Chapter Sixteen
The snow squalls had settled into a steady, light snow that was beginning to accumulate on the ground, making walking slippery. Driving would be, too, thought Lucy, as she got in her SUV and started the engine. Winter was over, according to the calendar, but somehow Mother Nature hadn’t got the message, and Lucy wondered if it would be a snowy Easter. It wouldn’t be the first time, she thought, remembering Easter egg hunts that had to be moved indoors due to snow, sleet, or impossibly muddy conditions. Other years, however, the kids had worked up a sweat, running about in strong sunshine that blazed down through the still leafless trees that offered no shade.
The drive to the Quik-Stop was short, it only took a few minutes, and when she arrived at the combination gas station and convenience store she found people were already gathering to see the bears. The small parking area was full of pickup trucks and cars, so she parked along the side of the road and walked over to join the cluster of onlookers gathered at a respectful distance from a tall pine tree growing at the edge of the parking lot. Wiggling through the crowd in an effort to get a better view, she apologized, saying she was from the Courier. People were in a good mood, enjoying this little bit of excitement.
“The cubs are up there,” one woman told her, pointing upward.
Lucy looked up and, sure enough, two fuzzy little bear cubs were clinging to the tree. Below them, their mother was pacing nervously and keeping a watchful eye on the crowd.
“Ooh, they’re soo cute,” exclaimed a little girl. “I want to take one home.”
“I don’t think her mother would like that,” cautioned her mother, keeping a tight grip on the little girl’s hand.
“Yeah, that sow is getting antsy,” observed a man in a plaid shirt-jac.
True enough, Lucy didn’t like the way the mother bear was beginning to huff as she paced back and forth.
A couple of teenage boys had begun tossing small pebbles at the mother bear, which seemed to confuse her. She glared in their direction, then continued pacing. The boys, pleased with her reaction, chose some larger stones, getting a growl in response. They were moving closer at the same time the crowd was beginning to edge backward. The two were left in a sort of no-man’s land between the sow and the crowd, and it was then that the mother bear made a more determined charge, coming within a whisker of the boys.
“Whew, that bear’s breath stinks!” exclaimed one. The other, shaken by the near miss, was pulling his friend back, but the friend was resisting, reaching for an even larger rock. It was then that the state wildlife agent arrived and quickly took charge.
“Everybody back,” he ordered. “These are wild animals, not teddy bears. We don’t want anybody to get hurt.” He glared at the boys. “That means you, in case I didn’t make myself clear.”
“Okay,” grumbled the boy, dropping the rock. The two joined the crowd of onlookers, which had now been moved away from the tree by two more uniformed wildlife agents.
Lucy was busy snapping photos and got a nice series of shots illustrating the little drama. First off, the mother bear was tranquilized and transferred into a large crate using a special wheeled dolly. Once she was confined, the agents turned their attention to the cubs, trying to lure them down with tempting suet cakes. When that didn’t work, they set up nets at the base of the tree and shot the cubs with tranquilizer darts, causing them to drop safely into the nets. Once the whole snoozing family had been united in the crate, it was carefully lifted and eased onto a truck with a forklift.
Lucy needed to get the whole story, so she approached the head agent and identified herself. She got the names of all three, and learned that they had a history with this particular mother bear. “She did the same thing last year, over in Goshen,” he said. “She’s figured out that there’s easy pickings in dumpsters.”
“Yummy,” said Lucy, smiling. “So what are you going to do with her?”
“We’ll release her in the back woods; you can assure your readers that we’ll take good care of her and the cubs.”
“What about those boys?” asked Lucy, indicating the two who were now lobbing pebbles and pinging them off the crate.
He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll have a word,” he said, marching over to them.
“Hey, you, what’s the matter with you two? Are you idiots? Cut that out!” He looked them over, then pulled out a notebook. “Hey, what are your names? I should report you to the truant officer.”
Lucy chuckled, watching as they ran off as fast as their feet would carry them. Then she hopped into her SUV, heading straight to the office, eager to file her breaking news story. As luck would have it, Ted was in the office when she arrived and was eager to see her photos of the bears. Both he and Phyllis looked over her shoulders as she displayed them on her phone.
“What a pair of cuties!” cooed Phyllis.
“Well, Mama wasn’t so cute. Especially when some kids started teasing her, throwing pebbles at her. It could have gotten nasty real fast,” said Lucy.
“Yeah, but this shot of her at the bottom of the tree, looking up, that’s going on page one,” said Ted.
“What about the Easter bonnet contest winner,” protested Lucy. “Those ladies take the whole contest very seriously, especially getting their photo on the front page.”
“C’mon, Lucy. You know as well as I do that kids and animals sell papers, old ladies not so much.”
“Look at Bitsy Baker, isn’t she adorable? She took first prize with her fascinator.”
Ted glanced at the photo and shook his head. “She’s got a giant egg on her head.”
“Okay, that one is pretty silly. But Florida, here, with her cotton ball hat, made her entry a tribute to her father, who was a sharecropper.”
Ted studied the photo of Florida’s beaming face and relented. “Okay, okay. Bears get priority, but I’ll put the three winners on the front page, below the fold. It’ll be good to show we’ve got some diversity in Tinker’s Cove.” He paused.
“All one percent of it,” snorted Phyllis.
“And I’ve got plenty of photos of the other contestants,” offered Lucy. “There were some pretty creative bonnets, and the ladies were so enthusiastic. Take a look at this one: an Easter basket!”
Ted took her camera and scrolled through the photos, eventually shaking his head. “No. I’m going with the bears. It’s a nice little photo essay, and a good reminder to people to leave the critters alone if they encounter them. Public service, you know?”
“I can’t believe this,” sighed Lucy. “I spent hours at that old folks’ home getting all the details, all the names, and now you don’t want it.”
“In a perfect world, Lucy, sure, but I’ve got space considerations. You can post the contest online, how about that? Just photos with captions, mind you, not a big story.”
“Felicity Corcoran will kill me,” groaned Lucy.
“Well, we are putting Florida and the others on page one. That’s more than enough.”
“Okay,” grumbled Lucy, “you’re the boss.”
“Damn right,” said Ted, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.
“Just like a man,” muttered Phyllis, watching him.
He whirled around at the door and challenged her. “What do you mean?”
“You’re such a typical man,” began Phyllis, rolling her eyes. “When the going gets tough, you go out the door. It’s like my grandma used to say about Grandpa, how when any little thing bothered him he’d lay down the law and then he’d put on his hat and leave.”
“Male prerogative,” said Ted, grinning and grabbing the doorknob, setting the little bell to jangling.
“One of these days . . .” muttered Phyllis.
“What?” asked Lucy.
“One of these days I’m going to slap my hat on my head and leave.”
“Sounds like menopause talking,” said Lucy.
Phyllis lowered her head onto her desk and groaned. “You’re right. I don’t know what got into me.” She raised her head. “Ted’s going to kill me.”
“No way, he’s probably already forgotten,” said Lucy, getting busy uploading her photos of the hat contest and writing snappy little captions; she wanted to get that little chore out of the way before she tackled the bear story. “It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it,” she said, studying one aged face after another. “These old dears put on their lipstick and got their hair done, and made their pretty little bonnets . . . You’ve got to admire their spunk. They’re probably mostly all widows but they keep on keeping on. They’ve had major losses in their lives, and most of them have health problems like arthritis and diabetes, but they don’t give up. Bitsy, the lady who won, she’s a real flirt. She’s a bit of a social butterfly, she’s a force to be reckoned with at Heritage House, but even she looked kind of sad and dejected during the fire drill the other day. Get them outside and they suddenly look so frail and old. They kind of shrink.”
“How do they treat them there?” asked Phyllis. “Are they getting the most out of their golden years?”
Lucy considered, staring at Bitsy’s photo and trying to come up with a clever, but not condescending, caption. It was a struggle, everything she thought of seemed to demean Bitsy’s achievement. In the end, she admitted to herself, she’d made a hat out of a big plastic Easter egg and it did look rather ridiculous. “I dunno if it’s golden,” she admitted after playing it straight in the caption, merely noting Bitsy’s name and the fact she’d won first prize by recycling a gift from her daughter. “In a place like that you must feel as if you’re in death’s waiting room. Just killing time before it kills you.”
“That Agnes Neal, she seemed different,” said Phyllis. “She got out and about, she remained pretty independent.”
“And look where it got her,” said Lucy. “If she’d played it safer and made an Easter bonnet instead of gallivanting about, she might still be alive. You know, she won the contest last year.”
“Do you think that’s why she died?” Phyllis’s eyes got big as she indulged her fertile imagination. “Maybe she was murdered in an effort to wipe out the competition?”
Lucy gave Phyllis a look. “You can’t be serious.”
“Not really,” she admitted, shrugging, “but maybe, just a little. I noticed that when my mother started losing it, she had dementia, you know, she really changed. She started swearing, which she never ever did, and she started stealing things. If we went shopping I’d have to check her pockets before we left the store. One time I found a sirloin steak in her handbag. What a bloody mess that was.”
“They don’t all get dementia, though,” said Lucy. “The problem is that they all get treated as if they can’t think for themselves anymore, they get treated like children and, sadly, a lot of them become childlike.” Lucy sighed. “Maybe it’s better to die young and stay pretty, like the song says.”
“No. Not for me. I’m going to hang on for as long as possible, drink my Ensure, and join the Tai Chi class at the senior center.”
“Good for you,” laughed Lucy, picturing Phyllis in her bright pink tracksuit, practicing her moves. “You’ll be a standout in the class.”
“You betcha,” agreed Phyllis.
Lucy’s phone was ringing. It was Sandy Francona, the head librarian at the Broadbrooks Free Library. “Hiya, Sandy, what can I do for you?”
“Hi, Lucy. Well, I want to ask a big favor. I’d love it if you’d cover this talk at the library on Sunday afternoon. He’s really kind of a big deal and I’m afraid we won’t get a good turnout.”
“Well, give me the information and I’ll run a preview online. Any chance you’ve got a photo?”
“Plenty of photos, the speaker is a Pulitzer Prize–winning news photographer known for his intimate, candid shots. There’s even photos of royal weddings and inaugurations.”
“I meant one of him,” said Lucy. “But I guess it could be one of the pics in the show? Or is it a talk?”
“Both. It’s like an old-fashioned slide show, except nowadays you can cast the photos onto a TV from any device.”
“Have you got a photo I can use? Or have him send me one?”
“Sure, Lucy. I’ve got one I can send right over. His name is Matthieu Colon, and the presentation is at two o’clock on Sunday afternoon.”
“That name sounds familiar,” mused Lucy.
“He’s big, very big. You’ve probably heard of him. It would be great if you could write it up, he’s an interesting guy.”
“I’ll try,” said Lucy, unwilling to make a promise. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to work on Sunday afternoon. Maybe she’d prefer to relax with a magazine and a cup of tea, or even make a stab at catching up on the laundry.
But when she opened up Sandy’s email, she recognized the work of the photographer she’d seen in the gallery in Portland. Impressed once again by Matthieu Colon’s work, and intrigued by the promise of images she hadn’t seen like the candid portraits, she decided the presentation was worth a story and put it on her calendar.
It was starting to get dark when she finally left the office for home. It had stopped snowing, but the trees and streetlights were coated with snow, making everything look magical. It was toasty in the car, with the heated seat turned on high, and Lucy almost felt a bit sad that winter was drawing to a close. Just a teeny bit sad, she told herself, as she was really looking forward to warm weather and planting her garden and being able to leave the house without wrapping herself up in warm clothes like a mummy.
The lights were blazing in the old farmhouse at the top of Red Top Road, a sure sign that Zoe was home. Bill’s pickup was also parked in the driveway, and Lucy felt her spirits lift as she made her way to the house. It was Friday and the weekend was ahead. Maybe just this once she’d fulfill her dream of lingering in bed with coffee and the Sunday papers.
But first, she realized when she opened the door, it seemed she’d have to referee a disagreement between Zoe and her father. Both were seated at the kitchen table, confronting each other, voices raised.
“What’s going on?” she asked, dropping her bag on the bench by the door and unwrapping her scarf.
“Dad’s being a jerk,” said Zoe, glaring at Bill.
Bill rolled his eyes in response. “First off, don’t call me a jerk. I’m your father and I deserve a bit of respect. And second, I’m just trying to keep you from making a big mistake.”
Lucy shrugged out of her jacket and hung it up on a hook, then joined them at the table where a bunch of papers were spread out. Picking one up, she saw it was a lease for an apartment in the rehabbed mill Zoe had visited last weekend. “You can’t possibly afford this,” said Lucy, zeroing in on the figure at the bottom of the page.
“I could if you guys would help me,” said Zoe. “A lot of parents do, you know. They help their kids get started.”
“But I thought you wanted to be independent, make your own way,” said Lucy, parroting Zoe’s earlier claims. “Not be beholden to anyone.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll do it on my own. I can afford the rent, I really can.”
Bill shook his head. “The figures don’t work out. Believe me, I’d like to see you in a nice place but this is not affordable. The guideline is thirty percent of take home, ideally twenty-five percent, for rent. This is more than half of your take-home.”
“Yeah, but I won’t need much more money because I’ll be saving, like they say in the brochure. I can walk to downtown, I won’t need a gym membership, everything is right there. It’s just steps from restaurants and shops. They even pick up and drop off your dry cleaning.”
“Which you certainly won’t be able to afford,” chuckled Lucy.
“And there are stiff penalties if you’re late, or miss a month,” added Bill, jabbing a finger at the lease. “Have you read the fine print? The least bit of damage, say one of those cheap refrigerator bins cracks or something, and you’re liable for an exorbitant sum.”
“I’m not a savage, you know. I’ll take care of the place.”
“Stuff happens,” said Lucy, remembering holes in the drywall when Toby and one of his friends got in a wrestling match, and a broken window when Sara and Elizabeth had been practicing field hockey in the backyard.
“You’d also be locked in for a year,” added Bill, “you couldn’t move if you found someplace more affordable, or that you liked better.”
“Or even get a roommate, or a pet,” said Lucy, pointing to a clause in the lease.
“That’s crazy. It’s just a piece of paper. People break leases all the time.”
“And sometimes they get slapped with a lawsuit,” said Lucy, who had been immersed in the fine print. “I’m going to call Bob, get his opinion on this. I’m not convinced this lease is even legal.”
“Take a photo and send it to me,” advised Bob after they’d exchanged greetings. “I’ll take a look at it, but I’m warning you, it’s probably perfectly legal. These development companies know all the ins and outs of the law and make the most of it. I’ve heard of people getting burned pretty bad when they had disputes with landlords. The law is usually on the side of the property owner, sad to say.”
“While I’ve got you,” began Lucy, her mind taking a detour down a similar path, “have you had any clients with claims against Heritage House?”
“A few, nothing very serious. Mostly disputes over surcharges, things like that. They’ve always backed down, been eager to settle and keep their residents happy.”
“No Medicare fraud? Anything like that?”
“Not that I know of,” said Bob. “And by the way, don’t let Zoe sign anything until I look it over.”
“Righto,” promised Lucy, giving Zoe a look. “Bob says it’s no-go until we hear from him. Okay?”
“Okay,” grumbled Zoe. “So what’s for dinner?”
Bill looked at Lucy, and Lucy looked at Bill. Neither seemed to have any ideas. Finally, Lucy reached for the phone. “Pizza?”