by Leslie Meier
“That’s great,” said Lucy.
“See?” said Ted, opening the envelope and unfolding the note. “Sometimes things just work out.”
“But if this keeps up, I don’t know how we’re going to manage,” fretted Corney. “Chief Kirwan said he’d make sure the night patrols cruise by the display, but he doesn’t have enough manpower to do anything more. There’s only so many times you can ask people for help. First, it was Buzz Bresnahan’s pumpkin, and then it was the Harvest Figure Display. What’s next?”
“Better look on the bright side,” offered Ted, causing Lucy and Phyllis to exchange worried glances. This was not the boss they knew.
“I’m trying,” admitted Corney, “but I can’t help but worry.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” said Ted. “There’s no sense fretting about stuff that might never happen.”
“Easy to say, hard to do,” murmured Corney, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder as she made her way out the door.
“She worries too much,” said Ted, who was leafing through the old papers, chuckling from time to time at the antiquated prose.
But as Lucy wrote up her account of the vandalism at the Harvest Figure Display, she was more than ever convinced that Corney was right to worry. She tried to give the story a positive spin, beginning with the Rotary Club’s restoration of the display, but the fact remained that somebody had put a lot of energy into an act of wanton destruction.
“I just can’t imagine why anyone would do such a thing,” said Tony Marzetti, an energetic volunteer who was not only a member of the Conservation Commission but was also president of the Rotary Club, when Lucy called him for a quote. “It’s really hard to understand destruction like that, and I’m glad we were able to help.”
The obvious question, and the one that Lucy put to police chief Jim Kirwan, was how the police were going to prevent future acts of vandalism.
“It’s a problem. I’m not going to pretend it’s not a challenge for our department,” he replied. “Preventing crime is a big challenge for us, since we can’t be everywhere at once, but I am asking my officers to be extra vigilant. And, of course, the one thing we’ve got going in our favor is the fact that the more times this perpetrator acts, the easier it becomes for us to catch him.” He paused, then added, “Or her.”
“How so?” asked Lucy.
“The evidence begins to pile up. Every crime scene gives us a piece of the puzzle, and sooner or later it will come together. Take this latest incident . . .”
“The Harvest Figure Display?”
“Oh, no. This second giant pumpkin slashing.”
“A second giant pumpkin?” asked Lucy, fearing for Priscilla. Well, not so much for the giant gourd, but for Bill. He would be awfully upset if anything happened to Priscilla.
“Yeah, at Sukie Evans’s place. A really big one. She’s got a couple of horses, you know, so she had plenty of manure.”
Lucy breathed a sigh of relief, then reminded herself that even if Priscilla was safe, the pumpkin killer was still at large. “Any leads?” asked Lucy.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” said the chief, “but I will say that my department is taking these attacks very seriously and we will catch whoever is doing this and we will prosecute to the full extent of the law.”
“What exactly is the penalty?” asked Lucy.
“Could be jail time,” he responded. “Like I said, this goes beyond a prank. This is systematic and purposeful destruction of property, and I am committed to using the full resources of this department to preserve our way of life here in Tinker’s Cove.”
Lucy dutifully jotted down this rather grand quote, aware that the full resources of the department were extremely limited due to recent budget cuts. It sounded good, she supposed, but it was just so much hot air. She had just started to write the story when her phone rang again. This time it was Hank DeVries from the scuba club.
“I have an update for you about the underwater pumpkin-carving contest,” he began.
“Great,” said Lucy, expecting him to announce some new prizes.
“Not great,” said Hank. “I’ve just been informed that the state’s environmental protection department wants to review the plans for the contest.”
“That’s understandable,” said Lucy. “How is it a problem?”
“I don’t have plans,” said Hank. “That’s the problem. I haven’t studied inflow and outflow at the pond, I don’t know the chemical content of the water, except that I’m pretty sure there’s two hydrogen atoms for every one oxygen, and I don’t know about fertilizer runoff and nitrogen loading. We were just gonna throw some concrete blocks in there and invite people who enjoy diving to try their hands at carving pumpkins.”
“Oh,” said Lucy. “I get your point.”
“And what I think,” continued Hank, “is that the guy who voted against the contest at the Conservation Commission meeting . . .”
“Tom Miller?”
“Yeah, him. I think he ratted us out to the DEP because he doesn’t want us to have the contest. He got outvoted, so this is how he thinks he can stop us.”
“Maybe it’s just routine,” said Lucy. “Maybe the committee always checks with the DEP when waterways are involved.”
“Maybe,” admitted Hank, “but I doubt it. Anyway, I thought there might be a story there.”
“Thanks for the call,” said Lucy.
She flipped through her Rolodex and then put in a call to the committee chairman, Caleb Coffin. He wasn’t home, but his wife said she’d be sure to pass along the message. Lucy’s next call was to the state DEP, where she had a contact, but her call went straight to voice mail. She glanced at the clock, discovering it was almost noon, which meant she had forty-eight hours until the Wednesday noon deadline to track down this story, which she wasn’t sure was a story. Not a lot of time, she thought, scribbling a reminder to follow up on a sticky note and pasting it on her computer screen.
She got up to retrieve her lunch from the office fridge, and when she brought it back to her desk, her phone was already ringing. When she picked up, fire chief Buzz Bresnahan was on the line.
“I’m sorry about your pumpkin,” she said, thinking it was only polite to express her condolences.
“Oh, yeah, that was a blow,” he said, “but that’s not why I’m calling. It’s because the Coast Guard just called and informed me that I’m going to have to keep the department’s rescue boat on standby during the pumpkin boat regatta.”
“Sounds like a sensible precaution,” said Lucy, picturing a wide variety of unstable watercraft constructed from giant pumpkins that were likely to capsize in the chilly water of the town cove.
“It may be sensible, but it’s not in my budget,” said Chief Bresnahan. “If I put the rescue boat out, I’ve got to man it, and that means overtime, which I do not have funds for. That’s why I’m calling you. I’ve got to go to the selectmen for an emergency appropriation, and I need some support for that request. We gotta have some interested citizens there to speak up, or this whole thing is going down in flames. There isn’t much time. The race is next Sunday. That’s less than a week away.”
“Does the Coast Guard usually get involved in stuff like this?” asked Lucy, thinking she’d never really heard of a similar situation. She had thought the Coasties at the local station had their hands full inspecting fishing boats and enforcing safety regulations.
“Not until now,” fumed Bresnahan. “I think somebody musta made a fuss about the regatta, somebody with connections, but that’s off the record.”
“Got it,” responded Lucy, who was beginning to agree with Corney that somebody was out to spoil the Giant Pumpkin Fest. But who? And why? Was it really Tom Miller, like Hank thought? She dismissed the idea, remembering that Tom had been an early supporter of the festival, which, he had argued, would bring lots of business to the town and especially to Country Cousins.
Lucy spent a frustrating afternoon tryin
g to contact sources at the state DEP and the Coast Guard and not getting anywhere. When her phone finally did ring, it wasn’t one of her contacts calling back. It was Heidi Bloom at Little Prodigies.
“I’m sorry to bother you at work,” she began, “but Patrick is having a very difficult day, and I’d appreciate it if you’d pick him up.”
“Is he sick?” asked Lucy, suddenly anxious for her grandson.
“No. It’s a behavioral issue.”
Lucy didn’t understand. “I’m sorry, but isn’t this what you guys do? You’re a day-care center, and you take care of kids while their folks are at work. Isn’t that what I’m paying you to do?”
“Little Prodigies isn’t simply a babysitting service,” said Heidi, sounding affronted. “We’re a child-care facility, and we take great pride in caring for our little ones and doing what’s best for them, not what’s most convenient.”
“It isn’t a question of convenience,” said Lucy, picking up on Heidi’s attitude. “I have a job to do, and my employer expects me to do it. I can’t just leave.”
“I’m afraid I must insist,” said Heidi, “or we’ll have to disenroll Patrick.”
Lucy wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Disenroll?”
“That’s right,” said Heidi. “We have a waiting list of families who would be more than happy to take his place.”
“So it’s either pick him up this afternoon or lose his spot at the center?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Heidi. “It takes a village, you know, and we believe in working together as a team. . . .”
Lucy had heard enough. “I’ll be right over,” she said, slamming down the phone.
When she arrived at Little Prodigies, she heard childish shouts and laughter but didn’t see Patrick among the children who were playing outside, among the swings and slides and sandbox, so she approached the teacher who was supervising.
“Patrick needed a time-out,” she explained. “He got in a fight with one of the other children during outdoor play. He’s inside.”
Lucy stepped inside and found Patrick sitting in the classroom, his dirty face tracked with tears. “What happened?” she asked.
Heidi, who was sitting beside Patrick at the table, writing, looked up. “Oh, Mrs. Stone, I’m just writing up an incident report. It seems that Patrick attacked another little boy.”
“He took my truck,” said Patrick with a sniffle.
“All the toys here belong to everyone,” said Heidi. “We have to share.”
“I had it first,” said Patrick.
“If that happens, and someone takes a toy you are playing with, you must talk to a teacher. We can’t hit, ever,” insisted Heidi.
“No, you can’t hit,” agreed Lucy, taking Patrick’s hand. “I presume Patrick will be welcome here tomorrow?” she asked, leading him to the cubby where his jacket and lunch bag were stored.
“Absolutely, but Patrick will need to apologize to the group at circle time.”
“This place is beginning to sound like Communist China during the Cultural Revolution,” muttered Lucy.
“I’m sure we seem a little . . . Well, let’s just say that child development is better understood now than it was in your day, Mrs. Stone,” said Heidi with a condescending smile. “And one area where we’ve made great strides is in the area of diet and how foods can affect child behavior. Gluten, for instance, is a real troublemaker, and I’ve noticed that Patrick’s lunch often includes wheat bread and sugary cookies, and a great deal of dairy, which we know many children are sensitive to.”
That morning, Lucy had packed the same lunch for Patrick as she had made for herself: a ham and cheese sandwich on multigrain bread, a sippy box of low-fat milk, an apple, and a homemade oatmeal-raisin cookie. “What foods would you suggest?” she asked.
“Kale is fabulous, and there’s broccoli and quinoa, and almond milk is preferable to cow’s milk. The list goes on and on. I can give you our list of lunch guidelines,” said Heidi, pulling open a drawer and producing a sheet of paper.
Lucy glanced at the list, which included many foods she’d never heard of and others she knew from experience that children didn’t like. “So how exactly do I give him brussels sprouts?” asked Lucy. “Raw?”
“Oh, no,” laughed Heidi. “You steam them and put them in a little plastic container with a little bit of hummus for dipping. They’re so cute, like little cabbages, and the kids pretend they’re bunnies eating baby cabbages.”
Lucy didn’t believe the children actually ate brussels sprouts, not for a minute, even if they were accompanied by hummus. “Well, I’ll try to do better,” she said, intending to add some baby carrots to Patrick’s lunch bag tomorrow.
“Whatever you do, no raw carrots,” said Heidi. “They’re a choking hazard.”
“Thanks for telling me,” said Lucy, heading for the door.
Once they were outside and walking to the car, she asked Patrick for his side of the story. “Why did you hit that boy?” she asked.
“He took the truck. He said it was his because his daddy drives a truck.” Patrick sniffled. “He said I don’t have a daddy.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, beginning to understand the situation. “Of course you have a daddy. Your daddy is in Haiti, but he’ll be home soon, and Mommy, too.”
“When will they be home?”
“For Christmas,” said Lucy, aware that two months was an eternity to a small child. “But you know what? We’ll put in a call tonight. How about that?”
“Okay,” agreed Patrick, brightening up as she strapped him into the booster seat. “And when we get home, can I make the siren go?”
Lucy sighed, suspecting that Patrick was taking advantage of the situation, and figuring it didn’t really matter. “Sure,” she said, giving him a hug.
Chapter Eight
Tinker’s Cove Chamber of Commerce
Press Release
For Immediate Release
New Events Have Been Added to the Already Jam-Packed and Fun-Filled Schedule of Giant Pumpkin Fest Events! These Include an Underwater Pumpkin- Carving Contest at Jonah’s Pond, Sponsored by the Winchester College Scuba Club, Planned for Saturday, October 29, and an All-You-Can-Eat Pumpkin Pancake Breakfast, Sponsored by the Tinker’s Cove Fire Department, on Sunday, October 30, at the Firehouse. Details to Follow.
Patrick was in a better mood the next morning, and Lucy’s spirits were lifted, too, when she discovered Heidi was home, sick, and Sue was filling in for her at Little Prodigies. Sue greeted them both warmly, with a big smile and a hug for Patrick. Lucy had helped Sue out at the center in the past, and she was confident that circle time would feature songs and finger plays, not forced confessions and apologies. Sometimes, she thought, giving Patrick a good-bye kiss, you just got lucky. Then she was off to the elementary school, where she was covering Officer Barney’s annual Halloween safety program.
It had been years since she’d had a child in elementary school, but one whiff of the school’s unique scent took her right back to the day she enrolled Toby in kindergarten. What was it exactly? she wondered, trying to identify the source of the scent. Well-worn sneakers, floor wax, childish sweat, chalk dust? A little bit of each, she decided, stepping into the front office and signing in.
That was a new procedure, instituted after school shootings became so prevalent. There was a time, she remembered, when such a thing was never thought possible, but that was long ago. She took the temporary pass provided by the school secretary, Tina Simms, and hung it around her neck. “This makes me feel like I’m on my way to the bathroom,” she said.
“Better be careful. The sink and toilets are quite low,” said Tina with a wink.
“I guess I’ll take a pass,” said Lucy, making a little play on words. “Is Barney in the multipurpose room?”
“I guess you’ve done this before,” said Tina.
“You betcha,” said Lucy, heading out the door and down the long tiled corridor. The multipurpose room, a combinatio
n auditorium, gym, and cafeteria, was at the very end. When Lucy opened the door, she was hit with a blast of sound, the result of several hundred high-pitched young voices. Barney was already there, standing in front of the room and chatting with the principal, Paul Nesbitt, and waiting for a class of kindergarteners to seat themselves on the floor in the very front of the room.
“Good morning, children,” said Nesbitt, raising his hand for silence.
The children chorused back, “Good morning, Mr. Nesbitt.”
“Today we have a special guest, Officer Barney from the police department, who is going to talk about Halloween safety. I expect you all to pay close attention. Officer Barney . . .”
Barney stepped forward, adjusted his heavy belt, and planted his feet, shod in sturdy regulation oxfords, wide apart. His buzz cut was gray now but hadn’t thinned a bit, although his round belly had grown an inch or two. He still looked a bit like a bulldog, with jowls and a pug nose.
“Good morning, children,” he began, launching once again into the speech he’d given every October for more years than Lucy liked to count. “Who’s going trick-or-treating on Halloween?” he asked, getting an enthusiastic response, as every small hand in the room was raised.
“It’s very important to carry a flashlight,” he said. “And be extra careful when you cross the street. If you wear a mask, it can make it hard to see, so you have to look both ways and then look again, right?”
Many heads were nodding.
“And what about that candy?”
This got a cheer from the kids.
“It’s good, isn’t it? But you aren’t going to eat any until you get home, where your mom or dad will look it over and make sure that it’s all wrapped and good for you, right?”
A little girl raised her hand. “My mom says candy isn’t good for you.”
