“How was the press conference?” she asked.
“About usual. Not very informative.”
Phyllis went on folding and filling the envelopes; she could do it in her sleep. “Have they got much of a case against Fred?”
“Not unless they’ve got more evidence than they gave at the conference,” said Lucy, looking at her with interest. “Why’d you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied with a shrug. “It doesn’t make sense to me. If your wife works for the town and has friends in the police department you’d have to be crazy to kill her, and I don’t think Fred is crazy. He’s very shrewd. And self-interested. He doesn’t do anything unless it benefits him.”
“How come you know so much about him?”
“Last year I collected donations for the Eastern Star’s benefit auction.”
“Did he donate something?”
“Yeah. A closet system. But he insisted that we feature it in our ads for the event, he specified what size print we used for his name, and he insisted on a receipt so he could get a tax deduction.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Well, yeah. All the donors got a receipt as a matter of course. But he demanded his right up front. He couldn’t wait for the treasurer to get around to it, if you know what I mean. He hounded the poor woman to distraction over it when her husband was in the hospital for a quadruple bypass.”
“I guess you’d say he’s a stickler for details?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Not somebody who’d impulsively stick a kitchen knife in his wife’s back?”
“No. Definitely not.” Phyllis considered. “He might hire a contract killer—but he’d want a receipt for his taxes!”
Lucy chuckled. “Maybe you could be a character witness for him.”
“Not likely.” She gathered the envelopes together and gave them a sharp smack against her desk, creating a neat pile. “Did they say anything about the homeless guy? I keep wondering what brought him to Tinker’s Cove, anyway? I mean, it’s not like there’s a food kitchen or a shelter, is there?”
“He was at the funeral. That’s where I first saw him, anyway. I guess he must have some connection to Mimi.” Lucy shrugged. “Fred said she didn’t have family so maybe he was an old boyfriend or something.”
“Maybe he was just a crazy guy who liked funerals.” Phyllis was applying polish topcoat with all the care of Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
“Nobody goes to funerals for fun,” said Lucy, coming to a decision. “I’m going to call Fred’s lawyer and see if Fred’s ready for a visitor.”
“He wouldn’t talk to you before,” said Phyllis, waving her hand back and forth as if conducting the Boston Symphony.
“That was before he went to jail,” said Lucy. “Maybe he’s lonesome.”
Phyllis wasn’t convinced and neither was Fred’s lawyer. “The last thing I want him to do is talk to the press,” said Will Esterhaus, speaking from his Portland office.
“But this is different,” said Lucy. “I’m from the local paper, and there’s a lot of sympathy for him here in Tinker’s Cove.”
“I think not,” said Esterhaus. “He is charged with killing his wife, after all. I doubt there’s a great deal of sympathy for him.”
“Small towns have big hearts,” said Lucy.
Across the room, Phyllis rolled her eyes as she unscrewed the top of a bottle of correction fluid.
Now it was Lucy’s turn to roll her eyes as she thanked the attorney for his time which, she thought sourly, was all she got from him.
“You could start the listings,” said Phyllis, dabbing the white fluid onto her checkbook register.
Lucy was too restless to start that job, just the thought of spending the afternoon at the computer made her legs twitch. “Not today,” she said, grabbing her bag. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, Mohammed will have to go to the mountain.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” yelled Phyllis, raising her voice to be heard over the jangling bell on the front door.
Not quite sure where to begin, Lucy drifted down Main Street toward the harbor. She intended to ask anyone she might see there if they had observed the homeless man but at eleven o’clock on Monday morning the sidewalk was practically deserted. The summer people had all gone home, the kids were back in school, and the only people peering into the shop windows seemed to be shoulder-season tourists.
She intended to talk to the fishermen at the harbor who had discovered the body but as soon as she turned the corner onto Sea Street and saw the smooth blue water of the cove, flat as a pancake, she realized her mistake. The entire fleet would be out today, taking advantage of the calm weather. Discouraged, she decided on Plan B and went back to the Pennysaver to get her car. There was no harm in seeing if Preston and Tommy had changed their minds and were ready to talk to a friendly neighbor.
“I already told you,” said Preston, pausing to let the lawnmower idle while he mopped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, “we don’t want to talk to nobody.”
“How’s Tommy doing?” asked Lucy, undeterred.
“He’s fine. Okay? So just leave us alone.”
“I’ve been wondering about that homeless guy,” continued Lucy, squinting in the bright sun. “Do you have any idea why he attended your mother’s funeral?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Preston, losing patience. “And if you don’t stop bothering me, I’m going to call the cops.”
“I was only trying to help,” said Lucy, beating a hasty retreat.
“Busybody,” muttered Preston, giving the mower a push.
Lucy was climbing back into her car, intending to go home and make herself some lunch, when she spotted Frankie coming down the drive towards her mailbox. Frankie, she remembered, was rumored to have been having an affair with Fred Stanton. At least that’s what Chris seemed to think. Lucy gave her a wave and hurried down the street to meet her at the box, which had been embellished with paint and a carved wooden head and tail to look like a mermaid.