Lucy could hardly believe her ears. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, sputtering.
“No it’s not. Like I said before, about half the kids are Metinnicut. If they go somewhere else, there won’t be enough children left to justify funding the center. In fact, I wouldn’t feel right asking the voters for the money for so few children.”
“You could fight back,” said Lucy. “I’ll put it in the paper, how he’s using strong-arm tactics.”
“It’s not such a big deal really,” said Sue. “I don’t have to do this. I’m not sure I want to anymore. It filled a need when Sidra went away to college. I admit it. It was a way to fill my empty nest.” She smiled down at the children, who were seated around the snack table. “But I’ve worked that out. I’m ready for something new.”
“I had no idea,” said Lucy, giving her friend a hug. “I didn’t realize you were that upset when Sidra went away.”
“It was terrible—I almost got a dog,” said Sue, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Lucy. “I’m not taking any more of this abuse. If I want abuse, I can go to work. At least Ted pays for the privilege.”
* * *
But when Lucy got to the Pennysaver office, there was no sign of Ted.
“He’s interviewing Bear Sykes,” said Phyllis, “for a story about the demonstration yesterday.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, digesting this information while she hung up her coat. All of a sudden it seemed as if Bear was popping up everywhere. He was the man of the hour, and as yesterday’s protest seemed to indicate, the tribe was falling in step behind him.
“Lucy,” said Phyllis, breaking into her thoughts, “since you’re here, would you mind keeping an eye on things? I’ve got to go to the post office.”
“No problem.”
Lucy sat down at Phyllis’s desk, where she could answer the phone and keep an eye on the door. Since she was alone, it seemed a good time to call Lieutenant Horowitz and tie up that last loose thread. Then she could retire from the investigation in good conscience.
Lucy reached for the receiver, then hesitated. This wasn’t going to be pleasant, she told herself, recalling previous encounters with the lieutenant, but it had to be done. Bracing herself, she dialed the number of the state police barracks in Livermore.
“Ah, Mrs. Stone,” he said when her call finally got through to him. “I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from you.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” said Lucy, picturing his long rabbit face and his tired gray eyes.
“I care very much,” said the lieutenant, adding a long sigh. “It’s the new buzzword in the department: community policing. We’re supposed to get the public involved, maintain good relations with the media. So what can I do for you?”
“Well, since you asked, I was wondering if Jonathan Franke is a suspect in the Curt Nolan investigation?”
There was a long pause. “Well, in an investigation like this, the umbrella of suspicion covers a lot of people. Why are you asking about Franke in particular?”
“I happened to see him at the funeral yesterday and he was being very attentive to Ellie Martin, who used to be Nolan’s girlfriend.”
“Hmm. Jealousy. Could be a motive.”
Encouraged, Lucy continued. “Plus, he happens to wear a lot of tweed jackets with the kind of button that was found in Nolan’s hand.”
“Who told you about the button?”
From the lieutenant’s icy tone, Lucy guessed he was no longer interested in cultivating good media relations. “I can’t tell you that,” said Lucy. “My sources are confidential.”
“I could take you into court for witholding evidence,” said Horowitz. “I don’t think Judge Ryerson would look very kindly on you, especially considering the list of charges pending against you.”
“You know perfectly well that’s all a big misunderstanding. Now, to get back to Jonathan Franke, I think you have to consider him a suspect. First there’s the motive: jealousy. Then there’s the question of whether he’d be capable of committing murder. I can tell you he has a very hot temper and I’ve seen him almost come to blows with Nolan.”
“Mrs. Stone, just hold on a minute. Curt Nolan almost came to blows, hell, he did come to blows—with lots of people.”
“What about the button?”
“Every man in America has an article of clothing with that kind of button: a jacket, a sweater, a raincoat. Trust me on this.”
“It isn’t who’s got buttons like that—it’s who’s missing a button,” said Lucy, feeling rather pleased with her cleverness. “Have you checked his clothes?”
“Mrs. Stone, as a professional journalist—and I use the term loosely—you know perfectly well that I can’t reveal the details of an investigation. But off the record, I will tell you that Jonathan Franke has been eliminated as a suspect in the murder of Curt Nolan.”
“Eliminated? Why?”
“Again, off the record, he was having dinner with his mother at the time. Thanksgiving dinner.”
“You believe that?” Lucy was incredulous. “You’re taking the word of his mother?”
“Actually, no. He had proof. Turkey leftovers, wrapped in foil.”
“You’re teasing me. You know you are.”
Horowitz chuckled. Lucy could hardly believe her ears. “You know, I understand your interest in the case. It’s a big story. And I appreciate the coverage we’ve gotten from the Pennysaver in the past. The Pennysaver’s always been supportive and cooperative. But I’ve got to tell you that an investigation like this is best left to the professionals. We’re not talking about someone who steals Girl Scout cookies here—this is a real bad guy and he won’t hesitate to kill again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” said Lucy in a small voice.
“Good. Now I want to tell you about the department’s unclaimed property auction next month. Got a pencil?”
“Sure,” said Lucy.
She’d just finished jotting down the details when the bell on the door jangled and Ted came in. His jaw was set and he stomped across the office to his desk, tossing his notebook down. Then he pulled off