Chapter Two
After work, Lucy headed over to her friend Sue Finch’s house for a late-afternoon meeting of the Hat and Mitten Fund. Lucy and Sue, along with their friends Rachel Goodman and Pam Stillings (who was married to Lucy’s boss, Ted), had created the fund some years ago to provide warm winter clothing for the town’s less fortunate children. The plan at first had been to simply collect outgrown parkas, boots, and snow pants, but they soon realized the need was much greater than they had imagined and began organizing fund-raisers so they could also provide school supplies as well as formula and diapers for babies. This year they were planning an ambitious holiday gala and raffle featuring a dinner dance and a visit from Santa.
It was already dark when she pulled up in front of Sue’s house, which was a handsome Federalist style home located on a street filled with large houses built in the 1800s by prosperous merchants and sea captains, and she smiled to see that Sue and her husband, Sid, had already put up their outdoor Christmas decorations. Brass urns containing Christmas trees with lights and red bows were placed on either side of the front door, which also held a large wreath. All of the windows on the front of the house were illuminated by electric candles and were decorated with wreaths, and the branches of a Japanese maple on the front lawn were outlined with tiny twinkling lights.
She gave a couple of knocks on the door, then opened it and hallooed, which was the custom in a town where nobody bothered to lock their doors. She was greeted with the scent of cinnamon potpourri and a call to come on in to the kitchen.
She knew the way well and continued through the hall, past the staircase whose banister was wrapped in a pine garland, and pausing to take a peek at the enormous Christmas tree in the living room and the bowl of blooming amaryllis in the center of the dining room table. As usual, Sue had set up a smaller tree in her country French kitchen, decorated with cookie cutters and gingerbread men.
“Wow, Sue, you’ve certainly got the Christmas spirit,” exclaimed Lucy, joining her friends at the antique wine-tasting table that was Sue’s pride and joy. She plucked a cookie from the plate of holiday treats that Sue had set out for her friends—but wouldn’t dream of eating herself—and took a bite. “This chocolate crinkle is fabulous.”
“They did come out well,” said Sue, tucking a lock of her carefully maintained black hair behind an ear with a beautifully manicured hand and causing the other three to share amused smiles. “I discovered you have to let the dough sit on the counter for ten minutes before you shape the cookies. It’s like magic.”
“And the decorations are beautiful,” added Lucy. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“It’s nothing, really,” said Sue, with a shrug. “Sid and I just pull out stuff we’ve collected over the years.”
“Oh, right,” said Pam, who had been a college cheerleader and still wore her hair in a ponytail, “you must have been working on all this for weeks. I wonder, how long did it take Sid to wrap that tree with all those lights?”
“Not as long as you’d think, once Sid got the knack of it,” insisted Sue, referring to her husband, who had a custom closet business. “But I did have to show him that wrapping was much nicer than just draping the lights so they’re all droopy and weird.” She paused. “I just hate that, don’t you?”
Lucy thought of how she and Bill had struggled to hang what was undeniably a free-form pattern of Christmas lights last weekend and kept her peace. She had long ago given up comparing herself to Sue, who was, like Mary Poppins, “practically perfect in every way.”
“I think it’s wonderful that Sid and Sue get in the spirit of the holiday,” said Rachel, who had majored in psychology in college and never got over it. She was married to Bob, a busy lawyer with a practice in town. “Holidays are a way of coming together as a community, they’re very life-affirming.”
“I think this is going to be a very special Christmas,” said Lucy. “We’re going to have the whole family, for the first time in years. Elizabeth’s coming home . . .”
“You must be thrilled!” enthused Pam. “Your baby girl is coming home!”
“She can tell us what they’re wearing in Paris. . . .” said Sue.
“It is wonderful when adult children come home, but there can also be challenges,” warned Rachel.
“We’ll roll with the punches,” vowed Lucy, thinking of the many times she’d been tempted to offer advice to her daughter-in-law, Molly, but had bitten her tongue, fearing that Molly would take it as criticism. “Meanwhile, let’s get busy here. I’ve got to cook supper for a hungry family.”
“Doesn’t Molly help out?” asked Pam.
“She does, but she’s into whole grains and veggies in a big way and Bill loves his spaghetti with meatballs,” confessed Lucy, with a wry smile. “Like Rachel says, living with extended family is sometimes challenging.”
“I bet it is,” said Sue, flipping open a file folder and consulting the top sheet of paper. “But to get back on track, so far we’ve sold a hundred and forty-six tickets. . . .”
“Only fifty-four to go, that’s great!” said Pam.
“Oh, I forgot, I sold twelve last week,” said Rachel.
“Even better, that gets us to a hundred and fifty-eight sold, forty-two to go,” said Sue, making a notation, and then putting down her pencil and adopting a serious expression. “But we do have a problem. Our Santa has canceled; he’s going to have hip-replacement surgery.”
“Oh, no,” moaned Pam. “It won’t be a Christmas gala without Santa!”
“We’ll just have to get someone else,” said Rachel, with a shrug. “I suppose Bob could do it. . . .”
“Bob’s really skinny and he doesn’t have a beard,” said Pam.
“He’s awfully serious, which is great for a lawyer, and I love him, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not really a ho-ho-ho sort of guy,” said Sue.
“He can wear a costume,” insisted Rachel.
“I’ve got it,” announced Lucy. “We can hire Wilf. He’s actually growing a beard, he’s a genuine member of the Real Beard Santa Club.”
“Great,” said Sue, crossing that item off her list. “Now, what about tablecloths? Red, green or white? I saw some plaid ones. . . .”
* * *
Driving to work the next morning, Lucy replayed the dinner table conversation from the previous night. Bill had been delighted to learn that his oldest daughter was coming home for Christmas; Elizabeth had enchanted him from the moment she was born, screaming her head off in protest. Toby and Molly were also pleased, and explained to Patrick that his aunt Elizabeth would be coming from faraway France in a jet plane. Her sisters, Sara and Zoe, however, hadn’t been quite so enthusiastic.
“Does this mean I have to move back in with Zoe?” demanded Sara, with a scowl. There had been a natural rearrangement of the family’s sleeping quarters after Toby and Elizabeth left home, and the two younger sisters who had shared a room now each had one of her own. Patrick was now occupying his father’s old room, complete with original Star Wars posters, while Molly and Toby were using the family room sleep sofa, which offered more privacy than the close quarters upstairs in the old farmhouse.
“I’m not sharing with Sara,” declared Zoe. “She’s on her computer half the night doing research for her senior thesis.” Sara was a senior at nearby Winchester College, where she was majoring in earth science.
“This thesis is my ticket to graduate school and I’ve got to have someplace to work,” protested Sara. “It’s bad enough listening to Little Miss Chatterbox here, yammering away to her friends all night.” Zoe also attended Winchester, where she was a freshman, apparently majoring in being the most popular girl on campus.
“Well, there’s more to college than being a grind,” countered Zoe. “I’m establishing contacts for the rest of my life. It’s called networking.”
“Well, I don’t think either of you has to move,” said Bill. “Elizabeth can stay in Toby’s old room with Patrick. We’ll set up the rollaway cot for Patrick.”
“I don’t want a crib,” protested Patrick, looking worried. “I’m a big boy now.”
“A cot, sweetie, not a crib,” said Molly. “It’s the same size as your bed, but it folds up so you can put it out of the way when you’re not sleeping.”
“Okay,” he agreed, sounding doubtful and pushing his meatball around on his plate, watched closely by the family’s black Lab, Libby.
“Toby’s room is full of Patrick’s stuff,” said Sara, referring to the ever-growing collection of toys provided by the little boy’s indulgent grandparents.
“Not to mention Toby’s old posters,” said Zoe, giggling. “The décor is not à la français, for sure.”
“We can organize the toys and take down the posters,” said Lucy, “maybe even slap up some paint. That room could use it.”
Now, as she drove the familiar route to work, Lucy was wondering when she and Bill would find the time to redecorate Toby’s old room in the midst of the Christmas blitz of activity. Maybe they could get away with a quick cleanup and a new bedspread?
The Pennysaver office was empty when she arrived; she liked to get in early because she could get a lot done before the phones started ringing and people started dropping in. But this morning the phone was already ringing when she unlocked the door and turned on the lights.
“Pennysaver, this is Lucy,” she said, grabbing the nearest phone, which happened to be on Phyllis’s desk behind the reception counter.
“Uh, I want to submit an oh-oh-oh,” began a woman, with a quavery voice.
It was a phenomenon Lucy was familiar with. “An obituary?” she replied, in a gentle, coaxing voice.
“That’s right,” responded the woman, in a somewhat firmer tone.
Lucy knew that certain words were minefields for the bereaved, and obituary was definitely one of them. “I’ll be happy to take the information,” she said, aware that maintaining a kind but businesslike tone seemed to help. “What is your name?”
“Nancy Fredericks. I live at 14 Winter Street here in town. Do you want my phone number?”
“Yes, please,” said Lucy, who was writing it all down in the reporter’s notebook she always carried and had pulled out of her purse.
“Can I pay with a credit card?” asked Nancy.
“That’s not necessary. We don’t charge, this is a community service,” she said, careful to omit the word obituary.
“That’s nice,” said Nancy with a sniffle.
Lucy braced herself. Now came the hard part. “The name of the deceased,” she asked, quickly adding, “and your relationship?”
There was a pause before Nancy finally spoke. “It was my sister, Holly. Holly Fredericks.”
“I just need to check the spelling,” said Lucy, who had found that the journalist’s need for accuracy was also a useful technique for helping a grieving person to get past her emotional hurdles.
Nancy spelled out her sister’s name, adding that she would have been forty-four, if she had lived until her birthday, which was Christmas Eve.
“That’s awfully young,” said Lucy, somewhat shocked, and straying from her usual script. “Do you want to give a cause?”
Now Nancy’s voice was somewhat stronger, almost angry. “Well, I guess you could say complications from her condition, which was that she was completely paralyzed from the neck down. She was a vet, you know, she was in the first Iraq war, but medals and parades don’t really matter much when you’re flat on your back and have to be fed through a straw and you can’t even clean yourself.”
Lucy knew that due to medical advances many of the soldiers who were wounded in the Middle Eastern conflicts had survived, but often had to contend with missing limbs, paralysis, and posttraumatic stress. Hardest for some of these brave souls, she imagined, was having to rely on others for their care. “Were you her caregiver?” she asked.
“I was. I did the best I could,” said Nancy, “but it wasn’t enough. She got pneumonia, it’s not unusual with paralysis, you know.”
“I know,” said Lucy. “In cases like this we usually put in ‘complications from a long-term disability,’ is that all right?”
Receiving Nancy’s murmured assent, Lucy continued. “Do you want to tell me a little about her? You said she was in the Army, what prompted her to enlist?”
“It was back in 1990, she was looking for adventure.” There was a pause, then Nancy added, “And, of course, she wanted to serve her country and when President Bush announced he was sending troops to fight Saddam she signed up.”
“And where did she serve? What was her rank?”
“She was part of Operation Desert Storm, doing community work, you know, building schools and health clinics in Iraq.” There was a long pause. “She liked working with the kids there, especially the girls. She’d give them magazines, they loved those celebrity magazines. People and OK! They were supposed to be building democracy, but we know that didn’t really work out, did it?”
Lucy heard the anger in Nancy’s voice and wanted to avoid a discussion about the nation’s foreign policy, so she returned to the usual format. “Any special interests?”
“She loved dogs, she had a companion dog at first, Wolfie, but he got run over by a car.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lucy, thinking how upset she’d be if anything happened to her Libby. “Did she enjoy books? TV?”
“Oh, yes. She loved those CSI shows, and Ellen, of course. She watched a lot of TV.”
“It’s a godsend, when a person’s ill,” said Lucy, remembering watching Three Stooges shows with Toby when he was in the hospital with appendicitis.
“And she liked audiobooks, too,” said Nancy. “Those Outlander books, you know.”
“Those are great,” said Lucy. “What about survivors? Friends? Family?”
“There’s just me,” said Nancy, with a sniffle. “We were a small family and I’m all that’s left.”
Moving right along, Lucy asked about funeral arrangements. She was just finishing up, getting contact information for a local animal shelter, which Nancy had specified for donations in lieu of flowers, when the little bell on the door jangled and Ted came in.
“That’s the Best Friends Forever No-Kill Shelter,” repeated Lucy. “And if you’d like to drop off a photo, we can run it with the story, but we would need it before noon on Wednesday. That’s tomorrow,” she added, mindful that bereaved people often lost track of time.
“I’ll see what I can find,” promised Nancy.
“Thanks for your call,” said Lucy, “I appreciate this opportunity to honor your sister.”
Lucy replaced the handset in its holder and let out a big sigh. “An obit call is not the best way to start the day,” she said, speaking to Ted, who was hanging his jacket on the coat stand.
“It never ceases to amaze me, but obits are the most popular part of the paper. A lot of big papers are charging for them, they’re real moneymakers. And I can’t tell you how many people tell me that the obits are the first thing they turn to.” He cracked a smile. “Just checking that they’re not there, they say.”
“This was a sad one. A vet, a young woman, only forty-four,” said Lucy, who had moved to her own desk and was powering up her computer. “Came back from Desert Storm completely paralyzed.”
“That’s awful,” said Ted, busying himself making a pot of coffee. “Desert Storm was in the early nineties, wasn’t it?”
Lucy consulted Google. “1991. That was more than twenty-five years ago.”
“And all this time, this poor wounded vet has been right here in Tinker’s Cove and nobody knew,” speculated Ted.
“It’s shameful, isn’t it? Maybe I could cover the funeral,” suggested Lucy. “We haven’t really done anything about local returning vets, have we?”
The coffee began to drip, filling the office with its warm aroma, and Ted sat down in his desk chair, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back, propping one ankle on the other knee. “It’s definitely overdue,” he said in a decisive tone. “We could do a story, or even better, a series. . . .” He looked up as Phyllis bustled in, with an array of shopping bags and totes dangling from her arms. “Been shopping?” he asked.
“Early bird sale at the outlet mall,” she replied. “Began at six AM.”
“Looks like you did well,” said Lucy, adding a sigh. “My day began with an obit.”
“Better you than I,” said Phyllis, stowing the bags beneath the reception counter.
“The deceased was only forty-four, a female vet,” said Ted, who was definitely getting excited about his idea. “I’m thinking of running a series on disabled vets, and maybe even starting a campaign to raise money for the Honor the Heroes fund. What do you think?”
“With one of those thermometer charts?” asked Phyllis, who had hung her coat on the rack and was now checking the thermostat, something she did every morning.
“Don’t touch it, it’s at sixty-eight,” ordered Ted.
“Feels chilly to me,” said Phyllis, putting on the sparkly sweater she’d left hanging on the back of her desk chair. “And I don’t like your idea about featuring disabled vets. . . .”
“Why not?” protested Lucy. “After all they’ve sacrificed for us . . .”
“Let me finish,” Phyllis said, holding up her hand with one finger raised. “I was going to say, before I was so rudely interrupted, that I don’t think we should cover vets now, at Christmas. It’s not very holidayish, but it would be a good way to start the New Year.”
“I think she’s right,” said Ted. “But that leaves us without a feature. Any ideas?”
“Sure do,” said Phyllis, a note of triumph in her voice. “How about the Real Beard Santa Club?”
“You can’t get more Christmas than that,” said Lucy.
“Okay,” said Ted, starting up his computer. “But you’ve got to interview somebody beside Wilf. That could be a conflict of interest.”
“I can get a list of contacts from Wilf,” said Phyllis.
“I’m on it, boss,” said Lucy, ashamed to admit she would rather shelve the issue of the disabled vets, at least until Christmas was over.