by Leslie Meier
“That’s not going to happen,” said Lucy. “The husband won’t allow it.”
“It sounds like it might be an abusive situation, but it’s hard to tell,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe she also believes prayer is the answer to everything.” There was a sudden loud clap of thunder and he grinned. “Hell, maybe they’re right. We’ve had fire and flood—I wouldn’t be surprised if plague came next.”
“Whoa,” laughed Lucy. “I thought you were a man of science.”
Doc Ryder scratched his nose. “I am—but I’m the first to admit that science can’t explain everything. It wouldn’t surprise me if whoever created this beautiful planet for us is angry at the way we’ve abused it. Maybe all this rain is his—or her—way of expressing disapproval. Or maybe,” he added, winking, “maybe that witch who’s come to town has cast an evil spell.” He paused, scratching his head. “What’s that old saw? Something about there being more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy?’”
“It’s from Hamlet,” said Lucy, who had majored in English. “And if you’re going to go all philosophical, it’s definitely time for me to bid adieu.”
III
EARTH
Always heed this rule you must:
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
All creatures alive return to Earth
As death awaits us from our birth.
Chapter Eleven
“I hate to remind you, but Halloween’s going to be here before we know it,” said Sue with a knowing nod.
“It’s only finally started to feel like summer,” protested Lucy.
“I just put my winter clothes in storage,” confessed Rachel.
“And I got Ted to put my hammock up yesterday,” added Pam.
June’s rainy spell had finally ended, only to be followed by an unseasonably chilly July. But now, as August was approaching, the warm weather had finally settled in. The girls were making the most of the fine weather, eating their Thursday morning breakfast on one of the picnic tables Jake had set up behind his restaurant, in the parking lot overlooking the harbor.
“I’m not ready to think about Halloween,” confessed Lucy, gazing out over the brilliant blue water dotted with little white boats. “I’m sick of witches.”
“One witch anyway.” Pam laughed. A seagull, perched on a nearby lamppost, imitated her and let out a few cries.
“I never thought I’d get rid of her, or her blasted cat,” said Lucy.
“Well, she’s back at her place now, and things have settled down,” said Rachel. “I notice she repainted in a new shade, almost gray, just a hint of lilac.”
“A very smart move, if you ask me,” said Pam.
“Uh, ladies, we’re getting off the subject here,” said Sue, tapping the table with her perfectly manicured nails. “The Halloween party takes a lot of planning, and the sooner we get started, the better.”
The annual Halloween party at the town’s community center had been a local tradition for years, sponsored by the women’s club, but as the club members aged, it had become a rather sad affair, dwindling down to a halfhearted costume parade and a small treat bag for each child. When Sue, who was part owner of Little Prodigies Child Care, heard complaints about the party, she offered to take it over, sensing an opportunity to promote the center by giving the town’s kids a safe, fun Halloween. She also took it for granted that her friends would pitch in and help.
“Lucy, I know I can count on you for publicity….”
“Righto,” agreed Lucy.
“Pam, can you rustle up some refreshments, like you did last year?”
“Sure,” agreed Pam. “Beastly bug cookies, witch’s cauldron punch, and marzipan eyeballs, coming right up.”
“And, Rachel, as I remember, you handled the entertainment?”
“Bit of a problem there,” said Rachel. “Our magician is no longer available.”
They were all quiet for a moment, remembering Malcolm the Magnificent’s performance. He had been a big hit with the kids, and he and Peter had stayed long past the agreed time, making balloon animals for each child.
“Was that ever solved?” asked Sue.
“No,” said Lucy, shaking her head. Malcolm’s grisly death had been a big front-page story for a while, but when there was no progress on the case, it had gradually receded to the back pages and then disappeared. No one had claimed his body, which was eventually buried at county expense in Potter’s Field. Lucy suspected the coven must have held some sort of memorial observance, but it had been kept strictly private.
“Well,” said Pam, “I’m sure we can come up with a DJ or something.”
“I’m on it,” said Rachel. “What’s the budget?”
“At the moment, nonexistent,” said Sue, laughing. “But I’ll be calling the usual suspects—the banks, Rotary, insurance agents, anybody I can think of. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Good. Are we done with this?” asked Rachel. “Because I heard the oddest thing the other day….”
They all leaned a bit closer.
“You know the giant pumpkin contest?”
They all nodded. For several years now, a number of local gardeners had competed to grow the biggest giant pumpkin, and all the competitors were displayed around town in the weeks before Halloween.
“Well, Rebecca Wardwell came by the other day to visit Miss Tilley, and she said that Ike Stoughton had accused her of hexing his pumpkins.”
“Like putting a spell on them?” asked Sue doubtfully.
“Exactly,” said Rachel. “Rebecca said she told him to try using raised beds like she does, but he that insisted she’s in league with Diana and that they’ve put the hoodoo on his pumpkins. Apparently, Ike’s gourds are rotting on the vine.”
“It’s all the rain we had—they soak up water like sponges,” said Lucy, who had covered the contest for years and had picked up quite a bit of giant pumpkin information. “I seem to remember he came in second last year at the county fair. These growers take it very seriously. I’ve seen fistfights erupt at the weigh-in.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Sue.
“I wish I were,” said Lucy. “I hope it doesn’t escalate.” But privately, she had her doubts. It seemed Ike had chosen Diana, and now Rebecca, as scapegoats to blame for everything that went wrong in his life.
Lucy usually spent Thursday afternoon taking a few hours for herself, getting a haircut or her teeth cleaned or doing her grocery shopping. But today Ted had asked her to do some research for him at the county courthouse, checking old deeds for a story on a disputed piece of land.
She enjoyed the drive over to Gilead, rolling along back roads with the windows down and the radio blasting oldies. She sang along, amazed at the way she recalled the lyrics to so many songs that she thought she’d forgotten. Just how much of her memory was taken up with “American Pie”?
The research at the courthouse was frustrating, however. Some of the deeds were lost in a fire in 1832, while others were written in such archaic language that she couldn’t figure out what they meant. She copied down what she could make out of the faded, spidery handwriting, hoping that Ted could make some use of it, and she paid for Xerox copies of the ones that were totally indecipherable.
She had the office to herself, except for the clerks sitting at their desks behind the counter. No wonder, she thought, looking out the window at the cloudless blue sky, the leafy trees, and the green lawn with its Civil War memorial. It was much too nice a day to be inside. There was just one more deed to study, and then she would be free to go; she was planning to stop at an ice-cream stand on the way home and treat herself to a peach cone. She was practically licking her lips at the thought when her attention was drawn by a new arrival. He looked like an architect or a developer, a handsome guy in his thirties wearing chinos and a button-down shirt, carrying a bunch of rolled-up plans. He was obviously a regular, as the clerk greeted him warmly.
“Hi, Kyle,” she said. “What ar
e you doing in this musty old place on a day like this?”
Kyle smiled, his teeth very white against his tanned face. “Gotta make hay while the sun shines,” he said, passing over a manila folder holding several sheets of paper.
“So what have you got here?” she asked. “Another deed for the Shiloh property?”
“Yup, we’re almost there,” he said. “Just one last piece and that’s in probate. Doesn’t look like it will be a problem.”
“No missing heirs?”
“Nope, just a nice, cooperative executor, more than happy to wrap the thing up and get the cash donated to some magic museum in Toledo.”
The word “magic” caught Lucy’s attention.
“Takes all kinds,” said the clerk, looking over the documents. “Is your check here?”
“Yup, it’s all there,” said Kyle. “Take it easy.”
“You, too, Kyle,” she said, watching as he strode out the door.
“Cute guy,” said Lucy, smiling at her.
“Too young for me, and I’m married besides,” she said, grinning. “But I can look.”
“No crime in that,” agreed Lucy. “Who is he?”
“Kyle Compton. Compass Construction. They’re putting together a big industrial park over in Shiloh. It’s more than a hundred acres. They’ve been piecing it together for some time, buying up parcels from individuals. There’s just one bit left, he says, but the owner died.”
“He left the land to a magic museum? Is that what he said?”
“I think the guy was a magician or something.”
Bells were ringing in Lucy’s head; flashbulbs were popping; alarms were sounding. “Do you know his name?” she asked, trying to maintain a casual tone of voice.
“Not that I recall.”
“Would you have a plan for this project?”
The woman shook her head. “This is the Registry of Deeds. All we have are deeds. The towns have the property records.”
“Can you give me the book and page?” asked Lucy.
“Sure thing,” said the clerk, reading off the numbers.
After she’d written them down, Lucy didn’t waste any time. Minutes later, she was in the car, heading for the Shiloh Town Offices.
The clerk in Shiloh wasn’t nearly as nice as the woman in the county office—she was sullen and didn’t seem to want to get out of her chair. “Yeah?” she asked from behind her desk when Lucy presented herself at the counter beneath the TOWN ASSESSOR sign.
“I’d like to see a site plan,” she said, reciting the book and page.
“What for?” demanded the woman.
For a moment, Lucy was nonplussed. “Because it’s a public record and I’m entitled to see it,” said Lucy.
“Oh, in that case,” grumbled the woman, reluctantly rising from her desk and disappearing into a back room. After what seemed an interminable wait, she emerged, pushing the oversized book on a wheeled cart. She leaned heavily on the cart, resting her elbows on the handle as she shoved it across the room. Reaching the counter, she slid the book across to Lucy.
“You better have the right book and page because I really don’t want to do that again,” said the woman, glaring at Lucy.
Again, Lucy didn’t quite know how to respond. The woman was supposed to serve the public, that was her job, but it didn’t seem wise to point that out to her. She really didn’t seem up to the physical demands of her job, but Lucy couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Maybe she was on chemo or something. “Thanks for your trouble,” she said, speaking to the woman’s back as she made her painful way back to her desk.
Lucy flipped through the book until she reached the right page, which diagrammed the property between Cisco Road and Aunt Lydia’s Way. In all, about ten lots were shown. Most of the owners’ names had been neatly crossed out, replaced with “Compass Construction.” Only one name did not have a red line drawn through it: Malcolm Malebranche.
Lucy could barely contain her excitement as she asked, “Can you tell me anything about this property?”
“What do you want to know?” growled the woman. “Assessment? Taxes?”
“No, this project. Compass Construction. Do you know anything about it?”
“Check with the Planning Department,” said the woman with a huge sigh. “Upstairs.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, aiming to kill with kindness.
She took the stairs two at a time. She knew she was on to something here. But when she reached the door beneath the PLANNING DEPARTMENT sign, she found it was closed, locked tight. A tattered paper taped to the door provided the answer: The office was open Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from nine a.m. to two p.m.
Back downstairs, Lucy grabbed one of the town maps from a rack thoughtfully provided by the Shiloh Chamber of Commerce and unfolded it as she walked back to her car. Slipping behind the wheel, she spread the map out on it, scanning the maze of streets until she found Aunt Lydia’s Way, not far from the interstate. Obviously a prime location for an industrial park, she thought as she started the car.
Finding the site wasn’t difficult, she discovered. All she had to do was follow the signs to the interstate and there it was: a large tract of bare earth bulldozed from the woods, with a lone little house surrounded by a patch of overgrown weeds plunk in the middle. Malcolm Malebranche’s house. It had a distinctly forlorn air, like a forgotten wire hanger in an empty closet.
But maybe she was projecting her own emotions on the house, she thought, turning the car around and heading back to town. A house was just a house, after all. And this house was an obstacle to progress. It seemed obvious that Malebranche had been holding out, either from sheer stubbornness or perhaps hoping to force Compass Construction to raise its offer. It might even, she thought, be a motive for murder.
Back on Main Street, she headed for the office of the Shiloh Republican. Like the Pennysaver, it was a weekly newspaper, and she had a nodding acquaintance with the editor-publisher-chief-reporter, Howie Unger. He was a big bull of a man given to wearing plaid shirts and jeans, and he had a lush brown beard. He greeted her with a big smile when she walked through the door.
“Hey, Lucy, good to see you. What brings you to Shiloh?”
“A hunch,” she said, smiling. “Remember Malcolm Malebranche?”
“Sure,” he said, nodding. “Big story. Burned to death in the woods over your way.”
“Right. And now I’ve discovered his house is in the middle of a big Compass Construction project.”
He grinned, showing even, white teeth. “And being an investigative reporter, you think these two things might be related?”
“What do you think?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve known Kyle Compton for years; he’s a good guy. And he made every effort to buy Malcolm out. Offered him way more than that place is worth.”
“Why wouldn’t Malcolm sell?”
“Beats me,” said Howie with a shrug. “He was playing a losing game, though. Kyle was going to ask the town to take it by eminent domain.”
Lucy was shocked. “Can they do that? For a private project?”
“Yeah. According to the Supreme Court, towns and cities can use eminent domain if a project is viewed as favorable to the general welfare—which means it will increase the tax base.”
“I see,” said Lucy.
“So even if Kyle Compton was a mean, vicious, greedy, murdering bastard, which I assure you he is not, he had absolutely no reason to wish Malcolm harm.” He grinned. “Sorry to spoil your story. Can I treat you to lunch?”
“No, thanks. I’m saving my lunch calories for an ice-cream cone.”
He rolled his eyes in mock despair. “Say hi to Ted for me.”
“Will do,” she said, giving him a little wave. “Byebye.”
Back on the sidewalk, she considered what Howie had told her as she walked down the street to her car. She was willing to admit that Howie was right about the Supreme Court and eminent domain, which meant that Compass Construc
tion could force Malebranche out of his house, but such a proceeding would not be easy. Compton would have to petition the selectmen, and there would undoubtedly be local opposition; there always was. And even if the selectmen voted to take the unpopular step of acting by eminent domain, Malebranche could appeal to the court, which would entail legal bills for the town and a big delay for Compass Construction. And when it came to construction, time was money, and considering the size of the project, any delay would be extremely costly to Kyle Compton, who had probably financed the land purchases and was facing hefty interest payments. All in all, Lucy decided, Kyle had a jumbo mortgage of a motive.
Reaching her car, she realized she was parked in front of the Shiloh Police Department. Impulsively, she decided to pay a visit to the chief and see what he thought of her theory.
Not much, as it turned out. Chief Strom Kipfer was short and round, and from the way he nodded along as he listened to her argument, Lucy guessed he was a go-along-to-get-along kind of guy. Or maybe not.
“I have to tell you I don’t appreciate this at all,” he said, nodding away. His apple-round cheeks had grown very red, and he seemed to be restraining his temper with difficulty. Lucy could practically see the steam issuing from his ears. “Kyle Compton is a respected citizen here in Shiloh, and I don’t take kindly to strangers coming in here and casting aspersions about a good, up-standing citizen.”
Lucy was in Kipfer’s office, sitting in the chair he kept for visitors, staring at the photos on the wall behind the chief. Prominent among them were several of the chief shaking hands with Kyle Compton, the sort of picture known in the news business as a “grin and grab,” where everybody smiles as a donation check to a worthy cause is prominently handed over. In this case, the worthy cause seemed to be the Shiloh Police Association.
“I see,” said Lucy. “I appreciate your time and your frankness.”
“Now, I hope you’re going to drop this. You’re not going to be writing any nasty stories about Kyle Compton, are you?” asked the chief.