by Leslie Meier
“That’s certainly good to know,” Lucy said, impressed. “This job is in Maine.”
“Maine! You must be crazy, lady. Maine in the winter! Poor tactics, extremely poor. Don’t you know what happened to Napoleon in Russia?”
Lucy smiled as she replaced the receiver and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. She reached for the oven cleaner and got to work. Half an hour later she was closing the door on a spotless oven when the phone rang. The voice on the other end was warm and reassuring.
“This is Cool Professional, answering your letter.”
“Terrific,” said Lucy. “I’m looking for someone to kill my husband.”
“I’ll want fifty thousand dollars. Twenty-five up front, and twenty-five afterward. Cash. I don’t wait for insurance payoffs. Send me his name and address, a picture, and his schedule.”
“As simple as that?”
“Absolutely. Perhaps you’d like to think about it for a while?” he asked courteously. “Maybe you can work something out.”
“No, I’ve made up my mind.”
“Fine.”
“Just a minute,” said Lucy. “Would you answer just one question for me? Have you ever killed anybody in Tinker’s Cove, Maine?”
“I’ve never even heard of Tinker’s Cove,” said the voice.
Lucy believed him. Just because he was a killer didn’t mean he was a liar, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY
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As she looked around the house, Lucy realized there was nothing left to do. Four days of steady work, fueled no doubt by postholiday letdown and premenstrual hormones, had wrought a miracle. Call Country Homes magazine, she thought to herself, send photographers immediately. This will probably never happen again. As she wandered from room to room, admiring the handsome antiques she and Bill had collected over the years, the afternoon stretched emptily ahead of her. Sara had a play date at a friend’s house and wouldn’t be coming home. Lucy climbed upstairs to change out of her grubby cleaning clothes, thinking perhaps she would spend the afternoon checking out the after-holiday sales in Portland, and noticed the bags of outgrown clothes piled on the landing.
There were some nice things in those bags: warm footed pajamas, cozy sweat suits, winter jackets, and even a pair of hardly worn snow boots bought late last winter that Sara couldn’t cram her feet into this year. Lucy hated just to toss those things in a Salvation Army bin; she tried to think of someone she knew who could use them. Unfortunately none of her friends had girls younger than Sara, and her playmates all wore clothes larger than the things in the bags. Then she remembered Lisa Young’s little girl. Surely she could use those clothes. Her thoughts were interrupted by Bill’s voice.
“Lucy, are you home?”
“What are you doing home this time of day?” she asked, bounding down the stairs.
“I’m looking for some lunch, woman. Where’s Sara?”
“At Caroline’s.”
“You’re alone? There are no kids?” Bill was like a bird dog catching scent of a hot trail.
“That’s right,” Lucy admitted.
“Thank you, God,” he said, reaching for her.
“Sorry, Romeo. It’s the first day of my period.”
“Why do you have to sound so pleased about it?” complained Bill, dropping his arms. “What’s for lunch?”
“Turkey soup—homemade.” Lucy hauled a big enamel pot out of the refrigerator. “And tuna fish sandwiches.”
“I guess you’re not such a bad wife after all,” Bill conceded. “So what’re you going to do this afternoon? Curl up on the couch with the kittens and a mystery?”
“I thought I’d drop off those outgrown clothes down Bump’s River Road.”
“Bump’s River Road? I don’t want you going down there,” said Bill.
“I’ve already been down there,” Lucy said. “That’s where I got the kittens.” She picked up Mac, who had climbed up her pant leg following the tuna fumes, and scratched his head.
“Well, don’t go there anymore. A lot of weird people live down there.”
“They’re not weird. They’re just poor,” Lucy said reasonably. “Look how well the kittens turned out.”
“Those people live that way because they want to, Lucy. Nothing’s stopping them from working like the rest of us. Now listen to me,” he said, using his authoritarian father voice, “don’t go down there. Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy,” said Lucy, clearing the table. As she stood at the sink rinsing off the lunch dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, she watched Bill climb into his truck and drive off. She hated it when he treated her like a child. She was a woman, all grown up, the mother of three children. She managed all their money, she dealt with teachers and doctors. She was capable of making decisions for herself, thank you. Besides, she kept remembering that dark-haired little girl in her torn shirt. She was just the right size for Sara’s outgrown things.
Lucy loaded the bags into the Subaru and started the engine. She’d be back in plenty of time to make supper.
It was a beautiful day for a drive. The trunks of the trees lining the road were almost black and contrasted sharply with the light dusting of snow that lay on the ground. Thanks to the bright sun and the mild temperature, the snow on the road had melted. Lucy whizzed by in her little station wagon, humming along with the radio and enjoying driving all by herself for a change. She passed farms with snow-covered fields, the old farmhouses with attached barns far outnumbering the new houses on the road. As she drove farther from Tinker’s Cove the farms thinned out and the road was lined with thick woods on either side.
The turnoff for Bump’s River Road was just past an old store and gas station. This was a genuine country store that had made no attempt to pretty itself up for the tourists; the faded signs on the outside advertised cut plug tobacco and Nehi soda, but they were overlaid with newer signs for the state lottery. A teenaged boy stood in the doorway, his long hair hanging down either side of his face and his snowmobile suit unzipped to the waist, revealing his skinny chest. He watched as she turned off the state road.
The day she had gotten the kittens she had been in a hurry, intent on following the directions she had been given, and she had not really paid attention to the scenery. Today as she passed the worn-out, shabby homes surrounded by junk-filled yards, she was horrified. Up close, in the unblinking winter sunlight, the houses looked flimsy and unsubstantial. How would these people survive the cold winter? When she had lived in the city she had grown used to seeing homeless people outside the grocery store and the bank, and there were neighborhoods she passed all the time on the train that she’d never visit. In the city she had always been aware of poor people, but since she’d moved to Tinker’s Cove she’d assumed that poverty was a city problem. In the country, unless you went looking, you weren’t likely to encounter real poverty.
Pulling up in front of Lisa Young’s place, she smiled at the little girl sitting on the step, playing with a Barbie doll. She was absorbed in make-believe, stroking the doll’s bright yellow hair and talking to it in a high-pitched sing-song voice. She didn’t look up until Lucy spoke to her.
“Hi there. Is your mom home?”
The little girl disappeared inside and soon Lisa appeared at the door, wearing the same defensive expression Lucy remembered from her earlier visit.
“Do you remember me? I took the kittens before Christmas.”
“Sure.” Lisa stood in the doorway, the little girl clinging to her side.
“Well, I wanted to thank you. My kids really love the kittens, but that’s not why I’m here,” explained Lucy. “I cleaned out my daughters’ closets, and I’ve got a lot of outgrown clothes that I think will fit your
daughter. What’s her name?”
“Crystal,” said Lisa, still expressionless.
“I really think these will fit Crystal. Would you like to see?”
“Sure.” Lisa shrugged and grudgingly followed Lucy to the car. Lucy put down the tailgate and began spreading out the garments, feeling like a saleslady as she pointed out the virtues of each item.
“This is really warm, isn’t it cute?” she said, holding up an appliquéd bathrobe. “And this sweater used to be Elizabeth’s favorite. She cried when it got too small.” Lucy shook her head, neatly folding the sweater and replacing it in the bag.
“How much do you want?” asked Lisa.
“Nothing.” Lucy was shocked. “I usually give things like this to a friend, but none of my friends have a little girl the right size. Couldn’t Crystal use these?”
Lucy smiled at Crystal, who was fingering a bottle-green velvet dress with a lace collar and pearl buttons.
“Okay,” said Lisa, picking up the bags. “Thank you kindly.”
“You’re very welcome. Can I help you carry them?”
“I can manage,” said Lisa. Lucy watched her as she stepped up onto the sloping porch and went into the little cabin, closing the door firmly behind her.
Lucy turned and climbed back into the car. Do people know about this? she wondered as she turned the key and drove slowly down the muddy track. These people might as well be living in the nineteenth century, she thought, noticing that most of the houses had little outhouses behind them. How would Crystal adjust to school? How would she cope with flush toilets, bell schedules, and computers?
Deep in thought, Lucy hadn’t been paying close attention to the road. But it was too late. She’d managed to sink all four tires in the slushy mud. She opened the car door and scouted for something to put under the tires to give her some traction. She saw a yard just a bit up the road that was filled with junk. She picked her way carefully along the muddy road, glad that she’d worn her waterproof boots.
There must be something here I can use, she thought, looking about for a few boards or pieces of plywood; even a flattened cardboard box would do. She glanced at the house that was in the center of this junkyard, but no one seemed to be home. She picked her way around a broken washing machine, past bits and pieces of automobiles and lots and lots of tires, and finally found a pile of old asphalt shingles. She was bent over, picking up a generous handful, when she heard a low growl. Turning around, she saw a large, shaggy brown dog coming toward her at top speed, teeth bared and ears flat.
She dropped the shingles, scrambled up a pile of building debris, and, reaching for the branch of a big old pine tree, pulled herself to safety with just seconds to spare. Panting from fright and exertion, she wrapped her arms around the trunk of the tree and rested her forehead against it. She was perhaps seven or eight feet from the ground. The dog had climbed up the pile of debris and was standing on his hind legs, barking frantically at her and snapping his teeth at her feet. She was safe enough since he couldn’t climb the tree, but she sure couldn’t go anywhere.
After a while the dog stopped barking and jumping. Instead, he stood on all fours, eyeing her patiently, prepared to wait. I’ve played this game before, he seemed to be saying to her. Every now and then he’d bark sharply, making her jump, and then he’d resume his patient wait. Lucy shouted for help, and the dog again began barking frantically and jumping up, nipping at her feet. Lucy looked hopefully at the house, praying that someone was home who could help her. Miraculously, the door opened and a large, fat man in overalls scrambled out holding a shotgun.
“Don’t shoot!” Lucy shouted. “The dog’s got me stuck in this tree.”
She watched in horror as the man slowly and deliberately raised the gun to his shoulder and fired. Instinctively she crouched as the shot rang out. She saw the dog’s legs go out from under him as he collapsed on the junk heap, whimpered once, and went still.
Perhaps the dog belonged to someone else, Lucy thought as she jumped down from the tree. Maybe it was a nuisance dog he’d been looking for an excuse to shoot. She advanced toward the man, smiling. He had smooth round cheeks and blue eyes and smiled back at her. Then he raised the shotgun to his shoulder. Lucy ducked behind a big old steel desk just as he fired off the second round.
Lucy peeked out from behind the desk, saw that he was busy reloading, and ran for more secure cover behind a big stump of elm.
“God,” Lucy prayed, “don’t let this be happening to me. Let me wake up, let it be a bad dream. Please. I know. Bill was right, I was wrong. Now, get me out of here.” She cringed behind the stump, shaking violently as two more shots rang out. The man wasn’t coming any closer, she saw. He was still standing in the same spot, reloading again. If only he’d stop smiling at her. Damn it, that smile was familiar. She just couldn’t place it. Maybe he would run out of ammunition and give up. It would be getting dark soon; maybe she could creep away in the darkness. Maybe she’d die like the dog, shot by a smiling idiot.
“Harold, put that gun down,” said a voice. “Harold, I mean it. This is an order. Put it down, right now.”
Raising herself just enough so she could see over the stump, Lucy saw Lisa standing at the edge of the yard, pointing her finger at the man as if he were a naughty child. Obediently he dropped the gun and shambled off to the house.
“Is that all I had to do?”
“Yeah. You just gotta let him know who’s boss. He shouldn’t have a gun. Dunno why they let him have it. I can’t believe he shot his dog. He’ll be sorry when he realizes what he done. You okay?”
“I feel a little shaky,” admitted Lucy. “My car’s stuck.”
“You can use those shingles,” Lisa informed her, walking back toward her house.
“Thanks a lot, I guess,” Lucy muttered, scooping up some shingles. She spread them in front of the car tires, and by accelerating very slowly and carefully in four-wheel drive, she got going again.
She felt guilty about leaving the shingles in the road, but she absolutely could not make herself climb out of the car. Maybe they’ll help someone else, she thought. Keeping her foot firmly on the accelerator and willing the car forward with every ounce of energy she had, she finally made it up Bump’s River Road and pulled onto the hardtop at the store.
“Al,” she said, reading the tattoo on his chest, “I wonder if you’d mind answering a question for me.”
She took a ten-dollar bill out of her wallet and fingered it. “There’s a big old dumb guy down there, his first name’s Harold. Do you know who I mean?”
“Sure, I know him,” admitted the kid, his eyes on the money.
“What’s his last name?”
“Higham. Harold Higham.”
“Oh, really,” Lucy said slowly. She knew she’d seen that smile before. “Well, thanks for the information,” she said, passing him the bill. “I think I’ll take one of those small bottles of brandy behind you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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Lucy got back in her car and sat for a few minutes, taking small, unsteady sips of the brandy. She was surprised to see that according to the digital clock it was only two-thirty. It seemed like an eternity since she’d left the house for Bump’s River Road.
She turned on the radio and let the brandy do its work, spreading warmth through her body. Gradually her muscles relaxed and she stopped shaking; her teeth stopped chattering; all that remained of her fear was a hard rock in her stomach.
She didn’t think she would ever forget Harold Higham’s blank, smiling face as he’d raised the shotgun and aimed at her. Who was Harold Higham, she wondered, and what was the matter with him? How was he related to George? They certainly had a family resemblance, but that’s where the resemblance ended. George’s desk at Country Cousins was always neat and tidy, his navy blue blazer and gray
flannel pants freshly pressed. She had just assumed he came from a solid middle-class background, but now she wasn’t so sure. She screwed the cap onto the brandy bottle and dropped it into her purse, then put the car in gear and turned onto the state road.
As soon as she made the turn onto the highway, the bright sunlight made her wince. Instinctively, she pulled down the visor and groped for her sunglasses. She was driving right into the sun, and the visibility was very poor. The sun reflected off every bit of ice and smear on the windshield, and to make matters worse, the woods lining the road made deep shadows. She was terrified she wouldn’t see a pedestrian or bicyclist in the shadows until it was too late.
A big pickup truck loomed suddenly behind her, tailgating so closely that she was afraid to try to pull over to let it pass. Her nerves already raw, she clutched the steering wheel tightly and tried to maintain a steady forty miles an hour. Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the changes in light and shadow as she tried to see the road ahead, keep track of the truck behind her, and check the speedometer.
I have to do something, she decided, and cautiously tapped the brake and turned on her left signal. To her relief the pickup backed off, giving her room to pull over to the side. The driver, a young fellow with his black lab beside him on the passenger seat, honked and waved, and Lucy shook her head.
She was stopped, she realized, right in front of Miss Tilley’s antique Cape Cod house. The little white clapboard house hugged the ground, anchored by a huge central chimney. It had been built more than two hundred years ago and was designed to stay warm even in the frigid winter winds. Impulsively Lucy turned into the driveway and marched up to the door. If anyone in town would know about Harold Higham, it would be Miss Tilley.
“Lucy, how nice to see you,” she said, opening wide the solid pumpkin pine door. “I was just having some tea. Won’t you join me?”
