Trick or Treat Murder

by Leslie Meier

  "If I may," said Mr. Anderson, stepping forward. He shifted his shoulders in his navy jacket, and smoothed his red print tie.

  "The design we are proposing for Mr. Lenk's station was developed in response to several factors." He walked over to an easel set to one side and pointed to an architect's drawing of a futuristic gas station.

  "First, we must meet federal and state safety requirements. This is not voluntary. We must have a vapor recovery system and a fire suppression system." He waved a laser pointer in the direction of the canopy.

  "Second, as a business, we are interested in responding to the expressed needs and demands of our customers. Consumer polls tell us that our customers want self-service pumps that accept charge cards. They want to get their gas and get back on the road as fast as they can." He pointed to the gas pump.

  "Convenience is important to our consumers. They appreciate being able to pick up cigarettes, a gallon of milk, a cup of coffee, when they get gas. So, we've added convenience markets to our stations to meet that need.

  "We have also added complimentary car washes. This is a feature consumers really appreciate—a free car wash with a purchase of eight or more gallons. This is especially popular in northern areas like yours. I don't have to tell you the damage road salt can do to the finish on your cars and trucks.

  "I'm giving you this background so you'll understand some of the factors that led to the development of this particular design. Now, I'm going to turn things over to Stan."

  Stan Lepke stood up and approached the easel. He was a few inches shorter than Dave Anderson, his hair a few shades lighter. He, too, shifted his shoulders in his dark gray jacket and smoothed his red print tie.

  "This design," he began, indicating the easel, "is something Northstar is very proud of. We believe it combines form and function in the best tradition of modern design, meets all safety regu¬lations, and is appealing and attractive to customers.

  "Furthermore, we have adapted this design to complement the architectural styles of the various regions of our great country."

  He flipped a page. "In the Southwest we use simulated stucco."

  He turned the page. "In the Pacific Northwest, notice the totem pole theme.

  "On the next illustration, we show the barn theme used in the Midwest. In the South, these one hundred percent vinyl pillars are reminiscent of the great plantations. And here in the Northeast,

  you'll notice I've saved the best for last, our simulated clapboard and cedar shingles are almost indistinguishable from the real thing."

  "Why don't you use the real thing?" came a voice from the audience. There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

  "Order," said Miss Tilley, banging down her gavel. "We will take questions from the floor later. Right now, if you are done, Mr. Lepke, I think the board has some questions for you."

  "Fine," said Mr. Lepke. "I may not have all the answers but I'll do my best."

  "I have a question," said Bill. "I think the man in the audience had a valid point. Why don't you use real clapboard and cedar shingles?"

  "Maintenance," answered Mr. Lepke. "Gas stations are dirty, it's a dirty business. Car exhaust, road dirt, you know what I'm talking about. These simulated materials can be washed and hosed down."

  "Why does the station need to be so larger asked Miss Tilley. "Mr. Lenk's present station is often empty, and he has two pumps. Why do you need to add six more?"

  "I'll pass that question on to Mr. Anderson," said Mr. Lepke.

  "That is a good question," began Mr. Anderson. "It comes to me because as vice-president responsible for development, it has fallen to my division to implement our corporation's strategic plan for right-sizing. To boil down this rather complicated effort to maximize profit and improve service, we are reducing the number of service sites in this particular facet of the corporate structure." He blinked furiously as he ended his spiel.

  "If I understand you correctly," said Hancock Smith, a retired corporate vice-president himself, "Northstar is closing a number of stations, hoping to redirect business to a smaller number of better equipped stations?"

  "That's right." Mr. Anderson swallowed hard, and smoothed his tie.

  "So Mr. Lenk's station has been chosen for improvements, while other Northstar stations in surrounding towns will be closed?"

  "Right, again." Mr. Anderson nodded his agreement.

  "That will mean increased traffic," observed Miss Tilley.

  "Increased traffic is not necessarily bad," observed Jock Mulligan. "It could bring more people to the other businesses in town. People have to come to get gas, so they also do their grocery shopping or banking. However, I do have r-real r-r-reservations about this design. It's absolutely atrocious."

  "I tend to agree," said Bill. "This is an historic area, and this design looks like a misplaced space station."

  "I think we've heard from everyone except Mr. Durning," said Miss Tilley. "Do you have anything to add, Doug?"

  Doug, who had been listlessly shuffling through his packet of papers throughout the meeting, shook his head.

  "I will now open this up to the floor," said Miss Tilley. "The chair recognizes Fred Tibbett."

  Fred, a gray-haired man dressed in the Tinker's Cove uniform of khaki pants, plaid flannel shirt, and windbreaker, stood up.

  "Goes to reason," he said, "if you fellas are investin' a whole lotta money in this here station, you'll wanna get some kind o' return. Does that mean you'll be raisin' the price of gas?"

  "I guess that question is for me," said Cindy Josephs, jumping to her feet. She shifted her shoulders inside her neat navy jacket and tossed her blond hair.

  "The price of Northstar gas is figured based on a number of factors that include our costs, taxes, the price our competitors are charging, and what we call the value factor. That is, what consumers are willing to pay for our particular gasoline. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Nope," said Fred.

  "What she's trying to say, or trying not to say, is that if they think they can get more, they'll charge more," said Hancock Smith, much to the amusement of the crowd. Cindy shrugged and sat down.

  "The chair recognizes Dotty Cooper," said Miss Tilley.

  Mrs. Cooper, a gray-haired woman dressed in wool slacks and a sweater, stood up.

  "As most of you know, I live opposite Mr. Lenk's station. I have no problem with the station as it is now. It's a quiet little country gas station. I get gas there myself. Mr. Lenk is open from seven or so in the morning until six in the evening, he's not open at night. If my guess is right, this thing will be brightly lit twenty- four hours a day and all sorts of people will be coming at all hours of the day and night. I really object to it. I think it would have a negative effect on the neighborhood."

  "Very well said, Dotty. You can be sure the board will take your comments very seriously." Miss Tilley nodded her head and banged down her gavel. "Joe Marzetti."

  "You all know me," began Joe, the owner of the local IGA. "For more years than I like to count I've been doing my best to pro¬vide good food at good prices. I'm the only grocery store in Tinker's Cove—if I went out of business you'd have to go quite some ways to the superstore. I'm telling you, I'm not getting rich at this. There's not a heck of a lot of business in this town, especially in the winter. What I don't need is a gas station cutting into my milk and bread business—I think Northstar should stick to selling gas."

  Miss Tilley nodded and recognized Jonathan Franke, executive director of APTC—the Association for the Preservation of Tinker's Cove.

  "I see a lot of APTC members here tonight," began Franke. He had recently trimmed the wild beard and long hair that had been his signature in favor of a more conservative, professional look. "In the past few years I think there's been a recognition that the environment is the basis of our economy here. Let's face it, people are not going to come and vacation here if the water is polluted and the trees are all dead. My concern about the Northstar plan is the proposed car wash. If a ca
r wash is to be included, we have to make sure that the water is recycled, and that any runoff is contained and treated appropriately before it is allowed to return to the aquifer. This water could be a real toxic brew."

  "I would like to answer that," said Mr. Carruthers, rising to his feet. "You can be sure that Northstar will comply with all EPA regulations. We are as concerned about the environment as you are—we all share the same planet."

  "Then why does your company routinely use single-hulled tankers?" demanded Franke. "What about the North Sea oil spill? You had no part in that? You're still fighting for reduced damages in court!"

  The gavel came down. "Thank you, Mr. Franke. You can be sure we all appreciate your efforts on our behalf," said Miss Tilley.

  "Are there any more questions?" She scanned the audience, apparently failing to see a number of raised hands. "Since there are no more questions, I would like to suggest a course of action for this commission. I propose we continue this hearing to a later date. Furthermore, I suggest Northstar withdraw their application without prejudice, and come back with a more appropriate plan. Is everyone agreed?"

  Seeing no disagreement, Miss Tilley continued, shaking a bony finger at the corporate executives. "It's obvious this plan simply will not do. Not in Tinker's Cove. I suggest you gentlefolk go back to the drawing board. Surely a company with your resources can come up with something simple, unobtrusive, and tasteful. Here in New England, we are proud of our heritage. We value the buildings constructed by our ancestors, we still hold the same values they did. We have a sense of place. We don't want to look like New Jersey, do we?"

  "Hey, what's this mean? You tellin' me I can't fix up my station?" Randy Lenk was on his feet, gesturing angrily with his fists.

  "Mr. Lenk, I have explained this to you before. Your station is in the historic district. You can make alterations, but they must be approved beforehand by the historic commission—that is this board. If your proposal is approved by this group of five people you see sitting here tonight, then you can go ahead." Miss Tilley spoke clearly and slowly, as if to a first-grader who insisted on talking in the library.

  "Has it been approved?" asked Lenk.

  "No, it hasn't."

  "Well, take a vote right now. I want it approved."

  "We understand that. However, Mr. Lenk, the proposal we saw tonight does not stand the least chance of being approved by this board. You have heard the expression about an ice cube in hell? This proposal has less chance than that. However, we are allowing you to withdraw this proposal without prejudice, and come back with a new one. We're doing you a very big favor."

  "You're not doing me any favor," he shouted angrily. "Who do you think you are ? I can do what I want with my land. You can't stop me. It's mine. I can do whatever I damn well please with it. Ain't that right?"

  Lucy jerked to attention. What was that Lenk had said? You can't stop me.

  Miss Tilley banged down her gavel. "Do I hear a motion to adjourn?"

  Wasn't that what the anonymous phone caller had said? While the board went through the business of voting to adjourn, Lucy studied Randolph Lenk. Was he the one who made the phone call?

  She grimaced with distaste as he ran his black, grimy fingers through his greasy hair and shook his fist at the board members. "It's my property," he yelled, revealing uneven broken teeth. "I can do what I want!"

  "Meeting adjourned," announced Miss Tilley, pointedly ignoring him and banging down the gavel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Driving home after the meeting, Lucy turned to Bill. "I think Randy Lenk made that anonymous phone call."

  "I think so, too. Seems he called the other commission members. Said the same thing to everyone. "You can't stop me."

  Lucy shook her head. "What a weird thing to do."

  "He's a pretty weird guy. You know that ugly sandpit on Bumps River Road."

  "Mmm."

  "That's his. It didn't used to be a pit like that. It was a nice piece of woods. He cut all the trees and stripped off the soil."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Sold the timber and the top soil. Made a pretty penny, I guess. But he made the town so mad they passed a tree-cutting bylaw at the next town meeting. Now you have to get a permit from the conservation commission before you can clear-cut your property."

  "That's good," Lucy said, nodding.

  "Most people think so. But not Lenk. He was so mad he went out to another piece of land he owns—his family's been around forever and he's got a lot of land—and he ringed all the trees so they'd die. You've seen it, that sick-looking woods behind the dump."

  "I thought it was toxic runoff from the dump or something."

  "Nope. Lenk, making a point."

  "Seems kind of crazy to me," Lucy said.

  "Miss Tilley says it runs in the family," explained Bill. "According to her, his father was a pervert who got sent to jail and got himself killed. Apparently he set his bedding on fire as some sort of protest but nobody noticed until it was too late and he died. She said he died of stupidity."

  "That's awful," Lucy said, wrapping her arms across her chest.

  "Miss T. said it was the nicest thing he could have done for his family."

  "She would." Lucy chuckled. "I wonder if he was a mental masturbator."

  "You don't get sent to jail for crimes of the mind," said Bill, turning into the driveway and braking. He reached over and took Lucy's hand. "What did you think of your husband, the commissioner?"

  "I thought you looked very handsome and important." Lucy squeezed his hand. "I was proud of you."

  "I saw you, sitting next to Sue."

  "Oh, yeah?" Lucy tilted her head. "What did you think?"

  "I thought you looked pretty cute." He bent down and kissed her.

  When they went into the house a few minutes later, they found Jennifer sitting in the rocking chair with Zoe sound asleep in her arms.

  "How did everything go?" asked Lucy.

  "Fine. She took a little bit of the milk you left, but she didn't seem very hungry."

  "She's still not quite herself. Did you give her the medicine?"

  "Yup. Went down with no problem."

  "You're amazing, Jennifer. It's wonderful to be able to go out for an evening and know the kids are in such capable hands."

  "I love kids, especially babies," she said, carefully passing Zoe over to her mother.

  "Can you sit for us a week from Saturday? I'll call with the details," asked Lucy, handing her a ten-dollar bill.

  "Sure. I'll look forward to it," said Jennifer, bouncing out the door.

  "Isn't she cuter Lucy asked Bill. "She just got her driver's license—she's got a little car of her own. Wouldn't it be great to be sixteen again?"

  "I remember my first car. It was a big old Dodge Dart. Gosh I had good times in that thing, until I hit an icy patch and slid into a light pole. I thought my father was going to kill me." He paused, and put down a stack of papers next to his chair. "There's something I want to check in the bylaws. I'll be up in a minute."

  "Okay," said Lucy, taking the baby upstairs and gently plac¬ing her in her bassinet. Thoughtfully, she stroked Zoe's soft, fuzzy head with her index finger. She traced the roundness of her baby's head, and her cheek; she sniffed the sweet baby smell.

  We all start out the same, she thought, how does a perfect little baby turn into a pathetic specimen like Randy Lenk? Once upon a time he must have been a lovely little baby. Though with a father like that, he certainly didn't get off to a very good start.

  A pervert. Trust Miss Tilley to use a horrible word like that. An old-fashioned word. Today he'd be what? A child molester. An abusive parent. Lucy shuddered.

  Suddenly, she wondered if Lenk could be the arsonist. Didn't he fit the profile in the psychology book? According to the learned author, arsonists frequently had difficulty accepting authority. They were often survivors of childhood sexual abuse. They also indulged in other antisocial behaviors, such as making anonymou
s telephone calls and writing hate letters. And even if he didn't have a justification for his behavior in the beginning, he certainly did now. He could have burned Doug's place as a warning to the other members of the historic commission.

  Now that she thought about it, it seemed unlikely that Dr. Mayes was responsible for the fire at Doug's place. Having already achieved his objective, it would have been foolish and risky. Maybe Krissy did it, she thought, remembering how angry she had been with Dr. Mayes. Setting another fire would let him know that he couldn't control her, that she was dangerous when she didn't get what she wanted.