LITMIR.BIZ

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Lucy, pulling a clean diaper out of the basket of unsorted laundry in the corner. “I’m crazy over you,” she sang along with a popular tune, snapping the diaper cover firmly in place. She was just tucking Zoe’s arms and legs into a stretchy little suit, when the music ended and the announcer read the news tease.

      “Police say a suspicious Tinker’s Cove fire claimed the life of at least one victim. More in a moment.”

      “Oh, no,” she muttered, as she settled herself in the rocking chair. As Zoe nuzzled her chest, now eager for a late breakfast, Lucy wondered who the victim could have been.

      It couldn’t have been any of the Mayes, she assured herself. The family only used the house in the summer. Perhaps it was a vagrant or homeless person who had broken into the empty house looking for a night’s shelter.

      “Please, please don’t let it be one of the kids,” she sent up a little prayer. There wasn’t much to do in Tinker’s Cove, and Toby’s friends sometimes did things they shouldn’t. Exciting and forbidden things, like entering someone’s deserted summer cottage.

      Lucy began to nurse, gently stroking her baby’s downy head. She bent down and sniffed Zoe’s clean baby scent. It was the best smell in the world. Just then the announcer’s voice interrupted her reverie.

      “The fire that destroyed the Hopkins Homestead early Tuesday morning also claimed the life of its owner, Monica Mayes. Remains found at the site by state fire investigators have been positively identified by the medical examiner.”

      Lucy sat motionless as Zoe continued her rhythmic sucking. It took a minute for the information to sink in. Gradually, grief engulfed her and tears ran down her face.

      “No, not Monica,” she whispered.

      “This means we are no longer investigating a case of arson,” Lucy recognized Police Chief Oswald Crowley’s voice, in a recorded sound bite. “This is now a homicide investigation.”

      Homicide? Who would want to kill Monica? She remembered Monica laughing, recounting how an inept young traffic cop had tied up traffic for miles on Route 1, by stopping the line of cars for every pedestrian who wanted to cross the street. They’d been standing outside, and Monica’s coppery hair had blazed in the sun.

      Lucy thought of the flames, flickering brightly as they consumed the Homestead.

      She remembered Monica flipping through wallpaper books, determined to find exactly the right paper for the bathroom, and her excitement when Bill showed her the 1703 penny that had been placed under the threshold to guarantee prosperity.

      Lucy thought of her husband, busy at another old house. He had been so fond of Monica, just as she had. He shouldn’t hear this on the radio. She ought to tell him.

      Zoe was asleep in her arms. Lucy knew she would sleep soundly for a couple of hours. She carried her upstairs and tucked her in the bassinet, then quickly showered and dressed herself.

      An hour later, steering her little silver Subaru wagon along the back roads with Zoe securely fastened in the safety seat, Lucy thought of Monica.

      She had been one of Bill’s first clients, and initially had seemed to be just another pampered, rich doctor’s wife who wanted a summer place that would impress her city friends. When they first discussed the restoration of the Homestead, Bill had come prepared with estimates for alarm systems, air-conditioning, even a Jacuzzi tub.

      “I don’t know,” Monica had said doubtfully, shaking her head. “This is a very old house. Somehow these things don’t seem to belong. I know we can’t be one hundred percent authentic, after all, this isn’t 1703 and I don’t want to use an outhouse! But I’d like this to be a place where we live simply, and get back to the basics, know what I mean?”

      Bill had nodded.

      “What about your husband?” Lucy had asked. “Men don’t like to give up their gadgets.”

      “He says he wants to make a woodpile.” Monica shrugged. “I’m not sure he knows how. He’s a gynecologist.” She changed the subject. “This means so much to me. I’ve always wanted to have an old house.”

      At first, Lucy had been a little jealous of Monica. She had money and social status, and although older than Lucy, was still extremely attractive. Her skin was nourished and revitalized, her hair was highlighted and carefully coiffed, and she was a living testament to the benefits of regular exercise.

      At the time, Lucy was struggling through the first months of her pregnancy with Toby, and she felt bloated and nauseous. Lucy was pretty sure that if Monica had given Bill the least encouragement, he would have hopped into bed with her.

      But she never had. She’d become a friend to both of them. She’d become Bill’s eager student, listening carefully as he explained the old construction methods. She insisted that he do what he thought best for the house and refused to cut corners to save money. As a result, the house had been one of Bill’s most satisfying projects, and he was justifiably proud of the work he did there.

      She took Lucy along to country auctions, and together they learned how to tell the treasures from the trash. When Lucy fell in love with a golden oak high chair, but was quickly outbid by a dealer, Monica noted the buyer’s identity. She bought the chair from him, and surprised Lucy with it as a baby gift.

      That was the sort of person she was. She quickly became involved in people’s lives, and showered them with affection. Always quick to smile and laugh, revealing those pearly white teeth.

      Did they use her teeth to identify her? Lucy wondered, with a stab of pain. Had Monica been quietly overcome by smoke in her sleep, or had she woken in a panic realizing the house was on fire? Had she found the doorway blocked by flames, and struggled to open a window? What were her last moments like? Had she been afraid? Had she suffered?

      Lucy couldn’t bear to think about it. She wanted to remember Monica as she’d been. A beautiful woman who loved life.

      How was she going to tell Bill? How could she soften the impact? Bill wasn’t the sort of man who expressed his deepest emotions openly, but Lucy knew he’d taken the fire very hard. He hadn’t said much, but she knew he was simmering with anger. As she pulled the Subaru up next to Bill’s truck and braked, Lucy felt heavy with the weight of the terrible news she had to deliver.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Moving automatically, Lucy opened the car door and got out. She pulled open the rear door and reached in to loosen the straps that held the baby seat. Bracing herself, she awkwardly lifted the cumbersome plastic shell that held the baby. Then she climbed the makeshift steps and entered the spacious hall of the Hathom-Pye house. The house had recently been purchased by the Maine Museum of Fine Arts, and Bill had been hired to restore it.

      “Bill?” she called.

      “I’m in here,” he answered. Lucy followed his voice and found him bent over a window frame in one of the front rooms.

      “This is a nice surprise,” he said, looking up.

      “Zoe was restless,” improvised Lucy, trying to ease her way into breaking the news, “so I took her for a drive.” She set down the heavy baby seat, and tucked a shawl around the sleeping baby.

      “I thought you’d be back in bed.”

      “I wish I was,” she confessed, crossing the room to stand beside him. “Sue called and the phone woke the baby. Wotcha doin’?”

      “Taking a paint sample, so I can figure out the original color.”

      “This is a lovely house,” observed Lucy, looking around. “I love the proportions.”

      “It’s a classic Georgian,” said Bill. “The museum was smart to buy it. They got it for a song. It’s a fine house, Captain Hathorn spared no expense when he built it. It was his statement to the world that he had arrived.” Bill began carefully dismantling the window frame.

      “I

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