Candy Corn Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Well, she decided, standing up and wiping her hands on the little foil-wrapped towelette that came with her sandwich, Buck seemed to be quite the sophisticated, competent businessman, but she suspected that at bottom he wasn’t very different from Patrick. They were both little boys whose orderly, secure worlds had suddenly been turned upside down. The difference was that Buck had lost his father for good, but Patrick would be reunited with his parents at Christmas.

  Back in the car she headed over to town hall, where the Conservation Commission’s monthly hearing would take place in the basement meeting room. She saw no sign of Sara’s Civic in the parking lot, but there was a big pickup truck with a scuba bumper sticker, and Lucy guessed she had caught a ride with another club member. She had intended to sit with her daughter, to offer moral support, but when she entered the meeting room, she found Sara sitting with a very good-looking young man. Better to give her free rein, she decided, choosing a seat on the opposite side of the room.

  Several of the commission members were already seated at the row of tables on the raised dais provided for town officials. She recognized Caleb Coffin and Tom Miller, as well as Millicent Hayes. Fred Witherspoon and Tony Marzetti were last to join the panel, strolling in together, engaged in conversation. The meeting, with only a few routine items on the agenda, hadn’t drawn much of a crowd, and only a few retirees were in attendance, apart from Sara and the young man, and the commission’s secretary, Lucille Whipple.

  “I’m calling this meeting to order,” announced the chairman, Caleb Coffin, with a polite tap of his gavel. Caleb, a former bank president, was in his sixties, and he was dressed in the usual uniform of a prosperous Tinker’s Cove retiree, a plaid flannel shirt and khaki pants. “As usual, I think we will dispense with the reading of the minutes?” He checked with the other members, receiving nods of agreement. “The minutes will be posted for anyone who is interested,” he continued, with a nod in Lucy’s direction. Caleb was scrupulous about following the state’s open meeting law and wanted to make sure Lucy knew there was no attempt to avoid public scrutiny.

  She smiled in return, and he referred to his agenda. “First off, we have a request from the scuba club at Winchester College, which wants permission to use Jonah’s Pond for an underwater pumpkin-carving contest.” Caleb glanced at the audience over his half-glasses, settling on Sara and her companion. “I presume you are here to represent the club?”

  The young man stood up. “Yes. My name is Hank DeVries, and I am the president of the scuba club.” Lucy thought he was quite well spoken, and he was neatly dressed in clean jeans and a T-shirt with a dive club logo. “We want to take part in the Giant Pumpkin Fest, and the underwater pumpkin carving was a natural choice for us. These contests are quite popular. I have printouts describing contests held in other towns, such as Key West and, much closer to us here in Maine, Damariscotta.” He waved a sheaf of papers, offering it to the committee for examination.

  Caleb accepted the printouts and passed them to the other committee members, who studied them carefully, leafing slowly through the pages.

  “If you have any questions, I’m happy to answer them,” said Hank.

  “Jonah’s Pond is a pristine body of water, one of the few truly unspoiled ponds in the state,” said Millicent. “What will happen with the detritus, the stuff from the inside of the pumpkins?”

  “Each contestant will be provided with a mesh bag for the innards,” said Hank, “but there will inevitably be some spillage. It’s completely natural vegetable material, much like leaves and seeds that fall into the pond from surrounding trees, and I imagine some of it will be eaten by native fauna.”

  Millicent nodded, apparently satisfied by his response, but Tom Miller was frowning over the papers. “How many people do you think this contest will attract?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

  He was a pleasant-looking man, thought Lucy, noticing his tanned face, clear blue eyes, and the touch of gray at his temples. He and Glory certainly made a handsome couple, even if he did have the same weirdly long Miller fingers she’d noticed in the portrait of Old Sam. He was dressed rather more formally than the others, wearing a crisply starched white dress shirt with a tie, a blazer, and gray pants.

  “We are planning on limiting the number of contestants to twelve,” said Hank, “so it’s a relatively small number. There will be spectators, of course, but frankly, there isn’t much to see, since the action takes place underwater. It’s really all about giving divers a way to take part in the festival. We will have underwater cams, of course, but . . .”

  “Cameras?” demanded Tom, seizing on the point.

  “Yeah, to make sure there’s no cheating. Nobody substituting an already carved pumpkin, for example.”

  “How many cameras?”

  “At least six, one for every two carving stations,” said Hank. “And there’ll be monitors set up on the shore.” He paused, then added quickly, “No big screens or anything like that.”

  “No JumboTron?” asked Tony with a grin.

  “No, that’s definitely not in the club budget,” said Hank, smiling.

  “Will there be prizes?” asked Millicent.

  “The Five Cents Savings Bank is providing the prizes. They’re American Express cash cards. I don’t know the exact . . .”

  Sara stood up. “I have that information,” she said. “I’m Sara Stone, and I’m the club treasurer,” she said, introducing herself. “The cash cards are for twenty-five, fifty, and one hundred dollars.” Getting a dismissive nod from Caleb, she sat down.

  “This seems like a nice event,” said Fred Witherspoon. “I used to dive myself, back when I was younger, and this is a good way to draw attention to the sport.”

  “It will also draw attention to the pond, which very few people realize is town-owned conservation land, open to all for walking and bird-watching,” said Tony. He received nods of agreement from several board members.

  But not, however, from Tom Miller, who was frowning. “At the best of times scuba diving is pretty dangerous, isn’t it?” he asked. “Are you going to have medics on standby, in case there’s an emergency?”

  “Well, we weren’t planning to,” said Hank. “The pond isn’t very deep, and we’ll do a safety check on everyone’s equipment. I don’t foresee any problems.”

  “Well, that’s how it is with accidents, isn’t it?” demanded Tom, shooting his cuffs, which were fastened with gold cuff links shaped like little gold anchors. “You don’t foresee them. And if something unfortunate were to happen, well, who would be liable? Would it be this committee? The town? I don’t know if we’re willing to assume that responsibility. We could be sued for half a million, a million dollars, even more, if somebody loses their life.”

  “I don’t think that’s realistic,” said Hank, looking rather anxious. “There have been plenty of underwater pumpkin-carving contests, and I know of no problems related to them.”

  “Well, as for me, I can’t say I think this is a good idea,” said Tom.

  “Let’s call a vote,” said Caleb. “Is there further discussion?”

  The committee members shook their heads, and Hank sat down nervously on the edge of his seat.

  “All in favor?” asked Caleb, and Millicent, Tony, and Fred raised their hands.

  “Opposed?”

  Tom Miller was the lone opponent.

  “As for me, I’m sorry Tom, but I’m in favor, too,” said Caleb. “You’re outvoted this time.”

  Tom shrugged. “Just to be on the safe side, I’m going to consult my lawyer about the committee’s potential liability, and I’m going to check with the state’s natural resources people.”

  “Do what you have to do,” said Caleb in a resigned voice. “In the meantime, young man, you’ve got your permission. Good luck with the contest.”

  “Thank you,” said Hank, gathering up his papers. As he turned to go, he took Sara by the arm.

  Interesting, thought Lucy, catching her daughter’s eye as
Hank took her heavy book bag and slung it over his shoulder, carrying it for her. Sara had never mentioned Hank, and Lucy wondered if a romantic relationship was in the works. Or maybe Hank was just a polite young man, she thought, then turned her attention to the next item under discussion, the replacement of a culvert under Main Street Extension.

  The meeting dragged on, and when it finally ended, Lucy hurried home, eager to see what Bill and Patrick had gotten up to in her absence. She had no sooner pulled into the driveway and braked when a very loud siren began to wail. She clapped her hands over her ears, attempting to block the ear-piercing sound, and got out of the car. Looking toward the garden, she saw Ev, along with Bill, who was on his hands and knees, apparently attempting to cut off the siren. Patrick was jumping up and down in excitement, adding a few hops even after the noise stopped.

  Bill stood up and was clapped on his back by Ev. “It worked, Billy boy! It worked!” he yelled. “It went off when she drove in. That used motion detector still works.”

  “What was that awful noise?” asked Lucy, whose heart was thumping in her chest.

  “Pumpkin alarm,” said Bill with a satisfied smile. “We just finished installing it.”

  “I hope it’s not going to do that every time I use the car,” said Lucy.

  “This was just a test,” said Bill. “I’ll set it only at night and when nobody’s home.”

  “But what about animals? Won’t raccoons and deer set it off?”

  “Yeah,” volunteered Ev. “And that’s a good thing. Nobody and no thing is going to mess with this pumpkin. No way.”

  “Not if they value their hearing,” muttered Lucy, climbing the porch steps.

  “Can you do it again, Grandpa?” asked Patrick.

  “Sure thing!” exclaimed Ev as the siren sounded once again.

  Time to buy earplugs, thought Lucy, wondering if she’d ever get a good night’s sleep again.

  Spring, 1979

  She was in the kitchen, looking out the window while she stirred the oatmeal, which was bubbling thickly in the chipped white enamel pot set on the gas stove. Outside, she could see wands of yellow forsythia swaying in the breeze. In the kitchen, the air was thick with the cloying, heavy scent of oatmeal porridge.

  It was the only thing he ever ate for breakfast, and it had to be just right, not too thick and not too thin. Waiting every morning for the rattle of keys that announced his arrival, she had become an expert at cooking oatmeal.

  This morning he was right on time; she heard the keys at exactly 7:36 a.m. and scooped the porridge into the white bowl with roses on the bottom, which he preferred. The pattern was called Virginia Rose—the name was printed right on the underside—and every day, when she washed it, she imagined being in a green garden in Virginia, a garden with a brick wall that was covered with fragrant pink roses. A secret garden that was very far away and where he wouldn’t be able to find her.

  The latch clicked, and the door opened. He entered the kitchen and turned, then carefully locked the door behind him. It was crazy, she thought. She had never known anybody like him, anyone who locked every door in their house, but he did. It was some sort of compulsion, some weird habit. It often occurred to her that all these locked doors would be a problem if the house ever caught on fire, and sometimes, when she was especially tired, she imagined him locked in a burning room and unable to get the lock to work. She found that thought particularly comforting.

  “Cream,” he said, sitting down in his usual place at the table, and she quickly snatched the pitcher from the counter, where she had forgotten it after she filled it, and set it before him. He grunted and picked up the linen napkin, starched and ironed within an inch of its life by that old witch Emily, and arranged it on his lap while she filled his oversize cup with coffee.

  He usually ate alone, which was fine with her, because she didn’t like watching him eat the oatmeal, slurping and smacking his lips. But today she had a request, something she wanted to ask him, so she asked for permission to join him at the table.

  “May I sit?” she asked in the breathy, childish voice he preferred, and received a nod in return.

  Slipping into the chair, making sure not to scrape the legs on the floor, and carefully lowering her eyes, she explained that she wanted to go out today, to the library, and needed him to unlock the door for her.

  “The library?” he asked, furrowing his bristly, untrimmed eyebrows.

  “Miss Tilley called and especially asked for me to help shelve some books for her. She says she got behind. The library was very busy during school vacation week.” She paused, studying his expression and trying to gauge his reaction. “I could pick up some books for you, if you’d like.”

  “No need,” he said, and her heart sank.

  “There might be a new Louis L’Amour,” she said, hoping to tempt him.

  “Hmmm,” he said, and some oatmeal dribbled down his chin, which he blotted with his napkin. “What time do you want to go?” he asked.

  “Two o’clock,” she said, hardly believing her luck.

  After placing the heavy silver spoon in the bowl, he pulled a slim notebook out of his vest pocket and opened it, then drew the tiny pencil out of its leather loop and jotted down the time. It was now official; the doors would be unlocked at two o’clock.

  “Thank you,” she said, hopping up and refilling his coffee cup. “I’ll be sure to ask about the book for you.”

  He took a big slurp of coffee, and she could hear him swallow, a sound that usually turned her stomach. But not today. Today she was going to the library, and she wasn’t going to shelve books. She was going to the first meeting of a women’s liberation group.

  Chapter Five

  Tinker’s Cove Chamber of Commerce

  Press Release

  For Immediate Release

  Only Days to Go until the First Annual Giant Pumpkin Fest Kicks Off on Saturday! Excitement Is Building in Tinker’s Cove as Businesses Prepare for Increased Customer Traffic during the Weeklong Autumn Celebration, Which Is Packed with Fun-Filled Events. Local Restaurants and Innkeepers Are Already Reporting a Substantial Increase in Reservations over Last Year.

  Where had the month gone? wondered Lucy, staring at the calendar on the kitchen wall. Only a little more than a week until Halloween and she still hadn’t found a ninja costume for Patrick. It wasn’t for the lack of trying: she had dutifully scoured every possible source in the area and had come up empty. She considered trying the Internet but feared she’d left it too late and the costume wouldn’t come in time. She could pay for overnight shipping, of course, but something held her back, some little puritanical vestige that wouldn’t allow her to spend a lot of money on anything as frivolous as a Halloween costume.

  No, she decided, she would make the ninja costume. She used to sew all the time when her own four kids were young, and had turned out quite credible gypsies and pirates, even a slinky cat. Unfortunately, she realized, the sewing machine she’d used back then was gone, the victim of a household purge in which she’d followed the advice of an organizing guru and foolishly tossed everything she hadn’t used in a year. She did, however, have some black bedsheets left over from Elizabeth’s Goth phase, and a couple of old sewing patterns had escaped the purge, including one for children’s pajamas, which she’d recently found stuffed in her sewing basket. And she was pretty sure that Miss Tilley had a sewing machine, an old treadle model to be sure, but a genuine Singer.

  When she arrived at Miss Tilley’s little Cape Cod–style house, she was admitted by Rachel, who was actually Miss Tilley’s home-care aide but maintained the fiction that she was just a helpful friend. Miss Tilley herself was seated at the dining room table, bent over an elaborate cut-glass canister.

  “What are you doing?” Lucy asked, setting the pattern and fabric down on the lovely old pine table, which glowed from its weekly rubdown with lemon oil.

  Miss Tilley looked up from the pad of paper where she was scrawling numbers with a fine new pe
ncil. “We’re computing the volume of this canister.”

  “And why exactly is it important?” she asked, taking a seat.

  “Because if I know the volume, then I can figure out how many pieces of candy corn it can hold.”

  Light was beginning to dawn over Marblehead, as Lucy remembered a very similar canister that was presently sitting in Country Cousins, filled with candy corn.

  “You want to win the contest?” she asked.

  “I surely do,” said Miss Tilley with a snap of her head. “I have entered it every year for sixty or more years, and I have yet to win. And this year I happen to need a new winter coat, and I am quite taken with those ultralight down models they’ve just come out with at Country Cousins.”

  “They cost two hundred twenty-nine dollars,” said Rachel, who was filling a cup measure with candy corn, counting the pieces one by one.

  “Pricey,” said Lucy.

  “Indeed, but it’s quite probably the last winter coat I will ever need,” said Miss Tilley with a dramatic sigh.

  “I’m pretty sure you’ll outlive both of us,” said Rachel, adding an exclamation. “Darn! Now I lost count. Again.”

  She poured the candy corn out and started over.

  “I was hoping to use your sewing machine,” said Lucy, patting the pattern. “I want to adapt this pajama pattern to make a ninja costume for Patrick.”

  “You’ll need to add a hood,” said Rachel, studying the picture on the pattern front. It showed a boy and a girl, clearly fresh from their evening baths, clutching teddy bears as they headed off to bed in their homemade pajamas with no trace of Disney princesses or Marvel superheroes.

  “Pretty simple, I think,” said Lucy, sketching a design on one of Miss Tilley’s discarded sheets of paper covered with numbers and formulas. “I think you’ve got this wrong. Volume isn’t two pi r. It’s pi r squared h.”