by Joanne Fluke
“That’s a great idea,” said Lucy, jumping at the chance. “What about this afternoon?”
“Let’s say two o’clock.” Rachel scribbled down the address.
“Great,” said Lucy, taking the slip of paper. “See you later. By the way, do you know where the county jail is?”
Lucy felt like kicking herself as she proceeded on foot down the street to the appliance store, leaving the car in the parking lot. The sun was actually peeking through the clouds and it seemed too good to waste. But what on earth must Rachel think of her, seizing on her invitation like that? She was probably already regretting getting involved with a woman who knocked people underneath cars and visited the jail. Respectable people stayed as far away from jail as they could, didn’t they? She hoped Rachel didn’t think she had some personal interest in the jail, like an incarcerated relative, something like that. Then again, she reminded herself, Rachel worked in a law office and her husband was a lawyer, and lawyers often had to go to the jail to interview their clients, at least they did on TV. Maybe she didn’t think Lucy’s interest in the penal system was at all unusual.
She hoped so, she decided, stepping inside the Appliance Mart and viewing the ranks of harvest-gold, avocado-green, and poppy-red refrigerators and washing machines. What happened to white? she wondered. And how soon could she get a stove delivered?
Not until after Christmas, she discovered.
“I’ll take a floor model,” begged Lucy.
“I’m sorry,” said the salesman, writing up the order. “Three weeks is the soonest I can promise.”
“But how am I going to cook?” wailed Lucy.
“My wife finds a Crock Pot quite handy,” said the salesman. “And we have those in stock.”
Reluctantly, Lucy reached for her wallet and unfolded the fifty dollar bill she’d been saving for Christmas presents. She felt badly about it, but as she headed home with an electric frying pan as well as the Crock Pot, she had to admit that life certainly seemed a bit brighter with the prospect of a hot meal.
Bill, however, wasn’t quite as enthusiastic. “What do you mean we can’t get a stove for three weeks?”
“That’s what the man said,” said Lucy, with a shrug.
“And where have you been all this time? Do you know what it’s like to be stuck in the house for hours on end with a two-year-old when you don’t feel all that well?”
Lucy folded her hands on her tummy and looked at him. Was he kidding? She was about to ask that very question in a rather sarcastic tone when she noticed the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. It certainly wasn’t from the heat; the furnace could barely keep the house above sixty degrees.
“I’ll get you one of those pain pills,” she said. “Why don’t you have a little rest while I make lunch?”
A beef stew, a bit light on the beef but with plenty of healthful vegetables, was simmering in the Crock Pot when Lucy and Toby left for the playdate at Rachel’s house. Lucy was curious to see Rachel’s place; until now Miss Tilley’s house was the only house in Tinker’s Cove that she’d been inside of.
She was a bit disappointed to discover the Goodmans lived in a modern ranch, part of a small development tucked behind the school complex. The houses were all variations on a single theme featuring a picture window with three rather stunted rhododendron bushes beneath. The Goodmans’ house was gray with white trim.
When Rachel opened the door, however, Lucy was enchanted by the vibrant Persian rug on the living room floor and the curvaceous Victorian settee that sat beneath that picture window. “This is lovely,” said Lucy, as Rachel took their coats and hung them in the hall closet.
A hall closet, she realized, was something you took for granted in a modern house but was definitely lacking in her own antique farmhouse. Modern houses certainly had their advantages. She was pretty sure Rachel had a working stove, too.
Following her into the kitchen, she noticed that Rachel not only had a stove and a side-by-side refrigerator, she also had a dishwasher. But the modern appliances were offset by cheery gingham curtains, a pot rack holding baskets and bunches of herbs, and a gorgeous golden oak table and chairs.
“I have to admit I’m dying with jealousy,” said Lucy, stroking the table’s gleaming surface. “What a find.”
“It didn’t look like that when we bought it, believe me,” said Rachel. “It was painted pea green.”
“Who refinished it?”
“Bob. It’s a hobby of his.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Rachel, setting the kettle on the stove. “I’ll get Richie. He’s a little shy.”
When she returned, Richie was clinging to her hand and holding a sad looking binky against his cheek. But when Rachel spilled a basket of Fisher-Price trucks and little people on the floor the two boys were soon absorbed in play.
“Have you lived here in Tinker’s Cove for long?” asked Lucy, accepting a cup of tea.
“A couple of years,” said Rachel, taking a pressed oak chair opposite Lucy’s.
“What brought you here?”
“Bob answered Sherman Cobb’s ad,” said Rachel, stirring some milk into her tea. “He saw an article about Maine in the Mother Earth News.”
Lucy laughed. “So did my husband! And do you know Sue Finch? I met her the other day. Her husband read that article, too.”
“That article has a lot to answer for,” said Rachel, in a rather dark tone. She sipped her tea. “Sue Finch? She’s that woman with the Farrah Fawcett hair and high heels?”
“That’s her,” said Lucy.
“Fashion’s not really my thing,” said Rachel, smoothing the sleeves of her orange sweater. “That’s one of the things I like about Tinker’s Cove. But I am glad to see more young people moving in. I mean, I went to a Women’s Club meeting when we first moved here and there wasn’t a single woman under fifty. And all they wanted to talk about was their most recent operations.”
“Miss Tilley—the librarian—isn’t like that at all,” said Lucy. “In fact, I’m helping her solve a family mystery.”
“She’s a character,” said Rachel, watching as the two little boys headed down the hall to Richie’s room. “They seem to be getting along well.”
“Yeah. I’m sure Toby really misses his playmates from the city. I used to take him to the park almost every day.”
“So tell me about this article you’re working on,” coaxed Rachel.
She listened intently as Lucy recounted her investigation. “It’s interesting that Miss Tilley never married, don’t you think?” she said, when Lucy had finished.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems she had an unresolved conflict about marriage and the role of women, probably because of her parents’ troubled relationship.”
“You sound like a psychiatrist,” said Lucy.
“Actually, I was a psych major in college.”
“So tell me, doctor,” began Lucy. “Was it a psychosis or a neurosis?”
“I’m not sure,” said Rachel, “but I think something was definitely not right in the Tilley household. So what’s your next step?”
“Well, I want to get over to the county jail to look for information about Emil Boott.”
Rachel glanced at the clock on the wall over the sink. “It’s only three, why don’t you go now? I’ll keep an eye on the boys.”
Lucy couldn’t believe it. “Really? You’d do that?”
“Sure. They’re happy as clams and if they get tired I’ll let them watch Sesame Street.”
“I’ll be back before Sesame Street is over, I promise,” said Lucy, grabbing her bag.
It only took Lucy about fifteen minutes to make the drive over to the neighboring town of Gilead, and before she knew it she had parked the car and was climbing the hill to the fortresslike county jail. Built of gray stone, it looked like a medieval castle with towers and turrets, but instead of a moat it had a tall chain-link fence topped with vicious looking coils of razor wire. Once inside, h
owever, she was pleasantly greeted by a rather plump uniformed guard.
“I’m sorry but visiting hours are on Mondays, Thursdays, weekends and holidays,” he said, folding his chubby pink hands on the counter. “I can take a message if you want.”
“I’m not here to visit anyone,” said Lucy, feeling slightly offended. “I’m looking for information about a former prisoner named Emil Boott.”
“Never heard of him. Must’ve been before my time.”
“Around 1930, I think.”
“That was some time ago,” he said, scratching his smooth chin. “Was he a relative of yours?”
Lucy was about to protest, then thought better of it. “Actually, yes. Emil was the black sheep of the family. I’m writing a family history, you see, and I want to include him. Do you have records going that far back?”
“Don’t get much call for ’em but I s’pose we do, down cellar.”
“Could I look?” asked Lucy.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” said the guard, shaking his head.
Lucy bit her lip in disappointment. “Is there some way…?”
“I’ll jes’ run down and see what I can find. You keep an eye on things up here for me, okay? If anybody comes lookin’ for me tell ’em I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” said Lucy. She’d never been in a jail before but she had the distinct impression they were generally somewhat stricter than this. If she were so inclined, she realized, spotting a big metal hoop filled with keys, she could let everyone out.
She wasn’t so inclined, however, and was sitting on a convenient chair when the guard returned carrying a dusty cardboard box. “You’re in luck,” he said. “I found a big, thick file. Emil Boott must have been here for quite a while.” He set the box on the counter and took out a fat manila folder, which he opened. “Yup. Twenty years for embezzlement,” he said, closing the file and sliding it across the counter to her.
Lucy’s heart was beating fast as she took the file. What secrets did it hold? But when she’d gone through every page she wasn’t much wiser. As the careful notations documenting his days in the prison showed, Emil Boott was a model prisoner. His photo, a close-up much clearer and larger than the group shot in the museum, revealed a rather ugly, pockmarked face and Lucy could well imagine why Miss Tilley was afraid of him, but his records showed he was the mildest of men. He never denied embezzling several hundred thousand dollars from his employer, the Brown and Williams Glass Company, but he claimed he planned to give the money to workers who had been cheated out of overtime wages due them.
The jury hadn’t been convinced, and even if they had been sympathetic, Judge Tilley’s instructions made it clear that if they believed Boott had broken the law he must be found guilty. Embezzlement, he told them, was not a minor crime but an assault on the very foundations of civilized society. As for Boott, he accepted his punishment without bitterness, according to Sheriff Cobb’s notes, and was soon assigned to the prison’s woodworking shop. From there he moved on to a work-release program and was eventually assigned on a permanent basis to Judge Tilley’s household. Upon his release, after serving his sentence of twenty years, he wrote a remarkable letter to the Sheriff.
Dear Sheriff Cobb, he wrote, It is with great sadness that I will soon depart these walls that once appeared so forbidding but within which I found a true home. It is here that I learned the good Lord above forgives us all if only we ask for forgiveness. It is here that I learned the value of work and friendship. And it was through my work here that I met that most remarkable of women, Mrs. Leonora Tilley, whose kindness toward me, a vile criminal, I shall always remember. If anyone is certain of admission to Heaven it is certainly she and I hope that by following the pure path of virtue which she has showed me that I will someday join her there. Your most grateful and humble servant, Emil Boott.
Lucy sat for a long time, reading and rereading the letter. Finally, the guard asked, “Lady, are you all right?”
“Yes I am,” she said, folding the paper and returning it to the file. “I’m fine.”
And so was Emil Boott, she decided, as she left the prison. He may or may not have been a Depression-era Robin Hood who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, but she was convinced he would never have harmed a hair on Mrs. Tilley’s head.
“So how’d it go?” asked Rachel, opening the door for her. The two little boys were sitting side by side on the couch, apparently under Big Bird’s spell.
“I found the information I was looking for,” said Lucy, recounting her discovery of the letter, “but it only proved Emil Boott didn’t kill Mrs. Tilley.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Rachel. “Maybe he had a guilty conscience and was trying to prove his innocence.”
“Ah, Dr. Freud, thank you for that insight. I never would have thought of that.”
Rachel smiled and shook her head. “You would assume, though, that with his criminal record he would have been a suspect if there was any indication of foul play.”
“There was never an investigation,” said Lucy. “After all, she’d been sick for a long time. Her death was not unexpected.”
“I saw a lot of TB when I was in the Peace Corps,” said Rachel. “I was in Haiti and it’s practically epidemic there. People die of it all the time.”
“So you think that’s what killed her?”
“Probably,” said Rachel, joining the boys on the couch as the familiar tune for Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood began to play. “Want to stay for Mr. Rogers? I love Mr. Rogers.”
Chapter Nine
Lucy and Bill didn’t need an alarm clock: Toby woke them up every morning around six o’clock. On Christmas Eve he was reliable as ever but Lucy ignored his cries, hoping Bill would go so she could catch a few more minutes of sleep. Then she remembered Bill’s burned and bandaged hands and got up. Bill hadn’t heard a thing, he was sleeping soundly.
Toby was standing up in his crib when Lucy went into the nursery. She shivered a bit in her in flannel nightgown but Toby was warm and toasty in a fleecy footed sleep suit. She picked him up and nuzzled his head with her chin, surprised to find that his hair was damp. He didn’t seem to have a fever so she couldn’t imagine where the dampness came from. She looked around the room for a leak and discovered a dusting of snow on his pillow. It had snowed during the night, she realized, and some of the snow must have blown through a crack in the wall. No wonder she was chilly, she realized, staring at the snow. The temperature in the unheated room must be below freezing, or the snow would have melted.
This was crazy, she thought, hugging Toby close and carrying him downstairs where it was somewhat, but not a whole lot warmer, and sat him in his potty seat. “We’re going to have a white Christmas,” she told him, listening for the tinkle. “It’s Christmas Eve and tonight….” She bit her tongue. There was no sense getting the little guy all excited about Santa Claus because the truth was that Santa didn’t have much for him. Most of the fifty dollars she was going to spend on half-price toys at the IGA had gone for the electric frying pan and Crock Pot. That meant all Toby was going to find under the Christmas tree were the two packages Bill’s folks had sent him, and the $50 savings bond her mother had sent.
The tinkle began and ended and Lucy didn’t move. Really, all she wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep through Christmas.
“Up!” Toby, still perched on the potty seat atop the toilet was growing impatient. Lucy helped him down, zipped up his sleep suit and watched him run into the kitchen. Well, she thought, at least he didn’t know what Christmas was supposed to be like. Maybe the tree would be exciting enough for him.
The tree, she thought, her emotions taking a nose dive. Bill had cut the tree a couple of days ago and set it outside in a bucket of water, intending to bring it inside on Christmas Eve. Now he wouldn’t be able to do it, so she would have to cope with the bucket of ice and the eight-foot tree all by herself. Could she do it?
A clatter, alas not the “clatter and pawing of
each little hoof,” but a clatter of pots spilling onto the floor brought her into the kitchen. Toby had found his favorite toys. Goodness knows she had no use for them, without a stove. But the Crock Pot, she discovered when she lifted the lid, did a fantastic job cooking oatmeal overnight. Too bad she couldn’t fit a turkey in there for Christmas dinner.
When Lucy and Toby finished their bowls of oatmeal there was still no sign of Bill so Lucy made a tray and took it upstairs to him. She found him sitting in bed, awkwardly holding a pencil and scratching away at a yellow legal pad.
“I thought you were asleep,” she said.
“Just doing some figures,” he said, putting the pad aside so she could set the tray on his lap. “Oatmeal, again,” he said.
Lucy almost started to remind him that it was cheap and filling but caught herself. Christmas Eve was going to be hard enough this year and there was no sense dwelling on the negative. “It’s oatmeal à la Crock Pot,” she said, with a big smile. “Surprisingly good. I even put in some brown sugar and a few raisins.”
“Ooh, goody,” said Bill, rather sarcastically. “I hope you didn’t blow the budget.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” asked Lucy, glancing at the legal pad. “Budgeting?”
Bill shrugged. “Since I can’t work I thought I’d put together some financial projections, figure out what materials we need, see where we stand.”
Lucy was collecting clothes for herself and Toby, intending to take them downstairs where it was warmer to get dressed. “Don’t take too long,” she said. “I’m going to bring in the Christmas tree so we can decorate it.”
“Can you manage? It’s pretty heavy.”
“Sure I can,” said Lucy, flexing her arms in a muscle-man pose. “‘I am woman. Hear me roar.’” She raised her chin and gave a wolf howl and Bill actually smiled for the first time since the explosion. Christmas presents didn’t have to be wrapped, she reminded herself as she went downstairs. Sometimes a smile would do.
