They were busy with the police and the
undertaker. In fact, Fred called and asked me to stay with his mother because
they couldn’t. He’s a good son.”
“Mommy,” whined Sara.
“Here, honey,” said Lucy, digging in her
purse for a coin. “You can ride the horsey.” A small mechanical pony stood in
front of the grocery, but Lucy always marched the children past it. Sara was
thrilled with her treat and climbed right on.
Aware that she had only a few minutes
before the ride ran down, Lucy switched the subject of the conversation. She
knew that Miss Tilley and Caroline Hutton were old friends.
“Now that there’s been a murder, I hope the
police don’t forget about Caro.” For a minute the words seemed to hang between
them, and Lucy was afraid she had upset Miss Tilley.
“I’m hoping the opposite,” the old
librarian answered. She had obviously given the matter some thought. “They’ll
have to investigate both crimes to see if there’s a link, won’t they? This
might be the beginning of a crime wave against senior citizens.”
“Do you really think so?”
“No, but I think the police will have to
consider it. Maybe they’ll find some new information about Caro. I hope so.”
“The worst thing is not knowing what
happened to her,” said Lucy. The horse was prancing more slowly now.
“I don’t think Caro is dead. I think she’s
. . . what’s that term?” Miss Tilley’s face clouded with the effort of
remembering, then brightened when she found the right words. “Missing in
action.” She smiled. “That’s it. Missing in action.”
“What do you mean?” began Lucy, as the
horse ground to a halt and she went to help Sara get down. When she turned,
Miss Tilley was gone.
One hour and a hundred and twenty-three
dollars later, Lucy was on her way home. Sara, licking pink icing off her
fingers, was in a cupcake-induced state of bliss.
Driving along Main Street, Lucy was soon
past the hardware store. A block or so later the business district ended and
the street was lined with the impressive mansions built in earlier centuries by
sea captains and merchants. Lucy drove by the Slacks’ ornate Victorian; it
seemed gloomier than ever. The overgrown fir trees that blocked out the sun
couldn’t entirely account for the atmosphere that seemed to surround the old
mansion.
Fred and Annemarie’s Federalist-style house
stood nearly opposite, freshly painted gleaming white, the crushed-oyster-shell
driveway sparkling in the sunlight. A new road had been cut alongside Fred’s
property, where plans for a new subdivision had been approved. The project
never got off the ground; only the fresh blacktop and a single foundation stood
as a monument to the recession that had stalled so much of the Northeast.
Lucy drove a few blocks farther before she
passed the little bungalow where Franny lived with her mother on the outer
fringe of the village. When Lucy saw several police cruisers parked in front,
effectively barricading the house, her stomach lurched. Swallowing hard, she
hoped Franny had a very good alibi.
14
No talking
backstage.
Franny, however, had no alibi at all.
“You mean absolutely nobody can verify that
you spent all yesterday afternoon at home?” Horowitz’s soft voice betrayed no
emotion and his eyes were pale blanks to Franny. If anything, he seemed tired.
Investigating crimes must get rather depressing, she thought.
“I watched a little bit of TV. I looked
through some magazines. I found an old Agatha Christie paperback and read it.” “You
didn’t get any phone calls?”
“No.”
“Nobody dropped by?”
“No. Nobody would have expected us to be
home. I’m always at work. And yesterday was Mom’s day at the thrift shop.”
Franny smiled weakly at her mother, who was huddled in a rocking chair in the
comer of the living room. She was watching avidly and saving up all the
details, but Franny was certain that this story wouldn’t be served up to
entertain the
undertaker. In fact, Fred called and asked me to stay with his mother because
they couldn’t. He’s a good son.”
“Mommy,” whined Sara.
“Here, honey,” said Lucy, digging in her
purse for a coin. “You can ride the horsey.” A small mechanical pony stood in
front of the grocery, but Lucy always marched the children past it. Sara was
thrilled with her treat and climbed right on.
Aware that she had only a few minutes
before the ride ran down, Lucy switched the subject of the conversation. She
knew that Miss Tilley and Caroline Hutton were old friends.
“Now that there’s been a murder, I hope the
police don’t forget about Caro.” For a minute the words seemed to hang between
them, and Lucy was afraid she had upset Miss Tilley.
“I’m hoping the opposite,” the old
librarian answered. She had obviously given the matter some thought. “They’ll
have to investigate both crimes to see if there’s a link, won’t they? This
might be the beginning of a crime wave against senior citizens.”
“Do you really think so?”
“No, but I think the police will have to
consider it. Maybe they’ll find some new information about Caro. I hope so.”
“The worst thing is not knowing what
happened to her,” said Lucy. The horse was prancing more slowly now.
“I don’t think Caro is dead. I think she’s
. . . what’s that term?” Miss Tilley’s face clouded with the effort of
remembering, then brightened when she found the right words. “Missing in
action.” She smiled. “That’s it. Missing in action.”
“What do you mean?” began Lucy, as the
horse ground to a halt and she went to help Sara get down. When she turned,
Miss Tilley was gone.
One hour and a hundred and twenty-three
dollars later, Lucy was on her way home. Sara, licking pink icing off her
fingers, was in a cupcake-induced state of bliss.
Driving along Main Street, Lucy was soon
past the hardware store. A block or so later the business district ended and
the street was lined with the impressive mansions built in earlier centuries by
sea captains and merchants. Lucy drove by the Slacks’ ornate Victorian; it
seemed gloomier than ever. The overgrown fir trees that blocked out the sun
couldn’t entirely account for the atmosphere that seemed to surround the old
mansion.
Fred and Annemarie’s Federalist-style house
stood nearly opposite, freshly painted gleaming white, the crushed-oyster-shell
driveway sparkling in the sunlight. A new road had been cut alongside Fred’s
property, where plans for a new subdivision had been approved. The project
never got off the ground; only the fresh blacktop and a single foundation stood
as a monument to the recession that had stalled so much of the Northeast.
Lucy drove a few blocks farther before she
passed the little bungalow where Franny lived with her mother on the outer
fringe of the village. When Lucy saw several police cruisers parked in front,
effectively barricading the house, her stomach lurched. Swallowing hard, she
hoped Franny had a very good alibi.
14
No talking
backstage.
Franny, however, had no alibi at all.
“You mean absolutely nobody can verify that
you spent all yesterday afternoon at home?” Horowitz’s soft voice betrayed no
emotion and his eyes were pale blanks to Franny. If anything, he seemed tired.
Investigating crimes must get rather depressing, she thought.
“I watched a little bit of TV. I looked
through some magazines. I found an old Agatha Christie paperback and read it.” “You
didn’t get any phone calls?”
“No.”
“Nobody dropped by?”
“No. Nobody would have expected us to be
home. I’m always at work. And yesterday was Mom’s day at the thrift shop.”
Franny smiled weakly at her mother, who was huddled in a rocking chair in the
comer of the living room. She was watching avidly and saving up all the
details, but Franny was certain that this story wouldn’t be served up to
entertain the
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