by Leslie Meier
Kirwan looked down at her from his lofty six-feet-plus. “It’s just temporary,” he said. “There wasn’t anything else to attach the tape to.”
The sleet was still coming down and Lucy was half soaked and cold. She wanted to get into her car, crank the heat up as high as it would go, and drive home where she would hop into a steaming hot bath. Instead she sighed and reached for her camera, snapping a few photos of the crime-scene techs going into the store. Then she walked on down the street to the Pennysaver office.
Phyllis looked up when she entered. “What’s going on down the street?” she asked.
Lucy noticed immediately that Ted’s desk was empty. “Where’s Ted?” she asked.
“He’s at some conference or other in Portland, he told me but I don’t remember.” Phyllis bit her lip, coated in Tangerine Tango. “Might be the freedom of information act, or maybe wind power. He’s gonna be gone all day.”
“Figures,” muttered Lucy. “He’s here when you don’t want him and he’s gone when you need him.”
“Why do you need him?” Phyllis and Lucy had long ago come to the conclusion that Ted was mostly a nuisance, except for signing their pitifully small paychecks. “Whatever’s going on down there,” she tilted her head in the direction of Chanticleer Chocolate, “you can handle it. What is it? A gas leak?”
Lucy plopped herself into her desk chair and swiveled it around to face Phyllis. “Somebody killed Tamzin Graves.”
Phyllis’s orange mouth got very small and her turquoise-shadowed eyes got very large. “No!”
Lucy nodded and pulled off her hat and gloves. “Yes. I saw the body.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry,” admitted Phyllis. “For one thing, I didn’t really know her and for the second thing, well, now I don’t have to worry about her stealing Wilf.” She tapped her lip with a finger tipped in matching Tangerine Tango nail polish; her diamond wedding set glittered, catching light from the antique gooseneck lamp on her desk. “Come to think of it, I bet a lot of wives and girlfriends had a motive for killing her. Do you think a woman did it?”
Lucy had unzipped her jacket and pulled off her boots; she shoved her feet into the battered boat shoes she kept underneath her desk and shuffled over to the coat tree, where she hung up her parka. The hat and gloves she arranged on top of the cast-iron radiator.
“Maybe,” said Lucy, going back for the boots. “She was coated in chocolate.” Lucy bent down to set the boots in front of the radiator and shove the toes beneath it.
Behind her she heard a crash. The sudden noise made her heart jump and she whirled around, adrenalin pumping. “What was that?”
“Nothing. I dropped my Rolodex.” Phyllis was on her knees, picking up scattered index cards. “What do you mean, coated in chocolate?”
Lucy heard her but her mind was busy adding up this and that and coming to a conclusion she didn’t like. “She was naked and coated with chocolate,” she said, thinking that was clue number one. “It made me think of Max, the way he was found. The killer was making a statement.” That was the second thing she didn’t like, because she could only think of one person who had a motive for killing both Tamzin and Max.
“I wonder,” mused Phyllis, who was now seated at her desk and putting the cards back on the Rolodex. “How would you even go about coating somebody in chocolate? I mean, I can barely get the stuff to stick to strawberries. Coating an entire body would be a huge project.” She paused, whirling the Rolodex. “And messy, too.”
“There was no mess,” recalled Lucy, thinking that there was only one person in town who knew enough about chocolate to manage such a trick. And that person, the same person who had a motive for killing both Tamzin and Max, was known for her wicked sense of humor.
Chapter Thirteen
Lucy went back to her desk, sat down, and opened a new file. She typed, slowly, recording her recollections of the crime scene. She made no attempt to write sentences, she simply wrote down her recollections as they occurred to her: the cloying scent of chocolate, her frustration with the dispatcher, the detached professionalism of the crime-scene technicians. She felt it was important to make a record while it was all still fresh in her mind and she could remember everything exactly the way it happened. She typed almost automatically, finding herself emotionally detached. It was as if she were seeing it all through a thick glass. It didn’t seem like something that had really happened, it was more like a lurid scene from a TV show or a movie.
Oddly enough, she discovered, it was Roger she found most puzzling. Not his original reaction; the unexpected discovery of a body would unsettle anyone. It was later, when he attempted to leave the scene. Why didn’t he want to talk to the police? And did he really lose consciousness due to shock, or was it feigned? Why did she think there was something dodgy about Roger?
She was sitting there, hands poised above the keyboard, when the door opened and Corney breezed in, clutching an armful of red and white Valentine’s banners. “What’s going on at Chanticleer Chocolate?” she demanded.
“Tamzin’s been murdered,” said Lucy.
“Coated in chocolate,” added Phyllis, with a prim nod.
Suddenly, the banners clattered to the floor and rolled every which way, followed by a fluttering cascade of brochures. “Oh ... my ... oh!” exclaimed Corney, at a loss for words.
“Yeah,” said Lucy, stepping carefully over the scattered banners and coming to her side. “Are you okay?” she asked, reaching for a chair and sliding it toward Corney. “Maybe you better sit down.”
“Thanks.” Corney lowered herself onto the chair and watched while Lucy gathered up the flags, with their big red cupids against a wavy pink and white background, and propped them against the reception desk. “I don’t know what came over me.” She clutched her purse to her chest and turned to Phyllis. “Did you say she was coated in chocolate?”
“That’s right.” Phyllis couldn’t wait to tell the rest. “Naked, too.”
Corney’s jaw dropped. “How?”
“I have no idea. The crime techs are there, I suppose they’ll figure it out,” said Lucy, who was on her knees, gathering up the brochures.
“Maybe it was some sort of weird sex thing that went wrong,” said Corney. “Like dabbing whipped cream here and there.”
“Weird is right,” sniffed Phyllis.
“I don’t think so,” said Lucy, wondering if Corney had a rather interesting sex life. She stood up and set the stack of brochures on the reception counter. “I think the chocolate must have been applied after she was dead. It was all very neat and tidy.”
Corney gave her a curious look. “Really,” she said.
“Can I get you something? A cup of tea?” asked Lucy. She was in caregiver mode, going through the motions.
“No.” Corney shook her head. “I should get going. I have all these Love Is Best on the Coast banners and calendars to distribute.” She gasped, suddenly grasping the implications of Tamzin’s murder. “The weekend! Valentine’s Day weekend! All our work and planning! Now it’s ruined!”
“Yeah.” Phyllis gave a sympathetic nod. “I know I’ll never think of chocolate the same way again.”
“Don’t say that!” protested Corney.
“Why not?” Phyllis shrugged. “Better face facts. Chocolate’s not sexy anymore. It’s over.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Lucy, slowly. She still had that odd feeling of distance, as though she were watching herself from a far-off point. “It’s certainly sensational. This is going to be all over the news—think of the free publicity. Tamzin’s murder is going to attract a lot of interest.”
Hearing this, Corney seemed to revive a bit. “Media will come, for sure,” she said, brightening.
“And thrill-seekers,” said Lucy. “People are ghouls. Trust me, they’ll want to see the place where it happened.”
“You’re right, Lucy.” Corney was on her feet, gathering up her flags and brochures. “I’ve got no time to waste. I better get thes
e delivered right away!” She paused at the door. “Poor Trey! He’ll be devastated.” She reached for the knob. “I’ll give him a call,” she said, “but not just yet. Better give him a little time to let it sink in, get over the shock.” Then Corney was gone. They could see her through the plate glass window, chatting away on her cell phone as she marched purposefully down the street.
Lucy sat back down at her computer, intending to continue working on her memories of the crime scene, but found the well had gone dry. She couldn’t concentrate, she discovered, as her thoughts darted all over the place: Had she remembered to take the chicken she intended to cook for dinner out of the freezer? Thank heavens Zoe hadn’t been the one to discover Tamzin’s body. Good thing she nipped that problem in the bud. What about Sara? The news was going to be all over town. Would the girls be frightened? Maybe they should all be frightened—was there really a serial killer loose in town? Or did the killings have something to do with Tamzin and Max’s relationship? How many lovers had Tamzin really had? Would they be upset? Would it be obvious? Would the male population of Tinker’s Cove be wandering aimlessly around town, sniffling and dabbing their tears with handkerchiefs? Was that why Roger was so upset? Was he really in the shop to buy Valentine’s chocolates for Helen? And what about dinner? What could she cook, instead, if she hadn’t remembered to thaw that chicken?
She was suddenly startled out of her thoughts by Ted’s booming voice. “Why didn’t you call me?” he bellowed, slamming the door behind him. “A woman is killed and covered in chocolate and you don’t think it’s news?”
“I thought you were at a conference,” said Phyllis. “I wasn’t sure I could reach you.”
“I have a cell phone,” said Ted, glaring at her.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” said Phyllis.
“This is news! This is what I do! Disturb me!” Ted was jumping around like Rumpelstiltskin, stamping his feet on the scuffed plank floor and rattling the wooden venetian blinds hanging over the plate glass windows.
“Calm down,” said Lucy, in the tone she used for her children. “It’s under control. I was on the scene minutes after Roger Faircloth found her body. I’m the one who called nine-one-one.”
“Oh,” said Ted, momentarily losing steam, then rallying to defend himself. “I didn’t hear that part.”
“How did you hear about it?” asked Lucy.
“It was all over the conference. People were asking me about it, since they know I’m from Tinker’s Cove.” Once again his temper flared. “I felt like an idiot, I was the last to know what was happening in my own town.”
“Somebody must’ve called somebody,” mused Lucy. “Darn cell phones. Thanks to Twitter, everybody knows everything the minute it happens.” She paused, considering the ramifications of instant news. “We’re obsolete, aren’t we?”
“Not while I’ve got breath in my body,” declared Ted. “We’re going to find an angle, something nobody else has. And we’ve got five days before deadline to do it.”
“Well, I was there,” said Lucy. “I actually saw the body. Here, I’ll send you the file.”
“That’s a start,” said Ted, pulling out his chair and sitting down at his desk, still wearing his coat and boots. Slowly, he began unwinding his scarf, which he tossed on the chair he kept for visitors, and unbuttoned his coat, shrugging out of it. Little puddles formed around the boots, which remained on his feet. He switched on his computer and opened Lucy’s file, leaning forward to read it. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I hope you girls are sorry about all the mean things you said about that poor woman.”
Lucy and Phyllis exchanged puzzled glances. Was this a typical male reaction? Was Tamzin now a blameless victim?
“Well,” said Phyllis, in a judgmental tone, “it does seem to me that her behavior might have had something to do with her death.”
“Blame the victim,” said Ted, angrily. “She didn’t kill herself, you know.”
“I know that,” said Phyllis. “But maybe she contributed to it.”
“I think you’re on the wrong track here,” said Lucy, thoughtfully. “Don’t forget Max Fraser’s murder. What I think we’ve got here is a single killer who likes to make a statement.”
Phyllis took in a sharp breath. “A serial killer.”
Ted was rocking in his chair. “A real sicko.” His expression brightened. “This is going to be a hell of a story.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “If only I can get somebody official to confirm your theory... .”
The wooden blinds rattled again and Lucy looked up to see a big white satellite truck rumbling down the street. “NECN is here,” she said. “You’re going to have plenty of competition.”
“Yeah,” said Ted, rising to the challenge. “But we’ve got a big advantage. We know the lay of the land.” He reached for his phone. “Have you called Trey Meacham for a comment yet?” Receiving a no from Lucy, he proceeded to make the call.
Phyllis and Lucy were all ears, listening as he probed for a comment.
“Really sorry to hear the sad news,” Ted began. “When did you hear? Oh, so the police have already contacted you? They just left? What did they tell you? Well, I understand. Once again, just want to say how sorry I am.”
Scowling, Ted put the phone down rather harder than necessary.
“The police told him not to talk to the media?” ventured Lucy.
“How’d you guess?”
“Par for the course. Did he say anything you can use?”
“He’s terribly shocked and Tamzin was a stellar employee who will be greatly missed.”
The blinds rattled again; this time it was the WCVB truck from Boston.
Watching it drive by, Ted came to a decision. He was on his feet and putting his jacket back on. “I guess I’ll head on over to the police station, see what’s going on.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Lucy, wondering what her next step should be.
“No sense you hanging around here,” said Ted, who kept close tabs on her hours and didn’t want to pay her for doing nothing. “Phyllis can handle the listings. I’ve got your stories on the finance committee and selectmen’s meetings. I can call you at home if I have any questions.”
Lucy wasn’t pleased, she didn’t want to miss out on a big story, and it showed in her expression.
“But, Lucy, thanks for everything you did,” he added, wrapping the scarf around his neck. “That was good work.”
Watching as he hurried out the door, Lucy had the urge to grab the ends of that scarf and strangle him. “You know,” she said to Phyllis, as she logged off her computer, “sometimes I understand what drives people to kill.”
Phyllis adjusted the harlequin reading glasses that had slipped down her nose. “We might want to, but we don’t. It’s a big difference.”
Driving home and thinking about lunch, Lucy realized she’d only worked four hours, which didn’t amount to much money at all. Certainly not enough to compensate her for what she’d been through. She’d found a body, she’d been physically sickened and emotionally ravaged, and how much would she actually clear after taxes? It was enough to make you think about signing on to work nights at the big box megastore that had recently opened out by the interstate—if they’d have her.
Pulling into the driveway, she climbed out of the car and sloshed through the slush, noticing that the paint on the porch trim was peeling, revealing gray patches. Now that she was really looking she noticed the entire house could use a coat of paint. Oh, well, she told herself, as she climbed the steps, if the economy didn’t pick up by spring, Bill would have plenty of time to paint. There was a bright side to everything.
Libby certainly thought so, greeting her with ecstatic wiggles and tail wags. Lucy gave her a handful of dog treats and considered her lunch options while she took off her coat and boots. It was definitely a day for comfort food, she decided, scuttling her diet and reaching for the peanut butter and jelly.
After polishing off a huge sandwich and a big glass of milk, she decided she’d better get cracking on the dessert she had promised to make for Sue’s contest. Chocolate was obviously out of the question. Just the smell would make her sick, not to mention the look of the stuff. Shiny and brown and fragrant, no, she wasn’t going there.
Opening the fridge and standing there, just like the kids did when they were looking for a snack, she noticed a tub of cottage cheese and a couple of bars of cream cheese. Cheesecake! Why not? She had an easy, delicious recipe. And, suddenly inspired, she remembered the blueberries she’d frozen last summer. What if she topped the cheesecake with blueberries, cooked with a little maple syrup for sweetener? Soon she was busy, happily mixing and stirring and remembering sunny summer days when she and the girls had picked the tiny blueberries that grew at the far end of the yard, where the woods began.
Looking out the window now, she saw a dismal view. The yard was filled with gray slush, the sky was gray, the trees were bare of leaves. Even the pointed balsams were black in the dim winter light. But here in her kitchen, the dog was snoozing on her plaid cushion, yipping every now and then as she chased rabbits in her dreams. The refrigerator door was covered with colorful photos of friends and family; many were of little Patrick, her grandson. The curtains were blue-and-white check, her beloved regulator clock was ticking, and the gas hissed as the oven heated. She was warm and busy and all around her was evidence she was loved and appreciated: a colorful pottery pitcher Elizabeth had sent from Florida “just because I knew you’d love it,” the wooden bread box Bill had made for her, the KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON tea towel Sue had given her after their trip to England last year.
Suddenly she seemed very fortunate and she thought of Tamzin, killed and laid out in a gruesome display, objectified and ridiculed. Lucy hadn’t liked her, but she didn’t deserve that. Nobody did, she thought, stirring an egg into the cheese mixture, not realizing she was crying until a hot tear fell on her hand. And then another and another, as her body was wracked with tears of rage and regret. First Max and now Tamzin, both killed so horribly. It was more than she could stand.
