Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(109)

“No. He didn’t believe in it. He said that should be left to God.”

Lucy shook her head in amazement. “I had an entirely different impression of him.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Cobb. “He was a tough taskmaster, believe me. I clerked for him when I graduated from law school and I have never worked so hard.”

“You worked for him, but you don’t remember Emil Boott?”

“I worked at the courthouse. I was never invited to the house.”

“Isn’t that odd?”

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Cobb shrugged. “The judge was a private man. He drew a distinction between his work and his home.”

Lucy nodded, remembering Miss Tilley’s assertion that she had grown up in a house of secrets.

“Come to think of it,” continued Cobb, “my father did the same thing. He was the county sheriff, he ran the jail, and you can be sure my mother and I had absolutely no contact with the inmates.”

“There must be records at the jail, right?” asked Lucy.

“Well, this was some time ago, and I don’t know if they kept all those old records or not. It’s certainly worth checking out, though. I do know that my father would have kept meticulous accounts of the inmates’ progress. He was a big believer in prison reform, you see, and thought it was important to rehabilitate the prisoners, not just punish them.”

Cobb’s phone gave off a little beep and he glanced at the clock. “I’m sorry, but that was Rachel, reminding me that I have an eleven o’clock appointment.”

“I’d better get going, then,” said Lucy, rising. “I can’t thank you enough for your time and your knowledge.”

Cobb blushed. “Nonsense. I enjoyed our little chat.”

Back in the waiting room, Rachel helped Lucy into her coat. “Was Mr. Cobb able to help you?” she asked.

“He was very helpful,” said Lucy, fastening the buttons.

“You know,” said Rachel. “I have a little boy, too. Richie.

He was two last month. Maybe we could get together for a playdate? I only work mornings so I’m free in the afternoons.”

“That’s a great idea,” said Lucy, jumping at the chance.

“What about this afternoon?”

“Let’s say two o’clock.” Rachel scribbled down the address.

“Great,” said Lucy, taking the slip of paper. “See you later.

By the way, do you know where the county jail is?”

Lucy felt like kicking herself as she proceeded on foot 362

Leslie Meier

down the street to the appliance store, leaving the car in the parking lot. The sun was actually peeking through the clouds and it seemed too good to waste. But what on earth must Rachel think of her, seizing on her invitation like that? She was probably already regretting getting involved with a woman who knocked people underneath cars and visited the jail. Respectable people stayed as far away from jail as they could, didn’t they? She hoped Rachel didn’t think she had some personal interest in the jail, like an incarcerated relative, something like that. Then again, she reminded herself, Rachel worked in a law office and her husband was a lawyer, and lawyers often had to go to the jail to interview their clients, at least they did on TV. Maybe she didn’t think Lucy’s interest in the penal system was at all unusual.

She hoped so, she decided, stepping inside the Appliance Mart and viewing the ranks of harvest-gold, avocado-green, and poppy-red refrigerators and washing machines. What happened to white? she wondered. And how soon could she get a stove delivered?

Not until after Christmas, she discovered.

“I’ll take a floor model,” begged Lucy.

“I’m sorry,” said the salesman, writing up the order.

“Three weeks is the soonest I can promise.”

“But how am I going to cook?” wailed Lucy.

“My wife finds a Crock Pot quite handy,” said the salesman. “And we have those in stock.”

Reluctantly, Lucy reached for her wallet and unfolded the fifty dollar bill she’d been saving for Christmas presents. She felt badly about it, but as she headed home with an electric frying pan as well as the Crock Pot, she had to admit that life certainly seemed a bit brighter with the prospect of a hot meal.

Bill, however, wasn’t quite as enthusiastic. “What do you mean we can’t get a stove for three weeks?”

“That’s what the man said,” said Lucy, with a shrug.

“And where have you been all this time? Do you know CANDY CANES OF CHRISTMAS PAST

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what it’s like to be stuck in the house for hours on end with a two-year-old when you don’t feel all that well?”

Lucy folded her hands on her tummy and looked at him.

Was he kidding? She was about to ask that very question in a rather sarcastic tone when she noticed the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. It certainly wasn’t from the heat; the furnace could barely keep the house above sixty degrees.

“I’ll get you one of those pain pills,” she said. “Why don’t you have a little rest while I make lunch?”

A beef stew, a bit light on the beef but with plenty of healthful vegetables, was simmering in the Crock Pot when Lucy and Toby left for the playdate at Rachel’s house. Lucy was curious to see Rachel’s place; until now Miss Tilley’s house was the only house in Tinker’s Cove that she’d been inside of.