Part 22 (1/2)
Chapter Twenty-one.
The police had set up a temporary crisis management headquarters in a trailer in the parking lot outside the chocolate factory, and that's where Lucy was taken to be debriefed. Brian Sullivan, the negotiator with the warm voice, interviewed her, and she was surprised to find he was short, slight, and balding, a complete contrast to the mental picture she'd built based on his voice.
”I just want to go over the video with you,” he said. ”We had a very sensitive listening device, but it didn't pick up everything and I need you to fill in the blanks.”
He pointed to a video monitor and when the snow cleared she saw a grainy picture of the office, shot through the windows. Meacham was a shadowy figure, never seen in full as he remained partially hidden behind the file cabinet. She, on the other hand, was front and center, handcuffed to the chair. It was an unsettling image.
An audio technician arrived and was soon able to match his recording with the video and Lucy was able to see and hear the worst hour of her life all over again. It went excruciatingly slowly, however, because the process was halted frequently so Lucy could supply missing sc.r.a.ps of dialogue. She tried her best to be accurate, but oftentimes the technician would determine that her memory didn't match the fragments of sound on the tape and she'd have to try all over again. She was completely exhausted when they finally said she could go.
She wasn't sure how she was going to get home and was trying to decide if she could manage to drive herself when the door opened and Bill arrived. She rushed into his arms and he held her tightly, smoothing her hair and covering her face with kisses, and that's when she burst into hysterical tears.
”It's all over, you're safe, you're safe,” he said.
”I know,” she blubbered, unable to stop sobbing.
”The cops said you were amazing, really cool, did everything right.”
”I want to go home,” she finally said, wiping her eyes with her hands.
Bill gave her one of his big white handkerchiefs and just seeing it and holding it made her start crying all over again. ”I love you,” she said, sputtering.
He gave her a big squeeze. ”You can show me later. But for now, you owe me a meat loaf dinner.”
”Okay,” she said, letting him take her hand and lead her out into the night.
On Monday morning Ted was already at his desk when she arrived. ”How are you?” he asked.
”Kind of shaky,” she said.
The door opened and Phyllis came in, wrapped in a colorful poncho with matching hand-knitted hat and gloves. She was carrying a big bouquet of flowers. ”These are for you,” she said, engulfing Lucy in a multicolored hug.
It was all too much for Lucy, and the tears began flowing again.
”Oh, for Pete's sake, the story of the year and my ace reporter is too emotional to tell it,” muttered Ted, as the bell on the door jangled furiously and Frankie blew in, all in a dither.
”The story of the year-that's what I've got for you!” she exclaimed, waving a sheaf of papers in her gloved hand.
”We've got it. Lucy was there when Trey committed suicide.”
”Trey? Suicide?” Frankie was puzzled.
”Haven't you heard?” asked Ted.
”Renee and I spent yesterday chez ma mere; she lives in Portsmouth. Why? What happened?”
”It's a long story,” said Lucy. ”What's your news?”
Frankie couldn't wait to tell them. ”It's the Faircloths. They're gone!”
”But I thought they were buying the McIntyre place,” said Lucy.
”Yeah, so did I.” Frankie waved the papers. ”I've got a purchase and sales agreement right here, but when I went over to the Salt Aire to get them to sign it, the desk clerk told me they'd left sometime in the night without paying their bill. It's over five thousand dollars.”
Lucy wasn't sure she'd heard right. ”They skipped out on their bill?”
”Yeah. When housekeeping went in this morning, they were gone-and they even took the bathrobes!” Frankie paused. ”But they did leave a twenty for the maid, along with a note thanking her for excellent service.”
”Cla.s.sy,” said Ted.
”Not really,” muttered Frankie. ”I devoted every waking moment to those people and now I'm out a hefty commission. I was counting on that money.”
”They seemed so nice,” said Lucy. ”I saw them dancing Sat.u.r.day night at the ball and they made a lovely couple.”
”Seemed is the operative word here,” said Phyllis.
”You said it,” agreed Frankie. ”It turns out they're a pair of scam artists. They've been doing this for months, maybe years. They lost their house to foreclosure so they've been moving around to inns and B&Bs, living it up in the style to which they're accustomed and leaving a trail of unpaid bills. The clerk at the Salt Aire said they got an e-mail from the innkeeper's a.s.sociation just this morning, warning about them. They left a big bill at the Queen Vic, too.”
Ted was reaching for the phone. ”I'm calling the printery,” he said. ”I think we're going to need some extra pages this week.”
Lucy was nodding. ”And people say nothing happens here in the winter!”
Punxsutawney Phil had predicted six more weeks of winter on Groundhog Day and for once he seemed to be right. March roared in like a lion, but this particular lion turned out to be a p.u.s.s.ycat, bringing bright suns.h.i.+ne and warm temperatures. When Elizabeth came home for a long weekend before starting her next a.s.signment at the brand new Cavendish Hotel on Cape Cod, the snow was gone and buds were swelling on the forsythia bushes. Lucy had cut some branches a week or so earlier and they were already in bloom, a yellow explosion on the dining room sideboard.
Lucy was putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on her table, laying out the silver serving spoons, and the scent of cooking turkey was heavy in the air. A series of sharp barks from Libby announced the arrival of her dinner guests, Marge and Barney Culpepper and their son, Eddie.