Valentine Candy Murder by Leslie Meier

Valentine Candy Murder by Leslie Meier

Author:Leslie Meier [Meier, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2018-10-04T00:00:00+00:00


Chapter Two

“Yeah,” said Barney, shaking his head sadly. “It was Max Fraser.”

That was the trouble with living in a small town, thought Lucy. All the victims of horrible accidents were your neighbors and sometimes your friends, or your friends’ kids. So were the petty criminals, for that matter. The police blotter, which was printed in the Pennysaver every week, was full of familiar names involved in minor tragedies: family quarrels that got out of control, drunk driving arrests, even petty thefts in these tough times. And drugs, always drugs—marijuana, OxyContin, and even heroin.

Of course, everyone knew Max. He was the divorced husband of Fern’s granddaughter, Dora, and the father of their only child, Lily. But it wasn’t simply the fact that she was acquainted with the victim and even owed him a debt of gratitude that was bothering Lucy.

“He was all tangled up in fishline,” said Lucy. “And there was a lure . . .”

“A silver jigging spoon,” said Barney.

“It was in his mouth,” said Lucy. Max was gone, but she couldn’t erase the image of the glittering silver lure dangling from his blue lips and nestled in his ice-coated beard. She remembered how glad she’d been to see his smiling face in her car window just last night.

“He was hooked like a walleye,” said Barney. “What a way to go.”

Lucy thought of Max’s blue eyes, wide open and crusted with ice, and for a moment felt the earth spin beneath her.

“Whoa, there,” said Barney, grabbing her arm and steadying her. She took a couple of deep breaths and focused on the snow-covered mountain rising behind the frozen pond, as if the picture-postcard scene could erase the gruesome image of Max’s death mask from her mind.

“He probably didn’t feel a thing,” said one of the bystanders.

Lucy turned and recognized Tony Menard, who she’d interviewed last winter when he won the Lake Winnipesaukee ice fishing tournament in New Hampshire. He was a short, slight man with a French-Canadian accent.

“The cold? Is that what you mean?” asked Lucy.

“More like the booze,” said Tony, with a knowing nod. “He must’ve been blind drunk, eh? To get tangled up like that in his own line.”

Lucy knew that drinking often went right along with ice fishing. You had to keep warm somehow and alcohol gave the illusion of warmth, for a while, anyway. “Even so,” she said, “how’d he manage to fall through the ice?” She waved her arm. “Those shacks are standing, we’re all out here. The ice must be a couple of feet thick.”

Tony shrugged. “The current, maybe. You have to be careful and watch for thin spots.”

“Snow ice,” said Steve Houle, with a knowing nod toward the place where Max’s body had been found. Lucy knew he was a volunteer fireman who organized the Toys for Tots campaign at Christmas. “See how it’s white over there, not clear?”

Lucy looked and saw what he meant. “Yeah.”

“Well, that happens when the ice melts and refreezes. It’s not good.”

Tony’s head bobbed in agreement. “Punk ice. It’s real dangerous.



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