Tippy Toe Murder Read Free

on the weekend, so I don’t know if she went
walking or not. Last Monday was the first time I missed her. They’ve had search
parties and dogs all over the woods and down to the pond, but they haven’t
found any sign of her.”
    “And now they’ve stopped searching,” said
Franny.
    “I’m sure they’ve got bulletins out,”
speculated Lucy. “They’re probably contacting police departments all over the
country.”
    “Don’t bet on it,” said Sue Finch,
appearing from behind the paint display and setting a quart of white enamel on
the counter. “Got to paint the Adirondack chairs,” she explained, smiling a
greeting to Lucy.
    “What do you mean?” asked Lucy. “Why don’t
you think they’ll keep looking for her?”
    “She’s an old woman with one foot already
in the grave. Old women are practically disposable.”
    “Sue, that doesn’t sound like you!” Lucy
was shocked.
    “I’ve been volunteering over at the women’s
shelter in Portland and I guess it’s getting to me.” Sue shrugged and pulled a
rather elegant French purse out of the leather backpack she used as a shoulder
bag. Sue had a natural flair for clothes and accessories that Lucy admired but
had long ago given up trying to emulate. It took too much energy.
    “It’s an epidemic,” she continued angrily. “Women
beaten, raped, killed, and by the time the police and the courts do anything,
it’s almost always too late.”
    Franny fumbled taking the bill Sue
proffered, and her face suddenly lost its color. While Franny was occupied
ringing up the paint on the antique cash register, Lucy shot Sue a warning
glance, then placed her order.
    “Franny, I need a bag of five-ten-five for
the garden. Have you got any?”
    “Sure. Let me have Ben put that in the car
for you. You shouldn’t be lugging around heavy bags of fertilizer.”
    “Thanks,” said Lucy, reaching around to rub
her aching back. In answer to Franny’s call, a scruffy, skinny teenager
appeared from the back room. He was dressed in the uniform of his tribe: long,
baggy shorts and an oversized Guns ‘N Roses T-shirt. He was wearing an
extremely expensive pair of athletic shoes, the same style that Lucy’s son Toby
had unsuccessfully begged her to buy for him. An officially licensed Red Sox
cap sat on his closely shaved head.
    “Whatcha want?” he asked Franny. There was
a hint of defiance, or maybe just defensiveness, in his stare.
    “Mrs. Stone wants fifty pounds of
fertilizer—it’s the green bag over there. You can put it in the silver Subaru
out front.”
    “I’m supposed to be sweeping the back room,”
he said, shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the other.
    “This will only take a minute,” said Franny
mildly. “You can hardly expect Mrs. Stone to lift it, in her condition.”
    The women were amused to see a blush spread
over Ben’s pimply cheeks, and watched as he shuffled over to the neatly stacked
bags of fertilizer and hoisted one onto his shoulder. When the door finally
slammed behind him, Franny spoke.
    “He’s Mr. Slack’s grandson,” she said,
tilting her head toward a door containing a pane of frosted glass marked “Office”
in peeling black letters. “He’s been coming in to help out for the past two
weeks. The old man’s thrilled to pieces that he’s taking an interest in the
business. Let’s see, that’ll be six ninety- five.”
    “Are you sure?” asked Lucy, raising her
eyebrows. “It was only two ninety-nine in the K mart flyer.”
    “I don’t know what K mart is charging,”
announced Morrill Slack, who had suddenly appeared in the office doorway.
Dressed in a sober black suit and a snowy-white starched shirt, he looked like
an apparition from the past. “I do know that my price is six ninety-five, take
it or leave it.”
    The old man took his heavy gold pocket
watch out of his vest pocket and stroked it lovingly with his large, flattish
fingers before flipping open the lid to check the time. He shut it with