“They got an indoor pool.”
Lucy choked on a bit of tuna fish that went down the wrong way. “An indoor pool?”
She knew Lance’s mother, Norah Hemmings, better known as the “queen of daytime TV,” was a wealthy woman, but this was definitely a first for Tinker’s Cove.
“Yeah. He’s invited a bunch of us to come over and hang out. I can go, can’t I, Mom?”
“Only if you bring back a complete report,” specified Lucy. “Sue will want to know all the details.”
“Deal.”
It was one-thirty when Lucy pulled into Norah Hemmings’s driveway, after dropping Zoe at the Orensteins’. True enough, she saw that a large addition with huge French windows had been added to the back of the big mansion on Smith Heights Road. Norah’s house now dwarfed the neighboring houses, including Corney and Chuck Canaday’s, which stood next door.
“Dad’s going to pick you up on his way home, around four.”
“Why don’t I just call, instead,” suggested Elizabeth.
“No way, Jose,” said Lucy, firmly nipping that idea in the bud. “And listen. If I hear the slightest rumor that anything went on here that shouldn’t have, you can count on being grounded for the rest of vacation. Understand?”
“Oh, Mom,” groaned Elizabeth, as she climbed out of the car. “You can trust me.”
“Right,” muttered Lucy to herself, as she turned the car around in the spacious driveway.
As Lucy drove past one impressive house after another, all with spectacular ocean views, she couldn’t help wondering why anybody would want to live here year-round. A bone-chilling wind came right off the ocean, she could feel it pushing against the Subaru. And the ocean wasn’t much to look at on a gray day when you couldn’t tell where water ended and sky began. In the distant sky she could see two herring gulls. One, an immature brown one had a fish, she could see silvery flashes as it struggled to break free. The other, a mature white-and-gray bird, was darting at the younger bird, trying to make him drop his prize. The brownish gull held on stubbornly, but the fish finally wriggled free and fell through the air, only to be scooped up by the more experienced bird, who flapped off in triumph. The yearling gull complained against this injustice. His harsh, hollow call echoed in Lucy’s ears as she passed a mailbox marked WHITNEY.
Acting on impulse, Lucy braked and stopped the car. She looked at the house, a big old wooden box ringed by a generous porch, no doubt filled with chintz-cushioned wicker chairs in the summer but now bare and empty. Long window boxes had been filled with geraniums, now black stumps shriveled by frost. Lucy shuddered, thinking of Tucker all alone in that big, hollow house.
She drove on down the road, surprised to come upon the conservation area only a quarter mile or so from the Whitney house. Once again, Lucy thought it unlikely that Tucker had lost her way, as she had told her fellow hikers. She had summered in that house for her whole life; she must have known about the conservation area.
Saying she was lost must have been an excuse. Something must have delayed her, and it must have been something she didn’t want to talk about. Something she felt she had to cover up. What could it be?
Lucy looked up at the Whitney house, and realized it was built on an outcropping of rock that set it up higher than the neighboring houses. In fact, it was so high that someone standing in one of the upstairs windows would have a clear view out to sea, looking right over the roofs of the houses on the other side of the road. From there, Lucy realized, Tucker could see the boats coming and going from Tinker’s Cove, and with a pair of binoculars she could probably see the big freighters farther out at sea on their way to Halifax.
What if Tucker had seen something out of the ordinary, as she looked out of those big windows, thought Lucy. What if whatever it was she saw made her so curious that she went to investigate? Reaching to the end of Smith Heights Road, Lucy was about to turn out onto the main road when she noticed a well-worn dirt road branching down toward the water. Impulsively, she decided to see where it led. After all, she had no other responsibilities this afternoon. It was hers to spend as she liked.
The Subaru bounced along, rocking from side to side and crunching through icy patches, for a few hundred feet. Then the road opened out and Lucy found herself looking at a cluster of metal buildings. A small sign read ROUSSEAU’S LOBSTERS.
Nobody seemed to be around, there were no cars or trucks, so Lucy turned off the ignition and got out of the car. A blast of cold wind blowing off the water hit her, and she shivered, pulling up the hood of her parka and stuffing her hands in the pockets as she began walking across the yard to the dock. This wasn’t at all what she expected a lobster pound to be; she had somehow imagined the lobsters would be kept in some sort of pen or corral in the water. But there was nothing like that, only a dock with a hoist at the end, for unloading the boats. The holding pens must be in the metal buildings, she decided, so the workers could stay relatively warm and dry. Reaching the end of the dock she stood a minute, scanning the empty cove. The wind rattled the line on the hoist; it creaked as it swung back and forth. Realizing her teeth were chattering, she turned to go back to the car and saw she had company. A pickup truck was now parked next to her car, and two men were coming towards her.
Recognizing Rusty and J.J., Lucy gave a wave and a big smile, but they didn’t smile back.
“What are you doing here?” demanded J.J., when they were within earshot.
“I was looking for lobsters,” improvised Lucy. “For Christmas dinner.”
Rusty and J.J. exchanged uneasy glances.
“Isn’t that what the sign says? Lobsters?” asked Lucy, cocking her head.
The two men were standing opposite her, blocking her path to the car, a situation Lucy wasn’t entirely comfortable with. In fact, she would have been a lot happier in her car, speeding back home. Snooping around suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea.
J.J. shook his head, and a lock of curly dark hair fell across his forehead. “We only do wholesale,” he said.
“Yeah,” agreed Rusty, scratching the orange stubble on his chin. “And with the quota and all, we don’t have any extras.”
Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “Well, that’s too bad. I guess I’ll have to try someplace else.”
Much to her relief the two men courteously stepped aside, clearing the path to her car.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, reaching for the door handle, when she heard the sound of a boat motor. They all looked up as a boat approached the dock, then turned abruptly as a red pickup truck sped into the yard and stopped suddenly, brakes squealing. The driver-side door flew open and Claw jumped down and ran toward them.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, pointing a stubby finger at Lucy. “What’s she doing here?”
“She wants lobsters,” J.J. explained. “I told her we only sell wholesale.”
“Don’t you know who she is?” Claw was looking past them, out to the dock. “She’s that newspaper reporter. From the meeting the other night.”
Rusty looked over his shoulder to the dock, where a man was tying up the boat. “Is that true?”
“I write for the paper,” began Lucy, as Claw began running to the boat, waving his arms. “Mostly features, you know, soft stuff. In fact,” she extemporized, checking her watch. “I’m supposed to interview Mrs. Santa Claus—to get the behind-the-scenes story—and I’m a little late. So, Merry Christmas to you and your families.”
Determined not to look back no matter what happened she grabbed the handle and pulled the car door open. Stepping next to her, Rusty slammed it shut.
“I think the old man wants to talk to you,” he said, roughly grabbing her arm. Before she could protest, J.J. had her other arm and they were dragging her toward one of the buildings. A door was opened, and she was roughly thrust inside. “You wait here,” he said, and the door slammed shut.
“You can’t do this to me,” she screamed. Nobody answered. The door remained shut. Lucy looked ar
ound. She was in a dim, chilly room with a concrete floor. Light came through translucent plastic panels on the roof, and she could make out big vats lined up in rows. She peered in the nearest one and saw a few dozen lobsters resting on the bottom.
She stood there, looking at them, wondering how she could have been so stupid. She had retraced Tucker’s steps all too well; only to be trapped herself. Whatever Tucker had found had gotten her killed. Lucy was determined that wasn’t going to happen to her. She began exploring the room, looking for a way to escape.
It only took minutes to discover that there were no windows and only the one door. She turned the knob, but it was locked. She looked up at the roof, wondering how solid the light panels were, when she heard voices approaching. When a few minutes had passed, and the door didn’t open, she pressed her ear against the crack, hoping to hear what they were saying.
“I don’t like this business. We should never’ve locked her up. Now what are we gonna do with her? Say, gee, sorry about that, don’t tell anybody, and we’ll let you go. Joyeux Noël and all that?”
Sounds good to me, Lucy thought hopefully.
“What else could we do?” It sounded like J.J. “The stuffs coming in and we’ve got a newspaper reporter right here….”
Lucy’s breath caught. She could hardly believe what she had heard. They really were dealing in illegal drugs.
“Let me tell you,” continued J.J. “There’s something wrong with this picture, and what’s wrong is that broad being here.”
Lucy felt her cheeks redden.
“No, what’s wrong with this picture is that we ever got involved in the first place.” That was Rusty, Lucy thought, straining to hear every word. “We’re in so deep, how’re we ever gonna get out?”
Lucy saw a dim ray of hope. Maybe she could convince them that tossing her in with the lobsters or whatever they planned to do with her would only make things worse. She heard the rattle of keys and stepped back from the door just in time.
It opened, and Claw entered, followed by his two sons.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lucy Stone. I live in town with my husband and four children. They’re probably wondering what’s keeping me.”
Claw nodded. “You tell me, what exactly brought you out here?”
“Lobsters—for Christmas.” Lucy decided to stick with her story. “Do you treat all your customers like this? Lock them up?”
Behind Claw, J.J. was smiling. “Sorry about that. It’s just that, well, you heard about this quota?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” said Rusty. “We’ve got too many lobsters. We’re way above quota. And you’re not gonna tell anybody about it, because I’m gonna give you some of these lobsters. That makes you guilty, too, right?”
“Right.” Lucy watched as J.J. picked up a wooden stick with a hook on the end and went over to the tank. He began pulling out lobsters and putting them in a burlap sack, and she felt a huge sense of relief. She was actually going to get out of here.
“How many you want?” he asked.
“Just one,” she said. “Like a dollar to seal a contract.”
“Nah,” said Claw. “You said four kids. Give her six, six nice ones. For Christmas dinner.”
“Thank you so much.” Lucy took the sack. “Believe me, I won’t say a word about this to anyone.”
“Not even Mrs. Santa Claus?” Claw’s eyes gleamed mischievously.
“Not even her.”
Claw opened the door for her. “Rusty, those are heavy. You carry them for the lady.”
“I can manage,” protested Lucy, to no avail. Rusty insisted on escorting her to her car. He opened the door for her, and carefully placed the sack of lobsters in the back.
“Safe home,” he said, before he slammed the hatchback down.
Her hands were shaking so badly Lucy could hardly get the key in the ignition. When it finally slipped in and turned, and the car started, she felt tears streaming down her face. It was as if she had been given a wonderful gift, a gift she didn’t deserve, and she felt humble and thankful and guilty and incredibly lucky all at once. She shifted into gear and lifted her foot off the brake, and began slowly turning the car around toward the driveway. She pressed her foot on the gas, accelerating toward the drive, when a police cruiser suddenly appeared, blocking the way out and leaving her with no choice but to slam on the brakes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When Tom Scott emerged from the police cruiser Lucy had mixed emotions. She didn’t really want the Rousseaus to get in trouble, but she couldn’t condone drug dealing, and that was what she suspected they were up to.
She gave Tom a big smile and a wave, expecting him to move his car when he saw who she was, but that didn’t happen. He only gave her a glance and went straight over to Rusty and J.J. Lucy figured the best course of action was to stay in her car, continuing the pretense that she was only there to pick up some lobsters.
She didn’t even turn her head to observe their discussion; she wanted to make it clear she was minding her own business, but she could see them in the rearview mirror. Scott was clearly the one in charge. She could tell from J.J.’s and Rusty’s bowed heads and restrained gestures that they were not challenging him, but that was to be expected. Nobody argued with a cop, not even at a traffic stop, unless they wanted to get into more trouble. So she sat and waited for Scott to move the cruiser.
The men finally appeared to finish their discussion and Lucy watched as Tom walked across the yard toward the two cars, expecting him to finally move the cruiser and wave her on. Instead, he stopped next to her and yanked the door open.
“Out,” he said.
“What’s this all about?” she asked, unfastening her seat belt. “I’d really like to get home with my lobsters.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, roughly turning her around and shoving her against the car. “Hands behind your back.”
Lucy had seen enough movies to know what that meant—she was about to be handcuffed. She turned her head, and started to protest.
“I said, hands behind your back,” growled Scott.
Reluctantly, she obeyed and discovered that being handcuffed was a lot more uncomfortable than it looked, especially if you were wearing a bulky parka. The next step, she supposed, was to be placed in “the cage” in the back of his cruiser. But instead, Tom pulled her in the other direction, toward the lobster pound office, where she was thrown into a hard, wooden chair. Her upper arm, which had taken the brunt of the impact, felt sore and bruised.
“Don’t move,” he warned her.
Confused and frightened, Lucy nodded.
He opened the door to leave, but stepped back as an enraged Claw Rousseau came charging in.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Claw bellowed at him. “This is my place! You got no business here!”
Scott grinned at him. It wasn’t a very nice grin, thought Lucy, trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as she could.
“You know how it works. You’re behind.” Scott shook his head. “The retirement fund’s not growing the way it’s supposed to. You missed last month, you haven’t paid anything yet this month. What’s going on? I thought we had a deal.”
“We’ve got a deal,” said Claw, looking nervously past Scott to Lucy. “You’ll get it, don’t worry. But you’ve got to let her go. She doesn’t know anything about this.”
Scott glanced at Lucy, and she cringed in the chair. “You know who she is? She’s a reporter. She’s been snooping all over town.”
Claw raised his hands to protest, but Scott cut him off.
“Look, right now, she’s my problem. I’ll take care of her.”
Lucy swallowed hard. That didn’t sound good. She strained to hear as Scott lowered his voice and led Claw across the room, toward the door.
“You’ve got problems of your own. I just picked up some interesting information on the radio—a couple of your associates from Boston have been spotted on the tu
rnpike. They might be headed here, you think?”
The door flew open again and Lucy jumped in spite of herself. The thumping in her chest slowed when she realized it was only Rusty and J.J.
“Did you hear?” Claw’s tone was urgent. “The guys from Boston are coming here.”
Rusty looked stricken, as if he’d been punched in the heart.
“They want Russ Junior,” he said.
J.J. wrapped an arm around his smaller brother’s shoulder.
“We’ll take care of ’Ti-Russ,” he said. “We’ll put him on the boat, send him up the coast. These guys are city boys. They won’t find him.”
Lucy struggled to follow their conversation. ’Ti-Russ, she knew, was short for Petit Russ, Rusty’s son. She remembered him as a sturdy little fellow on Toby’s youth soccer team. He’d be in high school now, she thought.
“That’s no good.” Rusty’s eyes were wide. “They don’t find Russ, they’ll kill us, or our wives and kids. Burn down the house—they don’t care. They just want to send a message.” He buried his head in his hands. “I can’t believe he was so stupid, what he got us into.”
“He’s a kid. Kids are stupid.” Claw shrugged. “We’ll get the money; they’ll go away.”
Lucy remembered Toby and Eddie refusing to tell her who was dealing drugs in the high school. Now she had a pretty good idea that it was ’Ti-Russ. What had he done? Helped himself to part of a shipment, shorting the buyer and putting his whole family in peril?
“So where are we gonna get the money?” demanded Rusty, his voice breaking.
“Take it easy,” said Scott. “It’s under control. The drug task force is on to them—it’s just a matter of time before those guys are out of the picture. You lie low, keep your young entrepreneur under wraps for a while. Go on, get started. Get on out of here.” He glanced at Lucy. “I’ll take care of Miss Snoopy.”
The three men seemed to confer silently for a moment, then Claw nodded, and they shuffled out of the room. Not one of them looked at her.
Left alone with Scott, Lucy’s situation hit her with a thudding certainty. She knew way too much. Scott was going to kill her, just as he’d killed Tucker.
Christmas Cookie Murder #6 Page 17
