little Maine town of Tinker's Cove. “I finally found this in the coat closet downstairs,” he said, holding up a rather crumpled tie, the only one he possessed.
“If you think a tie is torture you ought to try panty hose,” said Lucy, who usually wore jeans and running shoes, practical attire for her job. Today she was squeezing into heels and a suit for a Mother's Day brunch at the fancy Queen Victoria Inn. “I don't want to seem ungrateful, but I liked it better when the kids gave me homemade cards and plants for the garden.”
“And I'd cook breakfast and you'd get to eat it in bed.”
“Eventually,” laughed Lucy. “I'd be starving by the time it actually arrived.”
“That's because they had to pick the pansies and make the placemat and decorate the napkin,” said Bill. “It was quite a production. And then they'd fight over who got to carry the tray.” He looked across the bed at his wife, who was standing in front of her dresser, putting on a pair of earrings. “Those were the days,” he said, crossing the room and slipping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck.
His beard, now speckled with gray, tickled and Lucy smiled. “Those days are over,” she said. “Our little nest is almost empty.”
It was true. Only Sara, a high school freshman, and Zoe, in fifth grade, remained at home. Toby, their oldest, lived with his wife Molly and their son, eight-week-old Patrick, on neighboring Prudence Path. Elizabeth, their oldest daughter, was a senior at Chamberlain College in Boston.
“Can you believe we're grandparents?” continued Lucy, tickling Bill's ear.
“You're still pretty hot,” said Bill, appreciatively eyeing her trim figure and cap of glossy dark hair.
“It's a battle,” sighed Lucy, leaning forward to smooth on her age-defying make-up.
Bill grabbed her hips and pressed against her but Lucy wiggled free. “We'll be late,” she said, reaching for her lipstick. “Besides, now that I'm actually in the panty hose there's no chance they're coming off.”
Bill sighed and headed for the door.
“But I appreciate the gesture,” she added.
Out in the hallway Bill was knocking on the girls' bedroom doors. “Bus leaves in five minutes,” he said. She heard him go downstairs, followed by the clatter of the girls in their dressy shoes.
Lucy was the last to join the group in the kitchen. Bill was handsome in his all-purpose navy blazer, the girls adorable in flowery dresses that bared their arms and shoulders. They'd freeze, but there was no point telling them; they'd been planning what to wear for weeks, ever since Toby came up with the idea of treating his wife and mother to the Mother's Day brunch. “It's Molly's first Mother's Day,” he said. “We should do something special.”
Unspoken, Lucy suspected, was his concern for Molly, who was making a slow recovery from a difficult pregnancy that ended abruptly on St. Patrick's Day, several weeks earlier than expected. Little Patrick hadn't appreciated his sudden entry into the world and was a cranky and fussy baby, demanding all his exhausted mother's attention. Lucy helped as much as she could with household chores and meals, but only Molly could breastfeed the hungry little fellow, who demanded a meal every couple of hours, day and night. Toby did his best to help, too, but he was putting in long hours on the boat, getting ready for lobster season.
The new parents were already seated when they arrived at the inn's sunny dining room. Patrick was propped in a baby seat between them, sound asleep.
“What an angel,” cooed Lucy, stroking his downy cheek. Even in his sleep his lips made little nursing motions.
“More like a barracuda,” complained Molly. She was still pudgy from her pregnancy. Her face was splotchy and she needed a haircut. Nevertheless, she'd made an effort, and although she was still wearing maternity pants, she'd topped them with a pretty pastel sweater. Seeing her, Lucy was reminded of the terrifying days after Toby's birth, when she was afraid of dropping him on his head or sticking him with a diaper pin or starving him or overfeeding him and thereby proving her incompetence as a mother.
“The first three months are the hardest,” said Lucy. “But you're obviously doing something right. He looks great.”
“He's much too skinny,” said Molly. “Even though I nurse him constantly, I don't think he's getting enough.”
Lucy sat beside Molly and took her hand. “He just looks skinny to you, believe me,” she said. “Look at those little creases on his wrists. He's positively chubby.”
“That's what I've been telling you,” chimed in Toby.
“He's the cutest baby I've ever seen,” declared Zoe. “When will he be old enough to play?”
“Around six months,” said Sara, causing everyone at the table to look at her in surprise. “What?” she responded, defensively. “I took that babysitting course, remember?”
“I remember, I'm just surprised you do,” said a familiar voice.
Lucy turned around and saw Elizabeth, city chic in tight black jeans, stilettos, and streaked hair. “I thought you were in Boston!” Lucy exclaimed, jumping up to hug her daughter.
“I took the bus. I couldn't miss brunch at the Queen Vic,” she said, taking the last seat. “I used to work here, remember? Today they're waiting on me!”
“Well, now that we're all here,” announced Bill, “let's hit the buffet.”
 
 
It was really a moment to savor, thought Lucy, when she returned with a plateful of favorite foods: fruit salad with melon and berries, eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, and a croissant. And that was just to start. The buffet featured a raw bar with shrimp and oysters, stuffed chicken breast, ham, roast beef sliced to order, vegetable medleys and salads, plus a lavish tiered display of desserts set up in the middle of the elegant dining room. But while the food was delicious, there was only so much a body could eat. It was spending time with her family, especially Elizabeth, whom she didn't see that often, and the new baby, which was most precious to her.
Seeing them like this, with clean faces, and dressed in their best clothes and minding their manners, was priceless. She couldn't help but be proud of them. Toby with his broad shoulders and easy smile, Elizabeth in her sophisticated clothes and city haircut, Sara who had shed her baby fat and emerged as a graceful will o' the wisp, and Zoe wit her sweet, round face and big blue eyes. And they didn't just look good, they were good citizens. Toby was recognized by the other fishermen as a hard worker and a capable seaman, Elizabeth not only had top grades but had been chosen by her college to be a resident advisor, Sara was an honor student and cheerleader who also volunteered at the local animal shelter, and Zoe was the delight of her teachers and a keen member of the youth soccer team.
She looked across the table at Bill, who was about to eat an enormous piece of sausage, and smiled at him. She was a good mother, but she couldn't have done it without him.
“What are you smiling about?' he asked, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork.
“I'm just happy—it's really special to be here with you all.”
“I can't believe the baby is sleeping,” said Molly “I was afraid he'd scream his head off. This is special.”
Toby made eye contact with his father and, receiving a nod, pulled two pink envelopes out of his jacket. “Dad and I wanted to make it even more special,” he began, “so we got these for you.”
Lucy opened the thick envelope, which was lined with glossy ink paper, and withdrew a card printed with raised letters: PURE BLISS. Opening it she found a gift certificate entitling her to a facial, body wrap, massage, manicure and pedicure at the fabulous new spa everybody was talking about that had recently opened at the ritzy Salt Aire Resort and Spa.
“You shouldn't have,” she said. She was about to add that the gift was too expensive but bit her tongue just in time. This present, this Mother's Day, wasn't about her. It was for Molly, and she realized that her gift certificate came with a string attached: to make sure Molly got to the spa. “This will be fun, won't it, Molly? A whole day of pampering.”
“I can't leave the baby for a whole day,” she said, shaking her head.
“Sure you can,” said Toby. “I'll take care of him.”
Sara chimed in. “We'll help, too, won't we, Zoe?”
“I can't wait,” agreed Zoe.
“You can't feed him . . .”
“They can, if you pump in advance,” said Lucy. “And you won't be gone for a whole day, especially if we tell them to put us on the fast track.”
“Well,” she said, sighing, “it does sound fabulous.”
“I can't wait. Let's book our appoint—” began Lucy, but she was interrupted in mid-sentence by a strident, complaining voice that cut through the hum of conversation and the tinkle of silverware to silence the entire room.
“This is unacceptable, simply unacceptable. When I made the reservation I specifically requested the table in the corner with two windows.”
Lucy recognized Barbara Hume, who was standing in the doorway with her husband, Bart, and her sixteen-year-old daughter, Ashley. Today, as usual, the family projected an image of perfection. Bart, actually Dr. Barton Higginson Hume, was a noted cardiac surgeon. Tall and reedy, he towered over his petite wife, Barbara, who preferred to be called Bar, “just like Mrs. Bush, the
first
Mrs. Bush,” and never seemed to have a single shellacked hair out of place. Today she was trim as ever, in a pale green suit and bone pumps with a matching bag. Ashley was standing behind her parents, and even though she was perfectly turned out in a pink pleated miniskirt and matching jacket, she was slouching awkwardly with her toes turned in.
“I demand to see Jasper,” continued Bar, her voice growing even louder and more authoritative. Everyone in the room turned to watch as the inn's longtime maitre d' hurried over.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“I'll say there's a problem. I was promised that the corner table, the one with the two windows,” said Bar, raising a perfectly manicured hand and pointing with her pink-tipped finger, “would be reserved for us.”
Lucy also recognized the family occupying the table, the Nowaks, who were making a point of ignoring the fuss. At least Tina was. She was a large, sporty woman, and was shoveling forkfuls of food, intent on getting her money's worth out of the buffet. Her husband, Lenny, a slight, serious man with a mop of curly gray hair who wore oversized tortoiseshell eyeglasses, was staring at his plate and pushing his food around with his fork, looking distinctly uncomfortable. In contrast, their sixteen-year-old daughter, Heather, was staring contemptuously at Bar, just as you might expect from a talented figure skater who competed regularly and wasn't afraid of a challenge.
“It's a family tradition,” continued Bar, in a voice that carried to the farthest corners of the room. “We come here every year for Mother's Day and we always sit at that table.”
Jasper cleared his voice and folded his hands. “I am so sorry. There must have been some confusion. We have some new staff members from the Ukraine . . .”
“The person I spoke to was not Ukrainian. She spoke perfect English.”
“I regret the mistake,” continued Jasper, “but as you can see the table is occupied. I will be happy to sat you someplace else.”
“I did not reserve a table ‘someplace else,' ” snapped Bar. “I demand that you move those Nowaks from the table that should have been reserved for us and reseat them.” Bar glared at Tina. “Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if
somebody
hadn't done this on purpose, just to slight me.”

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