Candy Corn Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I’m sorry,” apologized Lucy, who was struggling against the inevitable sense of guilt. “I would stay except for Patrick here.” Lucy was holding him tightly in case he made a dash for freedom. “The party was a mistake.”

  “You can say that again,” agreed Sue. “We never should have given in and let Heidi bring in her boyfriend.”

  “The DJ is her boyfriend?” asked Lucy, thinking they were an unlikely pair. He with his studs and tattoos, and she with her high-necked, tightly buttoned blouses.

  Sue nodded, her expression grim.

  “We’re going to get some ice cream and take it home and watch the Peanuts TV special about the Great Pumpkin,” said Lucy. She could already hear the tinkling piano music in her head. So calming. So relaxing. And considering the way things were going all wrong this Halloween, she definitely needed some rest and recuperation.

  “What kind of ice cream?” asked Patrick suspiciously. “Not that nut kind.”

  “No maple walnut,” promised Lucy, recalling a recent ice cream choice that hadn’t gone over well with the family. “You can choose whatever flavor you want.”

  “Monster marshmallow whirl,” he said promptly as they made their way out to the parking lot.

  Where did that come from? she wondered as she buckled his seat belt. And she added a little prayer. Please let there be monster marshmallow whirl at the IGA.

  Chapter Ten

  Tinker’s Cove Chamber of Commerce

  Press Release

  For Immediate Release

  The Giant Pumpkin Fest Swings into High Gear on Saturday! The Event Anxious Pumpkin Growers Have Been Waiting For, the Giant Pumpkin Weigh-In, Is at 9:00 a.m. at MacDonald’s Farm Stand. How Big Is Your Pumpkin? The Fun Continues with the Catapult Hurl, Kicking Off at 1:00 p.m. at Foster’s Hay Field on Jonah’s Pond Road with Live Music by the Claws. Refreshments Will Be Available at Both Events.

  Lucy loved the loosey-goosey feel of Saturday mornings, when everybody fended for themselves. There was no need to get the kids up early and rush them through breakfast, making sure they had their lunches in hand before they left the house to catch the school bus. On Saturdays the girls liked to sleep late, and Bill and Patrick, who were early risers, had a special breakfast together, cooked by Grandpa Bill. That left Lucy free to enjoy a second cup of coffee in peace and quiet. At least, that was usually how it went on Saturday, but this Saturday morning was different.

  This morning, Bill was pacing anxiously in the kitchen, pausing every few minutes to peer out the window. Libby knew something was up and was determined to keep him company, pacing beside him, nails clicking on the hardwood floor.

  “It’s not Christmas, Bill,” said Lucy, with a yawn, “and Santa isn’t coming.”

  “I’m not looking for Santa. I’m looking for Ev,” said Bill.

  “It’s not even seven,” said Lucy, who was slumped over a mug of coffee at the kitchen table. Bill had asked her to get up early to serve coffee and doughnuts to the catapult crew, and she’d agreed, knowing how much the catapult hurl meant to him. Since he had to be at the catapult hurl all day, she and the girls were taking Priscilla to the weigh-in at MacDonald’s farm stand.

  “Ev was supposed to be here half an hour ago,” grumbled Bill, who was standing at the window and holding the curtain back with his hand so he’d have a clear view of the driveway. Libby had lowered her hindquarters temporarily and was sitting beside him, at the ready. “Tom Mastrangelo will be here any minute with the trailer. It’s going to take a while to load the catapult, and we’ve got to be on-site by nine, or we’ll be disqualified.” He snorted and walked over to the sink, accompanied by the dog, where he filled a glass with water and drank it down. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.”

  Lucy could, knowing Ev’s penchant for alcohol, but wisely kept that thought to herself. “Have you called him?”

  “Several times. All I got was voice mail.”

  “Maybe you should go over to his place,” suggested Lucy. “Maybe he overslept.”

  “He was so excited about the catapult—and he’s an early riser.” Bill was standing in the middle of the kitchen, legs apart and hands on hips, staring at the clock that hung on the wall over the stove. Libby was sitting on her haunches, watching him.

  “When’s the big truck coming?” asked Patrick, coming down the kitchen stairs and getting a lick and a wag of the tail from Libby. He was still in his pajamas, and his hair was tousled. Lucy thought he looked adorable.

  “Any minute,” said Bill, coming to a decision and pulling out his cell phone. “I don’t have time to track down Ev, whatever he’s gotten up to. I’m going to call Sid.”

  “Good idea,” said Lucy, who knew that Sue’s husband, Sid, was a reliable helper. She filled a bowl with Cheerios, added some milk, and set it on the table, but Patrick had eaten only a few mouthfuls when Tom Mastrangelo arrived in his big dump truck, towing a flatbed trailer. The trailer was normally used to haul heavy earth-moving equipment, but today it was carrying only a small forklift. As soon as Patrick saw the truck, he was out of his chair and heading for the door.

  “Hold on,” said Lucy. “You’re still in your pajamas.”

  Patrick was up the stairs in a flash, with Lucy following. In a matter of minutes he pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and was wriggling with excitement as Lucy added a sweatshirt against the morning chill. He shoved his feet into his sneakers, without socks, and clattered noisily down the stairs and out the door, just in time to see Sid arrive in the white van he used in his custom closet business.

  “Boys and trucks,” muttered Lucy, picking his discarded pajamas up off the floor and tucking them under his pillow as she made his bed.

  When she got downstairs, the moving operation was in full swing. Going out onto the porch, she saw that Tom Mastrangelo had already loaded Priscilla into Bill’s pickup truck and was chugging across the driveway on his forklift, with Patrick on his lap. Patrick was ecstatic, as was Libby, running along beside them, but Lucy was dismayed. She ran down the porch steps and across the yard, intending to stop this dangerous stunt, but by the time she caught up to them, Patrick was safely on the ground.

  “That was so dangerous! Don’t do that again,” she warned Tom, giving Patrick a hug.

  “Sorry,” Tom muttered, hanging his head to hide a smirk as Patrick wiggled out of her arms.

  “Gee, Lucy,” complained Bill. “Lighten up a little.”

  Patrick was already climbing up the ramp that had been lowered off the back of the trailer, eager to inspect the equipment.

  She was about to tell him to get down but was stopped by Bill. “Leave him be. He’s in no danger.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” promised Sid, indicating Bill with a nod of his head and causing Lucy to laugh.

  Tom had maneuvered the trailer as close as possible to the catapult, which Bill and Ev had equipped with recycled tractor tires. The plan was to employ a winch and a cable to draw the catapult onto the trailer, but when the cable was attached, the winch was unable to budge the heavy wooden catapult.

  Lucy watched, standing to the side, with Patrick held firmly by one hand and Libby by the other, as the winch whined in protest and the cable sang with the strain. When Tom cut the winch motor, the quiet seemed very loud.

  “You’re gonna have to push,” said Tom, then waited for Sid and Bill to get into position before restarting the winch. This time the catapult inched forward and rolled up the ramp and settled into position on the trailer.

  “Tom’s the best,” said Sid, nodding with approval as Bill and Tom chained the catapult in place for the short trip to the pumpkin hurl site on the shore of Jonah’s Pond, not far from the Country Cousins complex.

  Lucy brought out mugs of coffee and a plate of doughnuts, and the men stood in a little knot, discussing the finer points of the catapult’s construction. Patrick was all ears, consuming a large chocolate doughnut with relish, but when the conversation turned to Ev Wickes, Lucy interven
ed.

  “Patrick, we need to get you dressed properly for the festival,” she said, “and you haven’t brushed your teeth.”

  “Right,” said Bill, popping the last bit of doughnut into his mouth and draining his coffee mug. “And we need to get this show on the road.”

  “Can I watch, please?” begged Patrick, so Lucy waited while the men climbed into their various vehicles. Bill led the way in Lucy’s SUV, followed by Tom in the big dump truck towing the trailer with the catapult aboard, and Sid followed in his van. When the procession was out of sight, Patrick finally agreed to go inside, accompanied by Libby, who had transferred her tail-wagging allegiance from Bill to Patrick.

  “Grandpa’s catapult will win, won’t it?” Patrick asked as Lucy squeezed toothpaste onto his brush.

  “Maybe,” agreed Lucy, with a smile, and she meant it. She hadn’t really thought the project was a good idea, but now that the catapult was built, she had to admit Bill and Ev’s adaptation and construction of this medieval war device was quite an achievement. And who knew? Maybe the silly thing would win the contest. She figured the thousand dollars in prize money would just about cover the cost of constructing the infernal machine.

  After Lucy got some socks on Patrick and brushed his hair, she roused the girls. “I’m leaving with Priscilla in fifteen minutes,” she told them, purposely fibbing in order to get them moving.

  Patrick, however, took her threat seriously. “Hurry up!” he yelled. “You’ll miss the contest!”

  Half an hour later they were on the road, Lucy and Patrick riding in Bill’s pickup, with Priscilla in back, and Sara and Zoe following in Sara’s little secondhand Civic. It wasn’t far to MacDonald’s farm stand, where Halloween was big business. Angus MacDonald had been quick to see the possibilities of the holiday when he took over the family business, which previously had been limited to selling apples, cider, cheddar cheese, and his mother’s homemade baked goods. Now the farm stand boasted a corn maze, a huge field of pick-your-own pumpkins, and a small petting zoo of farm animals, in addition to the original products. The change had been a big success, and the parking lot was always full on fall weekends, packed with SUV’s displaying BABY ON BOARD decals.

  Today, Lucy noticed, both the original parking lot and a nearby field were packed with cars. Linc MacDonald, Angus’s teenage son, waved the pickup right on through to the weigh-in, which was taking place in front of the farm stand, but directed Sara to park in the field. Lucy drove carefully along the rutted driveway, mindful of pedestrians and trying not to jostle Priscilla, as she joined the line of contestants’ trucks.

  At first she kept the engine running, not realizing how long it took to unload each pumpkin and transfer it to the scale, but eventually she turned off the engine. Patrick was just beginning to get restless when Sara and Zoe arrived, having hiked some distance from the field where they parked the car.

  “I’ll stay with Priscilla,” said Lucy, “but you guys can go on ahead and watch the weigh-in.”

  “Okay, Mom,” agreed Sara as Patrick scrambled out of the truck cab.

  “Hold his hand,” Lucy cautioned, mindful of the crowd.

  “We’ll keep you posted,” promised Zoe as the crowd gathered around the scale gave a round of applause.

  “How big?” Lucy asked, calling after them.

  “Six hundred and thirty-two pounds,” replied Zoe.

  The competition was going to be tougher than she’d thought, she realized, deciding to take a look for herself. There was no hurry about moving the truck. The organizers still had to remove the pumpkin from the scale and place it on display before the line of contestants could inch forward. Lucy counted as she followed the kids, and discovered she was ninth in line. As she walked along, she studied the competition, examining each enormous pumpkin and comparing its size against Priscilla’s, and decided that Bill’s pumpkin had a decent chance of winning. They were just removing the six-hundred-pound pumpkin with a super-big heavy-duty forklift when she joined the kids, and she was surprised to see it seemed smaller than Priscilla.

  “I’ll go back to the truck, Mom,” offered Sara. “You stay here and keep an eye on the competition.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, taking Patrick’s hand. “What do you think? Do you think Priscilla is bigger than that pumpkin?”

  “Priscilla’s ginormous,” said Patrick, getting chuckles from the people who were standing nearby. “I bet she weighs a million pounds,” he added, giving his favorite number.

  The contest continued throughout the morning as each pumpkin was lifted by forklift and placed on the scale. Each pumpkin’s weight was shown on a giant digital electronic display. Angus MacDonald was an entertaining emcee, offering up plenty of country-style humor while the pumpkins were loaded and unloaded. Everyone was having a good time, enjoying the crisp October weather, but Lucy found she was surprisingly nervous. She really didn’t care, she told herself, but her stomach gave a lurch every time a weight was announced.

  She watched anxiously as Sara inched the pickup forward through the crowd, realizing with a shock that they were next to last, just in front of Phyllis’s husband, Wilf.

  “Now, who takes credit for this beauty?” asked Angus as Sara moved the truck into place.

  “We do,” said Lucy, stepping forward with Patrick.

  “Did you grow the pumpkin?” Angus asked, shoving the mike in front of Patrick.

  “No. Grandpa did,” answered Patrick, then added, “Her name is Priscilla.”

  This got a laugh from the audience.

  “So tell me, young man, how much do you think Priscilla weighs?”

  Patrick didn’t hesitate. “A million and one pounds,” he replied, getting an even bigger laugh.

  “That’s a lot,” said Angus. “Let’s see if you’re right.”

  Lucy held her breath while Priscilla was gently lowered onto the scale and the forklift withdrawn. The display blinked a few times, then registered the pumpkin’s weight: 599 pounds. The crowd groaned in unison, as this was well below the current leader’s weight of 641.

  “Too bad,” said Angus, sympathizing. “But Priscilla’s probably happy, right? The ladies don’t like to weigh too much.”

  “She’s not a lady. She’s a pumpkin,” said Patrick, scowling. His reaction tickled the crowd’s fancy, and people were laughing and joking as Priscilla was removed from the scale and added to the arrangement of enormous pumpkins that was growing around the farm stand’s sign. Lucy looked for Sara and Zoe in the crowd and finally spotted them with a group of friends.

  Last up was Wilf’s pumpkin, and Lucy waved to Phyllis, who was standing beside her husband as the gleaming orange gourd was set on the scale. Wilf had taken a great deal of trouble, she realized, and had polished up his pumpkin. As before, the electronic display blinked a bit. Then the numbers appeared: 812!

  “Folks, we have a winner,” said Angus, clapping Wilf on the back and shaking his hand.

  Wilf was grinning broadly, and Phyllis was beaming with pride, her dyed hair a close match to the pumpkin’s orange skin.

  “Are you willing to share your secret?” asked Angus.

  “Massage,” confessed Wilf, getting a roar from the crowd. “I massaged the pumpkin every night.”

  “Wasn’t your wife jealous?” joked Angus, causing both Wilf and Phyllis to blush furiously.

  “If she was, she didn’t say,” said Wilf, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Did you mind?” Angus asked Phyllis.

  “Nope,” said Phyllis. “Because he promised to give the prize money to me!”

  “Well, here it is,” said Angus, producing a white envelope. “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Thank you,” said Phyllis, plucking the envelope from his hands and giving her husband a kiss.

  “Danged shame,” muttered Buzz Bresnahan, approaching Lucy. “My pumpkin would’ve won, you know, if it hadn’t been vandalized.”

  “Any progress on that?” asked Lucy as they walked over to
congratulate Wilf and Phyllis.

  Bresnahan shook his head. “Nope.” He extended his hand to Wilf, who took it and shook it enthusiastically. “Congratulations. Darn fine pumpkin you got there.”

  “I appreciate your saying so,” replied Wilf. “I know you must be disappointed.”

  “There’s always next year,” said Bresnahan.

  “Right,” said Wilf, exhaling a big sigh. “Tell the truth, I don’t think I’ll enter again. It was a heck of a strain, ’cause of what happened to you. I ended up sleeping outside all last week, in a tent, right next to the pumpkin. Hell of a way to live.”

  “Is that true?” Lucy asked Phyllis. “You never said.”

  “I wasn’t about to admit my husband was sleeping with a pumpkin instead of with me,” muttered Phyllis.

  “Oh,” said Lucy. “I see your point . . . , but these were extraordinary circumstances.”

  “Nana, can I have some ice cream?” asked Patrick, tugging on her arm.

  Lucy hesitated, thinking of Molly’s instructions. “How about an apple?”

  Patrick’s face fell. “I don’t like apples.”

  “Okay,” she said, admitting defeat. “We’ll get ice cream.”

  Going inside, Lucy bought a chocolate cone for Patrick and a pumpkin one for herself. They walked to the truck, licking their ice cream as they went and greeting friends and neighbors.

  “Maybe Grandpa’s catapult will win,” said Patrick as he climbed into his booster seat licked his cone while Lucy buckled him in. She’d already finished hers, savoring every mouthful of the sweet and spicy ice cream.

  Lucy expected that the atmosphere would be somewhat rowdier at the pumpkin hurl than it was at the weigh-in, which had attracted lots of families with kids. The Claws rock band was playing, which attracted plenty of young singles, and the refreshment stand sold beer, as well as the usual soft drinks and hot dogs. Contestants at the hurl competed in two categories: distance, to see who could hurl a pumpkin the farthest using a catapult, and accuracy, as they aimed to hit a target, which was always a wrecked car marked with a big red bull’s-eye. This year’s target was an aged Hyundai that had dropped its transmission on Route 1, causing a giant traffic jam, which Lucy had covered for the Pennysaver.