Holiday Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Sam Miller was a man everyone knew and no one knew. He was not a simple man; his life was a paradox. Sam himself was an enigma.”

  It seemed to Lucy that a rustling, perhaps even a wave of resistance, emanated from the Miller clan, but Marcia sat perfectly still, while Sam IV fidgeted beside her.

  “To many of you, Sam was the man who had it all. He owned the biggest store in town, had the biggest house and the biggest bank account. Sam could afford things most of us can’t, and many of us envied him.

  “You might be surprised to learn that Sam envied you.

  “To many of you, Sam was your boss, your employer. He was a good man and a fair man; he was a good man to work for. It’s hard to work for a man and be his friend, too.

  “You might be surprised to learn that Sam wanted to be your friend.

  “Sam Miller knew that the success of his business and the prosperity it brought had changed Tinker’s Cove. Sam Miller felt badly about that. Sam Miller wanted to be your neighbor.

  “Sam Miller was a wealthy man, a powerful man, and a successful businessman. Yet he grew up here in Tinker’s Cove and the values of Tinker’s Cove were his values, too. He believed in family. He believed in hard work. Let us remember him as he would have liked to be remembered: as a neighbor, a friend, a man who was one of us.” Here Davidson paused, looked around the church at the congregation, and picked up the large Bible that lay on the lectern before him.

  As he stood there, holding the Bible in his upraised arm, Lucy thought of the prophets of old, of unforgiving Cotton Mather and fanatical John Brown.

  “The Bible tells us that we must love our neighbor, and teaches us that it is a sin to kill.

  “Sam Miller was murdered. His death was carefully planned—engineered—by one of his fellow beings. We do not know, yet, who his murderer is.” Here Davidson paused and scanned the congregation, as if he expected the guilty one to leap to his feet and confess.

  “I do not think Sam Miller was killed by one of you. Sam Miller was a man of our town; indeed, he embodied all that is best in our town. This evil person”—and here the minister paused before hissing—“this sinner, must have come from outside our town.

  “Every night the evening news tells us of the violence that pervades the cities of our country, of international syndicates dealing in drugs and death, and of political terrorism.

  “This is the lesson of Sam Miller’s death. We must fight the evil that is overtaking so much of the world, and we must keep our town as a good place to let our love for each other shine as a beacon of light in an ever-darkening world. Amen.”

  Davidson turned away from the pulpit and almost collapsed onto the ornate, gothic armchair that stood behind the pulpit. He stayed there, leaning on his elbow and covering his face with his hand, while they all sang the final hymn.

  When it was over, Marcia sailed serenely out of the church, her veils billowing around her face. No one, of course, could see her expression. Lucy did happen to catch a glimpse of Tom Miller’s face as he watched Marcia climb into a large black limousine, and she thought he looked perfectly disgusted.

  “What did you think of that?” she asked Sue as they drove down the highway to Portland.

  “Well, I was surprised to learn that Sam Miller wanted to be my friend. I would have invited him over for potluck if only I’d known.”

  Lucy laughed. “Me too. And what was Marcia trying to do? Did you believe that veil?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sue, shaking her head. “She had to do something. The rumors are terrible.”

  “I don’t see how she could have done it. She always wears such high heels. I couldn’t walk in shoes like that, much less kill someone.”

  “One thing you can be sure of,” Sue advised her friend. “If she did kill him, she wore exactly the right outfit.” They both laughed. “She could have hired someone to do it.”

  “Maybe,” admitted Lucy. “But I saw them dancing at the profit-sharing dinner, and they looked so nice together. I just can’t believe it. I’ve heard that some people think it was Tom Miller.”

  “Tom?” Sue’s voice rose in disbelief.

  “Yeah, an extreme case of sibling rivalry. You only have one kid, Sue. If you did, you’d know how murderous things can get. And Sam really did overshadow Tom. Tom might have been seething inside for years.”

  “Well, I’ve never noticed him seething. He seems like such a nice boy.” Sue laughed mischievously. “And he takes such good care of his mother.”

  “You’re probably right,” conceded Lucy. “Dave Davidson could be on the right track. It must be some maniac from outside town. A prison escapee or something. But I thought those guys always play with their victims first. I don’t think a homicidal maniac would choose carbon monoxide.”

  “You think it was a professional?”

  “No, I think it was somebody who was afraid of blood. Somebody who wasn’t terribly handy with guns and knives.” Lucy paused for a minute, then blurted out, “Somebody like me!” She laughed. “That’s what I’d choose, if I were going to murder somebody. No mess, no bother.”

  The rest of the day passed in a frenzy of spending that Lucy feared might wear the numbers right off her Visa card. At the very least, she hoped the closing date for next month’s bill had passed.

  After they finished shopping at Tons of Toys and loaded the oversized boxes into the car, Sue insisted on a quick trip to her favorite shop, the Carriage Trade. Lucy went along just to look while Sue tried on dresses, and she noticed a basket of scarves marked fifty percent off.

  “Do you think my mother and Bill’s mother would like those?” she asked Sue as she pulled two, one blue, one red, from the pile.

  “Why not? Those are silk. A scarf like that can really make an outfit.”

  “Okay, you’ve sold me. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  “Not so quick, Lucy. Bill asked me to be Santa’s little helper. He wants you to pick out an outfit for him to give you for Christmas. How about this Oriental poppy dress?”

  “Look at the price! I can’t get that!”

  “Just try it on,” coaxed Sue.

  In the dressing room, Lucy grumbled to herself as she struggled out of the too tight black skirt she’d cleverly disguised with an oversize gray sweater. The silky red dress slipped on as if it had been made for her. Lucy shook out her hair and looked at herself in the mirror. Even to her critical eyes the dress was perfect. It slimmed her hips, emphasized her bust, and made her skin glow.

  “How are you doing?” asked Sue, shoving the curtain aside. “Oh, Lucy. I can’t let you out of this store without that dress.”

  “I give up,” agreed Lucy as she handed the dress over.

  As they drove back along the highway to Tinker’s Cove, the last rays of weak winter sun disappeared and the sky turned dark. Remembering that they’d skipped lunch, Lucy and Sue made a quick detour through a Burger King drive-thru and ordered burgers, fries, and soda.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this,” Lucy said with a moan. “I’ll get a zit.”

  “You’ve got to live dangerously once in a while,” observed Sue, wiping a trace of ketchup off her perfect little chin. “You know, Lucy, I’ve been thinking. If Sam Miller got killed at Country Cousins, it’s probably because somebody there is a murderer. I hope you’re careful.”

  “I don’t think I’ve got anything to worry about,” said Lucy. “Why would anybody want to kill me? But I do think Sam got killed because he saw somebody doing something they didn’t want him to see. That makes the most sense to me.”

  “Well, I don’t want to scare you. But you are the one who found his body. The murderer might be afraid you know more than you do. If I were you, I wouldn’t go poking around any dark corners.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I don’t have any opportunities to go snooping around, even if I wanted to.”

  “You can’t fool me, Lucy. I know you too well,” said Sue, turning the radio dial to a classic rock station. As t
hey drove along together listening to old John Lennon tunes, Lucy thought how glad she was that she had a friend like Sue. The trip home went quickly as they munched their fries, talked, and sang along with the radio. Soon they had turned off the highway onto Route 1 and had passed through Tinker’s Cove center and turned onto Old Red Top Road. Lucy’s driveway was just ahead.

  As Sue pulled into the driveway, the headlights picked out a huddled clump of black-and-white fur.

  “Oh, Lucy! Isn’t that your cat?”

  “It sure looks like it. Probably hit by a car. Stupid. cat. I never could teach her to stay out of the road.” Lucy began unloading her bags and packages. “I don’t know how I’ll tell Elizabeth. She loved that cat.” She waved to Sue and trudged over to the little furry body. It was definitely Patches.

  Lucy took a deep breath and marched toward the house, clutching her Christmas presents and bearing bad news.

  Chapter Six

  #7059 Our frosted-glass night-light gives a comforting glow as well as a reassuring sense of security. UL tested. $9.

  Lucy stashed her packages in the ell off the back door and let herself into the house. She followed the sound of voices into the living room, where she found Bill perched on a stepladder in a tangle of Christmas lights and greenery.

  “You’re putting the tree up,” accused Lucy. “Weren’t you going to wait for me?”

  “Of course. We were only getting it ready,” Bill reassured her as he climbed down. He looked at her closely. “Did shopping tire you out?” he asked sarcastically. “I’ve got a big pot of clam chowder sitting on the stove, I’ve spent quality time with my children—a lot of quality time, I might add—and I’m ready for a beer. Do you want something?”

  “A glass of wine?”

  Bill went off to the kitchen, and Lucy hugged Sara, who was tugging on her coat and squealing, “What did you get us?”

  “Yeah, what about us!” demanded Toby.

  “Seven days till Christmas and you’re asking for treats?” Lucy raised her eyebrows in disapproval.

  “Don’t you know that Santa might be watching?” inquired Bill, returning with the drinks.

  “Oh, nobody believes that stuff,” Toby grumbled.

  “Nobody believes in Santa?” Bill was incredulous. “Do you believe in Santa, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, I do.” She nodded her head gravely.

  “What about you, Sara?”

  “I believe in Santa, Daddy.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. It seems to me that you’re in the minority here, my boy.” Bill looked sharply at his ten-year-old son. “Perhaps, you’d better rethink your position.”

  Lucy laughed and drew three candy canes from her pocket. “You can chew on these while you mull things over.”

  The three children happily grabbed the candy canes and went off to watch the Garfield Christmas Special which was playing on the VCR.

  Bill and Lucy retreated to the kitchen, where Bill stirred his chowder and Lucy slumped at the table, sipping her wine.

  “Patches is out by the road. She must have gotten hit.”

  “Shit, what a crummy Christmas present.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to tell the kids.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Bill. “That’s your department. I’ll handle the graveyard patrol.”

  “Maybe we can find a little Christmas kitten. They’d like that,” said Lucy, sitting up straighter.

  Later that evening, after the family had eaten their chowder supper and trimmed the tree, Lucy supervised the Saturday night baths while Bill went out to bury the cat. It was a clear, starry night and not too cold. He picked a spot near the compost heap and began digging. The ground wasn’t frozen yet, and his shovel went into the loamy soil easily. As he worked he couldn’t help thinking that if an occasional dead cat was the worst thing he and Lucy had to face, they were pretty lucky.

  But when he picked up the dead animal to place it in the small grave, he noticed a bit of cord around its neck. He turned on his flashlight in order to get a better look, and he saw that the cat had definitely been strangled with the cord. He dropped the cat into the grave and began shoveling the earth back as quickly as he could. As he replaced the shovel in the toolshed, he tried to think who would do a thing like that. He wondered if Toby had had a fight with someone at school. He couldn’t imagine an adult strangling a cat. Not an emotionally healthy one, anyway. Entering the house, he shook off the sense of unease he’d felt outside. From what he could hear, Lucy had her hands full in the bathroom.

  She had put both girls in the tub together and was trying to convince Sara that washing her hair every now and then was really necessary.

  “What do you mean we can’t stay up and watch the Peanuts Christmas Special?” interrupted Elizabeth.

  “It’s too late. Daddy will tape it and you can watch it tomorrow.”

  “I want to see it tonight.”

  “Me too.”

  “Well, you need your sleep tonight. Tomorrow you’re in the Christmas pageant.” Lucy’s knees were beginning to get sore, and her leg muscles ached from leaning across the tub. “Let’s get finished here.”

  Toby appeared in the doorway, causing Elizabeth to scream and grab for the shower curtain.

  “Relax, Elizabeth. I don’t think he’s interested in your little pink shrimp body. What’s up, Toby?”

  “Mom, I can’t find Patches. Have you seen her?”

  “Actually, I have.” Lucy paused, and all three children stared at her, the two girls pink from the hot bath and Toby in his striped pajamas. “Patches got run over,” she said slowly, watching their faces carefully for a reaction. “I don’t think she even knew what happened. She was a happy cat, right up to the moment she died,” Lucy reassured them as she wrapped Sara in a towel and began to dry her. Noticing the tears welling up in Elizabeth’s eyes, she said softly, “I’m sure she’s in cat heaven right now.”

  “Patches was the best cat we ever had,” Toby asserted. “She used to sleep with me.”

  “And she’d ride in the doll carriage,” added Elizabeth. “Sometimes she’d let me dress her up.”

  “But then she’d scratch and run away,” remembered Sara, ever the realist. “See my scratches.” She pointed to two red lines on her forearm.

  “She didn’t scratch because she was bad,” Elizabeth said, defending her pet.

  “It’s just the way cats are,” added Toby. “I didn’t mind the scratches. I loved Patches.”

  “Well, we all loved her and we’ll miss her,” said Lucy, folding the towels and hanging them up. “Maybe Santa will bring a new kitten.”

  After she had finally gotten the children tucked in bed and read them the Patches memorial bedtime story, James Herriot’s The Christmas Day Kitten, Lucy was exhausted. It had been a long day and she was glad to sink into a hot bath herself and let her tense muscles relax. It was an effort to make herself climb out of the tub and get dried off. Then she pulled about ten yards of flannel nightgown over her head, smoothed Oil of Olay under her eyes, and brushed her teeth. On her way to bed she detoured through the living room, where Bill was stretched out on his recliner, flipping through channels with the remote control. She stood next to him and smoothed his hair affectionately.

  “I’m going to bed early tonight.”

  Bill nodded. “Toby having any trouble at school?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Patches wasn’t hit by a car. There was a string around her neck. Somebody strangled her.”

  Lucy was stricken. “Who’d do a thing like that?”

  “Most probably a boy of a certain age.”

  “You don’t mean Toby? He’s really upset.”

  “No, not Toby.” He stroked her hand. “Maybe some kid with a grudge against him. Has he said anything?”

  “Nope. He seems to get along with everybody.” Lucy’s voice was defensive.

  Bill shrugged. “Don’t worry. Go to bed. I’ll be up soon.�
��

  “That was a nice thing you did today. Thank you.” Lucy sat on his lap.

  Bill grunted. “What do you mean?”

  “You know. Having Sue make me buy an outfit.”

  “What did you get? Something sexy?”

  “No, something beautiful. And expensive. Sue said money was no object.”

  “I didn’t tell her that.” Vertical lines appeared on Bill’s forehead.

  “I can take it back,” Lucy said quickly.

  “No. I’m just teasing. I like to see you in new things. Are you going to model it for me?”

  “You’ll see it on Christmas,” said Lucy, yawning. “It’ll be a surprise.”

  Bill smiled. “Okay. Go to bed, sleepyhead. I just want to see the end of this hockey game. I’ll be up soon.”

  Once she was tucked under the down comforter in the antique sleigh bed, Lucy realized she wasn’t as tired as she’d thought. She reached for the latest Martha Grimes novel she’d pounced on at the library. Soon she was absorbed in the adventures of Detective Inspector Richard Jury and his faithful sidekick, Detective Sergeant Wiggins. What exactly, she wondered, was a Fisherman’s Friend?

  In the book they came in packets. Perhaps they were cigarettes or a candy of some kind. Maybe a cough drop. She imagined the sharp smell of tobacco and the clean, astringent scent of camphor. When she was at summer camp years ago, she had been terribly homesick. For some reason she couldn’t remember, the camp nurse had given her cotton balls soaked in camphor. Remembering the smell made her feel small and sad. Camphor and gray wool army blankets. She’d hated the rough blanket, so unlike the soft blue one on her bed at home. One night she’d kicked off the sheet and become entangled in the coarse gray wool. Somehow she hadn’t been able to free herself from the gray wool cocoon and she’d screamed and screamed until the counselor had finally come. The counselor was huge and fat and unfriendly and made her feel small and helpless. The counselor had laughed at her and Lucy had perversely held on to the wool blanket. In her dream she had waited to be free of it; now she held on to it for protection. Now she smelled the sooty, chemical smell of an automobile’s exhaust. It was a comforting, familiar smell and she wanted to yield to it, to the great throbbing sensation of the automobile motor, but she knew she mustn’t. She must fight to stay awake. She felt warm fur on her face as if the cat had curled up to sleep there. The cat began purring softly and then louder and louder until it sounded like one of Bill’s power saws. Lucy’s heart began beating faster and faster; it was pounding within her chest and she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were bursting and she finally fought her way free of the suffocating covers. Gasping and gulping for air, she realized she was sitting up in bed. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat and she was shaking with fright. She put her hand to her forehead to push her hair back and realized that her hair was soaking wet. It must have been a nightmare; there was nothing to be afraid of. Bill was lying there beside her, sound asleep. She took a deep breath and tried consciously to relax her arms and legs the way she had learned in Lamaze class. She really ought to get up and go to the bathroom if she wanted to be comfortable, but she was afraid to leave the safety of Bill’s side. The thought of walking alone through the dark, silent house terrified her. Instead she turned on her side and curled against him, spoon fashion, to try to go back to sleep.