by Leslie Meier
“I’d like you to take a look at this. Do you have any idea what it’s about?”
He set it on the table so Lucy and Bill could see.
It was a torn piece of yellow foolscap with blue lines. The words “You could be next” were written in large penciled block letters.
Lucy swallowed hard and looked at Bill, gauging his reaction. His eyes had hardened and every muscle was tense, but he was working hard not to show it. Rocks through the window, death threats, just a typical Friday evening in the Stone house. Lucy knew he was blaming her and there would be hell to pay later.
“I think it’s a reference to Mimi’s murder, and the homeless guy, too. It’s from the killer,” said Lucy. “Somebody slashed my tires this morning, too.”
“How do you get that?” demanded Horowitz, with a rare flash of anger. “The murderer was her husband and he’s in jail and the homeless guy is officially an accidental death.”
“He was Mimi’s brother,” said Lucy.
“Yeah, and he was a homeless bum. Homeless bums die all the time.”
“Yeah, but homeless bums don’t come to Tinker’s Cove and get themselves killed. There’s a reason why he died and I think it has something to do with Mimi, with their family. It’s like violence follows them. I went to talk to their parish priest today. He told me their father was a cop who was killed during a bank robbery. Their mother was so upset she killed herself. I don’t know how it all comes together but somebody’s out to get them and that somebody must be worried that I’m on to something.” Lucy’s mind was working overtime. “You know, we didn’t hear a car or anything like that. I think that whoever threw this rock came on foot.” She looked out the window, at the darkening night. Through the trees she could see the lighted windows of the houses on Prudence Path.
“Lucy!” exploded Bill. “This is crazy. You’ve got to stop. You’re putting the whole family in danger and I won’t have it. Enough with the investigative reporting! Why can’t you write about doll makers and local artists and fundraisers like you used to?”
Lucy bit her lip and felt her face warm with embarrassment.
“Your husband has a point, Mrs. Stone. Maybe you ought to leave the investigating to the police.”
“Well, I would,” said Lucy, defending herself, “but the police don’t seem to be doing a very good job, do they? I was the one who identified the homeless guy, and I’m going to find out who killed him and Mimi. Those boys have lost their mother but they deserve to have a father.”
So there it was. Lucy hadn’t realized it herself, but that was the reason she wasn’t about to give up.
“It’s not your responsibility,” said Bill, softly.
“That’s right,” said Horowitz. “We have social services, foster care…they’ll be taken care of.”
Lucy rolled her eyes in disgust. “Who are you kidding? Don’t you read the newspapers? The whole system’s messed up.”
“That’s not true,” insisted Horowitz. “You only read about the tragedies. Believe me, there are hundreds of success stories every day, but reporters like you only want to write about the sensational stories.”
Lucy had heard it all before: it was the media’s fault. Never mind the corrupt officials, the lives destroyed, bad news was always the fault of the reporter. Kill the messenger. “Oh, puh-lease,” she moaned.
“I’ll admit you have uncovered some interesting information,” said Horowitz.
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“And I’m going to take another look at the case against Fred Stanton.”
“That’s great,” said Lucy.
“But I have to warn you,” he continued in his sad monotone, “that if you continue to investigate on your own, you’re taking a very big risk.” He shook his head mournfully. “Our resources are stretched to the breaking point. Next time you call, I can’t promise we’ll be able to respond.”
Lucy remembered how frightened she was when the window broke, she thought of how vulnerable little Zoe was, and she was tempted to promise she would leave the investigating to the pros, but she couldn’t do it.
“I’ll be careful,” she said.
Chapter 19
Lucy was up bright and early Saturday morning, eager to get to her computer and Google the bank robbery that resulted in Officer O’Toole’s death. She didn’t even bother with breakfast but poured herself a cup of coffee. The dog didn’t think much of this change in schedule but after pacing around the kitchen, nails clicking on the wood floor, she finally curled up on the floor next to Lucy’s computer desk with a big sigh.
The news stories she turned up took her back to the seventies, to long hair and ugly colors like mustard brown and avocado green and red-orange, to the Vietnam war, cities burning in race riots, the Black Panthers. Patty Hearst was in jail and other members of the Symbionese Liberation Army had died in a fiery shoot-out with police. Other radical antiestablishment groups had abandoned the peaceful protests of the sixties for violent action. One such group, the People’s Liberation Front, had robbed several Boston area banks in order to get money to advance their cause, supposedly protecting “the people” from the “fascist establishment.” Officer John Joseph O’Toole was among the officers responding to an alarm at the Boston Five Cents Savings Bank on Washington Street. He was the first to enter the bank and had been shot point blank in the chest by one of the fleeing robbers.
Two of the Front members had been killed in the ensuing shoot-out, a third had been wounded and was later tried and sentenced to life in prison, but the driver of the getaway car was never caught. Numerous photos were published in hopes that somebody would recognize him and turn him in, but that had never happened. He still showed up from time to time on lists of Ten Most Wanted Criminals.
Looking at the grainy photo of the long-haired, bearded young revolutionary, Lucy thought how much he looked like some of the boys she went to college with. If he was as blinded by youth and idealism as they had been, he had never seriously considered the human cost of his behavior. They played at revolution like kids today play video games, thought Lucy, shooting anyone who got in their way.
Lucy sat back in her chair, thinking over what she had learned and reached for her coffee cup. It was empty so she got up to refill it and make herself a piece of toast or something when Sara came down the stairs.
“You’re up early for a Saturday,” said Lucy.
“I couldn’t sleep,” said Sara.
“Want some breakfast? I’ll make you an egg, French toast, whatever you want.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Sara, pouring herself a glass of orange juice.
“You’ve never had trouble sleeping before,” said Lucy. “Was it because of what happened at Lake Wingate?”
“No, Mom. Nothing like that. I shouldn’t have had that glass of Coke before I went to bed, that’s all.”
“Try another one,” said Lucy, dismayed to catch her daughter in a lie. “It’s caffeine free.”
“Well, I didn’t know that, did I? They say half of the effect of caffeine is in people’s heads. I probably thought it might keep me awake, so it did.”
“Oh, Sara,” said Lucy, sliding into a chair and leaning across the table to take her daughter’s hands, “give it up. Tell me what’s going on and then maybe we can fix it.”
“I don’t think so, Mom.” Sara jerked her hands away and jumped to her feet. “You’ll just write a news story about it. How’s that supposed to fix anything?”
“That’s not fair,” protested Lucy, but Sara was halfway up the stairs. Lucy heard her pound each step, cross the landing, and slam her bedroom door shut. “I only wrote about the meeting!” she yelled up the stairs.
Unable to shake the truth out of Sara, Lucy decided to see if Frankie had any idea what was going on. She certainly seemed to have an accepting approach to teen sexuality, maybe she had open lines of communication with Renee. But when Lucy emerged from the path between her house and Primrose Path she saw that Fr
ankie’s driveway was empty. Of course, weekends were prime time for real estate agents.
Lucy hesitated for a moment, studying the cloudy sky that was heavy with rain, then decided she might as well try Willie. She was well aware that Willie hadn’t been all that friendly lately, but she wasn’t about to go home without trying to get some answers. Besides, she had a feeling that whatever was going on might be related to Willie’s attitude towards her. Maybe Sassie had told her that Sara was behaving in a way that she found upsetting, or that Willie didn’t approve of. She went across the street and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” yelled Willie so Lucy pulled open the door and went in, finding herself in a mudroom filled with riding boots and helmets and fishermen’s waders and kids’ sneakers and rain slickers. An old popcorn tin held a collection of walking sticks and umbrellas and a variety of leashes hung from a hook.
Entering the kitchen, she found Willie in front of the sink, rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “Oh, it’s you,” she said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” began Lucy, checking out the big farmer’s table, littered with newspapers and jam jars. “I don’t know where else to turn.”
“So I’m your last resort?” snapped Willie. She was glaring at Lucy but was distracted when the little potbellied pig ran into the kitchen, squealing, chased by the cat who was in turn being chased by eight-year-old Chip. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, turning on him.
“The cat ate my cereal,” declared Chip. “I was watching Power Rangers.”
“I suppose you left it on the floor?” Willie opened the door to let the animals out. “What do you expect?”
Lucy couldn’t help laughing.
“Yeah,” admitted Chip. “But she shouldn’t…”
“Make yourself a new bowl,” said Willie, rolling her eyes at Lucy. “It’s a zoo around here.”
“I miss those days. I can’t believe Toby is all grown up.”
“I’m sure I’ll get all nostalgic some day but right now I’d give anything for fifteen minutes without a crisis.” Willie shut the dishwasher and leaned her fanny against the kitchen counter. “So what’s your problem?”
“It’s Sara and this cheerleading thing. Something happened yesterday at the Lake Wingate game that upset her but she won’t tell me what it was. I was wondering if Sassie might have said anything to you.”
“No-o-o,” said Willie, dragging out the word. “But I have been worried about her.”
“She doesn’t seem like herself?”
“Who knows who herself is,” said Willie, shaking her head. “She certainly doesn’t and I don’t have a clue. But she doesn’t seem very happy and she’s been spending an awful lot of time moping in her room. I practically have to drag her downstairs for supper.”
“Have you asked her what’s going on?”
“Sure, but she won’t tell me anything. She just gets upset and goes back to her room.”
“It’s the same with Sara.” Lucy scratched her chin thoughtfully and looked out the window where she saw Frankie’s car turning into her driveway. “Frankie’s home. I wonder if Renee’s told her something.”
“Renee’s probably causing all the trouble,” muttered Willie. “That girl has the morals of a polecat.”
Frankie was just opening her door when Lucy caught up with her. “Do you have a minute? I’m really worried about Sara and…”
“I’m in a terrible rush,” said Frankie. “I’ve got a showing five minutes ago. I only came home because I forgot some important papers.” She stuck her head in the door and yelled for her daughter. “Renee! Can you bring me that folder that’s on my dresser?”
“Sure, Mom.” Seconds later Renee bounced down the stairs, ponytail swinging, with the folder.
Frankie turned to Lucy. “I gotta run. Maybe Renee can help you.” Then she was off, tottering down the path in her high heels.
Renee smiled politely at Lucy. “Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Stone?”
Lucy looked at her. She was hardly the siren Willie had led her to expect, dressed in sweatpants and a huge T-shirt and without a smudge of makeup, not even lip gloss. Not that she needed it, not with her flawless olive skin, luminous brown eyes, and glossy black hair that fell in curls to her shoulders.
“Well,” began Lucy, “it’s about Sara. She seems awfully upset about something, something to do with cheerleading.”
“Why don’t you come in?” suggested Renee.
Lucy hesitated. As a reporter she never interviewed minors alone. She always made sure a responsible adult was present. This wasn’t an interview, she wasn’t working, but she still would have felt better if Frankie had stuck around. Still, Frankie was the one who suggested she talk to Renee. Lucy followed her down the hall to the kitchen.
“Coffee?” asked Renee. “Water?”
“No thanks,” said Lucy, climbing onto one of the stools at the island.
Renee got a bottle of water out of the fridge and settled herself on the other stool.
“Well, like I said before, Sara’s been very unhappy and upset lately and I’m sure it’s something to do with cheerleading. Sara left the game yesterday, she called me to pick her up, but she hasn’t told me why. I wonder if there was some teasing or something?”
“The boys on the team are always teasing us, that’s just what boys do,” said Renee, shrugging.
“How do they tease you?”
“Oh, you know, they think we’re silly. They make fun when we touch up our makeup, stuff like that.”
“I think it must be more than that,” insisted Lucy. “Do they make personal remarks about your appearance? Your figures?”
“Well, you know boys. It’s all about boobs to them.” Renee gave a world-weary sigh. “Americans are so silly about their bodies.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lucy in a small voice.
Renee took a drink of water. “I was in Europe this summer, you know…”
“So was my daughter Elizabeth,” said Lucy.
“Really? Then you know what I’m talking about.”
Lucy didn’t have a clue, but then Elizabeth had only been home for a few days and there really hadn’t been time for a heart-to-heart chat. Lucy was pretty sure she was going to find time now. “I didn’t really get a chance to hear about her trip,” she said.
“Too bad. I bet she had a great time. I sure did. I stayed with my cousins in France, and after a while there we all went hiking in Italy, in the Cinque Terre. It’s so beautiful there. Did Elizabeth go there?”
“I don’t really know,” said Lucy, feeling dumber by the minute.
“The point I’m trying to make is, well, people in France and Italy are a lot more comfortable about their bodies. My cousins never wore bikini tops for swimming, for example. On the beach, some do and some don’t and it’s perfectly okay.”
Lucy swallowed hard, wondering if Elizabeth had spent half the summer prancing about topless.
“I have this funny story,” said Renee, smiling and flapping her hand. “Like I said, we were hiking in the Cinque Terre. It’s really rough there, the trails are steep and rocky, but gorgeous, right along the sea. You can imagine: rocky like Maine but warm and the houses have those red tile roofs. So, after hours of hiking we finally came to this place where we could swim. It was a gorgeous little cove. Beautiful blue, blue water. So my cousins and I all stripped off our clothes and jumped in and we were floating around, just relaxing and cooling off, not really noticing anything, when we heard this awful voice. This woman, this American woman had come along the trail after us, with her kids, and when she saw us in the water she went crazy. She was yelling at the kids to cover their eyes, not to look. We were dying with laughter, we thought it was sooo funny.” Then Renee’s tone changed and became more serious. “But the weird thing was, even though I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, that woman made me feel as if I was. As if swimming without a suit was someho
w dirty or something. So I decided then and there that I wasn’t ever going to be ashamed of my body ever again. So that’s why when this whole boob thing started…”
Lucy interrupted. “I don’t understand. What boob thing?”
“Well, first they wanted to know if they were real…”
“Who wanted to know?”
“Well, Matt Engelhardt and his little sidekicks Justin and Will started it, but pretty soon the whole team was in on it. They wanted to check them out, you know, touch them. So after a while we got sick of that and told them they could touch but they had to close their eyes, you know, so they wouldn’t know who they were touching.”
“Sara? Sassie?”
“We all did it,” said Renee. “We were hoping that would be the end of it, that they’d leave us alone, but it wasn’t. Then they started wanting to see them.”
“You didn’t…” began Lucy.
“Oh, I did. I was just sick and tired of it, so I stood up and lifted my bra and flashed them. I mean, what’s the big deal? If they were in Italy or France, instead of the U.S., all they’d have to do is go to the beach and they could see all the boobs they wanted.”
“And where was the coach when this was going on?” demanded Lucy.
“Coach Buck usually sleeps on the bus trips,” said Renee, adding a wicked smile, “or pretends to.”
“You think he knows what’s going on?”
“He not only knows, he encourages a lot of stuff. It’s like he wants to be popular with the cool kids, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
“From the players?”
“Not exactly. You know, I guess everybody knows that Preston and I are good friends.”
Now it was Lucy’s turn to smile. “I have heard something about it.”
Renee rolled her eyes. “Sassie’s mom gives him the evil eye every time he comes over.”
