Trick or Treat Murder (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

"What's all the fuss about?" crooned Lucy, bending over the bassinet. Zoe's face was red with rage; she was in no mood for small talk. "I bet you want your breakfast," said Lucy. She scooped up the baby and perched on the side of the bed, offering her breast.

Zoe took it greedily, and began sucking energetically. Feeling herself beginning to relax, Lucy considered falling back on to the pillows, but Zoe was having none of that. She suddenly pulled her head away, leaving Lucy to clamp a diaper over her spraying milk ducts. Lucy tickled the baby's cheek with her milky nipple, but Zoe wasn't interested. She had a soaking wet diaper, and knew perfectly well that it was time for a change and a bath. Lucy knew it, too, but had hoped to postpone it for a bit.

"You're so... conservative," she said, placing the baby on her shoulder. "If it's eight-thirty, it must be bath-time."

In the kitchen, Lucy propped Zoe in her plastic baby seat and set it on the counter. She flipped on the radio and began loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. She gave the counter a quick wipe, lined the big porcelain sink with a hand towel, and began filling it with warm water.

Cocking an ear to the radio for the morning news, she gave Zoe a big smile, tickled her tummy, and eased her out of her rather damp terry suit. Removing the wet diaper, she slipped the naked baby into the water.

Cradling her head in the crook of her arm, Lucy listened to the Oil Peddler promise 24-hour delivery as she gently splashed water on Zoe's round tummy.

"Regular exercise can make you look and feel better," advised a feminine voice.

"That's right," said Lucy, nodding and smiling at the baby. At six weeks, she was looking less like a newborn and more like a real baby. Her little limbs were no longer folded tight against her torso. "You love to exercise, don't you? You love to wave those arms and kick those legs."

"My name is Krissy Wright," continued the voice, "and I'm inviting you to stop by my new exercise studio, the Body Shop, for a free introductory class."

"Shall we do that? Would you like to work out? Oh!" said Lucy in surprise, as Zoe splashed her in the face. Zoe gave a little chuckle, and smiled.

"Is that a smile?" cooed Lucy, returning the gesture

.

Zoe's eyes were fixed intently on her mother's face, and she smiled again.

"Definitely a smile," crowed Lucy. "Aren't you a smart little girl!"

Zoe agreed, and flapped her arm rhythmically in the water, startling herself with the resulting splash. Before she could cry, Lucy distracted her by singing along with the radio. "Hey, where ya goin?  I'm goin' to the Lobster Bar, 'cause that's where the best... lobsters are!"

Lucy hummed along with the radio as she quickly soaped Zoe's silky, tiny body, and rinsed her off, then wrapped her in a fluffy towel. With the baby propped against her shoulder, she waltzed around the kitchen gathering the diapering supplies.

Spreading the towel beneath her, she laid Zoe down on the kitchen table. Whenever Lucy saw her like that, naked and helpless, she felt a little stab of fear. So many things could happen to a baby. Just last night she had watched a TV news segment about a dangerous cradle. Nine unwary mothers had tucked their babies in for the night only to find them dead in the morning.

Then there was her own private nightmare, in which she drove off on an errand and forgot the baby. She'd dreamt it often since coming home from the hospital, and always woke up in a panic. Then, she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep until she checked the bassinet and made sure Zoe was safe. After four babies one wouldn't expect these irrational fears to keep popping up, but they did.

"You babies sure know how to drive mommies crazy, yes you do," crooned Lucy, pulling a clean diaper out of the basket of unsorted laundry in the corner. "I'm crazy over you," she sang along with a popular tune, snapping the diaper cover firmly in place. She was just tucking Zoe's arms and legs into a stretchy little suit, when the music ended and the announcer read the news tease.

"Police say a suspicious Tinker's Cove fire claimed the life of at least one victim. More in a moment."

"Oh, no," she muttered, as she settled herself in the rocking chair. As Zoe nuzzled her chest, now eager for a late breakfast, Lucy wondered who the victim could have been.

It couldn't have been any of the Mayes, she assured herself. The family only used the house in the summer. Perhaps it was a vagrant or homeless person who had broken into the empty house looking for a night's shelter.

"Please, please don't let it be one of the kids," she sent up a little prayer. There wasn't much to do in Tinker's Cove, and Toby's friends sometimes did things they shouldn't. Exciting and forbidden things, like entering someone's deserted summer cottage.

Lucy began to nurse, gently stroking her baby's downy head. She bent down and sniffed Zoe's clean baby scent. It was the best smell in the world. Just then the announcer's voice interrupted her reverie.

"The fire that destroyed the Hopkins Homestead early Tuesday morning also claimed the life of its owner, Monica Mayes. Remains found at the site by state fire investigators have been positively identified by the medical examiner."

Lucy sat motionless as Zoe continued her rhythmic sucking. It took a minute for the information to sink in. Gradually, grief engulfed her and tears ran down her face.

"No, not Monica," she whispered.

"This means we are no longer investigating a case of arson," Lucy recognized Police Chief Oswald Crowley's voice, in a recorded sound bite. "This is now a homicide investigation."

Homicide? Who would want to kill Monica? She remembered Monica laughing, recounting how an inept young traffic cop had tied up traffic for miles on Route 1, by stopping the line of cars for every pedestrian who wanted to cross the street. They'd been standing outside, and Monica's coppery hair had blazed in the sun.

Lucy thought of the flames, flickering brightly as they consumed the Homestead.

She remembered Monica flipping through wallpaper books, determined to find exactly the right paper for the bathroom, and her excitement when Bill showed her the 1703 penny that had been placed under the threshold to guarantee prosperity.

Lucy thought of her husband, busy at another old house. He had been so fond of Monica, just as she had. He shouldn't hear this on the radio. She ought to tell him.

Zoe was asleep in her arms. Lucy knew she would sleep soundly for a couple of hours. She carried her upstairs and tucked her in the bassinet, then quickly showered and dressed herself.

An hour later, steering her little silver Subaru wagon along the back roads with Zoe securely fastened in the safety seat, Lucy thought of Monica.

She had been one of Bill's first clients, and initially had seemed to be just another pampered, rich doctor's wife who wanted a summer place that would impress her city friends. When they first discussed the restoration of the Homestead, Bill had come prepared with estimates for alarm systems, air-conditioning, even a Jacuzzi tub.

"I don't know," Monica had said doubtfully, shaking her head. "This is a very old house. Somehow these things don't seem to belong. I know we can't be one hundred percent authentic, after all, this isn't 1703 and I don't want to use an outhouse! But I'd like this to be a place where we live simply, and get back to the basics, know what I mean?"

Bill had nodded.

"What about your husband?" Lucy had asked. "Men don't like to give up their gadgets."

"He says he wants to make a woodpile." Monica shrugged. "I'm not sure he knows how. He's a gynecologist." She changed the subject. "This means so much to me. I've always wanted to have an old house."

At first, Lucy had been a little jealous of Monica. She had money and social status, and although older than Lucy, was still extremely attractive. Her skin was nourished and revitalized, her hair was highlighted and carefully coiffed, and she was a living testament to the benefits of regular exercise.

At the time, Lucy was struggling through the first months of her pregnancy with Toby, and she felt bloated and nauseous. Lucy was pretty sure that if Monica had given Bill the least encouragement, he would have hopped into bed with her.

But she never had. She'd become a friend to both of them. She'd become Bill's eager student, listening carefully as he explained the old construction methods. She insisted that he do what he thought best for the house and refused to cut corners to save money. As a result, the house had been one of Bill's most satisfying projects, and he was justifiably proud of the work he did there.

She took Lucy along to country auctions, and together they learned how to tell the treasures from the trash. When Lucy fell in love with a golden oak high chair, but was quickly outbid by a dealer, Monica noted the buyer's identity. She bought the chair from him, and surprised Lucy with it as a baby gift.

That was the sort of person she was. She quickly became involved in people's lives, and showered them with affection. Always quick to smile and laugh, revealing those pearly white teeth.

Did they use her teeth to identify her? Lucy wondered, with a stab of pain. Had Monica been quietly overcome by smoke in her sleep, or had she woken in a panic realizing the house was on fire? Had she found the doorway blocked by flames, and struggled to open a window? What were her last moments like? Had she been afraid? Had she suffered?

Lucy couldn't bear to think about it. She wanted to remember Monica as she'd been. A beautiful woman who loved life.

How was she going to tell Bill? How could she soften the impact? Bill wasn't the sort of man who expressed his deepest emotions openly, but Lucy knew he'd taken the fire very hard. He hadn't said much, but she knew he was simmering with anger. As she pulled the Subaru up next to Bill's truck and braked, Lucy felt heavy with the weight of the terrible news she had to deliver.

CHAPTER FIVE

Moving automatically, Lucy opened the car door and got out.She pulled open the rear door and reached in to loosen the straps that held the baby seat. Bracing herself, she awkwardly lifted the cumbersome plastic shell that held the baby. Then she climbed the makeshift steps and entered the spacious hall of the Hathorn-Pye house. The house had recently been purchased by the Maine Museum of Fine Arts, and Bill had been hired to restore it.

"Bill?" she called.

"I'm in here," he answered. Lucy followed his voice and found him bent over a window frame in one of the front rooms.

"This is a nice surprise," he said, looking up.

"Zoe was restless," improvised Lucy, trying to ease her way into breaking the news, "so I took her for a drive." She set down the heavy baby seat, and tucked a shawl around the sleeping baby.

"I thought you'd be back in bed."

"I wish I was," she confessed, crossing the room to stand beside him. "Sue called and the phone woke the baby. Wotcha doin'?"

"Taking a paint sample, so I can figure out the original color."

"This is a lovely house," observed Lucy, looking around. "I love the proportions."

"It's a classic Georgian," said Bill. "The museum was smart to buy it. They got it for a song. It's a fine house, Captain Hathorn spared no expense when he built it. It was his statement to the world that he had arrived." Bill began carefully dismantling the window frame.

"I love the big front hall, and those stairs."

"That hallway told visitors the captain had money to waste on space that wasn't needed for cooking or sleeping."

"I wonder what the captain's wife was like," mused Lucy.

"Which oner asked Bill, carefully prying off a piece of window casing. "The first three all died in childbirth, not one lived past twenty-five. The fourth was a rich old widow who already had six children."

"My goodness," said Lucy, recalled to her grim task. "Bill, I've got some bad news. Terrible news."

He straightened up and turned to face her.

"Monica was there," said Lucy, her voice breaking. "She died in the fire."

He shook his head, refusing to believe her. "It must have been somebody else. A vagrant or something. Monica was never there except in the summer."

"She was there. They've identified her." Tears were now run¬ning down her face.

"Where did you hear this?" Bill's voice was sharp.

"On the radio."

His face went white and slack; he looked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. Then his jaw tightened and he turned away, facing the wall. Raising his fist, he slammed it against the tough old horsehair plaster, raising a cloud of dust.

Lucy reached up and touched his shoulder. He spun around and drew her against him, burying his face in her hair. They clung together for a long time. Finally, he pulled himself away and began to pace.

"Dammit," he said, suddenly stricken with guilt. "It was my fault. There was no smoke alarm in that house. They changed the code a year or two later. If I'd thought to put one in she might have lived. At least she would have had a chance to get out."

"It's not your fault. You did everything you were supposed to. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Damn. I hate fires."

"I know," said Lucy, thinking once again of the flames, remorselessly consuming everything and leaving only ashes. And bones. She shivered. "Do you want to take the day off? We could go for a ride or something—something to take our minds off the fire." She wiped her face with a crumpled tissue she'd found in her pocket.

"Thanks," he said, gently caressing her shoulder. "I'd rather work. I've got some old ceiling tile upstairs that has to come down. Today seems like a good day to rip a building apart."

"Just be sure you stop with the ceiling tile," said Lucy, attempting a feeble joke. "I don't want you to tear down the whole place."

"I'm not guaranteeing anything," said Bill, pulling a crowbar out of his toolbox and picking up the battered old tape player he kept on the job. "You'd better get out of here if you don't want Zoe to wake up. I'm gonna play some AC/DC—real loud."

"Be careful," cautioned Lucy. "We don't need any broken bones."

"See ya later," he said, mounting the stairs.

Back in the car, heading for home, Lucy could think of nothing but the fires. Sue was wrong. These fires weren't just happening. She was sure someone was setting them. But who? What sort of person would do such a thing? Did he stand in the dark, watching as the flames grew stronger, listening for die wail of the sirens? Why did he do it? Was he frightened, now that someone had died? Or was he thrilled by the fact that he had taken a human life? Would Monica's death spur him on to set more fires?

Pulling into her driveway, Lucy regarded her own comfortable home. A spacious white clapboard farmhouse, it had been built in the 1850s, just before the Civil War. The builder was known to have had strong abolitionist sympathies, and some people believed the house had been a stop on the Underground Railroad.

Lucy loved her house. She loved the fact that it was old, and die thought of the many generations it had sheltered reassured her. To her the house was a tangible link to the past, and a launching pad for the future. More than a wedding ring, or a big diamond, it was proof of the commitment she and Bill had made to each other. The house had been in terrible shape when they bought it, a real handyman's special, and they had labored together to make it a home.

We could be next, she thought, feeling very vulnerable. The house, after all, was nothing but wood. Mostly old wood. Like the others, it would go up in a flash We're not safe. Nobody's safe, she thought, nobody who lives in an old house.

She shifted into park, switched off the engine, and began to unfasten the straps that held Zoe in the safety seat. Still sound asleep, Zoe didn't even blink. Lucy gazed at her beautiful baby and gently stroked her cheek. What if their house began to burn like the Hopkins Homestead? Would she be able to save Zoe?

She didn't want to find out. Whoever was setting the fires, this maniac, had to be found and stopped.