Easter Bonnet Murder

Book 28: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Known for its cheerful staff and elaborate annual Easter Bonnet Contest, the Heritage House senior center regularly attracts new residents and positive press. But once the town’s retired librarian, Miss Julia Tilley, checks in to recover from an illness, Lucy sees a side of the facility that isn’t quite so perfect and pristine. And the place may soon be making headlines for different reasons following an unexplained disappearance… Lucy can’t fathom how Agnes Neal could go missing from assisted living over a silly Easter bonnet contest or why few seem concerned as signs point to foul play. A retired journalist with an independent mind, Agnes had an eye for detail and little interest in conforming to catty cliques or rules set by her caretakers—traits that threatened some and angered others… While police stall the investigation without answers, Lucy realizes backstabbing has no age limit when alarming parallels bloom between her daughter’s college frenemies and social circles at Heritage House. Gathering clues as flimsy as a half-eaten milk-chocolate bunny, Lucy must discover what happened to Agnes—before her own story becomes another springtime tragedy left unsolved.

Release date: January 25, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“Oh, Lucy. I don’t know what to do,” moaned Rachel Goodman, collapsing on the visitor’s chair Lucy Stone kept by her desk at the Courier newspaper office in Tinker’s Cove, Maine. Tears were filling Rachel’s huge brown eyes and she didn’t even seem to have the strength to sit in the chair but propped herself on Lucy’s desk, leaning on her arms. “I was at the hospital last night,” she continued, reaching for a tissue, “and they told me they don’t think she’s going to make it.” She paused to collect herself, took a big sniff, and wiped her eyes. “The nurse told me to prepare myself. How do I do that? I can’t imagine life without her.”

Lucy Stone, part-time reporter and feature writer for the weekly newspaper, felt her heart lurch and her stomach land with a thud. She sat down hard on her desk chair and met the tearful eyes of her dear friend Rachel Goodman. “I can’t believe it,” she finally said. “I suppose it was foolish but somehow I really thought she’d live forever.”

Rachel and Lucy were speaking about the town’s oldest and most revered resident, Miss Julia Ward Howe Tilley, who had been fighting pneumonia in the ICU at the Tinker’s Cove Cottage Hospital for eight days. Rachel, who provided home care for Miss Tilley—only a sadly diminished group of elderly friends dared to call her Julia—had been visiting daily and reporting on her condition. These reports spread through town faster than a Blue Angels flyover, zipping from one increasingly worried citizen to another as the news steadily grew worse every day that passed. Miss Tilley, the long-retired librarian at the Broadbrooks Free Library, was a friend to all and a beloved institution, cherished for the generous heart that she strove to conceal with brisk efficiency and a tart tongue. A tiny person with rosy cheeks and an aureole of fluffy white curls, she loved nothing more than to express outrageous opinions designed to shock those who would dismiss her as a “sweet old lady.”

Lucy passed her a tissue, and took another for herself. “How old is she?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, it’s a closely guarded secret, but I do know she’s well over a hundred.”

Lucy wiped her eyes. “That’s a heck of a good run.” She studied her friend’s face, thinking that Rachel suddenly looked older and tired now that she was too troubled to bother with rejuvenating creams and the mascara and lipstick she used to apply with a light touch. She thought how much younger Rachel looked when her face was lifted with a smile. “How are you doing?” she asked, taking Rachel’s hand.

“Not well,” she admitted. “You know my mother died when I was in my teens, so I think maybe Miss T filled that empty space for me. I could talk about anything with her, any problems, and she always helped me put things into perspective.” She sighed and squeezed Lucy’s hand. “They said that anyone who wants to say good-bye shouldn’t delay.” Her voice broke and she caught a sob. “They say she could go at any moment.”

Lucy, who had come to work early to write a recap of the latest selectmen’s meeting, which had been more contentious than usual and didn’t end until close to midnight, came to a decision. She shut down her PC and got to her feet, gathering up her bag and grabbing her jacket from the coat stand. “I guess I’d better get going, before I chicken out and hate myself forever,” she said.

She and Rachel got to the door just as Phyllis, the receptionist, yanked it open and set the little bell on the door to jangling. Words were not needed, the expressions on Rachel’s and Lucy’s faces told it all, and Phyllis, a dyed-in-the-wool Methodist, raised her eyes heavenward and crossed herself. “Keep praying,” urged Rachel. “Amen,” added Lucy, as they hurried past. Once on the sidewalk the two women parted. Rachel headed for her husband Bob’s law office, just a few doors down, to tell him the awful news, and Lucy got in her SUV for the drive to the hospital.

Lucy drove along the Main Street of the pretty coastal town, too distressed to notice the colorful banners flapping from lampposts in the cool breeze that blew off the cove, advertising the Chamber of Commerce’s upcoming Spring Fling sales promotion. She also failed to see the gorgeous barrels that dotted the sidewalk, crammed with blooming daffodils and sprays of forsythia, cultivated by the Garden Club. She instead was trying to think of what she wanted to say to Miss Tilley. As she struggled to frame her thoughts, she realized she’d never been confronted with a moment like this and wasn’t at all sure what was expected. The truth was that although she’d lost beloved family members before, she’d never had a chance to say good-bye.

Her father was the first to go, back when she was a young mother, too occupied with the endless demands of her growing brood to truly comprehend the gravity of the situation when her mother called to report he’d had a heart attack. She remembered asking her mother if she should come to New York, where he was in Montefiore Hospital, and being reassured that “everything is going to be just fine.” It wasn’t fine, however, and her father died that very night while she was pacing the floor with a crying, feverish toddler with an infected ear.

Now that she thought about it, she discovered she really hadn’t had time or space to grieve for her father. She was entirely caught up in the struggle to meet the needs of three young children, a nursing baby, and a husband struggling to get his restoration contracting business off the ground. She’d been too tired to cry, or, she concluded with a sudden insight, too afraid that if she started she’d never stop. It was safer to stuff her emotions into some back drawer of her brain; if she acknowledged them she feared she would be overwhelmed.

After losing her husband, her mother had gradually slipped into dementia, becoming a vague, confused shadow of her former self. Lucy hadn’t really understood what was happening, thinking her mother’s confusion was due to her grief, until she’d gotten a phone call from her mother’s doctor. By then there wasn’t much she could do except arrange for her mother to go into a memory-care facility; it was only a matter of time until she failed to recognize Lucy, her only child, and eventually slipped into a coma. Lucy had dutifully arranged the funeral but hadn’t recognized the woman in the coffin as her mother, her mother had slipped away slowly bit by bit until she simply wasn’t there at all.

The most recent family member to get his wings, as the obits often paraphrased the cold, cruel and inevitable fact of death, was her husband Bill’s father. Bill Senior had also suffered a sudden heart attack, which Bill’s mother stubbornly downplayed, denying the seriousness of his condition. He slipped into unconsciousness before Lucy and Bill could reach him in Florida and learned from the doctor that there was no chance of recovery. They watched mutely, day by day in the ICU, as his breaths grew shallower and finally, ultimately, ceased.

Reaching the hospital, Lucy pulled into the parking lot and braked. She rested her head on the steering wheel, still holding it with her hands at ten and two. She was about to lose one of her dearest friends, and the thought was overwhelming. More than a friend, really, Miss T had been a lodestar, a fixture in her life. Not so much a mother figure, as she was for Rachel, but a mentor. It was Miss T who had encouraged her to take the job at the newspaper when she was looking to increase the family income, pointing out that it was work she would find meaningful and absorbing, unlike the other options in Tinker’s Cove such as housekeeping at an inn or waitressing. “Those are important jobs,” Miss T had told her, “I believe all workers deserve respect, but you need intellectual challenges.”

Lucy had shaken her head in denial. “After four kids, my brain is mush,” she said, getting a quick retort from Miss T.

“Nonsense. I see the sort of books you borrow from the library, like that new biography of Emily Dickinson.

“I didn’t finish that one,” admitted Lucy ruefully. “But I sped through a couple of Jane Langton’s and Dorothy Sayers’s mysteries.”

“Further evidence of your good taste,” said Miss T.

Lucy smiled at the memory, acknowledging that Miss T had been right. She loved working at the Pennysaver, now renamed the Courier after her boss, Ted, bought the Gilead Gabber and combined the two weeklies into a county-wide paper, also adding an online daily edition. She still cherished the moment she saw her byline on the front page for the first time and realized she was getting paid for work she would gladly do for free. Not getting paid much, actually, but in those days every little bit helped.

And Miss T was right about something else. Lucy discovered she was particularly well-suited for journalism, it came quite naturally to her, and she had picked up numerous awards from the regional newspaper association. She’d also broken several stories that had been picked up by the Portland and Boston papers and TV news, even a few that had gone national, and her investigative reporting had uncovered and even solved local crimes. Miss T had given her confidence in her abilities at a time when she needed precisely that sort of encouragement, and as a result she had become a more authentic and happier person.

There was a tap on her car window and Lucy jumped, then smiled, realizing it was Rachel. “I thought you were going to Bob’s office,” she said, after opening the window.

“I did, but he was getting ready to go to court, and I didn’t want you to have to do this alone. Or me, for that matter,” she added. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Lucy sighed. “I was just thinking about how much Miss T means to me. She was the first person I got to know when we moved here and she’s always been there for me with good advice, no matter what. I can’t imagine life without her.”

“I know,” said Rachel, waiting as Lucy opened the door and stepped out. “And not just us, but the whole town. She’s been a sort of moral conscience for the whole community, standing up for good old-fashioned values like honesty and charity and tolerance.”

“She was active against domestic violence long before it ever became an issue, remember how she was part of that underground railroad that helped desperate women escape from their abusers?”

“I do indeed. And she always encouraged the high school kids, especially the girls, to raise their expectations and go on to college; she wrote endless reference letters.”

“She had that junior librarian program, my girls, Elizabeth, Sara and Zoe, were all part of it. They helped out with story hour and picked up all sorts of skills. Computers, the Dewey decimal system, people skills, why, they even became neater at home and tidied up their rooms after spending a few afternoons in the library!”

“She was the one who encouraged my Tim to apply to Harvard, we never thought he had a chance but they accepted him.” Rachel sighed, somewhat regretfully. “The rest is history.”

Lucy knew that Tim had become enamored of ancient Greek pottery at Harvard, a passion that led him to become an authority in the field. Although Rachel was terribly proud of her son, who was now affiliated with Oxford University, she was grieved that he spent most of his time at archaeological digs on the other side of the world.

“He’s doing work he loves,” said Lucy. “And he’s invited you to come visit any time you want. You should go. Imagine all that gorgeous blue water and the white houses and the clear skies; I’d love to go to Greece.”

“It’s not like that, Lucy. Those digs are hot and dry and dusty. And endless. They scrape away for days and weeks and months and it’s a big celebration if they find a teeny little shard of pottery.”

The two women had reached the hospital door and Lucy suddenly understood that their discussion of Tim’s career choice had been little more than an effort to distract themselves from what came next. Now it was time to face the awful truth that Miss Tilley was going to die, going to disappear from their lives and be no more. It was time to say good-bye.

The two friends reached for each other’s hands and held tight as they advanced and the glass doors automatically opened for them. The hospital lobby was empty at this early morning hour, the turquoise and orange leatherette couches sat vacant and a housekeeper in gray scrubs was watering the ficus plants that stood in the corners. The vinyl floor gleamed in the shafts of morning sun, and the woman at the reception desk was sipping coffee from a paper cup. The elevators were waiting, just beyond the desk.

“Up we go,” said Rachel, pushing the button on the wall. The doors slid open and they stepped inside for the brief ride up one floor.

Much too brief, thought Lucy, when the doors slid open. They stepped out and Rachel led the way past the nurses’ station, where she was greeted with smiles as a frequent visitor, and down the long hallway to Miss Tilley’s room. The door was closed.

Rachel stopped and turned to Lucy. “I don’t want you to be shocked,” she began. “It’s like they say in the PBS costume dramas, when the returning relative comes for a final deathbed visit. ‘I fear you’ll find her very changed.’ She’s not the Miss T you remember. She’s been sick for a long time, she’s lost a lot of weight. There’s all sorts of wires and tubes and beeping things.”

“But she’s conscious?” asked Lucy. “Will she know we’re here?”

Rachel furrowed her brow. “Frankly, I think that’s the worst part. She’s only too aware of what’s happening. It seems a cruel twist of fate, if you ask me, but it’s her choice. They’ve offered her all sorts of sedatives, even morphine, but she wouldn’t allow it. She says she wants to meet her creator with her faculties intact.”

“I suppose she’s got some issues with him she’d like to discuss,” said Lucy. The words hung in the air for a moment, and then the two women burst into laughter.

“I’m sure she does,” said Rachel, wiping her eyes. “And she’s not going to mince words.”

Then they knew it was time. They hugged each other, and Rachel pushed the door open. They stepped into the little entry area, continued past the bathroom, and turned the corner. The sight that greeted them was astonishing.

“Ha! You’re here!” exclaimed a nightmarish creature, a spectral figure sitting bolt upright, with unkempt, wild hair. Her face was gray, her cheeks sunken beneath enormous blazing blue eyes. Withered skin dappled with brown age spots hung from her bony arms and her fingers were gnarled and twisted. The hospital johnny was much too large, it had slipped, revealing a jutting collarbone and sharp shoulder. A bank of machines were arrayed around her tiny figure, all with green and red flashing lights. Lucy stood speechless, trying to take it all in. Brief images of zombies she’d seen in ads for TV shows flashed through her mind. Had Miss Tilley become one of the living dead? Was that even possible?

“It’s about time you showed up! Don’t just stand there like a pair of idiots!” ordered Miss Tilley. “Get me the hell out of here!”

“You, you seem much improved,” stammered Rachel, rushing to Miss Tilley’s bedside and taking her hand. “How do you feel?”

“Just dandy and I want out of here, now!”

“We’ll have to see what the doctor says,” replied Rachel cautiously. “You’ve been very sick, you know.”

Miss Tilley fixed her gaze on Lucy. “And what have you got to say for yourself?”

Lucy closed her mouth, which had been hanging open. “It’s wonderful to see you looking so well. . . .”

“I don’t look well. I look like hell and I know it. I’ve been flat on my back, tortured by these sadists for weeks. It’s a miracle I survived.”

“There, there,” said a nurse, entering the room and pushing along a portable computer on a wheeled stand. “You are one of our success stories.”

“Against your best efforts,” muttered Miss Tilley as the nurse checked her temperature with a hand-held scanner, then turned away to enter it in the computer.

“Well, what is it?” demanded her patient.

“Ninety-eight.”

“Hmpf.” Miss Tilley snorted her approval, and Lucy and Rachel shared a bemused glance.

The nurse busied herself wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Miss Tilley’s withered arm and began pumping it up. “Her fever broke in the night and she’s been complaining nonstop ever since,” she said, as the cuff began to deflate. “One-fifty over one-ten,” she announced, in a rather disapproving tone. “We’ll have to take a look at that.”

“You should take a look at that breakfast tray,” countered her patient. “That’s something that deserves investigation.”

“I see you didn’t like the oatmeal,” observed the nurse, lifting the plastic cover and peering at the gluey mass beneath.

“I had a bite of soggy toast, that was all I could manage.”

“I see you drank the orange juice.”

“Is that what it was?” Miss T patted the sheet covering her thighs. “I wasn’t sure but I drank it anyway. And the coffee was truly unspeakable.”

The nurse approached with a little plastic jigger full of pills and much to Lucy’s surprise, Miss Tilley obediently swallowed them. “There’s a good girl,” said the nurse, getting a murderous glare in response.

“She’s terrible,” said the nurse, smiling at Lucy and Rachel. “But we don’t mind a bit. We like the fighters, they’re the ones who get better.” She turned to Miss Tilley. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you. And I don’t want to see you getting out of bed. If you need something, just ring.”

Miss T shrugged her bony shoulders and bared her yellowed teeth at the nurse in what was either a smile or a sneer, depending on one’s interpretation. Then the nurse and her computer departed and a white-coated doctor marched in. She was a small, dark-haired woman with glasses and was peering at a computer notepad.

“So you are Julia, I suppose your friends call you Julie?” she began, in a brisk, heavily accented voice, not raising her eyes from the tiny computer. Lucy was trying to place the accent, possibly Indian, or perhaps Czech, and waiting with amusement for Miss Tilley’s inevitable reaction.

“My friends are nearly all dead,” snapped Miss Tilley. “Younger people properly address me respectfully as Miss Tilley, and that”—she pointed a crooked finger at the doctor—“most definitely includes you.”

“Ah, Julie,” continued the doctor, ignoring her patient in favor of the computer notepad, “I see you have been quite ill but are now recovering.”

“I’ve always had an iron constitution,” insisted the patient, scowling at the doctor.

“Well, we are going to have to adjust your medications.. . .”

“I don’t—”

“And you are going to need a couple of weeks of rehab before you go home.”

“No. Not negotiable.” Miss Tilley gave her head a little shake.

“We are already making the arrangements—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Now, Julie,” began the doctor, “you have been here in the hospital for, umm, let me see here . . .”

“Eight days.”

“Umm. Yes. That’s right.” She glanced at Miss Tilley, recalibrating her original opinion. She took a deep breath and began again. “You are clearly a very intelligent, capable woman. . . .”

“I am. And I have an excellent helper.” She pointed to Rachel. “My lovely young friend and companion, Rachel Goodman, who is also a trained home health aide.”

“That is wonderful, Julie, you’re very fortunate,” agreed the doctor. “However, you are going to need physical and occupational therapy, and we also need to monitor that blood pressure of yours. It’s clearly much higher than we like to see.”

“I think the doctor is right,” said Rachel, in a gentle, coaxing voice. “At this stage I think you need more care than I can r. . .