Trick or Treat Murder (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Ted Stillings entered the downstairs meeting room at Town Hall and glanced around. The board members were already seated at a long table, which was placed on a slightly raised dais. A small audience had gathered, comprised mainly of applicants and a few Town Hall regulars who never missed a meeting. With a smooth, practiced motion he pulled his reporter's notebook from his back pocket and sat down.

Waiting for the meeting to begin, he tapped his pen lightly against the notebook. Despite the fact that this was his third evening meeting this week, he was looking forward to it. The TCHDC was fast becoming the best show in town. For years, when Miss Tilley and her Gang of Four were in charge, commission meetings were dull and predictable. Although Ted attended faithfully, he didn't have to. He could always predict exactly what the commissioners would say and how they would vote.

When Doug Durning and Jock Mulligan came on board, however, things changed. Stalemated, the commission members vented their frustration by raking one another, and the applicants, over the coals. Their scathing comments made good copy, and circulation always jumped a bit after a TCHDC meeting. Catching his friend Bill Stone's eye, and giving him a big grin, Ted wondered if he knew what he was getting into when he agreed to serve on the board.

"Let's get started," said Miss Tilley, banging her gavel. "This meeting of the Tinker's Cove Historic District Commission is now called to order. Mr. Brown, what can we do for you?"

Andy Brown stood up, hooked his thumbs around the straps of his overalls, and ambled to the front of the room. Considering that Brown was one of the most successful businessmen in town, Ted thought he was carrying the farmer act a bit too far.

"As you prob'ly know, I've got a little farmstand out on Route One. We have a cider press, and we let folks pick their own pumpkins from Farmer Brown's Pumpkin Patch. We've done pretty well, if I do say so myself."

Brown was being deliberately modest, thought Ted. He had discovered gold in those pumpkins, and every year the farmstand grew a bit bigger. This year he had added a haunted hay ride, and the spooky music, groans and screams that emanated from the cornfield at night had prompted several angry letters to the editor.

"We're all familiar with your farmstand," said Miss Tilley.

"Well, what I'd like to do, y'see, is put up one of those portable electric signs, so folks can find the place a mite easier, 'specially at night."

"I find it hard to believe that anyone who is not completely deaf and blind would have the least difficulty finding your establishment," Miss Tilley stated. "Even an electric sign would hardly help such a person. Board, are we ready to vote?"

"Hold yer horses a minute," Brown protested. "My place brings lots of business to this town. Seems to me you could bend the rules, considering how the pumpkin patch extends the tourist season."

"Mr. Brown does have a point," admitted Jock Mulligan, owner of a rather adorable bed and breakfast. "We get quite a few families down from Boston and thereabouts who come especially to visit the pumpkin patch. Grandparents, even, bring die little ones."

"How heartwarming," observed Miss Tilley, with a sneer. "Exactly how large is this sign?"

"It's twelve feet long and eight feet high, and it lights up."

"The sign code clearly forbids lighted signs, and the outside limit is four square feet."

"I know. That's why I'm applying for a variance. This is a portable sign, it will be gone the day after Halloween."

"I don't see any harm in the sign," ventured Doug Durning. "They have something similar for the Blueberry Festival every summer."

"The Blueberry Festival takes place on the other side of town, and it's a fund-raiser for the rescue squad. This is right smack in the center of the historic district," observed Hancock Smith. "You've already got lights strung up all over the place, not to mention that monstrous great pumpkin thing and the sound effects. I agree with Miss Tilley—you couldn't miss the place if you tried."

"Bill, what have you to say?" asked Miss Tilley, giving him an encouraging wink.

"My kids love the pumpkin patch—we go every year," began Bill, giving Brown a nod. "But I have to say the place is pretty eyecatching already. I can't see any need for this additional sign."

"Application denied." Miss Tilley grinned broadly and brought down the gavel. "Next we have Miss Katz."

"It's Kurtz, Tammy Kurtz," corrected an attractive young woman, dressed in a stylish cashmere tunic and pants outfit. "I'm the owner of the Greengage Cafe. As you know, we're located in the rear of the Village Marketplace shopping complex. Under the sign code, we're only allowed one sign, a single board on the large sign that serves the entire complex. Our customers tell us they have trouble finding us, so tonight I'm asking for a variance so we can put up a second sign on the building. I've brought a drawing of the proposed sign with me. As you can see, it's quite attractive and understated."

That's for us to decide, Miss Kootz," said Miss Tilley, reaching for the sketch with a clawlike hand.

Ted noticed a stiffening of the back under the cashmere, as Tammy stepped forward to hand up the paper.

"This looks very straight forward to me," said Miss Tilley, passing the sketch along. "The sign code clearly specifies that there shall be only one sign for a shopping complex. I will entertain a motion to deny the variance."

She glanced at Hancock Smith, who immediately cleared his voice, obediently preparing to make the motion.

"Not so fast," said Doug Durning. "This lady is trying to run a business, and she's asking us for help to solve a problem. I don't see the harm in one little sign."

"I might point out that if we make an exception for Miss Skootz, we'll have to make an exception for everybody," Miss Tilley huffed. "Why have a sign code at all, if we're not going to enforce it?"

"I've eaten at the Greengage Cafe," offered Jock Mulligan. "I can't remember if I had the Trout en Paupiettes or the Salmon Timbales on a bed of arugula, it was absolute agony deciding, but I will never forget the Mixed Berry Tiramisu, it was mar-r-rvelous," he said, leaning forward and rolling his eyes. "My congratulations to the chef."

"I don't see what the menu has to do with this matter," said Miss Tilley.

"Oh, but it does. The Greengage Cafe is attracting notice. People come from all over to eat there. It's bringing a very nice class of tourist to our town. Upscale. Just look at the cars in the parking lot. I think we ought to do all we can to help Miss Kurtz succeed."

"It's obvious we have two for and two against," said Miss Tilley. "What does our newest member have to say?"

Bill shifted uncomfortably in his seat as all eyes were focused on him.

"I think that sign at the Village Marketplace complex is confusing. You can't tell what's in there. I'm for granting the variance, and maybe even taking a look at the sign code with an eye to revising it."

"Variance granted, Miss Slutz," said Miss Tilley, banging down the gavel. She looked as if she had a mouthful of tacks, as she flapped the sketch back and forth.

Miss Kurtz smiled sweetly as she stepped forward to retrieve it. "Thank you, Miss Silley," she said. Turning to leave, she gave Ted a wink.

"Next we have Wilpers," said Miss Tilley, frowning as she consulted the agenda. "Anybody named Wilpers here?"

"That's us," said a clean-shaven young man, dressed in a blue oxford cloth shirt and khaki pants. His red face appeared painfully well-scrubbed; the comb tracks were still fresh in his hair. His young wife stood beside him, dressed in a flowered dress with pearl buttons and a lace collar. "We got a notice of violation."

Miss Tilley's eyes widened and she smacked her lips. Scenting blood, Ted thought to himself.

"I believe you're painting your house an unapproved color," she said.

"The house was very run-down when we bought it," said Mrs. Wilpers in a soft voice. "But Buddy and I have worked hard weekends and nights, and it's really, starting to come together. It's a Greek Revival style, and we chose a historic color, Woodleigh Sage. I don't know why it's a problem. All the neighbors love it."

"The problem is that your house is in the historic district, and the only approved colors are white, light gray, light yellow and light tan," said Miss Tilley. "You will have to repaint."

Mrs. Wilpers gasped. "But we're almost done. We've been working on this for months."

"You should have checked with us before choosing a color. I've seen it. That house is aqua."

"It's not aqua. It's a historic color. Woodleigh Sage," insisted Mrs. Wilpers.

"Everybody knows that historic houses should be painted white," said Hancock Smith. "That's the way the old-timers did it. That's what looks best."

"Actually," said Bill slowly, "our ancestors used more colors than most people think. White was popular, but green was also used a lot. A much brighter green than you would expect."

"I'm in the real estate business," said Doug. "I know nothing brings property values down faster than allowing people to paint their houses any old color. Next thing you know you've got flamingo pink and the neighborhood's gone to the dogs."

"That's not necessar-r-rily true," said Jock. "If it's used well, color can bring life to a neighborhood."

This discussion has gone on long enough," said Miss Tilley, sensing rebellion in the ranks. "Who'll give me a motion?"

"I move a finding of fact, that indeed a violation has occurred, and must be rectified within thirty days or the building inspector will issue a fine of fifty dollars per day until said violation is rectified," said Doug Durning.

"All in favor?" Miss Tilley nodded with satisfaction as Durning and Smith raised their hands. "Three to two, the motion passes."

"You have the right to appeal," advised Jock Mulligan. The regional board is somewhat more..." he paused, searching for the right word. "Au com-x-ant," he finally decided, gave him a chance to show off his French and roll his Rs.

"Next on the agenda," said Miss Tilley, with a bang of her gavel. "We have Mr. Lenk. Good evening, Randy."

Randolph Lenk had not bothered to dress for the occasion, observed Ted. He was still wearing the same oil-stained work clothes he had worn all day. In fact, he had probably worn the same clothes all week. A three-day stubble revealed he hadn't shaved recently, and the lines and creases in his hands were filled with grease. Lenk owned a small, ramshackle Northstar gas station that had been an eyesore on Main Street for years.

The fellas at the comp'ny say I gotta remodel," began Lenk. They've drawn up plans—even want a canopy and a convenience maht. They say I gotta do it, or I can't sell their gas anymore."

"I, for one, am glad to hear it," said Doug Durning. "It's long overdue. That place of yours is an embarrassment to the town. Damned valuable property, too. Are those plans you've got there? Let's see 'em."

Lenk shuffled forward and handed up a roll of papers. Durning took them and eagerly began unrolling them, distributing them to the other board members.

"My, my, my," said Jock Mulligan, clucking his tongue.

"It looks like a space ship!" Miss Tilley shrieked.

"There does appear to be an awful lot of plastic and glass," said Hancock Smith, shaking his head. "And that sign. It could be seen for miles."

"That's the idea," agreed Lenk. "Cut down a few of these trees, and folks 'll be able to see it from the Interstate."

"You're planning to cut trees?" Miss Tilley was aghast.

"You know," said Bill, "there's a new appreciation among preservationists for vernacular architecture. It may well be that Mr. Lenk's existing gas station is worth saving. I'd be very surprised if it wasn't a good example of roadside construction from the early Age of the Automobile."

Miss Tilley's eyes widened and she gave Hancock a wry smile. She was beginning to suspect that Bill's appointment might not work out the way she had hoped.

"Since this is such a large project, and it affects so many people, I think we really ought to hold a public hearing," Miss Tilley said. "As proposed this will really change the appearance of the whole town. Especially if trees are cut."

"Are you saying I can't cut trees on my own prop'ty?" Lenk was ready to defend his rights as a landowner.

"We're not saying anything, Mr. Lenk," observed Hancock Smith. "What Miss Tilley has suggested, very wisely, I might add, is that the entire matter be discussed in a public forum. That way, all the interested parties can be heard."

"Who's interested? It's my land. I can do whatever I want." Lenk was beginning to get agitated.

"Your land is in the historic district," explained Doug Durning. "Special rules apply."

"I've got rights," insisted Lenk, raising his voice. "I'm payin' taxes on that land. What happened to democracy? "

"Mr. Lenk," began Jock Mulligan. "Let me assure you that America is indeed, still a democracy. What we must do here, is weigh the rights of the individual against the r-r-rights of the community. Your neighbors also pay taxes, and they have an interest in the appearance of their town. Do you understand?"

"Can I tell Northstar to go ahead, or what? 'Cause if you say no, you're all gonna be sorry. Real sorry." Lenk was at the end of his rope; he was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, and rhythmically clenching his hands.

"Nothing will be decided tonight," said Miss Tilley, in the voice that had maintained silence in the Broadbrooks Free Library for more than thirty-five years. "We'll schedule a hearing for next week. Is the board agreed?" Miss Tilley received nods of assent from the other members. "We'll see you next week, Mr. Lenk. Bring whomever you want. Lawyers, company representatives, plans— we'll go over everything. Understood?"

Lenk nodded.