by Leslie Meier
Chapter Twenty-Three
#4263 Handmade by a native Maine craftsman, this earthenware jam pot is decorated with a charming blueberry design. Complete with wooden spoon. $18.
In Maine the winter sun is very bright, and on Friday morning it poured through the kitchen windows, turning the oak table into a golden pool. The three children were sitting with their backs to the window; the morning sun seemed to give them halos. Lucy was not impressed.
“Eat your oatmeal,” she advised them.
Bill bounced into the room, humming a little tune, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat down at the table and took a spoonful of sugar, spilling some on the table.
“Do you know you always do that? Whenever you fix your coffee, you spill a little sugar. I’m always wiping up after you,” Lucy said meanly.
“Gee, I didn’t realize. I’m sorry,” said Bill, raising an eyebrow and reaching for a corn muffin. He broke the muffin open with a knife, scattering crumbs on the table as he buttered it liberally. Then he compounded the mess by dropping a large blob of marmalade on the table.
“Look what you’re doing!” said Lucy. “Haven’t you ever heard of plates!” She picked up the muffin and plopped it on a plate, then carefully wiped off Bill’s patch of table. “I have to do everything,” she complained. “I work until one in the morning and then nobody helps. You just make messes and leave them for me to clean up.”
“You’re right,” placated Bill. “I just wasn’t thinking. We’ll all try harder to be nice to Mommy, won’t we, guys?”
The children nodded solemnly. They were wisely keeping silent this morning.
“Tell you what, Lucy. I’ll leave a little late and drop Sara off at preschool for you. How’s that?”
“It’s no good,” Lucy grumbled. “I have to go out anyway.”
“Oh? I was thinking you might like to have a second cup of coffee and some time to yourself. Maybe read the paper? Have a relaxing bath? Take some Midol?”
“I have to take Marge to the hospital.”
“Oh,” said Bill in the tone of one who sees light dawning.
“Don’t say it,” Lucy warned. “You think I’m just irritable because I hate going to the hospital. That might be true, but you have to admit you’re awfully messy.”
“I know,” admitted Bill. “But you usually don’t mind.”
“I do mind. You’re going to have to try harder. I can’t work and do all the housework, too.”
“Of course not,” Bill agreed. “I solemnly swear I will change my ways from now on. I will faithfully strive hence forward to be neat and clean, especially at certain times of the month.” Then he added, “You don’t have to see him, you know.”
“I can’t just drop Marge off and go shopping or something.” Lucy was horrified.
“You could. You hate tubes and things, you know you do.”
“Well, I’ll just have to be brave. He’s a friend.”
“Marge would understand.”
“I’d hate myself.”
Bill nodded and picked up his plate and mug. He carried them over to the sink and rinsed them. Then he placed them carefully in the dishwasher.
“Do I pass inspection, Sergeant?”
Lucy laughed. “Get out of here.”
An hour later she was waiting in her car outside Marge Culpepper’s house. The engine was running, the radio was playing, and she was tapping the steering wheel nervously.
Marge climbed in beside her, squeezing her large self onto the small bucket seat.
“You can slide the seat back—it will give you more room.”
“You can’t be serious about this seat belt, Lucy. Nobody has a waist this small.”
“Toby does.” Lucy smiled. “He’s a stick. How’s Barney?”
“The same.” Marge sighed.
“What do the doctors say?”
“Well, they say there’s more brain activity. That means he could wake up pretty soon. But I don’t know. He looks just the same. He’s hooked up to all sorts of machines. It’s been an awful long time.”
“Less than two weeks,” Lucy said.
“Seems like forever,” said Marge. “I don’t know how I’d have managed if it wasn’t for Dave.”
“Dave Davidson?” Lucy was surprised.
“Yeah,” said Marge. “To tell the truth, I never really liked him a whole lot before. I guess I thought he was kinda cold, but he’s really given me a lot of support. He drives me to the hospital, and talks with me about Barney. He even talks with the doctors for me.”
“Hmm,” said Lucy. “How’s Eddie doing?”
“Pretty good.” Marge sighed. “He spends a lot of time with his friends. I haven’t brought him to the hospital. I didn’t want him to see Barney like this.”
“Is he all ready for the Pinewood Derby on Sunday? Did he get his car made?”
“He’s been ready for a while. In fact, he and Barney finished up the car on Christmas Eve.”
“He’s way ahead of Toby. He’s still got to paint his and put on the wheels. He wants to paint it the Cub Scout colors—blue and yellow.”
Marge chuckled softly, then fell silent. Now and then Lucy tried to make conversation, but Marge didn’t seem interested in chatting, so Lucy gave up. All too soon they arrived at the hospital. Together they walked through the automatic doors and down the long maze of hallways to the intensive care unit.
“Do you want some time alone with him?” asked Lucy.
“No. Actually, I’m supposed to meet Dave in a few minutes. You go on in. He always enjoyed your company. I’ll be over at the chapel.”
Standing alone outside the door, Lucy wondered what Marge meant. Surely she didn’t think that Barney . . . that she and Barney were more than friends, did she? But Marge had always been completely straightforward, never one for double entendres, Lucy thought to herself, and pushed open the door.
Barney’s room was bright with sunlight and full of flower arrangements; a young nurse was bustling around straightening the sheets and checking the indicators on the machines that flanked the bed. All of which served to distract Lucy—for a few minutes at least—from the figure lying there. When she finally did look at Barney, she was startled to see that his eyes were wide open. Unseeing, it seemed, but wide open.
“His eyes are open,” said Lucy.
“That’s right,” said the nurse. “He opened them yesterday. He’s also been moving his arms and legs.”
“Is that normal?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, yes. Actually, they’re signs of progress. He’s coming closer to consciousness. One of these days someone will walk through the door and he’ll say ‘Hi’ just as if he’d never been unconscious.”
“Really?” asked Lucy.
“Really.” The nurse smiled. “Isn’t that right, Barney? There’s more going on in that coconut of yours than people realize, isn’t that so?” She spoke to Barney, looking directly into his eyes.
“Can he hear you?” Lucy was doubtful.
“We think so,” said the nurse. “People who come out of comas tell us that there’s a long period during which they can see and hear others but can’t speak themselves. He’s making excellent progress, and the doctors think he’ll begin speaking any day now. I’m just going to put the radio on, and then, I’ll get out of here. If you need anything, ring the call button.”
“Okay,” said Lucy, taking off her coat and sitting on the orange plastic chair the hospital provided for visitors.
“So, you can hear me, Barney. At least I hope you can. Well, I don’t know where to begin.”
She looked cautiously at Barney’s face but found his open eyes unnerving. A tube snaked out of his nose, an electrode seemed to be glued to a shaved patch on his skull, and an IV machine blinked at the head of his bed. A bag of yellow fluid hung from the bed rail; Barney had been catheterized. Lucy immediately averted her gaze, turning back to his face.
“Poor Barney, this is a hell of a mess. They say you’re doing
real well, though. Poor Marge is so worried about you, and Eddie, too. He’s a good kid, Barney, and he really misses you.
“Oh, shit. You know all this stuff. I know you’re working hard to get well as fast as you can.”
Unable to sit any longer, Lucy got to her feet and paced back and forth between the window and the door. “I’ve been getting some phone calls lately, Barney. The mail-order murderers all called.” She couldn’t keep from smiling.
“Boy, was that a stupid scheme.” Her face got red as she remembered the phone calls, and she looked at Barney to see if there was a response. But he seemed the same as before.
“If I’d been interested in weird sex, those guys were more than willing,” she continued. “But I don’t think any of them killed Sam Miller. Only one of them seemed like a real professional killer.” She shrugged. “I guess it was a silly idea.
“Barney . . .” Her voice rose. “If you could just tell me what happened the night of the accident, it would be an awful big help. What made you swerve? A gunshot? A bright light? I have an idea,” she said, dropping her voice and leaning closer to him.
She looked up, startled, as the door opened and a tired-looking Marge entered the room, along with Dave Davidson. The three of them stood awkwardly together in the small room.
Lucy smiled. “Hi, Dave.”
He nodded but didn’t speak to her, and Lucy thought briefly of Mr. Shay, the minister of the church she had attended as a child. Mr. Shay had been a round, jolly man who made everyone feel at ease. Dave Davidson was tall and thin, and he had a permanent slouch. Through years of counseling sessions he’d developed the habit of helpful listening and rarely initiated a conversation himself. Lucy had no doubt that this technique was useful in helping troubled souls focus on their problems, but it did little to smooth the course of social exchange, especially in uncomfortable situations in places such as hospital rooms or even in the vestibule after church services. Dave’s attentive gaze always reduced Lucy to profound speechlessness, and as he himself did little but proffer his limp white hand, Lucy routinely scooted past him after church on Sundays.
As she stood there today she felt the familiar urge to flee. But first she had to tell Marge the good news.
“Marge, look! Barney has opened his eyes. The nurse says one of these days he’ll just start talking as if nothing happened. Isn’t that great?”
Marge and Dave didn’t react with the joy she had expected. In fact, they seemed to be waiting for her to leave. Lucy was only too happy to oblige.
“I think I’ll get some coffee. You can find me in the coffee shop whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks, Lucy.”
“See you downstairs,” Lucy said as the door swung shut. But she couldn’t help wondering why Marge wasn’t as overjoyed about Barney as she was.
Chapter Twenty-Four
#1005 Tater Chips are made from native Katahdin potatoes grown in Maine. Carefully sliced and kettle-cooked in 100% soybean oil, these chips are favorites everywhere. Three pounds in a decorative tin, $5.99.
Lucy stood for a moment looking at the door that had just been closed so firmly; then she shrugged and began walking down the corridor to the elevator.
The snack bar was bright and cheery; it was staffed by volunteers, mostly retirees, who enjoyed playing waitress one or two mornings a month. The food was delicious and reasonably priced. Lucy treated herself to an egg salad sandwich, something she loved and rarely bothered to make. Taking her tray, she sat down at a table in the corner and ripped open the little bag of potato chips that came with her sandwich. From her table she had a clear view of the hospital lobby and as she ate, she enjoyed watching the passing parade.
She wasn’t surprised when she saw Ted Stillings come into the snack bar. He checked in frequently at the hospital for the “Hospital News” column in The Pennysaver. Seeing her wave, he came over to her table, carrying his roast beef sandwich and chocolate shake.
“Hi, Lucy. You here to see Barney?”
“It was my turn to bring Marge.” She brightened. “The doctors say he’s making excellent progress.”
“That’s great news.” His long, solemn face lit up in a big smile and he scratched his crew cut thoughtfully. “That accident of his is driving the cops crazy. They’ve gone over that cruiser with a microscope, but they can’t find any sign of tampering or mechanical failure. They just can’t believe Barney would go over the cliff there by accident, he knew the road too well.”
“Black ice?”
“He would have allowed for it and known what to do. He’d gone to all the special cop driving classes. They all say he was a terrific driver.” Ted leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Lucy, do you think he might have tried to kill himself?”
“No, not Barney. On Christmas night? You can’t be serious!” Lucy exclaimed.
“It’s a possibility,” insisted Ted. “People do commit suicide, you know.” He took a big bite of pickle. “It’d be a hell of a story. I could use a hot story right now.”
“I thought Sam Miller’s murder was a big story for you.”
“It was. My original article got picked up by The Boston Globe and The New York Times.” Ted offered this news shyly, much as Toby might show her a paper his teacher had marked “A.”
“That’s terrific! Congratulations!” Lucy was genuinely excited for Ted.
“It was great,” said Ted. “I thought it would be a nice opportunity for me. I love Tinker’s Cove and all, but I’m a little tired of small-town news. All those meetings. Last night I was at the school committee until midnight. They couldn’t decide if they should cut the late bus or not. They debated for hours. I can’t help wondering if I’d like a big-city paper more. I was hoping the Sam Miller story would develop into something.” He shrugged. “But it never did. Nobody knows who killed Sam Miller, or why.”
“I think I do,” said Lucy. “And I think the same person tried to kill Barney.” She sat back and waited to see his reaction.
Ted was skeptical. “Tell me more.”
“Well, the person I’m thinking of had motive, means, and opportunity. Isn’t that what a suspect has to have? My suspect has all three.”
“Go on.”
“This person is very ambitious. He comes from a very poor background, but he educated himself and got a good job at Country Cousins. I think he realized he’d gotten as far as he was going to go as long as Sam Miller was in charge. Appearances counted a lot with Sam—just look at his wife and his car—and he’d never let this man crack the inner circle. On the other hand, the guy I suspect is good buddies with Tom Miller. His chances are much better with Sam gone.”
Ted smiled. “What about means?”
“A piece of hose? That’s not hard to come by. And this man does have a gun—I checked. He could have fired a shot and startled Barney so he went over the cliff. I think the way these crimes were done, kind of at arm’s length, goes along with this guy’s personality.”
“I’m beginning to think you might be on to something.”
“And he had lots of opportunity at Country Cousins. He saw Sam all the time. And he doesn’t have a family, at least not a family that would miss him if he was out Christmas night.”
“You’re talking about George Higham,” said Ted, putting down his chocolate shake.
“You think he did it, too.” Lucy was excited.
Ted shook his head. “George was one of the first suspects. The police investigated him thoroughly. They decided he couldn’t have done it.”
“Why?” Lucy demanded.
“I forget exactly,” said Ted. “I think he was someplace else and could prove it.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing,” insisted Lucy. “He probably arranged an alibi. I’m surprised Horowitz fell for it.”
“Horowitz is a pro,” Ted reminded her. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“If I could find some link between George and Barney, if I could show that Barney was so dangerous to George that he
had to kill him, they’d have to investigate George again, wouldn’t they?”
“Hang on a minute, Mrs. Stone. This is real life. You have a husband and kids. If he did kill Sam and tried to kill Barney, he’s very dangerous. You’d better mind your own business.”
“You sound just like Bill.”
Ted chuckled. “It goes with the territory. The worst thing about getting older is that I sound just like my father. It hit me one day. I was telling Adam to take out the garbage and I suddenly realized I’d had the exact same conversation—from the other side—thirty years ago. He stood and picked up his tray. “I’ve gotta go. Paper goes to press this afternoon and I wouldn’t want to leave out Mrs. Reilly’s gall bladder operation.”
“Last week, The Times . . .” sympathized Lucy.
“This week the hospital news,” Ted finished for her. “Don’t remind me.” He paused. “You know, Lucy, I think I will stop by the barracks and have a word with Horowitz. It might be worth taking another look at George.”
“Really?” Lucy brightened.
“You never know. If you’re right, it’d be a hell of a story. Say hi to Bill for me.”
Lucy watched Ted cross the lobby and disappear through the doors. A few minutes later Dave Davidson appeared, alone. Lucy’s eyes followed him as he paused for a moment and felt his hair with tentative fingers. Other people ran their hands through their hair, they tossed their heads, they tucked a lock of hair behind an ear, thought Lucy, but Dave Davidson explored his. Evidently reassured, he continued on his way to the parking lot. A few minutes later a flustered-looking Marge Culpepper appeared. Lucy waved to her and was horrified to see Marge burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-Five
