Just then a siren blared, causing the girls to cover their ears and scream with delight. The parade was approaching, led as always by the fire department’s gleaming white pumper truck. The town’s pride and joy—a brand-new hook-and-ladder truck—would be at the end of the parade, carrying Santa in a crow’s nest atop the ladder.
The high school band was marching past, and everybody was smiling and clapping in time to the music. The band was followed by a band of clowns driving funny little cars, actually Shriners in costume. Everybody laughed at their antics and the children scrambled to catch the candy they tossed.
Lucy was enjoying the spectacle when, suddenly, someone fell against her almost knocking her off her feet. As she staggered to keep from falling, Bill took in the situation and leaped to her aid.
“Here you go, fella,” he said, grabbing the man by the upper arms. “Steady now.”
“I’m so sorry,” the man said.
Lucy was surprised to recognize Howard White.
Pale and drawn, he hardly seemed the imperious chairman of the board of selectmen.
“Are you all right?” asked Lucy. “Should we call the rescue squad?”
“Oh, no.” White spoke with some effort, he was out of breath and his chest was heaving.
“The fire station’s just down the street—I’ll get an EMT,” said Lucy.
“I’m all right.” The words came out in a rush. White continued to breathe heavily. “I just need to catch my . . . my breath. It’s the cold you see.”
Lucy hesitated. Her instincts told her he needed help, but she knew White would hate the embarrassment of causing a fuss at the parade. Indeed, he did seem to be getting back some of his color and to be breathing more easily.
“How foolish of me,” he said. “I was fooled by this mild weather and was rushing to meet my wife. I should have taken my time. It’s this darned asthma.”
“Shall I go and get her?”
“No, no. I’ll be fine. I’ll just go on slowly, as I should have in the first place. I apologize for being so much trouble.”
“Not at all,” said Lucy, watching as he made his way cautiously down the street.
“Poor old fellow,” said Bill.
“Yup,” agreed Lucy, mentally scratching another suspect off her list. Miss Tilley was undoubtedly correct that Howard White wasn’t mourning Curt Nolan’s death, but Lucy doubted very much that he would have been physically capable of committing the evil deed. That war club was heavy; Lucy herself had held it when Rumford had brought it to the flintknapping workshop at the library. There was simply no way Howard White could have lifted the club and delivered a fatal blow, especially since it had been at least twenty degrees colder on the day of the football game. If temperature triggered his asthma and he was having trouble on a mild day, he would have been in serious trouble on a really cold day.
The parade continued but Lucy wasn’t watching; she was lost in her thoughts. She was thinking of the button Barney had described. It sounded like the sort of button that was often used on tweed sportcoats—the sort of sportcoat that Fred Rumford almost always wore. Once again she remembered that day at the library.
“Mom! Mom!” Zoe was screeching, waving madly at Santa atop his fire truck. “I want to tell Santa what I want for Christmas!”
“Okay. What do you want to do, Sara? Do you want to visit Santa Claus?”
Sara rolled her eyes in disgust. Her mother should surely know better than to ask a question like that of such a mature individual as herself.
“You take Zoe to see Santa,” said Bill. “Sara and I will go on over to the football field and see who wins the prize for the best float. You can meet us there.”
Taking Zoe’s hand, Lucy headed for the fire station, where Santa traditionally held court. By the time they arrived, however, the line of children eager to tell him their Christmas wishes was halfway down the street.
“I hate standing in line,” said Lucy.
Disappointment clouded Zoe’s little face and she stuck out her bottom lip in a pout.
Lucy pulled a schedule from her pocket and checked the time.
“Look. Santa’s going to be here for another hour. Why don’t we do something else for a while and come back in forty-five minutes or so? The line will be much shorter then.”
“What could we do?”
“How about this,” said Lucy excitedly, spying an opportunity to continue her investigation. “There’s an open house at the college museum. You know you love the mummy.”
Zoe nodded. She was fascinated by the exhibit of a drab and dusty mummy case that contained the well-wrapped remains of an ancient Egyptian workman.
“Okay,” she said.
* * *
As they walked the three blocks to the museum, Lucy told herself she wasn’t really involving her child in a murder investigation. Of course not. She was taking Zoe to see the mummy, which was just one of the many strange artifacts William Winchester had collected on his grand tour and later donated to the college he had created back in 1898. No, her main interest was amusing Zoe, but if the opportunity rose to question Fred Rumford, she would certainly take advantage of it.
As she had expected, few people were attending the open house at the college museum. Lucy and Zoe helped themselves to lemonade and cookies from the table set up in the lobby. Then they wandered through the largely empty rooms studying the old-fashioned glass exhibit cases.
One case contained artifacts collected in Polynesia, including spears, drums, and a plaster model of a woman wearing a grass skirt. Lucy looked at the faded photograph of William Winchester surrounded by several half-naked native women and noticed he seemed remarkably dour for a man in that situation.
“Come on, Mom. The mummy’s in the next room.”
Lucy followed as Zoe ran up to the glass case, then stopped short.
“Is it really a dead person?” Zoe asked.
“Yes, it is. But the person has been dead for a very long time.
