Trick or Treat Murder (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Ted Stillings, editor-in-chief, reporter, photographer, and publisher of The Penny saver, parked his aging subcompact in front of the Hopkins Homestead and climbed out.

"Whew," he said, shaking his head. He'd covered a lot of fires in his career, but never one this bad. There was literally nothing left of the house. The massive chimney, now black with soot and surrounded by a mound of charred rubble, was all that remained.

A yellow plastic ribbon encircled the site, and a few curious onlookers stood politely behind it. Inside the cordon, Fire Chief Stan Pulaski stood chatting with Police Chief Oswald Crowley. Ted lifted the yellow ribbon, ducked under it, and approached them.

"Hey, you! Stay behind that line," ordered Crowley. He knew perfectly well who Ted was, but enjoyed being as obnoxious as possible.

"Cut it out, Crowley," yelled Ted. "I need some information."

"You think writing that paper of yours gives you special privileges or something?" Crowley narrowed his eyes, and picked at his yellow teeth with his fingernail.

"People want to know what happened and I want to tell them," said Ted, turning to face Pulaski. "So, Chief, what's the story?"

"I haven't finished the report yet," he answered affably. "Soon as I do you can pick up a copy at the station."

"Thanks." Ted surveyed the scene. "Mind if I take a few pictures?"

"I guess that'll be all right. Stay clear of the debris, okay?"

"Sure."

Ted walked off a short way and pulled his camera out of the worn bag that hung from his shoulder. He busied himself screwing on a lens and adjusting the exposure while keeping one ear cocked. He wasn't above a little discreet eavesdropping.

"Damn reporters," he heard Crowley mutter.

"Better get used to it," advised Pulaski. "This is gonna be a big story, soon as somebody figures out we've had four fires in four months."

Ted looked through the viewfinder and stepped a little closer to the two chiefs.

"He's late." Crowley consulted his watch. "Girl in his office said he'd be here at nine."

"Here he is," announced Pulaski, nodding as an official blue van pulled into the driveway. Neat white letters on the side and back read FIRE MARSHAL.

Ted whistled softly to himself, pulled out his notebook, and joined the two chiefs in greeting the newcomer.

"Mike Rogers, assistant fire marshal," he said with a grin, ex¬tending his hand. Rogers was a friendly fellow.

"Ted Stillings, Pennysaver Press," said Ted, shouldering his way between Crowley and Pulaski and grasping his hand. "Have you got Sparky with you?" Ted knew all about Sparky, the accelerant-sniffing dog, from the frequent press releases issued by the state fire marshal's office.

"Sure do. He's right here."

Rogers opened the back door of the van and released the dog, a youthful black Labrador, from his portable wire kennel. Sparky gave an enormous yawn, stretched, shook himself, and waited pa¬tiently while his leash was fastened. Then, walking smartly beside his handler, he went to work.

"This dog's been trained to identify more than a hundred dif¬ferent accelerants?" asked Ted, pointedly ignoring Crowley's disapproving glare.

"That's right. He went to a special school in Michigan. I went too. We work as a team."

"Is that right?" asked Ted, scribbling away in his notebook. "Where does Sparky live?"

"He lives with me. He's part of the family. When I go to work, he goes, too."

"Is he a good pet?"

"He's great. My kids love him," said Rogers, pausing at the edge of the debris and scratching the dog's neck. "Okay, the way we do this is we sweep the site in a systematic way, working from the outside in. Don't follow me, Ted. There may be hot spots and I don't want to disturb any evidence."

"So what made you call in the fire marshal, Chief?" Ted threw out the question in a deliberately offhand manner as he peeredthrough the viewfinder. "Is there something suspicious about this fire?"

Crowley and Pulaski exchanged glances.

"It was a very fast, very hot fire. The house was completely engaged in a matter of minutes. That doesn't happen unless there are multiple points of origin." Pulaski took off his peaked cap and wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.

"You mean arson?"

"Maybe."

"Crowley, have you got any suspects?" There was a slight challenge in Ted's tone.

"No comment." Crowley's attention was on the dog, who had assumed a classic pointing position. "There?" he called.

"Yup," said Rogers, squatting down and opening a toolbox. As they watched he took a sample of the burned material and care¬fully placed it in a jar.

Sparky indicated the presence of accelerant in three more lo¬cations along what had been the outside wall of the house. Once he began investigating the inside, however, he didn't seem to find anything. The man and the dog worked slowly, stepping gingerly among the blackened boards and other charred remains. Ted had plenty of time to get some dramatic photos of Sparky in action.

Rogers spoke softly to the dog, encouraging him and keeping his mind on his task. They had reached the far side of the house, behind the chimney, when the dog began whining and scratching frantically at the rubble.

"What's he found?" shouted Pulaski, hurrying over. "More accelerant?"

"No." Rogers shook his head. "I'm afraid you've got some human remains here."

"A body" Crowley was doubtful. "This is just a summer place. Nobody's here after Labor Day."

"He only does this when he finds a body," said Rogers. He glanced at the dog who was standing rigid and shivering.

"There is no body here," insisted Crowley. "I don't see a body. There's nothing but ashes."

"It was a hot fire," Rogers reminded him. "There's probably teeth, bone fragments, maybe even jewelry. I'll have to call in specialists from the medical examiner's office. Meanwhile, let's get this area secured and covered with a tarp."

"Winchell," Crowley yelled to a young officer who was standing nearby. "Find Carter. Get on this right away."

"Okay, Chief," he said, setting off across the yard at a trot.

"I think we're about done here," said Rogers, gently tugging at Sparky's leash and leading the trembling dog back to the van. "Good boy." He stroked the animal behind his ears. Sparky gave him a look of doggy adoration and licked his hand.

"What happens now?" Ted asked the chief. But before Crowley could tell Ted to mind his own business he was interrupted by Winchell.

"Chief, Carter's found a car behind that shed. A BMW."

"Damn," said the chief. The last thing he wanted was a homicide.

"You, Stillings." He stabbed a fiat finger at Ted's chest. "I want you out of here." He cocked his thumb. "Now."

"Okay, okay," said Ted, holding his hands up. "I know when I'm not wanted."

He started off toward his car, and Pulaski joined him, walking companionably alongside. Unlike the police chief, Pulaski understood the value of a good working relationship with the local media.

"Check at the station, Ted. We'll be scheduling a press conference this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest."

"Thanks."

"No problem." He paused. "I have something to say." Ted got out his pad, and when he was ready, Pulaski continued. "I hate arson. Every time my men go out to fight a fire, they put themselves at risk. Every time. And now we've got a death. Somebody died in this fire.

"This is my pledge to the people of Tinker's Cove: I'm going to catch this bastard. But I need help. Anybody sees any suspicious activity, especially around a vacant building, call us. Call right away. Arson's hard to prove, unless the perpetrator is caught in the act. Got that?"

"Got it."

Humming softly to himself, Ted got behind the wheel of his car. He was already rearranging the front page in his mind. Scratch the photo of the jack-o'-lantern, put the "Healthy Holiday Treats" interview with the school dietitian on page five, move "Officer Culpepper's Rules for a Safe Halloween" to page six. Arson, homi¬cide, this was going to be one hell of a Halloween issue.

CHAPTER THREE

There was an annoying buzz in the room. If she didn't stop it, it would wake up the baby.

Lucy sat up in bed. She opened her eyes. Zoe was sleeping peacefully in her white wicker bassinet. She couldn't find the hum.

"Lucy, turn off the alarm."

"Unh." She reached out and pressed the button. She flopped back on her pillow and felt herself slipping back in the warm cocoon of sleep. So easy to drift off, except for the tug of her conscience. She had to get the kids ready for school, and Bill off to work. She threw off the covers and sat up, groping for slippers and robe. Standing, she staggered slightly and caught her balance on the door frame.

She crossed the hall to her eleven-year-old son's room. Picking her way carefully across the dirty clothes and sports equipment that littered the floor, she gave his shoulder a shake. "Toby, it's time to get up."

Next she stuck her head in Sara and Elizabeth's room. "Good morning, girls," she called. Elizabeth was nine, going on twenty- nine, and Sara was five.

She went down the steep back stairs to the kitchen, made the coffee, and continued on into the downstairs bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face and looked in the mirror. Short black hair stuck out all over her head and there were bags under her eyes. She looked terrible. What did she expect? She'd been up most of the night with the baby. She brushed her teeth.

Back in the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, resting her head on her hands.

"Mom, I need you to sign this." Toby's voice pulled her back to consciousness.

"What is it?"

"A pledge that you won't abuse your body by taking any illegal drugs."

"No problem," she mumbled, scribbling her name. "Got any speed, man?"

"What?"

"Nothing." She took a long swallow of coffee.

When she next opened her eyes, she saw Bill standing at the counter, dressed for work in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans, buttering a pile of toast.

"Sara, that pink scrunchy is mine," said Elizabeth.

"No, it isn't." Sara's voice started to climb the scale. "It's mine!"

"Let her wear it," said Lucy.

"That's so unfair. You're always siding with her." Elizabeth stamped across the kitchen and plunked herself down on a chair.

"What's the matter with your eye?" asked Bill, setting a glass of orange juice in front of her.

Lucy squinted suspiciously at Elizabeth. She reached out and ran a finger across her eyelid.

"Eye shadow! Wash it off."

Elizabeth glared at her, then stomped off to the bathroom.

"More coffee" Bill had the pot ready.

"Please. Intravenously."

"Mom, can you come to school tomorrow?" asked Sara. "Officer Barney is visiting our class." Sara was in kindergarten, and she loved it. After watching Toby and Elizabeth go off to school every day, she was finally in school, too.

"Sure," said Lucy. She looked up as Elizabeth returned. "That looks much better."

"All the other girls wear makeup."

"Right." Lucy heard the roar of the school bus engine, as it began the climb up Red Top Road. "You better get going. The bus will be here any minute."

The kids pushed and shoved, grabbing their backpacks and lunches, then clattered out, slamming the door behind them. Lucy picked herself up and started up the stairs, heading back to bed.

"What the hell?" Bill was peering out the kitchen window, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

Lucy joined him. "Oh, my God," she groaned, spotting a huge old Chrysler Imperial turning into the driveway, narrowly missing a whiskey barrel planted with bronze chrysanthemums. "It's Miss Tilley. What could she want so early in the morning?"

"The old witch probably hasn't been to bed yet," said Bill. "Probably been riding her broomstick all night."

Stifling a yawn, Lucy opened the door. "Miss Tilley, what a nice surprise!"

Like most everyone in Tinker's Cove, Lucy didn't dare address the old woman by her first name. Only a select group of her dearest friends referred to Julia Ward Howe Tilley, the former librarian of the Broadbrooks Free Library, as Julia.

Casting a disapproving glance at Lucy, who found herself involuntarily buttoning up her ratty old velour robe, the old woman wasted no time getting to the point. "Bill, it was really you I came to see," she said, baring her complete set of rather dingy original teeth in a ferocious smile.

"Me?"

"Sit down. I have something I want to discuss. You, too, Lucy."

Meekly, they obeyed, waiting while the old woman settled herself.

"As you know," she began, folding her knobby, arthritic hands together on the edge of the table, "I am a member of the Tinker's Cove Historic District Commission. The chairman, in fact. Unfortunately, we have a vacancy now that Porter Lambkin has resigned. He has cancer and says his treatment will prevent him from attending meetings." From Miss Tilley's expression, it was clear she disapproved. In her eyes, sickness was usually nothing more than a convenient excuse for neglecting one's duty.

"I wouldn't have expected it of him," she fumed. "He's left us in a terrible predicament."

"What do you mean?" asked Lucy.

"Remember when the commission was created? It was supposed to protect the town from tasteless, rampant development. People saw what happened in Freeport, and wanted to make sure that could never happen here. They voted to designate almost all of the town as a historic district, and set up the commission to review all proposals for change within the district. No one who owns property within the district can make any changes without getting a certificate of appropriateness from the commission."

Lucy and Bill knew all about the commission, usually referred to in The Pennysaver as the TCHDC. More and more, however, people were calling it the "hysterical commission." While most everyone agreed it was important to preserve the character of the town, they resented having to get official approval whenever they wanted to change the color of the front door.

"I've been on the commission from the beginning, and so has Porter and Hancock Smith. You know Hancock—the president of the Historical Society. And then there was Kitty Slack and Gerald Asquith from the college. Gerald decided not to run for reelection, and, well, you know all about Kitty."

Lucy did. Only a few months had passed since Kitty, a wealthy widow, had jilted her faithful suitor Gerald Asquith and left town unexpectedly, accompanied by a silver fox of a time-share salesman.

"Only three people were on the ballot for two seats, and one of them was Kitty. It was too late to get her name off the ballot so Jock Mulligan and Doug Durning really ran unopposed. We used to have a nice unanimous board, but those two apparently have a different agenda. They will approve anything. It didn't matter while we had Porter, but now that he's gone the commission has been stalemated. Our votes are always tied. We can't even agree on a fifth member to fill in until elections next year. Then I thought of you, Bill."

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Me?"

"You." Sitting with her back to the window, Miss Tilley's white hair glowed angelically. Her blue eyes twinkled. She smiled sweetly. Anyone who didn't know her would think she was a perfectly nice old lady.

"It's positively Machiavellian, if I say so myself," she cackled. "They can't say no to you. You're a restoration carpenter. You have impeccable credentials."

"I'd like to help," said Bill, "but I don't think I have the time."

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "And what do you do most evenings?"

Bill squirmed uneasily.

"I bet you watch TV. Mental masturbation, that's what I call it."

Lucy pressed her lips together, to keep from giggling, and looked at Bill.

"There's nothing the matter with TV," he grumbled. "How often does this thing meet?"

"Once a month."

"I guess I can manage that," he agreed. "But I'm warning you, I'll have to vote the way I see fit."

"Of course, you must vote your conscience," she said, laying heavy emphasis on the last word. "Then we'll see you tomorrow night. Seven o'clock at the town hall."

'Tomorrow? That means I'll miss Seinfeld!"

Miss Tilley silenced him with a stare. Only one avenue was left. Bill grabbed his lunch box, gave Lucy a peck on the cheek, and hurried out.

"I'm glad you asked him," said Lucy. "He has a lot to offer. It's about time he got involved. He needs something to take his mind off the Hopkins Homestead fire."

"My thoughts exactly," said Miss Tilley, casting an apprais¬ing glance at Lucy. "My dear, I hope you'll take a little bit of advice from an old friend. Even a spinster like myself knows you'll never keep a man interested if you let yourself go the way you have."

Lucy ran a hand through her hair, suddenly self-conscious.

Miss Tilley rose. "You're really quite attractive when you make an effort, my dear. Now, I must be off."

Lucy watched from the door as she trotted across die yard and climbed into her huge old Chrysler, a 1974 Imperial. That was some car, thought Lucy, guessing it was nearly ten feet long. A dinosaur of an automobile decked with tons of chrome. She winced as it lurched into gear, and Miss Tilley slowly wrestled it through a three-point turn. Built on the theory that size equals comfort, the designers had given little thought to maneuverability. In this car you didn't avoid obstacles, you ran right over them.

Miss Tilley finally had the car pointed in the right direction, and gave Lucy a litde wave before flooring the gas pedal. Lucy wondered if she could actually see over the steering wheel as she careened down the driveway. She never even noticed when she knocked over the mailbox.

Lucy shook her head, and was thinking of slipping back between the sheets for a quick nap when the phone rang.

"Are you okay?" inquired Sue.

"Sure. Why?"

"You sound so groggy. Do you have a cold.?"

"No. Zoe didn't sleep much last night."

"Six-week growth spurt ?"

"Probably."

"Listen, Lucy. I had a great idea. I want to have a big Halloween party for the whole town in the Hallett House. Whaddya think?"

"Sounds like fun. Will the fire chief let you do it?"

"I just got off the phone with him. He said he'll issue a temporary occupancy permit if we clean the place up and it passes his inspection."

Hearing a cry from upstairs, Lucy was distracted.

"What? I think I hear Zoe."

"Listen, Lucy, will you help with the party?"

Zoe's cries were coming more frequently, threatening to become a full-blown wail. "Sure. What can I do?"

"Cupcakes ?"

Zoe was now screaming, and Lucy could feel her breasts tingle as her milk let down. All she could think of was the baby. "Sure. No problem. How many?"

"Twelve dozen?"

"Okay. I gotta go. Bye." Lucy slammed the earpiece onto the hook, hiked up her long flannel nightie and robe, and started up the stairs taking them two at a time. "Hang on, baby! Mommy's coming!"