Trick or Treachery

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Ready, Jess?” Seth took a last sip of coffee.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  Seth moved to the cash register at the counter, where two uniformed telephone repairmen, one tall and broad, the other short and wiry, were seated on stools, debating the merits of a new fishing lure. Seth clapped one on the shoulder, interrupting the friendly argument.

  “You boys find out yet what’s causin’ the problems with the phones?” he asked. “My patients say they’re still havin’ trouble getting through.”

  “Sorry, Doc. There’s complaints all over town,” the smaller man said. “We’re working on it. Maybe by tomorrow. How do, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “We’ll figure it out eventually. We always do,” his colleague added, nodding at me. “Say, ma’am, Doc, what do you think of this spinner? It’s a beauty, ain’t it?” He winked at his friend and held out his palm to show us the red-and-silver striped lure with a wicked-looking hook dangling from its end.

  “What I see is another office visit if you’re not careful with that hook,” Seth said sternly.

  “Aw, Doc, you know me and Pete always take the barbs off, give the fish a fair fight.”

  Seth grunted, paid, and we stepped outside. It was a splendid October day. I treasure every month in Cabot Cove. It doesn’t matter to me if snow is falling and the temperature is below zero, or if midsummer heat and humidity have set in. But there’s no doubt about it, October is my favorite month of the year in the town I love so much. We have spectacular fall foliage. The sun shines brightly, but there’s a bracing nip in the air that sends me into a frenzy of activity. If I had my way, October would last for six months.

  “All set for Halloween?” I asked Seth as we stood outside and breathed in the pristine Maine air.

  “The party, you mean?”

  “Yes. Have you decided on a costume?”

  “Thought I wouldn’t wear one,” Seth said.

  “Everyone wears a costume to Paul Marshall’s annual party,” I said. “It’s one of the rules. You have to come in costume.”

  “Seems like a foolish rule to me.”

  “Silly rule or not, you don’t want to be a spoilsport. Do you want me to find a costume for you?”

  “If I have to wear one, you might as well pick it out for me.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that.”

  “What costume are you wearing, Jess?”

  “I’m going as The Legend.”

  The sound of the door opening caused us to turn. The woman Mara had pointed out to us had left the restaurant and stood on the dock, staring at us. She wore a black duster that swept the ground; a large black pendant in the shape of a cat’s face, with glittering red stones of undetermined type for eyes, hung from a silver chain. Her long, flowing white hair gleamed in the sun, but her face was surprisingly youthful, her eyes a startling, piercing blue. Those eyes—something tickled my memory, but I couldn’t figure out why. She turned and walked slowly away.

  “I see what Mara meant,” I said. “She has remarkable eyes, like . . . like laser beams.”

  “Didn’t seem so unusual to me,” Seth said. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll walk off those pancakes.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He started to leave, then stopped, turned and said, “Don’t be gettin’ me any silly kind ’a costume Jess. Keep it simple. Maybe somethin’ in the military vein.”

  “Simple, huh? Okay, thanks for the tip. A military man you will be this Halloween.”

  “Sure you want to go as The Legend? Lucas Tremaine might decide to hunt you down.”

  “I don’t think I have to worry about that,” I said, smiling. “I’ll just scare him off.”

  Chapter Two

  I went home and resumed tasks I’d started a few days ago, filing, paying bills, checking my e-mail and catching up on correspondence. I’d finished my latest novel in mid-September. Writing always fatigues me; if I’m not drained after four or five hours at my word processor, chances are what I’ve written won’t be up to my standards. But this novel had taken a particularly heavy toll on me, and I was relieved when I finished it and shipped it off to Matt Miller in New York.

  Whenever I’m closing in on the end of a novel, I invariably let daily chores slip, and once I’ve written “The End” on a manuscript, I tackle those things with energy and even pleasure, enjoying the feeling that my house, and my life, are being put back in order. This time, however, I’d opted to take a couple of weeks off, doing nothing except sleeping, enjoying long walks and spending pleasant social time with friends. But the growing piles of paperwork that needed to find a proper place in my files, and the e-mail messages and letters I was determined to answer, eventually put an end to my days of leisure.

  By noon, I’d made a good-sized dent in the mountain of work. Then I remembered I’d taken on the responsibility of finding Seth a costume to wear to the Halloween party at Paul Marshall’s mansion. We don’t have a costume shop in Cabot Cove, and there wasn’t time for me to make the trek to Bangor or some other larger city in search of one.

  I called my friend Peter Eder, who’d moved to Cabot Cove a year earlier to become the conductor of our flourishing symphony orchestra. Peter had not only quickly whipped the orchestra into fine shape, he’d become deeply involved with a regional theater that had sprung up in Cabot Cove and started to receive substantial notice and good reviews. I tried him at the theater first, but could barely hear the phone ring through the static on the line. I finally reached him at home.

  “Hello, Peter, it’s Jessica.”

  “Hello to you, Jessica. How are you on this splendid fall day?”

  “Couldn’t be better, although the phone line to the theater could use some help. I tried you there first.”

  “Oh, you’re getting all that static, too? I’ve been calling the phone company for weeks now trying to get it fixed. Sorry you had trouble reaching me.”

  “Well, I’ve got you now. Peter, I wonder if you’d do me a favor.”

  “If I can.”

  “I promised Seth Hazlitt I’d find a costume for him to wear to Paul Marshall’s Halloween party. I thought there might be something in the theater’s wardrobe room.”

  “There probably is. Marcia Davis has done an incredible job of building up that department. She’s a scrounger without peer. What kind of costume were you thinking of?”

  “Seth said he wanted something military.”

  “Wants to relive his World War Two days?”

  “Maybe. At any rate, do you know if the wardrobe department includes military uniforms?”

  “Sure it does, but I couldn’t tell you which ones. Want me to call Marcia? I spoke with her just a little bit ago. She’ll be at the theater all afternoon.”

  “Would you? I’d really appreciate it.”

  I settled back at my desk and resumed working until the phone rang fifteen minutes later.

  “Jessica? Jess? Can you hear me? It’s Peter.”

  A buzz filled my ear, then faded away.

  “That’s better. I can hear you now.”

  “This is really intolerable. I’ve been calling the phone company, and they just keep patting me on the head, figuratively, of course, and telling me they haven’t found the source of the problem, which is pretty apparent.”

  “I’m sure they’re working on it as best they can,” I said. “Until this latest problem, service has always been good. Seth and I saw two repairmen in Mara’s this morning.”

  “They should be out climbing telephone poles,” Peter said with a huff.

  “Everyone has to eat.”

  “I know, I know. Please don’t pay any attention to my grousing. It’s just that this whole phone thing has been frustrating.”

  “Yes, I know,” I murmured sympathetically.

  “I talked with Marcia,” he said, returning to his usual brisk manner. “She said they have a pretty good selection of military uniforms, World War One, World
War Two, Vietnam, the Civil War, even a couple of replicas of Revolutionary times. What do you think Seth would like?”

  “Undoubtedly the Revolutionary War uniform. He’s a real buff.”

  “Well, fitting Seth’s front porch might be a bit of a problem. Why don’t you go over to the theater and see what’s there? I told Marcia you’d be by.”

  “Great idea, Peter. Thanks. Hope I didn’t intrude on a busy day.”

  “No, just fighting with the telephone company and trying to stay ahead of cataloguing scores, making order out of chaos.”

  I smiled. What Peter Eder considered chaos would represent pristine orderliness to most of us. He’s the neatest man I’ve ever known.

  Because I don’t drive, my instinct was to pick up the phone and call the local cab company, which had been taken over five years ago by a lovely Greek family. They’d bought it from the retiring owner and had built it into quite a business, including stretch limousines for longer trips and a minibus for larger groups. But as the sun streamed through my window and created lovely patterns on my desk, I decided it was too nice a day for a taxi. I went to the garage, pulled out my trusty bicycle, hopped on it and headed for the theater.

  Marcia Davis was in the lobby when I arrived. She was hanging posters for the next production. She put down her stapler and took me backstage to the wardrobe rooms, where she’d already pulled out all the military uniforms in the inventory and hung them on a rolling garment rack.

  “These are wonderful,” I said, fingering each one.

  “We haven’t done a play with a military theme in a long time, but I believe in being ready in case we do.”

  I took a uniform from the rack. “Revolutionary War?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is the British uniform, right?” I said. The bright red jacket had two sets of brass buttons down the front and braid along the shoulder. “It looks like it might fit Seth.”

  “It is . . . large.”

  “British soldiers in the Revolutionary War must have eaten well.”

  “It’s just a costume, of course, not the real thing,” Marcia said, pulling a pair of white knee-length pants off a hanger. “But it’s authentic. Do you think Seth has white knee socks to go with these?” She laughed.

  “I’m not sure, but I know where to buy them. I wonder how he’ll feel being on the losing side.”

  Marcia’s smile turned to a frown. “If I had a colonist’s uniform, I’d give you that. Come to think of it, did the colonists even have a uniform? I hope Seth won’t be upset.”

  “I was just kidding,” I said. “May I take it with me?”

  “Of course.” Her smile reappeared. “I know you’ll return it in good shape.”

  “Thanks, Marcia. You made it all very easy.”

  “Oh, wait,” she said. “He’ll need the hat, too.” She rummaged through a large carton of hats wrapped in white tissue paper, and extracted a triangular package, pulling off the paper to reveal an ornate tricorn.

  “Here you go.”

  “What about shoes?” I asked.

  “Can’t help there, Jess. He’ll have to make do with a pair of ordinary black ones.”

  Marcia took the red coat off the hanger and folded it over the pants. She put the hat on top, and tucked the stack in a plastic bag that fit neatly in my bike’s rear basket.

  I had a choice of two routes home. One would take me through the countryside, the other through town. I chose the latter, planning a stop at Charles Department Store to pick up white knee socks for Seth.

  I’d reached the center of Cabot Cove when a disturbance at an intersection caught my eye. Being naturally curious—Seth Hazlitt is often dismayed at my inherent and obsessive curiosity—I pedaled closer to where the disturbance was taking place. Lucas Tremaine stood on a bench, addressing a group of bystanders. Gesticulating passionately, his voice rising and falling in concert with the movement of his arms, he’d attracted a small crowd that stood in rapt attention. He was shouting, his words reaching me clearly although I was fifty feet away.

  “There is evil afoot in this community, and those of you who fail to realize it will be doomed to suffer the consequences. Yes, you laugh and scoff at the notion that restless spirits are in your midst, but the truth will out. The Legend of Cabot Cove walks. Many have seen her. At night. On the beach. In the cemetery. Which one of you has seen her, or felt her chilling presence, but were afraid to come forward?”

  Tremaine pointed at a man in a brown-and-black checked flannel shirt, Artie Sack, an old-timer whose family had been in Cabot Cove for generations. Artie had a reputation for being “slow”—learning-impaired, it was said. He’d dropped out of school in the eighth grade and become a gardener for several local residents. If Artie’s academic abilities were limited, he made up for it by being a savant when it came to plants, flowers and almost anything else having to do with gardening. He could rattle off the Latin and common names of virtually every type of flowering plant, tell you when they were first introduced, and instruct you on how to plant and care for them. Roses were his specialty; the rose garden he’d created for Paul Marshall beside a cottage on his estate was considered to be one of the finest examples in the state of Maine, and photographs of it had appeared in a national home and garden magazine.

  Artie Sack lived on Marshall’s property, in a small apartment above a four-car garage. I knew Artie pretty well. I’ve never been considered someone with a green thumb, and if the property around my house looked pretty in the spring and summer, it was because Artie showed up once a week to make it so. His widowed sister-in-law, who lived in town, worked as a housekeeper for Paul Marshall.

  Tremaine spoke directly to Artie, like a sidewalk pitchman who’d found an easy mark, his voice becoming deeper, more urgent. “The Legend of Cabot Cove is not alone,” he intoned, shaking a finger at Artie, then raising his arms to the sky. “She is calling her spirit brothers and sisters to a convocation. Here!” He now pointed at the ground. His eyes were full of fire. “They will descend upon this village in the hundreds, possibly thousands. Their misery will permeate the atmosphere. They will haunt your homes, infect your workplace, creep into your hide-a-ways, wreaking their vengeance on all the citizens of Cabot Cove. Machines will malfunction, food will spoil, traffic will snarl, animals will howl, crime will run rampant through the streets. And unless you do something, ladies and gentlemen, do something now, there will be hell to pay.”

  He was roaring now. “They’re coming. You mark my words. The Legend and her brothers and sisters will be here soon. But it’s not too late, not yet. I’m here to help you. Together we will see that they are driven out.”

  The sound of a siren drowned out Tremaine’s next words as Sheriff Mort Metzger pulled up in his black-and-white squad car. “All right, folks, let’s move along now.” Mort’s voice boomed out of his vehicle’s loudspeaker. He got out and waved the crowd away. I looked around. In the short time I’d been listening, Tremaine’s audience had grown. Merchants stood in their shop doorways, their customers spilling out onto the sidewalk. It looked as if all Cabot Cove had stopped what they’d been doing to listen to this madman.

  “Sheriff,” Tremaine yelled from his perch, “this is a legal gathering. Have you never heard of freedom of speech, freedom of assembly? You’re tromping on my rights. I demand to be allowed to communicate with these good people.”

  “You can communicate all you want,” Mort shouted back, “but it’s public safety I’m concerned about, and you’re blocking traffic, not to mention alarming the citizens with your claptrap.”

  Tremaine struck a defiant pose. “See?” he called to the departing crowd. “The officials in Cabot Cove are afraid of us. They know I’m telling you the truth, but they’re hiding the facts from you. It’s a cover-up. Don’t let them get away with it. Join me.”

  Mort took a step toward the bench. Tremaine glared at him before climbing down and thrusting circulars into outstretched hands as he pushed his way through
the few remaining listeners. Some teenagers jeered him, and a woman yelled, “You’re nothing but a nut case.”

  Her comment caused Tremaine to stop and turn. I feared he would physically attack her. Instead, he muttered something I couldn’t hear, then stalked away.

  The audience slowly dispersed, and Cabot Cove’s village center, as we refer to downtown, resumed its usual peaceful mien. I looked for Artie Sack, but he’d disappeared.

  When I entered Charles Department Store, it was buzzing with gossip about Tremaine and his predictions of dire happenings. I crossed the creaky wooden floor, skirted the wooden display cabinets, waved to the group gathered at the cashier’s desk and found my way to the men’s department in the back, where bins of socks were located.

  “Exciting afternoon, huh, Jessica?” said David Raneri, one of the store’s owners as he came down the aisle with an armload of sweaters.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it exciting exactly. Disturbing comes closer to mind.”

  “You’re the writer, so I’ll let you pick the words,” he said, grinning.

  Richard Koser turned from the counter where he’d been examining a green cardigan and plucked a deep blue one from the pile in David’s arms. Besides being a wonderful commercial photographer—he’d shot most of the photos for my books’ dust jackets—Richard was one of Cabot Cove’s acknowledged gourmet cooks. “Thanks, Dave,” Richard said. “Just the right color.” He held it up to his chest. “What do you think, Jess?”

  “Looks perfect to me,” I said.

  “Told you about that maniac, didn’t I?” Richard continued. “He’ll probably get a good audience, too. P. T. Barnum was right, about a sucker being born every minute.”

  David turned to me. “Can I help you find something, Jess?”

  “I hope so. I need a pair of long white socks.”

  “For you?”

  “Actually, no. They’re for Seth Hazlitt.”

  Richard and David exchanged amused glances.

  “Not for his everyday use,” I quickly added. “It’s for his Halloween costume. Paul Marshall’s annual party.”