Authors: Leslie Meier
“Who knows? We’re all so new here, and I’ve been so busy, I haven’t really gotten to know the neighbors. If it wasn’t for the bake sale, I wouldn’t know anybody—but that’s not enough to go on, is it? I mean, anybody can bake something, right?” She paused. “I never saw any bruises, if that’s what you mean.”
“You live right next door. Did you ever see any other men around, when Fred was out?”
“Mimi having an affair? Oh, please.”
Mentally, Lucy put a big question mark against Frankie’s assertion that Willie’s husband had been carrying on an affair with Mimi.
“Did you ever see Mimi and Fred fighting?”
“No. They were pretty quiet, except for Preston and that obnoxious motorcycle of his.”
“You know, I worry about those boys. Are they doing okay without their dad?”
“I invited them for supper last night but they wouldn’t come. And Brad tried to get them to join him in tossing a basketball around but they weren’t interested.” Chris looked at her watch. “This is ridiculous,” she said, just as they heard the faint wail of an approaching siren.
“I guess we’re getting the full treatment,” said Lucy. “Sirens, fire trucks, ambulances, the whole works.”
“No wonder property taxes are so high,” fumed Chris.
The little message light on her phone was blinking when she finally got to the office. She’d walked over from Al’s Body Shop where she’d been informed that it would be at least two weeks, maybe longer, before her car was drivable.
“I bet your insurance will cover a car rental,” advised Phyllis, who was an expert in all matters pertaining to automobile insurance ever since her cousin Elfrida hit a moose a couple of years ago.
Picking up the phone to call her insurance agent, Lucy listened to the message. It was Bill, telling her the dog had been sick again. And again. So after she called the insurance agency, and learned she was indeed covered for a rental car, she called Scratch Westwood’s office and got an appointment. Then she worked on the events listings for a couple of hours before picking up the car and getting the dog.
“When did Libby have her last bowel movement?” inquired Scratch Westwood as he palpated the Lab’s abdomen. He was exactly as Frankie had described him: tall, with wire-rimmed glasses and a thinning fringe of hair. Personally, Lucy didn’t think he had much sex appeal but he was a big hit with Libby, who was grinning at him in doggy adoration.
“I don’t really know,” admitted Lucy. “Maybe yesterday morning.”
“Not last night or this morning?”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t think so,” said Lucy, recalling the dog had been unusually quiet the previous evening and hadn’t demanded to go out as she usually did.
“I’m going to take some x-rays,” said Scratch. “Has she eaten anything unusual lately? Chicken bones? Tin cans?”
Lucy chuckled. “No tin cans, but she did get hold of an old wallet.”
“Ah,” he said. “C’mon girl. Let’s take some pictures.”
Libby would have followed him anywhere, wagging her tail the entire time. Lucy sat in the waiting room, trying to think of a way to bring up Mimi’s murder so she could gauge Scratch’s reaction. But when she was called back to the examining room it was clear that the vet had bad news.
“I’m afraid she’s going to need surgery,” he said, showing Lucy the x-ray. “There’s something obstructing her intestines, “he said, pointing to a bright shape, “right here where the jejunum begins.”
“Is it risky?” asked Lucy, horrified.
“Well, there’s always some risk with an operation, anesthesia. It’s not risk free but there’s really no alternative. Whatever it is, we’ve got to get it out.” He patted her on the shoulder. “It’s pretty common, especially with Labs. They’ll eat anything they can swallow. Believe me, I’ve found some pretty weird stuff. The worst was a steak knife. Fortunately the dog swallowed it handle first. Otherwise…” he rolled his eyes, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“It won’t pass on its own?” suggested Lucy, ever hopeful.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
The house seemed oddly empty without Libby, which was ridiculous since there were four of them gathered around the table for a quick meal before they all went to the Friday night football game. Lucy wasn’t really in the mood—she was worried about the dog who hadn’t come out of surgery yet—but she couldn’t let Sara down. This was the official season opener, the traditional game against the Gilead Giants, and Sara’s debut as a cheerleader.
“Are you nervous?” asked Zoe, biting into her hot dog.
“Mostly excited,” said Sara, taking tiny bites of a dill pickle slice. “We’ve rehearsed so much I could do these routines in my sleep.” She paused. “At least I think so.”
“I’m sure you could,” said Lucy. “You’re going to be great. And the Warriors are going to beat the Giants, too.”
“In your dreams,” said Bill.
Receiving a glare from Lucy he amended his statement. “I meant the Giants always win, at least they have for as long as anybody can remember.” He smiled at Sara. “But the cheerleaders will be great.”
“Can I be excused?” asked Sara. “I need to put on my outfit.”
Lucy wished she’d actually eaten her hamburger, instead of shredding it into small pieces on her plate, but figured she was too nervous. “Okay,” she said, just as the phone rang.
Zoe got it, beating her sister to the draw. “It’s for you, Mom. It’s the vet.”
Lucy took the phone, thinking positive thoughts. Bouncy puppies in a field. Libby leaping up to catch a Frisbee. Apparently it worked because the word was that the operation had been successful and Libby was resting comfortably. “Great,” sighed Lucy, “thanks for calling.” Now she could concentrate on the game. Warriors smoothly executing shotgun plays. Warriors completing first down. Warriors rolling down the field like a machine. Warriors scoring. Cheerleaders turning somersaults as crowd goes wild.
Or not. At halftime the score was seven Giants and zip Warriors. Positive thinking apparently had its limits, thought Lucy, who was beaming with pride in any case as Sara and the other Tinker’s Cove cheerleaders took the field.
The girls were adorable in their red and white outfits, little tank tops and short skirts since the weather was warm. She held her breath as Sara was lifted to the top of a pyramid and then dove down into the waiting arms of her teammates.
“I don’t know why people pick on cheerleaders. It’s a sport in its own right—I mean, how many people can do that?” demanded Lucy.
“Not me,” confessed Bill as the girls cartwheeled across the field, ending up in a neat circle. Behind them, the band and color guard were filing on the field, preparing for the big finale.
“I’m going to be a cheerleader, too,” said Zoe, awestruck by her older sister’s transformation into a glamorous icon of femininity.
The band started playing, the color guard started marching around waving red and white streamers on poles, and the cheerleaders were dancing, showing off some fancy footwork, when the announcement came over the loudspeaker.
“We’ve just received word,” came the electronic voice, “that the Tinker’s Cove JV Warriors have won their game versus the Gilead JV Giants. The final score: Warriors fifteen, Giants six.”
The band stepped up the volume, the banner girls waved their poles frantically, and the cheerleaders went flying through the air as the crowd went wild.
“And hell’s freezing over,” said Bill, amazed.
Chapter 15
O
n Monday morning Lucy was unable to dodge the job of typing in the police and fire log. The log was extremely popular with readers, which Lucy found puzzling since it was nothing more than a chronological listing of calls to the police and fire stations for the previous week. It included items such as “Barking dog, Sycamore Lane, 10:27 p.m. Monday” and “Difficulty breathing, Shore Road, 7:12 a.m. Wednesday.” All names were deleted and only the most basic details were given, so Lucy was forced to conclude that the faithful readers spent the week puzzling over the cryptic notations trying to figure out who the barking dog belonged to. Okay, that was easy, the only dog on Sycamore Lane was a pit bull belonging to Tim Rogers, a former star of the Tinker’s Cove High School baseball team who didn’t hold a job but nevertheless was never short of cash. The more interesting question was which of his neighbors got up the nerve to call and complain, since Tim had a hot temper. Then again, she decided, maybe the readers saw it as a challenge, just like her parents used to approach the crossword puzzle in the Sunday
New York Times
. Some weeks, it took them well into Wednesday before they finished it.
Today, however, as she worked her way through the notations she noticed numerous calls reporting a vagrant. The first call was on the day before Mimi’s funeral, from someone on Parallel Street. Parallel Street ran behind Main and offered a back way into several parking areas including that of Marzetti’s IGA grocery store. This was followed by a call on Wednesday morning from Church Street and another later in the day from Blueberry Pond Road.
With a growing sense of excitement Lucy unfolded the Chamber of Commerce map of Tinker’s Cove and began tracing the various sightings of the vagrant, who she was now convinced was the homeless man. But when she finished she realized she hadn’t actually learned that much. She’d already discovered his camp in the woods between Prudence Path and Blueberry Pond so the fact that he’d been spotted several times in that area was no surprise and neither were the numerous sightings in the supermarket parking lot, where he apparently scrounged for food in the Dumpster. He seemed to spend most of his daytime hours on the move, popping up everywhere from the harbor to construction sites around town, even occasionally in the vicinity of the high school.
Eager to learn more, she dialed the police station, intending to question the dispatcher. Such conversations were against department policy, of course, but she figured it was worth a try and she figured she was in luck when Bobbi Kirwan answered. Lucy was well acquainted with Dot, the matriarch of the Kirwan clan who worked at the IGA, and her numerous offspring who all seemed to work in either the police or fire department. The new chief, in fact, was Dot’s oldest.
“Hi, Bobbi. How’s the new baby?” asked Lucy, referring to Bobbi’s nephew, Benjamin.
“Oh, Lucy, he’s sooo cute,” enthused Bobbi. “He’s started to smile and he’s got the whole family wrapped around his little finger. I mean, Mom and Aunt Janine were actually fighting yesterday over who was going to change Ben’s poopy diaper!”
“He’s lucky to have such a great family,” said Lucy, remembering lonely days as a young mother newly arrived in Tinker’s Cove when she didn’t quite know what to do with cranky baby Toby. She would have loved to have a few relatives squabbling over diaper-changing privileges.
“Yeah, but now the pressure’s on the rest of us. Mom wants to know when Jeff and I are going to get serious, as she puts it, and she keeps telling Mandy that it’s risky to wait too long before starting a family.”
“But you and Jeff aren’t even married,” said Lucy.
“At this point I don’t think Mom cares. She just wants grandbabies. The more the merrier.”
“So I guess little Ben is a troublemaker.”
“You can say that again,” laughed Bobbi. “Talking about troublemakers, I’m pretty sure you didn’t call just to chat about babies.”
“You found me out,” said Lucy. “Actually, I was going over the log and I noticed lots of calls about that homeless guy, the one who was found dead in the harbor, and I wondered if you took any of them.”
“Yeah. A lot of people called.”
“Did any of them have any contact with him? Did he threaten anyone or anything like that?”
“Not that I heard,” said Bobbi. “He just kind of hung around. One lady found him rooting in her garbage, another got scared when she noticed him lurking in the woods when she was hanging up her laundry. Stuff like that.”
“And what happened when the officers responded?”
“As far as I know he was always gone by the time they got there. Nobody got a chance to question him.”
“It seems like he was always on the move, probably trying to avoid getting arrested.”
“It’s too bad, because maybe we could have helped him. At least he would have had a bed for a night or two and some decent meals.”
“It almost seems like he didn’t want anybody to know who he was,” said Lucy.
“Well, he succeeded,” said Bobbi. “I’ve got to go, I’ve got calls coming in.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Lucy, aware that she was just being polite. Bobbi hadn’t really helped at all.
After she finished entering the police log in the computer Lucy edited some copy for Ted, then took another look at her story about the homeless man. She added the little information she’d gleaned from the police log and closed the file, uncomfortably aware that while she had plenty of
what
,
when,
and
where
she had no
who
, and more importantly, no
why
. Glancing over the printout of the log one more time, she stuffed it in her purse and got to her feet. “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” she told Phyllis. “I want to do a little investigating, see if anybody talked to that homeless guy. If Ted gets nervous about the copyediting tell him I can stay late.”
Phyllis’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you crazy? I’ll tell him you had a family emergency.”
“That’s true enough,” said Lucy, with a wry chuckle. “My family is in a constant state of emergency.”
Leaving the office, Lucy walked down Main Street to the IGA and cut through the parking lot to Parallel Street. There she decided a big old white Colonial with a gambrel roof had the best view of the Dumpster and knocked on the kitchen door. A plump woman with frizzy gray hair answered.
“Whatever it is, I don’t want any,” she said, before Lucy could introduce herself, “and I’m a lifelong Baptist and I’m not interested in becoming a Jehovah’s Witness.”
“I’m not selling anything,” laughed Lucy, “and I’m certainly not a Jehovah’s Witness. I’m Lucy Stone from the
Pennysaver
and I just wanted to ask you about the vagrant you reported to the police.”
The woman’s face softened. “Come on in,” she said, opening the screen door. “I’ve been washing windows and I’m due for a break. Would you like some iced tea?”
“That would be great,” said Lucy, taking a seat at the faux wood kitchen table. The wall behind the table was covered with framed studio photos of children and grandchildren, and the refrigerator displayed snapshots and samples of childish art work. “I thought I knew everybody in town but…”
“We moved here about six weeks ago,” said the woman, opening the refrigerator. “I’m Millie Monroe. My husband got transferred. He’s a regional manager for Northeast Bank.”
Lucy knew Northeast Bank had recently bought several smaller regional banks. A lot of local people resented the change. “He’s got a tough row to hoe,” said Lucy, accepting a tall glass of iced tea.
Millie shrugged. “He’s due to retire soon, anyway. Sugar?”
“No, thanks. This is great.” Lucy took a sip and put down her glass. “I’m working on a story about the homeless man and I wondered if you might have seen anything unusual?”
“Well, I think getting your supper out of a Dumpster is pretty unusual,” said Millie. “I was horrified. It really upset me. Nobody should have to live like that. But by the time the police got here he was gone.” She took a swallow of tea and turned to Lucy. “The officer told me there was nothing he could do. They said he wasn’t breaking any laws and it wasn’t a matter for the police.” She stirred her tea. “I couldn’t believe it. I told them he was obviously mentally ill and ought to be in a hospital or something but they said there was no reason to think he was crazy and if he wanted to live like that it was his choice. As if anyone would choose to eat garbage!”
“Did you see him after that?”
“Every day.” She stared out the window. “I found it very upsetting.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“I tried. I went out and called to him, asked him if he’d like a sandwich or a piece of pie, but he took one look at me and ran off.” She sighed. “Then I heard he drowned in the harbor. The poor man. I just hate to think of him all alone like that. He must’ve had a family somewhere, probably missing him and worrying about him.”
Lucy’s eyes wandered over the photo collection. “I keep wondering why he came to Tinker’s Cove. It seems a funny sort of place for a homeless person.”
“What will happen? Will they have a funeral for him?”
“Maybe your church could organize something,” suggested Lucy. “Otherwise, I think the medical examiner keeps the body for a year or so and then it’s buried in some sort of potter’s field.”
“I’ll do that,” said Millie. “I’ll call the pastor right away.”
“Well, thanks for your time—and the tea,” said Lucy. “I’ve got to be going.”
“Good luck with your story. I hope you find out who he was.”
At the IGA, Dot Kirwan wasn’t much help, either. “It was all we could talk about when we first noticed him,” she said. “It was disgusting, seeing him rooting through the trash like that. So the deli guy, Skip, started setting stuff aside for him, things like unsold pizza slices and leftover salad bar and sandwiches, things like that. Dented cans of juice and soda, I mean, there’s a lot of food here that gets thrown out anyway. Instead of tossing it in the bin, Skip would put it on a tray that he set out on a chair.”
“Did the homeless man take it?”
“Yeah, at least I think he did. You better talk to Skip.”
Lucy definitely planned to do that but first she wanted to ask Dot about Tommy. She remembered him saying he worked as a bagger at the store.
“Before I head back to the deli I want to ask you about Tommy Stanton.”
Dot shook her head, setting the wattles under her chin aquiver. “That poor boy.”
“What was he like when he worked here?”
“He was a real good worker. Had a lot of get up and go. You didn’t have to tell him every little thing, like some of the other kids who work here, if you know what I mean.”
“I know,” said Lucy, thinking of the tactics her own kids used to avoid chores. Toby was a master of the slow-down while Elizabeth preferred a more aggressive, confrontational approach that featured shifting disagreeable tasks to her younger siblings as in “Why do I always have to do the dishes and Sara never does?”
“Did he ever talk about his family?” asked Lucy.
“No. He was real quiet. I used to try to get him to talk. I’d ask him about football and school but he’d just say things were okay. That was his favorite phrase. Everything was okay.”
“But they weren’t,” said Lucy. Nothing in Tommy’s life had been okay. Not his family, not football, nothing.”
“I know,” said Dot, looking grief-stricken. “I should’ve tried harder to get him to open up.”
“Don’t blame yourself. I tried, too, but he kept it all inside.”
Dot glanced at the clock that hung in the front of the store. “If you’re going to talk to Skip you better hustle. His shift is up in five minutes and, believe me, he doesn’t stick around.”
“Thanks,” she said, heading for the deli counter in the rear of the store.
Lucy knew Skip; he’d sliced up many pounds of cold cuts for her through the years. He was a big, cheerful man who always had a smile for his customers.
“What can I get you today?” he asked, adjusting his white cap and snapping his rubber gloves.
“I just want some information,” said Lucy, “about that homeless guy. Dot tells me you were putting food out for him.”
“Just stuff that was going to go into the Dumpster anyway. I figured I’d save him the trouble of diving for it.”
“Did you ever talk to him?”
Skip shook his head. “I hardly ever saw him and then it was only his back. He was like one of those feral cats. You can put food out for them and they’ll eat it but if you try to pet them, off they go. He was just like that.”
Lucy thought it was an apt comparison. She figured Skip was talking from experience. “That was a nice thing you did. The lady in the house behind also tried to give him food.” She looked at the rows of meats and cheeses in the display case. “What a shame.”
“Yeah,” said Skip.
“How’d the investigating go?” asked Phyllis, when she returned to the office.
“It’s just tragic,” said Lucy, slumping into her chair. “So many people tried to help him. The lady in the house behind the IGA put out food for him, so did Skip. He’d take what they left but if they tried to talk to him he ran away.”
“Crazy.”
“Maybe,” admitted Lucy. “But I still think he came here for a reason.”
Phyllis slapped a stack of dummies on her desk. “This is the fall home and garden supplement. Ted wants you to check it for typos.”
“Today?”
“Yeah.” Phyllis was sympathetic. “It goes to press tomorrow.”
Lucy sat down at her desk and reached for the phone. She’d promised Willie that she would pick up the girls today but faced with the entire home and garden supplement there was no way she could do it.
As she expected, Willie wasn’t pleased. “This is so typical,” she fumed.
“Well, it was sprung on me at the last minute. I’d really appreciate it if you could get them today. I’ll pick them up tomorrow and Wednesday.”
“I guess that will be all right,” she said, adding a big sigh.
Lucy didn’t get home until almost eight, long after Bill and the girls ate dinner. But she was greeted by Libby, who was a bit unsteady on her feet but wagged her tail as enthusiastically as ever.