by Leslie Meier
There was also no sign that anything was right. If only she could catch a glimpse of Corney, alive and well. Opening a bottle of wine, perhaps, or settling down on the couch to watch TV. Snuggling up beside Trey, even.
The silence was beginning to worry her. She decided she had to find out what was going on inside the house, even if it meant discovering Corney and Trey in an embarrassing situation. Corney had called her for help and hadn’t canceled the request, she reminded herself, reaching for the doorknob. She had a responsibility to make sure her friend was safe.
To her surprise, the door opened, and she stepped inside. She’d been there many times and knew the layout. A formal dining room was just beyond the kitchen and a central hallway led to the living room and study, which were separated by another hall that led to the guest bath and the master suite beyond. There was no sign that anyone was in the house besides her; it was absolutely quiet. The windows were shut tight against the cold; you couldn’t even hear the roar of the ocean waves.
The warm air inside the house was making her nose run so she reached for a paper towel from the roll on a decorative black wirework holder. She was just blowing her nose, as quietly as possible, when she heard a piercing scream.
She stopped, frozen in place as adrenalin surged through her body, ready to fight or flee. Fleeing definitely seemed the best option but she couldn’t leave Corney. She remained in place, trying to decide if the scream was one of pain or pleasure, fear or delight. Unsure what to do, she considered calling for help. But Corney had specifically said she didn’t want the police. Too embarrassing, she had said.
You couldn’t die of embarrassment, thought Lucy, only too aware that a double murderer was still on the loose. Before she could change her mind, she dialed 9-1-1 and told the dispatcher there was an intruder at Corney Clarke’s on Shore Road.
No sooner had the dispatcher said she’d send a unit right over than Lucy regretted making the call. She decided the best thing would be to go outside and explain the situation. It would be awkward, but she knew all the officers on the force and they knew her. They’d probably just think it was a big joke and everyone would have a good laugh. If they insisted on checking out the house, well, the flashing lights and radio noise would give Corney and Trey time to make themselves decent. And if Corney was angry with her, well, darn it, she shouldn’t have called her in the first place. She was supposed to be dancing the night away, not standing in somebody else’s kitchen, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and waiting for the cops.
She was about to go outside when another scream ripped through the nighttime silence.
This time Lucy was sure. That was a scream of pure terror. She looked around for a weapon, anything, but Corney’s counters were bare. She yanked a drawer open, but all she found were rolls of wrap. Another drawer held silverware. Where were the knives? Her eyes fell on the stove where that hefty black cast-iron frying pan was sitting on a burner. Better than a knife, she decided, grabbing it. She could use it as a shield, too.
Holding the pan in front of her with two hands, she started down the darkened hall, toward the bedroom. As she proceeded she heard muffled sounds, moans and whines that could have come from a cat. She reached the door and paused, listening, trying to figure out what was happening on the other side. She reached for the knob, then decided it was too risky to go into a situation blind, and withdrew. What if it was a home invasion like the recent one in nearby Gilead, and Trey was a captive, too? Those guys, two strung-out drug addicts, had been armed with a gun and a machete. She was simply not prepared to face something like that. She’d be better off going back outside, where she could try to peek through a bedroom window.
Hurrying back down the hall to the kitchen, she stepped outside onto the porch. The cold hit her like a hammer and she drew the blanket more tightly around herself. Clutching the frying pan to her chest, she stepped off the porch into knee-deep snow. Scrambling awkwardly, as quickly as she could in the snow that clung to her boots, she headed for the one window where she saw a crack of light. Her teeth were chattering and she was shivering as she peered inside the bedroom, all aglow from the pink light bulbs Corney insisted were most flattering to her skin.
The gap in the curtains was small and Lucy didn’t see much skin, only Corney’s bare pink legs, only one leg really. Trey Meacham was kneeling, fully dressed, between her legs and it looked as if she was trying to kick him.
Just then, Lucy was caught in a bright light and a male voice ordered, “Police! Drop it and raise your hands over your head.”
Lucy whirled around, squinting against the powerful beam of light and trying to decide who was holding the flashlight. “He’s—he’s killing her!” she yelled, pointing at the window.”
“I’m armed. Drop the frying pan and raise your arms over your head.”
“Okay, okay,” said Lucy, complying. “I made the call. I’m not the intruder. Corney called me. She’s in trouble.”
“Walk slowly.” The flashlight beam indicated the direction he wanted her to take, around the side of the house to the front yard. “Keep your hands above your head.”
“For Pete’s sake!” declared Lucy, frustrated beyond belief. “I’m Lucy Stone. I’m not a peeping Tom. There’s a murder going on inside ... at least I think it’s a murder.”
“What’s going on here?” Lucy recognized Todd Kirwan’s voice, coming from behind whoever was holding the flashlight.
“What’s going on is this guy thinks I’m a peeping Tom and meanwhile Trey Meacham is attacking Corney inside the house.”
“Uh, sorry, Lucy. This is Will Martin, he’s new to the force, he’s filling in while Barney’s on leave,” said Todd, striding past him and stepping onto the porch, where he banged loudly on the door with his flashlight. “POLICE! OPEN UP!”
Noticing that young Officer Martin had joined Todd on the porch, Lucy decided discretion was definitely the best part of valor. She sure didn’t want to face Trey and Corney if she’d misunderstood the nature of their encounter. Picking up the frying pan, she placed it on the porch and then slipped away, as quietly as she could.
She’d reached the corner of the house when the door opened and she heard Trey asking, “What’s the trouble, Officer?” His voice was calm and cool, polite.
She ran, as fast as she could, to her car.
Chapter Eighteen
The car had cooled down while Lucy had tried to figure out how to help Corney, but she didn’t notice. She was burning with embarrassment and exertion—fleeing the scene through the snow had taken a lot of energy. Now she was trying to catch her breath as she fumbled with the keys and started the car. It took a great deal of restraint not to floor the gas pedal, but she knew it would be foolish to speed on the icy roads, and she sure didn’t want to attract attention by peeling off down the street at high speed.
As she drove along the dark, empty roads she tried to figure out what to do next. The clock in the car said it was already nearly ten. The ball was probably in full swing and she knew she ought to go back, although she was hardly in the mood. How was she going to join her friends in the festivities when her mind was across town, worrying about Corney? They would be joking and laughing and probably drinking a bit too much and she’d be wondering what was happening on Shore Road.
She replayed the scene she’d glimpsed through the curtains, trying to figure out what was going on. If it was sex, it wasn’t like any sort of sex she’d ever been involved in, though she was pretty sure her experience in this department was rather limited. But if it wasn’t sex, but an attempted murder, why would Trey want to harm Corney? He might be a bit kinky but he hardly seemed like some psycho who got off by killing women. Could he have killed Tamzin? That murder had some sexual overtones, the way the killer stripped the victim and covered her with chocolate. But what about Max? His death didn’t fit that mold at all. He was a guy, for one thing, and emphatically heterosexual. The police thought Dora was the killer, and maybe they were right, which
meant that if Trey was a killer, then there were two murderers operating in Tinker’s Cove. Considering the town’s small population, that seemed a statistical impossibility. Although Lucy knew that lightning sometimes did strike twice, she couldn’t believe that was the case here.
She believed Dora was innocent, so maybe Trey was the real killer, but that also seemed a stretch. He was successful and admired—what would he possibly have to gain by killing Max? And if he was the murderer, why would he have risked discovery by attempting to kill Corney? She admitted to herself that she might not like Trey very much, but that didn’t mean he was a murderer.
Reaching the VFW, where the lights were all ablaze and the thumping beat of rock music could be heard even in the parking lot, Lucy resolutely put thoughts of murder in the back of her mind. A handful of smokers were shivering on the porch as Lucy entered; inside she sniffed a heady mix of perspiration, perfume, and booze. The DJ was playing “Y.M.C.A.” at top volume and a few serious party animals on the dance floor, including Pam and Sue, who were dancing together, were waving their arms in the shapes of the letters.
Bill was sitting at the table with Rachel and Bob, swirling his half-full glass of beer and staring at the dwindling foamy head. She slipped into the empty seat next to him and he snapped to attention. “Where were you?” he asked, his voice thick.
“I told you. Corney had car trouble.”
“Right.” He looked around. “Where is she?”
“In the end she didn’t feel well and decided to stay home.”
“That’s a shame,” said Rachel. “She worked so hard to organize this shindig and now she can’t enjoy her success.”
Bob, clearly a bit tipsy, raised his glass. “To Corney!”
Rachel shook her head. “I can see I’m going to be driving the car home tonight.”
Bill nodded and leaned toward Lucy, putting his hand on her knee. “Speaking of which, I’m ready to go anytime you are.”
Lucy found she was disappointed. The DJ was playing a new song, “Heard It Through the Grapevine,” and Lucy was itching to dance. “Oh, come on, let’s just dance a couple of songs.”
“You know I feel like an idiot on the dance floor,” said Bill, draining his glass. “Another round, Bob?”
“Sure,” said Bob, getting a look from Rachel.
“All these guys want to do is drink,” she said. “I’ll dance with you, Lucy.”
Lucy grinned and hopped up. “When we first got here I was reminded of my high school prom, but now that the girls are all dancing together it’s more like middle school.”
“Yeah,” agreed Rachel, as they joined the twisting and writhing dancers. “Except in middle school the guys were interested enough to stand on the sidelines and watch the girls dance.”
“Now they don’t even watch,” said Lucy, staking out some dance floor territory next to Pam and Sue.
“They watch ... sports,” said Sue, cocking her head toward the bar where a crowd of men had gathered to stare at the basketball game on the TV.
“They’re missing out on a lot of fun,” declared Pam, as the song ended. “Let’s do the Macarena,” she yelled to the DJ. “And the Chicken Dance!”
Rachel caught Lucy’s eye. “You know, I think I better get Bob home or he’ll have a heck of a hangover tomorrow. And he’s got that case... .”
“Right,” said Lucy, her thoughts turning back to Corney’s predicament. “I should get home, too.”
Pam and Sue were already crossing their arms and slapping their hips, keeping time to the music, so Lucy wiggled her fingers in a little wave and followed Rachel back to their table. When she got there, she realized her phone was ringing. She picked up her purse and drew it out, heading for the quiet of the ladies’ room. It was Corney, again.
“Are you all right?” asked Lucy.
“I’m scared.” She paused. “And confused.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m scared. What if he comes back?”
“You’ve got an alarm system, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Corney. “He could disable it, couldn’t he? I’ve seen it on TV. A snip of the wire, they open the window.. . .”
“Lock all the windows, and the doors, too. Anyway, he’s not going to come back. Not after the cops came.”
“I told you not to call the cops,” hissed Corney. “Talk about embarrassing—and they weren’t any good at all. Trey wrapped them around his little finger. He got all chummy with Todd Kirwan, told him it was just sex play and Todd, sweet lad that he is, just wanted to get away as fast as he could. That young one, on the other hand, was sure fascinated with my predicament. Couldn’t take his eyes off me while Trey was unlocking the handcuffs. He did that first—then gave me a sheet so I could cover myself, the bastard.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lucy. “But I couldn’t see through the door and I was worried it was a home invasion. That’s why I called the cops. I was scared, too,” admitted Lucy. She dropped her voice as a couple of women entered the ladies’ room. “Do you think he really wanted to hurt you?”
“I honestly don’t know. I’m so confused. He had his hands on my neck, but I think that’s supposed to make everything more intense or something. A lot of men like it rough, remember what those girls said about Tiger?”
Lucy did. It had been quite a revelation. “Trey’s got a big ego,” ventured Lucy. “Maybe that’s something these Type A guys need.”
“Well, I’m done with him, that’s for sure. I don’t care how successful he is, I don’t need to be treated like that.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Lucy. “How did it start? I mean, weren’t you all dressed up for the ball?”
“Yeah. I was dressed to the nines. I spent the entire day getting ready. Manicure, pedicure, hair, facial, the works. I had a new dress, Valentine red, fabulous shoes. And he was in a tux when he arrived, gave me a box of truffles. The big one. The grande. I offered him a drink, I had a bottle of champagne on ice. We were sitting in the living room, in front of the fire. It was lovely. We chatted, light stuff, you know. I was in a great mood, I felt flirty, you know?” She paused. “Maybe I went too far.”
“I don’t think you should blame yourself. I don’t think you had control of the situation,” said Lucy.
“I did in the beginning,” said Corney. “I invited him in, I had the champagne ready.”
“When did it change? Did he drink a lot of the champagne?”
“No. He hardly had any.”
Another dead end, thought Lucy. “What were you talking about?”
“I think I said I was going to Mexico in a week or two. I asked if he was going to get away someplace sunny this winter.”
“That sounds innocent enough.”
“I know. It’s not like it was personal or anything. Just small talk, cocktail party chatter.”
“Maybe he couldn’t get away himself this year,” said Lucy. “The economy is still pretty bad, a lot of people are cutting corners.”
Corney’s tone was thoughtful. “I don’t think that was it. It was more about me, something I said. I just had this feeling the atmosphere had changed.”
“What did you say?”
“I think I said I was looking forward to drinking sangria and using my high school Spanish!”
“And what happened then?”
“He put down his glass and stood in front of me and put his hand under my chin and sort of pulled me up and kissed me and said there was no hurry about getting to the party.”
Lucy shook her head. “Speaking Spanish is a turn on for a lot of men. Bill loves to see those Almodovar movies just to hear Penelope Cruz do that lispy thing.”
“I do have a Castilian accent,” said Corney. “Maybe I said thangria instead of sangria.”
“That’s probably it,” said Lucy, realizing she’d been talking too long and Bill was still at the bar. “I’ve gotta go. Take a sleeping pill and I’ll see you in the morning.”
; “Thanks, Lucy. You’ve been a pal.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lucy took the wheel for the drive home, and Bill immediately fell asleep, snoring loudly as she followed the familiar route home. She was left to her own devices, and her thoughts followed their own meandering track. So Corney was going to Mexico, and she spoke Spanish. A lot of people went there. James Taylor had a song about it. Mexico. What was it with Mexico?
Chocolate was discovered in Mexico, at least she thought it was. The Aztecs drank it in their religious rituals, but it was a bitter, unsweetened drink. One of the explorers—Cortez, Magellan, Columbus—she wasn’t sure who, but she did know one of them brought it back to Europe, where it created a sensation when some genius came up with the idea of adding sugar. The rest was history. And now the health experts were saying that dark chocolate was good for you, so she didn’t even have to feel guilty about that secret stash of chocolate bars she kept in her night stand.
But the popularity of dark chocolate was a relatively recent phenomenon. Lucy remembered how the kids would refuse to eat it and the little miniature bars would linger in the bowl of Halloween candy until she finally finished them off. Until then, in fact, she’d always chosen milk chocolate but after eating those few, spurned bits of dark chocolate, she came to prefer it.
Now, of course, dark chocolate was just the beginning of a chocolate revolution. Trey had been proud of his unusual flavors and she knew he was part of a larger trend. Even Dora was mixing up hot-pepper-flavored chocolates for her Hot Lips, which, come to think of it, she’d learned from Max. Hadn’t Dora said something about Max picking up the recipe in Mexico?
Okay, so maybe both Max and Trey had gone to Mexico, and Corney was planning to go there, too. A lot of people went to Mexico. Even Bill’s parents, in fact, had a time-share in Cancun. They loved it and spent a few weeks there every winter. They didn’t speak Spanish, they said they didn’t need it. They had little contact with actual Mexicans, except for the time-share employees, but spent their time with other Americans. Lucy figured that was probably the case with most English speakers in Mexico, who lived in a sort of parallel universe to the natives, encountering them only when they bought something in a shop or ate in a restaurant. Bill’s parents, however, stuck to the time-share’s own restaurant, fearing the native food would make them sick. And they never drank the water without boiling it first.
