Candy Corn Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Barney thought for a minute, clearly struggling to come up with a politically correct reply. “Well,” he began, “your mom knows what’s best for you. You might get apples or raisins or sugar-free gum, and those are good treats, right?” The little girl nodded. “But just like candy, you need an adult to check every treat before you eat it, okay?”

  There were nods all through the room. A little boy raised his hand and, getting a nod from Barney, posed the question all the little boys in the room wanted to ask. “Officer Barney, can we see your gun?”

  Barney stood his ground. “This gun is my responsibility, and it’s going to stay exactly where it is, which is in my holster.”

  This was met with a chorus of groans.

  “Guns are dangerous, and if you find one, you should not touch it, but tell an adult. This is very important, and I want you to remember it. Never, ever touch a gun, because it might be loaded and hurt someone, maybe even you.” He paused, letting this advice sink in. “But I do have Play It Safe coloring books and Tootsie Rolls for everyone,” he added, concluding his talk. This time he got cheers.

  Afterward, as the children were filing out and heading back to their classrooms, Lucy approached her old friend. She and Barney first became acquainted years ago, when they were both on the Cub Scout pack committee. “Great talk, Barney, as always.”

  “Thanks, Lucy.” He rocked back on his heels. “It’s one of my favorite duties.”

  “The Fourth of July fireworks talk is also good,” said Lucy.

  “Yeah, but that’s for the summer rec program. There aren’t as many kids.”

  “I always like it when you explode the watermelon with a firecracker,” said Lucy.

  Barney smiled at the memory. “Yeah,” he said.

  “So tell me,” continued Lucy, “any progress on the pumpkin murders?”

  “Aw, Lucy, you know I can’t talk about department stuff. You gotta talk to the chief.”

  “I did. He says that every time this perpetrator acts, the department gets a little closer to apprehending him.”

  “Or her,” added Barney.

  “Right,” said Lucy, thinking that when it came to perpetrators, the department was strictly equal opportunity, but not so much when it came to hiring.

  “A lot of folks have installed security cameras. It’s just a matter of time before we get a photo.”

  “But no leads so far?” asked Lucy, pressing the matter.

  “No comment,” said Barney, grinning.

  Leaving the school, Lucy got a text from Ted asking her to cover a special emergency meeting of the board of selectmen, which had just been announced. There had not been time for the meeting to be posted in advance, so only a handful of town hall loyalists were sitting in attendance in the town hall basement meeting room, along with the police and fire chiefs. Bob Goodman, who was the town’s legal counsel, met her in the doorway.

  “This is most unusual, Lucy,” he said. “The meeting is taking place under the provisions in the town charter for emergency situations that require action by the board. The board is mindful of the state’s open meeting law, and the minutes will be available to any interested citizens.” He gave her a copy of the relevant section of the charter. “We don’t want any misunderstanding,” he said. “I’m counting on you to make it clear in your story that the board is acting in an open manner under the provisions of the town charter.”

  “Okay. I understand,” said Lucy, who knew the taxpayers association was always ready to pounce on any perceived misconduct by town officials. “But what exactly is the emergency?”

  “The fire department is asking for an emergency appropriation to cover unanticipated costs for the Pumpkin Fest,” he said as Corney Clark joined them.

  “What a mess!” she exclaimed, running her fingers through her orange hair. For once the always perfectly turned out Corney looked rather the worse for wear. Her eye makeup was smudged, as if applied in haste, and her rumpled red jacket clashed with her pumpkin-colored hair. “This festival is going to be the death of me.”

  “Take a deep breath,” counseled Lucy. “Think happy thoughts.”

  “I’ll tell you a happy thought,” growled Corney. “I’m miles away from here, on a Caribbean beach, sipping a piña colada, and there are no pumpkins anywhere.”

  “Can I come?” asked Bob.

  “Sorry, Bob, but nobody from Tinker’s Cove is allowed in my daydream.”

  “I understand,” he said with a grin. Then he walked to his seat in the front of the room, where he would be available to advise the board members. Moments later the selectmen filed in and took their places at the long table on the dais.

  “I’m calling this meeting to order,” declared Roger Wilcox, who was the longtime chairman of the board. “This is an emergency session to consider a budget request from the fire department. Chief Bresnahan, you’ve got the floor.”

  Lucy and Corney sat down next to each other, and Lucy pulled her notebook from her bag and opened it.

  “Thank you, Chairman,” said Bresnahan, who was wearing his dress uniform, the one he wore to fire department funerals throughout the Northeast. “I have been informed by the Coast Guard that the department will have to deploy the water rescue craft for the duration of the pumpkin boat regatta. This means additional manpower, to the tune of sixteen hundred dollars.”

  “That seems high,” said Florence Whittaker, the board’s newest member, who had campaigned promising to keep a sharp eye on town finances.

  “May I speak?” asked Corney, raising her hand.

  Roger gave her a nod. “Ms. Clark.”

  Corney stood up. “As you know, I represent the chamber of commerce, which is sponsoring the Giant Pumpkin Fest. This is the first year for this autumn festival, which we hope will become an annual event. I am happy to report that the event is getting a lot of attention, a lot of notice, and people are enthusiastic and excited. Our members in the hospitality business tell me bookings are up, rooms are filled, and restaurants are turning away requests for reservations. This is not only good for the business community, but the Giant Pumpkin Fest is also an event the whole town can enjoy. It’s bringing people together to celebrate our way of life here in Tinker’s Cove.”

  “I don’t know about that,” muttered Chief Bresnahan. “As far as I can tell, this festival of yours is causing a lot of trouble. I’ve already committed to the pancake breakfast, and now this. I just don’t have the manpower.”

  “I find I must agree with the chief,” said Roger. “I understand that the Pumpkin Fest is something new, but it doesn’t seem to me that it’s very well planned. There’s no excuse for under-budgeting. . . .”

  “I have to say that there was no way we could have anticipated the Coast Guard’s demand . . . ,” began Bresnahan, defending his budgeting.

  “You couldn’t have made a phone call, asked if there were any special requirements for a pumpkin boat regatta?” asked Florence. “I mean, this so-called regatta involves putting people in unstable watercraft in very chilly weather, but you figured there was no need for extra safety measures?”

  “I will take complete responsibility . . . ,” began Corney, noticing the fire chief was growing rather red under his collar.

  “Both the police department and the fire department have been most cooperative,” said Angus MacDonald, owner of MacDonald’s Farm. “I’m not satisfied that the police department is any better prepared than the fire department.”

  The police chief, Jim Kirwan, wasn’t about to take this sitting down. He rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “I want to assure the board that my department is indeed prepared. I have scheduled extra details for the duration of the festival, and we are bringing in additional manpower, in the form of special details from our neighboring towns. The budget for this has been approved by the finance committee, with the understanding that the chamber will bear the cost for the special details.”

  “I certainly commend your careful planning and most esp
ecially encourage these public-private partnerships,” said Florence.

  “Yeah, you’ve got the festival covered, but what about this vandalism?” demanded Bresnahan, who had not come to terms with the loss of his giant pumpkin. “My giant pumpkin . . . Well, it was a terrible sight to see.”

  Everyone in the room was silent, acknowledging the fire chief’s loss.

  Finally, the police chief responded. “We’re coming closer to making an arrest. Every day we’re a little closer.”

  “That’s all well and good,” said Bresnahan, whose quavering voice betrayed the depth of his emotion, “but nothing can bring back my pumpkin.”

  “There’s one way we can honor the chief’s loss,” said Corney, speaking in a reverential tone. “And that’s by refusing to give up. We must be strong and not give in to these vandals. I’m asking you for your support, for your vote to provide the necessary funding so the Giant Pumpkin Fest can take place as an example of civic pride and fortitude.”

  “All in favor?” asked Roger.

  The measure passed, four to one, with Florence the only nay vote.

  “Boy, that was close,” said Corney as she and Lucy walked out to the parking lot.

  “Not that close,” said Lucy. “There was only one nay vote.”

  “It could have gone the other way,” said Corney, tossing her bag into her car and climbing in after it. “I’m off to the next crisis,” she said, checking her smartphone. “Buck needs his hand held. He’s getting a lot of blowback from old-timers at the company.”

  “Change is hard for some people,” said Lucy, who was also checking her smartphone and finding a message from Ted. “Photo op at Jonah’s Pond, ASAP.”

  “See ya,” called Lucy, giving Corney a little wave before settling herself behind the wheel. Her stomach growled as she started the car, and she thought, How nice it would be to have some lunch. Unfortunately, lunch was in the office fridge, so it would have to wait until she got her photos at the pond. It would have been nice of Ted to let her know who and what she was supposed to shoot, but she guessed all would be made clear in time.

  When she arrived at the pond, she found Hank’s pickup with the scuba bumper sticker in the parking area and pulled alongside it. Hurrying down the path, she found several members of the scuba club, all dressed in wet suits, sitting on the ground and adjusting their gear. Sara was among them and greeted her mother with a wave.

  “I texted Ted. I hope it’s okay,” she said. “I thought this might make a good photo for the paper.”

  “What exactly is going on?” asked Lucy, pulling her little camera out of her bag and snapping a photo of the divers.

  “We’re setting up for the underwater pumpkin-carving contest,” said Sara. She pointed to an aluminum rowboat that was riding rather low in the water due to the fact that it contained a couple of cement blocks; there were about a dozen more blocks stacked nearby. “We’ve got to put these concrete blocks in the water to give the contestants workstations.”

  “So you got the go-ahead from the DEP?” asked Lucy.

  “Not yet,” admitted Hank, who was seated on a rock and was pulling on his flippers. “But we haven’t got a cease and desist order, either, so we’re going ahead with our schedule. If we have to call it off, we’ll remove the blocks. There’s no way a dozen concrete blocks are going to hurt this pond.” He cast his eyes over the smooth expanse of water. “If it’s like every other pond in the state, there’s all kinds of stuff that people have tossed in there, believe me.”

  Lucy nodded agreement. She knew that ponds were favored dumping grounds for people who wanted to get rid of stuff, and the ever-increasing fees at the town landfill had only exacerbated the trend. Why spend fifty bucks to get rid of an old TV when you could just chuck it in the pond on a moonless night?

  “You better be careful down there,” warned Sara. “You don’t want to get tangled up in some rusty old garbage.”

  “I’ll be careful,” promised Hank, rising to his feet and walking awkwardly toward the water in his flippers. When he was about waist deep, he waited for a couple of club members to launch the boat, and then he swam alongside as they rowed it out until it was about fifty feet from the shore. He then gave a signal and they tossed one of the blocks into the water and he submerged.

  “Why’s he going down?” she asked Sara.

  “He’s checking that the block is in a clear area, and if it’s okay, he’s going to attach a line with a bobbing flag to serve as a marker,” she explained. “He should be back up in a minute or two. It’s only about ten feet deep out there.”

  Lucy waited, camera at the ready, but Hank didn’t appear. A series of ripples spread across the smooth surface of the water, indicating the spot where the block was dropped, but that was all.

  “Isn’t this taking a rather long time?” asked Lucy.

  “He’s got an air tank. He’ll be fine,” said Sara. “Maybe he’s having a problem with the marker line.”

  A few more minutes passed, and Sara called out to the guys in the boat. “Is everything okay?”

  They were leaning over the side, attempting to peer into the water, when there was a big splash and Hank surfaced, apparently unconscious. He was floating facedown in the water, his arms and legs hanging limply.

  “Ohmigod!” exclaimed Sara, diving into the water and swimming out to the boat, looking like a sleek seal in her black wet suit.

  Lucy watched, horrified, torn between her concern for her daughter and her duty as a reporter to get the story. She was calling 911 on her smartphone at the same time she was watching the rescue.

  The two guys were struggling with Hank’s body, trying to haul him out of the water and into the boat, but were having no success. When Sara reached them, she joined in the effort, kicking furiously and pushing from below, and they were finally able to lift Hank. Once he was in the boat, one guy was able to start CPR while the other manned the oars. Sara swam alongside.

  Lucy had managed to snap a few photos of the rescue, all the while praying that Hank would be all right. She was relieved to see that by the time they reached shore, Hank was spitting out water, his chest heaving as he took great gasps of air. They could hear the siren on the town’s ambulance, signaling that help was on the way, and Lucy let out a long sigh of relief.

  The ambulance arrived, with flashing lights and a few final blasts of its siren, and two EMTs were rushing to Hank’s side. He was sitting up and shaking his head, telling them he was fine.

  “We’re going to take you to the cottage hospital, just to make sure,” said one EMT, only to get a vehement no from Hank.

  “Really, I’m fine,” he insisted. “I musta set my regulator wrong, that’s all.”

  The EMTs shrugged and returned their empty stretcher to the ambulance. They drove off without using either the lights or the siren. It was a rather anticlimactic end to a near tragedy, thought Lucy, finding herself standing all alone. The club members were all gathered around Hank and Sara, who had their heads together as they examined his dive equipment.

  “That’s funny,” she heard Hank say. “The regulator’s fine.”

  “Check your hose,” advised one of the guys. “You might have a little tear.”

  “It’s not little,” said Sara, pointing to a neat cut in the hose, near the air tank. “But you’d never notice it, it’s so close to the tank.... And the tank’s behind you, on your back.”

  “My fault. I should have checked all my gear more thoroughly before I went in,” said Hank.

  “You still could have missed it,” said Sara, who was bending the hose. “It wouldn’t have shown up until there was pressure on the hose, like this.” When the hose was straight, the slice didn’t show, but when she bent it, the gap became visible. “I don’t think this was from wear and tear. It looks like somebody cut your hose with a knife.”

  Hank shook his head. “Don’t be paranoid,” he said. “This stuff is old. I’ve been planning on asking for some new equipment for Christ
mas.” He checked his clunky dive watch. “We better get a move on if we’re going to get those blocks in today. I know I’m not the only one who has a paper due on Monday.”

  This got a chorus of agreement from the others, who started to prepare to dive once again. Lucy gave Sara a wave and, receiving one in return, headed for her car. When she opened the door, she took one last look back at the beach, where the club members were launching the boat.

  Maybe Hank was right and his equipment had simply worn out, and Sara had been too quick to assume that the hose had been cut on purpose. Or maybe, she thought, remembering the eviscerated harvest figures and the smashed pumpkins and the sudden explosion of bureaucratic red tape, maybe the dive equipment had also been damaged by the person who was intent on sabotaging the Giant Pumpkin Fest.

  Spring, 1979

  What a disappointment! She looked round at the women gathered in the library, wondering what she might possibly have in common with them. They all seemed to know each other, for one thing, and they were all talking noisily about their husbands and kids. They were wearing brightly, you might even say garishly, colored clothes, crocheted vests, and dangling jewelry, even long skirts, and a few had wild hair that curled every which way. She was the only one wearing neatly tailored gray slacks and a matching turtleneck sweater. She felt as if she were in a black-and-white movie and they were all in glorious Technicolor.

  They were so outspoken, saying things she’d never dare to mention. They complained that their husbands never helped with housework, which she didn’t think was a husband’s responsibility at all, and she certainly didn’t think a husband was supposed to change the baby’s diapers or give the kids their bedtime baths. They seemed plain lazy to her, expecting their husbands to take on household chores and child care after a long day at work.

  Honestly, she enjoyed cooking and cleaning. The routine was soothing, and it gave her something to do, something to keep her mind busy so she didn’t have to think about the things that, well, the things she didn’t like to think about.