Read Online Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) by Leslie Meier - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Meier
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of your time,” Lucy said, stepping into the doorway, but not daring to go further without an invitation to enter his office.
“And we’re very sorry about your loss,” Pam added, joining her.
“Me, too, and now I’ve got twice as much work to do.” He furrowed his bristly, untamed brows and glared at them through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Now, for the second time, what brings you here?”
“We’re from the Community Players,” Lucy began. “They’re putting on A Christmas Carol this year—I’m actually playing Mrs. Cratchit—and we’re selling ads in the show program. For fifty dollars . . .”
Scribner turned a page. “Not interested,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“This year is a little different,” Pam said, taking a step forward. “The show is a fund-raiser for Angie Cunningham. She’s a little girl who lives here in town and has polycystic kidney disease. Her family is struggling with high medical expenses. It’s very difficult in this economy—”
“What business is that of mine?” Scribner demanded.
“Well, they’re your neighbors,” Lucy said, also taking a baby step forward and standing next to Pam. “They live here in town. And they’re customers of yours. Surely it’s in your interest to help them.”
Scribner folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “My interest is charging interest—that’s what I do.” He laughed. “And I pay plenty in taxes, most of which goes to so-called entitlements .” He spit out the last word, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “What about Medicaid? And there’s that children’s health program, CHIP or SHIP or something. They should apply for that.”
“I don’t know the details,” Lucy confessed.
“Those programs are worthy efforts, but they don’t cover everything,” Pam said. “And there are strict eligibility requirements.”
“And so there should be!” Scribner exclaimed, smacking his fist down hard on his desk. “People have to take some responsibility for themselves, don’t they? There are far too many freeloaders! Do you know half of the population doesn’t even pay income tax? The government actually pays them! Earned Income Credit! How is that right?”
“There’s a certain minimum people need to survive,” Lucy said. “People who qualify for the Earned Income Credit make very little money indeed.”
“Well, they should work harder then!” Scribner thundered. “Make ’em work for their benefits. Put ’em on the roads, picking up trash.”
“I take it you’re not interested in buying an ad,” Pam said.
“You’d be right.” Scribner revealed his teeth in something that was more like a grimace than a smile.
“And I presume you don’t want to donate to the Angel Fund,” Lucy said.
“Exactly right.”
“We won’t bother you further,” Pam said.
“Good.” Scribner dismissed them with a curt nod and they left, practically on tiptoes, closing the door quietly behind them.
Back outside, they shivered and pulled on their gloves.
“Wow, what a cheapskate,” Lucy said.
“We shouldn’t be judgmental,” Pam said. She taught yoga and had studied Eastern religions. “He’s having a difficult time coping with his loss.”
“You’d think that would make him more understanding of others’ problems, more compassionate.”
“Grief takes everyone differently,” Pam said.
“He didn’t seem grief stricken to me,” Lucy said. “He seemed put out that his partner died and left him with a lot of extra work to do.”
“You could be right,” Pam admitted, pausing in front of Fern’s Famous Fudge. “I hear that all the time, you know. If people are poor it’s their own fault—they should just work harder. But there’s only so many hours in the day and wages have gone down, not up, in the past few years, and that’s if you can even get a job.”
“I blame those big box stores,” Lucy said.
“You’ve got a point. They pay minimum wage and they
“And we’re very sorry about your loss,” Pam added, joining her.
“Me, too, and now I’ve got twice as much work to do.” He furrowed his bristly, untamed brows and glared at them through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Now, for the second time, what brings you here?”
“We’re from the Community Players,” Lucy began. “They’re putting on A Christmas Carol this year—I’m actually playing Mrs. Cratchit—and we’re selling ads in the show program. For fifty dollars . . .”
Scribner turned a page. “Not interested,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“This year is a little different,” Pam said, taking a step forward. “The show is a fund-raiser for Angie Cunningham. She’s a little girl who lives here in town and has polycystic kidney disease. Her family is struggling with high medical expenses. It’s very difficult in this economy—”
“What business is that of mine?” Scribner demanded.
“Well, they’re your neighbors,” Lucy said, also taking a baby step forward and standing next to Pam. “They live here in town. And they’re customers of yours. Surely it’s in your interest to help them.”
Scribner folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “My interest is charging interest—that’s what I do.” He laughed. “And I pay plenty in taxes, most of which goes to so-called entitlements .” He spit out the last word, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “What about Medicaid? And there’s that children’s health program, CHIP or SHIP or something. They should apply for that.”
“I don’t know the details,” Lucy confessed.
“Those programs are worthy efforts, but they don’t cover everything,” Pam said. “And there are strict eligibility requirements.”
“And so there should be!” Scribner exclaimed, smacking his fist down hard on his desk. “People have to take some responsibility for themselves, don’t they? There are far too many freeloaders! Do you know half of the population doesn’t even pay income tax? The government actually pays them! Earned Income Credit! How is that right?”
“There’s a certain minimum people need to survive,” Lucy said. “People who qualify for the Earned Income Credit make very little money indeed.”
“Well, they should work harder then!” Scribner thundered. “Make ’em work for their benefits. Put ’em on the roads, picking up trash.”
“I take it you’re not interested in buying an ad,” Pam said.
“You’d be right.” Scribner revealed his teeth in something that was more like a grimace than a smile.
“And I presume you don’t want to donate to the Angel Fund,” Lucy said.
“Exactly right.”
“We won’t bother you further,” Pam said.
“Good.” Scribner dismissed them with a curt nod and they left, practically on tiptoes, closing the door quietly behind them.
Back outside, they shivered and pulled on their gloves.
“Wow, what a cheapskate,” Lucy said.
“We shouldn’t be judgmental,” Pam said. She taught yoga and had studied Eastern religions. “He’s having a difficult time coping with his loss.”
“You’d think that would make him more understanding of others’ problems, more compassionate.”
“Grief takes everyone differently,” Pam said.
“He didn’t seem grief stricken to me,” Lucy said. “He seemed put out that his partner died and left him with a lot of extra work to do.”
“You could be right,” Pam admitted, pausing in front of Fern’s Famous Fudge. “I hear that all the time, you know. If people are poor it’s their own fault—they should just work harder. But there’s only so many hours in the day and wages have gone down, not up, in the past few years, and that’s if you can even get a job.”
“I blame those big box stores,” Lucy said.
“You’ve got a point. They pay minimum wage and they
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