Candy Corn Murder (3 page)

“Oh, dear,” said Lucy, somewhat doubtfully. “Are they sure it's murder? Maybe it's vine borers or mildew?”

“Nope. Buzz is a master gardener. He'd know how to deal with bugs and diseases, believe me, and his pumpkin was a favorite to win the weigh in. If you ask me, somebody's eliminating the competition.”

“With an ax,” said Ted as the bell on the door jangled, announcing his entry. “That pumpkin was smashed to bits.” He paused. “Buzz took it pretty hard. It's like losing a member of the family, really, when you consider how he raised the little sprout and watered it and fertilized it. That pumpkin had real potential.”

“An ax!” exclaimed Lucy as the horror of the situation dawned on her. What if a pumpkin killer was on the loose, putting everyone's giant pumpkins at risk, including Priscilla? What would happen to the festival then? Even worse, how would Bill cope with the loss of his beautiful golden gourd?

“I better let Wilf know,” said Phyllis, reaching for the phone. Her husband also had a promising pumpkin growing in their garden. “He was talking about setting up a motion detector and some lights. I thought it was crazy, but now maybe it's a good idea.”

“He should add a siren,” advised Ted. “That oughta scare off any pumpkin killer. And if he adds one of those closed-circuit TV cameras, he could get a photo of this psychopath.”

“Good idea,” said Phyllis.

“I think you've gone a little mad,” said Lucy. “It's just a pumpkin, after all.”

Ted and Phyllis looked at her as if she were the one who'd gone completely off her rocker.

“Wilf loves his pumpkin,” said Phyllis. “He'd be devastated if anything happened to her.”

“Look at this,” said Ted, handing over his digital camera, which was displaying a photo of the mauled pumpkin. The giant gourd had been hacked open, and its fleshy interior, loaded with seeds, was spilling out.

Lucy found herself wincing at the gruesome sight, and hoping that Priscilla would never be subjected to such a fate. “Terrible, just terrible,” she said.

“I'm going to put this on the front page so everyone can see what this maniac did,” promised Ted.

“Are you sure? Publicity like that might encourage the culprit,” said Lucy.

Ted nodded gravely, considering the matter. “There's always that possibility,” he said, “but I think we have a responsibility to show people what happened. We can't hide it. We need to get this out there, no matter how troubling some people might find it.”

“It's a family paper,” cautioned Phyllis. “It might be too upsetting for kids.”

“That's a risk we have to take,” said Ted. “People need to know so they can take steps to protect their pumpkins. It's more than pumpkins, you know. It's a way of life, and we have to protect it.”

“We can't have a Giant Pumpkin Fest without giant pumpkins,” said Phyllis. “The whole town is counting on this event. A lot of people are still hurting from the great recession.”

“Businesses especially,” said Ted.

“That reminds me,” said Lucy. “Corney Clark wants me to do a profile of Buck Miller. He's Sam Miller's kid, and he's come back to work at Country Cousins. He's got a fancy business degree, and they're grooming him to take over, but for now he's got some ambitious new marketing plan.”

“Sounds good,” said Ted, who was scrolling through his pumpkin photos. “Go ahead and set up an interview, but first, I need you to call the police chief and ask him if he's got any leads, any suspects. Press him hard, and ask if we've got a serial pumpkin killer on the loose.”

Chapter Three

W
hen Lucy got home that evening with Patrick in tow, she found Bill and Ev out in the garden, by the pumpkin patch, deep in conversation. Patrick made a beeline for his grandfather, who gave him a big hug.

“How was school, big guy?”

“Okay,” said Patrick. “Can we play ball?” Patrick loved to play catch with his grandfather.

“Later,” said Bill. “Mr. Wickes and I are busy right now.”

“What's up?” asked Lucy, joining them. Patrick was kicking at the ground, disappointed that his grandfather wouldn't play with him. “Why don't you let the dog out and throw a tennis ball for her?” she suggested.

“Okay,” he agreed, then ran off.

“I guess you heard about Buzz Bresnahan's pumpkin,” she said after he'd gone. News, especially bad news, traveled fast.

“Brutal,” said Bill. “Who would do something like that?”

“A maniac,” said Ev, taking a long pull on the bottle of beer he was holding. As usual, he had a three or four days' growth of bristly beard and was wearing the same plaid flannel shirt and jeans he'd worn for at least a week. Lucy made a point of positioning herself upwind of him.

“Nobody's safe,” said Bill, with a wave of his hand, which also contained a beer bottle. “We're wide open here. The house is empty most of the day. Anybody could come in and . . .” He paused, seeking strength from the bottle. “Well, just look at her.” He nodded at Priscilla, golden on her bed of straw. “She's absolutely defenseless.”

“We could put the dog out. That might discourage any trespasser,” suggested Lucy, who was pulling up a black, withered tomato vine.

“Our dog, Libby?” Bill's eyebrows shot up. “She's not exactly a watchdog.”

The black Lab was yipping and jumping with excitement, her tail wagging as she waited for Patrick to throw the ball. Finally deciding he was taking too long, she leaped up and licked his face, causing the little boy to fall to the ground, where the two rolled around together.

Lucy smiled, watching them, and then headed for the compost pile with her dead tomato vine.

“And we'd have to tie her up, so she wouldn't wander off,” continued Bill.

“You don't want to put that thing in the compost,” warned Ev, adding a burp for emphasis. “You need to burn it. Tomato blight.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, studying the remaining tomato plants, which were a sorry sight. “So that's the problem. Tomato blight. I never heard of it.”

“It's everywhere this year. The only way to stop it is to burn the affected vines. If you put them in the compost, the blight organisms will winter over and emerge in the spring to attack your new plants.”

“What if I put it in the trash?” asked Lucy, who really didn't want to start a bonfire.

“Bag it up,” Ev advised, then took a swallow of beer and turned to Bill. “You know,” he continued, thoughtfully scratching his whiskery chin, “what you need, Billy boy, is a security system. Lights and cameras, sirens, too, all activated by a motion sensor.”

“Wouldn't that be awfully expensive?” asked Lucy, still holding the tainted tomato vine.

“Consider the alternative,” said Bill, growing a bit red in the face. “Sometimes, Lucy, I don't think you really care about Priscilla.”

Ev burped and nodded sagely. “It's understandable. You don't want to share your man's affection.”

Lucy glared at Ev. “I am not in competition with a pumpkin,” she said.

“'Course not,” said Ev with a smirk.

“We have a lot of expenses right now, Bill,” she said. “Day care for Patrick, Sara's tuition, and”—she turned to stare at the hulking wooden catapult the two men were building, which stood between the garden and the drive—“you've spent quite a lot on that thing.”

Ev stared at the ground, and Bill's face grew even redder. “Hands off the catapult, Lucy,” warned Bill. “It's something I've always wanted to do.”

“Okay.” Lucy threw up her hands in defeat, waving the defunct vine. “You obviously won't listen to the voice of reason. Do what you want.”

She turned to go, but Ev interrupted her. “Hang on,” he said. “I can get you some security stuff for free.”

“You can?” Bill had finished his beer and was headed for the nearby cooler to get another. “Want another beer?” he asked Ev.

Lucy rolled her eyes but judged it wiser to keep quiet.

“Yes, on both counts. Yeah,” he said, accepting a fresh bottle and carefully handing Bill his empty. “I did some work for Country Cousins a while ago, replacing their security cameras, and I kept the old stuff. They said it was okay. The stuff worked fine. It was just big, you know, and they wanted a less obvious system. I could dust it off, see if it still works.”

“Gee, that'd be great,” said Bill, tossing Ev's empty bottle and his own into a nearby fish box, where they clinked against the others that were awaiting a trip to the recycling center.

The many others,
thought Lucy as the tennis ball rolled her way. She picked it up and gave it a toss, getting a big doggy grin and an enthusiastic woof. At least somebody appreciated her, she thought as she headed into the house. Once inside, she stuffed the blighted tomato vine into a plastic bag and tied it securely, then tossed it in the trash, wondering when Ev Wickes became such an expert gardener.

 

Later that evening, as they got ready for bed, Lucy raised the subject once again with Bill. “You know, Bill,” she said, trying to be as tactful as possible, “I really appreciate Ev's generosity about the security cameras and stuff, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to be beholden to him. That stuff must be awfully valuable. . . .”

“I wouldn't worry about it. He's not like that,” said Bill, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling off a sock.

“But what if he wasn't really supposed to have the stuff?” said Lucy. “Then we'd be accessories after the fact, wouldn't we?”

“Whoa,” said Bill, standing up, stripped down to his briefs, with one sock on and one off. “What are you saying? That Ev's a thief?”

“Not at all.” Lucy slipped her flannel nightie over her head. “Just that he's . . . Well, I think he has kind of an old-timey view of things. You know, flotsam and jetsam and all that. Finders keepers.”

“Lucy, there have not been any mooncussers around here for at least a hundred years.”

“Not traditional ones,” said Lucy, referring to early settlers who had scavenged the shore for storm-tossed valuables and had sometimes even lured ships onto the rocky coast and seized their cargo. “But there's plenty of people who'll help themselves to anything that isn't tied down. It's happened to you, with the tools and supplies from your work sites that have disappeared.”

“Well,” he said, puffing out his chest, “that's a terrible thing to say about Ev. And while we're on the subject, I don't appreciate you telling him about our personal, private family finances.”

“Our finances?” Lucy was puzzled.

“Yeah, all that about how we can't afford day care and college . . .”

“I never said we couldn't afford them. I said they're expensive, and I don't think that's exactly news, not even to Ev.”

“Well,” he said, hopping on one foot and yanking off the sock, “I think you should be more careful about what you say.”

“Okay,” she said, climbing into bed and opening her book and wondering how being responsible and expressing her legitimate concerns had somehow been twisted around until she was the one in the wrong. How did this happen?

That night Lucy had a hard time getting to sleep, finally dozing off in the wee hours of the morning. She didn't hear the alarm, and when she did wake, alone in the bed, she discovered she'd overslept. Then it was a big rush to get herself dressed and out of the house, leaving Patrick in Bill's care since it was Saturday and Little Prodigies was closed. She really hadn't appreciated how difficult things were for working parents who didn't have regular nine-to-five Monday through Friday schedules, she thought as she drove a bit too fast to the Hat and Mitten Fund meeting at her friend Sue Finch's house. After that she wasn't done: she had an appointment to interview Buck Miller.

Sue, whose house was immaculate and who always looked as if she'd stepped out of the pages of
Harper's Bazaar,
was pouring coffee for the women gathered at the fruitwood table in her Country French kitchen. “Sit right down, Lucy,” she invited. “I made your favorite coffee cake.”

Lucy helped herself to a piece of apple-cinnamon cake, plopping it on a dish with a rooster design, and wrapped her hands around the matching mug of coffee. “I didn't have time for breakfast,” she said before taking a big slurp of coffee.

“Now that we're all here, I think we should get down to business,” said Sue. The Hat and Mitten Fund was founded by a group of longtime friends that included Lucy and Sue, as well as Rachel Goodman and Pam Stillings, who met every Thursday morning for breakfast. Pam was married to Lucy's boss, Ted Stillings; and Rachel's husband, Bob, was a busy local lawyer. Sue's husband, Sid, had a successful business installing custom closet systems and often worked on remodeling projects with Bill, who was a restoration carpenter.

The four friends originally established the fund to provide warm winter clothing for the town's less fortunate children, but it had evolved through the years, and now the fund's holiday parties were a local tradition. Today, in addition to the original four friends, the planning committee for this year's Halloween party included the town's former librarian, Julia Ward Howe Tilley (Miss Tilley to everyone but her dearest, oldest friends, most of whom were now deceased); local herbalist Rebecca Wardwell; and Heidi Bloom, Patrick's teacher at Little Prodigies. Even though it was her day off, Heidi was dressed as usual in a rather long black skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse buttoned tight at the neck.

“I think we've got things pretty well in hand,” said Pam. “It isn't like we haven't done this before.”

“Right,” agreed Rachel. “Sue is handling refreshments. . . .” She began working her way down a list, ticking off each item as she spoke. “Pam is planning games, Rebecca will tell fortunes, Miss Tilley will organize the costume judging, Lucy's going after donations for the treat bags, and I've got the face painting.” She turned to Heidi. “What about you? This is your first year. Do you want to help with the games?”

Lucy helped herself to a second piece of cake and refilled her coffee mug, noticing that Heidi was limiting herself to a weak brew of green tea. “You must have lots of good ideas,” she said, hoping to encourage Heidi, who was the youngest in the group, and a newcomer, as well. “After all, you're a professional with a degree in early childhood education.”

“Well, since you've asked, I do have some ideas,” said Heidi. “It seems to me, and forgive me for saying this, because I know how hard you all work, but this sounds to me like a rather old-fashioned party.”

“Old-fashioned?” Sue's finely plucked eyebrows rose in surprise. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Well, judging costumes is not the sort of thing we want to encourage, because it might stifle creativity.”

“I don't see that at all,” said Miss Tilley, with a sniff. She was sitting with her back to the window, and the sunshine backlit her abundant curly white hair, making her look a bit like an angel, an impression that Lucy knew was extremely misleading. “I make sure that everyone gets a prize.”

“Well, then, why have judging?” asked Heidi. “You're establishing a hypocritical system that isn't actually judging at all.”

Miss Tilley was rubbing her arthritic knuckles and had pursed her lips. “I match the prizes to the qualities of each costume,” she said, carefully enunciating each word. “There is a prize for most colorful, for example, and scariest, and most imaginative, and so on. I must say, the children seem to enjoy it.”

“They certainly do,” said Rebecca, defending her friend. She had long, flowing gray hair and favored loose, colorful garments. Today she had an antique orange-and-black paisley shawl draped over her shoulders.

“As they enjoy the fortune-telling,” said Miss Tilley, returning the favor.

“I think my reputation helps,” said Rebecca with a sly smile. Some people in town thought she was a white witch, a notion she encouraged with the herbal potions she sold and the little owl she kept as a pet.

“Oh, dear,” said Heidi, with a sigh. “I really don't think you want to get involved with the supernatural. It could have negative effects on their fragile young minds.”

“I'm very careful. I limit myself to positive predictions,” said Rebecca, narrowing her eyes. “ ‘You will do well on your next spelling test if you study,' that sort of thing.”

“I know you mean well,” said Heidi, primly folding her hands in her lap and adopting an instructive tone of voice, “but there's a very real danger you might produce anxiety about the test, instead of instilling a confident attitude—and we all know how important confidence and self-esteem are to success.”