“I remember,” said Lucy, thinking of how she used to dread the holidays when she was in college. For the first time, she wondered how her parents had felt. Had she hurt them as much as Toby was hurting her?
“Just a few more days,” said Bill, standing up and putting on his jacket. “They’ll be gone Sunday.”
“You’re right,” said Lucy, stroking his beard when he bent down to kiss her good-bye.
* * *
“Lucy, thank goodness you’re here,” said Ted, when Lucy finally arrived at the Pennysaver a half hour late. “I was afraid you weren’t coming, what with the holiday and all your company.”
“I had to drop the girls off,” she said, giving her damp jacket a shake and hanging it up. “Any progress on Nolan’s murder?”
“Nope. The state police are holding a press conference later this morning. Maybe they’ll have something to announce then.”
“I’ll go,” offered Lucy eagerly. She could think of a million questions she’d like to ask the police.
“That’s okay,” said Ted. “I can handle it. I want you to start working on Nolan’s obit.”
“Not the obit,” groaned Lucy. She hated writing obituaries. It was the worst part of working for a newspaper.
“I’ve already got some information from the funeral home,” said Phyllis, trying to be helpful.
Lucy gave Ted an evil look. “I don’t suppose you’ll be happy with that, will you? You’ll want quotes.”
“Just a few,” said Ted in an apologetic tone. He knew how hard it was to call up grieving survivors and ask them to talk about a lost loved one.
“A lot of people didn’t like him,” began Lucy.
“You can say that again,” cracked Phyllis.
Lucy clucked her tongue and continued. “Do you want me to get negative quotes, too?”
“Sure,” said Ted, turning back to his computer. “But I think you’ll find people don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Curt’s probably a lot more popular dead than he was alive.”
“Maybe I’ll use that for a lead,” said Lucy in a sarcastic tone. She turned on her computer and waited for it to boot up. “You know Fred Rumford called me Wednesday night? He was all upset that Chris White hadn’t returned the war club. I was worried we were missing a big story.” She sighed. “It’s funny how things tum out, isn’t it?”
“I can’t believe that Chris was so irresponsible,” said Phyllis. “That war club is priceless.”
Lucy and Ted, both parents, laughed together.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Lucy, remembering Nolan’s reaction that day at the library when he’d seen Zoe carrying the club. “Maybe Nolan saw Chris fooling around with it or something. He always said the club belonged with the tribe instead of in the museum. Didn’t the cops follow up? Why didn’t they question him on Wednesday and get the club back?”
“They tried to,” said Ted, “but he wasn’t home. There was even an APB out on him but there was no sign of him until he turned up dead.”
“You mean they think Nolan absconded with the club?” Lucy was puzzled. “But that makes no sense because he brought it back with him to the game.”
“Maybe he didn’t take the club,” said Phyllis. “Maybe the murderer took it.”
A thought occurred to Lucy. “Maybe nobody took the club at all. Maybe Rumford had it all the time.”
“But that would make him the murderer,” said Ted.
“Maybe he is,” said Lucy, remembering how angry he was that day outside the library.
“Professor Rumford?” Phyllis was incredulous.
“Why not?”
“I don’t think you’re on the right track, Lucy,” said Ted, checking the clock. “But you’ve given me some good questions for the press conference.” He got up and reached for his jacket. “You’ll have that obit done when I get back?”
“No problem.”
After he’d gone, Lucy stared at the blank computer screen wondering who to call. Ted was right: Nobody would want to be quoted saying what they really thought of Curt Nolan. Certainly not Howard White or any of the other members of the board of selectmen. All she’d get from them would be a lot of hypocritical double-speak and she didn’t have the stomach for it. Andy Brown? He was Nolan’s boss, after all. But he was out of town.
Reluctantly, she decided there was nothing for it but to call Ellie Martin. She dialed Ellie’s number quickly before she could change her mind.
“Hi, Ellie,” she began, speaking in a soft voice. “This is Lucy Stone. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Curt.”
“Thank you, Lucy.” Ellie’s voice sounded distant, as if she were very far away instead of just a few miles down the road.
“I’m working on Curt’s obituary for the Pennysaver. I wonder if you could tell me a little about him.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“You knew him better than most people,” coaxed Lucy. “Don’t you want people to know what he was really like and to remember him that way?”
“I do.” Ellie paused. “People didn’t understand him, even people in the tribe. You know, I think that, if he’d lived in the old days, when the tribe was still strong, he would have been a shaman or something. He would have been a great leader. There would be legends about him. He saw things differently from other people. He saw behind appearances to the way things really are.”
As she wrote Ellie’s words down Lucy wondered if Ellie had given her the motive for Nolan’s murder. Had he seen something that made him dangerous to someone? Had he known something that the murderer wanted to keep secret?
“Can you think of a particular example?”
“Well, he was very committed to his Indian heritage.
