Candy Corn Murder (10 page)

“Change is hard for some people,” said Lucy, who was also checking her smartphone and finding a message from Ted. “Photo op at Jonah's Pond, ASAP.”

“See ya,” called Lucy, giving Corney a little wave before settling herself behind the wheel. Her stomach growled as she started the car, and she thought,
How nice it would be to have some lunch.
Unfortunately, lunch was in the office fridge, so it would have to wait until she got her photos at the pond. It would have been nice of Ted to let her know who and what she was supposed to shoot, but she guessed all would be made clear in time.

When she arrived at the pond, she found Hank's pickup with the scuba bumper sticker in the parking area and pulled alongside it. Hurrying down the path, she found several members of the scuba club, all dressed in wet suits, sitting on the ground and adjusting their gear. Sara was among them and greeted her mother with a wave.

“I texted Ted. I hope it's okay,” she said. “I thought this might make a good photo for the paper.”

“What exactly is going on?” asked Lucy, pulling her little camera out of her bag and snapping a photo of the divers.

“We're setting up for the underwater pumpkin-carving contest,” said Sara. She pointed to an aluminum rowboat that was riding rather low in the water due to the fact that it contained a couple of cement blocks; there were about a dozen more blocks stacked nearby. “We've got to put these concrete blocks in the water to give the contestants workstations.”

“So you got the go-ahead from the DEP?” asked Lucy.

“Not yet,” admitted Hank, who was seated on a rock and was pulling on his flippers. “But we haven't got a cease and desist order, either, so we're going ahead with our schedule. If we have to call it off, we'll remove the blocks. There's no way a dozen concrete blocks are going to hurt this pond.” He cast his eyes over the smooth expanse of water. “If it's like every other pond in the state, there's all kinds of stuff that people have tossed in there, believe me.”

Lucy nodded agreement. She knew that ponds were favored dumping grounds for people who wanted to get rid of stuff, and the ever-increasing fees at the town landfill had only exacerbated the trend. Why spend fifty bucks to get rid of an old TV when you could just chuck it in the pond on a moonless night?

“You better be careful down there,” warned Sara. “You don't want to get tangled up in some rusty old garbage.”

“I'll be careful,” promised Hank, rising to his feet and walking awkwardly toward the water in his flippers. When he was about waist deep, he waited for a couple of club members to launch the boat, and then he swam alongside as they rowed it out until it was about fifty feet from the shore. He then gave a signal and they tossed one of the blocks into the water and he submerged.

“Why's he going down?” she asked Sara.

“He's checking that the block is in a clear area, and if it's okay, he's going to attach a line with a bobbing flag to serve as a marker,” she explained. “He should be back up in a minute or two. It's only about ten feet deep out there.”

Lucy waited, camera at the ready, but Hank didn't appear. A series of ripples spread across the smooth surface of the water, indicating the spot where the block was dropped, but that was all.

“Isn't this taking a rather long time?” asked Lucy.

“He's got an air tank. He'll be fine,” said Sara. “Maybe he's having a problem with the marker line.”

A few more minutes passed, and Sara called out to the guys in the boat. “Is everything okay?”

They were leaning over the side, attempting to peer into the water, when there was a big splash and Hank surfaced, apparently unconscious. He was floating facedown in the water, his arms and legs hanging limply.

“Ohmigod!” exclaimed Sara, diving into the water and swimming out to the boat, looking like a sleek seal in her black wet suit.

Lucy watched, horrified, torn between her concern for her daughter and her duty as a reporter to get the story. She was calling 911 on her smartphone at the same time she was watching the rescue.

The two guys were struggling with Hank's body, trying to haul him out of the water and into the boat, but were having no success. When Sara reached them, she joined in the effort, kicking furiously and pushing from below, and they were finally able to lift Hank. Once he was in the boat, one guy was able to start CPR while the other manned the oars. Sara swam alongside.

Lucy had managed to snap a few photos of the rescue, all the while praying that Hank would be all right. She was relieved to see that by the time they reached shore, Hank was spitting out water, his chest heaving as he took great gasps of air. They could hear the siren on the town's ambulance, signaling that help was on the way, and Lucy let out a long sigh of relief.

The ambulance arrived, with flashing lights and a few final blasts of its siren, and two EMTs were rushing to Hank's side. He was sitting up and shaking his head, telling them he was fine.

“We're going to take you to the cottage hospital, just to make sure,” said one EMT, only to get a vehement no from Hank.

“Really, I'm fine,” he insisted. “I musta set my regulator wrong, that's all.”

The EMTs shrugged and returned their empty stretcher to the ambulance. They drove off without using either the lights or the siren. It was a rather anticlimactic end to a near tragedy, thought Lucy, finding herself standing all alone. The club members were all gathered around Hank and Sara, who had their heads together as they examined his dive equipment.

“That's funny,” she heard Hank say. “The regulator's fine.”

“Check your hose,” advised one of the guys. “You might have a little tear.”

“It's not little,” said Sara, pointing to a neat cut in the hose, near the air tank. “But you'd never notice it, it's so close to the tank.... And the tank's behind you, on your back.”

“My fault. I should have checked all my gear more thoroughly before I went in,” said Hank.

“You still could have missed it,” said Sara, who was bending the hose. “It wouldn't have shown up until there was pressure on the hose, like this.” When the hose was straight, the slice didn't show, but when she bent it, the gap became visible. “I don't think this was from wear and tear. It looks like somebody cut your hose with a knife.”

Hank shook his head. “Don't be paranoid,” he said. “This stuff is old. I've been planning on asking for some new equipment for Christmas.” He checked his clunky dive watch. “We better get a move on if we're going to get those blocks in today. I know I'm not the only one who has a paper due on Monday.”

This got a chorus of agreement from the others, who started to prepare to dive once again. Lucy gave Sara a wave and, receiving one in return, headed for her car. When she opened the door, she took one last look back at the beach, where the club members were launching the boat.

Maybe Hank was right and his equipment had simply worn out, and Sara had been too quick to assume that the hose had been cut on purpose. Or maybe, she thought, remembering the eviscerated harvest figures and the smashed pumpkins and the sudden explosion of bureaucratic red tape, maybe the dive equipment had also been damaged by the person who was intent on sabotaging the Giant Pumpkin Fest.

 

 

Chapter Nine

T
his couldn't be right, thought Lucy. The ATM had refused to allow her to withdraw fifty dollars from her account because there was an insufficient balance, which was really weird because she had deposited her monthly paycheck just a few days ago. Where did the money go? All the way home, as she drove the familiar route from Little Prodigies, she went over the past few days, trying to remember if she'd used her debit card for groceries or gas and forgotten it. But even if she had, she realized, she couldn't have gone through more than a thousand dollars in just a few days. Maybe she was a victim of identity theft, she thought, feeling a bit sick. Or maybe, which was far more likely, Bill had spent the money.

She pulled into the driveway, braked and turned off the engine, then helped Patrick out of the booster seat. He immediately spotted his grandfather and Ev working in the backyard, out by the catapult, and ran to join them just as the machine's arm swung back and released a pumpkin into the air. The pumpkin sailed through the sky in a graceful arc, finally descending to earth in the woods behind their yard.

“Wow!” yelled Ev, prancing about like Rumpelstiltskin. “Did you see that? That baby must've gone some four hundred feet—maybe more!”

“I saw,” said Lucy, joining them.

“This baby is going to totally kill that Hyundai! We're gonna win for sure! I think this demands a celebration,” said Ev, pulling a can of beer out of the cooler, which he always seemed to keep nearby. “Want one, Bill?”

Lucy gave her husband a warning look. “No, I'll pass,” he said.

“I get it,” said Ev, snapping the pull tab with a practiced movement, “Little wifey here doesn't want you to drink, right?”

Bill's face darkened. “Not at all,” he said. “I just don't want any right now.”

“Let's look for the pumpkin,” urged Patrick, tugging on Bill's arm. “I bet it's all smashed.”

“Good idea,” said Bill. He turned to Ev and Lucy. “Want to come?”

“Sure,” said Ev, before taking a long swallow of beer.

“I'll pass,” said Lucy, who had really had enough of Ev. Thank goodness the catapult was finally finished, and there were only a few more days until the pumpkin hurl at the Giant Pumpkin Fest. Then, she hoped, it would all be nothing more than a bad memory.

She wandered through the garden, gathering a few late salad greens, and then headed for the house, planning to start supper. They had to eat a bit early this Friday night because of the Hat and Mitten Fund Halloween Party, which was scheduled to start at seven. She was washing the lettuce when Bill and Patrick came in; Patrick couldn't wait to tell her that the pumpkin had been thoroughly smashed, with its innards scattered over a large area and even hanging from low branches.

“Fabulous,” said Lucy, thinking this whole thing was utterly ridiculous. Imagine two grown men working for weeks to build a huge and cumbersome machine, the only purpose of which was to smash pumpkins. “By the way, Bill, have you cashed any checks lately? I tried to get fifty bucks from the ATM, but it said our account had insufficient funds.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, filling glasses of water for himself and Patrick. “I had the bill at the lumberyard, and I paid Ev.”

“You what?” demanded Lucy, whirling around to face him. “You paid Ev? Why?”

“'Cause he was working for me.”

“On a remodeling project?”

“No. On the catapult.”

Lucy put the knife down very carefully on the cutting board. “You paid him to help build the catapult?”

Bill had drained his glass of water and was refilling it from the tap. “That hike in the woods was thirsty work, hey, Patrick?”

Patrick held out his glass for a refill. “Yup.”

Lucy wasn't about to let her husband change the subject. “I thought Ev was volunteering to build the catapult. I didn't think you were paying him.”

“Well, I was. Be realistic, Lucy. It was a lot of work, and I couldn't expect him to do it for nothing.”

“He wasn't working for nothing. He got gallons of beer, not to mention the sandwiches and pizzas and I don't know what all.”

“It was the least I could do, Lucy. I was paying him only fifteen dollars an hour, way less than he usually gets. He was doing me a big favor.”

“Taking you for a ride is more like it,” muttered Lucy, picking up the knife and dicing the cucumber into very small pieces.

She had tucked the salad in the fridge and was scrubbing potatoes when she heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway that meant the girls were home. A few minutes later they came into the kitchen, chatting excitedly about the Take Back the Night March.

“Do you know women make only seventy-seven cents for every dollar a man makes?” asked Zoe, opening the refrigerator and taking out a bag of mini carrots.

She plumped herself down at the kitchen table and began chomping away, working her way through the bag.

“You'll spoil your dinner,” said Lucy, who knew only too well that her earnings had never matched her husband's, not even in the early days of her marriage, before kids, when they lived in New York City and both worked on Wall Street.

“And now there are all these restrictive laws limiting women's health-care choices,” added Sara, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of water.

“Those bottles are for lunches and the car,” grumbled Lucy, who was cutting up the potatoes. “Fill a glass from the tap, please.”

“This tastes better,” said Sara before draining half of the bottle.

“They cost a lot more than water from the tap,” said Lucy. “So when you finish it, just refill it from the sink, please.”

The girls exchanged a look.

“Your friend Miss Tilley was at the meeting,” said Zoe.

“And that witchy lady, Rebecca Wardwell,” added Sara.

“She's not a witch,” said Lucy, putting the cut-up potatoes in a pot and covering them with water. “I'm surprised at you, using an antifeminist term like that.”

“The goal is to get past these linguistic taboos,” said Sara, “to get to the point where women are accepted for themselves, for their unique qualities as individuals, and not regarded as inferiors because of their sex.”

Lucy set the pot on the stove. “But we've made a lot of strides working together, sisterhood and all that.”

“Mom,” said Sara in a schoolmarmish tone, “I don't think you realize what's actually going on. In some states it's practically impossible for a woman to get an abortion, even though it's a right protected by the Constitution.”

Lucy had started to say she knew about that when Sara continued, “And there was that case in Texas where they kept alive a pregnant woman who was actually brain dead, hooked up to wires and machines, like some sort of human incubator.”

“And some states require women who want abortions to submit to vaginal probes,” said Zoe, shuddering.

“And violence against women is still a big problem, and women don't get support from the courts . . . ,” said Sara.

“Take Mary Winslow,” said Zoe. “She begged a judge to refuse bail for her boyfriend after he beat her up, and even after he almost choked her to death, the judge gave her only a restraining order, which the guy promptly violated, and she nearly died as a result. Now her legs are paralyzed, and she's stuck in a wheelchair.”

“But,” added Sara, a note of excitement in her voice, “Seth knows somebody who knows Mary Winslow, and he thinks she might actually be able to take part in the march. Wouldn't that be great?”

“When is it?” asked Lucy, glancing at the calendar and thinking it was awfully full, with something scribbled in every box. “During the Pumpkin Fest?”

“It's always the first Sunday after daylight savings ends, which this year is November sixth,” said Sara. “When it's dark at four in the afternoon, you know? It gets dark early, but we're taking back the night. Get it?”

“Yup,” said Lucy, realizing the potatoes were boiling over and using a dish towel to protect her hands as she snatched the pot off the burner. “I got it,” she said, reducing the heat and replacing the pot.

 

Even though daylight savings was still in effect, the days had become noticeably shorter and the sun was setting earlier every day. It was already dark when supper was over and Lucy brought the ninja costume to Patrick, who was playing with Legos in the family room.

“It's time to get ready for the party,” she told him.

“I don't want to go,” said Patrick, snapping a couple of plastic blocks together.

“Sure you do,” coaxed Lucy. “It will be fun.”

“It's not a good costume,” said Patrick, keeping his head bowed over the pile of Legos.

Lucy bit her tongue. “Why not try it on? You might be surprised.”

“I don't want to.” Patrick snapped the last piece on to the spacecraft he was making and waved it in the air, making zooming sounds.

“I put a lot of effort into this costume,” said Lucy, growing rather irritated. “And I have to go to the party to help out, and I think you should come, because people have gone to a lot of trouble to give you kids a good time.”

“Go on, Patrick,” said Zoe, who had come into the family room, toting her book bag, intending to do her homework. “It'll be fun.”

“Okay,” he said with a huge sigh. “But I don't want to wear the costume.”

“Yes, you do,” said Lucy in her most authoritative mother voice. “Everyone will be wearing costumes.”

“Yeah,” said Zoe, holding up the ninja hood. “And this is so cool.”

By the time he was dressed in the costume, even Patrick had to admit it was “pretty okay,” especially since Lucy had added a store-bought belt and some plastic ninja weapons, which looked like gardening tools to her but which were guaranteed to impress a small boy. He climbed quite happily into the car for the short drive to the community center, where the party was to take place.

In past years Lucy had enjoyed the low-key gathering, which gave the town's children a chance to show off their costumes, play a few games, and enjoy some light refreshments. Everyone got a prize for their costume, and they all went home with a small bag of treats.

But this time, when she parked the car, it wasn't “Monster Mash” that was issuing from the church hall, but loud techno music, with a thumping beat played by DJ Jayzon. When she went inside, she winced at the noise, wishing she'd thought to wear earplugs.

Heidi Bloom was at the doorway, apparently fully recovered from her bout of flu and enthusiastically greeting all comers, and apparently in her element, wearing a police officer costume complete with cap and false badge, brass buttons, and a tightly knotted necktie.

“Fantastic, isn't it?” she asked. At least that was what Lucy thought she had said, since the deafeningly loud music made lipreading and signing the only possible means of communication.

“Can't he turn it down?” asked Lucy, who was holding her hands over her ears.

“Fab DJ!” enthused Heidi. “The kids love it.”

The kids were definitely excited, running around the large room in packs, shrieking and screaming. Lucy recognized a few of the kids from Patrick's day-care class and spotted little Pear and Apple, neighbors who lived on Prudence Path. They were dressed as princesses, their tiaras askew and dripping glitter, their faces flushed from running away from the pint-size superheroes that were pursuing them. There were also plenty of ninjas, all with hoods over their faces, and Lucy soon lost track of Patrick.

“This is madness,” said Sue, who had just arrived, carrying a tray of popcorn balls.

Arriving together, on Sue's heels, were Miss Tilley and Rebecca Wardwell. They were both dressed as witches, with tall, pointy hats and flowing black clothes. Miss Tilley had added red-striped stockings to her outfit, and Rebecca had her little pet owl perched on her shoulder.

“Oh, my,” said Rebecca, stepping backward as the music suddenly increased in pitch. “Owls have very sensitive ears.”

“As do I,” said Miss Tilley.

With that, the two turned on their heels and left the hall, leaving Lucy momentarily speechless.

“That puts us down two helpers,” said Sue, doing a quick count of the adults in the room.

“More parents have stayed, though,” said Lucy, taking in the little groups of grown-ups clustered in the corners.

“They're probably afraid to leave their kids alone in this madness,” said Sue.

“Tell me about it,” said Lucy, who thought she'd spotted Patrick chasing a little fairy dressed in blue with sparkles. She marched across the room, grabbed him, and told him to calm down, only realizing when he pulled off his mask that he wasn't Patrick at all. “Sorry,” she said, growing increasingly concerned. Which ninja was Patrick? Why hadn't she made him a pirate costume? And would this horrible music never end? She was getting a headache and could hardly think for the noise.

She was pacing the room, looking for a familiar little ninja figure, and finding none that resembled Patrick. What shoes was he wearing? The work boots? The blue sneakers? She didn't see any footwear that looked like Patrick's, and was growing quite panicked when a tall man appeared in the doorway, holding two ninjas by the hand. One of the ninjas pointed at her, and the man approached, towing his little captives. Just then, praises be, the music ceased.