“Do you take Visa?”
He shook his head.
“I understand I get a phone call?”
He nodded and she was led back to the holding cell.
When she finally got her turn at the phone, Lucy didn’t know whom to call. Bill was on the job and nobody was home. She could leave a message on the answering machine, but the odds of one of the kids actually listening to the message and taking action weren’t good. She could call the paper, but suspected Ted was most likely out on assignment. Phyllis usually only worked mornings, which meant she’d have to leave a message and trust he’d check the machine before quitting for the day. Besides, it was getting late and the banks would be closing soon. She knew he refused to carry an ATM card and the chances he would have fifty dollars in cash were slim.
Her best bet, she finally decided, was to call Bob Goodman, Rachel’s husband. He was a lawyer, after all. He would know what to do.
“The law office of Robert Goodman. May I help you?”
Martha Bennett’s voice was music to Lucy’s ears. “Martha, this is Lucy Stone. Could I speak to Bob?”
“Lucy, I’m afraid he’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”
Lucy didn’t want to tell this very proper, silver-haired lady that she needed bail, but she didn’t really have a choice.
“I’m in a bit of a jam and need Bob to bail me out.”
Martha Bennett didn’t seem at all surprised. Lucy supposed she’d gotten calls like this before.
“Don’t worry, Lucy. I’ll page Bob immediately. How much do they want?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“He’s on his way.”
This time, as Lucy was led back to the holding cell once again, she felt encouraged. Bob was on the way; Bob would rescue her.
She sat down on the steel bench, squeezing in between a rather heavy woman in flowing handwoven garments, who was obviously one of the protesters, and a tiny, shrunken woman, who was shaking uncontrollably.
“DTs,” said the heavy woman with a knowing nod. “Better give her plenty of room.”
She had no sooner spoken than the tiny woman doubled over and vomited on the floor. Some of the other women in the crowded cell made sounds of disgust; the gray-haired woman called for the guard.
Nobody came to clean up the mess. There was no place to go; no other seat was available in the crowded cell. Lucy concentrated on a brown water stain on the opposite wall. She tried to ignore the smell; she tried not to notice the woman’s trembling. Instead, she tried to frame the story she would write for the Pennysaver about the morning’s events.
The thing that most struck her, she decided, was the contrast between the quiet mourners inside the church and the pandemonium outside. To her, it seemed the protesters and the police were equally guilty of disturbing the funeral service.
Her thoughts turned to Ellie and the figure beside her: Jonathan Franke. There had been something in the way he’d angled his body toward Ellie, something in the way his hand lingered on her back, that made Lucy doubtful he was acting simply as a friend. She would have bet her bail money that Jonathan Franke was hoping to take Curt Nolan’s place as Ellie’s boyfriend.
If that was true, she thought, it gave Franke a real motive for killing Nolan. She remembered the pie sale, where the two had argued. Now that she thought about it, the two men had exhibited more animosity than could be accounted for by their differing views about zoning regulations. In fact, she remembered, Franke had been so angry he had stalked off without finishing his pie—a definite first for the pie sale.
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Franke was a prime suspect for Nolan’s murder. It was obvious the murder hadn’t been premeditated; the murderer had acted on impulse. And everybody knew Franke had trouble controlling his temper. Years ago, when the Association for the Preservation of Tinker’s Cove had been in its early stages, he’d been involved in a few scuffles and had even been charged with assaulting a contractor in an effort to halt a construction project in a watershed area.
Lately, however, he’d made a real effort to be more reasonable and professional in his role as the association’s executive director. He’d given up the wild, curly hair that had been his trademark and had taken to wearing casual business clothes instead of the jeans and plaid flannel shirts he’d once favored. Now he was usually seen in khaki pants and tweed jackets-the sort of jackets that had leather patches on the elbows and woven leather buttons.
The thought brought Lucy up sharply: woven leather buttons, just like the one that was found in Curt Nolan’s hand.
Feeling pressure on her upper arm, Lucy glanced at the alcoholic woman next to her. She wasn’t a pretty sight and Lucy struggled not to gag. The woman had passed out and was leaning against Lucy. A stream of saliva was dribbling down her chin and she reeked of booze and vomit.
“Lucy Stone,” called the officer.
“Here,” yelled Lucy, gently easing herself away from the unconscious woman and lowering her to the bench before presenting herself to the guard.
She watched impatiently as he fumbled with the keys. Enough, already. She’d been here for an eternity and couldn’t wait to get out.
“What took you so long?” she demanded as Bob led her to his car. “Do you know what it’s like in there? People were throwing up! It was disgusting! I don’t know how they get away with treating people like that, keeping them in such appalling conditions! It’s outrageous!”
“I knew you’d be glad to see me,” said Bob, unlocking the car door for her.
“I must’ve been in there for hours,” said Lucy, fuming as she fastened her seat belt.
“Well, you’re out now—until December fifteenth. Want to tell me how you got in this mess so I can convince Judge Joyce not to lock you up and throw away
