by Leslie Meier
That got quite a laugh from the assembled crowd, but Bob soon found himself answering some tough, even hostile questions. “Why haven’t you spoken out before in support of increased funding for girls’ athletics at the high school?” “How do you intend to make sure women in Maine don’t lose access to abortion clinics?” “Can we really trust you to defend a woman’s right to choose?” “You’re on the board of directors of Seamen’s Bank, which has a dismal record of promoting women to executive positions and has been challenged in court by female employees claiming they are paid less than male employees. What have you done to change these policies?”
Bob did his best to explain his positions and to defend his actions, but his questioners were not satisfied with his responses and persisted in peppering him with questions that were thinly veiled accusations of male chauvinism. Lucy suspected he was in trouble when Andi’s campaign manager, Haley, stepped up to the microphone provided for audience questions. “As a white, heterosexual male, wouldn’t you say you’ve been blind to the many advantages and privileges you’ve had throughout your life?”
Bob sighed, seemingly defeated. “All I can say is that I find it hard to imagine myself as anybody except myself. Perhaps I have been blind,” he admitted, then rallied a bit. “But I would like to say that I’ve always followed the advice my mother gave me . . . to treat everyone as I’d like to be treated myself.”
“And with that,” said Roger Wilcox, “let’s hear from our incumbent state representative, George Armistead.”
George was the very picture of a prosperous member of the establishment, with a head of snowy white hair; he was dressed in the regulation navy-blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. He made no bones about his old-fashioned views, calling for a return to traditional Yankee values like thrift and hard work, and lamented dwindling memberships at local churches. He called for stricter drug laws and tougher sentencing of convicted criminals, and reminded everyone that he was a strong supporter of Second Amendment gun rights. “Moral turpitude is this country’s biggest problem,” he insisted, “and I, for one, am not afraid to stand up, as I always have, for the American family and this great country, one nation under God. Thank you.”
George got a warm round of applause, mostly from older members of the audience, but Lucy wasn’t entirely convinced that the support would translate into enough votes to return him to the state house. On the other hand, it seemed that Andi’s attack on Bob had lost him some votes, and she now doubted he was the shoo-in she’d believed him to be before the debate. Andi had managed to change the direction of the campaign, and it seemed that any one of the three might win the election.
She lingered afterward to offer some words of support to Bob and Rachel, then joined the crowd heading out to the parking lot and home. She found herself next to Officer Sally in the crush, and when they were outside, Sally drew her aside into a shadowy spot. “Golly, I feel like I’m in a spy movie,” said Lucy, laughing.
“I know; I’m paranoid,” admitted Sally. “Working in the department will do that to you. As a woman, I’m an outsider. I’m not in the club, and there are some who’d love to see me fall on my face.”
“But you’re related to most of the guys in the department,” said Lucy. As a Kirwan, Sally was a member of a large family that included many workers in the town’s police and fire departments, as well as the Department of Public Works.
“That’s the problem,” said Sally, with a rueful sigh. “I was supposed to be a dispatcher, or an admin, but silly Sally went all out and got a degree in criminal justice. Just who did I think I was, hunh?”
“Well, I think you do a hell of a job; I think you’re the best cop on the force.”
“I try,” said Sally. “So listen, I got a peek at the ME’s report on Heather, and it seems she was no amateur when it came to drugs. She had needle tracks up and down her arms.”
Lucy remembered that Heather always wore long sleeves, mostly fluttery chiffon, and sometimes even added lacy gloves. She’d thought it was a fashion statement, a preference, but now it seemed she was hiding her addiction.
“Couldn’t it have been from the chemo?” asked Lucy. “Those IVs can be brutal.”
“No. According to the ME, they were quite recent.”
“That’s a bit of a surprise,” said Lucy. “I never would have guessed.”
“That’s how it goes,” said Sally. “I’ve been in a state of constant surprise since I started this job. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve seen.”
Lucy saw an opportunity for a story. “Well, maybe, one of these days, you can tell me all about it,” she coaxed, with a naughty smile.
“No way,” said Sally, chuckling. “That would certainly get me chucked out of the department, and the family!”
Chapter Ten
Next morning, when Bill barged into the bathroom, looking for a toenail clipper when she was brushing her teeth, Lucy came to a conclusion. The more she thought about Heather’s addiction, the more she thought that Ty must have known. It would have been impossible for Heather to keep it a secret, especially since she was mainlining. It was one thing to sniff up some powder, quite another to manage an injection that required a syringe and other equipment. Unless a married woman had a room and bath of her own, it was very difficult to keep secrets from a husband; she’d discovered with some dismay that even her much-desired en suite master bath didn’t give her all the privacy she craved because she had to share it with Bill. But even if Ty hadn’t discovered Heather’s drug paraphernalia, he must have noticed mood swings and changes in behavior that would have led him to suspect that she was using. That meant there was a good chance he knew who was supplying the drugs. The trick was to convince him to tell her.
She waited until mid-morning to call him, figuring that, like her, he might be taking a break. You could only sit at a computer for so long before you had to get up and stretch, give your eyes a rest by looking out the window, and recharge with some caffeine. So she took her coffee and her phone over to the big plate-glass window in the Courier newsroom that overlooked Main Street and dialed his number.
“I was just thinking about you,” she began, when he answered. “You’ve been through so much. How are you doing?”
“Okay,” he replied, in a noncommittal voice.
“I’m just calling as a friend,” she continued. “I really enjoyed working with you on the haunted house. It was all so shocking. I’m having a hard time processing it all, and I know it must be much harder for you.”
“It’s no picnic,” he confessed. “I’ve got my work. It’s a good distraction, but I find my mind wanders. I can’t say I’m being very productive.”
“It’s important to keep up the routine, even if you’re pretending. It will get easier with time. Trust me.” Lucy took a deep breath, remembering some scary moments. “I’ve been through some things that I’d rather forget—I was even captured by a religious cult once. It takes time; you need to be patient with yourself. Maybe talk to a therapist, even. But eventually you find you’re more in control of your emotions and you begin to feel better.”
“If you say so,” said Ty, unconvinced.
“I do.” Lucy paused. “Say, can I take you out to lunch? I bet you haven’t been eating much or seeing other people.”
“You would be right. But believe me, I’m not good company. I don’t know anybody here in Portland, I’ve become a bit of a loner.”
“I have some errands in Portland anyway,” said Lucy, fibbing in an attempt to persuade him to meet with her.
Much to her surprise, he accepted her invitation, saying, “Thanks, Lucy. To tell the truth, I’ve got to start seeing people again. I’ve heard there’s a great little small-batch brewery near here. It’s called Blackbeards. Want to meet me there?”
“Great. I’ll meet you there around one.”
Ending the call, Lucy wondered how on earth she was going to get Ty to confide in her, but figured it was worth a try. She didn’t like
the way Andi Nardone was using him to smear Bob in the campaign, and the best way to end it was to prove his innocence by finding the real killer.
That’s what she planned to tell Ty, when she found him in the brewery, sitting at a small table against an exposed brick wall, with a half-drunk glass of beer. The actual brewing machinery, including huge stainless-steel vats, was enclosed behind a glass partition.
Spotting her, he stood up and gave her a little wave. Lucy hurried to meet him, smiling broadly. As she made her way to the table, she noticed that he was much thinner, his face had acquired some lines, and he needed a haircut. His smile, however, was welcoming.
“Thanks for coming; it’s good to see a friendly face,” he said, indicating a chair.
When she’d taken it, he added, “This seasonal pumpkin ale is quite good.”
When the waiter arrived, he ordered one for Lucy and another for himself, along with a fried-fish sandwich. Lucy chose her usual BLT. The drinks came first, and they chatted about a range of topics: his work, the scene in Portland, news from Tinker’s Cove. They were both hungry, and conversation halted while they tackled their sandwiches and fries. Once their plates were bare, the waiter returned to remove them and asked if they’d like another drink. Lucy chose tea, but Ty went for a third beer.
“I hope you don’t have to drive home,” said Lucy, somewhat concerned.
“Nope. I walked. My place is just round the corner.”
“You know, when we moved to Tinker’s Cove, I thought I’d be able to walk everywhere because it’s a small town, but I soon discovered that our house was too far out, and I had to drive. I walked a lot more when I lived in New York City.”
“The walking is one of the things I like about Portland.” He looked up as the waiter set down his beer and Lucy’s tea, along with the folder containing the bill. “That and the anonymity.”
“Yeah, I can appreciate that,” said Lucy, spooning out the tea bag and setting it on the saucer. “Especially since Andi Nardone won’t let it rest.”
He took a slurp and set down his glass. “What do you mean?”
Lucy took a cautious sip of her tea and discovered it was actually barely warm. “Oh, you know, in the campaign. She’s calling out Bob as anti-feminist because he defended you. The implication is that you’re really guilty but got off because of some technicality.”
Ty looked shocked. “That’s terrible. It’s unfair to Bob, and it’s slanderous to me. Why does she think she can do that?”
“It’s pretty clever, in a nasty way. She knows how suspicious people can be in a small town, and she’s exploiting that and manipulating them. It’s very hard for Bob to defend himself since the police haven’t charged anybody else.”
“He’s such a great guy; I’m really grateful for everything he did for me. I wish there was some way I could help.”
This was her chance, thought Lucy. “Well, actually, there is a way.”
Ty sat up a bit straighter. “How? How can I help? I’ve already said I didn’t do it; I wouldn’t hurt Heather. I’ve said it over and over, but nobody believes me.”
Lucy caught his gaze and held it. “Come on, Ty. You must’ve known Heather was using. How come you didn’t tell Bob who she was getting the drugs from?”
He turned away, looking out the window at the loading dock, where a truck was being filled with metal kegs of beer. “It was Pretendsville,” he said. “Heather pretended she wasn’t using; I pretended I didn’t know.”
“I guess I can see that,” admitted Lucy, thinking of the things she knew about Bill but never mentioned, like the money he spent on lottery tickets and the occasional winnings he kept for himself. As for herself, she had a few secrets, too, like the exorbitant amount she spent getting her hair professionally colored at the salon, following Sue’s advice. “But you really knew, and you must have some idea who was supplying the drugs, don’t you?”
Ty hesitated for a few minutes, then the dam seemed to break, and he blurted out Kevin Kenneally’s name. “He stole them from the police evidence locker, said nobody’d ever suspect, and I guess he was right.”
“Why didn’t you tell Bob?”
“Because of Heather. I didn’t want anyone to know. She’d been through such a bad time with the cancer, and she was so fragile.” He paused, his eyes brimming, then let out a big sigh. “She was so beautiful . . .” He sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. “I loved her so much.” He screwed up his mouth. “I still do.”
Lucy sipped her awful tea, then decided it wasn’t worth the bother and shoved the cup and saucer away from her. “I understand that you wanted to protect Heather, but the secret is out. She OD’d. And Kenneally is sending people to jail for doing the exact thing he’s been doing. He even fingered you for murder.”
If she’d expected outrage and indignation from Ty, she was about to be disappointed. “So what’s new?” he asked, rhetorically. “There’s always people like him who think they’re better and smarter than everybody else and they don’t have to play by the rules. It’s always been that way, and it always will be.” He flipped open the leatherette folder, glanced at it, and stood up, pulling a fifty from his wallet.
“Oh, let me,” said Lucy, protesting. “I invited you.”
“We’re all set,” he said, snapping the folder shut and tossing it on the table. “It was great catching up, Lucy.”
“No chance you’ll name Kenneally?” she asked, in a last-ditch effort.
He shook his head. “Nah. I’m just trying to get through one day at a time.”
Lucy remained at the table, watching as he made his way to the door. Then she gathered up her things and headed for the ladies room; it was a long drive home.
On the ride back to the office, Lucy struggled with her emotions. On one hand, she sympathized with Ty’s reluctance to tarnish his wife’s reputation by admitting she was an addict. As things stood now, her death was the result of an accidental one-time overdose. People might speculate that she was a user, but the ME’s findings were only known to law enforcement and hadn’t been released to the public. Her addiction would remain a private matter unless there were further legal proceedings, such as a demand for the release of public records by a media organization or a wrongful death lawsuit, or if criminal charges were pressed against another individual. All of which were unlikely at the moment. Ted certainly didn’t want to jeopardize his relationship with local police authorities by taking them to court, and Ty, who would be the logical person to pursue a wrongful death lawsuit, certainly wasn’t interested in exposing Heather’s life to further examination. Most frustrating of all to Lucy was his reluctance to identify Kenneally as the person responsible for giving her the tainted drugs, but she understood that any decent defense attorney would do everything possible to implicate Heather in her own murder. The victim would be put on trial, too.
She had almost reached Tinker’s Cove when she got a text from Ted informing her that something was going on over at the county courthouse complex and instructing her to find out what it was all about. Lucy loved covering breaking news, so she flipped down the visor with her PRESS card on it and stepped on the gas.
As she negotiated the back roads leading to Gilead, she speculated about what was going on. A fire? Auto accident? Those were certainly possibilities, but the fact that whatever was occurring was taking place at the county complex, which included the county jail as well as the district and superior courthouses, implied some sort of criminal activity. Sometimes prisoners attempted to escape, sometimes defendants attacked their accusers, and sometimes the losing parties expressed their disappointment in the justice system in carefully orchestrated statements. There was also the possibility of some sort of disorder in the county jail itself, like prisoners attacking a guard or holding a hunger strike. Anything could happen, really, and Lucy was eager to find out what was going on.
Gilead seemed peaceful enough when Lucy crossed the town line and cruised down Main Street, past the
usual shops and restaurants. She had the road to herself when she turned into the access road for the county complex, and she was beginning to think Ted had gotten bad information, but when she arrived at the parking lot, she found several police cruisers were parked, blue lights flashing, outside the DA’s office building. Closer examination revealed that two of the cruisers were state police vehicles and another was from Tinker’s Cove, which she suspected might mean that the jig was up for Kevin Kenneally.
Whatever was taking place was happening inside, she decided as she noted the absence of any police presence in the parking lot apart from the cruisers. No snipers were posted on the rooftops; there was no SWAT team lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. Concluding that she was not likely to be caught in any crossfire, she got out of her car and started walking to the DA’s office, which was a small brick building tucked alongside the stately granite county courthouse that was listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
She was just stepping out from the first row of parked cars when the courthouse door burst open and Kenneally dashed out, looking rather frantic. Lucy stared at him, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to put on his coat. It took a few seconds for her to figure out that he must be making a run and trying to escape, and that’s when he saw her. Lucy looked around for help, thinking she could use that SWAT team about now, and that’s when Kenneally grabbed her arm and shoved something that sure seemed like a gun into her side.
“Let’s go,” he growled, shoving her between two parked cars toward the empty row of spaces where her car with its PRESS card proudly displayed was parked. “Get in your car.”
Behind them, Lucy heard the sound of a door banging open and thudding feet. Then somebody yelled, “Stop where you are! Put your hands up, Kenneally!”
Kenneally looked back over his shoulder, and his grip on her arm weakened. Lucy seized the opportunity to pull away from him and ran as fast as she could. Terrified they would begin shooting at Kenneally, she wanted to get as far away from him as she could, and she sheltered behind a large green metal dumpster.
