by Leslie Meier
“Who was that lady?” asked Patrick, as they headed for the car.
“She lives in the house by the school, the one the kids think is haunted.”
“I guess she’s a ghost then,” said Patrick. “She sure looked like one.”
“She didn’t look well,” said Lucy, opening the rear hatch. “I hope she’s okay.”
Chapter Four
On Saturday morning Lucy dropped Patrick off at the field at nine o’clock for his first soccer game. She was supposed to take some photos of Halloween decorations for the paper and had a couple of errands she had to do, planning to tick them off her list as quickly as possible in order to catch as much of the game as she could. She was organizing her route in her mind, first the bank, then the hardware store and finally, the post office, when she braked at the corner of School Street. The Moon house loomed opposite, as dilapidated as ever, which she had to admit kind of worked for the season. Why bother with Halloween decorations when you already had a very scary, spooky-looking haunted house?
A couple of maple trees on the street had turned and were bright spots of color, yellow and red, which contrasted sharply with the Moon house’s weathered gray clapboards. Next door, Franny Small’s neat little ranch sported window boxes loaded with bronze chrysanthemums, a huge pumpkin sat on the stoop, and a decorative scarecrow hung on the door. The other neighbor had gone big-time, with a huge inflatable pumpkin that had a little ghost that popped in and out. And as if that wasn’t enough, they also had a large inflated dragon and a skeleton that dangled from an upstairs window.
As she drove through town she noticed almost every house had some sort of seasonal decoration, and some people went all out, constructing fake graveyards populated with ghoulish figures in the front yards. One display featured a zombie bride and groom, which Lucy decided was definitely newsworthy, so she parked the car and snapped a photo for the paper. Continuing down the street on foot she took a few more pictures, capturing a witch peering out a window, a pair of pumpkin-headed harvest figures seated on a porch, and another porch boasting a huge spider’s web with a truly hideous, extremely large spider lurking in its middle. That one made her cringe and she deleted it, fearful that Ted would put it right on the front page, terrifying any readers who were afraid of spiders.
Checking that task off her to-do list, she hurried back to the car and headed for Main Street, where she quickly accomplished the rest of her errands. Back at the field she learned the second half had just started and neither Patrick’s Coastal Collision team, nor their opponents, Marzetti’s IGA, had scored.
“It’s funny watching them play. I’m not sure they know the rules of the game,” confided her informant, a perky young mom in workout pants. “I’m Karen Halmstad,” she said, introducing herself. “I know you’re Lucy Stone. I saw you at the selectmen’s meeting.”
“Nice to meet you. I think my grandson, Patrick, is friends with your son.”
“Henry. He’s friends with everybody,” said Karen.
“Do you know Lori? Lori Johnson?” she asked, introducing another mom Lucy recognized from the meeting. “Her daughter Caitlin is in the goal.”
Lucy nodded, smiling broadly. “Hi.” It was a bit weird, and she experienced a certain sense of déjà vu, recalling all the games she had watched her kids play along with her friends, Sue, Pam, and Rachel, all gathered together on the sidelines. Now she was the grandmother, chatting with the young moms.
“Patrick is quite a good player,” said Lori, when Patrick blocked an opponent’s kick and passed the ball to a teammate. “Most of these kids don’t have a clue about passing; they just want to get the ball and head for the goal themselves.”
“Mostly they just want to get the ball,” agreed Karen, as Janet Nowicki blew her whistle and explained the offsides rule to the players.
“Good luck with that,” laughed Lori, as play resumed. “All they can think about is Halloween. Henry’s been practicing his Transylvanian accent for weeks.”
“Caitlin’s going to be a princess. Her father suspects she thinks she really is a princess who belongs in a castle but was somehow cursed and ended up with us. Kind of like Snow White with the dwarves, and we’re the dwarves.”
“Or Cinderella,” offered Lucy, who had experienced a similar situation with Elizabeth. “Especially when it comes to doing the dishes.”
“Especially then,” agreed Lori.
“Henry’s fascinated with the haunted house,” said Karen, casting a glance toward the Moon house. “I’ve told him to stay away, but I’m afraid he’s going to get himself into trouble.”
“Have you met the Moons?” asked Lucy.
“Briefly,” snorted Karen. “I tried to do the good neighbor thing, baked an apple cake for them, and introduced myself. They pretty much shut the door in my face.”
“They didn’t want your apple cake? The one with sour cream?” asked Lori, incredulous.
“Nope. They’re on diets.”
“I don’t think she needs a diet,” said Lucy, remembering how thin Heather looked at the big box store. “I saw her in South Williston the other day. She looked awful.”
“I’ve got my suspicions about him,” said Karen. “He comes and goes, but she hardly ever comes out of the house.” She paused. “I can’t imagine what she does in there all day. The windows are as filthy as ever, she hasn’t touched the curtains, and they keep the raggedy old things closed all the time.”
“Do you think he’s abusive?” asked Lori.
“I don’t know,” Karen said with a shrug, as a cry went up from the gathered parents. “Look! Patrick’s got the ball!”
Lucy watched, amazed, as Patrick deftly maneuvered the ball down the field and whacked it right into the goal. “Way to go!” she yelled, excited for him, and joining the other cries of approval. His teammates were gathered around, high-fiving him, and Janet was blowing her whistle, startling a huge flock of starlings that had roosted in the trees around the field. They rose up in a huge cloud and flew off. It was then that Lucy noticed the clouds that were moving in, dimming the bright morning sun.
“I don’t like those birds,” said Lori, with a shudder. “They remind me of that movie.”
“The Birds? Yeah,” agreed Karen. “And that house, it’s right out of Psycho.”
“And it looks like we’re in for some rain,” said Lucy, casting her eyes skyward. “I hope we get the game in.”
The sky darkened steadily as the game progressed, and the wind picked up, catching the fallen leaves and blowing them every which way. When Janet blew the final whistle, the score remained one-nil and the Coastal Collision team had won their first game. There was no time for congratulations, however, as the rain started to fall in sheets and everyone dashed for cover. Lucy and Patrick were soaked and chilled when they reached the car.
“Whew! That was crazy,” she exclaimed, turning on the ignition and firing up the heater.
“I got a goal!” exulted Patrick. “I can’t wait to tell Dad.”
“It was a great game, Patrick. Did you have fun?”
“Yeah. It was super.” He was silent for a moment, then spoke up. “I’m really hungry.”
“I bet you are,” laughed Lucy. “We’ll have lunch as soon as we get home. Sara promised to make her famous sloppy joes.”
She released the brake and backed out of her parking spot, joining the line of SUVs and pickups exiting the lot. The rain was coming down in buckets, the wind was tossing the trees, sending the falling leaves whirling every which way, and there were occasional bursts of thunder and lightning. Lucy was feeling uneasy about falling branches on the ride home, and wishing they were already safe at home, when she finally reached the stop sign. She merely tapped the brakes—the road was clear and she wanted to keep moving—when a flash of light caught her eyes.
It wasn’t lightning, she realized; it was coming from the Moon house. As she watched, it happened again, a burst of light from the window at the top of the tower.
“Did you see that?”
“What?” asked Patrick.
The driver behind her honked, and she turned onto the road. “Nothing, I guess,” she said, wondering if she’d really seen what she thought she’d seen. “Let’s get home!”
The car wasn’t heating up as quickly as she would have liked, and Lucy was worried about Patrick, sitting there on the back seat. He was only wearing his soccer uniform, shorts and a T-shirt, having refused to wear a jacket or sweatshirt. “I’ll get too hot,” he’d insisted, and she hadn’t wanted to press the issue. Fortunately, it was a short trip home and a nice, hot lunch was waiting for them in the cozy old farmhouse.
“I’m cold,” complained Patrick. “Can you turn the heat up?”
“It’s up as far as it will go,” said Lucy, tempted to remind him he could have worn his sweatshirt, or even a water-repellent fleece jacket. “We’ll be home soon and the sloppy joes will warm you right up.”
It was a bit of a disappointment when they made the mad dash through the rain into the house and discovered the kitchen was dark and there were no sloppy joes. No delicious spicy tomato and beef aroma, no toasty buns, nothing but a cold stove. Lucy switched on the light, sent Patrick upstairs to change into warm clothes, and went in search of Sara. She found her daughter lying on the sofa in the family room, watching The Handmaid’s Tale.
“What happened to lunch?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, sorry, Mom. I got caught up in the show. This is scary stuff.”
“I thought you had a lot of work to do preparing for orals. Shouldn’t you be studying?”
Sara’s tone was defensive. “Look, I can’t spend every minute of my life studying, can I? I need some time for myself, right?”
Lucy didn’t want the argument to escalate, so she decided on a tactical retreat. “Well, sure, but you could have made the sloppy joes. Cooking is relaxing and creative, too. Meditative even.”
“Maybe if you’re doing some fancy Julia Child dish, but sloppy joes? Come on, Mom. That’s not creative; that’s following directions on a foil packet.”
Lucy’s good intentions were weakening. “It would have been a big help to me, especially since you knew I was going to be out all morning. And now, because of the rain, Patrick and I are cold and wet and hungry.”
“So what’s the big deal?” She flicked off the TV and stood up. “I’ll make your sloppy joes for you. Will that make you happy?”
“It’ll be a start,” said Lucy, with a sigh. “Patrick and I are going to put on some dry clothes.”
The sloppy joes weren’t ready when Lucy and Patrick had changed into warm clothes; Sara hadn’t noticed the thawed package of hamburger meat in the refrigerator and was instead cooking up a frozen block of ground beef, to which she’d added chopped onions. The meat was only half cooked and the onions were burning.
“Oh, my word,” exclaimed Lucy, angrily grabbing the pan and dumping the stinky mess into the trash.
“What can I eat?” asked Patrick, looking on with a stricken expression.
“I’ll make grilled cheese and tomato soup. How about that? And in the meantime, you can have a glass of milk and some cookies. Dessert first.”
“Well, I know when I’m not appreciated,” griped Sara. “I think I’ll grab something to eat on my way to the library.”
Lucy knew she should try to smooth Sara’s ruffled feathers, but somehow she couldn’t muster the will to do it. “Good idea,” she snapped, pouring a glass of milk for Patrick.
Sara put on her rain slicker, grabbed her book bag and umbrella, yanked the door open, and marched out, giving it a good slam behind her.
“What’s the matter with Sara?” asked Patrick, prying apart the two halves of an Oreo.
“I suspect it’s a guilty conscience,” said Lucy, snapping the lid off a can of tomato soup and dumping the contents into a pan.
After lunch, Patrick settled down with his Legos and Lucy loaded the washer with their wet clothes. The rain was still coming down hard, much too hard to even contemplate any outdoor activities, so Lucy settled herself on the sofa and looked for a free movie. Gaslight was just starting, so she settled in to watch one of her favorite films.
Golly gee, Ingrid Bergman was gorgeous, her skin luminescent and glowing even in black and white. Charles Boyer, who played her husband, was charming and suave, but always with that little touch of menace. Not someone you could trust, thought Lucy, as she was caught up yet again in the unfolding story of an innocent young wife whose husband attempts to drive her mad.
Lucy found herself holding her breath as the gaslights in the house dimmed and brightened, terrifying poor Ingrid Bergman when she was alone in the house. Was it really happening? Was she imagining it? Was she truly going out of her mind? Thank goodness for Joseph Cotten, the Scotland Yard inspector who saves Ingrid in the end.
Clicking off the TV, Lucy noticed that the rain had stopped, but it was still cloudy, wet, and windy outside. She went upstairs to check on Patrick, finding him happily occupied installing Batman in his newly constructed Lego bat cave.
Returning to the kitchen, she went downstairs to the cellar to put the washed clothes in the dryer. She was just heading upstairs when the ceiling light went out, plunging the cellar into darkness and giving her a momentary fright. Simply a blown light bulb, she told herself, intending to ask Bill to change it.
She made her way carefully up the darkened stairs, amused by the coincidence. Here she’d been watching Gaslight and what should happen? The cellar light went out. It would make a cute story to tell Bill at dinner.
Which reminded her, she really needed to get dinner started.
She was scrubbing potatoes when she remembered that odd flashing light she’d seen in the tower of the Moon house. It wasn’t like a light going on and off; it was much brighter than that. More like a strobe, or a flash from some sort of explosion.
She thought of Heather Moon, who seemed so frail and helpless, actually in much worse shape than poor Ingrid Bergman in the movie. Was that what was happening? she wondered. Was Ty Moon engaged in a diabolical plan to destroy his wife’s health, or sanity? The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. He’d been so curt and abrupt when she’d dropped by that it had been impossible for her to talk to Heather. And when she had encountered Heather at the store, the poor thing had seemed terribly frightened. What was she afraid of?
“Grandma, I’m hungry.” A little voice broke into Lucy’s thoughts. Patrick had come downstairs and was eyeing the cookie jar, which Lucy knew was empty.
“How about popcorn and a movie?” she suggested.
“With butter?”
“With lots of butter!”
Chapter Five
Somehow Lucy had forgotten how challenging it was to combine child care with a job, even one as flexible as her part-time position at the Pennysaver. These days, as she struggled to make Patrick’s lunch every morning, spent hours helping him with homework, and shouldered the constant task of chauffeuring him to soccer practices and games, she wondered how she’d ever managed with four kids. She felt as if she was under a curfew, having to be home by three-thirty to meet the school bus. And then there were all the extras: baking something for the youth soccer bake sale, collecting box tops, selling wrapping paper to the neighbors. Of course, she reminded herself, she’d been much younger then and had a lot more energy.
As the clock ticked by on Tuesday afternoon, and facing a noon deadline on Wednesday, Lucy was faced with a mountain of work. Work that she’d put off in order to meet Patrick’s needs. That was the big drawback with part-time work, she decided, as she tackled the backlog. It was easy to put things off. She was supposed to manage her thirty hours; Ted wasn’t looking over her shoulder advising her to write that story as soon as the meeting ended or the interview was completed. And even worse, she still had to interview Officer Sally Kirwan for a feature story Ted wanted about domestic abuse. In fact, she hadn’t even called Sally to request an interview, or
to schedule it.
Reaching for the phone, she crossed her fingers hoping that Sally was available. The police officers worked shifts to provide twenty-four-hour coverage, and for all she knew Sally might be working nights this week. Her luck held however when the dispatcher put her call through and Sally answered her phone in person.
“Boy, I feel like I’ve won the lottery,” said Lucy. “I was sure I’d get voice mail.”
“Close. I was just on my way out,” said Sally.
“Oh, gosh. Any chance I can interview you today? It’s for a series on domestic abuse.”
“Today? I’m on call until three, when my shift ends. Does that work for you?”
Lucy hesitated; she knew soccer practice had been called off since the field was still too wet for play, and Patrick would be coming home on the school bus.
“I’ll make it work,” said Lucy, intending to have Bill or Sara meet the bus. Perhaps Bill could leave work a bit early, or Sara could study at home since she had no classes on Tuesday afternoon.
Ending the call, Lucy first tried Bill, who was in the final stages of enlarging a Craftsman-style bungalow for a young banker and his growing family. “Gosh, Lucy, I can’t leave today. They’re installing the kitchen cabinets and I have to make sure they’re the right ones and that they go in the right places.”
“I understand,” said Lucy. She had an old-fashioned notion that a wife wasn’t supposed to interfere with her husband’s career, and she found it hard to shake. Her job wasn’t as important, she didn’t make as much money as Bill, so it usually fell to her to juggle her schedule. Which hadn’t actually been much of a problem until Patrick came to stay.
That left Sara. Not her first choice, considering how difficult she’d been lately. This time, when she called, she did get voice mail. No problem, she told herself. Sara always had Tuesday afternoons free. She was probably just in a noisy place, like the student union, and didn’t hear her phone. Sara was obsessive about checking her messages, so it would be okay to leave one.
