Chapter Six
Next morning, Lucy found herself in the basement meeting room at the Tinker’s Cove Police Department, which also served as the town’s emergency management headquarters. That explained the banks of computers and phones, as well as the cello packs of bottled water and neatly labeled boxes of first aid supplies and food. Tinker’s Cove was clearly prepared for whatever disaster might arrive, though thankfully it had been spared so far. The worst that had happened in Lucy’s memory was the occasional winter blizzard, which folks not only expected but reveled in, eagerly recounting their tales of hardihood and survival. “Yup, the snow went right up over the front door, so we used the back, ha!”
Lucy remembered that a blizzard usually meant the power went out when she and Bill had first moved to Tinker’s Cove, but nowadays outages seemed to happen less often, probably because the electric company trimmed the trees along the lines. Furthermore, lots of people had invested in generators, which at least allowed them to keep the heat and kitchen stove going, along with a lamp or two. Mainers were used to foul weather and proud of their ability to carry on despite whatever Mother Nature decided to throw at them.
But today, the sun was shining and the promise of spring was in the air, and the police chief had called a news conference for a different purpose. The announcement, which promised an update on the search for Agnes Neal, hadn’t drawn much of a crowd; there were only two other local reporters gathered in the meeting room and Lucy knew them both. She was sitting beside Deb Hildreth, now the news director at local radio station WCOV, and Bob Mayes, stringer for the Boston Globe, was only a few seats away, staring at his cell phone.
“Not much of a turnout,” observed Deb.
“Old women, even missing old women, aren’t exactly hot copy,” observed Lucy.
“I’m hot all the time,” complained Deb, fanning herself with a floppy hand. “Well, not all the time, but these hot flashes are really uncomfortable. I swear I never wore a sweater once all winter!”
“That must save you quite a bit on the heating bill,” said Lucy, who always tried to look on the bright side.
“If only. It’s a constant battle in my house. I’m turning the thermostat down and George is pushing it up.”
“Tell him to put on a sweater,” said Lucy, laughing, remembering that she had said those very words so often that her kids made it into a collage for her one Christmas. She’d framed it and it still hung in the upstairs hall by the staircase, but nowadays there was only Zoe to see it and she tended to wear stylish but impractical sweaters that bared her midriff. Lucy was about to share this bit of youthful folly with Deb when police chief Jim Kirwan made his entrance, along with the fire chief, Buzz Bresnahan.
“Thanks for coming, I’m glad we were able to accommodate the crowd,” said Jim Kirwan sarcastically.
“You all know who we are, so I guess we can skip the introductions,” added Buzz, passing out a press release. It was brief, merely one sentence announcing the department had ended the search for Agnes Neal.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much to add,” said Jim. “I’m sorry to say that our search for Agnes Neal, last seen at six a.m. last Tuesday leaving Heritage House, has been unsuccessful and we have found no trace of her. We’re calling off the search, pending further developments. The case will remain open, of course, and we urge all citizens to keep her in mind and ask for their help.” He shrugged. “I guess that’s it.”
“Any questions?” asked the fire chief.
“Can you describe the scope of the search so far?” asked Deb.
“We have conducted foot searches of all the areas in town known to be frequented by bird-watchers,” said Jim, sounding tired. “As you know Agnes, mmm”—here he paused, clearly unsure whether he should say was or is, and skipping ahead—“a keen bird-watcher. We asked the public to report possible sightings, and I have to say we’ve had a terrific level of community support. We received many leads and followed up on each and every one, actually identifying most of the subjects. We’ve posted missing persons reports on our state and regional public safety networks.. . .” Kirwan sighed and shrugged. “That’s really all we can do.”
“We also dragged Blueberry Pond and searched the waterfront, but didn’t find the missing woman,” added Buzz. “Our hope is that she’s simply decided to visit a friend or something and didn’t tell anyone but I think by now, what with all the news coverage, that’s unlikely.”
“What about Heritage House?” asked Lucy. “Have you questioned people there?”
“Yes, we have, and no one saw Agnes Neal after she left early last Tuesday morning,” said Jim. “And I’d like to add that the management of Heritage House has been most cooperative, offering any and all assistance we requested. We are satisfied they followed all appropriate protocols.”
“Have you put out an Amber Alert?” asked Bob Mayes.
“That was the very first thing we did, once we confirmed that Ms. Neal was a missing person,” said Jim.
“What about her family? Any conflicts, feuds, violence? What about restraining orders?”
“Nothing like that.” Jim shook his head. “We’ve questioned the family and are satisfied there’s no involvement in her disappearance.”
Lucy wasn’t about to let the safety officials off the hook. “What if Agnes Neal was four years old, instead of seventy-one would you be so quick to call off the search?” she asked, challenging them.
Jim and Buzz both looked uncomfortable and Jim replied, “Agnes Neal is not four, she is not presumed kidnapped, there is no sign of foul play. She is an adult woman described as being of sound mind and in good health. We’ve gone above and beyond, doing everything our departments can do, and we have exhausted all our options.”
“Isn’t it true that Josh Hartman’s helicopter crash took priority, leaving little manpower and equipment available to search for Agnes Neal?” asked Bob.
Jim Kirwan glared at him. “I assure you that we can walk and chew gum at the same time.”
Bob smiled, nothing made him happier than rankling public officials. “I’m sure you can, but that’s not what I asked. But I’ll bet that the log, which is a public record, will show that over the weekend most, if not all, departmental resources were deployed to the helicopter crash and the search for Agnes Neal didn’t even begin until yesterday.”
“It’s a sad truth, and I’m sure Chief Bresnahan agrees with me, that given our current budget we have to prioritize and make difficult choices,” said Kirwan, practically snarling. “I was able, however, to assign one officer to the Agnes Neal case and that officer—”
Bob interrupted the chief. “Only one officer?”
“Sorry, Bob. This is not CSI: Miami, it’s not even Murder, She Wrote. This is real life in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, where our citizens keep a close eye on spending. I have a small staff and an even smaller overtime budget.“ He shook his head. “That’s all.”
Buzz stepped forward. “Again, I’d just like to ask folks to let us know if they see anything suspicious, anything at all. Also, we’re asking dog walkers to stay on the alert, and if Fido gets kind of excited we’d like to know about it.” He sighed. “Believe me, we want to close this case.”
“Nobody more than Buzz and I,” added Jim, making a quick exit. Buzz gave a gesture of helplessness and followed him.
“Well,” said Bob, “that was a whole lot of nothing.”
“You said it,” agreed Lucy, gathering up her things.
She’d only been back in the office for a few minutes, long enough to drink a cup of coffee, when Geri called. “Chief Kirwan just called me to say they’re not going to look for Mom anymore,” she wailed. “I can’t believe it!”
“I know.” Lucy took one last swallow, draining her mug. “There was a press conference.”
“He said they’ve exhausted all leads,” said Geri. “How can that be? I asked if they questioned everyone at Heritage House and he didn’t even answer me. He just said they’d done everything they could.”
Lucy heard the anger and frustration in Geri’s voice and knew she must be feeling desperate, and wished there was some way to ease her anxiety, her grief for her absent mother. “Geri, I know this must be terribly hard for you—”
“Don’t! Don’t tell me there’s nothing you can do, nothing anybody can do. The police simply don’t care, nobody cares about a seventy-one-year-old woman! Nobody cares!”
Geri’s claim struck Lucy where it hurt most: in her conscience. She had to admit that down deep, awful as it was, she didn’t actually care, at least not much. She had problems of her own, Agnes wasn’t her problem, and she really couldn’t summon up much more than casual interest in the woman’s fate. That realization stunned her, even shocked her. She was treating Agnes like yesterday’s news, like last week’s edition of the paper which she’d already tossed in the recycling bin. But Agnes wasn’t an old story, she was a real person and she mattered. Wasn’t that what Rev. Marge preached about every Sunday, that every person was precious in God’s sight? Shouldn’t Agnes matter to her? And Geri, too, who needed to know what happened to her mother? Lucy let out a deep sigh. “Okay, Geri. Tell me what you want the police to do.”
“Mom was last seen at Heritage House, so that’s where they should start. They should question everyone there.”
“Didn’t they do that?” asked Lucy, trying to remember Kirwan’s exact words at the press conference. She had assumed the police had done a thorough canvass of the employees and residents, but he hadn’t actually said that. He’d only said that no one saw her after she’d left early in the morning. “She was seen leaving—”
Geri interrupted her. “Right. We know she went out, but what if she came back?”
“Somebody would have seen her and said something,” replied Lucy.
“I asked the chief about that,” said Geri. “I asked him if he’d questioned everyone and he said they spoke with staff members who were on duty that morning, as well as residents who were considered pretty sharp, but that there was no point questioning people who were past it, that’s what he said, past it.”
“So you think she might have returned?”
“I do. She left at six, and normally she would have come back by eight or nine, but she certainly could have come back earlier, especially if it wasn’t a good birding day. Very few residents would be up and about that early; Mom often said that most of the residents missed the best part of the day.” Geri paused, then continued. “And if they were up, and they saw something that wasn’t right, they’d probably forget to report it.”
“What do you mean?” pressed Lucy. “What sort of thing?”
“Maybe just an argument,” offered Geri, speculating. “Or maybe she witnessed a payoff, or some sort of abuse. Something that somebody didn’t want her to see that triggered, or even caused her to disappear.”
“That seems like kind of a long shot,” said Lucy softly, wondering if Geri was in one of those irrational stages of grief, like maybe denial.
“I know, I know. Everybody says calm down, Geri. Your mom is old, old people die all the time, that’s what happens. Accept that she wandered off into the hereafter. But I just can’t. I have a bad feeling about Heritage House, I had it right from the beginning. I think there’s something rotten there and if anybody was going to discover it, it would be my mom. She wouldn’t think of her own safety, that she might be doing something dangerous. She’d just be digging and sniffing around, determined to uncover the truth.”
Once again, Geri was hitting her where it hurt. Wasn’t that her job? “Okay, Geri. I have to go over there today, anyway. They’re having an Easter bonnet workshop. I’ll be able to interview some of the residents and I’ll see what I can find out.” She thought of Miss Tilley. “And I also have an old friend who’s recuperating there, she’s agreed to do a little inside investigating for me.”
“I’m sorry, I guess I underestimated you,” said Geri. “You’ve got suspicions about Heritage House, too.”
“I did take a look at the state’s inspection record, but that’s as far as I got,” admitted Lucy. “I was somewhat surprised at the number of violations, but my editor wasn’t interested. Didn’t think it was worth investigating.”
“I have noticed that full-page ad they run every week,” said Geri.
“Exactly,” said Lucy. She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been down this road before, Geri, and I have to tell you that it doesn’t always take you where you want to go. Sometimes it takes you to a dead end, and sometimes you end up at a really bad place, learning things you’d rather not know.”
“I know,” said Geri. “But I have to take that road. I owe it to Mom.”
“I understand,” said Lucy, but later that morning, when she went to Heritage House for the workshop, she looked at the place with new eyes. Sure it looked very nice with its traditional red-brick architecture and white-columned portico over the glazed double door entry. Stepping inside the newly decorated lobby, there was not a whiff of any unpleasant scent. On the contrary, she noticed, the air was lightly perfumed with a fresh aroma, almost like a breath of fresh air. Fake fresh air, thought Lucy. What else was fake around here?
An attractive middle-aged woman was seated at the antique fruitwood writing table that had replaced the ugly old reception desk and she greeted Lucy with a big smile. “How can I help you today?”
“I’m Lucy Stone, from the Courier. I’ve been invited to cover the Easter bonnet workshop.”
“Oh, yes, Lucy. We’re expecting you. You can go right up those stairs,” she said, pointing to the swooping staircase that was such a feature of the lobby, “or if you’d rather, you could take the elevator.”
“I’ll climb, thanks,” said Lucy, somewhat discomfited to think that someone might think she wasn’t fit enough to climb a flight of stairs. Of course, she reminded herself, this was a residence for seniors and the staff was probably trained to gracefully accommodate those with disabilities. Also, many painful disabilities weren’t obvious, like arthritis and sciatica and COPD. Of course, she was hale and hearty and determined to show that a flight of stairs, even a double flight such as this, was nothing to her, so she hurried on up.
The staircase was longer than she anticipated, however, and Lucy was slightly out of breath when she reached the large mezzanine overlooking the lobby that served as a gathering space for residents. Today a number of folding tables had been added to the usual sofas and armchairs, and a goodly number of residents, all female, were seated in groups around them.
“Ah, Lucy, welcome,” exclaimed Felicity Corcoran, the activities director, who had topped her usual slacks and sweater with a practical smock. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” said Lucy, noticing the various craft supplies on the tables. “Can I make a hat, too?”
“Of course! But I’m warning you, these ladies aren’t about to reveal their top-secret plans for their Easter bonnets. We’re just going to learn a few nifty techniques, like ruching and crimping and how to safely use a hot glue gun, that sort of thing. Then they’ll use those skills to make their amazing millinery creations.”
“Super,” said Lucy, “looks like I’ll get a lot of great photos.” She noticed Bitsy waving to her from one of the tables and asked, “Can I sit anywhere?”
“Absolutely,” said Felicity, beaming. “Make yourself at home. This is going to be a fun morning, just one of the many activities we offer our residents. Activities, I might add, that engage them mentally and also help them maintain what we professionals call digital dexterity. It’s very important to keep those finger bones working.”
“Ah, there’s method to your madness,” said Lucy, smiling and making her way over to the table where Bitsy, Bev, and Dorothy were seated. That required passing several other tables, each filled with three or four women, chatting among themselves but not with the women at the other tables. It reminded Lucy somewhat strangely of her high school cafeteria, where the popular girls reigned at a table by the windows, the sporty girls had the other window table, and the student council members settled in a rear corner, plotting world domination. It was certainly not the sort of activity that would interest Miss Tilley, and she was not surprised to see her old friend wasn’t present.
“Hello, Lucy,” exclaimed Bitsy, proclaiming to the room that she had snagged an important guest for her table. “Sit right down, dear,” she encouraged, patting an empty chair.
“Thanks,” said Lucy. “Do you mind if I snap a few photos?”
“Please do,” chirped Bev, with a big smile. “Will we be in the paper?”
“That’s the idea,” said Lucy. “So fill me in, who all is here?”
“Well,” said Bitsy, “see that woman in the coral twinset?”
Lucy nodded.
“She’s Laura Whitcomb, her son is the president of Seamen’s Bank. You can’t talk to her for five minutes before she finds a way to bring it up,” said Bitsy.
“Did you notice her necklace? South Sea pearls,” added Bev.
“But,” offered Dorothy, tapping her temple, “she’s losing it. The other day she got lost trying to find the dining room.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lucy. “That’s too bad. I suppose her friends will help her out,” she said, referring to the three other women at the bank lady’s table.
“Not that bunch. Believe me, when you can’t remember which suit is trump, you’re out on your own.”
“They like to play bridge?” asked Lucy.
“Yes,” hissed Bev. “And they’ve been after our Dorothy.”
Dorothy smiled rather smugly. “I do play, you know.”
“But you wouldn’t desert us for that crowd, would you?” asked Bitsy.
“Well, neither of you play,” protested Dorothy. “I could play a rubber or two, we’d still be friends.”
Bev and Bitsy shared a glance. “I guess it would depend,” said Bev finally.
There was a bit of a flurry by the door and a wave of excitement spread through the room as a tall, rather handsome silver-haired man in a navy blue suit stepped into the room. “That’s Peter, Peter Novak,” whispered Bitsy. “He’s the boss.”
“The boss?” asked Lucy.
“He’s in charge here, he’s the head honcho,” said Dorothy.
“And he’s sooo handsome,” added Bev.
“Shhh,” cautioned Bitsy. “He’s coming over here.”
Lucy watched as Peter made his way through the room, pausing at each table to charm and flatter the ladies. When he finally reached their table, the three women gazed up at him as if he were a Greek god who had dropped in from Mt. Olympus to grace them with his favor.
“Ah, ladies, I can’t wait to see what lovely creations you come up with this year. And who,” he asked, speaking in a lightly accented voice, “is your charming companion?”
“I’m Lucy Stone, from the Courier. Felicity invited me to cover the workshop.”
“Marvelous, marvelous,” said Peter, dazzling them all with his smile and perfect but lightly accented English. “Isn’t Felicity wonderful?” He turned to face the room and raised his voice. “I was just saying, isn’t our Felicity absolutely marvelous? She arranged this workshop for you all, and I know, this year you will all make such beautiful bonnets that we’ll have to have chocolate bunnies for everyone!”
Hearing this, the women burst into applause, beaming and smiling at Peter.
“Of course,” he added, grinning naughtily, “there can only be one winner who will receive the big, giant chocolate bunny, so I encourage you all to put on your thinking caps and dazzle the judges with your ingenuity and creativity.”
The ladies all cooed and clapped and buzzed as he left the room, and one lady in particular seemed to be quite overcome.
“Oh, no,” exclaimed Dorothy. “It looks like Helen’s fainting.”
“Oh, not again,” said Bev, as two nurse’s aides hurried to the slumping woman’s side.
“Poor Helen. She has a weak heart or something. When she gets too excited, she faints.”
Concerned, Lucy watched as the two aides quickly pulled some chairs next to Helen’s and maneuvered her onto her back. Once they’d positioned her and checked her airway, they massaged her hands and spoke to her gently.
“The Black one is Vera,” whispered Dorothy. “And the other is Juliana, she’s Mexican, I think.”
“They’re angels,” said Bev.
“Even if they’re brown,” added Bitsy.
The room remained hushed as everyone watched and waited for Helen to recover, which she did in a matter of minutes. Once she was conscious the aides helped her into a wheelchair and whisked her out of the room, to regain her strength in privacy. Once gone she was quickly forgotten as Felicity tapped a glass with a spoon to get everyone’s attention and began demonstrating various techniques for creating paper flowers and other decorative elements for their bonnets.
The women were soon involved in following Felicity’s instructions for making ribbon rosebuds, Lucy included. Her rosebud looked rather droopy and she laughed, showing it to the others. Much to her surprise, however, they didn’t see anything at all funny about the droopy bud and urged her to try again. Checking out the other tables, Lucy noticed there was a definite air of competition, which culminated when a woman at another table proudly displayed her perfect pink rosebud, complete with realistic leaves.
“Oh, that Frances!” muttered Bev. “She’s done it again.”
“She must be very crafty,” said Lucy.
“You can say that again,” growled Dorothy. “She’s a quilter, you know.” From her tone, Lucy gathered that Dorothy didn’t consider quilting a worthy pastime.
“It’s better than hooking,” joked Bitsy, with a naughty smile. Seeing that Lucy didn’t get the joke she added, “Rug hooking. They call themselves hookers.”
“So there are some active crafters here,” said Lucy, thinking of possible future stories.
“I guess they’ve nothing better to do,” said Bitsy, with a sigh.
“Well, people have different talents,” offered Lucy. “By the way, who won the bonnet contest last year?”
There was an awkward silence as the three women seemed to deliberate about replying, then Dorothy spoke up. “It was Agnes,” she said.
“It was a nest, a bird’s nest, with a mother robin sitting on some eggs,” remembered Bev.
“And the daddy robin was flying about on a wire,” added Bitsy.
“It was very clever,” admitted Dorothy.
“Indeed,” agreed Lucy. “So do you have any idea what might have happened to Agnes? Any clues at all?”
“Not really,” said Bitsy, with a shake of her curly head.
“We weren’t close,” offered Bev, with a shrug.
“Why are you asking us? Why do you think we know anything?” queried Dorothy somewhat defensively.
“Oh, I don’t know. You seem like one big family here,” suggested Lucy, who was beginning to think Heritage House wasn’t like a family at all, it was more like a girls’ school with competing cliques.
“Do something for me?” she urged, producing her phone. “Smile for the camera?”
The three women snuggled together, pleased as punch to be photographed. Then Lucy thanked them for a lovely time, gathered her things, and began to make her exit. She made a point of thanking Felicity for inviting her, chatted with a few of the residents, and snapped their pictures on her way to the door. They were all pleased to be photographed, but when she asked for information about Agnes they didn’t have much to say apart from observing that it was very puzzling. When she stepped out into the hallway she was met by Vera.
“Ah, you’re leaving, I see,” said Vera, who had a big smile and a lilting Jamaican accent.
“Duty calls,” said Lucy. “I have to say, I was very impressed by the care you and your colleague . . .”
“Juliana.”
“You took such good care of that poor lady.”
“Like you said, duty calls. It’s our job.”
“There’s something that struck me, maybe you have some insight? I was surprised that none of the other women seemed very concerned about her. And when I asked about Agnes, the lady who disappeared, they didn’t seem very interested. Why is that?”
Vera gazed down the hallway for a long minute, then replied, “Ah, in a place like this you get used to losing folks. Here today and gone tomorrow. It may seem cold, it bothered me, too, at first, but then I understood it’s really self-defense. They have their activities to keep their minds busy, they have wall-to-wall carpeting and gourmet meals, but they’re not fooled. They all know the grim reaper is just around the corner, waiting for them.”
“Of course,” said Lucy, realizing the truth of what she said. “Thanks.”
“Have a nice day now,” said Vera, going on her way.
What an image, thought Lucy, starting down the stairway and imagining death lurking behind the lush potted plants, behind the comfy padded sofas, behind every freshly painted six-panel door.