“Where exactly did you see this little drama? The sports med is the only office on the first floor.”
Lucy knew she’d said too much. “Uh, well, I saw them come in and, um, followed them upstairs.”
“Are you crazy? You can’t follow people around. What if they saw you?”
“I was going to pretend I was looking for an office and was on the wrong floor.”
“And you think that would convince them? You suspect this guy is an arsonist, someone who’s willing to hurt and possibly kill other people, and you think it’s smart to follow him around?”
They’d passed the inlet and were passing stands of leafless trees and fields of drooping cornstalks.
“It wasn’t like I was creeping around in the dark or something. I was in a professional building in broad daylight, well, actually under bright fluorescent lights. There were no windows up there. It was a brightly lit hallway and I had every right to be there.”
“Yeah, well, I had every right to go about my business in the pub and look at what happened to me,” declared Bill.
“So you do think it might have been Tag?” asked Lucy, making the turn onto School Street.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Bill. “And I want you to promise to stop this crazy nonsense and mind your own business. You should hear yourself. You sound as crazy as this Eudora woman.”
“Well, this is my business,” argued Lucy, braking for the stop sign at the bottom of Red Top Road. “When you got blown up it became my business.”
“Stop. Stop the car,” ordered Bill.
“Why? Do you think you can drive one-armed?”
“I’m not driving, I’m getting out. I’ll walk from here.”
“That’s crazy,” said Lucy, beginning the climb up the hill.
“I mean it. Stop the car.”
“Okay, okay,” she grumbled, pulling off to the side of the road.
She turned, giving him a questioning look, but he didn’t notice.
He had already shoved the door open and was getting out. Then he shut the door hard without looking at her and marched off, striding up the hill without a backwards glance.
If only Real Simple had had an article advising how to have a productive argument with your husband, she thought, watching as he strode along, clearly driven by anger.
She made a three-point turn and headed for the office, aware that it wasn’t only his arm that was injured in the blast, but also his pride. She knew she’d handled things badly. He’d given her clear signals that he didn’t want to be mothered or babied, and that he would take responsibility for his injuries and for the family’s welfare, too. By the time she reached the office she’d resolved to be more tactful in the future . . . and to keep her investigative reporting activities to herself until it was time to break the story in the Pennysaver.
When she got to the office, Phyllis greeted her with a stack of press releases to be entered in the listings, and Ted informed her that he’d sent her story about the selectmen’s meeting back to her for a rewrite, so she knew she’d be working late. That was actually fine with her since she was in no hurry to go home and face Mister High and Mighty Grumpy Pants. If he was so darn independent, he could zap a frozen mini-pizza for himself. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t need two arms for that little chore.
When she sat down at her desk she found a press release from the DA announcing that the state crime lab had found no trace of any opiates in Alison Franklin’s body and therefore her death from drowning was considered accidental and the case was officially closed. There was also a voice mail from Mimsy, asking Lucy to give her a call as soon as possible, as it was a bit of an emergency. Lucy’s curiosity was piqued, wondering if the call was a reaction to the news about Alison, and she returned the call immediately. The phone rang numerous times before it was answered.
“Sorry, I was stuck in a closet,” said Mimsy, sounding rather breathless. “Mireille got a bee in her bonnet about getting the house ready for the Realtor and she’s had me clearing out all sorts of junk.”
“Maybe it’s that nesting thing,” said Lucy. “I bet she’ll go into labor any minute.”
“I can only hope,” said Mimsy with a sigh. “She’s working me ragged, and she’s got me worried, too. You know she fired the bodyguards and I’m terrified for her safety, especially since I found”—she paused and dropped her voice to a whisper—“I found committal papers that Jon sent to Ed. He wanted to have Eudora committed and wanted information from Ed about their marriage. He specifically wanted to know about any incidents of violent behavior.” Again she paused. “What if she goes after Mireille?”
“What do you mean? Do you really think Eudora is prone to violence?”
“It’s not what I think. It’s what her husband thinks. And Eudora’s made it very clear that she hates Mireille.”
Lucy thought about this and had to admit Mimsy had a point if Eudora truly was an unhinged psychopath. Lucy wasn’t convinced that was the case. True, she’d witnessed Eudora refusing to see a psychiatrist, but that didn’t mean she was a danger to herself or others. As her friend Rachel often said, mental health was a continuum, and people moved through various periods of stability and instability throughout their lives, but that didn’t mean they were crazy. Eudora had clearly been through a lot, and she might very well be close to a breakdown, but her husband seemed to be dealing with the situation. He was clearly in contact with a psychiatrist and even if Eudora wasn’t ready to cooperate was probably getting sound professional advice.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said Lucy, recalling her encounter with Eudora at
