by Leslie Meier
Bill sighed. “I don’t think there’s going to be much relaxing until they figure out who killed Pru.”
“I feel especially vulnerable without the dog,” fretted Lucy. “With all the new people in town, all those naturists, how do we know one of them isn’t a serial killer or something. We could be next.”
“I don’t think so, Lucy. People who get killed generally get killed for a reason.” He stood up. “You know, from the back, Pru looked an awful lot like Wesley.”
“I’ve noticed that,” admitted Lucy.
“It could have something to do with the poaching. The killer could have mistaken Pru for Wesley.”
Lucy looked out the window to the driveway. “I wonder where Toby is. Shouldn’t he be home by now?”
Bill fingered his car keys. “It’s time to get the girls, anyway. I’ll pick them up. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
Lucy watched as he went out the door. She would have bet the house that he’d detour past the harbor on his way to the camp, just to see if the Carrie Ann was in port.
She shook herself. She wasn’t going to worry, she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions. She was going to make supper. Something wholesome and comforting, that’s what was called for. She began filling a pot with water and reached for a box of shells. If ever there was a night for pasta salad, this was it.
Despite the comforting food, Toby’s absence cast a shadow of tension over the meal. Bill reported that the boat was sitting in its berth but he’d found no sign of Toby. He’d even checked the Bilge, where the fishermen hung out, but nobody there knew his whereabouts. Or if they did, they weren’t telling.
Elizabeth took the news of the deaths coolly. She only considered things that directly affected her as real tragedies, like a late paycheck at the inn or getting her period early or discovering a big, ugly zit on her chin. Those were real disasters.
The younger girls, too, had little sympathy for the neighbor.
“Mrs. Pratt was mean to animals,” said Zoe, spearing a noodle with her fork.
“She mistreated those chickens, you know,” said Sara. “I think poor Kudo was only trying to liberate the chickens from their terrible conditions.”
Lucy’s and Bill’s eyes met across the table.
“We all loved Kudo. . . .”
“Not me,” insisted Elizabeth.
“As I was saying, I understand you want to remember the good things about Kudo, and there were lots of good things . . .”
Elizabeth snorted.
“. . . but to him those chickens were an irresistible combination of fun and food,” said Bill, finishing her sentence.
“Mrs. Pratt may have had her faults, but I think she took pretty good care of her chickens. She was always winning blue ribbons at the fair. She must have known what she was doing.”
“That’s not true!” exclaimed Sara. “You should have seen it. The chickens were in a little tiny space and there was tons of poop and they’d step right in it. It was disgusting! They’d even poop in their water dish.”
“Well, that’s chickens for you,” said Bill.
“They’re not the cleanest, or the brightest creatures on this good earth.”
“That’s no excuse to treat them badly!” exclaimed Sara.
“There were no toys, Mom,” said Zoe. “Chickens can’t read, they can’t watch TV, so what are they supposed to do all day if they don’t have any toys? Poor things. They must have been awfully bored.”
Lucy was beginning to wonder if Zoe was getting the wrong idea about animals at Friends of Animals day camp. “As much as we love our pets, they’re not people, you know. Animals are pretty much happy just being, they don’t need to be entertained.”
“Mrs. Pratt wasn’t just mean to the chickens,” said Sara. “She was mean to her own son.”
Now this was interesting, thought Lucy. “How so?”
“We saw her yelling at him. Telling him he was a piece of . . . well, a lot of bad things. Worthless. Stupid. Lazy.”
“You heard her say these things?” asked Bill.
“She was yelling. We couldn’t help it,” said Sara, self-righteously.
“You wouldn’t have heard if you hadn’t been snooping around,” Lucy reminded her. “Mrs. Pratt didn’t know she was being overheard.”
“Mom, you always say we should be as polite to each other at home as we’d be if we were visiting friends,” said Zoe. “Mrs. Pratt was not polite to Wesley.”
“Maybe he did something very wrong and that’s why she was mad at him,” said Lucy. “Sometimes that happens. Did Wesley yell back at his mother?”
“He did. He yelled some bad words at her and then he got in his truck and drove away very fast.” Sara paused. “That’s when Mrs. Pratt saw us, because we’d been hiding behind the truck.”
“We ran as fast as we could,” said Zoe. “She was chasing us.”
“Let that be a lesson to you not to go trespassing,” said Bill. “Just think what might have happened if you’d got caught.”
“She might have put you in an oven and baked you, like in Hansel and Gretel,” said Elizabeth.
Lucy was about to admonish her when Toby strode into the dining room and sat down at the table, reaching for the salad and piling it onto his plate.
“What is this?” demanded Bill. “No hello, no apologies for being late, you just march in and start eating?”
“Uh, sorry Dad. Great salad, Mom.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy. “What held you up?”
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?” asked Bill.
“You know. Stuff.”
“NO, I DON’T KNOW!” yelled Bill.
“We’re all a little upset,” said Lucy, hoping to lower the emotional temperature in the room. “Did you hear that Mrs. Pratt is dead?”
Toby was busy helping himself to seconds.
“Nah, I didn’t hear that.”
“And Wesley killed Kudo with his truck,” said Sara, her voice trembling.
Toby stopped, holding the serving spoon in midair. “Wes Pratt killed the dog?”
“It was an accident,” said Lucy. “I saw the whole thing.”
Toby’s face had hardened and Lucy could practically hear the gears grinding away in his head as he pushed the food on his plate around with his fork.
“We’d really feel a lot better if we knew what you were doing this afternoon,” said Bill. “Considering your situation and all.”
“What do you think?” Toby’s face was crimson. “That I killed the old bag because of the dog? I didn’t even care about that dog!” He threw down his fork and stood up, scraping his chair noisily on the wooden floor, and left the table.
The rest of the family sat at the table in a heavy silence. From outside they heard the engine in his Jeep roar to life, and the crunch of gravel as he sped down the driveway and took off down Red Top Road.
Chapter Fifteen
“He’s up to something.”
That had been Bill’s final word on the subject, uttered just before he fell asleep. But while Bill slept, the sentence kept repeating in her mind like a mantra. Not soothing like a mantra was supposed to be, but a nagging reminder that these days she hardly seemed to know her son. He was constantly surprising her. She’d always thought he was a peaceable soul and she never would have expected him to get in a fight like he did with Wesley.
As she tossed and turned in bed she told herself that fundamentally he was a good person, she had to believe that. He’d been raised in a caring and loving home, he’d had plenty of advantages. But she had to admit to herself that he hadn’t made the most of them—he’d dropped out of college after two years of miserable grades.
She certainly hadn’t expected that. After all, he’d been one of the best students in his class at Tinker’s Cove High School, ranking in the top ten percent. And he’d gotten a solid fourteen hundred on his SATs. What went wrong when he went to college?
And what was he involved in now?
She agreed with Bill that he was up to something, and she prayed that it wasn’t something that would get him into even more trouble. After all, he was in plenty of trouble already with an upcoming court date. And even if he seemed oblivious to his situation, Lucy was convinced that the police investigating Pru’s death would be taking a long, hard look at Toby.
The thought made her heart race and she got out of bed and went downstairs, checking his room as she passed the door. He wasn’t there, of course. Where was he? It was nearly one in the morning. She went downstairs and peeked out the window, hoping to see his headlights as he turned into the driveway, but there was only darkness.
She paced through the downstair’s rooms, going from window to window. Realizing it was pointless, she poured herself a mug of milk, added a dash of vanilla extract and set it in the microwave to heat, then sat at the kitchen table sipping the warm liquid.
What could she do? Lecturing didn’t work, neither did probing questions. Setting limits, demanding a certain level of behavior if he was to continue living in the house would only backfire because he’d move out. There were plenty of kids in town, living on their own in squalid, substandard housing. Old, worn-out trailers parked in the woods. Rooms above garages, storage sheds. She didn’t like to think what went on in those places: unprotected sex, drug use, binge drinking. No, it was better to have him home, where she could at least keep an eye on him.
She didn’t believe for one minute that he had anything to do with Pru’s death, but she wasn’t sure the police shared her view. They would be looking for a conviction and she knew that the court system was not infallible—thanks to DNA testing they were finding plenty of innocent people who’d been wrongly convicted and sent to jail.
That wasn’t going to happen to Toby, she decided, setting down her empty mug. The best way, the only way she could protect him was by finding the real murderer. And starting first thing tomorrow, that was what she was going to do.
The hot and muggy weather continued the next morning, but that didn’t faze Lucy. She was full of energy when she arrived at the Pennysaver office and eager to start working. Her job at the paper gave her an inside track, after all, and she wanted to find out everything she could about Pru’s murder.
“Good morning,” she sang, greeting Phyllis.
Phyllis, dressed in a dazzling shade of lime green, with eyeshadow to match, raised her finger to her lips in warning, tilting her head towards Ted.
Ted was hunched over his computer, pecking away at the keyboard.
“The Globe wants a firsthand account,” said Phyllis.
“Great!” said Lucy, eagerly. “Anything I can do to help?”
“I’ve got it covered, Lucy,” said Ted. “Phyllis needs help with the obits.”
“Sure, I can do those,” said Lucy, taking the sheaf of papers Phyllis handed her.
She sat down and turned on the computer, turning to Ted. “What’s happening? Any new developments?”
“Still waiting for the ME’s report,” he said.
“So what angle are you taking? Community reaction? Small town stunned? Cantankerous neighbor gets a comeuppance?”
“I’m trying to work here, Lucy.”
“Can I help? Can I make some phone calls for you? Just tell me what you want?”
“I want you to be quiet, okay?”
“Okay,” said Lucy, sulking.
She looked to Phyllis for sympathy, but Phyllis was taking an uncharacteristically serious approach to her work this morning. Weird, thought Lucy. What was going on? The phone rang and she reached for it, but Ted beat her to it. That was odd. Ted hardly ever answered the phone.
Lucy looked over the announcements from the funeral home, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She was listening to Ted’s conversation.
“No comment, sorry. Wish I could help you,” he said, quickly ending the call.
“You were kind of brusque, weren’t you? Who was that?” she asked.
“TV news. They’ve been calling all morning. Too lazy to do their own footwork.”
“TV?”
Phyllis nodded and the phone rang again. This time she grabbed it. “I wish I could help you,” she said, “but we’re very short-staffed. I’m sure you understand.” There was a pause; the voice on the other end was apparently quite persuasive. “I’ll check.”
Phyllis looked at Ted. “It’s ‘Inside Edition,’ Ted. They want to interview you.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped.
“I’ll take it,” he said. “Lucy, be a doll and run over to the Shack for me. I want a coupla plain donuts, get some for you and Phyllis, too.” He picked up the receiver. “Take some money from petty cash.”
Lucy took the five dollar bill Phyllis handed her and walked towards the door, uncomfortably aware that Ted was waiting for her to leave before he started talking. What was going on? Was she paranoid? Or was there some sort of conspiracy to keep her out of the loop?
She was walking down Main Street when she noticed a TV truck, a white van with the call letters of a Portland station painted on its side. It was parked in front of the police station.
There would probably be more, she decided, as she walked along. Big city media seemed to find crime in small towns irresistible, maybe they thought it went to prove that violence wasn’t confined to urban areas. And thanks to the naturists, the media were already familiar with the town.
At Jake’s Donut Shack she picked up a rumpled copy of the Boston Globe to read while she waited in line to place her order. The story, written by contributing writer Edward J. Stillings, was on the New England region section front. Good for Ted, she thought.
But when she started reading she could hardly believe what he’d written.
“Investigators are looking into the possibility that Pratt’s strained relationship with her Red Top Road neighbors, may have played a part in her death. There had been disagreement about a dog owned by the Stone family which was apparently killed by Pratt’s son, Wesley. Investigators were also planning to question Toby Stone, 21, who has been charged with assault and battery against Wesley Pratt.”
“Can I help you?” The kid behind the counter was clearly impatient.
“A half-dozen,” she stammered. “Two plain and the rest assorted.”
The kid rolled his eyes. “What do you mean assorted? Do you want cinnamon? Apple? You tell me.”
“Make ’em all plain,” gasped Lucy, feeling rather short of breath.
All she wanted to do was get out of there. She felt as if everyone in the place was looking at her. Suddenly she was the head of a criminal family, like Ma Barker or somebody. She felt like a marked woman.
When the kid handed her the bag of donuts she threw the five dollar bill at him and bolted for the door.
“Hey, lady! Don’t you want your change?”
Lucy didn’t want her change. She wanted to hide under a rock, or pull a paper bag over her head. She dashed across Main Street without looking and jumped back when somebody blasted a horn at her. Looking up, she was dismayed to see it was another TV truck. She waited for it to pass and ran straight for the Pennysaver office.
“I can’t believe you did this!” she yelled at Ted, throwing the bag of donuts at him. “Is it true? Is Toby a suspect?”
Ted looked up from his desk with an expression of terrible sadness.
Lucy swallowed hard and struggled to hold back tears.
He stood up and put his arms around her and she started sobbing. Phyllis grabbed a box of tissues and hurried over.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have any choice,” said Ted.
“Toby’s really in trouble?” she asked, dabbing at her eyes.
“Not just him. They’re looking at lots of people. Even Wesley and Calvin.”
Lucy sniffed. “I guess that should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.” She straightened her shoulders and attempted a smile. “Well, let’s get to work. We’ve got to keep the cops honest, right? Make sure they nail the real killer. Remi
nd the DA that it’s ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ ”
There was an awkward pause.
“Lucy,” Ted finally began, “I think it would be better if you didn’t work on this story.”
Lucy was stunned. “What?”
“I’d like you to help Phyllis with the listings and obits and classified. I’ll handle the reporting.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re too close. How can you possibly remain objective?”
“You’re kicking me off the story? To do obits?”
Ted nodded, and Phyllis put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder. Furious with them both, Lucy shrugged it off.
“Well, no thanks.” She spit out the words. “I quit.”
“Lucy, don’t . . .” began Ted, but Lucy didn’t wait to hear the rest.
She was out of there as fast as her legs could carry her, making sure to give the door a good slam. The little bell jangled furiously, ringing in her ears as she marched down the sidewalk to her car. Her heart was pounding and her hands were trembling as she yanked open the door and sat behind the steering wheel. Automatically she started the car, then sat holding on to the steering wheel for dear life, wondering what on earth she was going to do next.
She could only think of one thing: she was going to find Bill.
It seemed to take forever, but finally she spotted the bell tower on the old schoolhouse poking up through the trees. She was almost there, she only had to cross the bridge and climb the hill and then she would be there. She was signaling, preparing to turn into the drive when she had to slam on the brakes to allow a police cruiser to clear the narrow track that was only wide enough for one vehicle. She studied the officer’s face as he passed, but his expression revealed nothing.
She bounced down the drive, going as fast as she dared, driving right up to the steps of the old schoolhouse. Bill was standing in the doorway, a hammer in his hand.
“Why were the cops here?” she asked, afraid to know the answer.
