Authors: Leslie Meier
Valentine Murder (8 page)
“No, Mom. This is cyberspace. For all he knows, B.Boobs lives in Norway.” Toby clicked away at the keyboard. “That's a good ideaâI'm going to put in something about fjords.”
Lucy watched as the reply appeared on the screen:
Do girls in Norway wear bras?
Do girls in Norway wear bras?
No, typed Toby, sending the girls into gales of laughter.
“Stop it! Right now! I can't believe your father and I spent thousands of dollars on a computer just so you can talk dirty with some weirdo,” complained Lucy. “Anyway, I want you to find a website for me.”
“Sure, Mom. What do you want?”
“I've got it here.” Lucy consulted a slip of paper. “Three âw's, a period, then âm-e-l-o-t-t-o', another period and âc-o-m'.”
Toby clicked the mouse a few times and typed in the letters. “Here it is.”
“Just like that?” Lucy was impressed.
“Sure. Here, take the mouse. You can click around and find what you want, okay?”
“What if I make a mistake?”
“You can't,” shrugged Toby. “Just keep clicking. I'm going to get something to eat.”
Lucy took his seat. Hesitantly, she tried moving the mouse. A little arrow zoomed across the screen. She pointed it at “About the Maine Lottery Commission” and clicked. Nothing happened.
“It's not working.”
“Put the arrow on the letters,” advised Sara.
Lucy adjusted it and clicked. A picture of lottery headquarters appeared.
“Look at that!” Lucy was impressed again, and waited for more. Nothing happened. “Is this all I get? Just a picture?”
“See the little arrow in the corner? Put the mouse there and hold it down.”
Lucy followed Sara's instructions and text appeared, explaining the lottery's creation by a vote of the state legislature. Soon she was pulling up tables of sales by towns, average return to vendors, prize awards by town and county. She grabbed a pencil and started noting the information down on a piece of paper she extracted from the printer.
Toby returned and stood beside her, chewing on a sandwich. Lucy smelled peanut butter.
“You don't have to do that,” he said. “You can print it out.”
“I can?”
“Sure.” Toby clicked the mouse a few times and the printer began humming and spewing out sheets of paper.
“Wow,” Lucy said, awestruck. “I didn't know it could do this. This is amazing.”
Toby patted her shoulder sympathetically. “You'll be okay, Mom. It's just âfuture shock'.”
Future shock . . . that was a good term for it, thought Lucy. Pleased as she was with the results of her Internet research, thanks to the kids she'd discovered that there was a definite downside to computers. Thinking of the various board members, she didn't think they would be as enthusiastic about putting the library on-line as Bitsy was. While she thought the kids' explorations of the Internet were harmless enough, even if they were a waste of time, she didn't think Ed or Gerald or Miss Tilley would agree. They certainly wouldn't want the town's youth to have access to the uncensored information available on the web.
But, she thought as she collected the sheets of paper from the printer, computers weren't the sort of issue that led to murder. Or were they?
Tomorrow, she decided, she'd pay a visit to Hayden's shop and see about those tankards. And since she was going to be there anyway, she might as well ask Hayden about Bitsy's relations with the board members.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean,
Together
They licked the platter clean.
His wife could eat no lean,
Together
They licked the platter clean.
I
t was almost three o'clock on Saturday afternoon before Lucy got away for an hour or two of antiquing. But when she pulled open the heavy pine door, she discovered that Northcross and Love was not the type of antiques shop she was used to. There was no clutter of dusty, mismatched objects covering every available surface, no display cases crammed with bits and pieces of china and glassware and jewelry. Instead, a few highly polished pieces of furniture, carefully spotlighted, were arranged to suggest a homelike setting. A Queen Anne dining table stood on a tastefully faded Oriental rug with a Canton soup tureen serving as a centerpiece. Above it, a gleaming brass chandelier held at least a dozen hand-dipped candles. It had not been converted to electricity; that would undoubtedly be considered heresy by the shop's clientele, who apparently took their antiques very seriously indeed.
t was almost three o'clock on Saturday afternoon before Lucy got away for an hour or two of antiquing. But when she pulled open the heavy pine door, she discovered that Northcross and Love was not the type of antiques shop she was used to. There was no clutter of dusty, mismatched objects covering every available surface, no display cases crammed with bits and pieces of china and glassware and jewelry. Instead, a few highly polished pieces of furniture, carefully spotlighted, were arranged to suggest a homelike setting. A Queen Anne dining table stood on a tastefully faded Oriental rug with a Canton soup tureen serving as a centerpiece. Above it, a gleaming brass chandelier held at least a dozen hand-dipped candles. It had not been converted to electricity; that would undoubtedly be considered heresy by the shop's clientele, who apparently took their antiques very seriously indeed.
Lucy turned the tag on one of the chairs arranged around the table and gasped when she saw the price was fifteen thousand dollars.
“Can I help you?”
Lucy looked up and saw Hayden standing in a doorway that led to the back of the store.
“LucyâI didn't recognize you! This is a nice surprise.” He was smiling warmly and seemed genuinely glad to see her. “I didn't know you were interested in antiques.”
“I am, but I'm afraid you're a little bit beyond my price range,” she said.
“We cater to serious collectors,” said Hayden. “In fact, most of our business is through the computer and our customers are scattered all over the country.”
“I had no idea,” said Lucy. “I do most of my buying at flea markets and auctions.”
“You can still find nice things, but it's getting harder. Are you interested in anything in particular?” He cocked his head, and looked at her over his half-glasses. In a Harris tweed sport coat, bow tie, and tasseled loafers, Hayden was the very picture of a country gentleman.
“Yesterday I saw two pewter tankards in the window, but I notice that they're gone.”
Hayden was crestfallen. “I just packed them upâthey're going to California. If I'd known you were interested I would have let you know.”
“I probably couldn't have afforded them, anyway. Do you mind telling me . . . ?”
“Not at all.” He smiled sympathetically. “The pair went for twenty.”
“Twenty dollars?” Lucy's hopes revived.
“Twenty thousand.”
“Oh.”
“You're new to pewter?” inquired Hayden.
“Very newâI don't know much about it at all. It's not for me. I'm looking for a gift. For Miss Tilley, in fact. I thought she might like having something like Josiah's Tankard.”
“That's a lovely idea.” Hayden nodded in approval, and his bald head shone in the intense light from the overhead spots. “Is it her birthday? I should send a card.”
“No.” Lucy couldn't resist the urge to confess to this pleasant man. “I had a disagreement with her, about Bitsy. I want to give her the tankard as an apology.”
“Miss T. never approved of Bitsy.” He clucked his tongue. “It was classic, really. She ran the library for more than thirty years. She didn't want to retireâthe board really had to force her out. It was very difficult.” He gave a little shudder. “It was obvious that the job was getting to be too much for her, but she simply would not admit it.”
“I know. I remember when she had that awful accident and nearly killed Jennifer Mitchell. She kept insisting it wasn't her faultâshe wanted to keep on driving!”
Hayden shook his head, amazed at this example of the foolishness of the older generation. “Lucy, my partner and I usually have a coffee break around nowâwill you join us?”
“Sure,” agreed Lucy with a big smile. “I never say no to coffee.”
He led her to a surprisingly modern and efficient office area in the rear of the store where a tall, lean man in a plaid shirt and jeans was pounding on the buttons of a fax machine.
“Ralph, stop abusing that machine,” said Hayden. “There's someone I want you to meet.”
Ralph turned, revealing a ruggedly handsome face that reminded Lucy of Gregory Peck in his early movies.
“Ralph, this is Lucy Stone. She's a fellow sufferer on the library board.”
“I'm pleased to make your acquaintance,” drawled Ralph, brushing a lock of black hair out of his eyes and extending a huge hand to Lucy.
“Same here,” said Lucy, grasping his hand and finding it pleasantly warm and strong.
“Take a seat,” invited Hayden, setting cups on a Formica table. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Just black.”
“Good for you. I can't resist adding cream, even though I shouldn't.” Hayden patted his round little tummy.
Lucy sat down and shrugged out of her coat.
“Let me take that,” said Ralph, hanging it up on a coat rack and then taking a seat beside her.
Hayden joined them, setting a plate of homemade blueberry muffins in the center of the table. Ralph helped himself to a huge one and passed the plate to Lucy, who shook her head and passed it along to Hayden.
“You're missing something special,” said Ralph with a wink as he spread a generous pat of butter on his muffin. “Hayden makes great muffins.”
“I wouldn't bother, except Ralph enjoys them so. And he never gains a pound, lucky devil.”
“Not me,” said Lucy, who had struggled to lose the twenty extra pounds she had gained when she was pregnant with Zoe and wasn't about to put back on. “I have to watch every calorie.”
Ralph shrugged and reached for another muffin. “You know, you haven't made popovers in a dog's age,” he said, turning to Lucy and indicating Hayden with a glance. “His popovers are even better than his muffins.”
“I'm awfully glad he didn't,” said Lucy, taking a sip of coffee. “I can never resist popovers.”
“With homemade strawberry jam . . . ” began Ralph.
“Stop!” yelped Lucy in mock distress. “I can't stand it! I guess I will have a muffin.”
“So, Lucy,” began Ralph, his tone now serious. “What do you think of all this business at the library?”
“I don't know what to think,” admitted Lucy. “I've only been to one board meeting.”
“Heck of a meeting,” he said, busying himself with buttering another muffin.
“Now, Ralph, don't discourage Lucy,” said Hayden. “That's the first time we've ever actually had a murderâalthough I must admit we've come close a few times.”
Lucy smiled at his joke. “I heard that the board was planning to fire Bitsyâis that true?” asked Lucy, nibbling on her muffin.
Ralph snorted and Lucy looked up sharply in surprise.
“I'm afraid Ralph doesn't have a very high opinion of some of the board members,” explained Hayden. “But this is the first I've heard of any plan to fire Bitsy. I mean, I know Miss Tilley loathed her, but I don't think she could get the necessary votes. Staff changes take a unanimous vote. I wouldn't have voted to fire her, and neither would Chuck.” He paused and looked at Lucy. “What about you?”
“No.” Lucy's voice was firm.
“Maybe that's why she was killed,” drawled Ralph.
Lucy's eyes met Hayden's. “Do you think one of the board members is the murderer?” she asked.
“It's crossed my mind,” admitted Hayden, “especially after Horowitz gave his little speech. What I can't figure out is when any of them had the opportunity. She must have been killed just minutes before you discovered her, and we were all together then.”
“That's not quite true,” Lucy reminded him. “It would only have taken a minute or two, you know, and both Ed and Gerald told Horowitz they left the group.”
“What did I tell you?” demanded Ralph, pounding the table with his fist. “I told you my money was on Ed.”
“Don't pay any attention to him,” Hayden told Lucy. “He and Ed have never seen eye to eye. They have some . . . uh, philosophical differences.”
“Right,” agreed Ralph. “I'm civilized and he isn't.”
Lucy smiled. “He is pretty crude, but that doesn't make him a murderer. And Gerald may be every bit the gentleman, but he was also away from the group for a few minutes.”
Hayden nodded. “He said he went into the reference room to get the gavel for the meeting,” he explained to Ralph.
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Ralph. “But did either of you actually see him holding the gavel?”
“I didn't,” said Lucy.
“Neither did I,” said Hayden.
“Well, there's your suspect,” announced Ralph.
“He's just joking, you know,” Hayden hastened to tell Lucy. “I've been on that board for a long time. I know them all pretty well, and I honestly can't picture any of them shooting her. No matter what Ralph thinks, they really are a pretty decent bunch. They've all donated hours and hours of time to the library. I really think it must be something to do with Bitsy's personal lifeâafter all, we knew very little about her except as the librarian.”
“The problem with that is that she doesn't seem to have had any sort of a life at all. Kept herself to herself. At least, that's what her landlady said.”
Ralph looked doubtful. “Everybody has some sort of private life. Everybody.”
“Maybe we're overlooking the obvious here,” said Hayden. “I finally got to read that article you and Chuck were talking about, about violence against librarians, and it said most of the violence was related to a robbery, either computers or some valuable artifact or other.”
“But nothing was taken,” protested Lucy.
“Maybe she discovered someone attempting a robbery. They killed her and then got frightened.”
“That could be,” agreed Lucy. “When I went downstairs all the art supplies were spilled, as if she'd been startled, or maybe even in some sort of struggle.”
“That's awful,” said Hayden, looking rather pale and turning his mug around in circles. “I didn't know that. Bitsy must have been terrified.”
The three fell silent, staring at the table. Finally, Ralph voiced what they were all thinking.
“Winter in New England. It looks beautiful but it's brutal. And this winter's been especially bad. Right about now a lot of people are probably getting pretty desperate. The little they managed to save over the summer is gone and they don't have money for heating oil and food . . . and there are still a couple of months of cold weather ahead.”
It was true, thought Lucy. Poverty was prettier in the country, where it was hidden away in the woods and tucked behind weathered clapboards, but it was every bit as terrible. She remembered the days when it had been a struggle to pay the bills and keep the children warm and fed. One winter, when there was no work, she and Bill had borrowed money from his folks. They were lucky. Without the elder Stones to help them out, they would have had to accept welfare and go to the food pantry in the cellar of the community church, like so many others. And now, welfare reform was literally leaving a lot of people out in the cold, forcing them to do whatever they could to survive.
“A robberyâthat's probably what happened,” she said, reluctant to pursue such a depressing subject further. A change of subject was definitely called for. “Now, before I go,” she asked brightly, “where can I find a tankard?”
“Lucy was interested in those pewter tankards we had in the window,” said Hayden. “She's looking for a gift for Miss Tilley.”
“Not that I could have afforded those,” Lucy hastened to add.
“They are extraordinary,” Ralph told her. “A matched pair, impeccable provenance, superior craftsmanship, great age. They're worth every penny.”
“I'm sure they are,” said Lucy. “I had no idea pewter is so valuable. I guess I'll just send flowers.”
“You could,” agreed Ralph, with a shrug. “Not that they'll last very long. The poor things will simply wither under her gaze.”
“You're probably right,” said Lucy, laughing. “Pewter would definitely be more durable.”
“You can find nice pewter around here quite reasonably,” offered Hayden. “I saw an interesting piece at that placeâthe Treasure Trove. I meant to go back and check it out.”
“He's right,” agreed Ralph. “Good stuff does turn up now and then around here. You know how the town got its name, don't you?”
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