Chocolate Covered Murder Part 5

"What prompted the move?" asked Lucy.

"Oh, we've lived in Connecticut for most of our marriage, that's over forty years."

"Remarkable," said Lucy.

"Not so remarkable. It's easy to stay married when you're in love," said Roger, beaming across the table at Helen. "She's every bit as pretty as the day I married her."

"Oh, Roger," protested Helen, her cheeks turning pink. "You're embarra.s.sing me." She turned back to Lucy. "Isn't he impossible?"

"I think you're fortunate to have such a loving relations.h.i.+p," said Lucy, feeling she was in danger of losing control of the interview. "So why did you leave Connecticut?"

"Oh, our house burned down," said Helen, with a little shrug.

"That's right," agreed Roger, b.u.t.tering a scone. "Total loss."

"Oh, my goodness." Lucy was shocked. "That's terrible."

"When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade," said Helen, brightly. "We decided to look at it as an opportunity. When you've lost everything, you see, at first it's very terrible. You're shocked. The photos, the artwork, the antiques, all turned to ashes."

"We were quite serious collectors," said Roger. "We had an early Warhol, a Basquiat... ."

"I never liked those much, dear. It was the Wyeths I hated to lose," said Helen.

"For me, it was the antiques. That G.o.ddard highboy... ."

"Brown University had just made inquiries, too. They wanted to buy it."

"Buy it!" hooted Roger. "They wanted us to leave it to them."

"Doesn't matter now," said Helen, with a sad smile. "It's gone." She took a deep breath and straightened her back, taking a sip of tea. "It's all gone, but we decided not to look at it as a loss but to move on. We'd always wanted to live on the coast-I just love Maine, you see. And if I can't have a Wyeth landscape on my wall, I can have one right outside my window."

"That's a wonderful att.i.tude," said Lucy. "Can you tell me how you met?"

"I was in London, modeling," said Helen. "It was the Swinging Sixties."

"I wasn't swinging, I was at the London School of Economics. I call it the Slogging Sixties."

"We met on a double-decker bus," said Helen. "The bus swerved 'round a corner and I lost my balance. I landed right in his lap!"

"Talk about luck! This beautiful girl lands in my lap. I took it as a sign that she was meant for me." Roger finished off his scone and reached for a tiny square of chocolate cake.

"So you married and came back to the U.S. and settled in Connecticut?" asked Lucy.

"More or less," agreed Roger.

"Any children?" asked Lucy.

Helen shook her head sadly. "It just never happened, it's my one regret."

Roger was looking over the remaining cakes, deciding between a lemon curd tart and a mocha mini-cupcake. "I know you feel that way," admitted Roger. "But I think-no, I know-we were spared a lot of heartache. Think of the Westons."

Helen turned to Lucy, her blue eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g over. "Their daughter was killed in a car crash."

"And even when there aren't any tragedies, children do tend to test a marriage," said Roger, choosing the mini-cupcake.

Helen dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. "We've had good times, haven't we, Roger?"

"You betcha," said Roger, reaching across the table and covering her small pink hand with his larger speckled one. "It's like that old song: 'I Got You, Babe.' "

"You certainly do," said Helen, leaning toward him and smiling.

The two remained gazing into each other's eyes until Caitlin returned. "How's everything?" she asked.

"Just lovely," said Helen.

"Good, I'll be back with the check," said Caitlin.

Lucy reached for her bag. "This is on my expense account," said Lucy. "I can't thank you enough... ."

"Nonsense." Roger's voice was firm. "Call me old-fas.h.i.+oned but I couldn't let a lady pay for me. Besides, I'm the one who ate all the food!"

When Caitlin returned, Roger s.n.a.t.c.hed the little plastic folder from her. "I'll just sign," he said. "We're guests here."

Caitlin pressed her lips together and leaned forward, whispering in Roger's ear. Suddenly Roger's face flushed beet red. "That's absurd. I never heard of anything like that. What sort of establishment is this?"

"I'm just following orders," she said, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"I'm sure it's a misunderstanding," said Roger, scribbling on the bill and snapping the folder shut. "Here you go. I'll take it up with the management later."

Caitlin shook her head, refusing to take the folder. "Cash only, those were my instructions."

"Can't you see I have guests," protested Roger. "I'll take it up with the manager later." He practically tossed the folder at her. "Now off you go, like a good girl."

Caught off balance, Caitlin s.n.a.t.c.hed the folder out of the air and walked off, scowling.

"I'm so sorry about that," said Roger, turning to Lucy. "I don't know where they get their help these days."

"From right here in town," said Lucy, who sympathized with Caitlin's predicament and hoped she wouldn't get in trouble. "She's in my daughter's cla.s.s at school."

"Well, I'm afraid she's going to learn a hard lesson. There's no tip for that girl."

"It wasn't her fault, Roger," said Helen. "It's just a misunderstanding. I'm sure you can straighten it out with the manager." She paused, beaming at him. "You always do."

Roger turned to Lucy. "You know what they say: Behind every successful man there's a good woman. I don't know what I'd do without my Helen. I don't deserve her."

"Of course you do, Roger. It's I who don't deserve you."

"No, dear, you are the glue that holds us together."

"No, Roger. You are. It's your strength. I'd be lost without you."

"And I without you."

Time for me to get lost, thought Lucy, feeling as if she'd eaten too many sweets. Which was funny, when you came to think of it, because all she'd had was tea. Plain tea with no sugar.

Back home, Lucy checked the mailbox that stood out by the road and found a couple of bills, a flyer from the hardware store, and a thick envelope like a wedding invitation. Intrigued, she opened it and found an engraved card from the Chamber of Commerce inviting her to the Hearts on Fire Ball scheduled for Valentine's weekend at the VFW hall. The part about the VFW hall was a bit discouraging, but the event was black-tie optional, which made her heart beat a little faster, imagining how handsome Bill would look in a tux. And she couldn't remember the last time she'd had a reason to wear anything dressier than a pair of slacks and a nice sweater.

Hurrying into the house, she debated how best to approach the subject with Bill, who declared himself allergic to neckties. A rented tux was a lot dressier than the all-purpose blue blazer he wore, most often with an open-necked s.h.i.+rt, when a jacket was absolutely necessary.

Lucy paused in the kitchen to slip off her boots and hang up her jacket, taking a moment to neaten up the coat rack. Why couldn't Bill and the girls manage to use the little loops for hanging that were sewn into their jackets? Instead, they tossed them on the row of hooks any old way, piling them one on top of the other until the whole mess slid off onto the floor. Catching herself in a negative train of thought, she resolved to try to think more positively, like Helen Faircloth. There was nothing she could do about winter, the weather was out of her control. She could control her thoughts, however, by concentrating on the positive aspects of the season. Like the ball.

The TV was on in the family room; Lucy could hear bursts of sound that indicated a sporting event of some kind. Maybe Bill would like a snack, she thought, popping into the powder room and applying a fresh coat of lipstick and a squirt of cologne. Thus armed, she advanced into the family room where she found her husband in his usual chair, a big old recliner, slapping his knee.

"A three-pointer," he declared. "You shoulda seen it. Right across the court. Wait, hold on, they're replaying it."

Trapped, Lucy perched on the sectional and watched as an abnormally tall man with many tattoos seemed to launch a basketball with an effortless flick of his wrist that sent it sailing from one end of the court to the other and right through the hoop.

"Amazing," she said.

"And they said he wasn't worth sixty million dollars," scoffed Bill.

"Fools," said Lucy, thinking to herself that n.o.body on G.o.d's green earth deserved sixty million dollars, not when other people were hungry and homeless.

"That's the quarter," said Bill, as a buzzer sounded.

Remembering her mission, Lucy jumped up. "Can I get you something? A beer? Would you like me to throw some popcorn in the microwave? There's a mini-pizza in the freezer I could heat up for you."

Bill looked at her suspiciously. "Did you smash up the car?"

"No. What makes you think that?"

"Dunno. You're not usually this nice. Are the girls okay?" He paused. "Don't tell me Sara's in trouble. Or Zoe?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Lucy. "The girls are fine. And so is the car."

"Well, you obviously want something. What is it?" Lucy plopped herself in his lap, giving him the full benefit of her cologne. "Don't I smell good?"

"You always smell good," he said, nuzzling her neck.

Lucy stroked his beard, noticing the gray. "You know what holiday is coming up?"

"Mother's Day?" he teased.

"No." She nibbled his ear. "Valentine's Day."

"Funny you should mention it. I noticed a bunch of red hearts in the windows at Fern's Famous."

For a moment, Lucy wondered if he'd also noticed something at Chanticleer Chocolate, or rather, someone, but pushed the thought from her mind. "No chocolate for me," said Lucy. "I'm on a diet."

You had to hand it to Bill, he could be amazingly prescient. "So what do you have in mind, sweetheart?"

Lucy handed him the invitation.

"A ball?"

"Wouldn't it be fun to get dressed up and dance? We could dance the night away."

Bill shrugged. "The VFW does a pretty decent prime rib."

"I could wear something with a low neck," she murmured in his ear. "And I haven't seen you in a tux since our wedding."

A shudder seemed to run through Bill's body. "A tux?" Lucy knew the value of a strategic retreat. "It's optional." She sighed. "Of course, I'd look pretty silly all dolled up in lace and black satin if you're not dressed up, too."

"We'll see," he said.

"You mean we can go?"

"Yeah," said Bill, as she bounced in his lap and gave him a big hug.

"You can pick up the tickets at the Seamen's Bank," said Lucy, hopping off his lap. "Do you want popcorn or pizza?"

"Just a beer," he said, turning the volume up with the remote. "Whaddya mean, I can buy the tickets?"

"Well, it's ten dollars cheaper for men."

"Isn't that discrimination?" he asked, grinning. "I'm surprised your feminist ire isn't aroused."

"Sometimes even a feminist has to be practical," said Lucy, heading for the kitchen. "I think they want to encourage men to attend."

When she returned, Bill was frowning. "The Celts are behind," he muttered, taking the bottle of Sam Adams. "It's barely a minute into the second quarter and they're trailing by five points."

"Sixty million dollars isn't what it used to be," she said.

"You're telling me. The guy's a b.u.m."

Lucy wanted to wrap things up before she started cooking dinner. "So you'll get the tickets?"

"I'll go, I'll think about the tux, but I'm not buying the tickets."

Lucy plunked herself down on the sectional and grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. "You're being ridiculous, you know," she said, flipping through the ads for beauty products and designer handbags.

"I hate writing checks," he said, groaning as a ball bounced off the rim.

"They take cash, even credit cards," said Lucy.

"Banks have weird hours." Bill leaned forward in his chair. "d.a.m.n."

Lucy knew it was counterproductive but she couldn't stop herself from arguing. "So it's okay for me to rearrange my schedule, but not for you?"