Trick or Treachery

by Jessica Fletcher

  Wandowski lowered his daughter, keeping a hand on her shoulder, and glared at Matilda. The woman wore an ankle-length white gauze dress and a large pendant with a bronze cat’s face against a circular black background. Her expression was quizzical.

  “What the hell are you doing with my daughter?” Wandowski snarled.

  “Why, we were baking cookies,” Matilda said, frowning in response to his angry tone.

  “Are you all right?” Wandowski leaned down to his daughter.

  “I’m fine, Daddy. Mrs. Swift asked if I wanted to help them and I—”

  “Go home,” her father roared. “Now!”

  The child looked as though she might cry, but managed to hold back the tears as she ran away from us in the direction of the spruce grove.

  Wandowski turned on Matilda. “How dare you kidnap my daughter!”

  “I didn’t kidnap her,” Matilda said quietly. “She’s such a nice little girl and I was baking cookies and thought—”

  “I want her arrested for kidnapping and child endangerment,” Wandowski shouted at Mort.

  “Well, now, Mr. Wandowski, I don’t think that’s warranted. Looks like no harm was done here.”

  “You refuse to arrest her?” Wandowski was growing red in the face.

  “I suppose you could say that. Now calm down. Your daughter looked happy and healthy enough. Didn’t appear she was bein’ held against her will. Don’t blame you for bein’ upset with her for not goin’ straight home from school, but that’s about the only thing here I can see needs addressing.”

  Wandowski turned again to Matilda. “You come near my daughter again—you come within a hundred yards of her—and I’ll take care of you myself.”

  “Careful with that sort a’ threat, Mr. Wandowski,” Mort said. “I don’t like that brand of talk.”

  Wandowski’s nostrils flared, and he seemed poised to say something else. Instead, he stalked away, mumbling under his breath.

  When he was gone, Mort said to Matilda, “I’m sure you didn’t mean nothin’ wrong havin’ the girl come in to bake cookies, Ms. Swift, but it might be a good idea to give that whole family a wide berth for a while.”

  “Thank you for your advice,” she replied coolly. “If you don’t mind, I’ll get back to my baking now. Can’t believe such a ruckus over baking cookies. There’s something wrong with that man, you know.” The intensity in her icy blue eyes conflicted with what I considered false sweetness in her voice.

  “I’m sure he was just upset and worried about his child. He’ll probably be embarrassed about this scene by tomorrow,” I said, not entirely sure that would be the case.

  Matilda stared at me; I felt as though she’d physically penetrated my body. “Not that one,” she said, the sweetness of tone now gone. She stepped back inside the cottage.

  Mort, Wendell and I returned to where Mort’s official car was parked. Robert Wandowski’s car was gone.

  “You get the feelin’, Mrs. F, that this won’t be the last trouble we see with Ms. Swift?”

  “I don’t know about that, Mort, but I do wonder what the girl meant when she said that Mrs. Swift asked if she wanted to help them.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t pick up on that. Good thing Julie’s father didn’t know there was someone else in the cottage,” Mort added, starting the engine.

  “Yes, you’re right. I wonder who it was.”

  “Doesn’t really matter, Mrs. F. Important thing is that the little girl is safe and sound. Comin’ back to headquarters with me?”

  “No, I have some errands to run. I’d appreciate it if you’d drop me off at Beth and Peter’s floral shop.”

  “Shall do.”

  “And thanks for the coffee, Mort. It’s getting better all the time.”

  “Learned from the master,” he said, grinning.

  The school auditorium was packed that night for the children’s Halloween pageant. The production went smoothly, the only interruption coming when the same little boy who had to be excused from rehearsal to go to the restroom, expressed—loudly—the same request in the middle of the play, much to the delight of the audience.

  After the show, I joined friends in the lobby, including flower shop owners Beth and Peter Mullin, the Lerners and Seth Hazlitt.

  “Wasn’t that adorable when the boy announced he had to go to the bathroom?” Joan said, laughing.

  “Cute little fella,” Seth said.

  Ed Lerner looked past me and frowned. I turned to see what had caused his reaction. Lucas Tremaine stood at the other end of the lobby, talking with two women, one of whom I know, Brenda Brody. She works as copy editor at our monthly magazine, the Cabot Cove Insider.

  Joan, too, saw Tremaine and wrapped her arms about herself. “Gives me the creeps,” she said, “having someone like that come to a children’s pageant.”

  “Show’s open to the public,” Seth said.

  “I know, I know,” said Joan, “but there is something unsavory about him.”

  My eyes went to the lobby’s opposite corner, where Matilda Swift, dressed in her black duster and wearing her cat pendant, came from the auditorium, navigating knots of people, and was about to leave the school. Suddenly she stopped and cast a hard look in Tremaine’s direction. I turned to him. He’d seen Matilda and glared back at her. Matilda’s face was an angry mask; if her eyes were weapons, Tremaine would have been shot to death. She left the school, and Tremaine resumed his conversation with Brenda Brody and the other woman.

  The feelings of apprehension I’d been experiencing lately, which I’d expressed to Matt Miller in my letter to him, returned. I suppose my face reflected it because Seth asked if I was feeling well.

  “What?” I said.

  “I asked if you were feeling all right.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I feel fine.”

  We were joined by others and went out for coffee. I forced myself to take part in the easy banter, but couldn’t shake the vague, free-floating anxiety that had taken over. The group broke up at eleven, and Seth dropped me at my house.

  “Lookin’ forward to tomorrow night?” he asked as I was about to get out of the car.

  “Paul’s party? Sure.”

  “You don’t look like you’re in much of a party mood,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly. Paul’s annual Halloween party is always fun. I can’t wait.”

  His skeptical expression said he didn’t quite believe me, but he didn’t press. I kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the lift, Seth. See you tomorrow in all your military finery.”

  Chapter Five

  “Seth, you look wonderful, so . . . so . . . so authentic.”

  He beamed at the compliment on his costume from a party guest.

  “Much obliged,” he said. “I have Jessica to thank for it.”

  “And you, Jessica, are absolutely scary. I can’t believe you chose to come to the party as The Legend. What a great idea.”

  “Thank you,” I said, not adding that I almost decided earlier that evening to abandon the getup and find a last-minute substitute.

  It had taken me almost an hour to create the costume based upon the legend of Hepzibah Cabot. I wore a flowing white floor-length gauzy dress, and had gathered the ends of a long matching stole in front of me. I applied greenish white makeup that gave me the distinct look of a cadaver, and pulled on a long gray wig to which I’d attached strands of green crepe paper to achieve the effect of seaweed. The resulting image was, as my admirer later said, “absolutely scary,” even to me when I looked in the mirror. My blue eyes deepened in intensity when contrasted with my now bleached skin, and the billowy white dress floated around my legs with each step I took, creating the impression of an ethereal figure not subject to gravity.

  As I had studied my reflection, I’d experienced an overwhelming sense of apprehension. I put my hands up to cover the “seaweed.” The woman looking back at me in the mirror bore a strong resemblance, I realized
, to Matilda Swift.

  An eerie feeling had again crept over me. I chided myself as I slipped my eyeglasses into one pocket, and patted the other into which I’d tucked a comb and lipstick, as if they were talismans, reminders of who I really was. Fortunately, I didn’t have time to dwell on macabre thoughts because the phone rang, startling me out of my doom-and-gloom funk.

  “Jessica, it’s Maureen,” Sheriff Metzger’s wife said when I picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, Maureen. Or should I call you Cher? All costumed up for the party?”

  “Sure am. You?”

  “I, ah . . . yes, I’m all set. Does Mort like the Revolutionary War costume he got from the theater?”

  “He changed his mind. He’s going as Davy Crockett instead. Marcia had this wonderful coonskin cap—not real fur, of course—and suede pants and shirt with fringe—just like the old TV show. Now he’s complaining it makes him look fat.” She giggled. “I think he’s kind of cute in it. I’m just so grateful he won’t be wearing his sheriff’s uniform. I wanted to thank you for suggesting the theater costume department.”

  “You’re more than welcome. I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the party. See you there.”

  Paul Marshall viewed Halloween as a very special day to be celebrated. Other people treasured Thanksgiving as their favorite holiday, or Christmas, Hanukkah or Kwanza. But Marshall had always lavished special attention on the day of witches and goblins and other ghostly creatures.

  It started, I’m told, when his wife died many years ago. Erica was just a little girl at the time, and her father felt a need to make up to her for the loss of her mother. While other holidays mean family celebrations, Halloween has long been an event for children—and grown-ups who enjoy dressing up like children, if only once a year. Paul made Halloween special for his daughter and her friends, and when she grew up, he continued the tradition of a Halloween party, now as much for himself as for her. His gardeners spent a week decorating the grounds, and the household staff devoted even more time and attention to turning the huge first-floor rooms of the main house into replicas of a vast dungeon, replete with catacombs and realistic spiderwebs, boiling cauldrons and faux stone walls. The sounds of rattling chains and eerie moans and cackles were piped through the stereo system, and grimacing jack-o’-lanterns and metal witch heads with pointed hats, flames dancing in their eyes from the illumination inside, were perched on every windowsill.

  When I arrived with Seth at seven, the party had already begun. Catering and service trucks were parked on one side of the house, and the long driveway was lined with cars. Inside, about a hundred costumed citizens milled about to the strains of a Dixieland band. I’m not sure of the significance of Dixieland jazz to Halloween, but it didn’t matter; the music was wonderful, two-beat and happy, causing toes to tap and heads to nod.

  The costumes ran the gamut from inventive to mundane, outrageous to subdued. The most prevalent, of course, were the identical moose costumes worn by more than a dozen invited employees of Marshall-Scott Clothing, Inc. and members of the host’s family. They were beautifully made, although I wondered how fatiguing—not to mention hot—it would be to carry the weight of those large moose heads all evening. Luckily for the moose people, it was a cool night.

  There was no way of knowing whose faces were beneath the moose heads without talking to them, and even then I didn’t recognize most of the voices. Paul Marshall, whose voice I did know, came to where I stood chatting with Seth Hazlitt, Mort and Maureen Metzger, and the town’s newest lawyer, Joe Turco, and his date, who’d dressed as pilgrims. Like his employees, Paul wore a moose costume.

  “My goodness, Mrs. Metzger, you do look just like Cher,” Marshall said to Maureen. “Everyone looks wonderful.” His voice held a smile. When he is not wearing a bulky moose costume, Paul Marshall is a handsome man with a strong, square face, tanned complexion—either from a Caribbean vacation or a tanning salon—and expertly trimmed steel gray hair. Only his diminutive height saves him from the central-casting look of a chairman of the board. He is small, like his daughter, not as delicate of course, and compact. Nevertheless, he moves with the requisite ease of someone in control. He speaks in the pinched, nasal voice that mimics use to portray stereotypical old-money New England.

  He and Tony Scott had made quite a financial success of Marshall-Scott Clothing, perhaps not quite a rags-to-riches story, but certainly a case of local boys making good. When his partner was alive, Paul used to kid that Tony was the brains and he, Paul, was the beauty, using his persuasive personality to build and market their business.

  “Great night for a Halloween party, Mr. Marshall,” Maureen observed. “The rain’s stopped, and you’ve even got a full moon.”

  “Please, we’ll have no formality here this evening,” he said. “It’s Paul.” He turned to me. “The Legend lives!”

  “Only for one night,” I said.

  “I think she’s been living in one of my cottages ever since that dreadful woman arrived.”

  “And who might that be?” Seth asked.

  “The Swift woman, in the Rose Cottage,” Marshall replied. “I’ve never paid any attention to whom the real estate broker rents the cottages to. She’s never failed me before. But now . . . well, I think I’d better start paying more attention. All I know about Ms. Swift is what the agent told me, that she’s from Massachusetts, has solid financial credentials, and claims to be an expert on roses. But she’s been nothing but trouble. You heard, of course, about the Wandowski girl.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I was there. Really, it was just a misunderstanding. She was baking cookies and—”

  We were interrupted by Warren Wilson, who removed his moose head to reveal a very pale damp brow, which he mopped with a white handkerchief.

  “We were just discussing our tenant Ms. Swift,” Marshall said. To me he added, “Warren will be instituting eviction proceedings first thing next week.”

  “Why?” I asked, not sure I should be debating what was obviously none of my business. “Has she done anything to warrant that?”

  Wilson answered the question. “People in town are starting to talk about her, Mrs. Fletcher. She makes them uncomfortable. Paul doesn’t want anyone on the property making trouble, and I agree with him a hundred percent. Everyone living on the property always got along just fine until she arrived. I haven’t gone near the Rose Cottage since she moved in, she’s so unpleasant.”

  “But aren’t you being unfair to her?” I started to say, but Marshall dismissed my comment with a wave of his arm, then excused himself and walked off, with Warren following close at his heels. The last words I heard were Marshall telling Wilson in gruff terms to put the moose head back on.

  “Dance, Jessica?” Seth asked a few minutes later when the band began a slow version of “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?”

  “Sure you want to dance with The Legend?” I asked playfully.

  “Ghosts never harm physicians, Jessica.”

  “Is that so?” I said, joining him on the dance floor with dozens of other couples. “Physicians have special powers?”

  “Of course. Every ghost knows that if they cross a medical doctor, they’ll be banished to an HMO where they’ll be denied necessary medical treatment by a clerk, and die a slow, painful death.”

  I smiled and changed the subject. Give Seth Hazlitt, M.D., an excuse to complain about the current state of medicine, and he makes good use of it.

  The song had almost ended, and Seth was in the process of leading me into a death-defying old-fashioned dip, when I started to laugh.

  “I know I’m not Fred Astaire,” he said, but—”

  “No, no,” I said, “it isn’t you. Look over there.”

  He followed my gaze to where two moose were dancing slowly to the song’s rhythm, their huge moose heads snuggled against each other. One was considerably taller than the other and had to bend down for their cheeks to touch.

  “I hope someone is taking pictures,
” I said, still watching the furry couple.

  “Richard is.”

  Richard Koser, Cabot Cove’s preeminent photographer, moved close to the swaying couple and took a few shots.

  “I wonder who they are,” I said as we left the dance floor, thinking that the shorter moose might be Erica Marshall.

  “Can’t hardly tell,” Seth said, leading me to one of three portable bars, where he ordered two glasses of an orange-colored punch created by the bartenders for the occasion. The taste of pumpkin juice was unmistakable.

  “Great party, huh?” said Doug Treyz, reaching for two glasses of punch. Doug, my dentist, wore a 1920s golfing outfit; his wife, Tina, was costumed as Marie Antoinette, or some other lady of the eighteenth century.

  “Wonderful, as usual,” I said.

  We were joined by Joan and Ed Lerner, and Jack and Marilou Decker, publishers of the Cabot Cove Insider, the award-winning monthly magazine that chronicles the comings and goings of our citizens.

  “I never want to see another moose, unless it’s the real thing,” Jack quipped. He flipped up the black eye patch of his pirate costume and plucked two hors d’oeuvres from a passing tray held by a very pretty witch. After popping one of the hors d’oeuvres into his mouth, he handed the other to his wife, who wore a matching outfit.

  “I keep trying to tell the female moose from the male moose,” Marilou said, “but those details seem to have been left out by the costume designer.”

  Ed Lerner was dressed as a grizzly bear. “Bear is his nickname,” explained Joan, who wore a University of Michigan cheerleader costume. “Oh, by the way, Ed and I have decided to have a Veteran’s Day party in November. Everyone has to dress military. You’ll be perfect in that uniform, Dr. Hazlitt.”

  The Lerners drifted off, and the rest of our little group eventually gravitated from the main room to one of several patios overlooking the sprawling grounds of the Marshall estate. Rain earlier in the day had emptied the clouds, and it was now a cool, clear night, the chill a welcome contrast to the party inside, where it had become increasingly warm.