Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery)

by Meier, Leslie

  Florence and Bob had their heads together on the opposite side of the table and were chuckling about something; Florence had her hand on Bob’s arm.

  “She’s just friendly,” Lucy replied. “Very friendly.”

  “I’m keeping an eye on her,” Rachel whispered, turning to welcome another late comer. “Hi, Al,” she said, waving at a middle-aged man who was wearing overalls under a plaid shirt-jacket and was carrying a toolbox. “Everybody, this is Al Roberts. He’s going to be building our set.”

  Al set down his toolbox and gave everyone a wave. “I’ve got some drawings,” he said, pulling some folded papers out of his pocket.

  “Great,” Rachel enthused. “Let’s take a look at ’em.”

  Al took off his watch cap, revealing a very bald head, and came over to the table, where he spread out the drawings, then pushed his black-framed glasses back up his nose. “The way I see it,” he began, “is three flats with different motifs. One is kind of domestic, suggesting paneling and a fireplace, for the interior scenes. Another flat will suggest Scrooge’s office, and the third will be a sort of street scene, with a window that opens, for the scene when Scrooge discovers it’s Christmas morning. The idea is that we leave them all in place for the entire show but highlight the appropriate backdrop with lighting.”

  “This is brilliant,” Rachel said. “I love that it’s so economical.”

  “You can add props as needed. . . .” Al suggested. “You know, a high desk and a stool for Bob Cratchit, a street lamp for the exterior scenes, a kitchen table for the Cratchit household, a four-poster for Scrooge . . .” He paused. “The only problem is, I’m not much of an artist. I can build the flats but somebody else has got to do the painting.”

  “Oh, I can do that,” Florence volunteered.

  “Florence is an artist, you know,” Bob said, beaming at her. “She illustrates children’s books.”

  “Great,” Rachel said with a curt nod.

  “Well, that’s fine then.” Al rose and gathered up his papers. “I’ll get started tomorrow.” He turned to Rachel. “Is there any problem getting in here? Do I need a key or anything?”

  “It’s usually open,” she said. “If you’re getting the lumber delivered, I think you better set that up with the church office. There are other activities here. The Ladies Aid probably wouldn’t want their meeting interrupted.”

  “They might have tightened things up,” Bob suggested. “After the fire, I mean.”

  The group of actors seated around the table all nodded gravely, and there were murmurs of “terrible” and “shocking.”

  “People are far too casual about safety,” Marge offered. “My Barney’s always telling me that folks don’t lock their doors—they even leave the keys in the car and then they wonder how it got stolen.”

  “Locking the door wouldn’t have helped Jake Marlowe,” Lucy said.

  “If you ask me, he got no more than what he deserved,” Al said.

  “What do you mean?” Florence demanded in a confrontational tone.

  “Just that what goes around comes around,” Al said. “He treated a lot of people badly, plus he didn’t even take care of his own place, that’s all. It’s not exactly a secret.”

  Florence nodded. “I know, you’re right. I told my uncle, that house was a fire waiting to happen.”

  “Your uncle?” Lucy asked.

  “Ben Scribner. He’s my uncle.” There was a sort of embarrassed silence and Florence hurried to fill it. “He’s scared witless, you know. He won’t touch the mail. He’s terrified he’ll be next.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was,” Al said under his breath, as he put his hat on and pulled his gloves out of his pocket. “Like I said, I’ll start on the scenery tomorrow—that’s if everything works out with the delivery.” He raised his gloves in a salute and turned to go.

  “Okay, everyone,” Rachel said, clapping her hands. “Back to work. Act one, scene three. Your line, Bob.”

  Chapter Five

  “So how was the rehearsal?” Bill asked on Saturday morning.

  Lucy was sitting at the round golden oak table in her kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee in front of her, looking out the window. It wasn’t an inspiring view on this cloudy morning. The trees were bare and the ground muddy from melting snow. A bright red male cardinal and a couple of chickadees were pecking hopefully at the empty bird feeder, and she made a mental note to fill it.

  “It was just a read-through but it went really well. Bob is really talented; he’s going to be a great Scrooge. And the guy who’s playing Marley’s ghost is a real hoot. He moans and wails: ‘Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business.’ When he gets those chains rattling he’s going to be really terrifying.”

  “So this is going to be a PG performance, too scary for Patrick,” Bill said, filling his mug.

  “What’s too scary for Patrick?” Sara asked, shuffling across the kitchen floor in her fuzzy slippers and opening the fridge.

  “I was just saying that the actor playing Marley’s ghost is awfully good,” Lucy explained. “And believe me, nothing has changed in the fridge since yesterday, so grab a yogurt and shut the door.”

  “Why don’t you get the good yogurt?” Sara complained, reaching for the orange juice. “The stuff you buy is full of chemicals.”

  “It’s light—it’s only got ninety calories,” Lucy said.

  “You should buy the Greek kind. It’s natural.”

  “It costs twice as much,” Lucy said.

  Sara slumped down in the chair opposite Lucy’s and stared at her glass of juice. Bill pulled the frying pan out of the cupboard, making a clatter, and she covered her ears with her hands. “Do you have to make such a racket?”

  Just then Zoe came thumping down the stairs in her boots. “Where’s my French book?” she demanded in a loud voice. “Who took my French book?”

  “It’s where you left it, stupid,” Sara growled. “And what do you need it for, anyway? It’s Saturday, moron. There’s no school, and why are you yelling?”

  “Don’t call me stupid,” Zoe snarled. “I’ve got a study group meeting to work on a project for French class—Christmas in France—and I wasn’t yelling.”

  “I think it’s in the family room, on the coffee table. And, yes, Zoe, you were yelling. And, Sara, there’s no need to be insulting.” Lucy narrowed her eyes, remembering that when she went to bed last night Sara was still out. “Do you have a hangover?” she asked suspiciously.

  “No!” Sara was outraged. “Why do you think that?”

  “Just because you’re awfully sensitive this morning.” Lucy paused, watching as Bill started frying himself a couple of eggs. “You’re under age—you shouldn’t be drinking.”

  “I wasn’t.” Sara wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue at Zoe, who was stuffing her French book into her book bag.

  Lucy turned her attention to her youngest. “Do you want some breakfast?”

  “No. We’re meeting at the doughnut shop,” she replied, hearing a beep from outside and grabbing her parka. “Gotta go. See you later.”

  “I wish she’d eat breakfast,” Lucy sighed, making sure the door was shut.

  “I wish she’d go away,” Sara muttered.

  “What do you mean by that?” Bill demanded, sitting down at the table and glaring at Sara.

  “Oh, nothing. She’s just so annoying. So juvenile.”

  Lucy’s and Bill’s eyes met for a moment, then Bill dug into his breakfast, poking an egg with his fork and making the bright yellow yolk run out onto his toast. He popped a big piece into his mouth.

  “Are you buying free range eggs, Mom?” Sara asked. “You should, you know. Those chicken farms are cruel. The hens are kept cooped up in cages, and they never get outside to act like chickens.”

  “I buy what’s on sale,” Lucy said. “Which reminds me, Bill. There’s an opening on the FinCom now that Marlowe’s no longer with us, and Pam was saying she thinks you would b
e the right person to fill it.”

  Bill swallowed. “How exactly did a discussion about eggs lead you to the FinCom vacancy?”

  “It’s obvious,” Lucy said, shrugging. “I was thinking about the price of eggs and how expensive things are these days, and I was doing some research yesterday about town employees losing their homes because their hours have been cut by the FinCom. . . .”

  “Yeah, rents are really crazy,” Sara volunteered. “They’ve gone sky high.”

  Lucy and Bill both stared at her. “Rents?” they asked in chorus.

  “What do you know about rents?” Bill demanded.

  “Are you planning to move out?” Lucy asked.

  “Well, sure,” Sara admitted. “Of course I want to move out.”

  “You do?” Lucy asked.

  “Why?” asked Bill.

  “Because . . . I’m in college. I don’t want to be living with my parents. I want to be independent.”

  “I know, it’s tough,” Lucy agreed. “But tuition is so high, we can’t afford room and board, too. That’s why Winchester is perfect. It’s right here in town. And they gave you a good deal with that local student scholarship.”

  “Being a townie is like being in high school,” Sara complained. “If I went in with some friends and got a job, a part-time job, I could afford an apartment. At least I thought I could. But the rents have really gone up. Amy and I looked at a place yesterday but it was over seven hundred dollars a month. And it was a dump! The bathroom was all moldy and the kitchen was really icky.”

  “I don’t want you getting a job,” Bill said. “Your grades will suffer.”

  “Most of the businesses around here are laying people off,” Lucy added.

  “I know,” Sara admitted. “I stopped in at Fern’s Famous Fudge the other day to see if I could get my old job back, but Dora said she was sorry but she doesn’t need any help.”

  “Jobs are getting scarcer than hen’s teeth,” Lucy said.

  “Now you’re back to chickens,” Bill said, wiping his plate with his last bit of toast.

  “So what about the FinCom?” Lucy asked, pressing the issue.

  “I’ll think about it,” Bill conceded.

  “I think they need somebody like you. Right now they’re tied. Pam and Frankie think town services are important, but the other two, the men, are budget cutters.”

  “What do you mean, somebody like me? Do you think I’ll automatically join the tax-and-spend faction that wants to run the town into bankruptcy?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t vote to cut things, would you?” Sara demanded. “Not when so many people are suffering.”

  “Those needy people have to pay taxes, too,” Bill replied. “What’s the good of, say, keeping town hall open forty hours a week if it means people can’t afford to pay their taxes?”

  “But those cuts mean a lot of town employees can’t keep their homes,” Lucy said. “That’s not good for the town’s economy, either.”

  “Yeah!” Sara chimed in, glaring at her father. “The one percent is getting rich and the ninety-nine percent are fighting over the scraps, trying to survive.”

  Bill raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “I’m just saying being on the FinCom is a big responsibility, and if I do it I’m going to make up my own mind. It’s a balancing act—I’m very aware of that—and I won’t go in with a preconceived agenda.”

  Lucy was stuffing plates in the dishwasher. “Well, what’s the point of doing it if you’re not going to change things?”

  “Yeah, Dad. Mom’s right.”

  Bill grabbed his jacket off the hook and stared at them, as if he was about to say something. Apparently thinking better of it, he jammed his hat on his head and went out the door, letting it slam behind him.

  “I wish you wouldn’t upset your father like that,” Lucy said, shutting the dishwasher.

  “Me?” Sara’s voice rose in pitch. “He’s not mad at me. He’s mad at you.” She got up, leaving her empty juice glass on the table. “But don’t give up, Mom. Seth says we’ve got to fight for our rights.”

  Then she was climbing the stairs to her room and Lucy picked up the glass and put it in the dishwasher. “I’m not your maid,” she muttered, thinking, and not for the first time, that there ought to be a labor union for mothers.

  In fact, that’s what she said to Pam, when she met her later that morning. The two had agreed to spend the day selling ads in the show program to local businesses. Lucy hadn’t sold her quota yet and was eager to get it done.

  “A labor union for mothers, that’s a really good idea,” Pam said.

  “We’d work to code. We’d have defined duties. No picking up after husbands and children. We’d demand they empty their pockets before putting clothes in the wash. . . .”

  “And unroll their socks,” Pam added.

  “And if they didn’t, we’d fine them,” Lucy suggested.

  “I like that idea,” Pam said, smiling.

  “You don’t think I’m serious,” Lucy said.

  “Oh, I think you’re serious, all right. But I don’t think this idea will fly.”

  “It’s a good idea, though,” Lucy said, as they went into the liquor store where the clerk, Cliff Sandstrom, greeted them with a smile.

  After asking about his family, Pam produced the program for last year’s show, open to the full page ad Wine and Dine had taken out then. “The rates are the same—fifty dollars for a full page—and if you throw in another ten, which will go to the Angel Fund, you’ll get a little angel printed in the corner.”

  Cliff seemed doubtful. “Angel Fund?”

  “That’s for Angie Cunningham. She lives here in town. She’s got juvenile polycystic kidney disease and her family’s having a rough time coping with medical expenses.”

  “Oh, right. I know Lexie. She said her hours have been cut.”

  “She doesn’t work enough hours to get health insurance now.”

  “Doesn’t she get COBRA?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but she has to pay double what she’s used to.”

  Cliff looked thoughtful. “That’s tough,” he said. “Look, I’ll have to cut down the ad. I can only afford a quarter page this year.” He opened the cash drawer and pulled out a couple of bills. “And here’s five for the little girl. I wish I could do more.”

  “Every little bit helps,” Lucy said. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve got a little girl Angie’s age,” Cliff said. “I’d go crazy if anything happened to her.”

  “I know how you feel,” Pam said, writing out a receipt. “Thanks again.”

  The two friends worked their way along the street, but the story was the same everywhere. People wished they could do more, but this year they had to cut back. When Pam and Lucy reached the end of the street Lucy had satisfied her hundred dollar ad quota but had only raised twenty dollars for the Angel Fund. Next up, on the other side, was Downeast Mortgage.

  “I don’t know if Elsie will even let us talk to Scribner,” Lucy said, as they crossed the street. “She’s a bit of a pit bull.”

  “With lipstick?” Pam asked mischievously.

  “And eye shadow, too.”

  But when they stepped inside the mortgage company’s office, they found Elsie’s desk empty. Apparently even Scribner didn’t expect her to work on Saturday—or he was too cheap to pay overtime. He was there, however, working at his desk and keeping an eye on the reception area through the open door.

  “What do you want?” he asked in a brusque tone, without looking up.

  “Good morning,” Lucy said in a cheery voice.

  “Season’s greetings,” Pam added.

  “It’s not a good morning and I don’t observe the season,” Scribner said, making a note on the sheaf of papers he was studying. “And I don’t have time to waste.”

  “We won’t take much of your time,” Lucy said, stepping into the doorway, but not daring to go further without an invitation to enter his office.

  “And we
’re very sorry about your loss,” Pam added, joining her.

  “Me, too, and now I’ve got twice as much work to do.” He furrowed his bristly, untamed brows and glared at them through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Now, for the second time, what brings you here?”

  “We’re from the Community Players,” Lucy began. “They’re putting on A Christmas Carol this year—I’m actually playing Mrs. Cratchit—and we’re selling ads in the show program. For fifty dollars . . .”

  Scribner turned a page. “Not interested,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “This year is a little different,” Pam said, taking a step forward. “The show is a fund-raiser for Angie Cunningham. She’s a little girl who lives here in town and has polycystic kidney disease. Her family is struggling with high medical expenses. It’s very difficult in this economy—”

  “What business is that of mine?” Scribner demanded.

  “Well, they’re your neighbors,” Lucy said, also taking a baby step forward and standing next to Pam. “They live here in town. And they’re customers of yours. Surely it’s in your interest to help them.”

  Scribner folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “My interest is charging interest—that’s what I do.” He laughed. “And I pay plenty in taxes, most of which goes to so-called entitlements.” He spit out the last word, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “What about Medicaid? And there’s that children’s health program, CHIP or SHIP or something. They should apply for that.”

  “I don’t know the details,” Lucy confessed.

  “Those programs are worthy efforts, but they don’t cover everything,” Pam said. “And there are strict eligibility requirements.”

  “And so there should be!” Scribner exclaimed, smacking his fist down hard on his desk. “People have to take some responsibility for themselves, don’t they? There are far too many freeloaders! Do you know half of the population doesn’t even pay income tax? The government actually pays them! Earned Income Credit! How is that right?”

  “There’s a certain minimum people need to survive,” Lucy said. “People who qualify for the Earned Income Credit make very little money indeed.”