Mother's Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Poor Heather,” said Renee. “I can’t imagine losing my mom.”

  The girls fell silent. Finally Sassie spoke. “We have to do something.”

  “Like what?” asked Sara.

  “You know, what people do after somebody dies,” Sassie continued, looking at Lucy. “What do people do?”

  “Take the family food or flowers. Call and offer to help. Some people send cards, but I usually write a note. A note is nicer and more personal….”

  “We could text,” said Sara.

  “You could,” agreed Lucy, reminded once again that she was hopelessly out of date, and that for this generation, text messages had replaced handwritten notes.

  Sara pulled her cell phone from her bathrobe pocket. “What shall we say?”

  “Do you always carry your cell phone?” asked Lucy.

  All three looked at her. “Yeah,” they said in unison.

  “Oh,” said Lucy.

  “Oh, look. I’ve already got a text. It’s from Emily. She says we shouldn’t talk to Ashley, because her mom is a murderer.”

  The other girls were checking their phones. “I got one from Karen that says the same thing.”

  “Crystal wants to get Ashley in the bathroom and teach her a lesson,” reported Renee.

  “Hold on,” said Lucy, stunned at this display of adolescent venom. “Number one, Ashley’s mom hasn’t even been arrested, and even if she is charged with the shooting, she’s innocent until convicted by a jury, right? And two, even if she did lose her mind and kill Heather’s mom, which we don’t know, Ashley certainly had nothing to do with it. She isn’t responsible for her mother. She’s as much a victim as Heather is. Imagine what she’s going through. How would you feel if your mother was suspected of shooting someone?”

  “Well,” said Zoe, indignantly, poking her head through the door, “I’d want my Mother’s Day card back.”

  Lucy wasn’t too excited about having to work on Sunday afternoon, especially since it was another beautiful May day and, inspired by the newspaper, she wanted to work in the garden. The sprouting vegetables needed to be thinned, weeds were popping up, and she wanted to bed out some impatiens. The last thing she wanted to do was to relive the whole horrible scene, but when she passed Lenny’s office and saw his ancient Volvo parked outside, she knew her duty and pulled into the parking space beside it.

  Interviewing people who’d lost loved ones was the hardest part of her job, and the first few times she’d had to do it, she’d felt like a ghoul. She was shocked to discover, however, that oftentimes the survivors didn’t see it that way at all. They generally appreciated having an opportunity to talk about the loved one they had lost and to let others know what a wonderful person the deceased was. Whether it was a soldier killed in Iraq, a teen killed in a highway accident, or an aged Alzheimer’s patient who had wandered off and died of exposure, she almost always found people who appreciated their unique qualities and would miss them. She reminded herself of that as she knocked on the locked door.

  Lenny answered himself, opening the door a few inches and peeking cautiously through the crack.

  Lucy hoped Lenny wasn’t going to be the exception that proved the rule, the survivor who couldn’t bear to talk about his loss. “I’m so sorry,” she began.

  “Come on in,” he said, opening the door wide to admit her. “I want you to know I really appreciate what you and your daughter did yesterday.” He paused, blinking back tears. “Nobody could have saved her. That’s what they told me.”

  “That was Molly, my daughter-in-law. We wish it had turned out differently.”

  “She didn’t have a chance,” said Lenny, shaking his head. He wore his hair long, in a big curly mop, which made him look a bit clownish, but today his grief was palpable.

  “I’m supposed to write an obituary,” said Lucy. “But if this isn’t a good time…”

  “No, it’s fine. I just came in to check my calendar so my secretary can reschedule whatever I’ve got in the next couple of weeks.” He sat down on one of the dated Swedish modern chairs that filled his waiting room, along with a colorful abstract rug and a number of thriving green plants, which she suspected were Tina’s contribution to the decor.

  Lucy sat, too, and pulled out her notebook. “Let’s start with basics. Full name, parents, birthplace, stuff like that.”

  He sighed. “Florence Christina Kramer. Her parents, sadly, are still alive. Alice and Stanley. They still live in Forest Hills, in Queens. That’s where she was born. She went to Pace University. That’s where we met. She majored in political science. She loved politics. She worked on a number of campaigns, always for liberal Democrats. I guess that’s no surprise.”

  Lucy smiled. “How did you two liberal Democrats end up in Maine?”

  Lenny was picking up steam, carried along on a wave of comforting memories, finding that the past offered a soothing refuge from the painful present. “It was the eighties. The city wasn’t a good place to live. I’d just graduated from NYU Law, and we decided to move to the country. We’d vacationed here a couple of times and really liked it. So I took the Maine bar exam as well as the New York, and when I passed Maine but failed New York—that’s off the record, by the way—the decision was made for us.”

  “Was it a good move?”

  “We never regretted it,” said Lenny. “Though I have to admit, the irony of Tina leaving a crime-ridden city like New York and getting shot here, in quiet Tinker’s Cove, isn’t lost on me.”

  “Me, either,” said Lucy. “It’s a tragedy.”

  He nodded. “For me, and especially for Heather. She’s absolutely devastated. I don’t know what she’s going to do without her mom. Tina was a terrific mother. I guess you know that. She was always involved. Class mother, president of the PTA. She started the Boosters Club at the high school to raise money for sports equipment and uniforms. She was working on this after-prom party to keep the kids safe. If she saw a need, she tried to fill it.”

  “Yes, she did,” said Lucy. “Just last week I interviewed her and Bar about the after-prom party.” She paused, weighing her next question, and finally decided to go for it. “Do you think Bar shot her?”

  “I’m not going there,” said Lenny. “The police are investigating, and I am confident they will find the perpetrator. I also have great faith in our legal system—it’s the best in the world—and it’s up to the court to decide guilt or innocence.”

  This sounded like a talking point; Lucy wanted to get back to the personal. “What were her favorite things? What did Tina like to do?”

  “Tina loved to travel, she loved to cook, and she loved to organize.” He stopped and gave a rueful little smile. “She was an organizer, that’s for sure. I know a lot of people found her pushy and overbearing. She was a New Yorker. That’s the way she was. But she was always thinking of others. She had a heart of gold, believe me.”

  His voice was cracking, and Lucy felt it was time to wrap up the interview.

  “Thank you so much for talking with me. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

  Lenny’s hands tightened on his knees, and he stared out the window, looking into the distance. “Only this,” he said. “Tina didn’t deserve this. She deserved to see her daughter graduate from college, get married, have kids. Tina deserved to be a grandmother. That’s what was taken from her, and it’s not right.”

  “No,” said Lucy, reaching out and covering his hand with her own. “No, it’s not.”

  As she left the office, Lucy was surprised to see Heather arrive in her shiny new Prius, holding her cell phone to her ear as she drove. She was so involved in her conversation, in fact, that she didn’t notice Lucy, who had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit. Lucy wanted to express her condolences to the girl, and to warn her that even though she was undoubtedly upset, she needed to pay attention when she drove, so she stood by the rear of the car, waiting for her to get out.

  The door opened and Heather jumped out, the phone sti
ll pressed to her ear, but when she saw Lucy, she lowered her head and clicked the phone shut. “Hi, Mrs. Stone,” she said, her voice flat.

  “I’m so sorry about your mom,” said Lucy, wondering who Heather had been talking to. She knew all sorts of messages were flying around and hoped it had been someone supportive.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Heather, pulling a tissue out of her jeans pocket and dabbing her eyes.

  “We’re all in shock,” said Lucy, her heart going out to the poor child. It took all her willpower not to burst into tears herself. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Heather must be going through. “I was just interviewing your father for the obituary,” she said, speaking softly. “If there’s anything you want to add…”

  Heather shook her head. “Just say she was the best mom in the world.”

  Lucy blinked back tears as she scribbled down the quote. “I know how hard it is to lose someone you love. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Just give me a call,” she said, giving her card to Heather. “And by the way, be extra careful when you drive, okay?”

  Heather raised her face and met Lucy’s gaze with red-rimmed eyes. She sniffled and quivered. “Thank you so much,” she said. Then she turned and, walking stiffly, as if the very act pained her, went into the office.

  Lucy watched, thinking of her own girls and how anxious she was for them to grow into responsible, caring adults. What was going to happen to Heather without her mother to guide her? Who would help her with her prom dress? Who would tell her she’d look good in bangs? Nobody would ever love her as much as her mother had. Lucy was sure of that. Sure, mother-daughter relationships were complex and difficult, especially during the teen years, but as much as girls sometimes resented their mothers’ interference in their lives, these resentments usually faded, and they came to appreciate their mothers. But for Heather and Tina, that rapprochement would never be possible, thought Lucy, reaching for her car door. It was just too sad.

  Chapter Ten

  “A loving wife and mother, Tina will be remembered for her zest for life,” wrote Lucy. “Politics was her passion, and she was the longtime chairman of the Democratic town committee and enjoyed attending both state and national conventions. In 2004 she had the honor of nominating John Kerry to be the party’s candidate for president at the Democratic State Convention. She was particularly devoted to protecting a woman’s right to choose and was a board member of the NARAL Pro-Choice America. She was an enthusiastic sportswoman who enjoyed playing golf and tennis; she served several terms on both the town’s recreation and golf committees. She was also a past president of the Tinker’s Cove Parent Teacher Association and, until her death, cochair of the After-Prom Party Committee. She was a member of the American Association of University Women (AAUW), Emily’s List, and the National Organization for Women (NOW) and served on the editorial board of Ms. magazine.”

  Finally finishing the list of surviving relatives and noting that “in lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Save Darfur Coalition,” she sat back in her chair and sighed.

  “Just writing about Tina makes me tired,” she told Phyllis, who had come in to man the phones. The murder had already been picked up by the national media, and calls for information were coming in from everybody, from Inside Edition to Tennis Magazine.

  “Well, I’m just happy I come from a regular family,” said Phyllis.

  Lucy considered Phyllis’s cousin Elfrida, who’d gone through several husbands and produced six children before her thirty-fifth birthday, hardly regular, but she didn’t say so. “Me, too,” she said. “I don’t understand what makes women like her tick.”

  “They’re overachievers,” said Phyllis in the same tone she might have used for sex perverts, drunk drivers, or animal abusers.

  “The sad part was that she was pushing her daughter to be an overachiever, too,” said Lucy. “It’s fine to have high expectations, but you have to let your kids know that it’s not a tragedy if they don’t get the highest score on every test.”

  “These kids today are under so much pressure,” agreed Phyllis. “Why Elfrida had to go talk to little Charlie’s teacher because he doesn’t know his multiplication tables is beyond me. He’s only in fifth grade, for pete’s sake!”

  “Maybe she should get some flash cards. They worked great for my kids,” said Lucy, who remembered drilling her children on their tables much earlier than fifth grade.

  “Oh, right, like Elfrida has time to sit around holding up flash cards.”

  “Charlie could do them by himself. Just have him set the timer for five or ten minutes every day, maybe before his favorite TV show,” suggested Lucy, sharing a tactic she had used with Toby. “No flash cards, no MTV, or whatever they watch now.”

  “Well, I told her that she’d be smarter to concentrate on teaching him his addition and subtraction. That comes up more in life, anyway.”

  “Good idea,” said Lucy, somewhat dismayed about poor Charlie’s future prospects. She was also wondering if she dared leave and go home, since she’d finished the obituary and really wanted to work in the garden, when Ted arrived, yanking the door open and setting the little bell to jangling as he bustled in.

  “Bar’s been arrested,” he declared, tossing his Red Sox cap on the coatrack, followed by his jacket. “She’s already in the county lockup, awaiting arraignment first thing tomorrow.”

  “That was fast,” said Lucy.

  “What? No bail?” asked Phyllis.

  “No way. It’s a capital crime, and the evidence is damning. Numerous eyewitnesses identified her, her Escalade was spotted leaving the scene of the crime, her gun matches the bullet that killed Tina, and her gloves have gunpowder residue. If there was ever an open-and-shut case, this is it. The DA is not giving an inch on this one.”

  “That’s pretty ironic,” said Lucy. “Bar worked hard to get him elected.”

  “As I recall, she insisted that Democrats are too soft on crime,” observed Phyllis.

  “Well, that came back to bite her, didn’t it?” said Ted. “Look, Lucy, I want you to do a sidebar on moms who kill other moms, killer moms, whatever you can find.”

  Lucy thought of the little radish seedlings that were crowded together in their row, and the tiny, tender lettuce leaves that nobody but she would bother to pick for supper, and sighed. “Okay, boss.”

  She turned to Google and discovered there were plenty of violent moms. There were moms who killed their own kids. There were moms who killed their husbands and boyfriends. There was a Texas mom who wanted her daughter to be a cheerleader so badly that she hired a hit man to create a vacancy on the squad. While lots of moms killed on purpose, there were also careless moms who killed by accident, like the two soccer moms whose SUVs collided, killing a toddler. There were even the killer mom chimpanzees of Senegal, who hunted other primates and ate them.

  But by far the most common killer moms were the ones who killed their own kids, more than a thousand of them in the nineties alone. Psychiatrists who studied the phenomenon concluded that they tended to be young and inexperienced mothers, generally poor or experiencing financial difficulties, who had recently suffered a death or loss. They usually believed they were taking their kids to a better place, or at least getting them out of a bad place, and generally planned to kill themselves, too, although they didn’t always follow through on that part of the plan.

  Lucy found it all very interesting in a morbid way, but none of her research shed much light on Bar’s case. She was not young and inexperienced, she didn’t have any financial difficulties, and she was happily married to her cardiac surgeon husband. The only case that seemed at all similar was the Texas cheerleader murder, but Lucy felt it would be unfair to compare Tina’s murder with that case before all the facts were in.

  “Gee, Ted, I’m not really coming up with much,” she said. “These killer moms generally take it out on their kids.”

  “Or their husbands,” offered Phyllis. “Like that Bob
bitt woman, who cut off his thingy.”

  “Good point,” said Lucy. “All indications seem to confirm that Dr. Barton Hume’s thingy is still intact.”

  Ted was not amused. “Very funny,” he snarled. “What about that Texas cheerleader mom?”

  “I have a problem with that one,” admitted Lucy.

  “What’s the problem?” demanded Ted. “It’s almost exactly the same. Pushy mother, in this case Bar, wants her kid to be valedictorian and kills to destroy the competition.”

  “If that’s the case, why didn’t she kill Heather?” asked Lucy.

  Ted shrugged. “This way she gets rid of her own rival, Tina, and she probably figures that little Heather will be so upset about her mother dying that she’ll crack up.”

  “You’re assuming a lot, Ted. What if Bar’s innocent?” replied Lucy.

  “Or maybe she killed Tina for another reason entirely,” said Phyllis. “Like maybe because she was pro-choice and Bar is pro-life, or because Tina was a Democrat and she’s a Republican, or because her husband is a doctor and Tina’s husband is a malpractice attorney.”

  “That’s brilliant!” exclaimed Ted, beaming at Phyllis.

  Phyllis suddenly became very subdued. “What did I say? You’ve never called me brilliant before.”

  “Well, it’s long overdue,” insisted Ted. “Lucy, maybe you could stop by at the courthouse and see if Lenny Nowak has filed any suits against Dr. Hume.”

  “Sure,” agreed Lucy. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Righto. Meanwhile, see what you can do with that sidebar.”

  “Okay, boss,” muttered Lucy, grudgingly turning back to her keyboard. “You call the shots.”

  “Oh, I hope there’s no more shooting,” said Rachel, who had just come in and caught the tail end of the conversation. “We’ve had quite enough.”

  “There’s never enough,” declared Ted. “Crime sells papers.”

  “You don’t really mean that,” said Rachel, looking shocked.

  “Oh, yes, he does,” said Lucy. “So what brings you to this dank and dark sweatshop on such a beautiful day?”