“I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Frankie.
“I suspected him all along,” said Willie. “He has such a temper.”
“More than a temper,” said Bonnie. “I’d call him abusive. I bet poor Mimi tried to leave and that’s when he killed her.”
Lucy had heard the scenario before. The cycle of abuse, the increasing tension, the explosion into violence. The abusive partner’s obsessive need to control and dominate the other even to the point of murder if the victim tried to escape. Somehow it didn’t quite fit.
“Mimi had friends on the police force,” said Lucy. “She knew about the resources for battered women and she had plenty of support from her coworkers, she doesn’t sound like an abused wife to me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Bonnie, sounding un-characteristically sure of herself. “Abuse crosses all socioeconomic lines; anyone can be a victim.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” said Frankie, challenging her.
“I used to be a social worker. I’ve seen this sort of thing more times than I can say.”
“What about Tommy? What’ll happen to him?” asked Lucy.
“Now that he’s out of the hospital his older brother will probably get temporary custody,” answered Bonnie.
“But Preston’s just a kid,” said Lucy. “How can he be expected to care for a mentally unstable person?”
“He’s eighteen, that makes him legally an adult.”
“Besides,” said Frankie. “Did you see Tommy? They’ve got him so drugged he could barely walk.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Lucy. She couldn’t imagine what sort of system would give an eighteen-year-old motorcycle maniac the responsibility of caring for an extremely fragile suicidal sibling. Leaving the others she walked down the street to the Stanton house and knocked on the door. Preston answered, opening the door only a few inches. He looked, she thought, meeting his dark eyes, like an animal that hadn’t decided whether to defend his den or flee.
“I just wanted you to know that if you need anything, anything at all, we’re right here. Just give me a call.”
“We’re fine.”
“Well, you never know what might come up,” said Lucy. “If you have any trouble I’ll be more than happy to help.”
“You’re that reporter, right?”
“I’m here as a neighbor, that’s all,” said Lucy. “A concerned neighbor.”
“A big nosy-body, you mean,” he said. “Well you can just mind your own business and leave us alone.”
“Okay,” said Lucy, backing away. “I was only trying to help.”
She didn’t know why she bothered to say it, she was talking to a closed door. She started down the street towards home, aware that it was getting late and she really ought to get to work. But first, she decided, since she was so close to the woods she might as well take a quick look and see if the homeless man had returned to his camp. Unwilling to trespass on the Stantons’ property she cut through the Cashmans’ yard. Nobody was out. Chris was probably giving Pear and Apple their one hundred percent organic breakfast or prepping them for one of the day’s activities.
She had no trouble finding the path and hurried along keeping her eyes out for the ring of stones she’d discovered yesterday. She soon found it but there was no sign of a recent fire. Some animal, probably a raccoon, had spilled the coffee and eaten the doughnuts, leaving the ripped paper bag stuck in a bush. Discouraged, she picked up the trash and retraced her steps, heading for home. Somehow the morning hadn’t gone the way she had planned. Instead of a restorative half-hour with a cup of coffee and her own thoughts, she’d witnessed Fred Stanton’s arrest. If that wasn’t upsetting enough, she’d also discovered that Tommy and Preston were left to their own devices and would have to manage as best they could without either mother or father. She knew there was nothing she could do about it, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.
When Lucy arrived at work an hour late, Ted was simultaneously talking on the phone, holding the receiver against his shoulder by crooking his neck, picking away at his keyboard with one hand, and waving a handful of papers at Phyllis with the other. Phyllis was also multi-tasking, talking on the phone while applying a fresh coat of Tropical Melon to her nails.
“About time you got here,” he muttered to Lucy, throwing the papers down on his desk.
“The cops arrested Fred Stanton,” she said. “I saw the whole thing.”
“That’s great,” he said, covering the mouthpiece. “You can write a first person account. Then I want you to cover…” He held up his hand, signaling that she should wait for him to continue, and spoke into the phone. “So when do you expect we will know the tax rate?” he asked. “What do you mean, not until October? The fiscal year began July 1, didn’t it?” He slapped his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to her, picking up where he had left off, “…the police press conference. It’s at ten. When you’re there you can ask them about the homeless guy—some of the fishermen found his body floating in the harbor early this morning.”
Lucy sat down hard in her chair. “I can’t believe it.”
“If you ask me, he was an accident waiting to happen,” said Phyllis. “Wandering around town half-drunk.”
“Did he drink?”
“All homeless people do, don’t they? That’s the reason they’re homeless.”
“I think that might be an oversimplification,” said Lucy, recalling the extremely neat campsite she had discovered in the woods. There hadn’t been a single liquor bottle.
“I guess some of them do drugs,” conceded Phyllis.
“Ah, ladies, I hate to interrupt this discussion but it’s almost ten.”
“I’m on my way,” said Lucy, grabbing her bag and rushing out the door. The bell tinkled behind her as Ted resumed his conversation with the town assessor. “So you don’t actually inspect the properties to set their value but you use some sort of mathematical formula?”