by Leslie Meier
“I’ll do it. Take care, now.” Lucy closed the door and started washing up the dishes. It didn’t take long for her to tidy up the little house, folding the afghan on the couch, straightening Eddie’s bed, and giving the bathroom and kitchen a quick wipe. She wanted it to look nice for Marge when she returned.
Then she had Eddie pack up some toys and they drove over to the Stillingses’ house. Pam opened the door for them, smiling her huge smile and welcoming them in a voice that could probably be heard in Alaska.
“Hi, Eddie,” she shrieked. “Adam’s playing in the living room.”
“What did you tell him?” she whispered loudly to Lucy as Eddie made his way down the hall.
Lucy shrugged and smiled apologetically. “I’m operating on a ‘need to know’ basis. I told him his dad had an accident, he’s in the hospital, and that his mother’s with him. I told him she’d be home this afternoon. I tried to keep things as normal for him as I could.”
“Good.” Pam nodded approvingly. She belonged to a generation that took their children’s mental health as seriously as their temperatures. “It’s best to let Marge decide how much to tell him. Just as long as he doesn’t think the accident was his fault.”
As she spoke, Pam gave up trying to whisper and her voice rose to its usual piercing decibel. Lucy had often thought Pam’s loud voice, and her understanding of child psychology, were the remnants of her brief career as a nursery school teacher.
“The most important thing,” she said, concluding her lecture, “is to maintain his usual routine. Children find that very reassuring.” She moved aside so her husband could get through the door.
“Hi, Lucy. Good-bye, Lucy,” said Ted. The two women watched him stride down the path toward his car, his reporter’s notebook sticking out of his back pocket and his camera bag slung over his shoulder.
“Ted’s been so excited, having a big story,” confided Pam. “There’s never even been a murder in Tinker’s Cove before this. Ted says the police are very suspicious about Barney’s accident.”
“You mean someone tried to kill him?”
“That’s what they think. After all, Barney had driven that route at least once a day for fifteen years or more. There’s no way he could have made a wrong turn. And the car had just had a complete overhaul, so they’re certain it wasn’t a mechanical failure. They think it must have been attempted murder. First Sam Miller and now Barney!”
“I was thinking the same thing,” admitted Lucy. “Well, you can read all about it in The Pennysaver.”
“I will,” Lucy promised, giving Pam a wave.
* * *
As she drove home Lucy wondered about what Pam had said. Ted generally had a pretty good idea of what was going on in Tinker’s Cove. After all, he was the editor, publisher, and chief reporter for the weekly paper that featured ads, coupons, and local news. In Tinker’s Cove news generally came from two sources: the town hall and the police and fire departments. Ted covered it all, sitting through interminable evening meetings of the school board, the finance committee, the zoning board of appeals, and the selectmen. Nobody knew more about town politics than he did. Whenever the police and fire departments were called, Ted was there, writing up the automobile accidents, chimney fires, and petty crimes that had been all that filled the log books until now.
The last violent crime in Tinker’s Cove had happened in 1881 when a hired man killed Mrs. Flora Kenny with an ax he happened to be holding in a dispute over wages. He had been chopping wood at the time. Immediately overcome with remorse, he’d obligingly hanged himself in the apple orchard. At least, that’s how the story went. Anyway, it had happened a very long time ago.
Ted had written a feature story about the Tinker’s Cove ax murder, and Lucy had enjoyed reading it. It had seemed more like fiction than fact, until she’d stumbled on the grave of Flora Kenny, “Beloved Wife and Mother,” in the cemetery one day last summer. Flora had been real, just like Sam and Barney. The difference was that Flora had been killed in a fit of temper. Whoever killed Sam and tried to Barney had been cold and calculating.
On the other hand, thought Lucy, pulling into the driveway, you couldn’t be sure. Perhaps Barney had hit a patch of black ice. The road to Barrow’s Light was notorious.
As she braked, she saw Bill’s father carrying a load of suitcases and bags to his car.
“You’re not leaving already?” Lucy protested.
“I’m afraid so. I’ve got work tomorrow, you know.”
“Tomorrow’s Monday. I’d forgotten. I was hoping we’d have a longer visit.”
He grunted as he lifted a heavy suitcase. “We’ll be back soon. Edna’s got some crazy idea about cross-country skiing. Probably break her leg.”
Bill senior stood back to admire his packing job. Even though his large sedan had a huge trunk, he prided himself on getting the bags stowed perfectly.
“It’s just like walking,” Lucy reassured him.
“At our age, even walking is risky,” he complained. “One slip and you’re out of commission with a broken hip.”
“Excuses, excuses,” Edna chided, advancing with a shopping bag of Christmas loot. “You’re just lazy.” She turned to Bill, taking the bag he was carrying for her. “He just wants to stay home and play with the VCR.”
“We’ll send you lots of videos, I promise, but we’d love to have you stay longer.”
“I’m hoping I can pry him loose Presidents’ Day weekend. I’ll threaten him with the coat sales.” Edna laughed and gave Lucy and Bill each a peck on the cheek.
They stood arm in arm, watching the salt-stained car disappear down the driveway. Feeling suddenly weary, Lucy leaned against Bill for a moment, luxuriating in the knowledge that he was there to support her.
“Tough night?” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her.
“Not too bad. What’s up here?”
“Not much. The usual day-after-Christmas mess.”
Entering the house through the back door, Lucy was relieved to see that her mother had the kitchen firmly in hand. She had just started the dishwasher and was wiping the counters.
“Did you have breakfast? There’s some stollen,” she told Lucy.
“I cooked a huge breakfast for Eddie, but I forgot to eat any myself. I’d love some stollen, and a big glass of milk. Don’t bother, I’ll get it.”
“No, go on in and sit down. I’ll fix it for you.”
Lucy stepped carefully over the Christmas presents that were scattered across the floor and collapsed on the couch, propping her feet on the coffee table. Toby was too engrossed in his video game to do more than say, “Hi, Mom,” but the girls shrieked and jumped up as soon as they saw her. They perched on either side of her and showed her their favorite new Barbie outfits. Lucy sipped her milk and chewed her cake, watching Bill as he cleaned out the fireplace. For once she didn’t feel compelled to clean up the Christmas mess; she’d do that later. For now she was positively enjoying the disorderly house, her children, her mother, and, most of all, her husband.
* * *
Christmas week passed in a blur. The children were busy with visits to friends and excursions to the movies and the ice-skating rink. Lucy kept in touch with Marge, but the news was always the same. Barney’s physical condition continued to improve, but he remained deeply comatose. Marge brought in newspaper articles that she thought would interest him and read them aloud; she even read Peanuts to him. She took in photographs of Eddie, and she played his favorite Jimmy Buffett and George Thorogood songs on a portable tape player, but he remained stolidly unreachable.
On New Year’s Eve Lucy drove her mother to the airport. They went alone, partly because Lucy didn’t want another long wait with the children in tow, but also because she wanted a chance to talk with her mother.
“How are you doing?” Lucy asked as they drove along the highway. “I don’t want your polite answer, I want to know how you’re really doing.”
“Well, I don’t like the way things
are, but I’m all right.”
“I was very worried about you when you came. You seemed so depressed.”
“I almost didn’t come,” admitted the older woman. “I was afraid it would be too painful. But there’s so much going on at your house that I forgot to worry.”
“What do you worry about?”
“Everything! The car, the house, the furnace, the roof. I’ve never had to think about those things before. What if something breaks?”
“Just call the plumber or the mechanic,” Lucy sensibly advised.
“But the expense,” her mother protested.
“You’ve got plenty of money. I think you’re really worried about yourself—whether you can cope without Daddy.”
“I miss him so much. I still expect him to walk through the door at five-thirty every night.”
“I keep seeing men who remind me of him,” confided Lucy. “I’ll be in a parking lot and I’ll see a man who holds his head a certain way, or who has a cap like Daddy used to wear, or a red-and-black plaid jacket. For a second I’ll think it’s him. Then I remember, and I feel so sad. It must be much worse for you.” Lucy glanced at the shriveled figure beside her.
“It’s awful. But I know I’ve got to pick up and get going. Maybe I’ll volunteer at the Red Cross or something.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lucy encouraged.
Helen managed a shrug and a wan smile. When it came time to board the plane, Lucy gave her an awkward hug and stood watching as her mother made her careful way through the gate, never turning to look back.
Later that night, Lucy and Bill went out to a movie, and on the way home they stopped at a package store and bought a bottle of champagne. The inexperienced babysitter hadn’t been able to get the kids to bed, so they all sat together on the couch and watched TV, counting down as the ball dropped at Times Square. Lucy gave the kids tiny liqueur glasses of champagne, and they felt very grown-up as they drank a toast to the new year.
On New Year’s Day Lucy, Bill, and the kids watched the Tournament of Roses parade and took down the Christmas tree. With the tree gone and the presents put away, the house suddenly seemed much bigger. Lucy was looking forward to Monday, when life would return to normal. Bill would go off to work, Toby and Elizabeth would ride the yellow bus to school, and she would drop Sara off at nursery school. Then she would take down the Christmas cards and decorations, she would clean out cupboards and drawers, she would prepare the house for the long winter ahead.
Chapter Nineteen
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The cleaning frenzy began as soon as Lucy had the house to herself. She scrubbed the bathroom, mopped the kitchen floor, and changed all the beds. She sorted through the kids’ clothes and toys, bagging up the outgrown and tossing out the worn, torn, and broken. She took all the cushions out of the chairs and sofas and found crumpled foil candy wrappers, a small plastic Toto figure, and eighty-seven cents in change. She didn’t know what to do with the Christmas cards, so she bundled them together and tucked them away in the bottom desk drawer. The washing machine and dryer hummed steadily in the background as she cleaned and tidied the old farmhouse. She tossed out last year’s magazines, unearthed the lemon oil and rubbed the antiques until they gleamed, and replaced the battered old poinsettias with fresh house plants.
On Wednesday morning she was on her knees in the kitchen, emptying the cupboards so she could replace the lining paper. When the phone rang she rose awkwardly to her feet and stepped carefully around the pots, pans, and small appliances that were spread out on the floor.
Expecting the caller to be one of her neighbors, she was surprised when a deep male voice said, “This is Man for Hire.”
“What?” said Lucy, noticing that there was quite a thick layer of dust on top of the wall phone.
“You answered my ad,” the voice growled. “Man for Hire.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, realization dawning. “Man for Hire. How nice of you to call. And so punctually, too,” she added, noting that the Regulator read precisely nine-thirty. “That’s important, I think. Punctuality is desirable in this matter.”
I sound like a fool, thought Lucy. This is harder than I thought. I’ve got to get to the point.
“I’ll get right to the point,” she said, unconsciously repeating herself. “The reason I need your services is that I’m not happy with my husband.”
“That’s not an unusual problem, ma’am,” rumbled the voice. “If you employ me, you will find that I make every effort to satisfy. I never let my ladies down.”
“You work only for women? Isn’t that odd?” asked Lucy.
“I only swing one way, ma’am. If you want more variety, you’ll have to get somebody else.”
“Variety? What do you mean? I give you the picture, you do the job.”
“Ma’am, you must be looking for a hit man. I provide other services.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, color rising to her cheeks. “I’m not interested in that, but thanks for calling.”
She put the receiver back on the hook and stood looking at it as if it would suddenly leap off the wall and attack her. Then, holding her sides with both hands, she slid onto the floor, sputtering with laughter.
Pulling herself together, she checked the clock. Her conversation with Man for Hire had taken only a few minutes; it would be at least twenty-five minutes before the next call. What was his name? She couldn’t remember. In fact, it seemed eons ago, almost another lifetime, that she and Barney had sat together at the kitchen table answering the ads in Modern Mercenary.
At exactly ten o’clock, the phone rang. Lucy took a deep breath, and while she waited for the second ring she rehearsed what she planned to say. She picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”
“Lucy, this is Dave Davidson. I didn’t wake you up, did I?” As minister, Dave knew that a lot of the women in the parish who worked the night phones at Country Cousins took naps at odd times during the day.
“No, Dave, I’m up and about. But I am expecting an important call. Could I call you back later?”
“This will only take a minute.” Dave spoke in quiet, measured tones. “Can you host the coffee hour on March twentieth?”
Lucy sighed. “I guess so.”
“Good. I’ll put you down. You’ll get a reminder the week before.” His voice was very sincere as he added, “Thank you. Go in peace.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, wondering how it was that whenever Dave Davidson asked her to do a favor, she ended up thanking him. She had no sooner replaced the receiver than it rang again. She snatched it up, reminded herself to calm down, and said cautiously, “Hello.”
“Pest Control here.”
“Thank you for calling. I have a job and I wonder if you’d be interested.”
“Pest control’s my business, ma’am,” said the voice, chuckling.
“Well, the pest I want removed is my husband,” said Lucy.
“It usually is.” The voice sounded resigned. “It’s sad, really. Marriage isn’t what it used to be.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any alternative. Divorce is out of the question.”
“Of course. A direct route to poverty.”
“Absolutely,” Lucy agreed. “My husband has quite a lot of life insurance.”
“How nice. You’ll be able to maintain your current lifestyle. It’s really a shame to spend all that money on hiring a professional when you could do it yourself.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea about how to kill someone,” Lucy said indignantly. “That’s why I want to hire you.”
“There are definite advantages to doing it yourself,” the voice informed her, sounding like a friendly hardware salesman. “Wives have so many opportunities; the average home is full of dangers th
at can be fatal to the unsuspecting husband.”
“Really?” Lucy was incredulous.
“Absolutely. A slip in the bathtub, a short circuit in the hair dryer, cyanide in the Tylenol, there’s even the bad mushroom, although that is a bit old-fashioned. If you would just give it some thought, I’m sure you could come up with a surefire method. After all, nobody knows him better than you.”
“Is this what you advise all your clients?” demanded Lucy.
“Well,” the voice admitted, “you’re actually my first client.”
“Then you aren’t the man I’m looking for,” said Lucy. “I’m looking for someone with experience.”
“I understand,” the voice said mournfully.
Lucy replaced the receiver, feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland. Had she really had this conversation? “Curiouser and curiouser,” she muttered to herself as she opened the undersink cabinet and got to work.
When the phone rang at ten-thirty, Lucy was sitting at the kitchen table, relaxing with a cup of coffee and a piece of toasted raisin bread.
“This is Bad Guy,” announced the voice. “Have you been a naughty girl?”
“No, but I’m thinking of doing something very naughty,” she said in a playful tone. “Are you interested?” This was sort of fun.
“I’m always interested when little girls are naughty,” affirmed the voice. “I bring my own paddles, whips, and chains.”
Lucy slammed the receiver on the hook and stood leaning on the counter, afraid her legs wouldn’t support her. This was too much. And the worst part was that she couldn’t tell anybody about it. Sue would love this. Lucy just couldn’t believe these things really went on. Did they? Was it all make-believe? Did grown-ups really do this stuff? What was the world coming to? She wondered if she would ever be able to look at people in quite the same way.
When eleven o’clock came and went and the phone didn’t ring, Lucy was relieved. Although the house was cleaner than it had been in months, every surface gleaming and twinkling in the bright winter sunlight, she knew it was largely an illusion. Decades’ worth of dust was packed into every crack and seam, impossible even for the vacuum to suck out. She washed her hands and face, combed her hair, and carefully applied lipstick and eyeliner. Her face in the mirror looked the same as it had yesterday, but she felt different somehow. She remembered hearing as a teenager that once you lost your virginity it showed in your face. When she had finally gone all the way with an earnest second-string soccer player during freshman year of college, she was both relieved and disappointed that she couldn’t see any change in her features. Grabbing her bag and keys, she decided to take Sara out for lunch at Jake’s Donut Shop. It would be a treat for Sara, and she wanted to get away from the telephone for a while.
