Christmas Card Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I understand how you feel, and I’ll be happy to pass your concerns along to our editor. If you’ll give me your name . . .”

  “Sure. Jack Borowitz,” he declared, going on to give her his phone number. “I’d like to give that idiot Ted Stillings a piece of my mind.”

  Lucy smiled, since this was a sentiment she sometimes shared, and jotted down the information. “Thanks for your call.”

  The phone lines were still alight, but Lucy leaned back and sighed. Turning to Phyllis, she asked, “How long has this been going on?”

  Phyllis removed the headset and rubbed her temples. “Ted posted the letter around ten this morning. It was from a retired prosecutor who’s been researching old trials and said the Ratcliffe case deserved another look, and the calls started coming in right away, just a few. But as word spread, they started coming faster and faster.”

  “If we don’t answer, what happens?”

  “I guess they’ll go to voice mail, after ten rings.”

  “That’s what we have to do. We can’t spend the entire day taking calls. I’ve got stories to write and deadlines to meet. What did Ted have to say?”

  “He went over to the courthouse, he’s digging up the transcript of the trial. He wants to do a reprise, he calls it.” She rolled her eyes as the phones continued to ring. “I think he wants you to interview the prosecutor.”

  Lucy remembered how high emotions had been during the trial, how extra security had to be provided for Ratcliffe when anger seemed to overtake the county, simmering in the summer heat and threatening to boil over. “Well, that’s his decision, but I don’t think it’s wise. The parole hearing is bad enough for Sally’s family, I don’t quite see why he has to rake this all up again.” She stared at the phone, willing it to stop ringing. “It was bad enough the first time.”

  “Amen,” said Phyllis, replacing the headset. “I’ll take as many calls as I can, the rest will have to go to voice mail. Can you work with all this ringing?”

  “I’ll have to,” said Lucy, realizing she would have to postpone her investigation of Dorcas Pritchett’s circle of friends. The next few weeks were going to be very busy, what with the Ratcliffe parole hearing coming up, in addition to the usual increased workload covering holiday events and celebrations. She was going to have to wait to satisfy her curiosity about Dorcas and “GB,” whoever he was.

  At five o’clock precisely, Phyllis threw down the headset, powered off her PC, and stood up. “I’m done,” she said, grabbing her green-and-red–plaid coat and jamming her Santa hat on her head. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy. The constant ringing had stopped, but calls kept coming in steadily, which Lucy ignored. “I’m almost done here,” she said. “I’m just finishing up this story. I’ll turn out the lights and lock up.”

  “I just hope some angry reader doesn’t torch the place,” said Phyllis, grabbing the door and setting the little bell to jangling.

  When she was gone, leaving Lucy alone in the brightly-lit office, Lucy suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable, as she was clearly visible through the large plate glass windows. No point in inviting trouble, she thought, getting up and closing the old-fashioned wood venetian blinds. Then she sat back down, wrote a few sentences to finish the Christmas card story, and after a quick read to check for typos, she sent it to Ted’s file. Then she shut down her computer, bundled herself up in her winter clothes, and paused by the doorway, making sure everything was in order. The coffeepot was off, the computer screens were dark, one of the phones was ringing. She ignored it, set the lock on the door, flicked out the lights, and made sure the door was closed tightly behind her.

  As she walked down the street to her car, she checked her phone, noticing calls from Ted and Rachel. She figured Ted was going to assign her to interview that prosecutor, so she called Rachel first.

  “What’s up?” she said when Rachel answered.

  “Meeting tomorrow to set up the toy giveaway. Ten o’clock at the church.”

  Lucy groaned. “I don’t think I can make it. Things have exploded at the paper.” She had a sudden inspiration. “Hey, do you think you and Miss T can do some research for me? I found photos of Dorcas Pritchett with other high-school students and I wanted to try and track them down and see if any of them remembered her.”

  “That sounds perfect for Miss T, she’s just discovered Google. She began with her Christmas card list, looking for some addresses, and now she’s addicted.”

  “I’ll e-mail her the list tonight.” Lucy seated herself in her SUV and started the engine. “I’ll try to make the meeting, but no promises.”

  “I understand, Lucy. Take care.”

  She was driving down Main Street when her phone rang and she realized she’d have to face the music. “Hi, Ted.”

  “What have you been doing all day?”

  “Uh, dealing with the firestorm caused by that posting about the Ratcliffe parole hearing. The calls came in faster than we could answer them. Your voice mail is going to be full and I predict there’ll be a ton of angry letters, too.”

  “Fabulous!” crowed Ted. “It’s about time we got readers excited about something.”

  “Don’t you think playing this up is kind of mean to Sally’s family? It’s bad enough the Holmeses have to deal with the parole hearing, without all this to-do.”

  “We’re in the truth business, Lucy,” said Ted, defending his editorial decision. “Have you read the posting? It’s from this retired prosecutor. He makes some interesting points.”

  “I didn’t get a chance,” confessed Lucy.

  “Well, take a look at it and give him a call. He seems like an interesting guy and you can get a good interview from him.”

  “Righto,” grumbled Lucy. “Nothing says ‘Happy Holidays’ like digging up horrible crimes and possible miscarriages of justice.”

  “That’s the spirit, Lucy. Give ’em something to talk about at all those holiday parties.”

  * * *

  Lucy ended the call as she began the climb up Red Top Road to home, and purposefully banished thoughts of Sally Holmes and Philip Ratcliffe and shifted her thoughts to the remodeling project. She was eager to see what progress Bill had made, and as soon as she had parked the car, she dashed into the house, gave the dog a perfunctory pat on the head, and continued up the kitchen stairs to the second floor.

  Bill was in the bathroom, washing up, and she greeted him with a question. “How’s it going?”

  “Check it out,” he said with a satisfied smile.

  The door was closed, but when she opened it, she saw that the demo was complete. The wall between the two bedrooms was gone and the newly-created space seemed enormous.

  “Wow!” she said. “This is going to be great.”

  Bill came and stood beside her, nodding his head. “I agree.” He glanced around, assessing the space. “I’ve been thinking. Are you sure you don’t want a walk-in closet? A really fancy one would be a lot easier and cheaper than the master bath.”

  Lucy was crushed. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I think it would be a lot smarter to go with the closet. After all, the bathroom is just a few steps down the hall.” He nodded. “And what do you think about paint colors? Any thoughts?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t know.” She shook her head, confused. “It’s been a crazy day. I haven’t had time to think.”

  “Gee, Lucy, I’ve been slaving away here while you’ve been gallivanting around, too busy to even think about paint?” He gave her a look. “All you can think about is that Christmas card we found.”

  “That’s not true at all,” said Lucy, marching out the door. “For your information, I haven’t even had time to pee and that’s what I’m going to do right now.” She marched down the hall to the bathroom and slammed the door. What was the matter with the man? Why didn’t he understand her need for a private, personal bathroom apart from the one used by the whole family? A retreat. A place where she could take a long, soaking bath
without somebody knocking on the door, urging her to hurry up.

  Lucy didn’t even try to put on a happy face through dinner, but sulked and practically growled when Bill, obviously making an effort, complimented her on the pork chops. She left the table as soon as she finished eating, leaving the cleanup to Bill and Zoe. As she marched out of the dining room, she heard Zoe asking, “Is Mom sick or something?” She didn’t wait to hear Bill’s reply, but thumped upstairs to the guest room, where she closed the door and plunked herself on one of the twin beds and began thumbing through a tired Better Homes & Gardens magazine.

  She dozed off while reading an article about new trends in paint color, only to wake up around midnight and finding the other bed empty. Bill had apparently bedded down in the family room. She got up to pee, changed into her nightgown, and went back to bed, where she didn’t get back to sleep until the wee hours of the morning.

  When she woke at nearly eight o’clock, the house was empty; Bill had probably decided to get his breakfast at Jake’s Donut Shop, and she knew Zoe had an early class. Realizing she had the bathroom to herself, she indulged in a long shower and took her time drying her hair and even putting on a little bit of makeup. She dressed with special care, choosing a cashmere turtleneck and slacks instead of her usual jeans and sweatshirt. She looked great, she thought as she put on her pearl earrings, but she felt miserable. She hated fighting with Bill, and she suspected she had overreacted. Now she would have to make amends—and come up with a paint color.

  * * *

  It was a little past ten when she drove into town, passing the Community Church, so she decided to pop in and get some photos of the Hat and Mitten Fund volunteers preparing for the Christmas Free Store, which is what they decided to call the toy giveaway. Since she didn’t have time to volunteer herself, at least she could get some free publicity for the event. Even Ted couldn’t complain about that, since Pam was one of the volunteers.

  There was quite a lot going on in the basement meeting room as numerous folks from the community pitched in to hang holiday decorations, trim a tree, and attractively arrange the toys on tables covered with red or green cloths. The bicycles and wheeled toys were gathered in one corner, along with a huge inflatable Santa on a motorcycle.

  “Wow, this looks great,” she exclaimed, catching Sue, who was carrying a box of ornaments over to the tree.

  “So do you,” replied Sue, giving her an odd look. “Is something wrong, which requires making a good impression? Do you have to testify in court or something? Apply to refinance your mortgage?”

  “No.” Lucy wasn’t about to go into details. “I overslept and the house was empty, so I took some time for myself, that’s all.”

  “You should do it more often,” advised Sue. “But it is unsettling. You don’t quite seem like yourself.”

  “It’s really me. I’m here to take some pictures for the paper.”

  “Ah, trying to put off getting to work?” Pam laughed, joining them. “I heard it was a madhouse yesterday.”

  “It was pretty crazy, all because of the posting about the Ratcliffe parole hearing. Even after all these years, people are really upset.”

  “There was an awful lot of press coverage back then and emotions were running so high,” said Rachel, stepping down from a ladder after suspending some crepe paper streamers from a light fixture. “Bob says they should have demanded a change of venue, but Ratcliffe only had a public defender straight out of law school. The guy did his best, but was way in over his head.” She turned to Lucy. “Oh, by the way, Miss T found one of those kids in the pictures you sent. Well, Howard White’s not a kid anymore. He’s actually in assisted living at Heritage House, right here in town.”

  “That’s great,” said Lucy, her spirits lifting a bit as Rachel pulled a slip of paper with the information out of her pocket and gave it to her. “I’ll give Miss T a call and thank her. But first, I need you all to stand over by the inflatable Santa for a group photo.”

  “Everybody! Attention!” called Sue, clapping her hands. “We’re going to take a picture for the paper!”

  The volunteers dropped what they were doing and gathered around the inflatable Santa, and after asking a few people to move here or there, Lucy got a terrific photo that she figured Ted would run on the front page.

  “Thanks, everybody,” she said, “and stay put for a minute or two so I can get your names.”

  When she’d finished and was ready to go, Sue walked with her to the door. “Out with it, tell me what’s really going on,” she demanded in a lowered voice.

  “Oh, a spat with Bill. He wants to put in a walk-in closet instead of a master bath.” She paused, thinking. “Do you think he was talking to Sid?” Sue’s husband, Sid, had a thriving closet design business, which he claimed he had to do in order to keep up with Sue’s penchant for buying new clothes.

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll have a word with him.”

  “And he needs me to choose a paint color, which I haven’t had a chance to do.”

  “That’s easy. You want Hint of Pink.”

  “He’ll never go for pink.”

  “Tough. If you’re not getting your bath, you should definitely get your paint color.” She smiled naughtily. “Besides, Hint of Pink is a very flattering color. It will make your skin positively glow.”

  “Thanks!” Lucy gave Sue a hug. “You are a great friend.”

  Sue gave a little bow. “As Superman used to say, ‘Up, up, and away.’ I must go where I am needed, and that doll table definitely needs me.”

  As she made her way to the car, Lucy unfolded the slip of paper and checked the name. Then she refolded it and put it in her purse, wondering when she’d find the time to talk to Dorcas’s old classmate.

  Chapter Six

  The Pennysaver office was quiet when she opened the door, apart from the muted jangle of the little bell on the door. Phyllis was cool, calm, and collected this morning, dressed in a subdued blue sweater embroidered with sparkly-white snowflakes and matching snowflake earrings.

  “So the firestorm is over?” asked Lucy, looking about cautiously in case the phones were suddenly going to start ringing, or perhaps an irate reader was going to jump out of the morgue.

  “Yeah, things have definitely calmed down, but Ted’s after you to interview that retired prosecutor.”

  Lucy sighed as she shrugged out of her winter puffy and hung it on the coatrack. “Maybe if I keep putting it off, he’ll forget.” She sighed. “If it means so much to him, why doesn’t he do it himself?”

  Phyllis propped her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her hands. “What’s the problem? Why are you so reluctant to talk to this guy?”

  “I dunno.” Lucy sat down at her desk and swiveled her chair to face Phyllis. “It seems mean to keep this thing going. Ratcliffe got a life sentence—that should be the end of it, but instead, every ten years they’ve got to go through the whole thing again.”

  “But what if he’s innocent? That’s what Wilf says.”

  Lucy shrugged. She knew Wilf was Phyllis’s husband.

  “Or maybe he’s rehabilitated. That’s what prison is supposed to do, isn’t it? Maybe he’s truly remorseful and sorry for what he did. Doesn’t he deserve a second chance?”

  “I hope you don’t mean a second chance to abduct some other young girl,” retorted Lucy.

  “He must be getting pretty old, Lucy, and probably in poor health. There’s really no chance that he’d do it again, and that assumes he did it in the first place, which I’m not one hundred percent convinced he did.”

  Lucy’s jaw dropped. “You’re not?”

  Phyllis shook her head. “Not even when he was on trial. I remember thinking that if I were on the jury, I’d have a reasonable doubt. I think people were upset and wanted to punish someone, and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Well, then,” said Lucy, sounding defensive, “maybe you should go interview this prosecutor.”

 
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” said Phyllis, giving Lucy a smile. “You’re the ace reporter, and by the way, Ted also mentioned that the Girl Scouts are taking gifts over to Heritage House this afternoon and he’d like some photos.”

  “Now that’s news that’s fit to print,” said Lucy, her spirits rising as she swiveled her chair around and powered up her PC. Not only fit to print, but a visit to Heritage House would give her a chance to talk to Dorcas’s old classmate Howard White.

  * * *

  Lucy knew the girls wouldn’t get out of school until three, so it was close to three-thirty when she shut down her computer and drove over to the assisted-living facility on the edge of town. Heritage House was a modern building in a desirable setting, perched on a hill overlooking the cove. She’d timed it right, she discovered, as the girls were just entering the luxury-appointed main entry with its brass chandelier, plush sofas, and colorful Oriental rug.

  Felicity Corcoran, the activities director, greeted them and led the way to the dining room, where the residents were seated family-style at round tables enjoying tea and cookies. There was a vacant seat at each table, and these were quickly occupied by the Scouts, and soon the room was filled with lively chatter. When the greetings died down, Scout leader Betsy Wiggins signaled for the girls to gather at the front of the room, where they sang a few Christmas songs. When they reached the final verse of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” a costumed and fake-bearded Santa, obviously the largest member of the troop, appeared with a bulging sack and began distributing wrapped presents.