LStone 20 - Easter Bunny Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I hope not. Wilf and I have only been married a couple of years,” said Phyllis. “Did I mention that Elfrida is the new cook up at Pine Point? She says it’s pretty dismal there these days.”

  “Elfrida!” Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. Elfrida, Phyllis’s niece, was known for her numerous marriages and even more numerous offspring. “I didn’t know she was a cook.”

  “She’s not, but things have gone downhill at the mansion. There are no more fancy dinners, she says. Just invalid food for VV and soup and sandwiches for the staff.”

  “Invalid food? What’s that?”

  “You know, mostly those vitamin shakes that come in a can. Sometimes she gets a little soup or yogurt.”

  “Poor old thing.”

  “Elfrida says she’s confined to her room. There are a couple of nurses who live in the house and they take turns caring for her. She doesn’t have any visitors anymore, just her granddaughter Vicky and Vicky’s husband, Henry. Elfrida says the staff all hate them, and that lawyer, too.” She paused, thoughtfully sucking on a finger. “Weatherby, George Weatherby. That’s his name. When he shows up, Elfrida says, they all make themselves scarce. They say that if he finds you, he’ll probably fire you; they’re cutting back on staff.”

  That explained a lot, thought Lucy. “So there were no plans for the Easter egg hunt after all?”

  “No. Elfrida says Van arrived Saturday morning and was really upset when he learned there wasn’t going to be a hunt. He went up to the attic and dug out the bunny costume and then he went into town and bought up all the plastic eggs and candy he could find. When he got back to the house, he had a big argument with Willis. Willis didn’t want to let the people into the estate. But when they began gathering at the gates, Willis finally agreed to let him give the eggs to the kids.”

  “That’s when he died,” said Lucy.

  “VV’s the one I feel sorry for,” said Phyllis. “Elfrida said Van asked the nurses to get her to the window so she could watch, and she saw the whole thing. She was horribly upset, they had to sedate her, and it’s no wonder. Imagine outliving your grandchild. It’s not normal.”

  “You said it,” agreed Ted Stillings, whose arrival had set the little bell on the door jingling. “That’s the trouble with living to a ripe old age. You end up without any friends and hardly any family.”

  “You’re bright and cheerful today,” said Lucy, watching her boss hang up his jacket and seat himself at the old-fashioned roll-top desk he’d inherited from his grandfather, a legendary New England newsman.

  “I’m just trying to look on the bright side,” said Ted, in a defensive tone. “Die young, stay pretty. Now Van won’t have to get old and frail like his grandmother. He died in his prime. It’s not such a bad way to go.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Lucy. “I’m planning on living to a ripe old age. I want to see little Patrick grow up into a fine young man, and I want a lot more grandchildren, too. I won’t mind getting wrinkles and white hair, not if I can stay interested and involved.”

  “But that’s the rub. Poor VV isn’t interested or involved anymore,” said Ted.

  “She looked great at the egg hunt just last year,” protested Lucy. “She was dressed to the nines—I think she was wearing a Chanel suit—and she had a gorgeous flowery hat. White gloves, even. She looked like the queen. She was healthy and clearheaded and she really enjoyed herself when she handed out those silly awards. Reddest hair, most freckles, you know the drill.”

  “That was then, this is now. A year can make a big difference. She’s failing,” said Ted. “She’s ninety years old, after all.”

  “You know, that’s why I don’t like to read biographies,” said Phyllis. “They start out just fine, the little genius is born and grows up, overcoming obstacles and achieving great things, and then there’s the inevitable decline and death. It’s the same story, over and over.”

  Lucy realized she had to agree. She’d just finished a new, highly acclaimed account of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s life and had found the last chapter terribly sad and depressing. Wealth and fame, even beauty, didn’t really matter. In the end, it all came down to the same thing. “I wonder when she began to fail,” said Lucy.

  “Sometime over the summer, I think,” said Ted. “Pam told me VV didn’t make her usual August contribution to the Hat and Mitten Fund. She always donated a thousand dollars for school supplies.” Ted’s wife, Pam, was one of Lucy’s best friends and chaired the Hat and Mitten Fund, which provided school supplies and warm clothing for the town’s underprivileged kids.

  “When the check didn’t arrive, Pam called Pine Point and they referred her to VV’s lawyer, George Weatherby. He told her he’d get a check in the mail immediately, and he did, but it was only for twenty-five dollars!”

  “You’re kidding!” exclaimed Lucy.

  “Nope. You can ask Pam.”

  “I will,” said Lucy, reaching for the phone. It wasn’t often that she got permission to talk with her friends when she was at work.

  Pam didn’t have time for a long chat, however. She was getting ready for the yoga class she taught at the senior center. “I really had to scramble to make up for VV’s missing donation,” she told Lucy. “The Seamen’s Bank gave me two hundred and I got a hundred each from the Methodists and Baptists. The Lions and Rotary pitched in, too, but I ended up filling up the backpacks with donated snacks from the IGA instead of school supplies.”

  “The kids probably liked the snacks better,” said Lucy with a chuckle.

  “You’re probably right. But I really missed having tea with VV. She used to invite me up to the house to give me the check and I always had a lovely time. We’d sit out in the garden and she was so funny and engaged; she’d ask me about the kids we were helping. She knew quite a few of them by name, you know, and followed their progress.” Lucy heard her sigh. “I called the house and asked if I could visit VV, but Willis said no, she wasn’t up to it. It’s really sad. I guess one good thing is she probably doesn’t know what happened to Van.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” said Lucy. “It seems she was watching from the window and saw the whole thing.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” moaned Pam. “Well, I gotta go. My elderly yoginis will be wondering where I am.”

  Lucy was thoughtful as she replaced the receiver on her phone. It seemed as if this lawyer, George Weatherby, was getting awfully involved in VV’s affairs, and she was beginning to wonder whose interests he was truly representing. It was hard to believe that VV’s finances were in such dire shape that she couldn’t afford to maintain staff and to make her usual charitable contributions. The stock market had taken a terrible tumble recently, but it was recovering. It wasn’t that long ago that VV had been included in Maine Business Journal’s list of the state’s richest residents. She wasn’t at the top of the list, but she was there. What had happened? Where had all her money gone?

  Phyllis interrupted Lucy’s thoughts, handing her a stack of press releases. “Ted says space is tight this week and he wants to know how many inches we need for listings,” she said.

  “I’ll get right on it,” Lucy said. She was leafing through the press releases, organizing them by date, when her phone rang. It was Roger Wilcox, chairman of the town’s board of selectmen, but he had other business on his mind.

  “I’m just checking to make sure you got the press release about the hospital auxiliary’s Las Vegas night,” he said.

  “Good timing,” said Lucy. “I was just getting started on the events listings.” She flipped through a few sheets of paper, quickly finding the one she wanted. “Here it is. The thirtieth, right?”

  “That’s it. To tell the truth, I’m hoping you can play it up a bit. Maybe do a little feature or something?”

  “A feature?” she repeated, and Ted shook his head, making a throat-cutting gesture. “I don’t think so. Ted tells me space is tight this week.”

  “It’s a very worthy cause, you know,” Roger said
. “I’m chairman of the hospital’s board of directors and I can assure you this addition to the ER is desperately needed. It will benefit the entire community.”

  “I wish I could help,” said Lucy. “I did do a story about it a few months ago when you were looking for donations.”

  “I know, Lucy, and we certainly appreciated the coverage. It was a very positive story.” Roger paused. “I’m afraid our situation has changed since then,” he said. “A promised contribution, a major contribution, in fact, has been withdrawn. We need to come up with an additional hundred thousand before we can break ground.”

  “That’s a lot of money. You certainly can’t raise that at a Las Vegas night.”

  “Of course not. But events like the Las Vegas night draw attention to our project and help attract donors.”

  “I understand,” said Lucy. “Perhaps I can help. I could do a story about the need to make up for the lost contribution.”

  “Oh, no! Don’t do that!”

  “Why not?” Lucy was puzzled. She was sure townsfolk would respond to a plea for contributions.

  “We’re after major contributors, and they won’t donate unless they believe the project is viable. The first hint of trouble and they’ll snap their purses shut.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Lucy.

  “I know, but that’s the way it is. You lose one contributor and next thing you know, they’re all drifting away. I could just strangle W–W–W . . .”

  Lucy was on it quicker than a tick on a hound. “Weatherby? Was it VV’s lawyer?”

  “Whoever, that’s what I was going to say. I could just strangle whoever it was who made the decision to cut this much-needed gift. But it’s all off the record, anyway.”

  Roger was usually a calm center of rationality when the selectmen’s meetings threatened to get out of hand, so she was quite surprised at his frantic tone and hurried to reassure him.

  “Off the record, absolutely. I won’t breathe a word of it, I promise. And I bet I can find a picture we can run. A picture’s worth a thousand words, right? In fact, I’m sure we’ve got a file photo of you at the roulette table at last year’s Las Vegas night.”

  “That’ll be great, Lucy. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Lucy had barely ended the call when Ted demanded to know what she’d promised to keep off the record. “I’ll decide what’s off the record,” he growled.

  “It’s no big deal,” said Lucy. “The hospital auxiliary’s run into a snag, that’s all. A major donor has withdrawn a promised contribution and they’re scrambling to make up for it.”

  “That’s getting to be a familiar story,” said Ted. “Weatherby again?”

  “Roger wouldn’t say, but I think so.”

  “The economy must be worse than I thought if the rich aren’t rich anymore,” said Phyllis.

  “Everything’s relative, I guess,” said Lucy, who was searching the computer files for the photo she’d promised Roger.

  “If that hospital expansion is threatened, we have to cover it,” said Ted. “The hospital is bursting at the seams. The ER is totally inadequate. The state made the expansion a condition of recertification. If it doesn’t go through, we could lose our hospital.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” admitted Lucy.

  “Roger’s not the only one on that board,” said Ted. “Why don’t you call the others? See if you can get confirmation.”

  “But I promised Roger . . .”

  “You didn’t promise the others,” snapped Ted. “Get on it.”

  A very reluctant Lucy was just starting to dial Millicent Frobisher’s number when the door flew open and a flamboyant redhead blew in, wearing a mink coat so old that the silk lining was hanging down in tatters that fluttered around her ankles.

  “Can I help you?” asked Phyllis.

  “I have a big story,” said the woman, tossing back her long wavy hair. She was wearing high-heeled black boots and had a worn crocodile bag slung over one mink-clad arm.

  Phyllis glanced at Ted, who stood up. “I’m the editor,” he said, holding out his right hand. “Ted Stillings.”

  Lucy and Phyllis watched as she took Ted’s hand in one gloved hand and covered it with the other. “I’m Maxine Carey,” she said, leaning forward, almost close enough to kiss him. “I’m Van Duff’s ex.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” said Ted.

  “Thank you,” she said, still holding his hand. “That’s why I’m here. I want everyone to know that Van’s death was no accident. Van Vorst Duff was murdered and I have the proof right here!”

  Chapter Four

  This announcement didn’t exactly land like the bombshell Maxine intended, but they were all interested. Definitely interested.

  “That’s a serious allegation,” said Ted. “What proof do you have?”

  “Blood tests.” She pulled a much-folded sheet of paper from the crocodile purse, which was worn bare in patches, and gave it to Ted. “He had his annual checkup less than a month ago.” She stepped closer to Ted and stabbed at the paper with her finger. “He was so proud he put the whole thing on Facebook. Just look. Cholesterol, way under two hundred. The good cholesterol through the roof and the bad stuff, hardly there. And he had a stress test, too, and passed with flying colors. His blood pressure was better than mine, one hundred three over seventy. Now, I ask you, does it make any sense at all that a man in the prime of health would just drop dead?” she demanded, breathing in his face.

  “I’m not a doctor, I really don’t know,” said Ted, stepping backward and giving the paper back to Maxine.

  “Well, I do know,” said Maxine, carefully folding it and tucking it away. “I know that a man like Van doesn’t just drop dead. He windsurfed and skied and biked and did the Ironman five times. I’m telling you, there’s something fishy going on up at Pine Point!”

  Ted shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, then glanced at the regulator clock on the wall. “I’m afraid I’ve got an appointment,” he told Maxine. “But my chief reporter Lucy Stone will be happy to talk with you.”

  Lucy raised her hand, as if she knew the answer to seven times nine. “I’m over here, why don’t you take a seat?”

  Maxine plunked herself down in the wooden chair Lucy kept for visitors and Ted grabbed his jacket, making a hasty exit.

  “Typical,” said Phyllis with a chuckle.

  “What does she mean?” asked Maxine, pulling off her gloves.

  “Ted’s uncomfortable with feminine drama,” said Lucy, smiling. “I’m pretty sure his important appointment is at the coffee shop.”

  “This happens to me all the time,” declared Maxine, crossing her legs and digging into her purse, extracting a tube of lip gloss. “I am so tired of these weeny milquetoasts who won’t rise to the occasion. I’ve been battling them my entire life. ‘Don’t dip into capital,’ they say,” she said, slathering on a thick coat of bright red gloss. “ ‘Floss your teeth, eat lots of fiber, get eight hours of sleep every night, everything in moderation.’ Well, I don’t believe in moderation and neither did Van. Life’s too short for moderation!”

  Lucy found herself liking Maxine, even if she was a bit overwhelming. “If Van didn’t die of a heart attack, what do you think killed him? And who did it? And why?”

  “I wish I knew!” declared Maxine, narrowing her eyes and screwing the cap back on the tube of lip gloss. “It could have been any of them.”

  “Any of who?” asked Lucy.

  “The Three Pigs,” she said darkly. “That’s what I call them, anyway.”

  Lucy glanced at Phyllis, who had raised her eyebrows. “Who exactly are the Three Pigs?”

  “Van’s sister, Vicky, and her husband, that parasite Henry, and their disgusting excuse for a lawyer, George Weatherby,” said Maxine with a little nod. “That’s exactly who I mean. Those three are determined to control everything at Pine Point. They won’t even let me make any suggestions about the funeral . . .”
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  “Well, you are his ex-wife,” said Lucy, playing devil’s advocate.

  “Not exactly. Truth is, it was a common law situation. We never actually got married. But Van acknowledged Juliette; his name is on the birth certificate and he gave her his surname.” Maxine waved her large hands in front of her face; Lucy noticed she bit her nails. “We’re not together anymore, not that way, if you know what I mean, but we’ve always been friends. Best friends. And if Van could rise up from whatever cold slab he’s lying on, he’d say the same thing. And, believe me, the last thing he’d want is those three planning his funeral.”

  “Perhaps you could have a separate observance, a memorial service,” suggested Lucy.

  “That’s a good idea. You know, I might do that.” Maxine put her hands together and rested them on her knee. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the Three Pigs are going to go for some dull old churchy thing and Van would have hated that. And, trust me, it’ll be those awful peanut butter and bacon on Melba toast things for refreshments—the ones that get stuck in your throat, that you can’t possibly swallow—and maybe some watered down sherry from a big economy-size jug. They won’t spend a penny on anybody but themselves, you’ll see!”

  “There has been talk that things aren’t quite what they should be up at Pine Point,” said Phyllis.

  “It’s true!” exclaimed Maxine. “Whatever you’ve heard! It’s awful! Poor VV, they’re not taking proper care of her. She hasn’t had her hair styled in months—it’s all white and the nurses just chop it off.”

  “It was always so beautifully done,” said Lucy, remembering VV’s expertly tinted strawberry blond curls.

  “Not anymore. And her nightgowns are in tatters. I wouldn’t use them to dust with!”

  “All those beautiful clothes,” said Lucy.

  “Just hanging in the closets, with the shoes lined up like little soldiers. It’s too sad! They make her wear these ugly felt slippers—horrid big gray things—when they get her out of bed, which isn’t often enough, if you ask me.”