LStone 20 - Easter Bunny Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Aw, don’t say that, Lucy. This weather’s good for business; everybody’s coming to the coast to cool off—they say it’s near a hundred in Boston, you know.”

  “That does put things in perspective,” said Lucy. “I guess eighty-five isn’t so bad after all.”

  “Practically frigid,” said Barney, as fresh beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “Say, you know, your suspicions about Van’s death might not be so crazy after all. You’ll never guess what Eddie found in the garden shed at Pine Point—a portable generator.”

  Lucy was impatient, she wanted to get home before the ice cream melted—it was on special, buy one, get one free and she had used a dollar-off coupon. “How’s that suspicious?” she asked, grumbling. “A lot of people have them in case the power goes out.”

  “I thought you and that big city private eye had a theory that Van was electrocuted when he grabbed the grille, something along those lines.” He hooked his hands in his belt. “Eddie says there was also a tangle of wires, stuffed behind some bags of fertilizer.”

  Lucy was suddenly interested. “You mean the generator could’ve been used to electrify the grille?”

  “It sure coulda been,” said Barney.

  “Are they checking it for fingerprints?” asked Lucy.

  He shook his head. “The case is closed and, besides, a shed like that’s not a secure location. Lots of people could’ve been in there.”

  “But the shed is really under the gardener’s control, isn’t it?” asked Lucy. “She would have the keys.”

  “They’ve got a bunch of helpers, now. There’s Eddie and a bunch of others.”

  Lucy felt a surge of indignation. “So it’s all just water under the bridge? Nobody’s interested in justice anymore? You just ignore evidence?”

  “I’m sorry I told you,” he said, looking hurt. “I thought you’d want to know. I didn’t think it would upset you. It’s not like it’s definite proof or anything, it just kinda struck me as interesting. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.” He shrugged. “Must be the heat.”

  Lucy smiled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. It is the heat. I’m really glad you told me.”

  “Well, gotta go. Stay cool, Lucy.”

  “You, too,” said Lucy, hurrying across the parking lot to her car. Heat was radiating from the black asphalt surface, and the car was an oven when she opened the door. She switched the AC onto high and waited to feel the cooling effect, aware that sweat was dripping down her back.

  She didn’t like the way things were shaping up at all, she thought, shifting into REVERSE and looking over her shoulder to back out of her parking space. In DRIVE, headed for the exit, she suddenly felt uneasy. Izzy had a motive for eliminating VV’s heirs, and she had the mechanical ability to arrange Van’s and Maxine’s deaths.

  Lucy couldn’t make up her mind. She had suspicions—dark suspicions—about Izzy, but that’s all they were. She could hardly accuse the woman, she might well be completely innocent. Lucy went back and forth in her mind as she drove the familiar route home, and it was only when she reached her driveway that she decided what to do.

  Once inside the house, she stowed the ice cream in the freezer and then dug her cell phone out of her purse, checking recent calls for Fran Martino’s number. Finding one with the 212 area code, she hit SEND, but all she got was voice mail. So she left a message, trying to be concise, telling her about the discovery of the generator and wires in Izzy’s garden shed. But she was careful to add that it was simply circumstantial evidence, that she happened to know Izzy’s mother was ill and it was most unlikely that she would have left her and gone to New York. She didn’t mention Madge’s possible relationship to VV; it seemed too complicated for a short message.

  She was picking beans in the garden when her cell phone rang; it was Fran returning her call.

  “Thanks for your call,” she said. “Look, what I need you to find out is whether this gardener was in Tinker’s Cove the day Juliette was attacked, or if she could’ve been here in the city. Can you find out?”

  “I was hoping you could find out if she was in New York. Don’t they have CCTV in the garage?”

  “They didn’t have it, but they’re getting it now.” She snorted. “Figures, doesn’t it? Close the barn door after the cows have gotten out.” She paused. “I really think you’d have a better chance on your end. After all, there are eight million people in New York; it’s easy for someone to get lost in the crowd.”

  “I can try.” Lucy bit her lip. “How’s Juliette?”

  “She’s holding her own. Little Viv is staying with her at the hospital, so she’s safe, too, for the time being. I’m not taking any chances.”

  Lucy’s next call was to Willis, but once again she got voice mail. Doesn’t anyone answer their phone anymore? she wondered, leaving a message requesting that he call her as soon as possible.

  She was plunging the cooked green beans into an ice water bath when Willis called her back. “This might not be appropriate, but I really need to know the answer: Has Izzy Scannell taken any time off lately?”

  “I’m afraid that is rather inappropriate,” he replied. “Employment records here at Pine Point are confidential. I don’t share that information with anyone. Why do you want to know?”

  Lucy was flummoxed; she could hardly tell Willis she suspected Izzy of murder, even if she did. She had a basic understanding of the laws of slander and it wouldn’t do to make unproven accusations about the woman to her supervisor. “Well,” she began, trying to think of a plausible excuse for her question. “It’s like this. My girls do volunteer work at Heritage House and they’re very worried about her mother, and I just wanted to be able to reassure them that Izzy has been able to spend time with her.”

  “Oh.” To be honest, Lucy didn’t think Willis would buy her ridiculous excuse and there was a long silence before he spoke. “I think I can tell you that your fears are unfounded. Miz Scannell is well aware of her mother’s condition. She’s actually been working a reduced schedule for the past few weeks so she can be with her during her final days.”

  Lucy was shocked. She had no idea her wild guess was so close to the truth. “Final days? It’s as serious as that?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Willis. “She called Friday, from the nursing home, and said she didn’t think it would be very long. I told her to take as much time as she needs.”

  “Well, thank you,” said Lucy. “My girls will feel much better knowing she’s with her.”

  “I understand,” said Willis. “And I must congratulate you on rearing such compassionate young women. You don’t often see that level of concern for others among today’s young people.”

  “Uh, thanks,” said Lucy, feeling like a complete hypocrite. Even worse, she was going to have to maintain this charade if she was going to find out if Izzy was actually at the nursing home the previous Friday. As Lucy knew only too well, having done it herself, you could make a call from anywhere and say you were someplace else.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lucy felt like a rat, an absolute rat, but she had to know. Izzy seemed like a really nice person, but that didn’t actually mean much. Every time you read about a serial killer in the paper or watched a report on the TV news, the neighbors always seemed to describe the killer as “nice enough but kept to himself,” dismissing even the terrible smells emanating from the back yard. “Well, of course we noticed it,” they’d say, “but we thought it was something to do with his taxidermy hobby.” Or a gas leak. Or a failed septic system. Anything, except what it really was. Some truths were too difficult to accept, so the mind manufactured excuses as a way of denying what it already knew.

  But she didn’t know, Lucy reminded herself, as she drove over to Heritage House on Friday morning. She had her suspicions, but she didn’t know. And even if she did manage to pry the information she was seeking out of a nurse or resident, it wouldn’t be conclusive proof that Izzy was a murderer. A piece of the puzzle
, but not proof.

  But if Izzy was with her mother last Friday, the day Juliette was attacked, it would prove that she couldn’t have been the attacker. Once she realized that, Lucy felt much better about her inquiry. She wasn’t trying to prove Izzy was a killer, she told herself, she was trying to reassure herself that Izzy was innocent.

  And with that thought firmly in mind, she parked the car under a tree and crossed the blast furnace that was the Heritage House parking lot and stepped inside the air-conditioned lobby. She was intending to ask the receptionist for directions to the activity director’s office when the elevator doors opened and Izzy stepped out, accompanied by a woman in green scrubs, probably a nurse. Intrigued, Lucy feigned interest in the sign announcing the day’s activities and watched.

  Izzy, she saw, was wiping her eyes and the nurse was hovering in a concerned manner. “Why didn’t you call me?” asked Izzy, her voice thick with tears. “It isn’t right, you should have called me.”

  “She slipped away, between checks . . . ,” said the nurse, speaking in a soothing voice.

  Izzy turned on the woman. “You mean she was all alone?” she demanded in an accusatory tone.

  “She drifted off in her sleep,” said the nurse, refusing to be ruffled. “It was very peaceful.”

  “There’s no excuse for this,” insisted Izzy. “If I’d known she was that close, I would have stayed with her. Nobody told me. She was all alone when she died. I should have been there.”

  “I understand how you feel,” said the nurse. “But it’s really up to God. We can’t predict with certainty when a soul will be called.”

  “Oh, now you’re trying to fob me off with religious nonsense!” Izzy was furious, and for a moment Lucy thought she was going to assault the nurse.

  The receptionist must have thought so, too, because a muscular male orderly suddenly appeared and was crossing the lobby in Izzy’s direction. Seeing him, she suddenly bolted for the door. “This isn’t the last of this!” she yelled. “I’m going to report you to the state authorities, don’t think I won’t!” Then she was gone, leaving the door swinging behind her.

  The nurse let out a big sigh of relief. “Thanks,” she told the orderly. “That was getting intense.”

  “No problem,” he said with a grin.

  The two walked off together, down a hallway, and Lucy remembered the errand that had brought her to Heritage House. She was turning toward the reception desk when she spotted a tiny, white-haired woman sitting in one of the couches beneath the over-size chandelier that seemed to be a required fixture in all nursing homes. The woman smiled at her and beckoned.

  “You’re from the newspaper, aren’t you?” she asked when Lucy approached.

  “I am,” admitted Lucy.

  “I saw you at the birthday party.”

  “That was quite a do,” said Lucy.

  “Sit down. Take a load off,” invited the woman, patting the sofa.

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, perching beside her. “I’m Lucy Stone.”

  “I’m Dottie Pickett, but I don’t want to see my name in the paper. What I’m going to tell you is strictly off the record, agreed?”

  Amused, Lucy nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “Madge didn’t die a natural death,” she said, whispering. “They gave her morphine. I saw it.”

  “Really?” Lucy knew that morphine was often administered to terminal patients to ease their deaths.

  “They didn’t tell that to the daughter, did they?” Dottie nodded. “It’s a conspiracy, they’re killing us off. They do it when there’s no family to protect us.”

  Lucy saw an opening here. “So Madge really died alone?”

  “That’s the only way they can do it. If the daughter was here, she’d never have allowed it, would she?”

  “I suppose not,” said Lucy. “Was her daughter here a lot? I know Madge wasn’t well.”

  “She visited more than some, I’ll give her that,” she replied in a grudging tone.

  “Was she here last Friday?” asked Lucy.

  “We always have fish on Friday,” said Dottie with a big sigh. “I don’t like fish.”

  “Was the daughter, Izzy, with Madge last Friday, the day you had fish?”

  Dottie looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap. “Friday. Friday is fish day. My mother used to cook fish on Friday and the house would stink until Sunday.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like fish.”

  Lucy figured she’d gotten all the information she was going to get from Dottie. “I don’t like it much, either,” she said, smiling and standing up. “It’s been nice talking with you.”

  “Don’t forget.” Dottie raised a crooked finger. “Everything I told you is off the record.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Lucy, noticing with annoyance that the receptionist had left her post. She went up to the desk, intending to wait, but when five and then ten minutes passed, and there was no sign of her, she gave up. She’d have to do this another time, she decided, aware that Ted would be wondering where she was.

  As she expected, Ted didn’t mince words when she walked through the door, setting the little bell jangling. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “And I haven’t seen any copy yet.”

  “It’s coming,” she said, wondering what the fuss was all about so early in the weekly news cycle. “I’ve got the finance committee meeting for you. I just need to touch it up a bit.”

  “Selectmen’s meeting?” Ted sounded like a high school principal who’d found cigarettes in the girls’ room.

  “I didn’t make it,” admitted Lucy. “But I’ve got the agenda and I’ll make a few calls.”

  “Roger Wilcox called, wondering if you were sick,” said Ted, brandishing his evidence.

  “Nothing happens in the summer, anyway,” said Lucy.

  “No, nothing much, except Horace Winters is resigning and there’s going to be a special election.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy, biting her tongue so she wouldn’t say the word she wanted to say. “I’ll get right on it.”

  She couldn’t get Horace himself on the phone—he was out fishing—but his wife explained that his doctor advised him to avoid stress and being on the board of selectmen was certainly stressful and, no, he didn’t have a heart condition, but his blood pressure was a bit elevated at his last checkup so they decided it was better to be safe than sorry. And they really would like to get away to Florida for at least part of the winter so they decided resigning was really the sensible thing and this way the town could just add the selectmen’s race to the November ballot. There was plenty of time to get the word out and hopefully there would be some good candidates, though, of course, she thought Horace had done a spectacular job. That was the problem really, he took it all too seriously . . .

  When Mrs. Winters finally paused for breath, Lucy thanked her for her time and ended the call. She was just about to dial Roger Wilcox, the board chairman, when her phone rang. Much to her surprise, it was Bob, explaining that the wills she had requested were ready.

  “Thanks, Bob, I’m kind of busy today,” said Lucy, wondering how she was going to break the news to Bill that she’d taken the bull by the horns and requested the wills.

  “These are just the drafts,” Bob reminded her. “So the sooner you and Bill look them over, the sooner I can prepare the final copies.”

  “Right,” said Lucy. “I’ll stop in on my way home.”

  “Great,” agreed Bob. “I’m here ’til six, anyway.”

  Lucy did a quick edit of the fin-com story and sent it to Ted, hoping it would keep him busy while she worked on the Horace Winters story. She had just finished that when Phyllis dropped a thick stack of press releases for the “Things to Do” listings, but it was already almost five by then, so she decided to take them home and work on them over the weekend.

  “I’ve got an appointment,” she said, shutting down her computer and stuffing the press releases into her bag. “I’ll have these ready by Monday morning.”


  Phyllis raised a skeptical eyebrow, but Ted didn’t object. “Okay. I want you to stop by at the town playground tomorrow morning and get some photos . . .” Ted was rummaging through the papers spread out on his desk. “There’s a clown or something.”

  “Will do,” said Lucy. Snapping pictures of local children at the town-funded rec program was a standard summer assignment that she enjoyed, even if it meant working on Saturday.

  “Not a clown. It’s Family Fun Day with ice cream. Donated by Brown Cow Dairy.”

  “Even better,” said Lucy, deciding she’d better leave before he came up with something else for her to do.

  It was only a few blocks to Bob’s office but she drove. It was on her way home and she knew he was going to leave soon, and she didn’t want to miss him. As soon as she stepped through the door, she realized something was wrong. Bob was standing at his desk, phone in hand, an anxious expression on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, fearing something had happened to Rachel, or their son, Richie.

  “That was Rachel,” he said, replacing the handset in its cradle. “She’s worried because VV was supposed to come to Miss Tilley’s for afternoon tea and she hasn’t shown up yet. She called Pine Point and, according to Willis, VV left hours ago.”

  Lucy had that sinking feeling that accompanied a premonition of trouble. “Who was driving?” she asked.

  “Izzy.”

  It hit Lucy like a punch. “Oh, no.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  How to begin, wondered Lucy. “It’s complicated. Her mother is, make that was, VV’s child, given up for adoption. She died last night. Izzy’s really upset, I saw her at Heritage House this morning. And I think—I don’t know for sure—but I think Izzy killed Van and Maxine and attacked Juliette. Juliette’s in the hospital.”

  Bob’s chin dropped. “You’re telling me that Izzy’s mother was really VV’s child?”

  “Yes. By her first husband. She gave her up for adoption.”

  Bob was no dummy; he saw the implications immediately. “And if she got rid of all the legitimate heirs, Izzy thinks she’ll inherit VV’s money . . .”