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Lucy couldn't get Donna Didrickson out of her mind as she ducked the raindrops and hurried back to her car. Who did Donna Didrickson think she was, anyway, to go around deciding that Jennifer Walsh wasn't socially acceptable? The Walshes had lived in Tinker's Cove for over a hundred years. In fact, she realized as she passed the Civil War memorial on the school lawn, at least five Walshes were listed on that very piece of carved granite.
She chuckled, thinking of the irony of the situation as she started the car. After all, her conversation with Donna had taken place during Team Day, an event specifically designed to break down social barriers among students. But while the teachers were working to get the kids to look past their differences and to appreciate each other for their strengths, Donna Didrickson had been busy drawing social distinctions. Jennifer Walsh was poor, so Jennifer couldn't be friends with Davia.
The more things change, she mused as she drove down Oak Street, the more they stay the same. What would Donna Didrickson do if Davia fell in love with a black man, or an Asian? A Jew? Would she disown her the way Judge Tilley had disowned his daughter?
That must have been quite a scene, thought Lucy, remembering Judge Tilley's stern visage in the painting that hung over Miss Tilley's mantel. With that hawk nose, those piercing brown eyes and that thin line of a mouth, he didn't seem like a man you would want to cross. He looked, she had to admit, like a very unpleasant fellow. A man who probably didn't smile much, considering those long lines that ran from each side of his nose to the corners of his mouth.
Funny, she thought, as she waited for a break in traffic so she could join the line of cars snaking down Main Street, that face reminded her of someone. But who? She knew she'd seen someone recently who looked remarkably like the judge, but a kinder and gentler version. Someone with the same coloring, the same brown eyes, but someone who hadn't been afraid to smile.
Sherman Cobb, she realized, just as a driver flashed his brights at her indicating he would let her into traffic. She gasped, grabbing the steering wheel tightly and making the turn. It was definitely Sherman Cobb.
Sherman
Cobb. Chap Willis had told her that when his parents adopted him, the one condition they'd agreed to was to name him Sherman. This couldn't be a coincidence, thought Lucy. Sherman Cobb had been related to the Tilleys. No wonder he'd been so interested in the Battle of Portland and the mayor, George Washington Tilley. He was a Tilley, probably the judge's illegitimate son. No wonder the judge had taken such an interest in him and had even left him money for his education.
She was pursuing this line of thought when taillights flashed red in front of her. She slammed on the brakes, but it was too late and she smacked into the car ahead of her with a jolt. Seconds later, she felt the impact when the car behind her smashed into her rear.
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Miss Tilley's eyes opened. Her heart was pounding, she realized. She must have had a fright. Probably just a reaction to the shock of transferring from one mode of being to another. Shuffling off your mortal coil must certainly take a toll, not to mention the ascent to the heavenly sphere. She felt sorry she'd missed it. Had it been rapid, like the thrusting ascent of the space shuttle, or had angels gently guided her through the firmament?
A distant crash made her muscles tighten, and then she heard another. That must have been what woke her, she realized, with a sense of annoyance. What was all that crashing and banging? She certainly hadn't expected heaven to be this noisy. Choirs of angels, of course, cherubim and seraphim, but not all these thuds and bumps.
The other place? Her jaw dropped at the idea. She quickly reviewed her life. Not possible, she decided, unless there'd been some sort of administrative mistake. It would no doubt be cleared up. The Creator certainly wouldn't tolerate slipshod bookkeeping and neither would Saint Peter. Where was he, anyway?
“You could get off your lazy butt and help me!”
Oh, dear. Not at all the sort of thing you expect to hear in heaven. And that voice was so familiar. It sounded like Shirley, but of course, it couldn't be. Not dear Shirley. Besides, Shirley was much younger than she and quite hale and hearty. What would she be doing in the hereafter? No, she was back on earth, most likely attending to the funeral arrangements. What a shame she couldn't be there, but of course, you couldn't attend your own funeral.
She heard a door open and turned her head, expecting to finally see Saint Peter. Instead, she saw a heavyset, bearded man in black clothing decorated with chains.
She was in the wrong place! She would most certainly have to straighten this out.
“She's awake, Ma!” yelled Snake.
Julia wanted to speak up, to clear up this confusion, but discovered she couldn't make a sound. Her body simply would not work. Not surprising, she decided, considering her situation. No doubt there was some other form of communication. A higher form. She'd soon get the hang of it.
There was a quick patter of footsteps and Shirley's face floated above her.
“There's my good girl,” cooed Shirley, straightening the covers and tucking them in.
So, she wasn't dead yet. She was alive, in her own bed. She was quite comfortable, but she was very thirsty. She wanted to ask for water and struggled to speak. All she managed to produce, however, was a faint groan.
Shirley's response was to shove a pill into her mouth. It felt like a cotton ball, sitting on her swollen tongue. Next came a splash of water and she took it greedily. She heard Shirley set the glass on the table and then the door closed.
The pill, she realized, was still on her tongue. It hadn't gone down. She didn't want to risk choking on it, so she spat it out. She'd try again later when Shirley came back. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but lie there and wait, listening to the banging and crashing. Whatever were they doing? It sounded as if they were searching the house.
Her vision was clearing, she realized, as the crack on the ceiling above the bed came into focus. She glanced around her bedroom, wondering what time it was. What day was it? The shades were down, but it didn't seem very bright outside. Dusk?
A sudden grating, dragging sound startled her. They must be up in the attic, going through the trunks. Whatever could they be looking for?
Her gaze fell on her bedside table. The daffodils Rachel had put there in a vase had withered and dried up. She must have been lying here for days, she realized, spotting the glass of water. She wanted to reach for it and, to her surprise, her arm responded. She could move her arm.
It took great concentration and she was quite clumsy, but she finally managed to wrap her fingers around the glass. Her next task would be bringing it back to her lips. It seemed to take forever, but finally she was able to rest the glass on her chest.
Focusing her eyes on the glass, she slowly lifted her head and tilted back the glass. She spilled some, but she got a good swallow or two. Then, exhausted, she let her head fall back on the pillow and the empty glass slipped from her hand and rolled off the bed onto the scatter rug.
Chapter Twenty-four
T
he rain, which had been little more than a light drizzle, turned into a downpour when Lucy hauled herself out of the car. She wasn't hurt, and a quick glance at the Subaru's front end didn't reveal any damage. Miraculously, the car she hit, an older-model Jeep, didn't seem to have any damage either.
She pulled her hood up over her head and went round to the back of her car; it seemed to be fine, too. But when the driver of the little Hyundai that had hit her reversed a few feet, the bumper fell to the ground and dragged along, making a hideous scraping sound.
Other drivers who were stuck behind them were honking impatiently, and Lucy realized that traffic would be blocked unless they moved their cars.
“Why don't we just exchange names and addresses and get out of here?” she suggested to the driver of the Jeep, a young woman with curly blond hair.
“Okay,” agreed the woman. “I don't have any damage that I can see, and I want to get home before the kindergarten bus.”
“Not so fast,” said the driver of the Hyundai, a middle-aged man Lucy recognized from the IGA, where he worked behind the meat counter. “I've got damage here. I say nobody moves until the cops get here.”
“But we're holding up traffic,” said Lucy. “We'll give you all our info and you can just pull into this parking spot right here until the tow truck comes.”
“I don't care about traffic, I care about my car,” grumbled the man. “Women drivers!”
“Hey,” said Lucy, feeling her hackles rise. “You hit me, you know.”
“Well, you hit me,” said the woman. “But I did hit the brakes kind of suddenly when I saw a pedestrian in the crosswalk. We all should have been more careful, with the rain and all.” She pulled a cell phone out of her purse. “I'll see if my neighbor can meet the bus.”
They could already hear a siren and see the flashing lights of an approaching police cruiser. Lucy went back to her car to get her registration card, and when she joined the others, they were already talking to one officer. A second was directing traffic.
“Officer Wickes,” she exclaimed, reading his nameplate. He seemed impossibly young, with red hair and a freckled face. “This is lucky.”
They all looked at her as if she were crazy.
“It's just that I've been trying to reach him for quite a while,” she explained. “I have a question, but we can take care of that later.”
“Let's step under this awning and get out of the rain,” suggested Wickes. “I have to fill out an accident report.”
The awning provided some protection from the rain, but it was still dank and cold. Lucy was shivering by the time Wickes began questioning her.
“Your license expired three months ago,” he said, carefully examining her documents.
Damn, she'd forgotten all about renewing the darn thing. Even worse, she'd already been cited once and it would certainly show up on the computer when he ran her license number.
“I know,” she said, adding a huge sigh. “But my husband's been sick and I've been real busy lately and I haven't had a chance toâ”
He waved away her explanation. “Don't waste your breath. I've got to cite you. But I'm going to put the accident down to the rain and road conditions. That way it's nobody's fault, nobody's insurance goes up.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, taking the fistful of papers he was giving her.
“If I were you, I'd get that license taken care of today.”
“Good idea,” said Lucy
He was turning to go when she remembered her unfinished business.
“Stop!” she shouted.
He turned slowly. “There's something else?” he asked.
“I understand you were on duty the night of March seventeenth. Do you remember anything unusual that night?”
The young officer gave her a curious look. “March seventeenth was weeks ago, before I went on vacation,” he said. “How am I supposed to remember?”
“It was the night the egg truck crashed.”
“That was unusual,” said Wickes. “Nastiest thing I've ever seen.”
“What I mean is, was there anything else unusual that night?”
He'd taken a step or two backward, getting some distance between them.
“No. Lady, I don't remember anything more unusual than the egg truck. Now, I've got to get back to work and you've got to get your license renewed. Have a nice day.”
“Right,” muttered Lucy, hurrying back to the shelter of her car. She'd got rear-ended and would probably be wearing a cervical collar tomorrow for whiplash, she'd gotten a second citation for her expired driver's license and it was raining. Having a nice day didn't really seem to be in the cards. Especially if she added in Bill's accident and Toby's problems at school.
She drove along Main Street to
The Pennysaver
office in the next block, but there were no empty parking spaces at all. Not a nice day, not a nice day at all, she decided, driving around the block to the municipal parking lot behind town hall.
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“Honey, you look like something the cat wouldn't even bother to drag in.”
Lucy gave Phyllis a dirty look. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”
“Are you having a bad day?” asked Phyllis, adjusting her cardigan and settling in for a listen. “Why don't you tell me all about it?”
“I wouldn't know where to begin,” said Lucy, removing her sodden coat and hanging it on the coat stand. “I think I'll just try to put it all behind me.”
Phyllis smoothed her ruffled feathers and replaced her half glasses. “Well, if you need a sympathetic ear, I'm here.”
Lucy started to answer but Phyllis held up a chubby finger tipped with orange nail polish and reached for the ringing phone. “It's for you,” she said, transferring the call.
Lucy waited for her phone to ring, then picked up. She didn't recognize the soft, breathy voice on the other end of the line.
“This is Ginger North, returning your call.”
Lucy's mind was blank.
“From Maids to Order.”
“Oh, right. You're the one who cleans Cobb and Goodman, right?”
“Right. I've been away in Florida. My mother's getting on and she needed some help. But now I'm back home, for a while, anyway.” There was a pause. “I hope it'll be a while, but I really don't know. She's so stubborn. She keeps firing her helpers, says they're stealing her blind. I just don't know. I'd like to move her up here, but my husband refuses to let her live with us and she doesn't want to come anyway. I don't know what to do.”
Lucy thought of Miss Tilley. She didn't know what to do either.
“I know how hard it is,” said Lucy. “All of a sudden you've got to be your mother's mother.”
“You said it,” agreed Ginger. “And then I came back and found out Mr. Cobb had died. I swear you could have knocked me over with a feather. He was such a sweet man. Very obliging, grateful for everything you did for him. And he always gave me a very generous Christmas check.” There was a pause. “Of course, I would have liked him anyway. Isn't that the way it is, though? The ones who are difficult and picky give you last year's fruitcake and the ones who are sweeties give you a big tip. Somehow it ought to be the other way round.” Again there was a silence. “I can't believe he killed himself.”
“The police say that's what happened, but Bob Goodman has asked me to investigate. He doesn't believe it was suicide.”
“But if he didn't kill himself . . .” began Ginger, interrupting herself with a gasp.
“Someone must have murdered him,” said Lucy, finishing the sentence. “That's why I wanted to talk to you. You may have been the last person to see him alive. Do you remember anything at all unusual that night?”
“He died that night? After I left?” Ginger's voice had gotten louder; she was practically shouting.
“Did you notice anything? Did he seem anxious or distracted?”
“Not a bit. He talked about this battle reenactment, the Battle of Portland, I think it was. He was looking forward to that. You know they wear costumes and pretend to be Civil War soldiers. He got a lot of enjoyment out of that.”
“He was working late?”
“Sometimes he did, you know. When he had cases coming up. He said he'd be burning the midnight oil, getting ready for circuit court.”
“That doesn't sound like a man who was planning to kill himself. Did he have any visitors?”
“No. He was by himself when I left. He told me to have a safe trip and to call him if I needed any legal advice. I'd told him I wanted to make sure my mother's affairs were in order, and he'd told me what I needed to do. He was great that way. Never charged me a cent.”
“You didn't see anyone at all? No extra cars in the parking lot, for example?”
“That reminds me. I did see a motorcycle.”
Lucy stiffened and her grip on the receiver tightened.
“In the parking lot?”
“No. On the road.”
Lucy's interest ebbed. Even if it had been Snake, there was no evidence he had gone to Cobb's office.
“Did you recognize the rider?”
“No. It was dark, of course. I just saw the lights and heard the motor. Very loud. It kind of startled me because you don't usually see anybody on the road that time of night. It was one o'clock in the morning. Nobody's out and around then except me, and sometimes I see a cop car parked out by the interstate exit. That's it.”
“So it was just a typical motorcycle rider with a big helmet? '
“No, come to think of it. He wasn't wearing a big plastic helmet. He had on one of those small ones like Hell's Angels wear, and I thought he must be pretty stupid if he thought his beard was going to protect him in a crash.”
Lucy's spine tingled.
“He had a beard?”
“Yes. A big, bushy one. My headlights picked it up. And there was a coiled snake on the back of his jacketâI saw it when he turned by the Quik Mart sign. That sign gives off quite a bit of light, you know.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy.