Back To School Murder #4

by Meier, Leslie

  “It’s not just about you. A lot of people love you.” Lucy smiled slowly. “You’re my favorite, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” said Elizabeth, surprised.

  “Well, you are. All the time I was pregnant with Toby I wished for a girl. When he was born, well, I loved him, of course. I was really happy that he was healthy and had all his toes and fingers, but I couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit disappointed. Then you came and I was so excited to finally have a little girl.”

  “But Mom, we’re always fighting.”

  “That’s okay. I fought with my mother, too. In fact, you remind me of myself more than any of the others.”

  “If you say so,” said Elizabeth, looking rather doubtful.

  “So, do me a favor and at least try the medication ’til your next appointment, okay?” Lucy started the car.

  “Okay,” grumbled Elizabeth. “If it makes you happy.”

  Lucy started the engine, heading for home. As they drove along, she remembered Elizabeth’s arrival in the family. All through her pregnancy, Lucy had worried about Toby’s reaction. After being the center of attention for two and a half years, she was worried that he would resent the new baby.

  When Lucy and Bill brought the tiny baby Elizabeth home from the cottage hospital, Toby had seemed uninterested. He busied himself playing with his trucks, and his Legos, and ignored both the baby and his mother. After a day or two, Lucy realized what was going on.

  One afternoon, when Elizabeth was napping, Lucy scooped Toby up and planted him on the sofa beside her. He tried to squirm away, but she wrapped an arm around him and hugged him.

  “Today,” she said, opening the family album, “I have a very special story for you. It’s the story of baby Toby.”

  She pointed to a picture of herself, her belly swollen with pregnancy. “That’s Mommy with baby Toby inside.”

  Toby was interested, and studied the picture. When he was ready, she turned the page.

  “That’s brand new baby Toby.”

  Toby shook his head. “Baby ’Lizbet.”

  “Nope,” insisted Lucy. “That’s you. Once, you were just as small as Elizabeth. You couldn’t talk. You couldn’t walk.”

  Lucy pointed to another picture. “You’re bigger here. Six months. See, you’re sitting up.”

  She turned a few pages. “Now, baby Toby’s standing. And here, baby Toby’s playing with his big, red fire engine.”

  “Truck!” said Toby, pointing with a chubby finger.

  “And here’s a picture of Toby now. What a big boy!” said Lucy, giving him a squeeze. “You’re my favorite big boy!”

  “Big Boy!” agreed Toby, snuggling close.

  Ever since then, Lucy had made a point of letting each of her children know how special they were to her. She often told each child he or she was her favorite. She didn’t know if they compared notes, but she didn’t think it mattered. Whenever she said it, that child was, for the moment, her very dearest child.

  They arrived home with time to spare. Now that Lucy had been working for three weeks, a system had finally begun to evolve. While Lucy put dinner together, Sara played with Zoë, Elizabeth set the table, and Toby ran a load of wash. When Bill came home, the house was peaceful and orderly and dinner was ready to go on the table.

  “Smells great,” he said, lifting the lid of the pot and sniffing appreciatively.

  “Beef stew. With red wine and mushrooms.”

  “You haven’t made that in ages.”

  “I know. I found some old recipes on Saturday, while you were out fishing with Toby.” In fact, following up on a tip from Sue, Lucy had searched high and low until she found her crock pot, long forgotten on the top shelf of the pantry.

  They both turned as Zoë toddled into the kitchen. “Daddy!” she exclaimed, holding out her arms.

  Bill scooped her up and lifted her high above his head, making her squeal.

  After dinner, Bill settled in his favorite chair to watch the news with Zoë in his lap. Sara cleared the table and Elizabeth and Toby loaded the dishwasher. When Lucy left for her class, she had the distinctly odd but pleasant sensation of knowing that everything was under control.

  In class, Lucy tried to concentrate on Professor Rea’s lecture, but her mind kept wandering. Thinking back over their luncheon, she realized how artfully he had directed the conversation. She had been so thrilled to be getting the inside scoop that she had swallowed not only his line, but the hook and sinker, too.

  A burst of laughter from the class brought her attention back to the professor. He was a consummate actor, she realized. With impeccable timing he was able to lead the class through a daunting amount of material, much of it tedious and boring. After all, the Victorians weren’t known for concise expression. But whenever the pace slowed, whenever the students’ attention wandered, he was able to get them back on track with a joke and a laugh. It was easy to underestimate him because he made it look so easy.

  Confident, charming, sophisticated, good-looking—was he perhaps a bit too good to be true? Why had he never married, Lucy wondered. It seemed a bit odd. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the well-adjusted bachelor that he seemed.

  What exactly had his relationship with Carol been? At lunch, he had given Lucy the impression that Carol had injured him, but he didn’t offer any specifics. What really happened? And was it all long in the past, as she had assumed, or had they been seeing each other recently?

  What had he said? Carol lived close to the edge. She liked to play games. She was bound to push somebody too far. Had Carol pushed him too far? What would his reaction have been?

  Lucy pushed the unbidden thought away. Besides, he had seemed genuinely grief-stricken the other night, when he had first learned of Carol’s death. You couldn’t fake something like that, could you?

  He stopped her after class, waiting until the others had left the room before speaking.

  “I really enjoyed lunch the other day,” he began, slowly running his tongue over his bottom lip.

  “I had a nice time, too,” said Lucy. The memory of him licking a dab of cream filling off his lip popped into her mind, and she tried to suppress it.

  “Is something the matter? You seem anxious,” he said, flicking off the light as they passed through the doorway into the hallway.

  “Oh, no. Well, actually I am a little distracted.” Lucy wasn’t about to admit her real thoughts during class. Instead, she said, “I just learned that my daughter has asthma. I’m worried about her.”

  “Always the good mother,” he said, in a teasing tone.

  Lucy felt defensive. “What do you expect? I am a mother. I have four kids. It’s a lot of responsibility.”

  “Of course,” he agreed as they walked down the corridor. “I can’t imagine how you do it. I think of my own mother, always worrying about us, never thinking of herself. It’s like that for you, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucy, honestly confused. “Sometimes I think I’ve been putting them first for too long. Maybe it’s time for me to concentrate on myself a little bit. But that’s not easy to do. In a way, having a family has allowed me to put things off. Maybe it’s time for me to decide what I want to be when I grow up.”

  He bent his head, as if to kiss her, but she whirled away.

  “Growing up is never easy,” he said, making a smooth recovery. “What do you think you would like to be?”

  “A teacher, I guess. Then I could have a career that wouldn’t conflict with the family too much. I’d have the same hours as the kids, summers off.”

  “Always the kids.” He grinned. “Do you think you’d like teaching?”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Lucy. “I’m not sure of anything.”

  “It sounds as if you need some intensive counseling from an experienced advisor,” said Quentin, keeping his voice light and teasing. “Why don’t you come over to my place? It’s not far from here.”

  “Oh…” Lucy felt the blood rise to her cheeks
, and she took a step backward. “It’s so late, I really have to get home.”

  “I understand.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Besides,” said Lucy, arching an eyebrow and holding her notebook up to her face as if it were a fan. “You know perfectly well that a proper Victorian lady would never visit a gentleman’s quarters unchaperoned.”

  “Forgive me,” he said, snapping his heels together and bowing.

  They parted, and as Lucy made her way to the parking lot, she wondered if she had made the right choice. In Victorian novels, women who fell from virtue were inevitably punished. But she wasn’t wearing long skirts and petticoats; she was a thoroughly modern woman and she was entitled to express herself and seek fulfillment, wasn’t she?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “He what?” exclaimed Sue. Lucy hadn’t been able to resist pausing for a confessional chat when she dropped Zoë at the day-care center bright and early on Wednesday morning.

  “Invited me to his apartment for a career counseling session.”

  “But you didn’t go?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  Sue looked at her skeptically. “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “I keep having thoughts,” admitted Lucy.

  “About him?”

  Lucy nodded.

  “What kind of thoughts?”

  “Oh, about his tongue. And his lips. The way he smiles. His hair. His hands.”

  “Ohhh,” groaned Sue. “Can’t you think of something else?”

  “Oh, sure. I try. But then I’ll be doing something and they’ll pop up. Mostly I try to substitute Bill. Think of him.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Not really.”

  “This is awful, Lucy. You’ve got so much with Bill. Home, kids…”

  “Mortgage, Visa bill,” countered Lucy. “Not to mention fights and awkward silences and tiptoeing around sensitive subjects. I mean, I love this course, but has he shown any interest at all? Has he even asked me if it’s interesting…”

  “Stop it!” interrupted Sue. “Look at Deb Altman. She had a perfectly nice marriage and gave it all up for a fling with the plumber. Now she’s living in a crummy duplex with three kids and no man in sight.”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. But, you know, it’s great to discover that somebody finds you attractive,” said Lucy, remembering how wonderful she’d felt when Quentin looked at her. She’d felt warm and glowing, graceful and desirable.

  “Bill doesn’t even look at me anymore,” she admitted bitterly. “It’s like I’m part of the furniture, something he reaches for automatically when he’s in the mood. Like a cold beer in the fridge.” Lucy paused, and added slowly, “And it’s nice to know that I can still get interested myself. Sex with Bill is something I’m supposed to do. There’s never any flirtation, he never courts me. It’s just something he expects. It’s part of being married. But the times I really want to do it are few and far between. Know what I mean?”

  “I know,” said Sue, letting out a big sigh.

  At the office, Ted was rushing to finish up a summary of the new septic regulations before deadline and asked Lucy to proofread the stories he had completed. Switching on the computer, Lucy read his account of the case against Josh Cunningham.

  Straightening out Ted’s garbled typing—he knew perfectly well how to spell but sometimes hit the keys so rapidly that the letters got reversed, producing nad instead of and, ihs instead of his—she learned that the police had indeed produced Mel Costas, the man Jewel the Ghoul had photographed in the accident on Bumps River Road, as a witness.

  According to Mr. Costas, who described himself as an “old family friend” of Carol’s, he had spent the night at her apartment. He had only meant to spend the day visiting, but had been having some problems with his truck and decided to spend the night rather than risk driving home. When he left, at a little past eight, he saw Josh pulling into the parking area at the apartment complex.

  Police had cleared Costas of any suspicion in the murder. Carol’s watch, broken in the struggle with her assailant, had stopped at eight-thirty, the time of Costas’s accident.

  Costas also told police that Josh Cunningham had approached him some months before about placing a bomb in the school, but Costas maintained he had refused and passed the information along to Carol.

  “Howzit comin’, Lucy?” George’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I need that story toot sweet.”

  “I’m almost through,” she said, finishing up and shipping it to him.

  Leaving The Pennysaver’s office with another issue safely put to bed, Lucy had the whole afternoon stretching before her. Convinced that the key to Carol’s death lay in her life, she wondered how she could get the information she needed so Ted would print her story.

  Starting up the car, she drove to the apartment complex on Spring Street. Thinking she might be able to chat up some of the tenants, she pulled into a parking space marked VISITOR. Only a handful of cars were in the lot, the play area was deserted, and the benches scattered about on the lawn were empty. Noticing a sign pointing to the manager’s apartment, Lucy impulsively followed the arrow and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a doughy-faced woman with a faded dye job wearing polyester pants.

  “I’m looking for an apartment,” said Lucy. “I wonder if you have a vacancy.”

  “Sorry,” said the woman, starting to close the door.

  “That’s too bad,” said Lucy. “These apartments look so attractive and I really want to get out of the place I’m living in now.” She leaned forward as if including the manager in a secret. “I’ve got a one-bedroom in one of those big old captain’s houses on Main Street. It’s charming, all right, but the plumbing is barely adequate and I’m a little nervous about the wiring. I’d love to get into something newer.”

  “You’re single? No kids?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Lucy. “It would just be me, myself and I.”

  “Pets?”

  “Oh, no. Too dirty.”

  “Well…I might have something. Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to show the apartment. The previous tenant’s stuff is still there. But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything you shouldn’t,” said Lucy.

  “It’s okay. Believe me, she’s not gonna be complaining.”

  Trotting across the grassy courtyard and into the dim vestibule, she unlocked the door to Carol’s apartment. C. CRANE was still affixed under the tiny brass knocker.

  “The rent is five-eighty a month. Utilities are separate,” she said, opening the door.

  Lucy followed her into a spacious combination living-dining room, waiting while the manager hurried over to the large window and opened the drapes.

  “Does it come furnished?”

  “No, like I said, these things belong to the previous tenant. Just haven’t had a chance to get them out yet.”

  Lucy saw a white leather couch, with an enormous print of a Georgia O’Keeffe flower hanging on the wall above it. A glass-topped coffee table sat in front of the couch, bare except for a silk flower arrangement. Two matching easy chairs, also covered in leather, and a large-screen TV completed the arrangement. A stereo system was neatly placed on shiny gray shelves, but there were no books or magazines.

  In the dining area another, larger glass table was placed beneath a modern chrome lighting fixture. It was surrounded by four chairs, covered in pink and gray material. A second silk flower arrangement occupied the center of the table.

  The kitchen was separated from the dining area by a half-wall that formed a counter. It was neat as a pin, and Lucy guessed Carol hadn’t cooked much.

  “Didn’t I hear that somebody died over here? I think it was a murder, wasn’t it?” asked Lucy, trying the tap to check the water pressure.

  “Don’t you worry. These apartments are very safe. Top-quality locks on windows and doors. Whoever killed he
r, she must have let him in. And the police have got him anyway.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Lucy, pulling open a drawer and examining the neatly stacked stainless steel flatware inside it. The kitchen was fully equipped with new appliances including a stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher. There was even a garbage grinder in the sink.

  “It’s very nice,” said Lucy. “You should see what I’m coping with now. Could I see the rest?”

  “The bedroom’s here,” said the manager. Her mules flapped against her cracked heels as she led the way down the carpeted hall.

  The bedroom contained a king-size bed, covered with a sateen bedspread printed in a swirling art nouveau design. Another gigantic O’Keeffe flower hung above the bed.

  “Is this where…” asked Lucy.

  The landlady nodded. “There was hardly any mess, you would have thought she was sleeping.”

  Lucy quickly scanned the room. She knew she shouldn’t linger; it would appear unnatural. The dresser was clear except for a Japanese lacquered jewelry box and a watch. There were no clothes lying about. She opened the closet and peered in. Everything was neatly hung up. As she knew, Carol favored pink and pastel suits and dresses. Rows of high-heeled pumps were arranged on the floor, standing in pairs.

  The bathroom was just as neat. The vanity sink held a large assortment of cosmetics, but they were carefully arranged in a lucite organizer. The pink towels hung on the rack, carefully folded in thirds. Even the wastebasket was empty, except for a folded sheet of paper. Instinctively, Lucy reached for it. It was the Revelation Congregation’s monthly newsletter.

  “I’ll have to think it over,” Lucy told the landlady, who was waiting impatiently by the apartment door. “The rent is quite a bit more than I’m paying now.”

  “Better not wait too long,” she advised, locking the door behind them. “These apartments never stay vacant very long.”

  Heading back to her car, Lucy wondered if it had been worth the bother to see the apartment. It revealed very little about its occupant—it had looked more like a furniture store than a home. And what, she asked herself, was Carol doing with the Revelation Congregation newsletter? Was she a member? She decided to head over to the old Bijou theater and pay DeWalt a visit.