Halloween Party Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “When you say she flew—” Flynn was at least making an effort to hide his skepticism.

  “Flew like a bird,” Page insisted, “from her apartment to the first floor.”

  “What happened when she reached the bottom?” Flynn asked.

  ” I don’t know. There were too many people. Everyone was screaming and running out of the front door and the back door. I screamed too and pulled Talia outside. We ran to the corner of the block. That’s where Vanessa finally caught up to us.”

  Binder kept moving Page forward in the story. “What happened when you reached the corner?”

  “Everyone else kept running, but Vanessa, Talia, and I stopped. We could see that the front door of Talia’s house was wide open. Vanessa and I couldn’t leave Talia. We could hear the police sirens. Besides, I’d already called Aunt Julia. So we went back.”

  “That was brave,” Binder said.

  Or foolish.

  “Did you call the police?” I asked Page.

  Flynn shook his head. “Neighbors. Multiple neighbors.”

  “Did you ever see Mrs. Zelisko or her ghost again?” Binder asked.

  “No. Never. She wasn’t in the hall when we got back to the house. The police came, and Aunt Julia came, and Vanessa and I came back to Grammy’s house, and that was it.”

  Binder sat back in his chair. “Thank you, Page. You have been very, very helpful. Can you write down the names of everyone you remember seeing at the party?”

  Livvie fetched a pad and pencil from beside Mom’s landline, and Page labored, tongue sticking out through her lips. In the end, she had about twenty first and last names, ten more first names or nicknames. Binder and Flynn accepted it gratefully. It was as good a place as any to get started.

  Flynn scrolled through Page’s phone as she worked. “Did you take any photos of the party?”

  Page looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you kidding?”

  “Page, that’s not the way we talk to Sergeant Flynn, or any grown-up,” Livvie scolded.

  “Are you on any social media? Could some of your friends have posted photos?”

  “Instagram,” Page answered. “I follow a lot of kids from school.”

  Flynn looked at Livvie, who nodded and then went back to the phone and scrolled. “There are lots of photos of the party.” Flynn held the phone out to Page. “Take a look to see if it helps you remember anyone else.”

  Page took the phone and diligently scrolled. She added three names to her list. When she was done, she handed the phone back to Flynn.

  Flynn tried to give it back. “It’s okay. If we need it again, we’ll ask.”

  “Give it to my mom,” Page said, resigned. She handed the list to Flynn and allowed herself to be hugged by her mother. I walked the detectives out to the front porch.

  Chapter Six

  “Do you have anything to add?” Binder asked me.

  “No. Page did a good job on the parts where I was involved. Was she helpful?”

  “Very. Especially the names she was able to provide.” Flynn folded Page’s list and put it in his notebook.

  “Have you had any luck finding Mrs. Zelisko’s next of kin?” I asked.

  “Zero,” Binder answered. “We can’t find anything about her before she fetched up on your particular peninsula five years ago.”

  “Really? The feds must know something about her. When she immigrated, for sure.”

  “We’re waiting to hear back from them. You’re sure she was an immigrant?”

  “She had a pronounced accent. Eastern European. She told the Davies she was from Slovenia.”

  Binder nodded. “We’ll ask them about it. We’re off to see them next. Across the street.” He paused. “Of course, it’s possible she immigrated years ago under a maiden name and Mr. Zelisko was someone who came and went subsequent to her arrival here.”

  “True. I don’t think there’s been a Mr. Zelisko since she arrived in town. I’ve heard she was a parishioner at Star of the Sea. It could be that someone there is a closer friend and knows more about her.”

  “Thanks,” Binder said. “We’re still searching her apartment, computer, and phone. Maybe there’s some correspondence that will lead us in the right direction. In the meantime, we have to talk to Talia and Vanessa, and then get started on this list your niece gave us. Somewhere, there’s an eyewitness.”

  “How did she die?” I asked.

  “Awaiting autopsy results.” Flynn was abrupt.

  “But it definitely was murder?”

  “No question,” Binder answered.

  “Was her body just lying in the backyard?”

  “It was in the shed,” Flynn said. “The killer had taken the trouble to hide it.”

  “What do you think about this whole crazy ghost thing?” I asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same question.” Binder wasn’t amused. Murder was serious business.

  The door of the Snuggles Inn opened, and Blair Davies strode onto the wide front porch. “Detectives?” she shouted in our direction.

  “That’s us,” Binder called back. “Lieutenant Jerry Binder and Sergeant Tom Flynn. We’re finishing up with Ms. Snowden, and we’ll be right over.”

  “That’s why I came out,” Blair shouted. “I just got off the phone with Livvie. She told me Julia was present during Page’s interview. I wondered if Julia could do the same for Talia. Livvie tells me Julia has some experience in these situations, and at least Talia knows her a little bit.”

  Binder looked at me and sighed. “I can’t think of a reason why not. Julia, do you have time to join us?”

  “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  Blair led us through the inn to the dining room. Talia sat, slump-shouldered, next to her dad. Blair went around the table and took the chair on the other side of her. The detectives and I arranged ourselves across from them.

  Vee Snugg bustled in from the kitchen. “Anyone need anything?” She knew Binder and Flynn from previous investigations, and neither Snugg sister ever missed a chance to check out Flynn’s sports-jacket clad biceps.

  “Miss Snugg.” Binder rose and gave Vee a hug. Flynn also rose but stuck out a hand in self-defense. “Maybe some tea,” Binder suggested. “And something for Miss Davies.”

  “Water, thank you,” Talia said miserably.

  While we waited for the tea, Binder steered the conversation toward the Davies’ background. They had moved from Medview, Massachusetts, in June, right after school got out, so Howard could take a management job at Emerson Lab. These were prestigious, good jobs in Busman’s Harbor, the kind Maine communities had too few of. The kind that could attract people from out of state to shore up our dwindling population.

  Back in Massachusetts, Blair had been an elementary school teacher, but she hadn’t found a position since they’d relocated. “It’s been challenging to make friends,” she said. “Everyone here seems to know everyone already.” She spread her hands out in front of her, a gesture taking in the whole town and all the people in it.

  “That’s why we accepted the Halloween party invitation,” Howard explained, “so Blair could get to know some of my colleagues and their partners. We never should have.” He shook his head with regret.

  “We’ll get to that,” Binder said.

  Vee and Fee and Fee’s Scottish terrier, Mackie, arrived with the tea, Talia’s water, and a plate of Vee’s pumpkin cookies. “In case you’re peckish.”

  If Vee was unsparingly glamorous, no matter the occasion, Fee was her opposite. Bent over from arthritis, she kept her steel-gray bangs out of her face with a pink plastic barrette. She never used makeup, and today she wore a brown corduroy skirt, a tan sweater, and the very footwear you picture when you hear the words “sensible shoes.” Like her sister, she was smitten with Flynn. He had never done anything to encourage them, except for his daily, lengthy trips to the gym. I was convinced he toiled there for his own satisfaction and not for anyone’s admiration of the results.


  “Thank you,” I said. Vee’s pumpkin cookies had been a favorite since I was a kid. Fee bustled to the corner cabinet and distributed six small plates around the table. The heavenly smell of the big cookies was getting to me. They were shaped like pumpkins, and Vee had delicately decorated them with a lacey tracing of orange frosting to indicate the pumpkin shell and a green leaf peeping out from the stem.

  “They’re gluten-free,” Vee said.

  What the what?

  “So you can eat one, Sergeant.” She beamed at Flynn. “Or two.”

  Ohhh. Light dawned. Binder and Flynn had stayed at the B&B a number of times when they’d been in town on previous cases, and it had been source of endless frustration for Vee that Flynn never touched the goodies she painstakingly baked for their breakfasts. She had tried to tempt him with muffins, scones, and coffee cake, and he’d bypassed them all. Evidently, she’d decided that the only possible explanation was that he was gluten-intolerant.

  I suspected he would object as much, if not more, to the light and dark sugar, chocolate chips, and sticks of butter that were in the delicious cookies. His body was a temple. But I had to give Vee points for trying.

  I grabbed the cookie plate, took one to set a good example, and then started it around the table. At a minimum, the food would serve as an icebreaker. Talia was plainly miserable. She’d disobeyed her parents and gotten their home trashed. The senior Davies felt horribly guilty about leaving the girls to go to the party. And all of that and more had combined to set the stage for the murder of their tenant and the transformation of their home into a crime scene.

  Everyone took a cookie until the plate made its way back around to Flynn, who was seated next to me. He held the plate in mid-air in front of him while Vee stared him down. Finally, he took the smallest cookie, which wasn’t small, and the sisters withdrew.

  My cookie was exactly as I remembered them from my youth—pumpkiny, and spicy, chocolatey and cakey, yet moist with a crunch from the walnuts that were in it. It perked me up considerably, and I thought Talia and Blair looked less droopy. Flynn’s cookie sat untouched on his plate.

  Binder got down to business. He asked first about the deceased. Mr. and Mrs. Davies gave the answers I already knew. Slovenian. Lived in the house when they bought it. Faithful attendee of Star of the Sea Catholic church.

  “How about the previous owners?” Flynn asked. “The people who rented to her originally. Maybe they know more.”

  “They moved to Buffalo,” Howard said. “I’ll send you their contact information.”

  “Please.” Flynn slid his business card across the table.

  “Did Mrs. Zelisko tell you anything about Mr. Zelisko?” Binder asked. “If she was widowed or divorced?”

  “Never,” Blair answered. “Honestly, I wondered if there had been a Mr. Zelisko. I thought the ‘Mrs.’ might be more of an honorific.”

  A dead end. Binder appeared unperturbed. “Did she ever happen to mention what year she arrived in this country?” he asked. “Or maybe where she lived in the States before she moved to Busman’s Harbor?”

  All three Davies shook their heads.

  “Or maybe where she lived immediately before coming to Busman’s Harbor?” Flynn asked.

  “No, nothing like that,” Blair said.

  “She didn’t talk about her past,” Howard added.

  “Which was weird,” Talia said, “because we talked about the past and where we moved from, like, all the time.”

  “I never really thought about it that way,” Howard said, “but you’re right, sweetheart.”

  Talia physically shook off the “sweetheart” with a flick of her hand, as if it was an annoying gnat.

  “Did she pay rent by check or electronic transfer?” Flynn asked. “Our team has her laptop, and we’ll find her bank account, but a check or account number could help us.”

  Howard colored slightly. “She paid in cash.”

  It wasn’t an unusual arrangement for tenants in these auxiliary apartments to pay in cash. They usually got a discount for doing so, and the homeowner rarely reported the income to the IRS.

  Binder steered the conversation to the previous night. Blair narrated the first part, up until the older Davies left for the party. Howard apologized again, profusely, for their bad judgment.

  Talia took up the tale from there. In response to Binder’s patient questioning, her telling of events matched Page’s. Not so much so that it sounded rehearsed, but in all the important areas, their stories were the same. Even more than Page had, Talia grew more miserable as the story progressed and she described the party at her family home growing wilder and more out of control. As she talked, tears slid down her nose and fell onto the pink rosebuds on the china plate in front of her.

  “It’s okay.” Blair rubbed her daughter’s back. “We all make mistakes. No one could have foreseen everything that happened last night. The detectives just want to know about Mrs. Zelisko.”

  On the other side of Talia, Howard shifted his chair, his mouth turned down at the corners. He didn’t seem inclined to let his daughter off so lightly. Perhaps no one could have foreseen a murder, but the gathering of teenagers once word was on the street that the Davies weren’t home was entirely foreseeable.

  Talia described the search for Mrs. Zelisko in more detail than Page had. She told how they’d looked in the sitting room and the bedroom, and had knocked at the bathroom door.

  “You’re sure it was the bathroom,” Flynn confirmed.

  “Not sure, but it was right over my bathroom on the second floor, and we hadn’t seen one anywhere else in the apartment.”

  “Makes sense,” Binder said.

  “We knocked and called, and she didn’t answer,” Talia continued. “Page tried to open the door but couldn’t.”

  “Did you look in the closets or under the bed?” Binder pressed.

  “No!” Talia sat up sharply. “I would never. It’s her privacy.”

  “It’s okay that you didn’t,” Binder assured her. “We just want to be thorough.”

  Talia took a deep breath and continued. She described the jammed-up gathering in the front hall. “And then Mrs. Zelisko floated down the stairs!”

  Floated, not flew, as Page had said. Flynn caught it too. “She came down the stairs slowly?”

  “She floated across the room,” Talia explained as if to someone not bright.

  “I don’t understand,” Flynn persisted. “Did she come down the bannister?”

  Talia shook her head. “She was old.” As if being old made it impossible to consider that Mrs. Zelisko might have slid down the bannister, but not impossible to consider that she might have floated through the air.

  “How was she dressed?” Binder asked.

  “She was all in white.”

  “Like a white dress?”

  “No. Like white robes and a white veil. Like a nun. More like a nun in a white whaddyamacallit.”

  “Habit,” Blair supplied.

  “Habit,” Talia repeated.

  It didn’t take long to wind up the rest of the story. The teenagers running out of the house. The police arriving. Me arriving and then leaving with Page and Vanessa. The Davies coming home. Flynn examined Talia’s phone while Binder led the family through the denouement with businesslike precision.

  The detectives thanked the family and stood. I did, too.

  “I imagine you’re anxious to get back to your home,” Binder said to them. “We’ll move as quickly as we can.”

  Blair shuddered. “To tell the truth, we’re not in any hurry. Take your time.”

  Before they left, I watched Lieutenant Binder quietly fold a paper napkin around Flynn’s uneaten cookie and slip it into the pocket of his sports coat.

  I followed the detectives to their car. “What do you think?” I asked them.

  “Those girls saw something in that hallway,” Binder said. “But did they see a live woman or a dead one? That’s the question.”

  Chap
ter Seven

  Binder and Flynn got in their car and drove away. I suspected they were off to lunch at Gus’s, but my strategy of standing in the street looking like I had nothing in particular to do didn’t earn me an invitation.

  I headed in the opposite direction, toward the Star of the Sea Catholic church. I walked down to the waterfront and crossed the wooden footbridge that connected the two sides of the inner harbor. In the summer, I might have lingered on the bridge to look out at the islands and the pleasure boats, but the November wind cut across the water. I stuck my hands in my vest pockets.

  The inner harbor was the touristy part of Busman’s Harbor, as opposed to the back harbor, where the lobster boats were moored. The east side was lined with fancy hotels and more recently built condo complexes. Above them loomed the bright white central steeple of the Star of the Sea.

  The original, modest church had been built for the Irish servants of the wealthy “rusticators” who summered in Maine in the late nineteenth century, my mother’s ancestors among them. When the town had been flooded with French Canadian immigrants, who moved here to work in the canneries, the current church was built. Now it served all the town’s Catholics, from locals to snowbird retirees to summer families. They worshipped upstairs in the nave of the big church during the tourist season. In the off-season, when the summer people were gone and the snowbirds fled daily for warmer climes, services were held in the much more economically and successfully heated basement.

  When I was young, there had been two full-time priests assigned to the Star of the Sea year-round. They lived in a house on the grounds, indulged by a devoted housekeeper. Now there was one part-time cleric, who rotated among three churches. He lived two towns away and seemed to show up in Busman’s Harbor only when duty called, much to the disgruntlement of his more vocal parishioners.

  But if their clerics registered as indifferent, the hard-core laity at the Star of the Sea did not let that affect their dedication. If anything, the priestly neglect revved them up. Which is why, as I approached the building, I was certain I would find the people I sought in the church hall on a Saturday afternoon.