Candy Corn Murder (18 page)

“There was no body, no sign of emotional distress, at least according to Tom and his parents, who lived with them.” Bob cocked his head. “What are you after?” he asked.

“I don't know, really,” admitted Lucy. “I'm just curious, I guess. I've been doing this story about Buck Miller coming to Country Cousins, and some things just don't add up.” She plunked herself down in a chair. “Do you know they have a very serious security arrangement out there at the complex?”

“I'm not surprised,” said Bob. “The insurance company probably insisted. Those warehouses are full of stuff, some of it quite valuable.”

“That's what Tom said,” admitted Lucy. “He wouldn't let Buck give me a tour.”

“Believe me,” said Bob, “insurance companies call all the shots these days.”

“You know, there used to be an underground network here in Tinker's Cove to help abused women escape.”

“And you're thinking Cynthia was an abused wife?” asked Bob, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, it's one explanation for her sudden and complete disappearance. Miss Tilley says that it was like the witness protection program, that these women were given new identities.”

“Well, if Cynthia did use the network, she was tricking them into helping her for reasons of her own. I know Tom Miller, I've worked with him for years, and he is not an abuser. He is the nicest guy around. If anything, he's way too easygoing. I simply can't see him as being a wife beater.” He paused. “Glory doesn't seem to be suffering, not from what I can see.”

“I know,” said Lucy, remembering how Tom had walked away rather than insist on his prerogative as CEO of the company when Buck staged his little coup at the candy corn prize ceremony. “That's the problem with my theory.”

Bob laughed. “So maybe you better give it up.”

“I want to, believe me. But I really think something funny is going on at Country Cousins. Just think about it. Ev's marijuana had to go somewhere to be processed and packaged and distributed, right? And Country Cousins is the ideal facility. They've got trucks and big buildings and a major security fence.”

Bob shook his head. “They have an impeccable reputation. They're practically a national landmark. People come to that little country store from all over the country. It's Yankee thrift, baked beans, and brown bread, everything people think of as old New England values.”

“Exactly,” said Lucy. “Who would ever imagine that Country Cousins is in the illegal drug trade?”

“Except,” said Bob, propping his elbows on his desk and tenting his fingers and speaking in a speculative tone, “the truth is that marijuana isn't going to be illegal for much longer—we've already got legal medicinal marijuana—and Country Cousins would be positioned to take over production and distribution for the entire Northeast, maybe the whole country.”

“That's what I think,” said Lucy.

Bob shook his head. “How could they keep something this big a secret? From what the cops said, Ev was growing a lot of weed, and it would take quite a few people to process it. This is a small town. Everybody knows everything about everybody.”

“Not really. Miss Tilley was able to keep her underground network a secret for years and years. We still don't know what happened to Cynthia,” said Lucy. “Remember, this is a small town with a lot of unemployment. I bet there are plenty of people who'd be only too happy to keep their mouths shut for a fat paycheck.”

Bob nodded. “Okay, I understand where you're coming from, and I'd agree, except for one thing, and that's Tom Miller's personality. I've known him for twenty-five years, and I consider him a friend. A dear, old friend. Rachel and I get together with him and Glory at least once a month. I simply can't imagine him getting involved in anything like this. And as for being abusive to Cynthia, no way. The truth is—and Rachel will agree with me on this—it's Glory who wears the pants in that family. She really picks on him, and he just takes it.”

“I'm not disagreeing with you,” said Lucy. “But people can change. And there is a theory that some people have personalities that invite abuse. Maybe Cynthia was one of those people.”

“No, Lucy, I think you're way off base.” He grinned. “In fact, I'm wondering if you've been smoking some of Ev's fine weed.”

“Nope, not me,” said Lucy, standing up and slipping the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, preparing to leave. “But I bet plenty of folks in town have been.”

Bob grimaced. “I suspect you're right about that.”

Chapter Seventeen

W
hen Lucy finally got home, along with Patrick, they found Hank's pickup truck parked in the driveway. The discovery pleased Patrick no end.

“Hank's here!” he exclaimed, then ran into the house, eager to see his new pal.

Lucy was also pleased, but for a different reason: she wanted to know if Hank had seen anything unusual in Jonah's Pond when he dove there, preparing for the underwater pumpkin-carving contest.

Hank, however, was a lot more interested in Sara than he was in either Lucy or Patrick. “We were just leaving,” he said, twirling his faded and frayed Cinnamon Bay cap in his hands. “The scuba club is having a movie night. We're showing some old Jacques Cousteau TV specials.”

“I used to love those,” said Lucy. “And Patrick hasn't seen them. What time is the show?”

“Uh, Mom, we're going out to eat first,” said Sara. “The show's not until eight, Patrick's bedtime.”

Lucy got the message:
Hands off my date!

“Maybe another time, Mrs. Stone,” said Hank, who was on his best behavior and didn't want to offend Lucy. “It's a series.”

“Oh,” replied Lucy. “Let me know when the next one is, and I can figure something out.” She was opening the fridge and pulling out a package of chicken breasts. “Just a quick question,” she said, setting the meat on the counter. “When you were diving in Jonah's Pond, did you see anything unusual down there?”

“Like a treasure chest?” asked Hank.

“Yeah!” Patrick was all for it. “Pirate treasure!”

“Sorry. There were some sunfish and some weeds and rocks, and then I was pretty much focused on getting my gear to work, because I really wanted to be able to breathe.”

“I can understand that,” said Lucy, with a smile.

Hank was clearly intrigued, however. “What do you think is down there?”

Sara rolled her eyes. “Mom is always looking for bodies.”

“Sara!” chided Lucy. “That's not true. I was just wondering what might be hidden there. People throw all sorts of things into ponds, you know. There's supposed to be a piano in Gilead Pond.”

“A piano!” Patrick thought that was hysterically funny. “In a pond!”

“Maybe we ought to schedule a dive there,” suggested Hank.

“Will you be diving in Jonah's Pond again?” asked Lucy.

“I doubt it,” said Hank. “The Conservation Commission wasn't very enthusiastic about giving us permission, and I don't want to go through another meeting.”

“And there's all that crime-scene tape,” said Sara.

“No, the tape's gone.” Lucy's mind was busy recalling a recent planning board meeting where a property owner insisted he could build a nonconforming garage because he got permission seventeen years ago. “You know, if there was a problem about diving there, and I doubt there would be, you could say you already got permission. I don't recall that they specified a certain date. You could very well assume it was a blanket permission to dive whenever conditions were best.”

Hank cocked his head. “So you really think there's something of interest down there?”

“I'd sure like to know if there is or not.”

“I'll ask around tonight, see if anybody wants to check it out,” said Hank.

Sara had put on her jacket and was standing by the door, obviously growing impatient. “I'm afraid we're going to be late for our dinner reservation . . . ,” she began.

“Right.” Hank put on his cap. “It was nice talking to you, Mrs. Stone. Have a good evening.” He turned to Patrick, who was dragging a huge bag of dog food out of a cabinet in order to complete his evening chore of filling the dog's dish with kibble. “See you later, buddy.”

Zoe came in as they were leaving, fresh from a planning meeting for the Take Back the Night March, along with Libby, who had an unerring internal clock when it came to mealtime. “You missed a good meeting,” she told Sara. “Mary Winslow has agreed to come to the march!”

Libby was standing in front of Patrick, tail wagging and tongue dripping on the floor.

“Cool!” said Sara, taking Hank's arm and heading out the door. “You can tell me all about it later.”

“Since when are they dating?” asked Zoe, unzipping her jacket as she looked through the window in the kitchen door and watched Hank open the truck door for Sara.

“Since today, I guess,” said Lucy, who was dredging the chicken breasts in bread crumbs. “Can you give Patrick a hand with the dog chow? My hands are all gooey.”

“Sure thing.” Zoe handed Patrick the scoop, and he filled the bowl. Then she helped him replace the bag in the cabinet.

“That's great news about Mary Winslow,” said Lucy, who had advanced to browning the chicken in a frying pan. “Miss Tilley will be very happy. She told me this is the thirty-fifth anniversary of the march.”

“I guess that's why Mary Winslow agreed,” said Zoe, who had unwrapped her scarf from her neck and was adding it to the hook next to the kitchen door that already held her jacket. “Uh, Mom, a cop car just pulled in, along with a tow truck.”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Lucy, turning off the burner and heading out the door. “Hey!” she yelled, recognizing Ferrick and DeGraw as they got out of the cruiser. “What do you think you're doing?”

Before they could reply, Bill drove into the driveway in his pickup truck, braked, and jumped out of the cab. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Good timing,” said Ferrick. “I was afraid we'd made this trip for nothing.”

“Yeah,” said DeGraw. “We're here to impound your truck.”

“You can't do that,” said Bill. “Lucy, call Bob, okay?”

Lucy had already dialed Bob on her cell phone and was getting an invitation to leave a message.

“Actually, we can impound your truck. I have a warrant right here,” said Ferrick, producing a couple of sheets of paper.

“Let me see that,” said Bill, snatching them out of his hand.

Lucy was standing on the porch, where Zoe and Patrick had joined her. She stuck out her free arm, warning them to stay on the porch with her, at the same time she was explaining the situation to Bob's voice mail. “When you get this message, please call us,” she finished, grabbing Patrick by the hand.

“What are they doing?” asked Patrick.

“The policemen want to look at Grandpa's truck,” Lucy said as the tow truck operator got busy loading Bill's truck.

“Why are they taking it away?”

“They want to examine it very closely,” said Lucy, who had a terrible sinking feeling in her middle.

“Why?” asked Patrick.

“For evidence. Maybe it will help them figure out who killed Mr. Wickes.”

Lucy thought Patrick was too young to understand the ramifications of the police action, but he was certainly picking up on the tense situation. “Is Grandpa in trouble?” he asked, sounding as if he was going to cry.

“Come with me, Patrick,” said Zoe, taking his hand and leading him inside. “Let's watch TV.”

“Good idea,” said Lucy, giving Zoe a grateful smile.

For once, Patrick sounded reluctant about watching TV. “I don't . . . ,” he began, but Zoe wasn't taking no for answer. She scooped him up in a big hug and carried him inside. “What's your favorite video?
Frozen?
”

“No!” Patrick was giggling as she set him down.
“The Lego Movie.”

By now the wrecker was leaving, carrying Bill's truck away, followed by the two cops in their cruiser.

“Mom,” called Zoe. “Your chicken's burning.”

It was, realized Lucy, catching the smell of burning meat. She ran inside and discovered that she hadn't turned the knob all the way and had succeeded only in raising the heat when she hurried outside. Surveying the charred mess, she found tears pricking her eyes as the smoke alarm began ringing. It was loud enough to wake the dead, and Libby was adding her two cents, barking furiously.

She was hauling the stepladder out of the pantry when Bill came in and took it out of her hands.

“Everything's going to be all right,” he said, climbing up to disconnect the alarm.

“No, it's not!” Lucy was flapping a kitchen towel. “The chicken's ruined.”

“There's leftover meat loaf,” said Bill in a hopeful tone as he opened a window. Meat loaf was his favorite meal, and he couldn't have enough of it.

“We can't eat this,” said Lucy, poking at the blackened hunks of meat with a fork.

“I bet Libby will eat it,” said Bill.

Libby did seem interested. Her nose was in the air, and she was sniffing the rich aroma of burnt meat, tail wagging.

Lucy sighed and dropped the charred chicken into the dog's bowl, then pulled the Pyrex dish of meat loaf out of the refrigerator. She was mentally reviewing the contents of her pantry, thinking she could boil up some potatoes and Bill could grab some chard from the garden, when he took her in his arms.

“Oh, Bill,” she wailed, bursting into tears. “I'm so scared.”

“Me too,” said Bill, smoothing her hair. “Me too.”

“This is just crazy. I can't believe this is happening.”

“It is kind of surreal,” admitted Bill. “But we've just got to have faith. I'm innocent, and sooner or later they're going to figure that out. They can search as much as they want, but they're not going to find any evidence against me, because there isn't any. There can't be, because I didn't do it. I didn't kill Ev.”

“Of course not,” said Lucy. She'd had an unpleasant thought that perhaps someone was driving this investigation, fingering Bill to divert attention away from the real guilty party. If that was the case, the police might very well find evidence that had been planted on Bill. It was easy enough to toss something incriminating into the back of a pickup truck. Goodness knows Bill tended to accumulate all sorts of stuff, everything from tools and building materials to freebies he spotted along the road and figured might come in handy one day. “Bill, have you cleaned out the truck lately?” she asked.

“Not really,” he said. “It's one of those things I keep meaning to do but never get around to.”

Lucy nodded, dumping some potatoes into the sink and scrubbing them. “Is there any arugula left in the garden?” she asked.

“I'll go see,” said Bill, grabbing the trug that sat on the floor by the door, underneath the table that collected mail and keys, and held country necessities, like flashlights and bug spray.

They all felt better after eating dinner; Lucy had always believed that there was nothing like a full tummy to give a person a sense of perspective. Of course Bill was right: an innocent man had nothing to fear. He had lived and worked in Tinker's Cove for over twenty years and had built a solid reputation for honesty and integrity. He was well liked and respected, and no one in their right mind would think for a moment that he would be capable of committing a violent crime.

So it was quite a shock when, having just started the dishwasher, she glanced out the kitchen window and saw Ferrick and DeGraw marching up the brick walk. Behind them, in the driveway, there was not one but several police cruisers. Armed officers in bulletproof vests were standing behind each cruiser, ready in case of trouble. But what trouble could they be expecting? She called for Bill, then opened the door.

“What's happening?” she asked. Bill had come from the family room, where he'd been watching the evening news, and was standing behind her.

“Put your hands up!” ordered DeGraw, producing a gun and holding it with both hands inches from Lucy's nose.

Lucy's hands flew up.

“What's going on?” asked Bill.

“Hands up!” screamed DeGraw. Ferrick had also produced his gun and was aiming it at Bill.

“Okay, okay,” said Bill, obeying the order.

“On your knees!” yelled DeGraw, causing the dog to materialize suddenly. The noise had disturbed her after-dinner snooze on the family room sectional.

Hearing her growl, Lucy was terrified the cops would shoot her. “It's okay, Libby,” she said in what she hoped was a soft, reassuring voice, but it came out as a terrified squeak. “Can I just put the dog in another room?”

“Don't move,” ordered Ferrick. “Don't anybody move.”

The dog was moving, keeping an eye on DeGraw and slouching toward him. Behind her, Lucy could hear scuffling and sensed that Zoe and Patrick were coming to see what was happening.

“The kids,” she hissed, sending up a prayer. All it would take, she knew, was one wrong move to set off a deadly hail of bullets.

“Look, I'm coming,” said Bill. “There's no need for any of this.”