Chapter Eight
Lucy had been so caught up in the PTSD story that she’d almost forgotten about Dorcas’s death. An announcement from DA Phil Aucoin that he was holding a press conference on Friday morning to reveal the medical examiner’s official findings was a grim reminder. Lucy didn’t want to relive that awful evening and didn’t want to go to the press conference, which was taking place so soon after her big goof, but knew she was in no position to protest.
“But, Ted, you get on much better with Aucoin than I do,” she suggested, hoping Ted might take the bait. “He likes you.”
“Sorry, but I’ve got better things to do. Pam wants me to help with decorations for the Hat and Mitten Fund gala.” He gave her a look. “And I don’t expect you to argue when I give you an assignment. It’s not optional, Lucy.”
“Sorry,” she said quickly, eager to make amends. “I just thought . . .”
“Do me a favor and don’t think,” said Ted in a curt tone.
Phyllis caught Lucy’s eye and gave her a sympathetic smile, rolling her eyes at Ted’s bossy attitude.
As Lucy gathered up her things to go to the press conference she reminded herself that Ted really was the boss at the paper, and he’d been more than fair to her by keeping her on. Most bosses would have fired an employee who made such a whopping big mistake, but Ted had kept her on. It was only fair, she supposed, that he was closely supervising her work. She would have to work hard to regain his trust if she wanted to return to the freewheeling days before she wrote the erroneous story, when she could pick and choose her stories.
The press conference took place in the basement meeting room of the Tinker’s Cove town hall, and was sparsely attended. Besides herself there were only Pete Withers, who was a stringer for the Portland Press Herald, and Deb Hildreth, who wrote news copy for the local radio station. Both, of course, constantly checked the Web for breaking news and would certainly have seen the correction that Ted posted.
“I saw your correction, Lucy,” said Pete, “tough break.”
“Yeah, it’s easy to lose your objectivity when you’re covering a heartbreaker like that,” said Deb. “I bet that sister misled you.”
“It was my own fault,” said Lucy, with a big sigh. “I should have dug deeper, but I was working on deadline and didn’t want to hold the story. I’m older and wiser now, believe me.”
“It’s a sad business,” said Pete as Aucoin marched into the room, accompanied by Police Chief Jim Kirwan and the town’s health inspector, Jennifer Santos.
The chief took the podium and noted the sparse attendance. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I have to admit I thought this might attract more interest, especially since it’s Christmas and people are attending parties and eating foods prepared by others.”
“None of the big papers have reporters anymore,” said Pete. “They rely on locals like us.”
“I’m pretty sure this story will get picked up,” said Lucy, determined to get it right, straight from Aucoin’s and Santos’s mouths.
“Well, I’m supposed to introduce DA Phil Aucoin,” said the chief, “but I think you all know who he is. Phil . . .”
Aucoin stood up and took the chief’s place at the podium, where he set down a pile of papers. “Thanks for coming. As the chief said, we think this is an important story to get out, especially at this time of year. The ME performed a thorough autopsy on the body of Dorcas Philpott, who collapsed and died during the Tinker’s Cove Holiday Stroll on Friday, December second. Her conclusion was that the death occurred due to an extreme allergic reaction resulting in anaphylactic shock. Ms. Philpott had unknowingly ingested eggnog made from cashew milk, which produced the fatal reaction. Furthermore, the ME stated that it is unlikely that a prompt injection of epinephrine, say from an EpiPen, would have saved her because the reaction to the nut product was so fast and so severe.” He paused. “Any questions?”
“It’s been two weeks,” said Pete. “What took so long?”
Aucoin nodded in agreement. “It was the toxicology; the samples had to be sent to the state crime lab. We asked them to give the tests top priority and they did; this was actually a fast turnaround.” He waited for the reporters to finish their note-taking, then asked if there were any more questions. Getting no takers, he moved on to the next order of business, “And that brings me to our health inspector, Jennifer Santos, who will take it from here. Jennifer. . .”
Jennifer was a trim woman in her early thirties, who favored short hair, plaid shirts, and sturdy work boots. Lucy suspected that since she had to work in a male-dominated world she’d decided to dress like the boys, so contractors wouldn’t notice they were taking orders from a girl when they needed approval for a new septic system.
“Thanks, Phil, for giving me this opportunity,” she began. “Dorcas Philpott’s death is very disturbing because it was entirely unnecessary and could have been prevented by proper food labeling. In my time as health inspector I’ve frequently had to deal with food poisoning, and it is almost always completely unintentional. Salad greens, for example, are sometimes tainted with E. coli, which persists even after the most thorough washing. Other instances that come to mind resulted from careless food handling, or ignorance, such as when stuffing is not adequately cooked. My department has worked very hard through the years to offer courses in proper food handling and I’m proud to say that since the courses were instituted we have reduced food poisoning incidents in the county by over ninety percent.
“Now, I have nothing against cashew milk, or soy milk, or any food, for that matter, but people need to be aware that they can cause allergic reactions in some people. It is imperative that dishes containing nut products, peanut butter, dairy products, and gluten be clearly labeled, so that people who are allergic can avoid them. We all know about the people who suffered terrible reactions from eating chili that contained peanut butter—who would ever think that chili would be made with peanut butter? It’s these kinds of foods that contain unexpected allergens that are most dangerous.
“Now, don’t get me wrong. Nut milk is a fine choice for people who are allergic to dairy products, but if it is included in a recipe that normally includes cow’s milk, it must be labeled as such. That’s all, thank you and please do your best to get the message out.”
Jennifer stepped aside and the chief took the podium again. “Any questions?”
Lucy raised her hand.
“Oh, boy, here we go,” said the chief. “I suppose you want to know if the eggnog could have been intentionally concocted to kill someone who had a nut allergy.”
“Well, yeah,” said Lucy.
“I suppose it could have,” admitted the chief.
“But it would have taken a lot of rather personal information because whoever made the eggnog would have had to know that the intended victim had a nut allergy,” said Aucoin.
“And there was always the risk that the eggnog would be passed along to someone else, or served to a group of people, which in fact happened. That cashew milk eggnog could have killed others, beside Dorcas Philpott,” said Jennifer.
Lucy thought of the group of people at the Pennysaver office that evening, all innocently enjoying a festive holiday gathering, and thought that whoever made the cashew eggnog was either very careless or extremely coldhearted.
“The ME’s official conclusion was accidental death,” said Aucoin.
“So you won’t be looking to charge someone with manslaughter?” asked Pete.
“No, and I hope you’ll make this very clear to people. We really want to know who made the eggnog, and it’s important that this person come forward, so we can make sure it doesn’t happen again,” said Jennifer.
“Whoever it is will not face charges, and we will maintain confidentiality, but we really want to talk to this person and explain the risks involved in preparing foods for other people,” said Aucoin.
“Especially at this time of year, when people often give gifts of homemade food,” added Jennifer.
“So, Jennifer, if you received a beautifully wrapped gift of food, say, Christmas cookies, would you eat it?” asked Deb.
“I’d sure think twice about it,” she replied. “If I didn’t know the sender, I would most certainly toss it in the trash.”
* * *
That afternoon, Lucy was standing at the town pier, along with Patrick, waiting for the annual arrival of Santa by boat. This was a town tradition and made a great front-page photo for the Pennysaver. Quite a crowd of children and parents were gathered, bundled up against the chill wind that blew off the water and sent little puffy white clouds scooting across the blue sky. All eyes were fixed on the horizon, eagerly watching for the appearance of Santa’s red boat, and this year it was little Adam Levitt who spotted it first.
“There’s Santa, he’s coming!” yelled Adam, jumping up and down and pointing at the approaching red lobster boat that was making its way across the cove.
Soon the boat was idling at the dock, and one of Santa’s elves tied it fast, while Santa himself greeted the crowd with a wave and a hearty “Ho-ho-ho!” Lucy snapped several photos, recognizing Kris Kringle himself as Santa and noticing with surprise that Wilf was his helpful elf.
“Hi there,” Lucy said, greeting him with a smile and taking in his elaborate costume, which included the traditional pointed cap, green jerkin, red-and-white-striped tights, and curly pointed shoes complete with jingle bells. His beard had filled in nicely, covering his chin with a froth of white curls.
“Hi, Lucy,” he replied in a low voice. “How’m I doing? This is my first official gig. We start out as elves.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Elf,” said Lucy. “This is my grandson, Patrick.”
“Well, hello there, Patrick. Are you ready to meet Santa?”
Patrick didn’t answer but carefully studied Wilf. “What’s your name?”
For a moment Wilf was stumped, then came up with a reply. “Jingles. I’m Jingles the Elf, and I help Santa. In fact,” he continued, “I’ve got to help him off the boat. See you later, and remember, you better be good!”
Lucy chuckled to herself as Wilf gave a hand to Santa, helping him onto the dock and carrying his bag of toys. A makeshift throne of lobster pots awaited Santa, and he was soon seated, ready to meet his young admirers, who Wilf was arranging into an orderly line. As she waited with the crowd she wished she’d had more time to talk to him, wanting to get his thoughts about the fatal eggnog. Was he as worried as Phyllis? Or was she indulging in paranoid thoughts, making a big deal about a simple accident?
Then it was Patrick’s turn, and Lucy was curious to hear what Patrick would say to Santa. She knew he was a bit shy and feared he might waffle at the last minute, perhaps even refusing to climb onto Santa’s lap, but now that the big moment had come Patrick was handling the situation with youthful aplomb.
“Have you been a good boy?” asked Santa, as Wilf hoisted him onto Santa’s lap.
“Pretty good,” said Patrick, after giving the question some thought.
“And what do you want for Christmas?”
Lucy waited with bated breath for the little boy to reveal his heart’s desire. What would it be? A computer game? Legos? A bike? A puppy?
Patrick didn’t hesitate, he knew exactly what he wanted. “A guitar,” he said. “A real one, not a toy.”
Lucy’s mouth dropped in surprise. She had no idea that Patrick wanted a guitar or was even interested in music.
“Well, we’ll see what we can do, young man,” said Santa, giving Patrick a tiny candy cane.
Wilf lifted him off Santa’s lap and passed him to Lucy. “Merry Christmas!” he said, before turning to the next child.
As they made their way through the crowd, back to the car, they passed a table where PTA members were selling baked goods and hot cocoa. Lucy recognized her friend, Lydia Volpe, among the volunteers and stopped to chat.
“Hi, Lydia, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Lucy. Who’s this?” she asked, indicating Patrick. Lydia was a retired kindergarten teacher and took a keen interest in her friends’ grandchildren, who were often the offspring of her former students.
“My grandson, Patrick. He’s Toby’s little boy. The whole family is here from Alaska and staying with us while Toby does some graduate work at the university.”
“Toby always was a bright one,” said Lydia. “How about some nice hot cocoa, to warm you up? It’s for a good cause, only a dollar a cup.”
“Uh, I’m not . . .” she began, hesitating as a vision of Dorcas’s thrashing body popped into her head.
“Please,” said Patrick, tugging on her arm. “I’m cold.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .” she began, unwilling to disappoint Patrick but mindful of the health agent’s warning to think twice before consuming foods made by others.
“It’s perfectly good, Lucy,” said Lydia. “I made it myself.”
“Not an old family recipe, I hope,” said Lucy, attempting a joke.
“Look, I know what happened to Dorcas and so does everybody else. We aren’t selling anything today, which is a shame because a lot of folks worked hard to contribute delicious baked goods.”
“It’s true,” said one of her companions, who had been rearranging the assorted cookies and cakes on the table. “And it’s all perfectly good.”
“I made the cocoa myself, and it’s not an old family recipe. I added boiling hot water to a jumbo canister of store-brand cocoa mix I got at Marzetti’s,” said Lydia. “It’s entirely artificial, far as I can tell.”
“Well, then, it must be safe,” said Lucy, opening her purse. “We’ll take two. With marshmallows, please.”
“And if people see that you don’t drop dead,” said Lydia, “maybe we’ll sell some more.”
“Which would make standing out here in the freezing cold worthwhile,” added the companion, stamping her feet and rubbing her hands together.
Lucy took a sip of the hot liquid and smiled. “It’s good, very good,” she said. “What do you think, Patrick?”
“Mmmm,” said Patrick, licking his upper lip, which was already sporting a cocoa mustache.
* * *
Lucy went straight to the office, after handing Patrick off to his mother, who was taking him Christmas shopping. Ted wasn’t there, which was a big relief to Lucy. Ever since her big goof she hadn’t felt comfortable with him; she knew she was on probation. Another mistake, she feared, would be her last.
“Ted’s still out?” she asked Phyllis, who was hunched over her computer, working on the events listings.
“Yup,” she replied. “I bet Pam’s got a long ‘honey do’ list for him and those decorations for the gala tomorrow night are just the beginning.”
“It’s that time of year,” said Lucy, setting her bag down on her desk and unbuttoning her jacket.
“And Ted wants us to work Saturday. . . .”
“What?” asked Lucy, dismayed.
“He says it’s mostly the end-of-year wrap-up and if we get a head start on it he can give us a longer Christmas break,” explained Phyllis. “Is it a problem for you?”
“Kind of,” admitted Lucy, who still had a long list of things to do before Christmas. Top of that list was the fact that she hadn’t yet wrapped the presents she planned to send to Bill’s parents in Florida, and was worried about getting the package off in time to arrive for the holiday. “Do you know the last day you can mail a Christmas package?”
“They say right up until the twenty-second, I think, but if I were you I wouldn’t wait. The sooner the better.”
“Maybe if I call home I can catch Elizabeth and she can wrap the stuff we’re sending to Bill’s folks,” said Lucy, sitting down at her desk and shrugging out of her coat while reaching for the phone. The call went to voice mail, but when Lucy began leaving her message Elizabeth picked up.
“Were you screening calls?” asked Lucy, who was always worried for her girls’ safety.
“No, Mom. And there are no Level Three sex offenders lurking outside the house. I was in the shower,” answered Elizabeth.
“Well, you can’t be too careful,” said Lucy, going on to explain the reason for the call. “So it would be terrific if you could wrap the package for Grandma and Grandpa in Florida and get it to the post office.”
“No problem, Mom,” said Elizabeth. “And if you want I’ll pick up some groceries and make a real French supper, to make up for the pot roast fiasco.”
“That would be lovely,” said Lucy, who was surprised by her daughter’s sudden helpfulness.
“De rien,” said Elizabeth, ending the call.
Having dealt with that crisis, Lucy decided to put off writing up her account of Aucoin’s press conference to take advantage of Ted’s absence while she worked on the PTSD story. She didn’t want Ted looking over her shoulder; she wanted to present it to him completely finished and perfect, like a Christmas present.
As she read through her notes she realized that while she had plenty of facts and figures, the story was going to be little more than a compilation of statistics. She needed to put a face on the problem and she knew that face had to belong to someone other than Holly Fredericks. She looked up from her computer, trying to think of someone she could talk to, just as Phyllis came over to her desk with a press release.
“This might be a little story for you—the Queen Victoria Inn is having a gingerbread house contest.”
“A photo op, anyway. Thanks,” she said, taking the announcement. “By the way, didn’t you say you know some PTSD vets?”
Phyllis was quick to respond. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, Wilf is a vet . . .”
“Oh,” she replied, letting out a big sigh. “I was afraid you thought Wilf . . .”
“Wilf?” asked Lucy, surprised at Phyllis’s reaction. “He’s the last person I’d think of when I think of PTSD.”
“Well,” admitted Phyllis, “he did have some trouble, years ago, when he first got back from Iraq.”
“Do you think he’d talk about it with me?”
“For the paper? Are you crazy? He doesn’t even want to talk about it with me! As far as he’s concerned that was then and this is now and it’s all over and done with.” She paused, a troubled expression on her face. “But I don’t think it’s ever over. He’s been having nightmares, tossing and turning. Something’s definitely bothering him.”
“That’s too bad. Maybe if you ask him about it . . .” began Lucy, as the little bell on the door jangled and Marty Jasek, the mail carrier who had taken Wilf’s place, came bustling in. “Are you ladies working or gossiping?” he asked in a joking voice.
“This is community news,” said Phyllis, puffing out her chest. “What’s the difference? It’s all the same thing.”
“What have you got for us today?” asked Lucy.
“Not much today,” he said, placing a small pile of envelopes on the reception counter and turning to go.
“Hold on,” said Lucy, casting a glance in Phyllis’s direction and reaching for her jacket. “I want to ask you about, um, dates. I have a package that needs to get to Florida by Christmas.”
Marty had the answer ready. “Right up until two days before Christmas, if you ship pri—”
“Oh, I don’t want to hold you up,” said Lucy, buttoning her coat. “I’ll walk with you. I could use some fresh air.”
“Whatever you say,” said Marty, looking puzzled as he held the door for her.
Once outside, Lucy got to the point. “Look, I don’t want to give the wrong impression, I love everybody at the post office, but Phyllis is real worried about that eggnog that was sent to Wilf. It was made with cashew milk and it could have killed him if he drank it. . . .”
“Wilf’s allergic to nuts,” said Marty, as they walked along the street.
“Did a lot of people at the post office know that?” asked Lucy.
“Yeah, he was pretty careful about what he ate.” Marty had stopped in front of the next store, Dorothy’s Gifts and Souvenirs, holding a handful of mail. “I’ve got to . . .”
“I’ll wait,” said Lucy, with a shiver.
Marty was back in a moment, and she continued her questioning. “I don’t want to hold you up,” she said, “so I’ll get right to the point. Is there anyone at the post office who’s had problems with Wilf?”
Marty stared at her, his mouth open in disbelief. “Are you kidding? Everybody likes Wilf. Everybody.”
“That’s good to know,” said Lucy, not quite convinced. Maybe everyone at the post office liked Wilf, and so did the Real Beard Santas, but there were plenty of other folks in Tinker’s Cove. After Phyllis’s admission that something was bothering Wilf, Lucy wondered if she really meant that someone was bothering her husband. She only hoped it wasn’t the same coldhearted and careless person who’d made the eggnog, a person who she was beginning to think had tried to kill him and might try again. “Thanks, Marty,” she said, turning to go back to the office, eager to warm up.
As she hurried along she noticed Ted walking down the street from the opposite direction, and met him at the door. “How was the press conference?” he asked, opening the door and jangling the bell.
“The ME says Dorcas’s death was an accident and Aucoin is not investigating further,” she said, stepping inside.
“Good,” said Ted, pausing at the reception desk and nodding. “Nice to know we won’t be facing charges for poisoning our readers.”
“Only their minds,” quipped Phyllis, getting an evil look from Ted as he leafed through the pile of letters on the counter.
“She’s on a roll,” said Lucy, hoping Phyllis wouldn’t question her about her odd behavior, chasing Marty Jasek down the street.
“What’s this?” he asked, opening one of the envelopes. “A bill from the plumber?”
“Don’t you remember?” asked Phyllis. “That leak in the bathroom?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “But I need to go over our maintenance costs with you, for next year’s budget. Have you got a minute?”
“Sure,” said Phyllis, with a resigned sigh.
* * *
When she got home that night, Lucy was greeted with a delicious aroma emanating from the oven. Elizabeth was bustling about the kitchen, lifting pot lids and peeking inside, taking little tastes of whatever she was cooking as well as steady sips from a large glass of red wine.
“What are you cooking?” asked Lucy. “It smells delicious.”
“Lapin,” replied Elizabeth.
“It’s rabbit, Mom,” said Sara, sounding unhappy. “A nice little fuzzy bunny that never did anyone any harm.”
“It’s a classic French dish,” said Elizabeth, refilling her glass. “Once you eat lapin you’ll never think of rabbit the same way. They’re delicious.”
“I’ll just have a peanut butter sandwich,” said Sara, with a sniff.
“You’ll be missing out on a rare treat,” insisted Elizabeth. “Oh, and by the way, Mom, I mailed the package.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, noticing that the bottle of wine that was sitting on the kitchen table was nearly empty. “Did you drink all this yourself?” she asked.
“Most of it’s in with the fuzzy bunny,” said Elizabeth, defending herself. “I’ve been cooking all afternoon.” She paused. “And don’t worry, I’ve got a second bottle for the table. This is the cooking bottle.”
When they gathered at the dining room table, which Elizabeth had set with the good china and silver, Lucy had to bite her tongue. While there had been a lot of sound and fury in the kitchen as Elizabeth put the final touches on the meal, there wasn’t much to show for it. The rabbit was rather small, and there was barely enough to serve seven adults and one growing boy. It was a good thing that Sara had stuck to her guns and made herself a sandwich, and Molly had fixed an organic hot dog for Patrick. Elizabeth had also cooked some tiny baby potatoes and carrots as sides, but the dinner plates were largely empty.
“Delicious,” exclaimed Bill, polishing off his serving in three bites. “I’ll have seconds.”
“Me too,” said Toby.
“There’s salad, that’s the second course,” said Elizabeth. “That’s how they do it in France. It’s very good for the digestion.”
“You mean there’s no seconds?” asked Toby, incredulously.
“I guess I’ll have my salad now,” grumbled Bill.
“Uh, you need to wait until everyone’s finished and I can clear the table and bring salad plates. And I have to dress the salad.”
“I’ll take ranch,” said Bill, looking down at the plate that would have made him a member of the clean plate club. “And I don’t need a new plate. This one’s fine.”
“Same here,” said Toby.
“I made a vinaigrette dressing, for the whole salad,” said Elizabeth. “In France, there’s always a fresh plate for each course. So much nicer than jumbling all your food together.”
“I hope you’re going to do the dishes, then,” said Zoe. “I know it’s my turn, but it isn’t fair if I have to wash a whole lot of extra plates.”
“Don’t forget the pots,” said Sara. “I think she used every single one.”
“Girls, Elizabeth made a special treat for us,” said Lucy, ignoring the rumbling in her tummy, “and it’s good to try new things.”
“Is there dessert?” asked Bill, in a hopeful tone.
“Mais oui!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “I have a chocolate truffle for each of us.” When this was greeted with silence, she added, “In France, they value quality over quantity. Fresh food, like this rabbit, and I found hydroponically grown salad greens. I got it all at this new organic store. Funny you don’t know it, it’s right opposite Marzetti’s.”
“I love that place,” said Molly. “That’s where I got Patrick’s hot dogs, made from grass-fed beef with no artificial additives.”
“The prices are astronomical there,” said Lucy.
“But what would you rather have? That cheap ice cream from the IGA, made with carrageenan and who knows what, or a beautifully hand-crafted chocolate.”
No one answered, although Bill allowed himself a large sigh, and Elizabeth got up to clear the table and prepare the salad.
“You get what you pay for,” said Molly.
“I like ice cream,” said Patrick, who had polished off his expensive hot dog wrapped in an equally expensive wholegrain bun and still looked hungry.
“There’s always cereal and peanut butter and jelly, in case you need a snack,” whispered Lucy, as Elizabeth returned with the salad.