Trick or Treat Murder (12 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Glancing around the kitchen the next afternoon, Lucy wondered how things had degenerated so fast. The sink and counter were littered with dirty dishes, the garbage bin was overflowing, the tablecloth was stained and full of crumbs. Was it just a few days ago that she had been congratulating herself on managing so well?

It was the cupcakes, she decided. Twelve dozen cupcakes was the straw that broke the camel's back. If it wasn't for the damned cupcakes, she told herself as she reached for a bowl and box of cake mix, she would have time for everything else. At least she had reached the halfway mark—when these were done she would only have six dozen to go. Six dozen, three more days until Halloween, that was two dozen a day. No problem. The trick, of course, was to keep the kids from finding them. That's why she had to get this batch baked, cooled, iced, and hidden on the top shelf of the pantry before the school bus arrived. It was one o'clock—she had almost two hours, plenty of time as long as Zoe didn't wake up early from her nap.

Hearing the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway, Lucy went to the window to see who it was. Seeing the familiar unmarked blue Ford, Lucy smiled. Detective Horowitz was as good as his word.

"Hi," she said, opening the door for him. "It's good to see you—it's been a while."

"That's right, Mrs. Stone." Horowitz was a serious, formal man with a long face and rabbit lips. He always looked tired.

"Can I get you some coffee?"

"No, thanks. If I have too much I can't sleep at night." He pulled out a chair to sit down, and picked up the large sneaker that was resting on it.

Lucy took it from him, and tossed it in the corner next to its mate. "Toby—he's eleven."

"Big feet," he said, sitting down heavily.

"You detectives are so observant." Lucy took a seat at the table opposite him.

"It's our job, ma'am," said Horowitz, with the slightest hint of a smile. "So what seems to be the trouble?"

"You know about the fires? Are you working on them?"

"Not directly, but I'm familiar with the case."

"Well, I'm worried someone may be threatening me—but maybe it's just Halloween. There was paint on my car, I got a phone call, and I found this in my mailbox this morning." She slipped a small piece of paper across the table.

Horowitz looked down at it, but didn't touch it. It was a piece of cheap, lined notepaper crudely ripped from a spiral pad. Little square bits of paper clung to the top, and the right corner was miss¬ing. A black marker pen had been used to write the brief message in childish block letters: MIND YOUR OWN BIZNESS OR BURN.

"Have you been investigating the fires?" he asked, raising his pale eyes to meet hers.

"A little bit here and there—I don't have much time. I have a new baby, you know." Lucy stood up. "Do you mind if I do some cooking? I have to bake some cupcakes for a Halloween party."

"Not at all." Horowitz studied the note. "What are your thoughts on the fires, Mrs. Stone?"

"I'm no expert," began Lucy, switching on the oven and setting paper liners in the cupcake pans. "I don't know anything about accelerants or stuff like that, but I can't help thinking Dr. Mayes had an awful lot to gain from burning down the Homestead." Lucy paused and began ripping open the box of cake mix.

 "Go on."

"He got rid of his wife, no divorce, no alimony, and he'll get a big insurance settlement. You know about the girlfriend, right?"

Horowitz nodded.

"So you agree with me? He is a suspect then?"

"Was. He couldn't have done it."

"What about Krissy ? They're more than lovers, you know. He owns part of her business."

Horowitz looked interested, in spite of himself.

"You didn't know that, did you?" crowed Lucy.

"I told you, I'm not directly involved in this case. But I hadn't heard that. Are you sure?"

"Yup." Lucy cracked an egg on the side of the bowl. "She told me herself. I joined the gym, you know, to get back in shape after the baby." She switched on the mixer.

"I'll pass it along," promised Horowitz. "Mind if I take the note?"

"Please. I'll be glad to get rid of it."

"Did you handle it much?" he asked, slipping it carefully into a plastic bag.

"Probably. It was under the mail. I flipped through the letters and stuff before I even found it."

"I don't think this note is connected with the fires," said Horowitz.

"Why do you say that.7" asked Lucy carefully, pouring the batter into the cupcake pans. Then she slid the pans into the oven.

"The only reason I'm telling you this is because I don't want you to worry. They're very close to making an arrest in this case. I'm no expert in accelerants either, but they tell me that the same accelerant was used in every fire. They're all the work of the same individual, they know that because he has certain signature behaviors. He doesn't write notes." Horowitz took a packet of photographs from his pocket. "These are between you and me and nobody else, okay?"

Lucy nodded eagerly and leaned across the table.

"Fire one, the theater." He spread out three or four photos.

Lucy was shocked and fascinated by what she saw. A row of red plush theater seats with blackened, burned centers. A cot in a dressing room, covered by a neat plaid spread. Only the center was burned. The stage, completely ruined by flames.

"You can see how he splashed accelerant around, but not enough to do the job. Real amateur. He did better with the bam."

Horowitz handed her another photograph. This one showed the one remaining corner of the barn, the wood blistered and scarred by the fire.

"This time he used enough accelerant. The conditions were in his favor. The wood was old and dry, there hadn't been rain for a couple of weeks. The barn was a total loss. Not the powder house. It was barely touched," he said, passing her another photo. "Too public, he probably got scared away. Then the Homestead, and Durning's place." He flipped down the photos as if he were dealing cards. "He's hit his stride. He knows what he's doing. Complete losses, both of them. He probably thinks there wasn't any evidence left, but there was. A lot of evidence. The lab guys are real happy with this one. I wouldn't worry if I were you. This guy doesn't write notes or make phone calls or anything like that. All he cares about is making a nice, big fire."

"This is creepy," said Lucy, gathering up the pictures and handing them back to Horowitz. "He's crazy."

"A sick puppy. But he's not Dr. Mayes, and he's not Dr. Mayes's girlfriend whatever her name is, and he's probably not even aware of your existence so don't worry anymore, okay?"

"Okay," said Lucy, opening the door for him.

"On the other hand, I wouldn't dismiss this note," he said, patting his pocket. "It's pretty good advice, if you ask me. Leave the investigating to the experts, Mrs. Stone." He paused and sniffed, wrinkling his nose. "Do I smell something burning?"

"The cupcakes!" cried Lucy, dashing for the oven.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"What happened to you?"

Slipping into a seat beside Sue at the TCHDC hearing Thursday evening, Lucy couldn't help noticing the Band-Aids on her fingers.

"I'm a victim of Corney Clarke."

"Corney Clarke did that to you?"

"Not directly. I did it to myself. I was overambitious. I reached for the stars. I wasn't happy to have a regular orange jack-o'-lantern like everybody else. Oh no. I had to have a white pumpkin, artistically carved to look like lace."

"It was tougher than you thought."

"I'll say. The damn thing was like cement. I used Sid's wood- carving tools, but I couldn't make a dent in it. I sure made a mess of my hands, though."

"That's terrible," said Lucy, unable to control her laughter as she pictured Sue hacking away at the little white pumpkin.

"It's not funny," Sue sniffed indignantly. "I could've bled to death or lost a finger."

"I'm sorry," Lucy said, adopting a serious tone. "I guess the spirit of your gourd wasn't ready to be released yet."

"You could say that gourd was not afraid to defend itself," Sue said. "It was one spirited squash. But I got it in the end."

"You did?"

"I ran over it."

"With the car?" Lucy asked incredulously.

Sue nodded her head proudly. "Yup."

"Didn't that make an awful mess?"

"Sure did. I'm not proud of it, but I did it. I squashed that squash."

"This.hearing will now come to order," announced Miss Tilley with a bang of her gavel.

Silence was not immediate. The hearing room was packed and it took a while for everyone to quiet down. In addition to Ted, the cable TV station had sent a crew, and several local radio station reporters were also present. Such extensive coverage wasn't really necessary; it seemed that everyone who was interested was already there.

"This is a public hearing on the application of Randolph Lenk for a certificate of appropriateness for alterations to an existing structure in the Tinker's Cove Historic District. Mr. Lenk, I understand you have legal representation tonight?"

"Whuh," said Lenk, arching an eyebrow. He hadn't gone to any trouble for the hearing. He was dressed in his usual grimy work clothes, and had a two-day stubble of beard.

"I am representing Mr. Lenk," volunteered a tall young man dressed in a pin stripe suit. "I am Fred Carruthers from the legal department at Northstar. I would also like to introduce Dave Anderson, vice-president in charge of development, New England, Stan Lepke, head of our design department, and Cindy Josephs, from our public relations department."

The three didn't need to stand. Their sober business suits and professional demeanor set them apart from everyone else in the room. Cindy smiled brightly, but it was clear that she was a strange fish in these waters, with her crisp navy suit, panty hose, heels, and perfectly coiffed hair.

"Can you imagine dressing like thatr whispered Lucy, crossing her blue jean-clad legs.

"Only for a funeral," answered Sue, slipping out of her barn jacket.

"I understand you have a presentation," Miss Tilley said, once again banging her gavel for order.

"That's right," Carruthers answered. "First, we have a brief history on the development of the concept. Dave Anderson will handle that."

"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 car 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."