“See you.” She looked over at Ted, who was resting his head on his hands. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired. I feel like I’ve put in a full day’s work and it’s only a little past ten.”
“You have,” said Lucy sympathetically. “Why don’t you go home for a rest? I can take care of the office.”
“Can’t. I’ve got an interview with the woman of the hour—Carol Crane. Inquiring minds want to know all about her.”
“We sure do,” said Lucy. “That’s one story I definitely want to read.”
“You shall be the first,” said Ted. “And I better get going or I’ll be late.”
“Better wear sunglasses,” advised Lucy. “If you look directly at her halo, it might hurt your eyes.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Ted as he exited the office.
Left alone, Lucy poked around under the counter until she found a bottle of spray cleaner. Taking the roll of paper towels from the tiny bathroom, she began tidying the office, beginning with the cluttered counter top. She sorted and stacked the assorted brochures that were displayed there, and then moved to her desk. She cleared everything off and gave it a good wipe, then began neatly replacing the phone books and stapler and pencil mug and all the other necessary items. Realizing there was nothing personal, she decided to bring in a photo of the kids. A photo, and maybe a plant. The office was pretty grim.
The scanner cackled, and she listened as she tackled the sea of papers that flooded Ted’s desk. She didn’t dare throw anything away, so she scooped them together and set them on his chair so she could dust the handsome old roll top he had inherited from his grandfather, who had been editor of the Springfield Gazette.
“One-five,” came the dispatcher’s voice. “I have a report of an unattended death.”
“Copy, one-five,” came the response from the patrol officer. “Location?”
“Twenty-three Spring Street, it’s a ground-floor apartment. The landlady called in.”
“Copy. I’m on my way.”
Lucy stopped dusting and considered what to do. There was nothing in the tone of the voices to indicate this was anything but a natural occurrence. People died all the time, as she knew from the obituaries she typed every week. It could be a completely natural death. She started replacing the papers on Ted’s desk, moving the phone a bit to the side. She could call him at the elementary school. Then she noticed his camera, sitting on the desk top. If it was a big story, he would need his camera. She might as well take it to him.
Arriving at the elementary school, she parked carefully in the space marked VISITOR. Entering the lobby, she automatically turned right, only to be brought up short by a plywood barrier. Of course. The damaged office was still being repaired. A neatly printed sign told her a temporary office had been set up in the gymnasium, on the opposite side of the lobby.
Pulling open the door, she almost collided with the school secretary, Mrs. Cope.
“You ought to watch where you’re going,” admonished Mrs. Cope, as if Lucy were one of the children.
“I need to find Ted,” said Lucy. “Is he still here?”
“Yes, he’s with Mrs. Applebaum. Right over there.”
Mrs. Cope pointed to an area partitioned off with temporary screens. Lucy hurried over, and poked her head around the makeshift office wall. Ted and Sophie were standing and chatting; it looked as if Ted was about to leave.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I heard something on the scanner that I thought you’d want to know about.”
“Yes?”
“It’s probably nothing, but I figured you would want to check it out. An unattended death over on Spring Street.”
“Spring Street? Where on Spring?” Sophie demanded urgently.
Lucy and Ted turned to her in surprise.
“Twenty-three, I think,” said Lucy.
Sophie immediately went quite white, and leaned against her desk for support.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ted.
“Should I get some water?” asked Lucy.
“That’s where Carol Crane lives,” said Sophie, putting her hand to her mouth.
“She wasn’t here today,” Ted explained to Lucy. “Sophie said she didn’t bother to call in sick.”
A chill ran down Lucy’s spine as she remembered Mr. Mopps’s prediction earlier that morning. It certainly hadn’t taken long to come true.
“I’d better get over there,” said Ted.
“Here, take this,” said Lucy, handing him the camera.
“Maybe you better stay and see that she’s all right,” said Ted, with a nod toward Sophie.
“Sure,” said Lucy, taking the older woman’s arm. “I think you ought to sit down.”
Suddenly Sophie laughed, almost hysterically. “I’ll be fine. In fact,” she said, her face cracking into a smile, “I’m feeling better already.”
Lucy clucked sympathetically and reached for a water pitcher that stood on a credenza. Pouring a glass of water for Sophie, she commented, “Well, this is a bit of a surprise.”
“It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person,” volunteered Sophie, still giggling.
“That’s what Mr. Mopps said. I ran into him this morning. In fact, he predicted she wouldn’t have a long and happy life.” Lucy paused thoughtfully and handed the glass of water to Sophie. “You don’t think he killed her, do you?”
“Mr. Mopps?” Sophie was incredulous. “He’s the nicest, gentlest man alive.” She took a sip of water, and added, “But if he did, it would have been justifiable homicide. She was awful to him.”
“She wasn’t very nice to you either,” said Lucy, recalling how Carol had upstaged Sophie at the school committee meeting.
“She was after my job,” said Sophie, putting down the glass. “Made no bones about it.” She sighed sadly. “I didn’t really care for myself. I’m not ambitious, I like it here. Small-town school. Nice kids. And I’m close to retirement anyway. I could go a year or two early, it wouldn’t bother me. But I couldn’t stand to leave with her in charge. I just couldn’t.”
“Why not?” asked Lucy.
“I’ve thought about this,” said Sophie. “She wouldn’t be good for the school—she didn’t have the children’s best interests in mind. All she cared about was herself. She would have been here a year or two, and gone on to a bigger and better school someplace else.” Sophie gave a little snort. “And then they’d call me back, out of my happy retirement, and I’d have to put things back together again.” She nodded, satisfied. “All in all, I think things have worked out for the best.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Leaving the school, Lucy knew she ought to go back to the office but she couldn’t resist following Ted to Carol’s apartment. Twenty-three Spring Street, she knew, was part of a modern apartment complex on the outskirts of town, near the outlet mall.
When she arrived, she saw the police had already sealed off the apartment, and Ted was talking with a small knot of neighbors gathered in the parking lot. Approaching them, she heard Ted introducing himself.
“I’m Ted Stillings, from The Pennysaver. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Oh, I read that,” said a young, tired-looking woman holding a baby.
“Was there a robbery or something?” persisted Ted, nodding at the young mother’s companions, a middle-aged woman dressed in an aqua pants suit and a white-haired man with glasses.
Lucy recognized the trick. “The best way to start an interview is to play dumb,” he had told her. “Few people can resist the temptation to set you straight.”
“That was no robbery. She’s dead,” said the man, as Lucy joined the group.
“Really?” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Who’s dead?”
“That school principal, Carol Crane, that’s who,” answered the man, keeping his voice quite low, as if death was something to be ashamed of.
“You don’t say,” said Ted, expressing amazement.
“I do say,” s
aid the man.
“What do you think happened?” asked Ted.
“Was she raped?” asked Lucy, earning a disapproving glare from Ted. She decided she had better just listen.
“Was it an accident or something?” asked Ted.
“Not hardly,” said the older woman. “She wasn’t quite what people thought. She was no better than she ought to be.” The woman gave Lucy a knowing little nod. “I used to hear men in there at all hours of the night. I live across from her, you see? Couldn’t help hearing.”
“Just ’cause she had men friends doesn’t mean she wasn’t the best thing to happen to the school in a long time,” protested the young mother. “This is a real tragedy.”
“Do you think one of these male visitors killed her?” asked Ted.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” said the woman, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. “Used to hear them shouting in there.”
“Did this happen a lot?” asked Ted.
“Now and then,” said the woman, with a little shrug of her ample shoulders.
“Did you recognize any of them?” Ted addressed his question to the young mother, who was jiggling her baby.
“No. I only saw one guy myself, but it goes to figure she had friends from the school. Colleagues, you know.” Her answer seemed directed as much to the woman in the pants suit, as to Ted.
“If you ask me, these young girls ask for it,” she said, her double chin quivering with indignation. “Living all alone, entertaining men all night long. We certainly weren’t brought up to behave like that.”
“No, we certainly weren’t,” agreed the man. Ted thought he sounded a bit regretful.
“Did you hear anything out of the ordinary last night?” asked Ted.
They all shook their heads.
“Of course, I wasn’t home last night—I was visiting my sister and stayed over. I don’t like to drive at night anymore,” said the woman.
Ted nodded. “When did you get home?”
“Just about an hour ago. When I went in the entry—we share an entry, you see—I saw her door was open. I knew that wasn’t right so I called the landlady. A few minutes later I saw the police car come in the parking lot.”
“You didn’t go in?” asked Ted.
The woman looked insulted at the suggestion. “I mind my own business,” she said.
Lucy doubted it, but Ted, she noticed, was hanging on every word like a true believer.
“I can’t believe it,” said the young mother, biting her lip. She seemed to be near tears. “She saved that little boy’s life.”
They all nodded.
“But there was no one to save her.”
Ted scribbled down the quote and took their names. Then, giving Lucy a grateful smile, he snapped a photo of the group. Crossing the parking lot together, Lucy watched while he took a few pictures of the exterior of the apartment building.
“You see that cop?” asked Lucy.
“Yeah.”
“I think he’s one of Dot Kirwan’s boys. Maybe he’ll talk to us.”
“It’s worth a shot,” agreed Ted.
“He looks so young,” said Lucy as they approached the officer.
“They’re making them younger and younger.”
“Hi,” said Lucy, giving Officer Kirwan a big smile. “We’re from The Pennysaver.”
“Can you tell us what’s going on?” asked Ted.
“You’ll have to check with the chief.”
“The neighbors say it’s a homicide—name of Carol Crane.”
Lucy knew this was another of Ted’s tricks. Sometimes he could prompt an official to talk if he seemed to know what had happened.
“Sorry,” said the cop as a plain navy blue van pulled into the parking lot.
“That’s the state police crime scene investigative unit,” Ted told Lucy. “And that’s the medical examiner,” he added, pointing to a white van.
Ted and Lucy hung around for a few minutes while Ted snapped photos of the technicians as they carried their equipment inside. After a brief flurry of activity, the parking lot was empty again, except for the neighbors. Gradually, they drifted off, returning to their homes. It was quiet, except for the hum of yellow jackets buzzing around the dumpster.
“Might as well get going,” said Lucy as they leaned against the fender of her car. “Not much going on here.”
“Damn,” said Ted, pounding his fist on the hood.
“Hey,” protested Lucy. “It’s not much, but it’s the only car I’ve got.”
“Sorry. It’s just so damn frustrating. This is probably the biggest story I’ll ever see, and it had to happen right after deadline. It’ll be a whole week before the next issue. I’ve got a scoop and nowhere to print it.”
Lucy nodded in agreement. It was just a matter of time before the daily, the TV station, and even the Boston Globe would be all over this story.
“Why don’t you string it?” asked Lucy. “After all, you’re right here on the scene. Why not call the Globe? Save them the trouble of sending someone down?”
“Lucy, that’s brilliant,” exclaimed Ted. “Meet you back at the office.”
When Lucy arrived, Ted was already on the phone, chatting up someone named Doreen.
“I’m here in Tinker’s Cove, Maine. We met at the newspaper convention last winter.
“Right. That’s me. Listen. I’ve got a story here that I can’t use and I thought you might be interested. Remember the principal who saved the kid in the school bombing—you had it on page one last week? Well, she’s dead and it looks like murder. So far, nobody else is covering it. I’ve got an exclusive—for the moment anyway.” He fell silent, listening and nodding. “You got it,” he said, hanging up.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, making a fist and pulling his elbow in sharply. “We gotta hustle, Lucy. I can use some help. Look in that file for me. Search committee. School committee. July, maybe. See if you can find Carol Crane’s résumé.”
“Okay,” said Lucy, willingly setting aside the paper for her night school class that she had planned to work on that afternoon. Matthew Arnold’s view of education and society as presented in “The Scholar Gypsy” couldn’t compete with the excitement of working on a breaking news story.
“Do they know how she died?” asked Lucy, pulling out a thick file folder.
“Dunno. Gotta find out. Too soon, I think. Medical examiner won’t have anything until tomorrow at the earliest, maybe a couple of days. Right now, we’ll work on background.”
Taking the folder over to her desk, Lucy sat down and propped her chin on her hand.
“It must have been murder, don’t you think?” she mused.
“Lucy, I have to be insensitive but this is a newspaper office and I really need that résumé. Have you got it?”
“I’ll find it,” said Lucy, opening the folder and leafing through the papers. “I just can’t believe it.”
Ted was already writing his story, tapping as fast as he could at the keyboard.
“Why not?” he asked. “You thought there was something fishy about her all along.”
“Yeah, but I thought that was just my nasty little mind.”
“She made enemies,” said Ted.
“You’re not kidding,” agreed Lucy, thinking of Mr. Mopps and Sophie. They wouldn’t miss Carol; they would both be dancing on her grave. “Here’s the résumé,” she said, pulling out a packet of papers that were stapled together.
“Great. I want you to get some idea of her life before she came to Tinker’s Cove. Check the references, call the places she worked before. Okay? I’m going to work the police angle.”
Lucy pried the staple open, and pulled Carol’s résumé out of the packet. Flipping to the second page she found the first reference, dialed the Harvard Graduate School of Education and asked for Dr. Norton Tredwell.
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Tredwell is on sabbatical,” said a pleasant, well-modulated female voice. “He won’t be back until January.”
; “I was given his name as a reference,” said Lucy. “Is there any way I can reach him?”
“It would be quite difficult. He’s studying the child-rearing practices of several primitive Indonesian tribes. Some are quite isolated.”
“How long has he been gone?” Lucy asked.
“Since last January.”
“I wonder why this candidate listed him as a reference,” mused Lucy, looking back to page one of the résumé. “She doesn’t actually seem to have any connection with Harvard at all. Is Dr. Tredwell affiliated with North Megunticook County Community College, or the University of Maine?”
“I rather doubt it,” answered the well-modulated voice. “I believe he did his undergraduate work at Brown, and even that’s a bit suspect here.”
“Perhaps some sort of workshop or continuing credit program? Something like that?”
“This person is from Maine? He does have a summer home there.”
“That could explain it. Maybe it’s a personal reference.”
“Perhaps,” agreed the secretary. “It might be perfectly legitimate. People do strike up acquaintances. But when you work at a prestigious institution like Harvard, you can’t help becoming a little bit suspicious. Our professors get many requests for references from people they’ve never heard of. Listing a Harvard professor can add a bit of polish to a lackluster résumé. They take a chance that no one will check. This person was at least enterprising enough to find a professor who is away for a year.”
“She does mention that she’s a self-starter,” said Lucy.
“That’s one way of putting it,” said the woman with a chuckle.
“Thanks for your time,” said Lucy, breaking the connection and looking for the next reference. The letters jumped out at her—Quentin Rea, her professor at Winchester. She dialed the number.
“Professor Rea? This is Lucy Stone, from your evening class…”
“Lucy, nice to hear from you.” His voice was cheerful and welcoming. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m working on a story for The Pennysaver…”
“Ah! You’re a journalist! I didn’t know!”
Back To School Murder #4 Page 10
