Candy Corn Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “This is just a brief reprieve,” said Lucy, realizing their troubles were far from over. “There’s still the trial, and Bill could be found guilty. He could go to jail. For life.”

  Rachel grabbed Lucy’s hand and squeezed it. “That’s not going to happen,” she said. “He’s innocent.”

  “Innocent people get sent to jail all the time,” said Lucy. “Now that they’ve got DNA, they’re discovering lots of people who shouldn’t have been sent to jail.”

  “That’s good for Bill, right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucy. “He saw a lot of Ev. They worked together on that darned catapult. I’m sure there were a few scrapes and stuff that would have bled. Bill’s DNA is probably all over Ev’s tools and stuff, and vice versa.” As she spoke, Lucy was thinking that the best way, and probably the only way, to prove Bill’s innocence was to find the real murderer.

  “Here’s Bob,” said Rachel as her husband crossed the emptying courtroom to join them.

  “It’s all set,” he said. “We can go round back to meet Bill.”

  “He’s free to go?” asked Lucy. “What about the bail?”

  “I posted it. You’re good for it, right?” Bob had taken her elbow and was steering her toward the door. A sudden burst of noise, scuffling and voices, indicated the morning session had ended and the pack of media hounds was now free to leave the courtroom. Bob offered words of encouragement as they turned to face the crowd streaming through the double doors. “Head up, Lucy. Look confident.”

  Until he spoke, she hadn’t realized she’d ducked her head and raised her shoulders, as if expecting a blow. She took a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, straightened her back, and tucked in her tummy, adding a toss of the head for good measure. They walked along the concrete path that led to the rear of the courthouse, where prisoners came and went through a solid gray steel door, with a dozen or more reporters following behind.

  They waited a few minutes, and then the door opened and Bill walked through, ducking his head and blinking at the sunlight and all the attention. Not a good look, decided Lucy, so she rushed to embrace him.

  “Look ’em in the eye and smile,” she whispered, and he broke into a grin and gave her a squeeze that lifted her right off her feet. That was the shot she hoped would be in the news, rather than the shocked, squinting expression, but only time would tell.

  Bob had a sticker that allowed him to park in an area reserved for lawyers, close to the courthouse, so he led them to his car, and they all piled in. It was certainly very weird, thought Lucy, having every move observed and recorded by the media. Part of her wanted to flee, but she was surprised to find that another part rather enjoyed the attention. It was an unsettling discovery, and she could just imagine what her late mother would say, warning her not to get above herself. “Who exactly do you think you are, miss?” was a frequent refrain when Lucy was growing up.

  Who exactly did she think she was? she wondered as Bob pulled up beside her car and she and Bill climbed out. She felt as if she’d been playing a role, the strong, faithful wife, rather than revealing the frightened, angry woman she really was. They had finally shaken the press pack, so they took a moment to thank Bob and Rachel for all their help. Then they were alone together in the SUV, and the real Lucy emerged and burst into tears.

  “Calm down, Lucy,” said Bill, looking over his shoulder and backing out of the parking space, then driving too fast through the lot to the exit. “It’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “I’m so scared,” she blubbered as her cell phone began to ring. She pulled it out of her bag, along with a tissue, and gave her nose a good blow before answering. It was Heidi, from Little Prodigies, and Lucy immediately assumed that Patrick had been having a difficult day.

  “We’ll come and get him right away,” she told Heidi. “Good. And you understand he can’t return until the treatment has been successfully completed?”

  “Treatment?” What could she possibly mean? Was he being referred to a psychiatrist or some therapist?

  “For the head lice,” said Heidi.

  “Lice?” screamed Lucy, causing Bill to swerve sharply, nearly running off the road.

  “For Pete’s sake, Lucy,” he growled.

  “Are you telling me Patrick has head lice?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of an outbreak here,” said Heidi, whispering.

  Bill was scratching his beard, and Lucy was aware that her head was suddenly very itchy. “What a nightmare,” she said, thinking they could stop at the drugstore on their way to the day-care center and pick up the combs and shampoo and disinfectant they would need.

  “You can say that again,” said Heidi, with a sigh.

  Patrick was unfazed, however, when they arrived to take him home. “Heidi says I need to wash my hair with special soap,” he said, climbing into his booster seat. “We all do, ’cause we’ve got little bugs.”

  “That’s right,” said Lucy, who was fighting the urge to scratch her head, afraid of what she might find.

  Sara and Zoe had rather different reactions, however.

  “What’s that?” asked Zoe, spotting the bottle of special shampoo sitting on the kitchen table, along with several nit combs.

  “Patrick got lice at day care,” said Lucy, who was collecting all the hats and scarves belonging to the family, which she was going to take down to the washer in the cellar. Once she got that load going, she was going to strip all the linens off the beds and wash them, too.

  “Eeeuw! Yuck!” shrieked Sara.

  “That’s icky,” said Zoe, grimacing. “Poor little guy.”

  “Poor little us,” said Lucy. “We’ve probably all got them, too. Has your head been itchy?”

  “I thought it was dry scalp,” said Sara. “From the chlorine in the dive pool.”

  Zoe was examining her sister’s head, parting her hair with her fingers. “Nope, not chlorine,” she said, grimacing.

  “I think I’ll die,” said Sara.

  “Shower first,” advised Lucy, with a nod at the bottle of shampoo. “And then we can all spend a lovely afternoon picking nits from each other’s hair.”

  “Kinda puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?” asked Bill, who was fresh from the shower and had damp hair.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lucy, resting the laundry basket on a cocked hip.

  “Well, jail was bad, but not as bad as, uh, this.”

  Lucy gave in to the urge to scratch. “I think it’s all pretty disgusting,” she said, yanking the cellar door open and clunking down the stairs. “Dis-gus-ting!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tinker’s Cove Conservation Commission

  Press Release

  For Immediate Release

  Responding to Several Incidents Involving Minors and the Illegal Consumption of Alcohol, the Commission Voted at Its Last Meeting to Restrict Access to Town Conservation Lands to the Hours between 6:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. Groups Using the Conservation Lands Will Be Required to Notify the Commission in Advance, and Forms for That Purpose Are Now Available at Town Hall. Police Have Been Informed of the Change and Will Conduct Regular Patrols.

  That evening, after Lucy had checked everyone’s heads and had found them nit free, she set out celebratory fixings for make-your-own sundaes on the kitchen table.

  “How many scoops can I have?” asked Patrick, greedily eyeing the goodies.

  “As many as you want,” said Lucy. “We’ve had a tough day, and we all deserve a treat.”

  “Five?” he asked, pushing the envelope.

  “How about three?” suggested Lucy. “But you can have a different topping on each scoop.”

  Patrick chose a scoop each of vanilla, chocolate, and cookie dough ice cream, and specified that he wanted chocolate sauce on the cookie dough, strawberry on the vanilla, and marshmallow fluff on the chocolate. On top of all that, he wanted jimmies, whipped cream, and three cherries.

  Amused by his certitude,
Lucy complied, piling on the sweets.

  “What would Molly say?” asked Zoe, who was limiting herself to a single scoop of vanilla with a generous dollop of chocolate sauce.

  “I’m sure she’d be appalled,” said Lucy, who was helping herself to strawberry ice cream, strawberry topping, and lots of whipped cream. “It’s mostly air, not calories,” she insisted as she finished off the whipped cream, although they were all too busy eating to pay attention.

  The ringtone on Sara’s phone—a rap song—broke the quiet, and she reluctantly put down her butterscotch sundae to answer. After a few “Wows” and “That’s great” and a heartfelt “Thank you,” she ended the call and made an announcement.

  “The scuba club is going to dive in Jonah’s Pond tomorrow,” she said.

  “How come?” asked Lucy, licking her spoon. “I thought Hank was dead against it.”

  “I had a talk with him,” said Sara. “I told him about Dad getting arrested and that you suspected there might be something in the pond that would help clear him, and he talked it over with the others, and they’re going to do a systematic search of the entire pond. He said it would be a good experience for everyone, anyway.”

  “This is great,” said Lucy. “Isn’t it great, Bill?”

  Bill was scraping the last bit of chocolate sauce from his bowl. “I don’t know what you expect to find, but . . .” He paused to give Sara a big smile. “I sure do appreciate the effort.”

  “It was nothing, Dad,” said Sara, blushing and turning her attention to her sundae.

  Saturday morning, bright and early, found Lucy and Sara at Jonah’s Pond, where members of the scuba club were gathering on the small sandy beach. Most had take-out cups of coffee, and Lucy had brought a box of doughnuts, which they were eagerly consuming. Hank was assigning areas of the pond to various members of the club, who were beginning to put on their wet suits and other gear. They were just about ready to begin the search when Tom Miller roared into the parking area in his company pickup truck. After jumping out, he marched purposefully toward the group of divers.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “We’re going to dive,” said Hank, stepping forward. “It’s a practice exercise.”

  “Well, you can’t do that,” said Tom. “You need permission.”

  “We have permission,” said Hank, glancing at Lucy. “We got permission at the Conservation Commission meeting.”

  “That was for the contest, that underwater pumpkin-carving thing,” said Tom.

  “Actually, it doesn’t say anything here about the contest, and no date is specified,” said Hank, producing a folded piece of paper.

  Tom took the paper, glanced at it, and tore it in half. “I don’t care what this paper says. It’s not correct. I’m on the commission, and I say you can’t dive here.”

  “I think you’re overstepping your authority,” said Lucy. “You don’t own the pond anymore. It’s conservation land, and the Conservation Commission gets to decide what happens here.”

  “And what exactly are you doing here?” demanded Tom, turning on Lucy. “Are you a member of the club?” Tom was quite red in the face, and his body was rigid. He kept flexing his hands, as if he wanted to punch somebody.

  “I’m a citizen, and I have every right to be here,” said Lucy, refusing to be intimidated. “This is town-owned conservation land open to the public.”

  “I’m warning you,” snarled Tom, “if you persist in this dive, there will be trouble. Mark my words.”

  “Yeah, Hank,” said one of the divers. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  Sensing that dissent was brewing among the ranks, Tom pressed his advantage. “I’m calling the police,” he said, reaching for his cell phone.

  “C’mon,” said another diver, a girl. “We can dive someplace else. It’s clouding up, anyway.”

  Lucy glanced at the sky, which was quickly filling with storm clouds, and noticed a stiff breeze had blown up. There was no sense continuing a losing battle, she decided.

  “Better not,” she said to Hank, with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “Okay, we’ll cancel the dive,” he said, hoisting his tanks and carrying them toward his truck. Then he stopped and turned, facing Tom. “But I think Mrs. Stone is right. This is public land. Maybe the permit has expired, but the commission did vote to let us dive here, and we’re going to follow up on this at the next meeting.”

  “Good luck with that,” snarled Tom, who had placed himself between the straggling group and the pond, as if he was prepared to fight anyone who tried to enter the water.

  “Weird,” said Sara, trudging up the path to the parking area, loaded with her heavy equipment.

  “There’s something in there that he doesn’t want found. I’m sure of it,” said Lucy.

  “I think you’re right,” said Sara.

  By now they’d reached Lucy’s SUV, and Sara was loading her diving stuff in the rear. When she lowered the rear door, she suddenly laughed. “I guess Tom Miller’s not going anywhere soon.” She pointed to his Country Cousins truck, which had a very low rear tire.

  “Interesting,” said Lucy, climbing behind the wheel of her car and reaching for her cell phone. “I think I’ll do the neighborly thing and get some help for him.”

  “Are you crazy?” asked Sara.

  But Lucy wasn’t calling for a tow. She was calling the state cops, asking for DeGraw. He was out, she was told, but she could leave a message on his voice mail.

  “I think I may have a lead on the tire iron,” she said, giving Tom’s name and license plate number. “It’s worth checking out.”

  “Do you really think Tom killed Ev?” asked Sara. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucy as she drove out of the parking area, “but I do think something suspicious is going on at Country Cousins.”

  “There sure is!” exclaimed Sara a few moments later, when they were approaching the company complex. “It’s a raid or something.”

  A uniformed cop was standing in the road, holding up traffic, as a long line of police vehicles, lights flashing, was proceeding onto the property. Some of the vehicles had the state police logo; others were unmarked but had federal license plates.

  Lucy immediately pulled off to the side of the road and started snapping away on her camera, at the same time ordering Sara to call Ted and tell him about the raid. Her view was largely blocked by the arborvitae hedge, and she was considering trying to sneak onto the property to get an eyewitness account when the cop in the road approached, waving her on. She put the camera down and asked what was happening, but he wasn’t about to talk. “Nothing to see here. Move along,” was all he had to say.

  Lucy had no choice but to obey, but Ted called her with an update later, when she was having a bite of lunch. She was alone. Bill and the kids were out, busy with Saturday activities.

  “Buck Miller’s been arrested,” he said. “He was using Country Cousins trucks to distribute marijuana. It was a huge operation. Cops say it’s their biggest bust ever. And he was crossing state lines, so he’s facing federal charges. This is huge, Lucy.”

  Lucy swallowed the bite of tuna fish sandwich she was eating. “What about Tom Miller? Did he know? Was he involved?”

  “Doesn’t seem so,” said Ted, “but it’s early days. Who knows what they’ll find. They’re going over that complex with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Thinking of her recent experience with the nits, Lucy wished he’d chosen a different metaphor. “What I hope they’ll find is proof that somebody there killed Ev,” declared Lucy. “I think it might’ve been Tom Miller. I noticed his truck, his silver Ford F-one-fifty, has a really flat tire.”

  “And you think he’s missing his tire iron, or he’d change his tire?” asked Ted.

  “Could be,” said Lucy.

  That evening, Lucy and Bill were in their room, getting ready to catch the late movie at the newly restored downtown theater. Patrick was asleep i
n his father’s old room, and Zoe had agreed to stay home with him because she had to finish a term paper. Sara was out with Hank. Lucy was applying a quick slick of lipstick when Bill’s cell phone rang. It was Bob, telling him that all charges against him had been dropped. Instead, he said, Buck Miller was now charged with Ev’s murder.

  Shocked, Lucy grabbed the phone. “Buck? What about Tom?”

  “I don’t know anything about Tom,” said Bob, sounding puzzled. “What the DA told me is that some Country Cousins employees who were involved in the marijuana operation actually came to him, asking for immunity in exchange for their cooperation. A couple of them say they witnessed a heated argument between Buck and Ev. The two came to blows at the warehouse, and then they went outside and nobody saw Ev after that. The presumption is that they continued the fight elsewhere and Ev was killed. Police investigators found traces of Ev’s blood in a company truck.”

  Lucy was finding it hard to reconcile her image of Buck as a clean-cut, ambitious young striver with this new development. “The employees ratted him out?” she asked. “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know. The DA wouldn’t tell me.” He paused, and his tone changed to a gentle reprimand. “Not that it matters, Lucy. The important thing is that Bill is free and clear.”

  “Absolutely,” said Lucy, knowing she deserved a scolding. Bob was right, and she was a horrible wife, more interested in the unfolding story than in her husband’s release from a murder charge. “Of course,” she added in her own defense, “I always knew Bill was innocent. But thank you for all your help. You’ve been wonderful, and we’re really grateful.”

  “No big deal,” said Bob, sounding embarrassed. “I’m just glad Bill is off the hook.” Then Bill was taking the cell phone out of her hand and wrapping her in his arms, kissing her, and drawing her toward the bed.

  “What about the movie?” she asked, but he overrode her objections with another kiss. “And the kids?”

  “We’ll be quiet,” he said, covering her lips with a finger before moving on to undo her bra.