Candy Corn Murder (8 page)

“Now I'd like to introduce Roger Wilcox, chairman of our board of selectmen, who has a few words.”

Roger Wilcox, a distinguished man in his sixties, who had swapped his usual half-zip sweater for a camel hair blazer in honor of the occasion, stepped forward. “Well, this is indeed an honor, to open this, our very first Giant Pumpkin Fest in Tinker's Cove. A lot of people have put a great deal of effort into this event, and I am sure it will be a great success for our town, this year and hopefully for many more years in the future. So, without further ado, I hereby announce that the Giant Pumpkin Fest has now officially begun.” He cut an orange ribbon that had been stretched from the bandstand to a nearby tree, and everybody clapped again.

Lucy was able to snap a photo of the ribbon cutting and joined the group of people following Corney and Roger to view the displays of pumpkin people that had been erected by various local businesses.

They trooped along to the first display, created by Marzetti's IGA, which featured a family of pumpkin-headed figures, their vintage clothing stuffed with straw. The figures were seated at a 1950s chrome and vinyl dining set, preparing to eat an apple pie. Lucy noticed that one of the figures, the mother, looked a bit like Dot Kirwan, the cashier at the IGA, and she snapped a picture.

“Terrific, terrific,” murmured Corney.

“So clever,” agreed Roger. “I like the dad's plaid shirt and the mother's shirtwaist dress.”

“And the kids have striped T-shirts right out of
Leave It to Beaver,
” said Lucy, snapping a photo.

The next display, from the Cut 'n' Curl salon, showed a well-endowed figure seated in a salon chair, its pumpkin head stuffed inside the plastic hood of a hair dryer. The figure was a bit askew, as if the wind had blown it over, and its skirt had risen, revealing the stuffed panty hose, now spilling straw from its torn crotch, that served as the figure's legs.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed an embarrassed Ann Briggs, who owned the shop. “Just let me fix this.” She straightened the figure and replaced the skirt so it covered the rather lewd damage, and everybody clapped in approval.

When they viewed the following display, a wedding scene created by Orange Blossom Bridal, it was clear that the wind hadn't done the damage. Here the bride had been thrown on her back, her straw-filled stomach had been ripped open, and her pumpkin head smashed. The pumpkin groom's mouth had been carved into a leer, and his stuffed gloved fingers arranged in an obscene gesture.

“Come away, Jessica,” said one of the mothers, leading her daughter away from the display. Other parents followed with their children, leaving a handful of puzzled observers.

“Who would do this?” asked one gentleman, leaning on his cane.

“What a shame,” tutted his wife, shaking her neatly clipped head. “So much work.”

“This is an outrage,” said Corney, looking ahead to other displays, which had been similarly vandalized. The grass was strewn with smashed pumpkins, overturned furniture, and ripped costumes that flapped in the breeze. “What are we going to do?”

“First off, we close the exhibit,” said Roger, taking charge of the situation. “Then we call the police.”

“How can we do the judging?” fretted Corney. “We promised prizes to the entrants, but now the judges can't possibly see what the displays were originally like.”

“They can rebuild,” suggested Lucy. “It's only pumpkins and old clothes and straw.”

“Some are too far gone,” said Corney sadly.

“We'll give honorable mentions to the folks who don't want to rebuild. How about that?” suggested Roger.

“That's not fair,” protested Ann Briggs. “I'm not going to get a prize, because my display wasn't vandalized enough? That stinks! I worked really hard on this, you know?”

“It was just an idea,” said Roger as a police cruiser arrived, siren blaring. “We haven't come to a final decision. We'll certainly keep your comments in mind.”

“What's the trouble here?” asked Officer Barney Culpepper, shifting his heavy belt as he joined the group. Barney was an old friend of Lucy's, and she gave him a little smile.

“The displays have been vandalized,” said Corney, waving her arm at the destruction.

Barney planted his feet firmly, removed his cap and ran his hand over his gray brush cut before replacing it, and studied the situation.

Lucy knew that Barney had seen a lot of things he wished he hadn't in his thirty or more years on the Tinker's Cove police force, and this certainly wasn't in the same category as a tractor-trailer crash on Route 1. Nevertheless, observing the way his jowls were quivering, she understood that he found the scene troubling.

Following his gaze, she noticed that the figures that had been most severely damaged were all representations of females, and they'd been attacked viciously. There was the disemboweled bride, a witch slashed to ribbons, a grandma whose wire-rimmed glasses dangled from a completely smashed head, and a chorus girl whose fishnet-stocking legs were splayed wide open and whose torso was split from her crotch right up to her neck.

“This is a crime scene,” he said, his tone flat. “Everybody out.”

“But what about the Giant Pumpkin Fest?” demanded Corney, practically in tears.

“Sorry,” said Barney. “I don't have a choice. This here is a hate crime, and I've got to call in the state police.”

“It was probably just kids,” protested Corney, turning to Roger for support. “Don't you think it was just kids?”

“Probably,” agreed Roger.

“Mebbe you're right,” said Barney. “But if these were kids, they were a bunch of sick bastards.”

“Can I quote you?” asked Lucy, who had been writing it all down.

Barney stretched out his arms and gestured for everyone to leave. “Move along,” he said. “Clear the area. Nothing to see here.”

On the contrary, thought Lucy, there was plenty to see, and if she was right, it was evidence of a severely troubled personality. Whoever did this, she decided, really hated women. She only hoped he would stick to pumpkin-head figures and would not take his anger out on real flesh-and-blood women.

Chapter Seven

S
ometimes, thought Lucy as she yanked the
Pennysaver
door open on Monday morning and heard the jangling bell announce her arrival, it was a relief to go to work. She suspected this was a secret that men had kept from women for years, leaving their wives home to cope with all the messy little disasters of daily life while they were free to concentrate on the more straightforward demands of their jobs. While it was true that the workday sometimes posed difficult challenges, she was always able to walk away at the end of the day, while problems at home just seemed to simmer on and on, like one of those big pots of split pea soup that you never thought you'd ever get to the bottom of.

Truth be told, she was sick and tired of having Ev Wickes around the house all the time. There was the matter of his questionable hygiene, for one thing, and the fact that he drank beer all day long. Bill was joining in, somehow feeling it was rude to let him drink alone, and the pair of them were a very bad influence on little Patrick. She was counting the days to the pumpkin hurl, figuring that once the catapult was built, Ev wouldn't be hanging around, but this morning Bill had mentioned something about having him help with some repairs on the garden shed.

“Everything okay?” asked Phyllis, peering at Lucy over her half-glasses. She was seated at her desk behind the reception counter, the bulwark from which she handled reader queries, subscriptions, ads, classified ads, and accounts payable.

“It's been a tough morning. I never thought I'd pry Patrick away from Ev Wickes and get him fed and dressed and off to day care,” said Lucy. “Is there any coffee?”

“I made a big pot this morning,” said Phyllis, lifting her favorite mug, printed with perky French poodles. “I didn't get much sleep last night, because Wilf installed lights for his pumpkin. They're triggered by a motion sensor, and apparently, there's a lot more motion in the backyard than he thought. Every time a cat or raccoon went through, the lights flashed on.” She took a big swallow of coffee. “I didn't get much sleep.”

“With Bill, it's the siren,” said Lucy. “Patrick loves setting it off, and every time the darn thing sounds, I jump out of my socks. My nerves are shot,” she said, adding some milk to her mug of coffee. “If you ask me, it's a lot of fuss over a vegetable.”

“Actually, pumpkins are fruits,” said Ted, emerging from the morgue, where old copies of the
Pennysaver
were stored. He was carrying several of the oversize volumes containing copies of the papers dating from the early 1900s. “They have seeds, so they're fruits.”

“I don't care. I don't like pumpkins, and I don't like Halloween. I want it to be over,” said Lucy, plunking herself down at her desk and powering up her PC.

“It's not over till it's over,” said Ted, grinning broadly and setting the big books down on the rolltop desk he inherited from his grandfather. “And I'm happy to say we've sold all the ad space in the Giant Pumpkin Fest special supplement.”

Lucy noticed he looked a lot more relaxed than he had in weeks, and attributed his improved attitude to the increased ad revenue. These days it was a challenge to keep a small town weekly newspaper afloat, and Lucy knew Ted and Pam sometimes had to resort to using their home equity line to pay the bills.

“And, even better, Country Cousins has signed a contract to run a full-page ad every week until Christmas,” he continued, leaning back in his swivel chair. “So if either of you has some free time, I'd like you to look through these old papers for graphic elements. They want old-fashioned illustrations for the ads.”

“And just when do you think I'll have this free time?” asked Phyllis, her thinly plucked eyebrows rising above her reading glasses.

“That goes double for me,” said Lucy. “I've got this big story about the vandalism at the Harvest Figure Display, on top of everything else.”

Normally, these protests would earn a sharp rebuke from Ted, but today he replied only, “We'll work it out.” He turned his attention to the door, where the bell was tinkling, as Corney Clark breezed in. “Hi, Corney!” he exclaimed. “What have you got for us today?”

Despite her dyed orange hair, Corney was not in a holiday mood. “Oh, Ted,” she moaned, sinking into a chair and clutching her tote bag in her lap. “I really think someone's out to ruin the Pumpkin Fest.”

“Probably just kids,” said Ted. “Kids can't resist smashing pumpkins.”

“I don't know,” said Lucy, remembering the female harvest figure slit from crotch to neck. “From what I saw, I don't think it was kids.”

“Probably kids, but who knows?” said Corney, rummaging in her bag and producing an envelope, which she passed to Ted. “It's a letter to the editor, thanking the Harvest Figure Display contestants for their participation, and also the Rotary Club. The club members came out big-time yesterday afternoon and repaired the damage. The display is better than ever.”

“That's great,” said Lucy.

“See?” said Ted, opening the envelope and unfolding the note. “Sometimes things just work out.”

“But if this keeps up, I don't know how we're going to manage,” fretted Corney. “Chief Kirwan said he'd make sure the night patrols cruise by the display, but he doesn't have enough manpower to do anything more. There's only so many times you can ask people for help. First, it was Buzz Bresnahan's pumpkin, and then it was the Harvest Figure Display. What's next?”

“Better look on the bright side,” offered Ted, causing Lucy and Phyllis to exchange worried glances. This was not the boss they knew.

“I'm trying,” admitted Corney, “but I can't help but worry.”

“I'm sure everything will be fine,” said Ted. “There's no sense fretting about stuff that might never happen.”

“Easy to say, hard to do,” murmured Corney, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder as she made her way out the door.

“She worries too much,” said Ted, who was leafing through the old papers, chuckling from time to time at the antiquated prose.

But as Lucy wrote up her account of the vandalism at the Harvest Figure Display, she was more than ever convinced that Corney was right to worry. She tried to give the story a positive spin, beginning with the Rotary Club's restoration of the display, but the fact remained that somebody had put a lot of energy into an act of wanton destruction.

“I just can't imagine why anyone would do such a thing,” said Tony Marzetti, an energetic volunteer who was not only a member of the Conservation Commission but was also president of the Rotary Club, when Lucy called him for a quote. “It's really hard to understand destruction like that, and I'm glad we were able to help.”

The obvious question, and the one that Lucy put to police chief Jim Kirwan, was how the police were going to prevent future acts of vandalism.

“It's a problem. I'm not going to pretend it's not a challenge for our department,” he replied. “Preventing crime is a big challenge for us, since we can't be everywhere at once, but I am asking my officers to be extra vigilant. And, of course, the one thing we've got going in our favor is the fact that the more times this perpetrator acts, the easier it becomes for us to catch him.” He paused, then added, “Or her.”

“How so?” asked Lucy.

“The evidence begins to pile up. Every crime scene gives us a piece of the puzzle, and sooner or later it will come together. Take this latest incident . . .”

“The Harvest Figure Display?”

“Oh, no. This second giant pumpkin slashing.”

“A second giant pumpkin?” asked Lucy, fearing for Priscilla. Well, not so much for the giant gourd, but for Bill. He would be awfully upset if anything happened to Priscilla.

“Yeah, at Sukie Evans's place. A really big one. She's got a couple of horses, you know, so she had plenty of manure.”

Lucy breathed a sigh of relief, then reminded herself that even if Priscilla was safe, the pumpkin killer was still at large. “Any leads?” asked Lucy.

“I'm not at liberty to say,” said the chief, “but I will say that my department is taking these attacks very seriously and we will catch whoever is doing this and we will prosecute to the full extent of the law.”

“What exactly is the penalty?” asked Lucy.

“Could be jail time,” he responded. “Like I said, this goes beyond a prank. This is systematic and purposeful destruction of property, and I am committed to using the full resources of this department to preserve our way of life here in Tinker's Cove.”

Lucy dutifully jotted down this rather grand quote, aware that the full resources of the department were extremely limited due to recent budget cuts. It sounded good, she supposed, but it was just so much hot air. She had just started to write the story when her phone rang again. This time it was Hank DeVries from the scuba club.

“I have an update for you about the underwater pumpkin-carving contest,” he began.

“Great,” said Lucy, expecting him to announce some new prizes.

“Not great,” said Hank. “I've just been informed that the state's environmental protection department wants to review the plans for the contest.”

“That's understandable,” said Lucy. “How is it a problem?”

“I don't have plans,” said Hank. “That's the problem. I haven't studied inflow and outflow at the pond, I don't know the chemical content of the water, except that I'm pretty sure there's two hydrogen atoms for every one oxygen, and I don't know about fertilizer runoff and nitrogen loading. We were just gonna throw some concrete blocks in there and invite people who enjoy diving to try their hands at carving pumpkins.”

“Oh,” said Lucy. “I get your point.”

“And what I think,” continued Hank, “is that the guy who voted against the contest at the Conservation Commission meeting . . .”

“Tom Miller?”

“Yeah, him. I think he ratted us out to the DEP because he doesn't want us to have the contest. He got outvoted, so this is how he thinks he can stop us.”

“Maybe it's just routine,” said Lucy. “Maybe the committee always checks with the DEP when waterways are involved.”

“Maybe,” admitted Hank, “but I doubt it. Anyway, I thought there might be a story there.”

“Thanks for the call,” said Lucy.

She flipped through her Rolodex and then put in a call to the committee chairman, Caleb Coffin. He wasn't home, but his wife said she'd be sure to pass along the message. Lucy's next call was to the state DEP, where she had a contact, but her call went straight to voice mail. She glanced at the clock, discovering it was almost noon, which meant she had forty-eight hours until the Wednesday noon deadline to track down this story, which she wasn't sure was a story.
Not a lot of time,
she thought, scribbling a reminder to follow up on a sticky note and pasting it on her computer screen.

She got up to retrieve her lunch from the office fridge, and when she brought it back to her desk, her phone was already ringing. When she picked up, fire chief Buzz Bresnahan was on the line.

“I'm sorry about your pumpkin,” she said, thinking it was only polite to express her condolences.

“Oh, yeah, that was a blow,” he said, “but that's not why I'm calling. It's because the Coast Guard just called and informed me that I'm going to have to keep the department's rescue boat on standby during the pumpkin boat regatta.”

“Sounds like a sensible precaution,” said Lucy, picturing a wide variety of unstable watercraft constructed from giant pumpkins that were likely to capsize in the chilly water of the town cove.

“It may be sensible, but it's not in my budget,” said Chief Bresnahan. “If I put the rescue boat out, I've got to man it, and that means overtime, which I do not have funds for. That's why I'm calling you. I've got to go to the selectmen for an emergency appropriation, and I need some support for that request. We gotta have some interested citizens there to speak up, or this whole thing is going down in flames. There isn't much time. The race is next Sunday. That's less than a week away.”

“Does the Coast Guard usually get involved in stuff like this?” asked Lucy, thinking she'd never really heard of a similar situation. She had thought the Coasties at the local station had their hands full inspecting fishing boats and enforcing safety regulations.

“Not until now,” fumed Bresnahan. “I think somebody musta made a fuss about the regatta, somebody with connections, but that's off the record.”

“Got it,” responded Lucy, who was beginning to agree with Corney that somebody was out to spoil the Giant Pumpkin Fest. But who? And why? Was it really Tom Miller, like Hank thought? She dismissed the idea, remembering that Tom had been an early supporter of the festival, which, he had argued, would bring lots of business to the town and especially to Country Cousins.

Lucy spent a frustrating afternoon trying to contact sources at the state DEP and the Coast Guard and not getting anywhere. When her phone finally did ring, it wasn't one of her contacts calling back. It was Heidi Bloom at Little Prodigies.