by Leslie Meier
“No, no, we haven’t,” growled Tom, who didn’t stop but kept right on walking, determined to absent himself from the proceedings.
“What was your secret?” asked Corney, joining Buck at the podium. “Did you have a method?”
“That’s what I want to know,” declared Miss Tilley with a sniff. “Did she have inside information?”
“Hush,” warned Rebecca, patting her friend’s hand. “You were very close, weren’t you?”
“I was,” said Miss Tilley. “Which is why I don’t think it could be a lucky guess.”
“No inside info,” said Lucy, who knew how Pam had arrived at the winning number. “It was all completely aboveboard.”
“No method,” laughed Pam, gleefully accepting the gift certificate prize. “It’s my phone number!”
“Bah!” exclaimed Miss Tilley, clearly disgusted.
When Lucy and Patrick got home that afternoon, they found Bill out in the pumpkin patch. He was dismantling the security system, which was a great disappointment to Patrick.
“No more siren?” he asked.
“Here goes, one last time,” said Bill, smiling as he set the thing off.
Lucy covered her ears, but Patrick was delighted, prancing around the garden, joined by an exuberant Libby. When the wailing stopped, so did they. Picking up a stick, Patrick wandered off to explore the yard, accompanied by the dog.
“Don’t go too far,” cautioned Lucy, mindful of the woods behind their property.
“I won’t,” he called back, whipping the stick and decapitating a dandelion.
“Boys,” sighed Lucy.
“You know you love having him,” said Bill, who was coiling up a length of electrical cord and adding it to the sizable pile of equipment he’d collected.
“That’s a lot of stuff,” observed Lucy.
“He saved everything that came his way,” said Bill. “He’d even pick up stuff that people put out for the garbage collector—and he usually managed to find a use for it.”
“How’d he get the job?” asked Lucy. “I mean, you’d think an outfit like Country Cousins would hire some professional security firm.” She was about to add, “Not a local yokel like Ev,” but caught herself in time, vowing not to speak ill of the dead.
“What you really mean is, why would they hire a guy like Ev, who, face it, had a bit of a reputation?”
“I was just thinking that a professional outfit would have all the latest bells and whistles, and probably would offer guarantees and warranties . . . ,” said Lucy, refusing to be drawn into an argument.
“Ev was probably cheaper,” said Bill, picking up the plastic fish box he’d filled with the security equipment.
“But riskier,” said Lucy.
“You mean he might have been tempted to share his inside information about the alarms?” asked Bill, getting a bit huffy. “For money? He’d never do that.”
“The Millers must have trusted him,” said Lucy in a placatory tone. “That’s all I mean. They must have had some relationship with him.”
“Well, it is a small town,” said Bill, carrying the box into the shed, where he dropped it with a thud. “Maybe they just wanted to give employment to local workers.”
When he emerged, he found Lucy picking the last of the late salad greens they’d planted in August, when the nights started getting cooler.
“Lucy, I hope you’re not thinking of investigating Ev’s death yourself,” he said, plucking a few leaves of arugula.
“Of course not,” said Lucy, who was thinking she really ought to go inside and get something to hold the greens.
“Because I know you think the cops want to pin this on me, and you might think you have to find the killer to protect me,” he continued, biting into an arugula leaf.
“You’re assuming an awful lot. Maybe I’d like to see you go to jail,” teased Lucy. “Sometimes you can be awfully annoying.”
He grabbed her by the arms and drew her close, causing her to drop the salad greens as he pressed her against him. “I’m serious,” he said. “Whoever killed Ev is not a nice person, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“And I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” said Lucy, raising her face for a kiss.
Spring, 1979
It was only to be expected, she decided, watching him close the door and hearing the click of the latch as he turned the lock. She’d felt excited, even elated, when she left that first women’s lib meeting at the library. Miss Tilley, the librarian, had seemed to understand her situation and had offered help. But now, as the days passed so slowly, with no end in sight, her spirits had plummeted. She had nothing in common with those women who wanted to burn their bras, nothing at all. She had to face the fact that she was a prisoner in her own home and had only herself to blame. She wasn’t like those women at the meeting, who blamed their husbands for all their woes. She knew full well that she had been a fool for love and had jumped into marriage without really knowing her husband and understanding exactly what was expected of her.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, her prison had gotten smaller as the store had grown, spreading through the farmhouse like cancer. First, it took over the fancy front parlor, with its lace curtains and big family Bible, then the back parlor, and finally the dining room. Where there once had been horsehair sofas and Persian rugs and a fine oak dining set, there was now a jumble of fishing tackle; rubber boots and waders; newspapers; a refrigerator case filled with packaged cold cuts, milk, and eggs; and racks of sturdy woolen clothing. The counter, with its old-fashioned cash register, remained near the front door and also held jars of penny candy and a machine that ground keys.
He loved locks and keys and used them wherever he could. Of course, he could hardly lock the front door to the store, as Emily had pointed out, adding that rueful little nod of her. Even he understood it was unwise to lock the customers out. But he locked all the other doors, including the extra-solid door that connected the store to the private living quarters, which were now confined to the cramped rooms upstairs that were hunched beneath the sharply angled roof.
It hadn’t been quite so bad before, when she had absolutely no hope of escape. But now, when she served him breakfast and lunch, and when she cleaned and did the laundry, and when she cooked dinner, all the waking day long, she kept her eyes on the clock, waiting for her chance during the store’s business hours—6:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. She didn’t ever think about the other eight hours, the dark hours.
Chapter Thirteen
Tinker’s Cove Chamber of Commerce
Press Release
For Immediate Release
First Annual Giant Pumpkin Fest Deemed a Success! A Survey of Member Businesses Conducted by the Chamber Reveals That October Profits Were Up by More Than 50 Percent across the Board. Retailers Reported Increased Sales, and Restaurants and Hotels Were Fully Booked for the Festival Weekend. Asked if the Festival Should Be Continued Next Year, Over 90 Percent of Respondents Replied with an Enthusiastic Yes!
“What a hoot,” said Phyllis, pulling a sheet of paper off the fax machine and handing it to Ted. “Corney says the Pumpkin Fest was a big success.”
“Well, there was only one murder,” said Lucy, who had just arrived, fifteen minutes late. It was finally Halloween, and Patrick was so excited that the morning routine had taken longer than usual.
“And there’s no denying business was up,” said Ted. “The town was packed with tourists all weekend.”
“So they’re going to do it again next year?” asked Lucy, hanging up her jacket.
“Looks like it,” said Ted. “I wonder if the cops have made any progress on Ev Wickes. Wanna put in a call for me, Lucy?”
“Better not,” said Lucy, taking a deep breath, determined to be open and honest about the situation. “I’m afraid I’ve got a conflict of interest. The state troopers came to the house on Saturday. They were asking Bill a lot of questions.”
“You think they suspect him?”
he asked.
“That’s crazy!” exclaimed Phyllis.
“I know,” agreed Lucy. “But I think maybe I shouldn’t be the one covering this story.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” said Ted after a few moments of thought. “They had to question Bill. He was working with Ev on the catapult. I’m sure it was just to gather information. Just because Bill was questioned doesn’t make him a suspect.”
“If you say so,” said Lucy, who didn’t share Ted’s optimism.
“You’re on the story until I say you’re not.”
“Okay, boss.” Lucy was reaching for the phone when Corney herself came in, following up on her press release. Her hair was back to its normal brown, but she hadn’t had time to get to the salon for highlights, and there were puffy bags under her eyes.
“What a disaster!” she declared, plopping herself down in the chair Ted kept for visitors, next to his desk.
“We got your press release,” said Lucy. “According to you, the festival was a whopping success.”
Corney glared at her. “Get real, Lucy. We all know there was a murder. It doesn’t get much worse than that.” She turned to face Ted. “But I’m confident your coverage of the weekend’s events is going to be fair and balanced.”
Ted scowled at her. “We strive to report the truth,” he said. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Well, I just think you ought to cover the entire weekend, not just the, uh, regrettable incident at the pumpkin hurl. There were lots of other events, like the fabulous jack-o’-lanterns displayed on Main Street. Those would make great front-page photos. They were very creative and attracted quite a crowd. And there was the pumpkin boat regatta. That was such a lot of fun, right? And don’t forget to mention the candy corn contest.”
Lucy and Phyllis were all ears, waiting to hear what Ted would say. They weren’t disappointed.
“A man was murdered. That is a big story, and it’s going on the front page,” he said.
“The business community won’t like it,” said Corney. “They’ve put a lot of effort into this festival, and they don’t want to read anything derogatory about it.” She shrugged. “You know how they are—they might even start to pull ads.”
That was the wrong thing to say to Ted, and Lucy inhaled sharply, waiting for his riposte.
“Phyllis takes care of the ads,” he snapped. “I handle the news, and Ev Wickes’s death is news.”
“That’s right,” said Phyllis, with a little nod that jiggled her double chin. “And for your information, our ads are up.”
“Because of the festival,” said Corney. “That’s why your ads are up, and that’s why you’d be smart to let everybody know that the festival was a big success. Ev Wickes’s death was unfortunate, but it had nothing to do with the festival.”
“Well, his body was discovered at the pumpkin hurl,” said Ted. “I think there may be a teeny little connection there.”
“Whatever Ev was involved in, his death was his own fault. He made somebody mad, which isn’t the least bit surprising, considering his personality. He made a lot of enemies.”
“Well, one enemy,” said Lucy, finding herself in the odd position of defending poor Ev. “But I think most people liked him. Bill knew him pretty well, he helped with the catapult, and he says Ev was a popular guy.”
“He was a lazy drunk,” said Corney.
“Maybe a drunk, but not lazy,” said Lucy. “He was a hard worker, and that gets you respect in a town like Tinker’s Cove.”
“Well,” snorted Corney, standing up. “I see I’m not getting anywhere here, but I warn you, it’s in everybody’s best interest to present a positive picture of the Giant Pumpkin Fest.”
With that, she turned and marched smartly out of the office, muttering to herself and letting the door slam behind her. The little bell jangled furiously, bouncing on its curved metal arm.
“She should know better,” said Phyllis.
“Corney’s worked so hard on this festival,” said Lucy. “She’s like a mama bear, determined to protect her little cub.”
“She has a point,” said Ted, surprising them both. “The festival was a success, despite the gruesome scene at the pumpkin hurl. And the cops say Ev was killed someplace else. He was already dead when he was put in the trunk of that car.”
“But why would somebody do that, unless they wanted to discredit the Pumpkin Fest?” asked Lucy.
“Maybe they didn’t know the car would be used as a target in the pumpkin hurl,” suggested Phyllis.
“Or maybe they did,” said Ted in a thoughtful tone.
“It certainly put an end to the events at Jonah’s Pond, especially the underwater pumpkin carving. The whole area was roped off as a crime scene,” said Lucy.
Just then the fax machine sprang into action, and Phyllis reached across her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Ho, ho,” she said, raising the finely penciled lines that served her as eyebrows. “It looks like Ev was into more than just booze. The state police are now investigating Ev’s murder as possibly drug related. It seems he was growing marijuana in the basement of his house.”
“I heard a rumor he was a dealer,” said Lucy, hopping up and grabbing the paper.
“Certainly a producer,” said Ted, reading over her shoulder.
She scanned the text quickly, wondering what this latest development meant for Bill. Was he off the hook, or was he going to be implicated in a drug scheme?
Ted was already on the phone with the police chief. “I want my ace reporter to get a photo,” he said. After finishing the call, he turned to Lucy. “Tomorrow, first thing,” he told her. “I want you to get a photo of Ev’s indoor garden.”
“Corney’s not going to like this,” said Phyllis. “Not one bit.”
That evening, when Lucy told Bill about the marijuana, he was quick to jump to Ev’s defense. “You know, it’s perfectly legal to grow six plants for medicinal use,” he said, popping the top on a can of beer and sitting down at the kitchen table.
“Did he need medicinal marijuana?” asked Lucy, who was assembling grilled cheese sandwiches for a quick supper before taking Patrick out trick-or-treating.
“He might have,” said Bill. “He worked hard all his life, physical stuff. He must’ve had some serious arthritis pain. He was no spring chicken, you know. Or he might’ve had something more serious, like cancer. He wasn’t the sort to talk about something like that.”
“So maybe the drinking was an effort to self-medicate?” mused Lucy, who had recently read an article on that very subject.
“He was an unusual guy,” said Bill, taking a long drink. “I had no idea until I started working with him. I thought he’d just be helping me lift and carry those heavy beams for the catapult, but he was full of ideas. He was really a mechanical genius.”
Despite her best efforts, Lucy found herself laughing. “Ev was a lot of things, Bill, but I don’t think he was a genius.”
“Maybe not,” admitted Bill, raising his can of beer. “He was a good guy, though. May he rest in peace.”
“Amen,” said Lucy. If only he would.
Patrick was too excited about trick-or-treating to eat much dinner, and Bill was unable to resist teasing his grandson, who was already dressed in his costume.
“That ninja outfit might be a bit of a problem, though,” teased Bill, taking a big bite of his grilled cheese sandwich. “How can people give you anything if they can’t see you?”
“Ninjas aren’t invisible,” declared Patrick. “They’re just in disguise.”
“Yeah, Dad,” said Zoe.
“Everybody knows that,” said Elizabeth, chiming in.
“Oh,” said Bill, reaching for a second helping of potato chips. “I guess I was misinformed.”
Patrick sighed. “When can we go?” he asked, kicking the chair with his foot.
“Don’t you mean ‘May I be excused?’” teased Bill.
Patrick didn’t get it. “May I?” he asked,
practically shaking with anticipation.
“Yes, you may,” said Lucy, leaving cleanup to the girls and filling a thermal mug with coffee to take with her. “Let’s go,” she said, watching with amusement as Patrick shot out the kitchen door.
There was only a handful of houses on Prudence Path, and they were all decorated for the holiday and had welcoming lights blazing. All, that is, except the house where Patrick lived with his parents, which was dark. The sight of the darkened house gave Lucy pause, but Patrick took it in stride.
“Mom and Dad will be back at Christmas, right?” he asked.
“Right,” said Lucy, quickly changing the subject. “I see some other ninjas,” she said.
The little road was filled with small costumed figures, darting from house to house, accompanied by their parents or older siblings. There were princesses and pirates, ninjas and superheroes, and their flashlights danced in the growing darkness.
Reaching Frankie LaChance’s house, where a big jack-o’-lantern sat on the porch, grinning a welcome, Patrick rang the doorbell.
“Trick or treat,” he said when Frankie opened the door.
“Ah, what have we here?” she asked in her lilting voice, with a charming French accent.
“I’m a ninja,” said Patrick.
“So you are,” she agreed, offering him a bowl filled with miniature chocolate bars.
“Just a few,” cautioned Lucy as Patrick reached into the bowl. Somewhat belatedly she wondered what his parents’ policy was on Halloween. Was she even supposed to be taking him out to collect candy from the neighbors? Maybe he was supposed to stay home with a video and a bowl of popcorn.
“Take more than that, and you take some, too,” urged Frankie, offering the bowl to Lucy. “If it isn’t all gone, I’ll eat it, and it’s not good for my figure.”
“You look as if you’ve lost weight,” said Lucy, realizing she hadn’t actually seen Frankie to talk to in several months.
