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“Lucy, did you notice that he didn’t say thank you? Not even when I took one of his flyers.”
“I did. I also noticed that nothing ever seems to be his fault, not even his choice of outerwear.”
“On the other hand, he refused to name anyone for the theft. Proof of a clear conscience.”
“On the contrary,” insisted Lucy. “It’s proof that he’s the one who did it. He took that egg because the Chamber refused to buy his insurance.”
“You’ve been hanging around Miss Tilley for too long,” suggested Phyllis. “You always think the worst of everyone.”
“Not everyone,” claimed Lucy, who was typing up the notes she’d taken while talking with Randy, turning them into sentences. “Besides, she’s usually right.”
Lucy was considering giving Miss Tilley a call, just to learn what she thought about the theft of the egg, but Corney Clark’s arrival in the office interrupted her train of thought. “Hi, Corney,” she said, greeting her with a smile. “Any news on the egg?”
“Unfortunately not,” said Corney, plopping down in Lucy’s visitor’s chair. It was clear that the situation was wearing her down, thought Lucy, observing her somewhat disheveled appearance. Disheveled for Corney, who had skipped her usual lipstick and mascara, had crammed a snug little hat over her hair instead of styling it, and had thrown on a roomy fleece over her leggings. “Honestly, who would think you could walk into a bank and steal a valuable artwork and nobody would notice?”
“There was that bank robbery on Martha’s Vineyard,” piped up Phyllis, from her corner by the door. “I saw it on the news. Three guys burst into the bank first thing in the morning, tied up the tellers, grabbed the cash, and disappeared. It’s an island, you wouldn’t think it would be that hard to catch them, but no such luck.”
Corney scowled. “It’s not luck, it’s called police work, and I hate to say it but the Tinker’s Cove cops are great at keeping order for the Fourth of July parade, but that’s about it.”
“The chief would be only too happy to explain how he needs a bigger budget and more manpower,” said Lucy, who had heard him expound on this subject numerous times. “It’s his favorite subject.”
“I’ve heard all about it,” agreed Corney, glumly. “That’s why I’m here. To ask you to run an appeal to the public for information about the theft. You know how they say ‘If you see something, say something’? Well, I’m begging anyone who even thinks they saw something to give the TCPD a call. It’s all we’ve got.”
“No problem,” promised Lucy. “I’m on it. I’ll get it online ASAP.”
“You have to think somebody would’ve caught something on their cell phone,” suggested Phyllis. “Everybody’s always snapping selfies and recording their kids and cats.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” began Corney, attempting a small smile, “maybe I should’ve had some kids and cats at the presentation.” She continued, “Bert’s a nice guy, but that remodeling was crazy. I really don’t know what they were thinking, it doesn’t give the tellers any security, and as for the CCTV, it’s turned out to be absolutely worthless.”
“How come the Chamber didn’t insure the egg?” asked Lucy. “I’m not pointing fingers, I’m just wondering. I hear Randy Lewis going on about it all the time.”
“I was all for it, but the board voted against it,” declared Corney. “You get a fabulous donation, an artwork valued at thousands of dollars, and you don’t insure it? Penny-wise and pound-foolish, but that seems to describe a lot of folks around here. Especially Chamber members. Investing a couple hundred dollars in a short-term policy could’ve prevented this whole mess.”
“Well, Phyllis is on to something, I think. I bet somebody’s got some video, they just haven’t realized it yet,” said Lucy, trying to offer some consolation to Corney.
“Hope against hope,” replied Corney, standing up and heading for the door. “This is a disaster! Who’s going to collect stickers if the big prize is gone?”
“Are you kidding?” Phyllis was incredulous, displaying her Easter card with its seven stickers to Corney. “I’m in it for the chocolate!”
“Me, too,” added Lucy, noticing that Corney was actually smiling as she left.
Chapter Seven
Opening day at the Tinker’s Cove Golf Club was always a highly anticipated event, and the fact that it varied from year to year depending on the amount of snow remaining on the greens only added to the golfers’ growing sense of impatience. This year the snow actually melted earlier than usual, but no date was early enough for the devoted players who couldn’t wait to get out on the greens. Lucy wasn’t surprised, therefore, when she arrived at the course and found the parking lot nearly full, with Officer Barney Culpepper directing traffic. Continuing on past the clubhouse, she noticed quite a crowd waiting at the shed to rent carts, and went straight to the putting green where the Closest to the Pin event was taking place.
The contest, it turned out, was a rather low-key affair consisting of Randy Lewis and Bert Cogswell sitting on lawn chairs at a folding table, behind a couple of hand-lettered signs announcing the event as a library fundraiser and listing the prizes. Those prizes included the dinner for two at Cali Kitchen, a fifty-dollar Country Cousins gift certificate, a twenty-five-dollar Macdonald’s Farm gift certificate, and a handful of ten-dollar credits at the library’s used book store. A couple of Mylar balloons in the shape of golf balls were tied to their chairs and bobbed in the chilly spring breeze. Spotting Lucy, Bert and Randy both waved at her and called to her.
“C’mon down, Lucy, and show us your swing,” invited Bert, who was dressed for a long day outdoors in a parka, gloves, and a red-and-white Tinker’s Cove Golf Club knitted wool hat topped with a pompon.
“Only ten dollars and you could win a Cali Kitchen dinner for you and Bill,” added Randy, also dressed for the weather in his parka, plus earmuffs and deerskin gloves.
“It’s a generous prize,” said Bert, with a twinkle in his eye. “Enough for a couple of entrees and a bottle of wine, too.”
“Okay,” agreed Lucy, knowing full well she’d never live it down if she didn’t give it the old college try. Problem was, she’d never actually held a golf club, much less tried to hit a little white ball with one. It didn’t seem all that hard, she decided, watching Tony Marzetti deliver a smooth swing that sent the ball rolling toward the hole marked by a fluttering flag, and right on by, finally stopping about a yard away.
“Too bad, Tony,” called Bert.
“I hit it too hard,” admitted Tony, with a shrug and a smile. “But the money goes for a good cause.”
