Trick or Treat Murder (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The sickening thud of the collision was still echoing in Lucy's ears when she remembered what she had meant to tell Barney. She had wanted to discuss Miss Tilley's erratic driving, in hopes of avoiding an accident like the one she had just witnessed.

Fighting off shock and willing her wooden limbs to move, Lucy hurried up to Miss Tilley.

"Are you all right?" she demanded, yanking the door open. "I seem to be," answered the old woman. Her voice was shaky and uncertain, and her eyes weren't quite focused.

Giving her hand, which was still clutching the steering wheel, a quick pat, Lucy rushed over to the red Tercel.

The damage was worse than she thought. The entire front hood had crumpled under the force of the impact, it was simply gone. The tiny naked wheels were askew; the windshield was smashed; the doors deeply dented.

"I can't get the door open," panted the gas station attendant. For the first time, Lucy noticed that the name embroidered on his shirt was Rob.

"Did somebody call rescue?"

"Yeah. The boss." He grunted, straining to wrestle the twisted metal open.

"I think they'll have to use the jaws of life or something," said Lucy. "Who's the driver?" Leaning forward she peered through the crackled side window.

"Oh, no." Her legs buckled under her in shock as she recognized the driver. She stumbled forward, catching herself on the tiny car. "That's Jennifer."

"Yeah. She don't look too good, either."

Jennifer was unconscious, her face cut and bleeding. But that wasn't what worried Lucy. With no airbag to protect her, Jennifer must have been thrown against the steering wheel, suffering internal injuries. The way the car folded in the crash, Lucy knew the weight of the engine would be crushing her legs and feet.

"When are they going to get here?" Lucy moaned, growing frantic at the delay.

"I hear a siren," said Rob.

Lenk appeared next to them, carrying a filthy old quilt. Lucy took it with shaking hands and went to help Miss Tilley out of her car.

"Help is on the way," said Lucy, swallowing hard to avoid sobbing. "Here, let me help you out of the car. We'll put this blanket around you and you can sit in my car."

Miss Tilley didn't respond, so Lucy took her elbow. Moving slowly and stiffly, she allowed Lucy to help her out of the big old Chrysler. As far as Lucy could see, except for a smashed headlight and a few dents, the car was undamaged.

"Who's in the other car?" asked Miss Tilley, as Lucy put the nasty quilt around her shoulders.

"Jennifer Mitchell."

"Is she all right?" Lucy felt Miss Tilley's hand tighten on her arm.

"I don't know. We can't get the door open."

Lucy got Miss Tilley settled in the passenger seat of the Sub' aru, then climbed in behind the wheel. She wanted to move the car out of the way, to give the arriving rescue workers plenty of room to work. Her hands trembled as she turned the ignition key; she wanted to drive away as fast as she could.

She couldn't do that. She had witnessed the accident; she had Miss Tilley in her car. She was sure they would have to answer some questions. She shifted the car into reverse and parked in the corner of the gas station

.

Realizing that Zoe was fussing in her car seat, Lucy got out of the car. She unfastened the straps holding the baby and lifted her up, pressing her tiny body against her chest. Holding Zoe against her shoulder, and patting her back, Lucy paced back and forth alongside the passenger side of the car.

"I hope she isn't hurt," said Miss Tilley.

Not much chance of that, thought Lucy, drawing Zoe closer. She was supposed to be consoling the baby, but instead, she was drawing strength from Zoe's regular breathing and sweet warmth. Instinctively rubbing her chin against Zoe's fuzzy head, she tried to reassure Miss Tilley.

"She's in good hands."

They watched as the rescuers went about their work. An ambulance and a fire engine were on the scene, police cruisers had arrived and officers were directing traffic away from the wreck. Rescue workers, dressed in fire hats, slickers, and boots went back and forth between the vehicles and their truck, getting supplies and equipment. Lucy heard the whine of power machinery, and the ever-present cackle of the radios.

A fireman was pumping white foam out onto the road, and Lucy belatedly realized there was a chance of the whole mess exploding and going up in flames.

"Oh, God, please let Jennifer be okay," she whispered, closing her eyes as tears rolled down her face. "Please, please, please."

"I just have a few questions I need to ask you," said a young officer, approaching her.

Lucy brushed away her tears, and focused hard on his name- plate. "Kirwan, T." it read. He must be one of Dot Kirwan's boys, she thought, placing him. Dot Kirwan was a cheerful, gossipy lady who cashiered at Marzetti's IGA—several of her children worked in the police and fire departments.

"Did you witness the accident?" he asked, producing an accident report form.

Lucy nodded.

"Miss Tilley was driving the Chrysler?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me what you saw?"

"All of a sudden her car started moving—fast," remembered Lucy.

"Do you think the brakes failed?"

"She didn't brake," said Lucy, picturing the rear end of the car. "The brake lights never went on." Lucy sniffled. "Is Jennifer going to be okay?"

For a moment, the young officer's true emotions broke through his professional demeanor, and Lucy caught a glimpse of ragged grief. He quickly caught himself, his back straightened, and he answered in clipped tones.

"They're doing everything they can, but I don't want to mislead you. It doesn't look good."

Lucy swayed a bit, catching herself against the Subaru.

"Can I take Miss Tilley home? She's very old. I'm worried she'll go into shock."

"Sure," he said. "Someone'll be in touch with you later."

After she had returned Zoe to her car seat and was back in the driver's seat, she turned to face Miss Tilley.

"I'm going to take you home."

"We mustn't leave."

"The officer said we could. They'll follow up later."

"I want to make sure Jennifer is all right. I remember when she got her first library card. Such a bright little girl."

"They'll soon have her out of the car and off to the hospital," Lucy lied. "Everything's going to be okay."

"Don't patronize me," snapped Miss Tilley. "Anyone can see she must be severely hurt. We must stay and make sure she's properly cared for."

"Trust me, they're doing everything they can," Lucy said, with a sudden flash of temper. Miss Tilley had been bossing people around for too long, she decided, starting the car. "We're in the way here."

Miss Tilley put up no further opposition as Lucy drove her home. By the time they arrived at her little half-Cape house, Lucy was beginning to regret her outburst. The poor old woman was doubtlessly carrying a heavy burden of guilt and grief, as well as the shock of the accident.

When Lucy helped her out of the car she noticed that her wrists stuck out of her coat sleeves like sticks, and she stood unsteadily for a minute until Lucy took her arm and helped her up

the walk. She was probably living on nothing but tea and toast, guessed Lucy, as she went back for Zoe.

Lucy soon had Miss Tilley installed in her usual armchair, snugly wrapped in a soft afghan. Folding Lenk's filthy quilt, Lucy set it outside on the back porch. Returning to the kitchen, she sniffed. The house smelled stale, something she had never noticed before.

She put the kettle on to boil and looked for something for lunch. As she had guessed, the kitchen was poorly stocked. The refrigerator contained nothing but a stick of butter, a tube of hemorrhoid ointment, a bottle of lemon juice, and a bag full of flash- light batteries

.

Shrugging, she turned to investigate the pantry, but found little there except a few cans of soup and vegetables. Standing on the floor, however, were quite a few empty sherry bottles. There was one on the shelf, half full, and she helped herself to a swig. Feeling its warmth spread through her, she took another.

Lucy popped the last four slices of bread in the toaster and dumped a can of cream of mushroom soup in a saucepan. She stirred in a bit of milk, and added some canned asparagus.

When she took the plates and cups out of the cabinet, she noticed that although they were neatly stacked, they were not very clean. Was it failing eyesight, she wondered, or too much sherry?

Lucy quickly washed the dishes and made a tray for Miss Tilley. Perching opposite her, with a plate balanced on her knees, Lucy quickly devoured her meal. She hadn't realized how hungry she was, or how tired. The morning's events had sapped her energy.

Zoe, also, was ready for lunch. Lucy picked her up and settled back in the couch to nurse and sip her tea.

Miss Tilley, she observed, was only playing with her food.

"You should try to eat."

"It's the speed," said the old woman, shaking her head. "These young people drive too fast."

"What do you mean?"

"If that young woman hadn't been driving so fast, I would have seen her."

Lucy sputtered in her teacup. "Are you saying the accident was Jennifer's fault?"

"Of course. It couldn't be my fault. I've been driving for seventy years, and I've never had an accident. I have a perfect driving record."

"What about my mailbox?" Lucy reminded her. "You knocked it right over. And Franny Small? You nearly smashed into her last week."

"Franny is notoriously absentminded. She shouldn't be al¬lowed to drive."

"And my mailbox? Did it leap in front of you?

"Well, it is in an awkward location..."

"Nonsense. It's precisely where it's supposed to be. And it's high time you stopped blaming everybody and everything for your own mistakes. You're too old to drive."

As soon as the words were out Lucy regretted them. Miss Tilley looked as if she'd been slapped in the face.

"I am not too old to drive. My father drove until the day he died. He was ninety-four."

And he probably died in one hell of a crash, thought Lucy, propping Zoe on her shoulder and burping her.

"Everyone is different. Don't forget the roads are busier now." Lucy laid Zoe down on the couch and began to change her diaper. "I think you should consider giving up your license. If you don't, after what's happened, I'm afraid they'll suspend it."

"Even though the accident wasn't my fault?"

"Enough," said Lucy, firmly snapping the diaper cover in place. "I saw everything. The accident was definitely your fault."

Miss Tilley poked at a piece of toast with her fork. Honestly, thought Lucy, she was as stubborn as a two-year-old.

Miss Tilley looked up. "If I surrender my license, I'll lose my independence."

"You could ride the Senior Shuttle," said Lucy, referring to a van service provided by the local Senior Council.

"With all those doddering fools and half-wits? And you can't go when you want. You have to make an appointment."

"Take a taxi, then."

"Think of the expense! Not to mention having Billy Smits knowing all my business."

"It's time to face facts. You need some help. To be honest, it seems to me you're not doing such a great job of housekeeping."

"Too busy." She waved a large, bony hand.

Lucy sat Zoe in her lap and held her tiny chest with one hand while she gently patted her back with the other.

"The house is dirty, you're not eating properly, you need to make some changes."

"Hmmph," said Miss Tilley, looking right past her head and out the window. "Look at handsome Mr. Bluejay, at the bird feeder."

Lucy turned and saw a bit of blue plastic bread wrapper caught on a twig.

"That's not," she began, but seeing the rapt expression on her old friend's face, she paused. "He is a handsome fellow, isn't he?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Ted was just wrapping up an interview with Don Swazey, the owner of an impressive matchbook collection, when his pager went off. Glancing at the number, he asked permission to use the phone.

"It's me," he said to Phyllis, the imperturbable woman who answered the phone, took the classified ads, maintained the subscription list, and proofread all the copy.

"Oh, Ted, I think you better get over to Lenk's gas station. The scanner's been going crazy. Sounds like a bad accident."

"Damn," said Ted, who hated covering accidents. "I'm on my way," he said, and replaced the receiver. "Mr. Swazey, I'm afraid I've got to go. Do you mind if I take your picture for the paper?"

"Not at all. How about if I hold this one? It's the jewel in the crown of my collection," he said, proudly displaying an aged match-book printed with palm trees.

"Fine," said Ted, raising the camera. "Now, where's that one from?"

"The Coconut Grove nightclub in Boston."

"You don't say," said Ted, reaching for the proferred bit of cardboard. Everybody knew about the tragic Coconut Grove fire; Ted had recently seen a piece about it in New England Life magazine, complete with photos of charred victims, still seated at their tables. The fire was thought to have started when some paper palm-frond decorations caught fire in the popular night spot that was packed with soldiers celebrating the end of World War II. The fire grew very quickly, consuming all the oxygen, so that those who hadn't burned to death had suffocated. Only a handful of the hundreds who packed the club that night had survived.

"I was one of the lucky ones," Mr. Swazey said.

"You were there the night of the fire?" Ted asked.

"Nope. The night before. We were going to go the night of the fire, but my date had to work. She was a nurse. So we moved it up. I proposed to her that night. Pretty lucky, hunh?"

"I'd say so," Ted agreed. "Thanks for the interview. I'm sorry I've got to run."

Fires, thought Ted. These days it always seemed to be fires. At least an auto accident would be a change, he thought, as he drove to the scene. A nice spectacular crash for page one. Something where the car was a total wreck, but the driver walked away without a scratch. That way he wouldn't have to call the grieving family for information about the deceased.

Some life this is, he muttered, as the cop directing traffic away from the accident waved him through. Maybe it was time to give up small-town news and go into public relations.

Approaching the little Tercel, Ted swallowed hard. This looked like a bad one. Rescue workers had removed the roof of the little car, but were still unable to extricate the driver.

"Jeesus Christ," swore Fire Chief Pulaski. "Closest air bag's over at Wilton. Goddamn town meeting!" he exploded. Catching sight of Ted, he added, "And you can quote me on that!"

Ted nodded grimly, as the chief stormed past. Last spring Pulaski had asked town meeting voters to approve the purchase of a heavy-duty rescue air bag and they had turned him down. Now he had to borrow one from a neighboring town, losing precious time.

"Who's in the car?" he asked the kid who worked at the gas station.

"Jennifer Mitchell. The Medflight helicopter is on the way, but they can't get her out. Her legs are caught under the engine block."

Ted nodded. No wonder Pulaski was so upset. His daughter, Molly, played on the high school field hockey team with Jennifer. Ted usually covered the games, and had often seen Pulaski there, cheering the girls on. Ted remembered Jennifer running down the field in her regulation kilt, long blond hair streaming behind her, to score a goal.

That was the trouble with small towns, he remembered a state trooper telling him. You knew everybody—the crooks, the troublemakers, and the victims. He was sick of writing about the people he knew, his friends, and the horrible things that happened to them.

"Copter's landed on the football field," he heard a firefighter tell the chief.

"Damn," said Pulaski. "Where the hell is Wilton?"

"Out of my way, Stillings." Ted recognized Police Chief Crow ley's gruff voice, and turned to face him. He was carrying a large aluminum case.

"Wilton broke down coupla miles from here," said Crowley. "Fella said you wanted this."

"Right," said Pulaski, reaching for the case. "C'mon, boys, let's get this thing under the engine."

As the men busied themselves positioning the airbag and starting the compressor, Ted began snapping pictures. He finished off one roll of film and reloaded, watching breathlessly as Pulaski gave the order and the airbag began to inflate.

At first, it seemed as if the weight of the engine block was too much for the bag; nothing moved. The compressor continued hissing and the bag grew larger and larger, until finally the crushed metal yielded, groaning in protest.

"Hold it there!" shouted Pulaski.

The fireman who was manning the compressor adjusted a valve, and the bag stopped growing. Ted held his breath; it seemed incredible that air pressure was powerful enough to lift the engine and keep it from crashing back down.

In a matter of seconds the medics had Jennifer out of the car and into the ambulance. Minutes later, Ted saw the helicopter rise into the sky and fly off toward the trauma unit at the hospital in Portland.

"That was pretty amazing," Ted said to Crowley.

"Nah," he answered. "Modern technology."

"Actually, I meant what you did. If you hadn't brought the airbag that girl would still be stuck in the car."

"It was nothin'," said Crowley. "I heard it on the radio, and happened to be in the vicinity."

"It's your day off," Ted persisted.

"What are you? Some kinda wise-ass, know-it-all reporter?"

Crowley's voice was just as gruff as ever, but Ted noticed a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

"You're damned right I am," he shot back. Ted gave him a quick salute and hurried back to his car. He had to get to the office. He had a story to write.