by Leslie Meier
“Looks like we dodged a bullet this time,” said Bill, grinning wryly and whistling for Libby.
“We were lucky,” said Lucy as they proceeded down the driveway and up the road to Prudence Path to check on their neighbors.
It was still early and only a few people were out, clearing away storm debris. Toby and Molly’s house was unscathed, but a few others weren’t so lucky. Shingles had been ripped off Scratch and Willie Westwood’s roof, and a tree had fallen on Fred Stanton’s garage. Fred was standing in his driveway, studying the situation.
“Much damage?” asked Bill.
“Not that I can see,” said Fred. “I’ll know more when I get the tree off. The garage is dry inside, so I guess the roof held up okay.”
“That’s lucky,” said Lucy. “They’re predicting more rain.”
“Hardly seems possible,” said Fred.
“You going to try and move that tree today?” asked Bill.
“No. I think I’ll leave it for now. I don’t want to risk causing more damage.”
“That’s smart,” agreed Bill. “Give me a call if you need a hand.”
“I’ve got my boys,” said Fred, referring to his teenage sons Preston and Tommy. “Thanks anyway.”
The sky was brightening, and it seemed as if the sun might peek through the clouds as Bill and Lucy walked back to Red Top Road and onto the bridge. Everything was gleaming with wetness, the grass was dotted with droplets of water, the leaves on the trees were bright green against the dark trunks, and puddles in the road were watery mirrors. Libby trotted ahead, stopping only when she reached the end of the pavement. She turned and looked at them with a puzzled expression on her face, as if to ask what happened to the bridge.
Looking at the destruction, Lucy suddenly felt weak in the knees. “We could have been swept away with the bridge,” she said, squeezing Bill’s hand and watching the muddy water roll by.
“You shouldn’t have risked it,” said Bill, swallowing hard.
“I know that now,” said Lucy, watching Ike Stoughton approaching on the other side, waving his arm. Like everybody these days, he was wearing a rain jacket and rubber boots.
“Hey!” he yelled when he reached the edge of the road. “I’m sure glad to see you! We’re cut off over here. No phone, no power, no bridge. Can’t go the other way ’cause a tree is down.”
“What can we do to help?” yelled Bill. “Do you need anything?”
“No, we’ve got plenty of food and water, but if you’d call the phone and power for me, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Will do,” said Bill.
“How’s your wife?” yelled Lucy.
“Just fine,” he answered, nodding and smiling.
Lucy doubted that Miriam was truly fine; she suspected the woman was seriously ill but had rallied enough to hide her condition from her husband. She also wondered why Stoughton didn’t have a cell phone, which had the advantage of working when the electric and phone lines were down. “You should get a cell phone,” she yelled.
“Invention of the Devil,” he yelled back, grinning, then threw up his hands, indicating the destruction around them: the dangling strip of asphalt that hung over the edge of the riverbank, the barren pilings, the broken branches that lay everywhere. “Makes you wonder if the man upstairs is sending us a message. First the fire and now this. All because of that witch.”
Just then, a bolt of lightning flashed, an enormous thunderclap shook the earth under their feet, and the sky opened in a tremendous downpour.
Lucy and Bill turned and dashed for the relative safety of the woods that edged the road. Pausing to catch their breath, Bill noticed Stoughton was still standing in the middle of the road, completely exposed to a possible lightning strike.
“What the hell!” exclaimed Bill, waving at him to get under cover of the trees. Stoughton, however, ignored him, remaining in place and bowing his head in prayer. “He must be nuts,” he said, taking Lucy’s hand and starting back to the house. “And how crazy is it not to have a cell phone?”
Walking beside her husband, Lucy had figured it out. By refusing to allow cell phones, he was able to limit the ways in which family members could communicate with the outside world. She was willing to bet that phone time was strictly limited in the Stoughton household. There were no long gossipy chats with friends for his wife, no flirtatious conversations for Abby and her brothers, nothing at all that would undermine his authority as head of the house.
Chapter Ten
When she left home for work an hour or so later, Lucy couldn’t erase the image of Ike Stoughton praying in the midst of the downpour as lightning flashed around him. Was he doing a Moses imitation? Tempting fate? Testing his faith? Showing off? And then there was always the possibility he was simply stupid—she’d certainly written enough obituaries about people who had behaved foolishly. Every spring, it seemed, some ice fisherman misjudged the thickness of the melting ice and plunged through. And then there were the maniacs who had to see the surf when a hurricane was brewing and were caught in a wave and swept away. And she would never forget the guy who lit up a cigarette while filling his lawn mower with gasoline, with predictably horrible results.
But Stoughton didn’t seem stupid. He was a talented businessman with a solid reputation and a considerable amount of clout in county politics. Lucy was familiar with his stands on local issues, such as resisting regionalization and opposing the installation of solar panels on the roof of the county courthouse. She always maintained journalistic impartiality even when she disagreed, which she usually did. But now that he had moved his family into the 1799 homestead, she would have to deal with him as a neighbor as well as a newsmaker. She wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, especially considering his treatment of his wife and daughter.
Also troubling was his antipathy toward Diana and witchcraft. As she’d gotten to know Diana better, she’d come to like and respect her, even though she had her doubts about witchcraft. She suspected Ike might have been behind the hate mail Diana had received, and she wondered how far he would go. Was it possible that he, perhaps with his sons, had captured and burned Malebranche?
As she followed the familiar route to town, taking note of the storm damage as she drove, she admitted she had no evidence that Ike was violent. But she knew that domestic abuse often escalates, beginning with verbal abuse and controlling behavior and ending in the emergency room. She remembered the words of a nurse she had interviewed for a story. “It crosses all socioeconomic categories,” she’d said. “It’s not just poor people or a certain ethnic group—it’s everybody. I’ve seen doctor’s wives strangled until they passed out, fishermen’s girlfriends with broken bones, cops’ kids covered with welts. Even a grandma denied her meds because her bank-teller daughter cashed her Social Security checks to play the slots. Anybody can be an abuser, absolutely anybody.”
As Lucy parked her car in the driest part of the parking lot that she could find, she suspected that Ike Stoughton was a domestic tyrant who kept his wife and daughter living in fear. It wasn’t just the fact that they weren’t allowed to see the doctor that caused her suspicion; it was the terrified expression on Miriam’s face when Lucy suggested it. But why, she wondered, had Abby reacted so strongly, even dropping a mug of tea? Hadn’t the girl been begging her parents to let her see a dermatologist?
“You made it,” exclaimed Phyllis when Lucy arrived in a gust of wind and rain that sent fallen leaves scuttling across the damp wood-plank floor. The lights were on but occasionally flickered.
“I think it’s dying down,” said Lucy. “The power company’s got trucks out. When did the lights come back on?”
“They were working when I got here, about an hour ago,” said Phyllis. “But they’re still out at my house—at least they were when I left.”
“Mine too,” said Lucy as there was another flicker. “I wonder if we should risk using the computers.”
“Ted said no. The power company warned they might have to cut u
s off in order to repair the lines farther along.”
Lucy nodded, hanging up her jacket. “Did he leave any instructions for me?”
“Said you might as well get out and about, talk to people and get their stories, take some ROPs.”
ROPs, as Lucy knew, meant human-interest photos to scatter through the rest of the paper. She sighed, put her jacket back on, and shuffled toward the door in her clunky boots. “If I were a swearing woman, I’d swear,” she said. “By golly I would.”
Lucy figured she’d start by walking up and down Main Street, taking a few pictures and hopefully meeting somebody. The problem was that everybody seemed to be staying home. Main Street was deserted; the shops were closed. Nothing was happening except rain. At the hardware store, they had a sign advertising sump pumps and Lucy photographed it. She also took a few snaps of the deserted street; she thought she’d caption it “Plenty of parking.” Down at the harbor, she took the obligatory photo of a family of ducks, paddling along in a neat line, and another of a dinghy awash in rain water and almost submerged. Returning to Main Street, she popped into Jake’s Donut Shack, but there was nobody there except Officer Barney Culpepper, buying donuts and coffee to take back to the police station.
“Let the Pennysaver pay,” she offered, pulling out her wallet. It seemed like a sound investment in relationship building with a prime news source.
“Aw, I can’t do that, Lucy,” drawled Barney. His age and weight were increasing in direct proportion to each other, and his crew cut was liberally sprinkled with gray these days. His utility belt hung low on his hips beneath a bulging belly, but his bulldog expression gave him an impressive air of authority.
“Sure you can,” said Lucy, plunking down a charge card. It looked like a lot of donuts and coffee; she had no idea how much it would all cost. “It’s the least I can do, considering how much you folks do for all of us.”
“It’s been tough,” agreed Barney as Jake took the card and rang up the sale. “I’ve been working straight through since Saturday. I was only able to snatch a couple of hours of shut-eye in a jail cell.” He smiled. “It’s been empty since this rain started. I guess it’s too damn wet for crime.”
“They’re just doing it at home,” said Lucy, signing the slip. “That reminds me—there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”
Barney was ready to go, the bag of donuts in one hand and the carry-carton of coffee in the other. “There’s no new developments in that burning in the woods,” he said. “Not that I know about anyway.”
“Uh, thanks, but that wasn’t what I wanted to ask you about,” she said, holding the door for him. When they were outside, she pulled up her hood and began walking, battling her way against the wind. “It’s about a friend of Sara’s. I think her father is abusing her and her mother.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Barney, striding along, oblivious to the elements in his official foul-weather gear. “Do they have bruises?”
“No. But they sure seem afraid of the father. Even my girls picked up on it.”
“We can’t do anything unless we have some sort of evidence like a fight in progress or injuries. You know how it is.”
“I wondered if there have been any complaints—”
“Now, Lucy, you know I can’t tell you anything like that….”
“Just for my own personal peace of mind, that’s all. I’m wondering if I should allow my girls to spend time over there.” Lucy had known Barney for a long time, ever since they’d been members of the Cub Scout Pack Committee.
“Well, in that case. Who is it?”
“Ike Stoughton. It’s a bad situation—the family is marooned since the bridge is out, and the road is blocked by a fallen tree.”
He let out a big sigh that shook his jowls. “We can only do so much, Lucy. You know that.”
They were almost at the police station and time was running out. “What about Stoughton? Any restraining orders, calls to the house, anything at all?”
Barney shook his head. “Not that I know of, but they just moved into town a coupla weeks ago, right?” He stopped and indicated the police station with a jerk of his head. “You comin’ in?”
“No. I’m heading over to the cottage hospital,” she said.
“Thanks for the coffee,” said Barney, turning up the path that led to the door.
“Enjoy it,” said Lucy, consoling herself with the thought that even if she hadn’t gotten any leads from him today, she’d made a long-term investment that would pay off down the road. At least she hoped so.
She needed the car to get to the hospital, and then she planned to check on the bridge repairs, after which she could stop at home for lunch. Hot soup seemed like a good idea. She was soaked through and beginning to shiver by the time she got back to the car. She cranked up the heater and switched the radio to a news station just in time for the weather report. It wasn’t good; the system that was delivering the wind and rain had stalled over the region. Then the newscaster announced that homeowners intending to file insurance claims for water damage were in for a big disappointment unless they had purchased flood insurance, since their regular homeowner’s policies didn’t cover flooding.
There was definitely a story there, thought Lucy, thinking of poor Peter Symonds and his flooded house. With no flood insurance, he was going to take a big loss, and Lucy was sure he wasn’t the only one. The unusual rain had sent water into places that had never flooded before, even exceeding the official computer models.
Arriving at the cottage hospital, she found the parking lot had become a lake dotted with a few cars and trucks that looked like scattered islands. She wondered why they hadn’t been moved before the water rose so high, then remembered that staff members had probably been too busy to notice until it was too late. She lowered the car window and snapped a few photos, then drove back along the road until she found a parking space some distance from the door. With the lot flooded, new arrivals had sought higher ground, and cars were parked at odd angles wherever they could fit. When she stepped out into the downpour, she felt the ground go squishy under her feet, and as she slogged along on the asphalt, she hoped she wouldn’t return to find her car stuck in mud.
When she arrived at the emergency room, she found it surprisingly empty. “Where is everybody?” she asked the woman behind the reception desk.
“It was a madhouse last night, but it’s quieted right down today,” she said, looking up from her magazine. “We’ve had a few rescue workers in with injuries; that’s about it. I can get you right in.”
“Oh, I’m not sick. I’m Lucy Stone, with the Pennysaver newspaper,” said Lucy, pulling out her rain-spotted notebook. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
The woman looked skeptical. “What kind of questions?”
“Well, for starters, what kind of injuries did these rescue workers have?” asked Lucy.
“One guy slipped and fell off a ladder; another jammed his hand in the machinery on a bucket truck, stuff like that.”
“Are they still here?” she asked. “Could I talk to them?”
She shook her head. “They were treated and released.”
“What about the power?” asked Lucy, noting the rather dim lighting. “Are you on generators?”
“Yeah, we lost power yesterday.”
“How long can you run on generators?”
“You know, Lucy, I think you should really talk to Doctor Ryder. He’s the one in charge. He’s a lot better informed than I am. I just get their names and insurance cards.”
“Can you page him for me?”
“Sure. Take a seat.”
When Lucy clomped over to the waiting area, it occurred to her that even the cutest polka-dot rain boots can get tiresome when you wear them for three days straight. And whoever made this so-called rain parka, she thought as she draped it over a chair to dry, certainly hadn’t designed it for serious rain. A spring shower, maybe, but not the steady, drenching downpour they’d been having,
the kind of rain that made you wonder where it could all be coming from.
She’d just finished arranging the parka and had taken a seat when Doc Ryder came striding through the swinging doors that led to the treatment area. “Lucy! I’ve been wondering when our inquiring reporter would show up.”
Doc Ryder had been the town’s only doctor when Lucy and Bill first moved to Tinker’s Cove, a genuine general practitioner who set broken limbs, delivered babies, stitched up cuts, and diagnosed everything from impetigo to sciatica. As the town grew, he was joined by several others, including specialists and a fancy new family practice and a women’s health center, but Lucy had stuck with Doc Ryder and his old-fashioned approach.
“So I’m inevitable, like death and taxes?” she asked.
“Rain’s getting you down?” He sighed and took the seat next to her. “You’re not the only one.”
“So tell me all about it,” said Lucy, adopting a fake German accent and propping her pad on her knee. “Have you been depressed lately?”
He chuckled and gave her a quick summary of the situation at the hospital, then slapped his hands on his knees and got up. “Back to the mines,” he said. “I’m catching up on my paperwork.”
Lucy looked up. “Oh, one more thing before you go, and this is off the record.”
“Uh-oh,” said Doc Ryder, giving her a wary look through his half-glasses.
“I’m worried about a neighbor. She collapsed yesterday, fainted or something, and it turns out she’s been ill for some time, but she won’t seek medical care, says prayer is the only medicine her husband allows.”
“What are her symptoms?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Listlessness for one, loss of appetite, a general grayish pallor. I suspect weight loss, since her clothes seemed too big for her.”
Doc Ryder spread out his hands and shook his head. “Could be anything, from simple food poisoning to stomach cancer. I can’t attempt a diagnosis without examining her.”
