Candy Corn Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “What’s happening?” she asked. Bill had come from the family room, where he’d been watching the evening news, and was standing behind her.

  “Put your hands up!” ordered DeGraw, producing a gun and holding it with both hands inches from Lucy’s nose.

  Lucy’s hands flew up.

  “What’s going on?” asked Bill.

  “Hands up!” screamed DeGraw. Ferrick had also produced his gun and was aiming it at Bill.

  “Okay, okay,” said Bill, obeying the order.

  “On your knees!” yelled DeGraw, causing the dog to materialize suddenly. The noise had disturbed her after-dinner snooze on the family room sectional.

  Hearing her growl, Lucy was terrified the cops would shoot her. “It’s okay, Libby,” she said in what she hoped was a soft, reassuring voice, but it came out as a terrified squeak. “Can I just put the dog in another room?”

  “Don’t move,” ordered Ferrick. “Don’t anybody move.”

  The dog was moving, keeping an eye on DeGraw and slouching toward him. Behind her, Lucy could hear scuffling and sensed that Zoe and Patrick were coming to see what was happening.

  “The kids,” she hissed, sending up a prayer. All it would take, she knew, was one wrong move to set off a deadly hail of bullets.

  “Look, I’m coming,” said Bill. “There’s no need for any of this.”

  The dog, Lucy saw, was primed, ready to go for DeGraw’s knee. “Let me grab the dog,” she begged.

  “Okay,” said Ferrick, with a sharp nod.

  DeGraw followed her every move with his gun while she dragged the growling dog back through the kitchen and locked her in the powder room. Once the door was securely latched, she raised her arms once again.

  “What about the kids?” she asked. “Can they go?” Libby was whining and scratching at the door.

  “Everybody, hands up!” snarled DeGraw. “Kids, too.”

  “Patrick, put your hands in the air, in the air.” Lucy sang the nursery school song softly, but the cops were having none of it.

  “Shut up!” yelled DeGraw. “And, you, on the floor!”

  Lucy watched as Bill stretched out on the floor, his hands still above his head. Two uniformed officers rushed in, and each one grabbed an arm and twisted it behind his back. After they applied handcuffs, they hoisted him to his feet and rushed him out of the kitchen, off the porch, down the walk, and into the back of a cruiser.

  “Are you finished?” she demanded, her eyes blazing.

  “Not yet,” said Ferrick. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” said Lucy.

  Ferrick tilted his head toward the kitchen table. “Why don’t you all make yourselves comfortable while we proceed?” he suggested.

  Lucy scooped up Patrick and settled him on her lap as she sat down. Zoe took her hand, and they held tightly to each other, making sure their linked hands were in clear sight on the table. It was ridiculous, thought Lucy. Of course the cops had to be careful, she supposed. These days they could encounter anything; some people kept arsenals of automatic weapons in their homes. But not them. She and Bill didn’t have guns. They considered guns much too dangerous to keep in their home.

  As they sat at the table, they could hear the cops working their way through the house, moving from room to room. She hoped they weren’t making a big mess, but it sounded like they were yanking cushions off the furniture and dumping out drawers. It made her furious, and she wanted to yell and scream and slap them, but she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t put up any resistance, any sort of fight, or she’d find herself in jail.

  Like Bill, she thought, struggling to swallow around the huge lump in her throat. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, and she buried her nose in Patrick’s hair, closing her eyes and concentrating on his sweet, tangy little-boy scent.

  “We’re done,” said Ferrick. “I’ve got a paper for you to sign. We’re taking some evidence.”

  “Good luck with that,” muttered Lucy, scrawling a few initials on the paper he had set on the table in front of her. “My husband is innocent!”

  Behind him, DeGraw laughed. “That’s what they all say!”

  As soon as they were gone, Lucy dialed Bob, but once again she got voice mail. It took a moment for her mind to clear, but when it did, she dialed Rachel and got an immediate answer.

  “The cops have arrested Bill, and they searched our house,” she wailed. “They had guns. I was terrified they’d shoot us!”

  “Ohmigod, Lucy. Bob’s out of town, but he must be on his way home by now.” She paused. “Are you all right?”

  From the bathroom she heard Libby whining and opened the door. The dog charged out and stopped suddenly, finding the cops gone. She gave a good shake and helped herself to a big drink of water. “We’re just shaken up. The kids and I are okay. But they took Bill off in handcuffs.”

  “I’ll make sure Bob goes to the lockup as soon as he gets home,” said Rachel. “He might be able to post bail.” She fell silent; she and Lucy both knew that was not going to happen. “He’ll call you as soon as he knows anything,” she said. “Just hang tight.”

  Ending the call, Lucy went through the house, assessing the damage. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The cushions were off the couch, but they hadn’t been ripped or damaged. The situation was the same in the bedrooms, where the mattresses had been pulled off the beds but had been left intact, and drawers had been rifled. It was worse in Bill’s attic office, where files had been dumped on the floor and a bookcase was overturned. It was too much to deal with tonight, she decided, going back downstairs.

  “Let’s straighten up what we can,” she told Zoe. “We’ll start with Patrick’s room.”

  An hour later, order had been largely restored and Patrick had been bathed in soothing lavender bubbles, which promised to promote calming sleep. They seemed to work, as he could barely stay awake for his bedtime story, and Lucy decided she would try them herself. Or maybe a shot of scotch. Or maybe a shot of scotch along with the bubbles.

  She was pouring herself a jigger full when Bob called, and took a quick gulp, bracing herself for bad news.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy, but it doesn’t look good,” he said. “They’re keeping him in jail until he’s arraigned—that’s tomorrow morning—and I’m afraid that if he gets bail at all, it will be quite high.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Lucy. “He doesn’t have a record, he’s local, he’s in business, and he has a family. . . .”

  “Oh, believe me, I’m going to make sure the judge knows all that. And bring some nice clothes for him, okay?”

  “So he looks respectable,” said Lucy.

  “You got it,” Bob said, then paused to clear his throat. “But you have to be prepared, Lucy. Things don’t look good right now. The cops found the murder weapon in Bill’s truck. It’s a bloody tire iron, and they’re confident the blood is Ev’s.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hall and Parris Funeral Home

  Funeral Announcement

  Evan D. Wickes

  Tinker’s Cove–A Memorial Service for Evan D. Wickes Will Take Place at Hall and Parris Funeral Home, 356 Main Street, at 11:00 a.m., Thursday.

  For Online Condolences and Directions, Please Visit www.hallandparris.com.

  Lucy went straight to Bob’s office after dropping Patrick at Little Prodigies. Patrick was still upset about the police raid the night before and clung to her neck when she bent down to give him his usual good-bye kiss, but she told him she had to go so Grandpa could come home, and he finally allowed Heidi to lead him over to the morning circle. In her mind, upsetting Patrick was just another mark against the cops, who, she believed, had unfairly and unjustifiably targeted Bill.

  That was exactly what she started to explain to Bob, who was hunched over his desk, preparing for the arraignment.

  “Great, Lucy. You’ve brought the clothes,” he said, cutting her off and taking the hangers
holding Bill’s navy blue blazer, tan chinos, paisley tie and light blue button-down shirt. His good loafers and clean underwear were tucked in a recyclable grocery bag, which she also handed over.

  “This is all a big mistake, right?” she continued. “You’ll be able to get bail, won’t you?”

  Bob didn’t look too hopeful. “Lucy, you’ve got to prepare yourself. There’s going to be a lot of interest in Bill’s arrest. . . .”

  Somehow the idea that the media would be covering the procedure hadn’t occurred to her. Until now she’d been focusing only on her outrage about Bill’s arrest and the way the police had terrorized their family. Now she realized their troubles were just beginning, and they would be receiving a lot of unwelcome attention. She was grateful the girls had wanted to stay home, where they were going to spend the day tidying the house and putting all the things the cops had disturbed back in their places. At home they’d be protected from scrutiny, and she wished she had thought to tell them in no uncertain terms not to answer the door and to screen all phone calls.

  “Now we’re media targets,” she said, with a sigh.

  He nodded. “I called Ted and explained the situation. . . .” She felt as if she’d been slapped, and seeing her reaction, he quickly added, “I figured you had enough on your plate.”

  She sank into a chair. “I must be losing my mind. I should have called him right away. I have to resign. This is a huge conflict of interest.”

  “He doesn’t want you to resign. He mentioned a leave of absence, until things settle down.”

  Lucy was quiet, absorbing this new ramification. She felt as if she was losing everything that mattered to her: her husband, her job, her reputation. And for no reason whatever, because Bill was innocent. It was all so unfair. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said, with a sudden spurt of anger. “I wish Bill had never met that Evan Wickes!”

  “Please keep that thought to yourself,” said Bob. “Remember, Ev’s death is a tragedy, and you mourn his passing, which your husband had nothing at all to do with. Understand?”

  Lucy nodded. “Ev’s funeral is today. Bill and I were planning to go, but now I’ll have to go alone.”

  “Not a good idea,” said Bob.

  Lucy knew he was right. She’d covered funerals where reporters had hounded people considered newsworthy, and she’d even seen one widow viciously attack a woman she suspected had been her husband’s lover. Her situation had changed, she realized. Now she was a person of interest, and every move would be scrutinized and discussed. “I understand,” said Lucy.

  Bob continued. “If anybody asks, remember you have every faith in the American justice system, which will prove your husband’s innocence in this sad affair.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ready?” he asked, gathering up the papers strewn on his desk and stuffing them in a bulging leather briefcase.

  “Do I look okay?” she asked. She hadn’t really given much thought to her appearance that morning, but she had chosen the good black pants she always wore when she was covering a trial, along with a gray cashmere turtleneck and a scarf she’d bought in Paris last spring.

  “You look fine,” said Bob, giving her a thumbs-up.

  They took separate cars to the courthouse in Gilead, the next town over, which was the county seat. Lucy was all too familiar with the court complex, which featured several buildings, including the registry of deeds, the probate court, the district and superior courts, as well as the county jail. The forbidding prison, built of gray granite and surrounded with razor wire, was set on a hill and loomed over the other buildings, casting a shadow that never seemed to shift, no matter what the time of day.

  Lucy had visited the jail from time to time, when she was covering cases for the Pennysaver, and she knew only too well how it smelled of sweat and disinfectant, and how the heavy steel doors clanged when they closed. Bill didn’t belong there, and she hated to think of the indignities he had to submit to.

  When she arrived at the county complex, she discovered Bob was right to warn her. The parking lot contained several TV trucks, and there weren’t any free spaces, so she had to cruise through the entire lot before she found a spot in an overflow lot behind the registry of deeds. Flipping down the sun visor, she checked her face in the mirror and added a slick of lipstick, her version of war paint.

  Arraignments took place in the district court, and there was usually a long list of people accused of mostly petty crimes. The lobby was a large, echoing space that contained a couple of stiff wooden benches that usually provided seating for a handful of people, often consulting with a lawyer or anxiously waiting for a loved one. Today, however, it was filled with reporters, many of whom knew her from her work covering various trials. Ted, she noticed, was hanging back, against the wall.

  “Lucy! Lucy!” The shout went up, and the mob surged around her, some with notebooks and others shoving microphones in her face. “Have you got a comment?”

  Now the shoe was on the other foot, and Lucy had to admit she deserved it; she’d done the same thing to so many people. She was shaking, she realized, and her mind was a blank. Then Bob was beside her, giving her arm a squeeze.

  “Mrs. Stone just wants to say that she is mourning the loss of a cherished family friend, Evan Wickes, and she has every confidence in the American justice system that her husband will be cleared of any involvement in his death.”

  “Is that right, Lucy?”

  “Why did they arrest your husband?”

  “Did you know about the marijuana?”

  “Did your husband know about the pot farm?”

  The questions were hurled at her as Bob led her into the courtroom, where, she was appalled to see, several TV cameras had been set up on tripods along the sides of the room. Bob took her to a front-row seat, where Rachel was waiting for her, and she sank gratefully into the place beside her friend, who grasped her hand.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  “Of course I’d come. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  Her stomach was in knots, and it was agony sitting there while the judge worked his way through the previous night’s arrests. Drunk and disorderly. Driving under the influence. Assault with a deadly weapon, a shoe. Possession of an illegal substance. Possession of an illegal substance. Homicide.

  There was Bill, standing behind a thick panel of glass, looking completely out of place in the tie and blazer he wore only to weddings and funerals.

  “The accused was involved with the victim, Evan Wickes, who was growing a large amount of marijuana in the basement of his home,” began the district attorney, Phil Aucoin, setting out the case against Bill. “Investigators believe that on or about the evening of October twenty-ninth, he became involved in an argument with Wickes that quickly escalated and became violent.”

  Lucy felt her muscles tense. She wanted to leap to her feet and shout that Aucoin was lying, that none of this was true, but Rachel had placed a hand on her thigh, reminding her to be still. “Just listen,” whispered Rachel.

  “We have witnesses who report hearing shouts coming from Wickes’s home, where a gray Ford F-one-fifty truck was parked. Furthermore, investigators discovered a tire iron in the rear of the accused’s truck, a gray Ford F-one-fifty, which they believe was the murder weapon. Because of these factors, we are asking that William Stone be held without bail. . . .”

  Shocked to her core, Lucy rested her gaze on Bill, seeking a connection, a shared sense of outrage. But Bill was keeping his emotions tightly checked, refusing to reveal the least hint of fear or anxiety, appearing every bit as calm and composed as an usher passing the plate on Sunday morning in the Community Church.

  Bob was now on his feet, arguing for his friend and client. “Mr. Stone is a longtime resident and property owner in Tinker’s Cove, a family man, and a respected businessman. He denies any knowledge of Mr. Wickes’s marijuana operation and furthermore denies any involvement in his death. I would like to point
out that Mr. Stone has no criminal record. He has never even received a traffic citation.

  “I would also like to point out that the alleged murder weapon was found in the uncovered back of Mr. Stone’s truck, where it could have been placed by anyone wishing to incriminate him. In addition, I might remind the court that the Ford F-one-fifty is a very popular truck—Country Cousins, for example, has an entire fleet of them—and my client maintains he was home that night, and his Ford F-one-fifty was parked in his own driveway. For these reasons, I respectfully request that my client be released on personal recognizance.”

  The judge leaned back in his large leather chair and stroked his chin with his hand, considering the arguments. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he leaned forward. “All right, Mr. Goodman. I’m setting bail at twenty-five thousand dollars—and I hope I’m not making a mistake. This is a serious charge, but I am mindful of Mr. Stone’s reputation. I am also setting the date for a pretrial conference. Will December sixth be agreeable to everyone?”

  Lucy didn’t hear the rest of the back-and-forth. She just watched as Bill was led away by a bailiff, and then raised her eyes to the ceiling, not seeing the stained acoustic tile that hung there. She wanted to sing and dance and run around, waving her arms, but for now she had to content herself with letting the endorphins flow through her body, erasing the tensions of the past fourteen hours. Bill was coming home. That was all that mattered.

  She jumped up, ready to leave, but Rachel yanked her hand. “Stay put, Lucy. The bailiffs won’t let the reporters bother you here.”

  Lucy sat back down, realizing Rachel was right. Out in the lobby she’d be a sitting duck, especially since she wasn’t sure what the procedure was for posting bail or where to go to do it. Further complicating matters, she had no idea when or where Bill would be released, and neither did Rachel.

  “To tell the truth, Lucy, Bob never thought he’d get bail for Bill. That’s why we thought I’d better come to support you.”