Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery)

by Meier, Leslie

  “No way!” Bill hoisted the toolbox he was carrying. “Now what exactly do you want me to do?” he asked Rachel.

  “You know how the scenery fell on Florence. I just want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. I don’t want any more accidents, especially during the performance.”

  Bill went up on stage, flipping the lights on, and disappeared behind the partly painted flats. He was only gone a moment or two before he returned. “Looks fine to me,” he said, with a shrug. “It’s been bolted together and there are braces on the side panels that weren’t there before. It’s not going to fall.”

  “Al must have worked on it since the accident,” Lucy said.

  “Yeah,” Bill said. “Those struts weren’t there before, and the sections weren’t bolted together. It’s much safer now.”

  “But it wasn’t safe before?” Lucy asked.

  “It wasn’t finished,” Bill said. “It was a temporary setup.”

  Lucy was thoughtful. “So you’re saying those flats fell because they weren’t constructed properly?”

  “That’s the only way it could’ve happened,” Bill said. “I wouldn’t have left them like that but different people do things different ways.”

  “It does seem terribly careless,” Miss Tilley said.

  “I’m not sure careless is the word,” Lucy said, remembering Florence saying she heard a noise and felt a draft just before the scenery fell, and her sense that she hadn’t been alone.

  Bill gave her a sharp look. “Anybody can make a mistake,” he said, but she knew what he really meant. He was warning her not to poke her nose into matters that didn’t concern her.

  That evening she found herself accompanying Bill to the Finance Committee meeting. From what Barney had told her about the town employees it was going to be a tense affair and she wanted to give Bill a heads up. She offered him a little advice as they drove into town.

  “I’ve heard rumors that the town employees are going to show up in force tonight, demanding their old hours and benefits,” she said. “You’re going to need to keep a cool head and remember it’s not about you. You didn’t vote to make the cuts.”

  “I think I can handle whatever happens,” Bill said, in a mind-your-own-business tone of voice.

  I sure hope so, Lucy thought, but didn’t say it out loud. She was pretty sure Bill didn’t have a clue about the firestorm he was walking into. In fact, the meeting room was packed with town employees and members of the Winchester Social Action Committee when they arrived. Seth Lesinski and his cohorts were seated together on one side of the aisle, while town employees including Harry Crawford, Phil Watkins, and Nelson Macmillan were scattered among the usual concerned citizens on the other.

  Lucy took her usual seat near the front of the room and Bill joined the other board members at the long table facing the audience, seating himself behind his shiny new nameplate. At seven o’clock precisely chairman Gene Hawthorne called the meeting to order and, as always, opened the public comment portion of the meeting.

  Seth Lesinski immediately jumped to his feet. “I’m here tonight with members—” he began, only to be silenced by Hawthorne.

  “It’s usual to wait to be recognized by the chair before speaking,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Seth said. “Am I recognized?”

  “Go ahead,” said Hawthorne, looking annoyed.

  “Now that I’ve been officially recognized,” Seth began with a smirk, “I’m here to say that I represent the Social Action Committee at Winchester College. Today the committee voted to demand complete and full restitution to the Tinker’s Cove town employees’ hours, wages, and benefits, and also to demand that town officials immediately demand that Downeast Mortgage cease and desist from foreclosing on delinquent mortgage holders.”

  This brief speech was well received by most audience members, who clapped and cheered.

  Gene Hawthorne once again called for order. “Thank you for your input,” he said, when the group finally quieted down. “I would like to point out, however, that tonight’s meeting will be limited to discussion and action on the items listed on the previously posted agenda.”

  This announcement was met with a rumble of disapproval from the audience.

  “Well, how do we get on the agenda?” Seth demanded.

  “As I mentioned earlier, you need to be recognized by the chair before speaking,” said Hawthorne, with a sigh.

  Lesinski rolled his eyes and raised his hand.

  “Mr. Lesinski,” Hawthorne said. “Go ahead.”

  “I guess this is a point of order,” Seth said in a challenging tone of voice. “How exactly does a concerned citizen place an item on the agenda?”

  “You contact the committee secretary, Mrs. Mahoney, and she will take it from there. The agenda is posted one week prior to the meeting.”

  “May I ask another question?” Seth asked. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  “You may.”

  “In effect, that means that at a minimum the committee cannot act on reinstating hours and benefits before next week, which takes us right up to Christmas, right?”

  “Actually a bit longer, because we have to vote to include an item on the agenda,” Hawthorne said. “And we won’t meet again until after Christmas.”

  “May I speak again?” Seth asked, bouncing a bit faster.

  “You may.”

  “Can you consider taking that vote tonight, at this meeting?”

  Hawthorne checked with the other committee members, who indicated they were open to the suggestion.

  Jerry Taubert, however, had a cautionary bit of information. “I don’t mind voting to include it in a future agenda, but it’s really pointless. I’m all for reinstating hours and wages, but the fact is that there simply isn’t enough cash on hand in the town account.”

  “He’s right,” Bill said. “I’ve been going over the accounts and there’s not much wiggle room, that’s for sure. Tax receipts are down and so is state aid.”

  “And furthermore,” Frankie added, “on the other matter, I don’t believe the town actually has the authority to tell Downeast Mortgage to stop foreclosures. That’s something the town counsel would have to look into.”

  Hearing this, the crowd became extremely restive. “Well, that’s what we pay him for,” someone yelled. Harry Crawford and several other men were on their feet, demanding a vote.

  “Do I have a motion?” Hawthorne asked, banging his gavel.

  Pam raised her hand, moving that Lesinski’s demands be placed on the agenda for the next meeting, which was scheduled to take place early in January, after the usual Christmas break. Frankie seconded it and Hawthorne called for discussion, recognizing Jerry Taubert.

  “This is a waste of time,” he said, getting a smattering of boos. “Our hands are tied. We don’t have the money to reinstate town employees. We’d have to raise taxes and we can’t do that without a town meeting vote.”

  “Hold a special town meeting!” Phil Watkins yelled, eliciting cheers from the citizenry.

  “Order! Order!” demanded Hawthorne, banging his gavel. When the crowd quieted down he recognized Bill. Lucy shifted uneasily in her seat.

  “As for the demand that the town order Downeast Mortgage to stop foreclosures,” said Bill, “I have to point out that there is simply no way we can do that. That is simply a matter of contractual obligations between private parties, and the town has no standing whatsoever in the . . .”

  The crowd certainly didn’t like hearing this, especially not the SAC kids, who were muttering and booing. Lucy discovered she was holding her breath. She was so tense that her stomach hurt. It was killing her to sit there when she wanted to leap to Bill’s defense.

  Gene Hawthorne called for order, once again, this time warning that he would have the room cleared unless the crowd observed the proper decorum. Receiving grudging acquiescence, he called for a vote on the motion. “All in favor,” he said, and the room fell silent as Frankie and Pam raised the
ir hands.

  “Against?” The three men on the committee raised their hands, and the audience immediately erupted with a unified roar.

  In a matter of seconds everyone was on their feet. Cardboard coffee cups, balled up wads of paper, even chairs were hurled into the air. The committee members ducked behind their table. Lucy herself adopted a crash position, curling up and placing her arms above her head. Barney Culpepper was blowing his whistle, the meeting room doors were thrown open, and the Tinker’s Cove Police Department, all seven officers who had been positioned outside, poured into the room. Seeing the officers in blue, the Winchester group bolted en masse for a side exit. Local folk were more easily subdued, but Harry Crawford did attempt to punch Officer Todd Kirwan. Kirwan avoided the punch and Barney applied the handcuffs, hustling Crawford out of the building.

  “Meeting adjourned,” Hawthorne declared, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, and the shaken committee members began gathering up their papers and belongings.

  Hildy, the freelancer Ted had asked to cover the meeting, was already interviewing Hawthorne. “What’s your reaction to tonight’s events?” she was asking, as Lucy joined Bill, who was gathering up his papers.

  Hawthorne shook his head. “We can’t have this sort of thing,” he said. “In future, we will have strict security at our meetings. The committee can’t work under these conditions, and I want to say that these committee members are struggling with a very difficult fiscal situation and doing their very best to make responsible decisions.”

  Bill nodded in agreement. “It’s very different to be sitting on this side of the table,” he said. “We can’t be influenced by an unruly mob.” Then he took Lucy’s arm and they made their way through the overturned chairs and litter to the door.

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said.

  “Bunch of hooligans,” Bill muttered.

  “Those hooligans include your daughter,” Lucy said.

  “She wasn’t here tonight,” Bill observed. “At least I didn’t see her.”

  “No, she was probably back at the squat, building bombs.”

  “Don’t joke about it,” Bill said sternly, as they climbed into the pickup. “It’s not funny.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” Lucy said. “There are going to be repercussions, and if I were you, I’d be very careful for the next few days.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Bill shifted into reverse and backed out of his parking spot. “Everybody loves me.”

  “Not anymore,” Lucy said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday morning, Lucy was lingering in bed with a cup of coffee, watching a morning news show on the old TV that had migrated upstairs when they bought a new flat screen for the family room. The weather reporter was predicting more stormy weather when Bill stomped up the stairs and blew into their bedroom.

  “Somebody slashed my tires!” he exclaimed. His tone of voice left no doubt that he was really upset. Also shocked, angry, and indignant. “Can you believe it?”

  “Actually, I can,” Lucy said, recalling that she had predicted trouble after the contentious FinCom meeting.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Somebody who’s mad at you,” Lucy said.

  “Because of my vote?”

  “Probably.” Lucy had a few ideas on the subject. “Or to make a point.”

  “You know how much this is gonna cost us?” Bill asked. “And not just cash. Time, too. I’m gonna lose an entire day of work, getting new tires.”

  “You should report it to the police,” Lucy said. “It’s not just property damage. You’re a public official. I’m pretty sure that attempting to intimidate a public official is a crime.”

  “Somehow I don’t think I’m going to get much sympathy from the police department,” Bill said. “They’re town employees, too.”

  “True,” Lucy said, patting his knee. “And to think, everyone used to love you.”

  Bill scowled and scratched his beard, now mixed with gray. “At least I know I can count on you not to throw my own words back at me.”

  “I would never do that,” Lucy said, throwing the covers back and getting up. As she stood Bill grabbed her by the hips and pulled her down; she laughed as she rolled back on the bed. “I can’t, Bill, I can’t. I’ve got breakfast with the girls in half an hour.”

  “You’re going to be late,” Bill said, kissing her and groping for the buttons on her pajamas.

  When she was in the car, on her way to Jake’s, Lucy suddenly changed her mind about meeting her friends for breakfast. The four friends had agreed early on that their Thursday morning breakfasts were such an important commitment that only serious illness or death counted as legitimate excuses for breaking the date. This morning, however, Lucy found herself calling Sue and begging off. There was something she wanted to do, something that wouldn’t wait.

  “Well, this is a fine howdy do,” Sue said, sounding annoyed. “Rachel’s already called and said she’s simply got too much to do to make it.”

  “Oh.” Lucy felt a twinge of guilt but brushed it aside. “I hope this isn’t a trend.”

  “Well, it is only a few days till Christmas.” Sue sighed. “Pam called last night and said she could only stay for half an hour. She wants to get to an early bird sale at the outlet mall.”

  Lucy knew that Sue was a dedicated shopper. “Why don’t you go with her?” she suggested.

  “I think I will,” Sue said. “But no excuses next week, right?”

  “No excuses,” Lucy promised, closing her flip phone and making the turn onto Shore Road.

  Glancing out over the ocean, Lucy saw the sky was full of thick gray clouds, hanging low. The water itself was slate gray and choppy. It was the sort of scene that made you fear for anyone out on the sea and, living on the coast, Lucy knew there were plenty of fishermen, coast guardsmen, sailors, and merchant seamen who braved the waves every day. Lucy thought of the plaques on the walls of the Community Church, engraved with the names of those who had gone to sea and never returned: Isaiah Walker, who fell overboard in pursuit of a whale, Ephraim Snodgrass, who contracted yellow fever en route to Manila, and Horace Sanford, USN, whose troop ship was torpedoed by a German U-boat. She shivered, thinking of those poor souls, and the many others who met their fate in the cold depths of the North Atlantic.

  Turning into the driveway at the squat, she saw, as before, it was filled with numerous cars. She marched resolutely up to the porch, pushed open the unlocked door and stepped inside, where she was immediately met by Seth Lesinski.

  “Here for a reaction to the FinCom meeting?” he asked, with a wide grin. He was holding a big mug of tea in one hand, a laptop computer in the other, and seemed terribly pleased with himself.

  “Not exactly,” Lucy said, following him into the library, away from other members of the group who were gathering in the living room.

  Seth seated himself at a card table and opened the computer, then leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of tea. “So what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “You can stop this campaign of intimidation, that’s what you can do,” Lucy said, picking up steam.

  “I’d call it information, not intimidation,” he said.

  “My husband’s tires were slashed last night,” Lucy said in an accusatory tone, “and I think you know all about it.”

  Seth’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Lucy replied. “And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to learn you were behind the bombing that killed Jake Marlowe.”

  “That’s crazy,” Seth said, looking both shocked and troubled. “How could you ever think I wanted to kill that pathetic old man?”

  “I don’t think you intended to kill him. I think you meant to frighten him but things went wrong. You’re a combat veteran—you know all about guns and explosives. . . .” Lucy said, only to be interrupted.

  “Yeah, I know about explosiv
es, but from the wrong end. I’ve lost good friends, seen them literally ripped apart by IEDs. I would never . . . I’m a patriot, no matter what you might think. I love this country and that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. I’m trying to save it from the greedy bastards who are sucking it dry.”

  Lucy felt herself falling under his sway. She was almost convinced, actually feeling rather ashamed of her suspicions, when she caught herself. He was clever, she reminded herself, a master manipulator who had seduced her daughter mentally, if not physically. Sara! She suddenly had an urgent, overwhelming need to contact her daughter. Where was Sara?

  “Is my daughter here?” she asked in a no-nonsense tone.

  “Sara?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sara! You know, Sara!”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t seen her this morning.”

  And I hope you never see her again, Lucy thought, turning on her heel and heading for the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of his computer screen: it pictured a classic comic book bomb, a sinister black globe with a sizzling wick, in front of a waving American flag, and the words Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice!

  Her eyes widened and she suddenly felt justified. So much for Seth Lesinski and his protestations of patriotism, his denial of violent tactics! The man was a domestic terrorist and he was seducing decent kids with social consciences to join him. He had to be stopped, she fumed, yanking the car door open and jumping inside. She was going to go straight to the police, she decided. This had gone far enough. It was time for the grown-ups to take charge.

  When she marched into Police Chief Jim Kirwan’s office, she was surprised to see that Ben Scribner was already there.

  “That house belongs to Downeast Mortgage and I demand police action!” he was saying. “Those kids have moved in like they own the place. The utilities are off, you know. No water, no power, no heat. You can only imagine what’s going on, the damage they’re causing.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Lucy said, eager to join the discussion. “They’ve slashed Bill’s tires, and they’ve got bombs on their computers. . . .”