Mother's Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Actually, I was hoping I could drag you away for a quick cup of coffee.”

  Lucy cocked her head in Ted’s direction. “Ask Ted.”

  Rachel perched on the chair next to his desk and gave him a big smile. “You don’t mind, do you? You’re such a kind, generous boss. Lucy says so all the time.”

  Lucy and Phyllis watched with amusement.

  “I’m sure you appreciate how a little break would help Lucy work even more brilliantly for you than she already does,” Rachel added.

  “I’m the brilliant one,” said Phyllis. “How about taking me?”

  “Sure,” agreed Rachel. “How about it, Ted?”

  “You can have Lucy for fifteen minutes—on condition that she brings back coffee for Phyllis and me.”

  “Why can’t I go?” protested Phyllis as the phone started ringing again.

  “Because I need you to answer the phone, that’s why.” He turned to Lucy. “Cream and two sugars.”

  Phyllis sighed. “Black with no-cal sweetener for me.”

  “You got it,” said Lucy, jumping up and grabbing her bag.

  When they were outside on the sidewalk, Lucy tilted her head back to feel the sun on her face and took a deep breath, as if she could absorb the beautiful day and take it back inside with her. “So what’s up?” she asked.

  “Bar has asked Bob to defend her,” said Rachel, referring to her lawyer husband.

  “From what I hear, he’s going to have a difficult time. Ted says the prosecutor thinks it’s an open-and-shut case.”

  “I know that’s how it looks,” said Rachel as they walked along Main Street. The stores were mostly closed, and few people were around, except for a cluster of TV trucks around the police station. “But Bob says Bar insists she’s innocent, that she was home taking a nap when the shooting occurred.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm that?”

  “Uh, no. She was alone. She didn’t get any phone calls or anything.”

  “What about Ashley?”

  “She was at Heather’s house. They were taking practice SAT tests.”

  “What a shame,” said Lucy.

  “I know. Bar could go to jail for life.”

  Lucy pulled open the door to Jake’s Donut Shack. “That wasn’t what I meant. I was thinking it was a shame for those two young things to be cooped up inside with SAT books on a gorgeous May weekend. Those girls ought to have been outside.”

  Stepping inside the coffee shop, Lucy and Rachel had their choice of tables. The place was nearly empty, except for a table full of out-of-town reporters. It seemed odd to Lucy, who usually went there in the morning, when every table was full, all the stools at the counter were occupied, and there was a line of people waiting for takeout. They decided to sit at the counter, as far away from the reporters as they could.

  “Two coffees for here and two to go,” Lucy told Jake.

  “Don’t usually see you in here on Sunday,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel.

  “Big story,” said Lucy. “Ted’s putting out a special edition.”

  “I thought I’d pick up more business,” complained Jake. “Town’s full of TV people.”

  “Give ’em time. They’ll eventually find you,” said Rachel.

  “They’re reporters, after all. They’ve all got inquiring minds,” added Lucy.

  “I’m afraid they’ve got closed minds,” said Rachel. “Listen.”

  “I pity her lawyer, whatsisname, Bill Goodman,” one beefy fellow in a CNN T-shirt was saying. “How’s he gonna defend her?”

  “Insanity?” offered a pert young blonde.

  The group at the table laughed. “Never works,” declared a guy with glasses, wearing a TruTV jacket. “Good thing this isn’t Texas. There they’d already be getting the death chamber ready.”

  Rachel’s face had gone very white, and Lucy wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “They’re just gossiping,” she said. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They didn’t even get Bob’s name right.”

  “Fools,” sputtered Jake, setting the mugs in front of them. “What do they know?”

  “If only they were fools,” said Rachel, lifting her mug and taking a sip. “The problem is that they’re right. There’s a whole lot of evidence against Bar. Bob’s afraid they’ll convict her in the media before she ever goes to trial.”

  “He could get a change of venue,” suggested Lucy.

  “Where? Antarctica? The Amazon? China?”

  “China’s out. We already had a call from the New China News Agency.”

  “Well,” said Rachel, “at least I can count on you and Ted to keep open minds and to remember that Bar is innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Well, you can count on me,” said Lucy. “I’m not so sure about Ted. The police press conference made a strong impression on him. He said they were very confident they would get a conviction.”

  “Bob thinks Bar is telling the truth,” said Rachel. “He’s convinced that she’s innocent, and that isn’t usually the case. He’s naturally pretty skeptical of most of his criminal clients, but not this time. He says his gut feeling is that she’s been framed.” She paused. “He wants me to tell you that he’s put you on the visitor list in case you want to interview Bar.”

  “I might just do that,” said Lucy, glancing at her watch and getting up. “I’ve gotta go.” She picked up the bag Jake had ready for her and started digging in her purse for her wallet. “You know,” she said thoughtfully. “Ted’s been awfully bossy lately, more than usual. And Pam had a meeting or something last Thursday. Remember?”

  Rachel’s face was a mask. “So?”

  “Well, Bob is Ted’s lawyer. I wonder if he’s mentioned anything to you? Like maybe about selling the paper, something like that?”

  “Bob hasn’t said anything to me,” said Rachel, quickly picking up the check. “My treat.”

  “Trying to buy influence,” laughed Lucy.

  “If I could, I would,” said Rachel.

  “Take heart,” said Lucy. “I was there. I saw the shooter. The police asked me for a description. And even as I was saying she looked like Bar, I felt that wasn’t right.” Lucy paused, thinking. “Well, that’s exactly it, I think. She did look like Bar, but I didn’t think it really was Bar, and I still don’t.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Back home, Lucy was still thinking about her talk with Rachel when she took a glass of wine into the family room and sat down for a little breather before making supper. She leaned back on a pillow, took a sip of chardonnay, and flipped on the TV to catch the evening news. What she saw made her sit bolt upright: A grainy black-and-white extreme close-up of Bar’s face, with the words Killer Mom, filled the screen, accompanied by strident, attention-grabbing music. Thoroughly disgusted, she flipped through the channels, only to see the same theme repeated by all the networks that weren’t showing baseball games or golf matches. Bar was described as a “murderous mom,” “killer mom from hell,” and “maniac mom.” One station even went so far as to show a computer simulation of the shooting, complete with a blond-haired shooter resembling Bar running through the woods.

  Even worse, details of the competitive rivalry between the two families were reported, and footage of Ashley and Heather, which looked as if it had come from the local station’s sports department, was aired. They showed Heather skating in a recent competition and Ashley serving a tennis ball with a terrific thwack. Turning off the TV in disgust, Lucy wondered how many times the networks would replay that footage in the coming months, as the investigation continued and the case went to trial. Not that the trial mattered—it seemed that Bar had already been judged guilty and convicted of murder by the media. Even if Bob managed to pull off a miracle and she was found innocent, most people would believe she got off, and that the justice system had failed.

  Sighing, she got up and went into the kitchen to start supper. Sunday supper was always a bit of a problem since the family tended to scatter on Su
nday afternoons and she never knew when everybody would be home. Bill had recently taken up golf and spent most Sunday afternoons on the new town course. Sara usually spent Sunday afternoons at the Friends of Animals rehabilitation center, helping to care for sick or injured animals, and May was an especially busy time, with lots of orphaned wild babies. Now that Zoe was older, she was enjoying more freedom to roam on her bicycle with her friends. Lucy usually kept it simple, opting for soup and sandwiches so everyone could help themselves, and tonight she’d planned clam chowder and tuna sandwiches. She had set the chowder on low heat and was mixing up the tuna salad, but her mind was elsewhere.

  Sure, she muttered to herself, labeling Bar a killer mom sold newspapers, it caught TV viewers’ attention, but it wasn’t fair to Bar. She had as much right to a fair trial as anybody else, and as Rachel had said, it was going to be difficult to find jurors who hadn’t already formed some opinion about her guilt or innocence. But as bad as this was for Bar, Lucy thought it was much worse for Heather and Ashley. They were trapped in this story like flies on sticky yellow flypaper; there was no way they could escape and go back to being regular, anonymous kids. She finished chopping up the celery and mixed it into the bowl with tuna and mayonnaise, then covered the bowl with wrap and set it in the refrigerator. That done, she wondered if there was any way she could turn this juggernaut of publicity in another direction. Write an editorial reminding everybody that Bar was innocent until proven guilty? Do a story on the negative effects of notoriety on teenage girls? Interview Bar and write the story from her point of view? Ted would never go for it, but even if he did, it would reach only a small audience of Pennysaver subscribers. No, she thought, the only way to change the dynamic would be to investigate the shooting herself and hopefully turn up some new evidence. She might, she admitted to herself, just find out that everybody was right and Bar was indeed guilty. But there was a chance that Bar was telling the truth when she claimed she was innocent. If that was true, it meant that a dangerous killer was still at large.

  Ted wanted her to check out the courthouse for possible malpractice suits against Bart Hume; that would be a good place to start. And while she was at the county complex, she could also pay a visit to Bar in the county jail.

  Lucy was stirring the chowder when Zoe came in. “Hi, Mom,” she said. “Where is everybody?”

  “Your father’s playing golf, and Sara is at the shelter. She’s going to be late, because somebody brought in five raccoon babies just as they were closing.”

  “I bet they’re cute,” said Zoe.

  “I’m sure they are,” said Lucy, remembering the spring they’d shared their attic with a rambunctious raccoon family. Those little masked faces had been adorable but very destructive and, being nocturnal, extremely noisy at night, when the thumps and bumps and snarls over their heads had sounded like a rugby match. It had been a great relief when they’d finally left and Bill was able to seal the attic so the mother couldn’t return next year to raise another litter.

  “Maybe she could bring one home for a pet.”

  “No way!” exclaimed Lucy, who remembered having to wear a face mask and rubber gloves to clean up the mess they’d left. Then, seeing Zoe’s disappointed expression, she softened her voice. “Libby wouldn’t like it very much, I’m afraid.”

  “You know, Mom,” said Zoe, growing serious. “I’ve been worried about Sara.”

  Hearing this, Lucy’s motherly radar switched to red alert. “Why have you been worried?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Well, when I was doing my homework yesterday, my pen ran out of ink, so I went in Sara’s room to find another one. Her backpack was on her desk chair, and I opened it. I know I should have gotten her permission first, but I only needed to write a few words to finish my vocabulary sentences. Anyway, I found all sorts of medicine in there, but she’s not sick, is she?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Lucy. “What kind of medicine?”

  “Mostly diet pills and vitamins and some laxatives. There was something called Ipekicky or something like that.”

  “Ipecac?”

  “That’s it.”

  Lucy was stunned. She couldn’t believe her beautiful, healthy, intelligent Sara was resorting to these extreme measures to lose weight.

  “I learned in health class that those things are bad for you,” added Zoe. “Using stuff like that can give you anorexia or bulimia, and those are bad news.”

  “Have you seen her taking them?” asked Lucy.

  “No, but she’s been real mean lately. Don’t tell her I told, okay?”

  “It’s just between you and me. So, how about some supper?”

  “Great. I’m starving,” said Zoe.

  Once Lucy ladled out some chowder and made a sandwich, she left Zoe to eat her supper and went upstairs. She hurried into Sara’s room and peeked into the backpack, but it was empty, except for a couple of notebooks. She had just finished searching the room, finding nothing, when Zoe called out that Bill was home.

  When Sara came home around seven-thirty, Lucy sat down at the kitchen table with her and drank a cup of decaf. She said it was just to keep her company and chatted with her about her day, but she also wanted to make sure that Sara was eating, without alerting her to the fact that she’d been snooping in her room. She knew that would set off a firestorm. The food went down as Sara chatted about the baby raccoons, describing their antics. Lucy paid special attention to her movements that evening, and there was no sign she was spending a lot of time in the bathroom, but Lucy remained watchful.

  When Lucy drove to work on Monday morning, she was shocked at the number of TV trucks parked on Main Street. A few reporters were even giving reports, looking rather silly standing on little step stools and flanked by umbrella-like light reflectors as they spoke earnestly into the cameras. A few were already in the Pennysaver office, demanding information from Phyllis, who was also trying to answer the phone, which was ringing constantly. “Where can you get coffee? Who’s got the best takeout? What’s the high school principal’s name? What do you know about Bar Hume? Tina Nowak? What do you people do for fun?”

  Arriving behind Lucy, Ted took charge. “This is Maine. We’re New Englanders. We don’t believe in fun,” he declared, shooing them out. “I’d love to help you, but I’ve got a newspaper to put out,” he said, shutting the door and flipping the sign to CLOSED.

  “From now on we’ll have to use the back door,” he told Lucy as he shut the old-fashioned wood blinds on the plate-glass window. “Phyllis, for God’s sake, switch the phone to voice mail. I can’t hear myself think.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” said Lucy.

  “It’s not a good morning,” he replied. “I’ve got to get over to Gilead for the arraignment, the warrant for the town meeting just came in, all seventy-eight pages of it, and I can’t go anywhere without having some network nitwit shoving a microphone in my face.”

  “It’s a regular media circus,” added Phyllis, adjusting her harlequin glasses.

  “Well, it’s a big story,” said Lucy. “Where shall I start?”

  “On the warrant, I guess,” said Ted.

  “The warrant? I thought you wanted me to do research over at the courthouse?”

  “That’s going to have to wait. Town meeting is next week,” he said, speaking faster as he counted the issues off on his fingers. “We’ve got to print the warrant, and we’ve got to provide some budget analysis for the voters. They want a new police station for nine million dollars, for Pete’s sake. Can the town really afford that? And what about the roof on the high school? That thing leaks like a sieve, but will voters go for an override that will raise their taxes? You’ve got to talk to the town manager, the selectmen, get their input. What’s top priority? What can wait?”

  Lucy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The biggest story to hit the town in years had fallen in their laps, and she was stuck writing about the town budget. “Okay,” she said, hoping to negotiate a be
tter deal. “Say I get this done lickety-split. How about I work on the lawsuit research this afternoon?”

  “Sure, sure,” said Ted, reaching for his Windbreaker and pulling the hood over his head and dashing for the back door. “I’ve got to get to Gilead.”

  “Be careful out there,” advised Phyllis, who was a big Hill Street Blues fan.

  Lucy knew Ted was right. The shooting was a sensational attention grabber, but the town meeting’s votes on the budget would impact taxpayers long after Tina and Bar were forgotten. She sat down at her desk, with a sigh, and flipped on the computer, where she found the town warrant waiting for her in her e-mail.

  “Don’t forget you have to format it,” said Phyllis. “You can’t copy and paste directly from e-mail. It comes out all weird.”

  “So it seems,” said Lucy, watching the warrant dissolve into scattered words and phrases on her screen, which she would have to round up with her mouse. “I see a painful case of carpal tunnel syndrome in my future.”

  The peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d had for lunch was just a memory when Lucy finally had the warrant in printable shape. She was just reaching for the phone to call the chairman of the board of selectmen when the police scanner began cackling and all units were ordered to the high school.

  “Something’s up,” she told Phyllis at the same time she was making sure her camera and notebook were in her bag. “Hopefully, it won’t take long, and I’ll be right back.”

  “You go, girl,” said Phyllis. “If you have to call, use my cell number.”

  “Got it.”

  Lucy felt like a member of the French underground as she stuck her head out the back door to check that the coast was clear, then remembered her car was parked on Main Street, right in front of the office. She hurried through the alleyway between the storefronts and dashed for her car, but she wasn’t approached by anyone, and no microphones were shoved in her face. The reason became clear when she arrived at the high school, where trucks with satellite dishes lined the driveway and yellow tape had been strung around the building in an effort to keep reporters from harassing teachers and students.