Trick or Treat Murder (5 page)

Bitsy smiled brightly as Lucy approached the desk.

"That's really heavy reading," she joked, taking the hefty volume. "Sure I can't interest you in something lighter? We have some brand new mysteries."

"I don't have much time to read anymore with the baby. I'm just doing a bit of research."

"We have some excellent material on postpartum depression," offered Bitsy, determined to be helpful.

"I'm fine, really," said Lucy. "Just curious about something."

Bitsy couldn't resist. "Curiosity killed the cat. Now, why do people say that? Curiosity is wonderful, isn't it?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes it gets you in trouble." Lucy took the book and tucked it under her arm. She knew from experience that asking questions could be dangerous.

Not this time, she thought, as she left the library and headed for Sue's house. She was determined to find out who was setting the fires, but, she promised herself, she was going to be careful. Very careful.

Besides, she didn't really have enough time to get into too much trouble. Before she started investigating, she had to bake some cupcakes. How many had she promised Sue? Two dozen?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Twelve dozen? I said I'd bake twelve dozen cupcakes? I must have been out of my mind." Lucy was sitting at the huge scrubbed pine harvest table in Sue's kitchen. Sue was always remodeling her kitchen—it had gone from cluttered country to fifties kitsch and now had a definite English accent. A plate rack hung near the sink, a Welsh cupboard hugged one wall, and a cobalt blue Aga stove was her pride and joy.

"You were kind of distracted," admitted Sue. "Forget it. Two dozen will be fine."

"Oh, no," said Lucy. "I'll manage." She knew she owed Sue a favor for taking care of Zoe, and she wanted to even the score as soon as possible. "Did the baby give you much trouble?"

"No. She's a little angel," said Sue. "She fussed a little bit when she realized I wasn't her mommy, she tried the bottle and didn't like it, and gave up and went to sleep. It's a shame to wake her— want some lunch?"

"Sure," said Lucy.

"I've got some leftover Cornish pasties."

"Sounds great," said Lucy, who hadn't the faintest idea what a Cornish pasty was, but was always hungry.

"That was terrible about Monica, wasn't it?" said Sue, popping the meat pies into the microwave.

"I'm still having trouble believing it really happened," admitted Lucy. "What was she doing at the house this time of year, anyway? She only came in the summer." Lucy looked away, staring out the window.

"She had kids, didn't she?"

"All grown up, thank goodness." Lucy's voice quavered, and Sue quickly changed the subject.

"I called the Body Shop. They do have child care, and we can take one free class to try it out. Whaddya say we go over after lunch?"

"Today?"

"Sure," said Sue, slipping a steaming plate in front of Lucy. "These things are full of carbohydrates and fat grams and I don't know what all. Positively deadly."

"Delicious," said Lucy, savoring a mouthful.

An hour later, with Zoe safely installed in the child care center at the Body Shop, Lucy was calculating her chances of surviving the "Basic Body" class.

"Now that's five, and four, and only three more," said the perky blond instructor. They had been at this for forty-five minutes and Vicki had never stopped smiling, never stopped bouncing. Lucy had never seen anyone so completely fit—even Vicki's ponytail was perfectly conditioned. "Okay, now it's time to cool down. Take a deep breath. In, hold it, and out. That's right. Doesn't that feel good?"

Lucy stared at her reflection in the mirror that covered the wall. No doubt about it, she definitely needed this. She had borrowed an old leotard from Sue, and the tight spandex revealed a doughy stomach, flabby arms and thighs. Even her face was puffy. How had this happened? She used to have so much energy, she used to run miles every week. Now, it was all she could do to get up the stairs. And truth be told, she was still wearing her maternity clothes because her old things didn't fit. She either had to get back in shape or buy a whole new wardrobe.

"Okay, ladies, you're done. Now, don't you feel great?"

Lucy laid back on the wood floor, trying to find the energy to get up.

"Come on, lazybones," said Sue, extending a hand. She looked fresh as ever, much to Lucy's disgust.

Lucy took Sue's hand and pulled herself to her feet. Her legs felt wobbly underneath her. But, standing in the shower a few minutes later, she had to admit she felt better than she had in a long time. As the hot water poured over her tired body, soothing her aches and pains, she was aware of herself in a new way. There were muscles under that flab. She decided to sign-up for a membership.

Refreshed and dressed, checkbook in hand, she approached the front desk.

"Hi, I'm Krissy. May I help your' asked another bright blonde, displaying a dazzling smile.

"I'd like to sign up for the introductory special," said Lucy, glancing at a banner hanging on the brick wall.

"Super! You won't be sorry—it's an investment in yourself. Now, if you'll just fill out this form ... sorry, I better get that phone." She slipped a sheet of paper in front of Lucy, handed her a pen, and picked up the phone, all in one smooth motion.

Lucy began filling in the blanks, while Krissy took the call.

"Body Shop... where fitness is fun. Oh, hi." From the change in tone, Lucy guessed this was someone special.

"What news? I've been so busy with opening the studio that I haven't had time to read the paper or anything. A fire?"

Curious, Lucy glanced at Krissy in time to see an expression of satisfaction flicker across her features. Then, she heard her murmur, "I just can't believe it. I'm so sorry. I'm here for you, you know that."

Krissy hung up the receiver and turned her attention to Lucy. "Sorry about that—my business partner just lost his wife. In a fire. Absolutely awful."

"That's too bad. It wasn't Monica Mayes, was it?"

"Did you know her?" Krissy's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"A little," said Lucy.

"Of course. Everybody knows everybody in a town like this. I'm not used to it—I'm from the city. Now, that'll be twenty-nine dollars, and the membership is good for a month. You can take any regularly scheduled classes, use the showers. There is an extra charge for sessions with a personal trainer, massage, things like that. Child care is included. Any questions?"

"No," said Lucy, handing over her check. She was struck by the sudden change in Krissy's attitude. The smile was gone and she was all business. Lucy wondered if she was imagining it, or if Krissy really couldn't wait to get rid of her.

Turning to go toward the nursery, she saw Sue coming out of the dressing room.

"This was a good idea—I got a membership," she said, flashing her brand-new card. "How about you"

"Me? I'm going to think it over. I'm not sure exercise is for me." Sue puckered her face with distaste and lowered her voice. "It made me sweat."

"That's the point. You're supposed to sweat."

"Oh." Sue tapped her pearly pink lips with a perfectly manicured finger, polished to match, then tucked a lock of her shining black Dutch-boy hair behind one ear. "I'd like to keep you company, Lucy, but I don't really think I have the time. I'll let you know."

Lucy watched as her firiend hurried out the door. If Sue wasn't so nice, it would be easy to hate her. She always looked terrific, and she never gained a pound no matter how much she ate. Lucy shook her head and gave a little shrug, then headed for the nursery to retrieve Zoe. She didn't think Sue would have to think it over for very long—she seemed to have already made up her mind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A tapping at the kitchen door startled Lucy. Exhausted by the workout, she had been dozing in Bill's recliner chair. The psychology book lay on the floor, where it had fallen. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, then hurried to the door. She blinked in surprise, recognizing Monica's husband.

Dr. Roland Mayes was the sort of man who always wore a suit and tie, and looked uncomfortable in casual clothes. On his infrequent visits to Tinker's Cove his polo shirts were obviously brand new, straight out of the package, and his casual slacks were crisply creased. Today, however, Roland didn't look band-box fresh. His suit was rumpled as if he'd worn it for several days, and he had a dark five o'clock shadow.

"Come in, come in," said Lucy. She gave him her best smile, hoping he wouldn't realize how desperately she wished he hadn't come. She had never liked him very much. On the rare occasions when she had spoken with him she had gotten the distinct impression that she was boring him. But now, she told herself, the poor man was bereaved. She had a duty to try and comfort him.

"Take a seat," invited Lucy.

Roland staggered slightly as he headed for the chair, causing Lucy to look at him more closely. His face was pasty gray; he looked as if he was going to faint.

"When did you eat last?"

"I don't remember," he said, sitting down heavily at the table and placing a package in front of him. "I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat," she said. "You need to keep up your strength. How about a sandwich ?"

"I could use that," he said. Lucy busied herself mixing up some tuna fish and laying slices of bread out on the counter.

"Bill and I both want you to know how sad we are about Monica," said Lucy. Once again, tears were welling up in her eyes. Fortunately, she had her back to him and was able to brush them away. It wouldn't do to inflict her own grief on this unfortunate man.

"It never should have happened," he said, shaking his head as Lucy set a plate and mug of tea in front of him. 'Tuna salad," he said, looking up. "I haven't had this in years."

"Tuna's a staple around here," said Lucy, taking a sip of her own tea. "I suppose you've been to see the police and all. Are they making any progress in the investigation?"

"None, none at all," he answered, taking a bite of his sand¬wich. "They're absolute incompetents as far as I can tell. I've lost my house, and my wife, and they don't seem to care." His tone was belligerent, almost angry.

"I'm sure that's not true," said Lucy, in a soothing voice.

"Then why did that idiot police chief, Growley or Crowley or whatever his name is, keep me waiting forty-five minutes before he'd see me? And then he gave me the brush-off." Outrage burned in his eyes.

Lucy ventured to guess that Roland knew a brush-off when he encountered one. As a successful doctor, he certainly knew the value of his time. He was most likely an experienced practitioner of the very tactics he deplored in Chief Crowley.

"He's just a small-town cop," said Lucy. "The state police are probably in charge of the investigation."

"I don't care who's in charge. I want some answers. Somebody's gonna have to pay for this," he asserted, slamming his fist on the table and making the crumbs on his plate jump.

"This must be absolutely horrible for you," sympathized Lucy.

"Horrible doesn't begin to describe it." He shook his head. "And it couldn't have come at a worse time. My nomination for the Danforth prize was announced last week, you know."

"I didn't know. Congratulations." She paused. "I'm not familiar with the Danforth. What's it for?"

"The medical society's most prestigious award. It's between me and Feldman, the gastroenterologist. This won't do me much good, I can tell you. The society are a pretty conservative group. They simply will not tolerate the least whiff of scandal."

"How could they hold something as tragic as this against you? I should think you'll get a huge sympathy vote. After all, none of this was your fault."

"You're absolutely right about that. Monica was so stubborn. She always had to have her own way. She wouldn't listen to me. Oh, no! If this was anybody's fault, it was hers."

"Her fault?" Lucy was puzzled. The conversation seemed to have taken a strange turn. Perhaps Roland wasn't quite as distraught as she had first thought.

"She took one look and went running off—wouldn't even wait for an explanation. That would have required rationality, something Monica didn't have a great deal of."

"She was upset about something?"

"You could say that. What the hell? Everybody has fights, right? We'd been married for a long time. Thirty years."

"That is a long time," agreed Lucy.

"Hey, murder only gets you twenty, twenty-five years in this state, right?" It was an old joke, one he told automatically.

"I guess," said Lucy, trying not to be judgmental. Grief took everyone differently, she reminded herself.

"I gotta get going. Hey, I almost forgot. I stopped by to give you this," he said, rising and shoving the package across the table. "It's a scrapbook Monica kept during the renovation."

"Really?" Lucy was delighted, and deeply moved. "How thoughtful of you to think of us. We'll treasure it always.

"

"What was I gonna do with it?" he said, as she opened the door for him. "Right now, the fewer reminders I've got to deal with, the better."

CHAPTER NINE

Later that evening, supper over, Lucy gave the kitchen counter one last wipe with the sponge and tossed it into the sink. For the first time since she'd come home from the hospital with Zoe, the kitchen was neat and tidy. The sink was empty of dirty dishes. The counter was clear of clutter. The stove top gleamed. Two dozen Halloween cupcakes, complete with orange icing and candy com decorations, sat on the kitchen table, ready to be packed in a plastic container and hiidden on the top shelf of the pantry.

It was the same with every baby, she thought smugly. The first weeks were always chaotic, the baby's needs came first and everything else was pushed aside. Bit by bit, however, order and routine returned and things fell into place.

The one thing Lucy had worried about most hadn't happened. She had feared that the other children would be resentful of the baby. To her surprise, however, they had taken the new arrival in stride. Toby and Elizabeth were too busy with their friends and school work to be jealous, and Sara was enjoying her new role of big sister. She had even taken photos of the baby to school for show and tell.

All in all, Lucy thought things had turned out better than she had expected. Refusing to think of the unmade beds upstairs, or the piles of dirty laundry in the basement, die congratulated herself for managing so well. Bill was out at his first historical society meet-ing, Sara was minding Zoe in the family room while she watched TV, Toby and Elizabeth were doing homework at the dining-room table. Deciding she deserved a reward, Lucy pulled a chocolate bar out of the secret stash she kept in the freezer and dialed Sue's number.

"Hello," said Sue.

"Mmmph," responded Lucy. She was working on a rather large chunk of frozen chocolate.

"You'll never lose those extra baby pounds if you don't stop stuffing your face all the time," scolded Sue.

"I was treating myself. After all, I did work out this afternoon," said Lucy, defending herself. "So how's the party coming along?"

"Not bad. Pam Stillings is going to make her famous black punch and she's going to freeze gummi worms in an ice ring."

"Sounds delicious."

"The art classes at the high school are carving pumpkins and making decorations. The Junior Woman's Club is organizing games, and the football boosters are lending us their popcorn machine. The Rotary are handling the apple bobbing—apparently Andy Brown, the guy who owns Farmer Brown's fruit stand, is one of their members. It's all coming together. This Saturday the Scouts and the cheerleaders and anybody else who wants to help are cleaning out the mansion. Can you come, and bring Bill with his hammer, in case there are any loose boards or anything?"

"Sure. What time?"

"Ten?"

"That's good. Sounds like you're really working hard on this."

"Mostly phone calls. I'm delegating. Everybody seems eager to help. Nobody's turned me down. In fact, people have started calling me and offering to help."

"That's great. You'll never guess who paid me a surprise visit."

"Monica's husband?"

"How'd you know?"

"I've been on the phone all afternoon," Sue explained. "I heard he was in town. Pam said he looks terrible. He must be taking this very hard."

"That's what I thought at first, but now I'm not so sure. He seemed more inconvenienced than grief stricken. I got the impression he and Monica hadn't been getting along lately."

"Really?"

"He came right out and told me that he and Monica had a fight, and that's why she was at the Homestead."

"Could be. It's too bad they didn't have a chance to make up."

"Maybe Roland didn't want to make up. Maybe he wanted her out of the way."

"Lucy! How can you think something like that?" Sue was shocked.

"Nine times out of ten it's the husband. He's the one who gave me the idea. He said he'd been married for thirty years and murder only gets you twenty."

"He said that?"

"I think it was a joke he was used to telling at parties—it just came out."

"The poor man probably doesn't know what he's saying. Besides, what about the other fires? Somehow I can't picture him starting all those fires."

"Me, either," agreed Lucy, thinking of the thwarted, repressed individuals the book portrayed as typical arsonists. "Maybe he knew about the fires and planned the murder hoping the police would include it with the others. Kind of a cover-up."

"It must be awful to have a mind like yours—always suspecting the worst."

"Well, my suspicions are not exactly unfounded. When I was buying my gym membership today a funny thing happened. Krissy, you know, the woman who owns the studio, got a phone call. It was from Dr. Mayes, telling her about Monica's death. She didn't look exactly heartbroken."

"Krissy knows Dr. Mayes?"

"Evidently. She said her business partner's wife died in a fire and I asked if it was Monica and she said it was."

"Dr. Mayes is her business partner?"

"That's what she said, but I wouldn't be surprised if he is something more."

"You're disgusting. It's always sex with you, isn't it?"

"Not often enough, according to Bill."

Sue hooted. "Men! You have a baby, and ten minutes later they want to start another one."

"Well, at least Bill has something to keep him occupied. Miss Tilley's got him on the historical commission."

"That's good. About time we got somebody sensible. You know, I think Miss Tilley's losing it. Yesterday I saw her drive right through the stop sign on the corner. She almost hit Franny Small's little blue Dodge!"

"Is everybody all right?"

"I think so. Franny had slowed down to turn the comer. I don't think Miss Tilley saw her. She didn't stop, just went sailing through in that huge car of hers. She came that close—it could have been a real tragedy."

"She knocked over my mailbox the other day. Never even noticed."

"That woman's dangerous. Somebody ought to have a talk with her and get her to give up her license. She shouldn't be driving. It's just a matter of time before someone gets hurt."

"You're right. I'll ask Barney. Maybe she'll listen to him."

"Maybe." Sue was doubtful. "She's awfully stubborn, and determined to be independent. Get this—Karen Baker who works at the bank told me she never cashes her social security checks. The social security people even called to find out if she was dead—Miss T. thought it was a tremendous joke and told Karen all about it."

"Sounds typical. Listen, Sue, I gotta go. Zoe's fussing. I'll call you tomorrow, if I can find a free moment, that is. Between baking cupcakes and working out at the gym I'll probably be very busy."