by Leslie Meier
Lucy reached out and patted her hand. “I’m sure it wasn’t entirely your fault. Pru had a way of upsetting people.”
“Oh, I was upset. I’ve struggled with this for years, you know, and I’ve struggled to forgive her. Sometimes I even thought I was making progress. I’d see her and Calvin sitting together in church and I’d say to myself, well she’s the one he chose. He married her, not me, and that’s the way it is. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it, even though it was very painful to see the way she treated him. But he chose her and they were married and marriage is forever in the sight of the Lord and that’s all there is to it. So I prayed and prayed for acceptance and to make my life worthy in other ways. Without Calvin. And one day when I was praying it came to me, a revelation, that I should raise chickens. I should forget about pining for Calvin who I could never have and raise chickens instead. So I did. I took all the love I had for Calvin and poured it out into my chickens. My beautiful chickens.”
Bitsy gestured with her hand and oddly enough, Lucy saw that at least half a dozen of the birds had gathered around Bitsy, as if listening to every word.
“They’re amazing chickens,” said Lucy.
“Oh, thank you, Lucy. I certainly think so.” Bitsy patted the nearest chicken on the head, and stroked its feathery breast. “People tend to underrate chickens, but I’ve found that my birds are quite intelligent and, well, empathetic. They seem to sense when I’m troubled and try to comfort me. They’ll lay extra big eggs, for example. And that clucking noise they make is so lovely. I’ve tape recorded it and play it when I have trouble sleeping.”
“What a good idea,” said Lucy, utterly convinced that Bitsy had lost her marbles. Every single one.
“I’ve always fed my chickens extremely well. Not just feed from the store but cracked grains for variety and lots of greens. They love them and it makes the egg yolks so yellow, and keeps the birds healthy, too. Some friends told me I should enter them in the county fair, so a few years ago, I did. And one of my birds won second place. And I really tried to be happy with second place even though Prudence’s chicken won first place. I know envy is wrong, we’re not supposed to covet our neighbor’s chickens and I didn’t. I honestly didn’t because Pru’s chickens are mean and don’t have the same loving personalities that my chickens have. And I’d rather have a sensitive second-place chicken than a mean first-place chicken that pecks at all the other chickens.”
“Absolutely right,” agreed Lucy, observing the little group of chickens that were clustered around Bitsy. A couple were even sitting in her lap.
“Then last year, one of my hens produced a clutch of chicks, and one of them was really eyecatching right from the beginning. She was a Buff Orpington, and that’s a handsome breed to start with. They’re kind of strawberry blond. Very pretty chickies. And this one was really kind of a Miss America of chickens. Just perfect. Everything you want in a Buff Orpington. Breasty and fluffy and pretty, with clear, bright eyes and a curvaceous beak and a coquettish little comb. So pretty. I named her Mildred, after my cousin who was a Miss Maine runner-up in 1982.”
Lucy looked around the hen house, trying to identify Mildred, but in the growing gloom all the chickens looked pretty much the same to her.
“Now I know that saying about not counting your chickens before they’re hatched and I believe it, I mean, there’s a lot that can happen to a chicken. Dogs. Skunks. Raccoons. Disease. But I must say that Mildred seemed to thrive. She was a delight, and I was beginning to hope that she’d win the blue ribbon at the fair. I was just hoping, you understand, and taking good care of her. And praying. Not that she would win, because that would be wrong, but only that she’d have a happy, fulfilling life.”
“Which one is Mildred?” asked Lucy.
“Bitsy’s face whitened and she pressed her lips together. “She’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Lucy.
“Prudence stole her. I didn’t notice she was gone right away, because I was out all morning getting names on the petition about those nudists and then I stayed in town for the noontime prayer service. I had some nice salad greens for the hens—Dot Kirwan has the produce man at the market save them for me—so I went out to give them their treat and that’s when I discovered Mildred was gone. I went over to my neighbors to ask if she’d seen anyone and she described Prudence’s car, and then I remembered she left the petition drive when I got there and she wasn’t at noontime prayer either. So I went over to her house and challenged her and she didn’t even bother to deny it. She just looked at me in that mean way she has and asked if I’d like to have some lunch. She’d just cooked up some chicken fricassee, she said, and I knew she was referring to Mildred.”
“Oh, dear.”
“That’s when I saw red. Everything went red. And I got in my truck and she was standing there in front of me, smacking her lips over the chicken hash and I just put my foot down on the pedal and the truck vroomed ahead and she was there and then she wasn’t.”
Lucy didn’t know what to say so she simply reached out her hand to pat Bitsy’s knee.
“Will you take me to the police station now, Lucy?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” said Bitsy.
Chapter Twenty-four
Bitsy seemed perfectly at peace sitting in the passenger seat but Lucy’s mind was a whirl of ifs, buts and maybes. Maybe Bitsy didn’t really kill Pru, maybe it had all been an insane delusion. Perhaps she’d wished so hard for it to happen that she’d actually convinced herself she’d done it. Some sort of guilt process. Lucy didn’t know much about psychology but she knew even the soundest mind could play tricks. And she wasn’t convinced that Bitsy was actually sane. Maybe she could plead insanity and go away for a nice, long rest somewhere.
It was amazing the stuff a good lawyer could come up with. She’d have to make sure Bitsy had a lawyer. Somebody who’d really fight for her. Who knows, maybe she could avoid a trial altogether by pleading guilty to a reduced charge of manslaughter? Or maybe she could get off entirely by arguing that it was justifiable homicide, considering the callous way Pru had murdered Mildred. It was just one of many mean things Pru had done and there were plenty of people in town who could testify to similar incidents. Bitsy was popular, too, and could certainly produce plenty of character witnesses.
“Try not to worry,” said Lucy. “I’m sure things will work out.”
“I’m not worried,” said Bitsy. “I know that whatever happens the good Lord will take care of me. I’m truly sorry for what I did and I know he’ll forgive me and that’s all that really matters.”
“Right,” said Lucy, wondering if Bitsy had actually ever seen the inside of the women’s wing at the county jail and if she knew what was in store for here there. Lucy had visited on several occasions and she’d found the experience difficult. There was something terrifying about the way everyone was treated so impersonally. “Processed” they called it, whether you were being admitted as an inmate or a visitor. Though it was infinitely better to be processed as a visitor because that only involved a quick pat down, a walk through a scanner and a handbag search instead of a humiliating full-body examination. That and the fact that even though all the doors closed with a final-sounding clang, you knew you’d be able to leave.
Lucy felt absolutely horrible when they reached the police station and she turned into the parking lot. She hoped Bitsy wouldn’t have to spend time in the county jail—maybe they would release her on bail or even her own personal recognizance. She was certainly no threat to the community and wasn’t a flight risk, either. On the contrary, she seemed eager to confess and receive her punishment.
“Thank you, Lucy,” she said, her face radiant in the glow of the street lamp. “I’m sorry for any distress I caused you and I want you to know that today you were truly God’s instrument.”
Somehow that didn’t make Lucy feel any better as she accompanied Bitsy into the police station lobby. A uni
formed officer she didn’t recognize was sitting behind a counter, protected by a thick sheet of Plexiglas with a small opening that allowed a visitor to present documents or identification. The only access from the lobby to the offices beyond was through a forbidding, metal-plated door. It had always irritated Lucy, who wondered exactly what threat the Tinker’s Cove police department believed required such an extreme level of security.
“What can I do for you ladies?” asked the officer, speaking through a microphone. His voice echoed.
“I’m here to make a confession,” whispered Bitsy. “I murdered Prudence Pratt.”
“You’ll have to speak up,” said the officer, looking like a goldfish in a tank.
“I murdered Prudence Pratt,” yelled Bitsy. “I want to turn myself in.”
“Sure you do,” said the officer, looking extremely doubtful. “Tell you what, we’re kind of busy right now with some holiday merry-makers, so why don’t you go on home and come back tomorrow?”
“I’m a murderer,” said Bitsy, indignantly. “I’m not leaving until I talk to somebody. I should be locked up.”
“If you say so,” replied the officer, yawning. “You can take a seat on the bench there but I can’t guarantee anybody will get to you anytime soon.”
“That’s all right,” said Bitsy. “We’ll wait.”
Once they sat down, however, Bitsy’s resolve seemed to crumple. She began crying quietly, carrying on a whispered, prayerful dialog with God. Lucy felt excluded and useless, unable to offer comfort, but didn’t want to leave Bitsy all alone, either. She shifted restlessly on her chair, worried that Bill and the kids would be missing her. She checked the clock on the wall and discovered with a shock that it was almost eight o’clock. Poor Bill must be frantic with worry. She wanted to get out of there and rejoin her family.
Suddenly ashamed of her selfishness, she patted Bitsy’s hand.
“Do you have someone to take care of your chickens? Do you want me to do it?”
“That’s sweet of you, Lucy, but Ellie Sykes said she’d do it.”
“Ellie? When did you talk to Ellie?”
“It was the last thing I did before I went out to the coop and untied you.” Bitsy paused. “I know I apologized before, but I’m so sorry I hit you on the head like that. There was no excuse for it, truly. I don’t know what I was thinking. And tying you up like that. It must have been horribly uncomfortable. And the hatchet. I can understand why you were so frightened, though of course I only intended to use it to cut the ropes. I never meant to harm you.”
Lucy happened to glance at the officer, noticing his surprised expression. He was talking on the phone.
“I think the detective is free to talk to you now,” he said. “Come on through.”
A buzzer sounded and Lucy was able to open the heavy metal door leading to the bowels of the station. The officer met them on the other side.
“One at a time,” he said, pointing to Lucy. “You can wait outside.”
Then, before she could even wish Bitsy luck, the door slammed in her face.
Lucy hesitated a minute, standing uncertainly in the lobby, then decided to make her escape while she could. If the cops wanted to talk to her they knew where she lived. She was going to salvage what she could of the holiday.
A pungent smell assailed her when she opened the car doors—the potatoes. Sitting in the hot car at Bitsy’s, not to mention the long wait at the police station, hadn’t done them a bit of good. There was nothing to do but throw them out, all twenty pounds. Lucy drove the car over to the dumpster and chucked them in, then opened all the doors and windows to let the car air out. While she waited she called home on her cell phone. There was no answer—everyone must still be at the picnic.
The party was still going strong when Lucy arrived at the field overlooking the harbor. A local rock group was in the bandstand playing oldies. Some people were dancing, especially the kids, while others sat on lawn chairs and blankets listening to the music. Lucy spotted Bill chatting with Rachel and Bob, but before she could join them she was confronted by Sue.
“Lucy Stone, you promised me twenty pounds of potato salad. What happened?”
“I got tied up, solving the murder,” said Lucy. “It was Bitsy.”
“Right,” laughed Sue. “Tell me another.”
“Later,” said Lucy, spotting Bill coming towards her. “I’ve got some explaining to do to my husband.”
She ran up to Bill and threw her arms around him, practically knocking him off his feet.
“Whoa, Lucy,” he said. “What’s this all about.”
“I’m safe. Everything’s okay.”
Bill looked at her sideways. “Of course you are.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t realize I was gone?”
“I thought you were helping out in the kitchen.”
Lucy was indignant. “I was held captive in a chicken coop.”
Bill was starting to speak when a huge explosion seemed to rock the very earth they were standing on. It was followed by shrieking rockets that soared high into the sky before exploding into streams of shimmering light. Shock quickly turned to delight and everyone cheered as dazzling chrysanthemum bursts of red and yellow filled the sky. They oohed and aahed as showers of whirling pinwheels danced high above their heads. The explosions came faster and faster, filling the sky with one beautiful display after another. It was the best fireworks show anyone had ever seen. It was incredible and it went on and on until Lucy began to wonder if it would ever stop.
“I didn’t think they were going to have fireworks this year,” said Bill, when the last rocket fizzled out and the sky was once again dark.
“They weren’t,” said Lucy, wondering exactly who had set them off and what the repercussions would be.
It wouldn’t take long—police sirens could already be heard.
Chapter Twenty-five
The phone was ringing when they got home and Lucy was pretty sure she knew who it was. Her hunch was confirmed when she picked up the receiver.
“This is Lieutenant Horowitz,” began the deep voice at the other end of the line. “I understand you were the victim of an assault earlier today and I’d like to talk to you about it as soon as possible, preferably tonight.”
“Uh, sure,” began Lucy, aware of her civic duty.
“I can be there in ten minutes.”
“Uh, I don’t think so,” said Lucy, having second thoughts. She didn’t want to add to Bitsy’s woes. “I don’t want to be interviewed.”
“Bitsy Howell has confessed to assaulting you in her chicken coop.”
“There must be some misunderstanding,” said Lucy, firmly. “There was no assault.”
“Ms. Howell claims she hit you on the head with a feed bucket rendering you unconscious. She then proceeded to tie you up and left you unattended for several hours, according to her statement, given willingly and freely and under no duress whatso-ever.”
“I can’t imagine why she’s saying that.”
“Mrs. Stone, I’d like to remind you that it is your duty as a citizen to report a crime to the proper authorities.”
“I understand that.”
“If you refuse to press charges we will be unable to prosecute this case. Have you thought of that?”
“Actually, I have.”
“Am I to understand that you are refusing to press charges?”
“That’s right,” said Lucy, smiling as she hung up the receiver.
The phone rang again almost immediately. It was Ted.
“Lucy, can you come back to the paper and write a first-hand account of how you solved the murder? And don’t forget to include Bitsy’s attack in the chicken house.”
Lucy considered. She wanted to get back to work, but there was no way she was going to go public about the episode in the chicken house. She knew all too well what it was like to be the subject of media scrutiny and she wasn’t going to inflict that on Bitsy. She didn’t want to add fuel to the prosecutor
’s case, either. She wouldn’t lie under oath, if it came to that, but she wasn’t going to volunteer damaging information. Pru Pratt had caused enough grief in Tinker’s Cove and Lucy was determined to end it.
“I’ll come back, but I won’t write about Bitsy.”
There was a long pause.
“That’s okay,” said Ted, “There’s plenty of other stuff you can work on like the big fireworks explosion on Calvin’s boat.”
“The fireworks were from Calvin’s boat?”
“Yeah,” said Ted, chuckling. “He was desperate to get them to Massachusetts before the holiday so he and Wesley left yesterday as soon as the funeral was over. They only got a few miles before the bilge pump conked out and the engine was flooded. The current was pretty strong and pushed them back towards the cove, which was the last thing they wanted, of course. They were trying to solder a connection in the pump when they set off the fireworks by mistake. It was a heck of a show.”
“People were saying it was the best they’d ever seen,” said Lucy.
“Well, it looks as if they wiped out the purple-spotted lichen. The boat was just off the point when the fireworks started going off. Calvin and Wesley are in big trouble. The state environmental police are pressing charges and I’ll bet Franke and the APTC are going to sue them, too.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. A lot of people are probably going to be grateful to Calvin and Wesley.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if the lichen’s gone, there’s no reason the town can’t have fireworks next year.”
“That’s right,” said Ted.
“It gets better,” said Lucy. “If the Quisset Point colony is gone, that means the only remaining lichen is at Blueberry Pond, and that means APTC will be making sure the naturists don’t disturb it. At this rate, Calvin and Wesley will probably be named grand marshalls of the parade next year.”
“I wouldn’t count on that, Lucy. Don’t forget Wesley is still facing assault charges and Calvin has confessed to killing his wife.”
