Part 4 (1/2)
”I can't really say-people's mail is confidential. Postal regulations.”
”How about a yes or no answer?”
”Okay. No to the Wilkersons.”
”But why? They're so cute.”
”Like I said, I can't elaborate. Regulations. But trust me. You don't want to look foolish, now.”
”Okay.” Lucy crossed the Wilkersons off her list. ”What about the MacDonalds? The people with the farm stand.”
Wilf s.h.i.+fted his weight from one st.u.r.dily booted foot to the other. ”Don't think so.”
”Oh.” Lucy crossed off another name. That left her with the Sturtevants.
”Oh, gosh, no!” exclaimed Wilf, vehemently.
”What? They seem very happy,” said Lucy, who often saw them walking their dog, an aged schnauzer.
”Too happy, if you ask me,” said Wilf, with a leer.
”You can't make an expression like that without telling us more,” said Lucy.
”That's right,” added Phyllis. ”Besides, you know you'll tell me later and I'll tell Lucy, so you might as well tell us both now and get it over with.”
”Well,” Wilf began, in a low voice, ”they get a lot of mail in plain brown wrappers, if you know what I mean. And you didn't hear it from me.”
”Eeuw,” groaned Phyllis. ”He's eighty if he's a day.”
”And she's got more whiskers than that dog,” said Lucy, crossing off the last name on her list.
The fax machine was whirring when Wilf left and Lucy got up to get the message, which she figured was one of the lunch menus that arrived around this time every morning. Instead, she found that the funeral home had sent Max Fraser's obituary.
It was written in the usual flowery style, announcing that ”Maxwell Fraser has pa.s.sed over to that distant blessed sh.o.r.e where he will be joyously reunited with his mother Andrea and father Phil, Gramps and Gran, Uncle Harry and Auntie Maude.”
Taking it back to her desk, she pa.s.sed the stack of new papers, with her photo of the rescuers carrying the stretcher with Max's body on the front page. She hoped he was enjoying the family reunion, but, personally, she had her doubts. She figured Max would rather be zooming from cloud to cloud on his snowmobile.
She started typing the text, editing as she went. When she finished removing all the hyperbole and religious references, she was left with two short sentences. She had to have more so she reluctantly reached for the phone to call Max's ex-wife, Dora. Dora had just answered when Bill arrived, toolbox in hand, to fix the door.
”I'm so sorry to bother you at such a difficult time,” she began, after identifying herself, ”but I need some information for Max's obituary.”
”It's no bother, heck, I oughta be glad he's gone, right?” Dora sniffed. ”That man was nothing but trouble.”
Lucy knew Dora had a reputation for cracking jokes so she wasn't surprised at Dora's glib comment. There was something in Dora's voice, though, that gave her pause.
”I know you were divorced,” said Lucy.
”Right. Seven years ago. But I couldn't get rid of him. He kept turning up, like a bad penny. Worse than that. Like one of those coins you've got in your purse that you can't quite tell what the h.e.l.l it is, it's all stuck with candy wrapper or something. Could be a penny, maybe a dime. You know you should get rid of it, but how?” She sighed. ”That was Max.”
Lucy found herself nodding in agreement. ”Do you happen to know his mother's maiden name? The funeral home left it out.”
”Gooch.”
Lucy wasn't sure if this was a joke or not. ”Really?”
”Yeah.” Dora giggled. ”She was a Gooch from Gilead.”
Lucy suspected Dora was a bit hysterical and decided she better wrap the interview up. ”What about Max's education?”
”He graduated from Tinker's Cove High, did a year in Orono at the university.” She snorted. ”He flunked out, of course. I used to tell him he majored in partying.”
”He was quite the sportsman,” prompted Lucy.
”If you call drinking a sport,” said Dora.
Okay, thought Lucy, we won't go there. ”One child, Lily, right?”
Dora's voice softened. ”Lily, yeah. Max got one thing right.”
”What about clubs he belonged to? Church?”
”Rod and Gun, o'course. That's all, I think.”
”Awards?”
”Well, he won that snowmobile race, practically bankrupted himself doing it.” Dora paused and Lucy heard her sniffling. ”But if you ask me, I don't think his death was any accident. Max was smart about some things. He knew how to take care of himself.”
”Do you think he was murdered?” asked Lucy. Bill, who was removing the pins from the door hinges, paused and gave her a look.
”I ... I ... I don't know what to think.” And with that, Dora sobbed and hung up, leaving Lucy confused and wondering what she meant. She'd said she was glad Max was finally out of her life for good, but Lucy wasn't convinced. There'd been something in her voice that indicated real sorrow.
”You're awful quiet all of a sudden,” commented Phyllis, who was filing press releases by date in an accordion file.
Bill was hanging a tarp over the empty doorframe in a feeble effort to keep out the cold while he planed the door. ”I don't want you getting involved, Lucy,” he said. ”You better leave this up to the police. If Max was murdered, that means the killer could be right here in town. You don't want to get tangled up with any murderer.”
”Of course not,” said Lucy, deciding she could use some fresh air. ”How about some hot coffee?” she asked. When Bill and Phyllis jumped at her offer, she got up and grabbed her anorak. Once she got outside, however, she had second thoughts. The snow was continuing to drift down and the sidewalk was slippery underfoot. She needed to move, though, so she started off in the direction of Jake's. Normally she would drive even that short distance, but walking would burn a few calories and clean out her lungs. If the sun came out, she'd get a bit of vitamin D, but a glance at the cloud-covered sky made that a dim possibility. But most of all she wanted to think over what Dora had said.
Max knew how to take care of himself.
He sure did, thought Lucy, walking past the hardware store with its display of snow shovels in the window. And he'd been ice fis.h.i.+ng on Blueberry Pond for years. He would certainly know where the soft tricky spots were. The ME said he'd gotten a knock on the head. How did that happen? Did he slip and fall, hitting his head? She supposed it was possible, but she doubted it. She'd seen the careful, deliberate way Max had worked to free her car and remembered how he'd checked it over, making sure it hadn't been damaged. The more she thought about it, she decided as she reached Jake's, the more likely it seemed that Max's death was no accident.
She was just leaving the cafe with her cardboard tray of coffees, one regular for Bill, one black with skim for Phyllis, and plain black for herself, when she met Frankie La Chance on the sidewalk. Frankie lived with her daughter, Sara's friend Renee, on Prudence Path, off Red Top Road near the Stones' house.
”Lucy! I've been meaning to call you,” exclaimed Frankie, in her charming French accent.
”Same here,” said Lucy. ”I understand Renee is working at Fern's Famous along with my Sara.”