Trick or Deceit

by Shelley Freydont

  “Maybe,” Ted said. “But she was the chairwoman.”

  Chas laughed and exchanged a look with Ted.

  “What’s so funny?” Liv asked. “Is there something going on that I should know about? I noticed a few undercurrents . . .”

  “You call that undercurrents?” asked Chaz incredulously. “Looked close to full blown to me. First there was Janine stuck in her seat while Lucille struts her stuff across the stage. You could practically see the smoke coming out of her ears. Then, out of the blue, Amanda Marlton-Crosby waltzes on, obliviously upstaging Lucille. I thought Lucille would have a diva attack right there onstage. I swear it was worth the price of admission.”

  “It was free,” Liv pointed out.

  Chaz looked surprised. “Yep, and that’s about what it was worth.”

  The beers arrived, and while the waitress took a second to make eyes at Chaz, Liv took a sip of her beer. It was malty and cold, a product of a local microbrewery that gave Liv, a wine drinker by choice, a new appreciation for the foamy drink.

  The door opened and two of the judges, Roscoe Jackson and Rufus Cobb, walked in and stopped by their table.

  “Great evening,” Liv said.

  “Yes, it was,” Roscoe said. “And Amanda Marlton-Crosby’s donation has really started off the fund-raising with a bang.”

  “Would you like to join us? We can pull up an extra chairs.”

  “Thank you, but we just stopped in for quick drink,” Rufus said. “I have to get back to the B-and-B.”

  They made their way over to the bar and took the two seats next to Ernie Bolton, who looked at them and moved away farther along the bar.

  “Oh, Ernie, don’t be such a poor sport,” Rufus said. “Coming in second is an honor in itself.”

  Ernie glared at the two newcomers. “It was a setup. Barry’s people don’t even move. They just sit there like the dummies they are.”

  Ted sighed. “Oh Ernie, Ernie, Ernie.”

  Ernie pushed off the stool and confronted the newcomers. “Who did he get to? Lucille? Janine? Thinks he’s some big stud. Which one was it?”

  Roscoe slid off the stool and turned to face Ernie. He had to look up, since he stood just over five feet and Ernie was close to six.

  “There were five of us judges. So it’s no use blaming one of the ladies. You might as well blame me.”

  “Or me,” Rufus added, jumping off his stool and coming to stand beside Roscoe.

  “You two didn’t vote for me? And you call yourselves friends?”

  “The voting was confidential.”

  “Maybe somebody’s vote was more important than the others.”

  “That’s a dang lie,” Rufus said. “Nobody outside the panel of judges knows how the vote went. Barry’s entry won by a majority. So there’s no use in blaming anybody.”

  Ernie fisted his hands, ready for a fight. “If I find out that no-good Barry Lindquist bribed the judges . . .”

  “You’ll do what?” Roscoe asked.

  Beside him, Rufus chewed on his mustache, something he did when he was nervous, worried, or upset.

  Ted groaned. “Not tonight.” He stood up, but Mike McCready was already coming around the bar.

  “Ernie, I don’t want no trouble in here. Go home. Cool off.”

  Ernie’s nostrils flared and he reached into his coat pocket. Liv braced herself, but he merely pulled out his earmuffs, shoved them over his ears, and stormed toward the exit door.

  “Another disaster averted,” Ted said.

  “What was all the innuendo about Lucille and Janine?” Liv asked. “Or dare I ask?”

  Chaz choked on his beer, and Ted said, “Let’s just say they aren’t the best of friends.”

  “I got that part. But why?”

  “Beside the fact that Lucille’s giving Janine a run for her money?” Chaz said.

  Liv’s mouth opened. “In real estate?”

  “In men, my dear.” Ted shook his head. “They nearly had a knock-down-drag-out at the manicurist’s last week.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Liv asked. “But Lucille is married.” She didn’t ask who the fight was over, though Janine had been after Chaz for as long as Liv had lived in Celebration Bay.

  The waitress appeared at the table. “Now who wants another beer?” The guys ordered another round. Liv stuck to the one she had. The waitress winked at Liv. “Have you ever noticed how guys sometimes make the best gossipers?”

  “I’m noticing tonight,” Liv said.

  “Hey,” said Chaz. “We consider that ‘news’ around here.”

  The waitress gave him a saucy look and went to get their beers.

  “Yeah,” Liv said. “It must be a slow day at the Four-H if you’re reporting catfights.”

  Chaz shrugged.

  “So how does Ernie fit into the mix?”

  “Don’t know that he does. Except . . .” Ted shrugged. “Ernie really needs the prize money.”

  “But it wasn’t Lucille’s fault he didn’t win.”

  “No, but he might blame her husband.”

  “How so?”

  “Because Ernie is broke, and when he tried to take out a loan, First Celebration Bank turned him down. So he went to Lucille’s husband, Carson Foster. Carson is the CEO of the Mercantile Investment Trust.”

  “I never heard of it,” Liv said.

  “Because it’s an investment bank.” Chaz grinned at her. “Got any major funds to invest?”

  “I might,” Liv said. “No.” She sipped her beer.

  Ted shook his head. “Don’t feel bad, Liv. Neither does Chaz.”

  “All my capital is tied up in the newspaper.”

  His two companions just looked at him.

  “What there is of it . . . which isn’t much . . . Well, it’s hard to support myself and my paper and my numerous charitable endeavors by taking people out fishing. Especially when some of them stiff me.”

  He smiled complacently at Liv.

  “I told you I would pay you.”

  “Too late. I’m already broke.”

  “You’re always broke,” Liv pointed out.

  Chaz shook his head. “But not as broke as poor Ernie.”

  “Anyway,” Ted said. “That’s the reason we’re losing the community center building. Ernie owes back taxes. He has to sell the building and his mother’s house across the street from it, where he constructed the Monster Mansion. But without a loan, he can’t pay his taxes and he can’t sell unless he pays them or finds someone to pay his asking price and his taxes.”

  “Or wins ten thousand dollars in a haunted house contest,” Liv said.

  “Exactly,” Chaz said. “And that opportunity just flew out the window.”

  “Pretty much,” Ted agreed. “Unless Barry defaults before the official opening next weekend, and that seems unlikely.”

  Famous last words, Liv thought, and knocked the underside of the wooden table.

  The pub filled up and they ate their burgers without much talking since the decibel level rose with the onslaught of patrons.

  They left to the pulsing rhythm of “Thriller,” and stopped at the corner.

  “I guess you guys will be working tomorrow even though it’s Saturday,” Chaz said.

  “It’s one of our many busy seasons,” Ted said. “Besides, Liv is a taskmaster.”

  They parted ways, Ted to pick up his car at town hall, Chaz to wherever he was going, and Liv to walk home.

  That was one of the things she liked most about living in Celebration Bay. She could walk almost anywhere, anytime, without dealing with car exhaust, rattling subway noise, or muggers.

  The Victorian house where her landladies lived was dark. It was later than Liv realized and they must have already gone to bed. Which meant they had probably dropped off Whiskey a
t Liv’s carriage house at the back of the drive.

  The sisters loved to babysit her Westie terrier, Whiskey. They’d happily take him every day, but Liv didn’t want to take advantage of their generosity. Besides, she loved taking him to work with her. And Ted would complain, since he and Whiskey had become best buds.

  Liv walked down the driveway, fishing for her key in her messenger bag. Before she even opened the door, she could hear Whiskey on the other side.

  As soon as she opened it, he bounded forward like he’d been ignored for days.

  “You don’t fool me,” she told him as he bounced around her. “You’re spoiled rotten. I hope you appreciate all the attention you get.”

  “Aarf,” he said, and took off for the shrubbery. He came back a minute later and trotted inside.

  Liv followed him in. “I’m beat. How about you, big guy? Have a perfectly pampered day?”

  “Aarf,” Whiskey said.

  “I thought so.” Liv hung up her coat and tossed her keys on the foyer table, then went into her cozy living room, where she fired up her iPad and checked her email. Whiskey snuggled down on her feet and, with a huge yawn, went to sleep.

  • • •

  When Liv’s alarm rang the next morning, the sun was streaming through the window, making a dappled pattern across her down comforter. Whiskey was asleep on his plaid doggie bed. He looked so content Liv felt a pang knowing that she was about to trick him into going running with her.

  Whiskey loved to run, could run for hours, but only on his own terms. A quick circuit of asphalt with no stops for smelling or claiming territory was not in his game plan. But a girl needed her exercise, and she was getting less and less of it as the winter holidays grew closer together.

  Liv pushed the covers away. Whiskey opened an eye, snuffled, yawned, and pushed to his feet before padding out of the bedroom to wait for her by the kitchen door. She followed him down the short hall and let him out to a postage-stamp garden behind her landladies’ well-tended perennial borders. Then she retraced her steps to the bedroom to dress in fall running gear.

  When he barked at the back door, she greeted him with a dog biscuit and his leash.

  If dogs could roll their eyes, Whiskey would have. As it was, he just looked forlorn, then sat and allowed her to attach the leash to his collar.

  Two minutes later, they were on the sidewalk, Liv stretching and Whiskey exploring the shrubbery at the front of her landladies’ house.

  They started off down the street, Liv concentrating first on her stride and breathing, then letting her eyes roam over the decorated houses as they passed. It was an occupational hazard, multitasking when you didn’t even want to task at all. But this was the perfect way to get in exercise and an overview of the upcoming festivities all at once.

  The residents’ enthusiasm for holidays and special events never seemed to flag. This morning in the full daylight, the decorated houses looked colorful and inviting with their cornstalks and hay bales, many recycled from the harvest festival. Elaborately carved pumpkins sat on every porch. Grinning scarecrows rubbed shoulders with grinning skeletons and black cats with arching backs. Ghosts hung from the bare branches of trees. Gravestones littered the yards. They all looked benign in the morning light.

  But each afternoon, as soon as it grew dark, the strings of orange lights would come on, jack-o’-lantern candles were lit, and witches were set in motion while ghosts danced in the wind.

  This morning the sky was blue and all was calm. Whiskey trotted along beside her. Since she’d chosen the middle of the quiet street for her run, there wasn’t that much to stop and smell, but when she turned the corner, the loyal dog rebelled. This was new territory for him, with new things to sniff and claim. Usually they went the other way to work or to run, but today their route would take them past the winning haunted house entry, just so Liv could take a closer look and make sure everything was in order.

  Not that she was a control freak or anything. It just paid to be prepared.

  Liv slowed down for Whiskey but kept jogging until she came to Barry Lindquist’s Museum of Yankee Horrors two blocks later.

  It was the perfect-looking haunted house, complete with gables and turrets covered in graying, weather-beaten shingles. Once a boardinghouse, it had sat empty for the past several years, Barry being either unable or unwilling to sell it. Liv imagined the knee-high wrought iron fence was original, and the even higher weeds were very effective. But she’d contracted for the land surrounding the house and parking lot as well as a vacant lot behind the parking lot to be mowed, and apparently the landscapers had not been by. The weeds had only gotten higher.

  Ambiance was one thing, but unsightliness and neglect were something else. She came to a stop, unzipped her arm pocket, and extracted her phone. Let the leash out so Whiskey could snuffle at leisure while she took a couple photos of the overgrowth.

  There had been caution tape over the entrance to the newly repaved parking lot the last time she’d been here. Now half the tape was lying on the ground.

  She stepped over the tape and walked along the edge of the parking lot, taking photos as she went. Nothing had been done. She’d have to have a little talk with the landscapers.

  She’d reached the back of the property and was taking a last photo of the vacant lot when Whiskey yanked on the leash.

  “All right. I’m done. Let’s get going.”

  Whiskey barked and strained at the leash, but in the opposite direction.

  “Oh, all right, two more minutes, but if you get burrs all stuck in your coat, don’t complain to me when you have to go to the Woofery for grooming.”

  She let out the leash again and Whiskey, ignoring her threat, pranced happily into the brush to ferret out unsuspecting small animals or discarded fast-food wrappers.

  Sure enough he came back a minute later with something in his mouth. Something huge. A bone. An arm. A human arm.

  Liv’s eyes widened and her stomach lurched—she froze to the spot as Whiskey lovingly laid the arm at her feet. She swayed even as she realized that it wasn’t a real human arm, but a mannequin.

  “What the heck?” she said, miffed at herself for being so gullible, and outright angry that someone was using the lot as a dumping ground.

  She looked back at the house. Had Barry ended up with extra parts and dumped them rather than disposing of them properly? Or . . .

  A much worse thought struck her. Ernie had been pretty angry last night, but surely . . . Ted’s words rang in her mind: Unless Barry defaults . . .

  “Heel.” She shortened the leash and walked to the edge of the empty lot. She could see what looked like a clothed torso farther in. And a boot not too far from that. Not a dumping ground for garbage. It looked like the museum might have been looted. She walked along the side of the house, practically pulling a recalcitrant Whiskey with her. No signs of a break-in.

  They continued around to the back of the house. And there it was: a shattered window leading to the cellar. It may have been broken before, or more recently—like last night. Either way it needed to be repaired. She climbed the back steps and knocked on the door.

  She knew Barry didn’t live on the premises, but she also didn’t want to surprise any looters or squatters that might be inside.

  No one answered, so she turned the knob. The door opened. Damn.

  She stepped back, closed it again, and went down the steps. Didn’t stop until she was back on the sidewalk out front. No way was she going inside alone. One year of living in Celebration Bay had taught her more about staying safe from lawbreakers than an entire lifetime in Manhattan. Go figure.

  She opened her contact list, found Barry’s home number.

  He answered on the fourth ring.

  “Yeah.”

  “Barry, this is Liv Montgomery. I’m at your museum. Did you leave any mannequin parts out in the va
cant lot?”

  “What? Why would I do something like that?”

  “I don’t know, but on further investigation I noticed a cellar window was broken.”

  “Somebody broke in? So help me, if that Ernie Bolton has vandalized my museum— I’ll be right over. Stay there.” He hung up.

  “Yes, sir,” Liv said to her disconnected phone. “I think we might have woke him up, Whiskey. He sounds kind of cranky. If it’s a false alarm, we’ll buy him breakfast.”

  At the sound of breakfast, Whiskey sat and looked at her expectantly. “Sorry, guy. There’s been a little change in plans.”

  Barry Lindquist’s truck pulled up to the curb five minutes later. He jumped out and began riffling through a huge ring of keys as he hurried toward Liv, who was waiting on the front steps.

  Definitely woke him up, she thought. His chin was covered in red stubble.

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “Not yet. I thought we should check to see if someone had really broken in. The back door was unlocked.”

  “What? No way.” He leapt up to the porch and unlocked the front door.

  Liv and Whiskey followed him inside.

  The foyer was suitably eerie, especially with the lights off. Even when Barry flicked the lights on, it was still pretty macabre. There was a skeleton clothed in rags sitting in a rocking chair, a knife dripping blood sitting in her lap.

  Psycho? Wasn’t the Bates Motel in Oregon? Evidently not anymore.

  Spiderwebs draped over the banister of what once must have been a lovely staircase; now its dark wood was dull and dry looking. Liv made a mental note to have Ted check with the fire marshal that the building had passed all safety inspections.

  A little late now. The mayor had decided on this contest as a way to raise money for the community center and had convinced the other trustees to go along with it before he’d consulted Liv. Which was fine, but Liv would have rather been consulted during the planning session instead of playing catch-up ever since.

  Barry was tromping toward the parlor, so Liv left the entry skeleton and prepared for whatever she might see in the next room.