Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) by Leslie Meier Read Free Book Online Page B

leading her away from the group for a modicum of privacy and slipping the tape around her bust. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about Florence,” she whispered, making a notation of the measurement.
    Florence and Bob had their heads together on the opposite side of the table and were chuckling about something; Florence had her hand on Bob’s arm.
    “She’s just friendly,” Lucy replied. “Very friendly.”
    “I’m keeping an eye on her,” Rachel whispered, turning to welcome another late comer. “Hi, Al,” she said, waving at a middle-aged man who was wearing overalls under a plaid shirt-jacket and was carrying a toolbox. “Everybody, this is Al Roberts. He’s going to be building our set.”
    Al set down his toolbox and gave everyone a wave. “I’ve got some drawings,” he said, pulling some folded papers out of his pocket.
    “Great,” Rachel enthused. “Let’s take a look at ’em.”
    Al took off his watch cap, revealing a very bald head, and came over to the table, where he spread out the drawings, then pushed his black-framed glasses back up his nose. “The way I see it,” he began, “is three flats with different motifs. One is kind of domestic, suggesting paneling and a fireplace, for the interior scenes. Another flat will suggest Scrooge’s office, and the third will be a sort of street scene, with a window that opens, for the scene when Scrooge discovers it’s Christmas morning. The idea is that we leave them all in place for the entire show but highlight the appropriate backdrop with lighting.”
    “This is brilliant,” Rachel said. “I love that it’s so economical.”
    “You can add props as needed. . . .” Al suggested. “You know, a high desk and a stool for Bob Cratchit, a street lamp for the exterior scenes, a kitchen table for the Cratchit household, a four-poster for Scrooge . . .” He paused. “The only problem is, I’m not much of an artist. I can build the flats but somebody else has got to do the painting.”
    “Oh, I can do that,” Florence volunteered.
    “Florence is an artist, you know,” Bob said, beaming at her. “She illustrates children’s books.”
    “Great,” Rachel said with a curt nod.
    “Well, that’s fine then.” Al rose and gathered up his papers. “I’ll get started tomorrow.” He turned to Rachel. “Is there any problem getting in here? Do I need a key or anything?”
    “It’s usually open,” she said. “If you’re getting the lumber delivered, I think you better set that up with the church office. There are other activities here. The Ladies Aid probably wouldn’t want their meeting interrupted.”
    “They might have tightened things up,” Bob suggested. “After the fire, I mean.”
    The group of actors seated around the table all nodded gravely, and there were murmurs of “terrible” and “shocking.”
    “People are far too casual about safety,” Marge offered. “My Barney’s always telling me that folks don’t lock their doors—they even leave the keys in the car and then they wonder how it got stolen.”
    “Locking the door wouldn’t have helped Jake Marlowe,” Lucy said.
    “If you ask me, he got no more than what he deserved,” Al said.
    “What do you mean?” Florence demanded in a confrontational tone.
    “Just that what goes around comes around,” Al said. “He treated a lot of people badly, plus he didn’t even take care of his own place, that’s all. It’s not exactly a secret.”
    Florence nodded. “I know, you’re right. I told my uncle, that house was a fire waiting to happen.”
    “Your uncle?” Lucy asked.
    “Ben Scribner. He’s my uncle.” There was a sort of embarrassed silence and Florence hurried to fill it. “He’s scared witless, you know. He won’t touch the mail. He’s terrified he’ll be next.”
    “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was,” Al said under his breath, as he put his hat on and pulled his gloves out of his pocket. “Like I said, I’ll start on the