“Wilf manages our money,” confessed Phyllis, sounding a bit smug as she referred to her husband. They had married late in life and she was clearly enjoying married life. “And then there was that woman, done up to the nines, with high-heel boots and that bleached blond hair that looks natural so you know it must cost a fortune.”
Lucy noticed that Phyllis’s tone had changed; she sounded worried when she spoke about the woman. “I’m confused,” admitted Lucy. “Does Wilf know this woman?”
“No way,” Phyllis dismissed that idea with a flap of her hand. “She came here to the office and, again, no introduction, Ted just dragged her off. He was gone for a couple of hours and when he got back, not a word. He just sat down and started pounding out his weekly editorial.”
“You have no idea who she was?” Lucy considered possible identities for a woman with a city hairdo and high heels. “Maybe she was some sort of sales rep? A high-flying real estate agent?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Phyllis, “but she looked like trouble to me.”
Lucy was inclined to agree. She tended to be suspicious of women in high heels, who clearly did not have to negotiate the icy sidewalks and muddy driveways that were an annual feature in Maine as winter began to loosen its grip and temperatures began to rise above freezing in the day, only to refreeze at night. Everyone she knew, male and female, wore duck boots beginning with the first February thaw and right on through June.
“Any other suspicious characters?” asked Lucy, thinking this was beginning to sound like a Sherlock Holmes story. Of course, Sherlock would immediately identify the jovial man as having come from Portland where he’d recently stopped for gas and a stale tuna sandwich. The woman, he would assert, undoubtedly came from Chestnut Hill where she raised Dobermans and ran a sado-masochistic dungeon patronized by wealthy men with guilty consciences.
“A tall, skinny man in a plaid shirt and jeans with a big Adam’s apple,” offered Phyllis, interrupting Lucy’s thoughts. “He had a deep voice. He greeted me politely, ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said. That’s how I know about his voice.”
Ah, thought Lucy, a radio announcer for the country-western channel. “No introduction?”
“Nothing. He asked for Ted, called him ‘Mr. Stillings.’ Ted happened to be in the morgue, but popped out like a jack-in-a-box when he heard the man’s voice. Then they were gone, and again, no explanation when he returned.”
“I dunno,” said Lucy, shaking her head in puzzlement. “Either he’s working on a feature story of some sort about little-known celebrities, or it’s got something to do with the business. Maybe he’s once again on the brink of bankruptcy and is trying to refinance, or ... ,” here she stopped, unwilling to continue and voice the notion that Ted might be selling the Pennysaver.
The bell on the door jangled, and they both turned to see who their next visitor might be. This time the stranger was tall, dark and undeniably handsome. He was also young and dressed in brand-new country duds: ironed jeans with a crease down the leg, a plaid shirt topped with a barn jacket, and fresh-from-the-box duck shoes that hadn’t yet ventured into muddy territory.
“What can I do for you?” asked Phyllis in her polite receptionist voice.
“I have an appointment with Ted Stillings. Will you let him know I’m here?”
Phyllis and Lucy both perked up, presented with an opportunity to ascertain the fellow’s name. “Gladly,” said Phyllis with a big smile. “Who shall I say is here?”
“Rrr,” he began, then caught himself. “Just say his eleven o’clock is here.”
Phyllis’s ample bosom seemed to deflate a trifle. “Actually, you’d better take a seat. Ted’s not here, but I expect him shortly, Mr. Rrrr . . .”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling and revealing a dazzling white perfect bite. He sat down on one of the chairs next to the door, opposite the reception counter, and even bent at the knee his long legs pretty much filled the intervening space. He picked up the latest copy of the Pennysaver from the table between the chairs and began reading it.
Lucy took this opportunity to study him, taking in his thick, Kennedyesque hair, his sweeping black brows, hawkish nose, square jaw, broad shoulders, and large hands. Dudley Doright? she wondered, recalling the cartoon character. Clearly, she was no Sherlock Holmes.
“Did you travel far?” she asked.
“Not too far,” he said with a shrug.
“So you’re familiar with Maine?” she continued.
“Sure,” he said. “Lobsters, blueberries, and moose.”
“Would you like some coffee while you wait?” asked Phyllis.
“No, thanks.” He nodded. “I’m good.”
“We also have tea,” offered Lucy. “If you’re a tea drinker.”
“Thanks, but I’m all set,” he answered, turning the page of the paper and burying his nose in it. Lucy doubted he was really all that interested in the Tinker’s Cove high school’s basketball team’s recent defeat at the hands of the Dover Devils, and figured he was trying to avoid conversation. But why? Why were all these recent visitors so secretive, and what was Ted trying to hide?
She glanced at the antique Regulator clock that hung on the wall above the stranger’s head, just as the big hand clicked into place at twelve, indicating it was exactly eleven o’clock. Like clockwork, the bell jangled as the door opened and Ted arrived, bristling with energy and rubbing his hands together. “Ah, you’re already here,” he said, extending his hand.
The stranger stood up and took Ted’s hand, giving it a manly shake. “Good to meet you,” he said.
“Same here,” said Ted. “Did you have a good drive?”
“Not bad,” said the stranger. “Bit of traffic in Portland but otherwise clear sailing.”
Lucy and Phyllis picked up on that last, and their eyes met. Was this a clue to his identity? Was he a fisherman? A yachtsman?
“That’s great,” said Ted. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m usually
