Chapter Four
That sense of possibility dissipated when she arrived at the Courier office and Phyllis handed her a press release from the Tinker’s Cove PD. Chief Jim Kirwan announced that he was putting out an APB and initiating a search for Agnes Neal, who had now been missing for more than the required twenty-four hours. “A housekeeper at Heritage House reports seeing Agnes Neal at six a.m. Tuesday. The employee noted she was wearing binoculars and assumed she was going out to bird-watch, which she did most mornings. Because of that we are concentrating our search in the Audubon sanctuary and other conservation areas including the Salt Bay Reserve. Interested citizens are encouraged to join the search for Agnes Neal, age seventy-one, with short gray hair and brown eyes. When last seen she was wearing a blue windbreaker, a brown cap, khaki pants, and duck boots. If seen, immediately contact the department by text or phone.”
“I’ll post this immediately on the website as breaking news,” said Lucy. “Did we get any response to the photo I posted yesterday?”
“Only that housekeeper,” said Phyllis. “I told her to call the cops but she didn’t want to do that, probably worried about immigration or something. She gave me the information and I called it in.”
“We make a good team,” said Lucy, beaming at Phyllis. “If I hadn’t believed Geri and insisted on running the photo the housekeeper never would have called, and if you hadn’t forwarded her message the police wouldn’t have the time she was last seen or that complete description. I bet there were other bird-watchers out there yesterday who must have seen her. They’re a pretty chummy group.”
“I thought bird-watchers were kind of competitive,” said Phyllis.
“When I’ve seen them they tend to flock together,” said Lucy, getting a groan from Phyllis. “But even if they’re competing with each other to be the first to spot a red-bellied woodpecker they’re observant and would have noticed Agnes.”
Lucy’s words turned out to be prophetic as no sooner had the official police announcement of Agnes Neal’s disappearance gone online than reports of sightings started to come in. “I saw a gray-haired woman in a blue jacket walking along Shore Road.” “A woman with khaki pants and a windbreaker—I’m pretty sure it was blue—anyway, I saw her going into the library.” “There was a gray-haired lady exiting the IGA just ahead of me, she had duck boots and a blue jacket, no cap but she did have a brown scarf. Do you think that’s what they meant?”
“Wow,” observed Lucy, as she forwarded the reported sightings to the police department. “It seems that Agnes really got around.”
“I doubt any of those sightings will actually pan out,” said Phyllis. “There are a lot of older, gray-haired women in this town, and it’s spring which means every one of them is probably wearing a windbreaker, and I bet most of them are blue.” She paused to pat her hair, which today was dyed neon green in honor of the spring that everyone believed was coming but hadn’t actually arrived in coastal Maine. “Golly, I even have one.”
“You do?” This was a surprise to Lucy, who couldn’t remember ever seeing the flamboyant Phyllis in anything as boring as a blue windbreaker.
“I do. It’s really old and I wear it to take out the garbage, that sort of thing.” She fingered the zebra-striped reading glasses that perched on her ample bosom, held by a diamanté chain. “But mostly, as you know, I prefer more colorful, unique clothes.”
Lucy smiled. “Well, today you’ve outdone yourself, what with the bright pink track suit and your electric green hair, and I especially like your purple sneakers.”
“I do what I can,” admitted Phyllis. “I hope I sort of cheer people up when they see me, and I’m pretty sure they remember me. If you’re a woman of a certain age and go around with gray hair and neutral clothes you look like everyone else in this town and you become invisible. Now if Agnes had worn a fire-engine-red jacket and sunshine-yellow pants with a big old sunflower pinned to her hat, well, she’d be found by now.”
“Point taken, though I suspect she dresses rather conservatively so as not to frighten the birds,” countered Lucy, forwarding five more suspected sightings of gray-haired women in windbreakers to the police department.
Hearing the little bell on the door jangle she looked up and saw Ted Stillings coming in, wearing his usual barn coat and a faded red L. Brackett & Son cap over his gray hair. Ted was the editor, publisher, and chief reporter for the Courier, and was also married to her friend Pam. He maintained a desk in the Tinker’s Cove office, the antique rolltop he’d inherited from his grandfather, a noted regional journalist whose folksy columns had won a national readership, but Ted only popped in occasionally these days. He spent most of his work week over in the neighboring town of Gilead, now that the two weeklies had been combined under the Courier masthead. Daily postings to the online edition were now Lucy’s responsibility. She didn’t actually appreciate the extra work and constant pressure; she missed the old days when she only had one deadline, at noon on Wednesday.
“Good morning, ladies,” he greeted them in a cheery voice. “You’re looking very festive today, Phyllis.”
“She’s aiming for memorable,” offered Lucy. “She doesn’t want to be invisible.”
“And I certainly don’t want to be patronized,” snapped Phyllis. “‘Ladies’? What do you think this is? A bridge party?”
“Uh, no,” said Ted, looking puzzled. “Lucy, great work on that disappeared old la—um, that disappeared woman, Ms. Neal, I believe,” he continued, changing tack. “Thanks to you we had that alert ahead of everybody. Has there been any response?”
“Only one definite sighting which was the call Phyllis took from the housekeeper yesterday,” said Lucy, determined to share the credit. “Phyllis immediately sent the info to the police. We’re getting lots of reports of sightings this morning, which we’ve also forwarded to the police, but it’s doubtful that any of them are actually Agnes Neal. That’s what Phyllis and I were discussing, the way women after a certain age start to look alike. Agnes Neal’s description fits most of the women in this town over fifty, which is actually most of the women in this town.”
“We’re invisible,” claimed Phyllis. “That’s why I dress the way I do. I don’t want to blend into the woodwork.”
“There’s no chance of that,” agreed Ted, smiling. He took off his barn jacket and hung it on the coat stand, added his hat, and then seated himself at his desk and swiveled his chair around to face Lucy and Phyllis. “So, what’s on the news budget this week?”
“The library is starting a weekly lecture series on Sunday afternoons,” offered Phyllis, who handled the events listings. “That might be worth a preview story to let people know it’s coming. And there’s the annual Easter bonnet contest at Heritage House.”
“I already got a press release from Felicity Corcoran,” said Lucy.
“We can run some photos from previous years to announce it, sort of a seasonal photo essay,” suggested Ted. “And, of course, Lucy will cover the big event and we’ll put the winner’s photo on the front page.” He jotted down a reminder in his computer notebook. “What else have you got, Lucy?”
“Well,” she began, taking a deep breath. “Geri Mazzone, you know, Agnes Neal’s daughter, she alleges that Heritage House isn’t living up to its reputation. She says there’s a lot of staff turnover, which leaves the place understaffed, and that leads to accidents and negligence. I think it’s worth looking into, especially after Agnes’s disappearance.”
“You want to investigate Heritage House?” asked Ted, somewhat incredulously. “Is that what I’m hearing?”
“Well, yeah.”
Ted shook his head in disbelief. “Absolutely not, Lucy. That place has an absolutely sterling reputation and, just in case you hadn’t noticed, they run a full-page ad every week in the Courier. They pay on time, too, and I’m certainly not going to endanger that important revenue stream.”
“Ethics, Ted?” inquired Phyllis. “Aren’t news and ads supposed to be separate departments?”
Ted snorted. “That was then, this is now. Haven’t you noticed that when your women’s”—he paused to make air quotes—“women’s magazines print an article about the healthful benefits of yogurt, there’s a yogurt ad on the opposite page?”
“ ‘I’ve noticed,” volunteered Lucy, “and I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Phyllis.
“Nor I,” added Ted, “but that’s the world we live in—so get used to it.” He sighed and stared at the screen on his notebook. “I see we’ve got the usual selectmen’s meeting, and also a school board meeting on the agenda. Can you cover them, Lucy?”
“Sure,” agreed Lucy with a nod, but as soon as Ted left she turned to her PC and found the state department of health’s website and began looking for the section on nursing home inspections and complaint investigations. Her research revealed that there were no perfect nursing homes in the state; even the ones with the highest ratings had violations and complaints and Heritage House was no exception. The violations cited were minor, mostly involving missing documentation. Even more troubling, however, was the tale the statistics revealed about the department itself, which often postponed scheduled inspections and didn’t provide information about following up on violations or resolving complaints. Determined to get more information than the website provided, Lucy called the hotline number provided and was told her call was very important and wait time was fifty-six minutes.
Typical, she thought, deciding to try calling again earlier in the day, when there was a chance she’d beat the mid-morning rush. Meanwhile, she had plenty to do, starting with setting up an interview with the head librarian. The day passed quickly and Lucy was surprised when she noticed Phyllis getting ready to leave. “Is it five already?” she asked.
“Past,” said Phyllis. “Almost five-thirty. I wanted to finish cleaning up the classifieds.”
“Golly, where does the time go?”
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” said Phyllis, shrugging into the purple faux shearling jacket that matched her sneakers. “See you tomorrow.”
“Right,” agreed Lucy, shutting down her computer. She put on her own jacket, a lightweight puffy parka, flicked off the lights, and locked the door behind her. When she looked for her car in its usual spot and didn’t find it, she remembered she’d left it at the lot behind Jake’s and headed down the street. It was still light, thanks to daylight savings, but the day was fading and she enjoyed walking past the old-fashioned storefronts that made Tinker’s Cove one of the prettiest towns in Maine. She paused at Harborside Gifts to admire the handmade pottery in the window, then continued on past the hardware store where snow shovels were on clearance, and cast a speculative eye at the designer clothes on display at Carriage Trade, which had an END OF SEASON SALE banner on the door. Maybe, just maybe, she could afford something. A new sweater perhaps, or a pair of flattering designer jeans. She was about to go in and investigate further when she realized the store was closed for the day.
Nearing Jake’s, her thoughts turned to dinner, and what to have. There was half of a lasagna, left over from Tuesday, and also beef stew from Wednesday. She decided to go with the lasagna, rather than have the stew two nights in a row, and popped into the bakery to buy a loaf of Italian bread. Then, realizing time was getting away from her, she hurried on to the parking lot.
When she arrived home at the antique farmhouse on Red Top Road, she found her youngest daughter, Zoe, sitting at the kitchen table poring over a stack of printouts.
“That’s very low-tech,” she observed, hanging her parka on one of the hooks by the kitchen door. Libby, the family’s elderly black Lab, no longer bothered to get up to greet her, but did offer a few tail thumps from her comfy doggy bed.
“Tell me about it. They’re printouts from the college’s career development office.” Zoe was finishing up her bachelor’s degree at nearby Winchester College and was looking for a job.
“Anything interesting?” asked Lucy, going straight to the fridge and pulling out the lasagna pan, which she shoved into the oven, setting it at three-fifty. Then she poured herself a glass of wine and started making a salad.
“I’ve called a few places but the jobs are already filled, which is discouraging,” admitted Zoe. “Leanne and I really want to have jobs before we start apartment hunting, but there’s a lot of competition out there from other graduates.”
“Are you and Leanne still both committed to moving to Portland right after graduation?” asked Lucy, naming Zoe’s best friend. “You know you could get summer jobs here in town and save your money. Then you could look in the fall, that’s when employers really get serious about hiring.”
“We don’t want to hang around here waiting to get started on real life,” said Zoe, as her phone started playing the loud rap song that served as her ringtone.
Lucy busied herself with chopping some cucumber for the salad, pretending not to listen. She couldn’t gather much from Zoe’s side of the call, anyway, which was mostly a series of um-hmms and yeahs. She was thinking she would really have to coach that girl about professional phone etiquette when Zoe slapped down the phone and let out a joyous whoop.
“Did you win the lottery?” asked Lucy.
“Almost.” Zoe was beaming. “I got an interview with the Sea Dogs.”
Lucy knew the Sea Dogs, who had a stadium right next to the highway in Portland, were an AA affiliate of the Boston Red Sox.
“And what would you do for the Sea Dogs? Sell hot dogs?”
“No, Mom. They have a huge PR program. They do a lot of advertising, they have special events and promos, it’s a dream job.”
“Year-round?”
“Yeah, full-time, year-round, terrific benefits.” Zoe sighed dramatically. “There is one drawback, though.”
“Oh, what’s that?” asked Lucy.
“The guys. So many cute guys,” she said, adopting a fake regretful tone, “but they’re only there for the season.”
Lucy smiled, slicing into a radish. “So you want to be a baseball wife? You’re not even blond.”
“Who wants to be a wife?” countered Zoe. “I just want to have fun.”
“Well,” began Lucy, thumping the celery down on the counter and ripping off a couple of stalks, “you’ve got to get the job first.”