Trick or Treat Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy rubbed her temples. No doubt about it, she was getting a headache. She had been so sure that Dr. Mayes had set the fires but now she had her doubts. Instead of becoming clearer, this situation was getting murkier by the minute. She headed for the bathroom, thinking of a commercial for a painkiller she had seen on TV. "Yes," she said out loud to herself as she opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the familiar bottle, "I do get really tough headaches."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The next morning, as soon as she had the house to herself, she picked up the phone and dialed. While it rang, she looked out the window at the red and yellow trees bordering the yard. She ioved the way the garden looked in the fall, a bit tousled and blowsy, the sharp edges of summer blurred by frost. Brown leaves blew this way and that, the flowering annuals that had been so green and bright a few months ago now sprawled black and exhausted in their beds. She really needed to get out there with a rake and tidy up.

  "Barney? I had an idea."

  A low groan came through the receiver.

  "Don't be like that. I think I may be on to something."

  "Okay, shoot."

  "Well, I think Randy Lenk might be the arsonist."

  "Congratulations. You and everybody else."

  "He was already a suspect?" Lucy was disappointed.

  "You could say that. A prime suspect. Suspect number one."

  "Well, how come he hasn't been arrested?" Lucy pulled chair out from under the kitchen table and sat down, leaning he elbows on the table.

  "He's been brought in for questioning, but we always had t let him go." "Why?"

  "Not enough evidence."

  "Can't you stake him out or something?"

  "We've been watching him, but somehow he always manage to slip away."

  "That doesn't say much for the Tinker's Cove P.D.," Lucy teased, sliding down in the chair. "He's supposed to be real dumb."

  "Dumb like a fox. It's like a game with him. He knows he' being watched, y'see. So he sets up little decoys and distractions Took the boys a while to figure out he's got his lights on a timer It looks for all the world like he's watching TV, then the down stairs lights go out and the bedroom light goes on for about fifteen minutes. Then it goes off. We thought he was sound asleep till an off-duty cop spotted him at the pool hall in Gilead. And I'l tell you somethin', Lucy. The more I know about this guy, the creepier he gets."

  "Really?" Lucy sat up straighter.

  "Yeah. We tried searching his house, but it was pretty near impossible. He's got stuff piled up all around, and little pathways in between to get from room to room. He could have anything in there, buried under the boxes of newspapers and crap.

  "And the kitchen. Lucy, I thought I'd seen dirty, but I wa wrong. His was the worst I've ever seen." Barney's disgust cam through the telephone line. "Except for his bathroom. I'm not sure he doesn't wash engines in his bathtub. Or keep pigs there. Gives the word filth new meaning."

  "Couldn't the board of health condemn it or something?"

  "Turned out they couldn't. DA said the ACLU'd be on it faster'n a tick on a dog. Individual rights, or some nonsense or other."

  "Oh. What about Monica's rights ?" Lucy was indignant. "The rights of the people whose property he burned."

  "I guess the ACLU doesn't care about them. Don't worry, Lucy. We're keepin' an eye on him. Sooner or later he'll screw up. Lab says he's using alcohol to start the fires and it's a piss-poor accelerant. If it hadn't been so dry lately, the buildings wouldn't even've burned. We'll get him. It's just a matter of time."

  "I guess you're right. You know, Barney, every time I talk to you I get this nagging feeling that there's something I should tell you."

  "About the kids?"

  "No, that's not it. It'll come to me, but it's driving me crazy. I just haven't been the same since the baby. I keep forgetting things."

  "I guess that's to be expected," said Barney indulgently. "You've got a lot on your mind. If you think of it, give me a call. Okay?"

  "Yeah. Bye."

  Lucy lifted the last sack of groceries from the cart and put it in the wayback, then slammed down the hatch. She returned the cart, then slipped Zoe out of the corduroy carrier and strapped her into the safety seat. Relieved to be unburdened, Zoe seemed to be gaining so fast, she slipped behind the wheel of the Subaru and turned the key in the ignition.

  Checking the gas gauge, she decided to stop and fill the tank before going home. Lenk's Northstar, she remembered was just down the road.

  Pulling into the rather ramshackle station, she wondered what the Northstar people saw in it. The paving was old and worn, the two pumps were dented, and the building needed paint. Of course, they planned to replace all that. But why this station? Did they really think Lenk would keep the new station up to their standards?

  Not likely, she decided. Most probably they were using Lenk as a front man, while the project gathered the necessary permits and approvals. Local boards would find it harder to turn down one of their own, where they wouldn't hesitate to refuse a big corporation eager to cash in on the tourist economy. Once the project was approved, Lucy guessed, Northstar would buy out Randy Lenk. No wonder he got so mad at the hearing. He probably stood to gain a lot of money from this deal.

  "Fill it up, please," said Lucy to the kid manning the pump. "Do you mind if I look around?" she asked, waving a hand at a pile of junk next to a shed. "I lost the cap to the tank on my snowblower. Maybe you've got one that'll do."

  "Sure," said the kid with a shrug.

  He looked up as Miss Tilley zoomed into the space on the other side of the pump, and rolled down the window of her huge Chrysler Imperial.

  "Nice car," Lucy heard him say in an admiring voice as he went to wait on her.

  She lifted Zoe out of the baby seat, and zipped her into the corduroy carrier she wore on her chest. Not quite sure what she hoped to find, Lucy began sifting through the pile. There were bits and pieces of all sorts of machinery, car parts, a snowplow, even a sewing machine. Just the sort of stuff that might come in handy, she thought wryly, especially if you were going to be very rich.

  I wonder what he'll do with his money, she thought. Buy a big mansion and surround it with odds and ends in his best back' woods fashion. Maybe better grade car parts, she chuckled to herself. BMW hubcaps. Mercedes-Benz mufflers. Rhino guards from Range Rovers; also handy for moose.

  Standing on tiptoe, she grasped the windowsill and tried to peek in. The window was filthy, and the sun was too bright. She couldn't make out a thing. The shed could be filled with cans of alcohol and she'd never know.

  Why alcohol, when he had all this gas? she wondered. Why not? It was probably supposed to fool the cops. Just the sort of reasoning someone like Lenk would use.

  "Whaddya think you're doin?"

  Lucy jumped and wrapped her arms protectively around the baby. She turned slowly, reluctant to face Randy Lenk. His dirty hair fell into his eyes and he had a three-day stubble of beard. His teeth, she was appalled to see, really were green.

  "What the hell do you think you're doin'?" he growled.

  "By any chance," she said politely, "do you have a cap that would fit the gas tank of a Toro snowblower? I somehow lost mine."

  "Nope." His voice was flat.

  "Could I just take a peek in the shed?" persisted Lucy. "You've got so much stuff around here—I bet you've got something I could use. I'd be happy to pay for it."

  Lenk narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. Lucy could smell his sour scent.

  "If you know what's good for you, you'll get outta here," he snarled.

  "Fine. No problem," said Lucy, stepping backward. Not too hasty, she told herself. Stay calm. Don't panic. Back to the car.

  "How much do I owe you?" she asked the attendant once she reached her car.

  'Ten," said the kid.

  "Here you go. Thanks."

  Lucy repeated the business of strapping Zoe into the car seat. Then she started the ignition and pulled up behind
Miss Tilley, who was signaling to turn left.

  That Chrysler certainly was some car, she thought, as she waited her turn to exit. Acres of solid black hood and trunk were trimmed with massive chrome grilles and heavy bumpers. There was no plastic on this baby. Everything was shining, gleaming metal. It was easily twice as big as her Subaru. What had Bill told her? It was the favorite model of demolition derby drivers.

  "Those things are built like tanks," he'd said. "They just don't make 'em like that anymore."

  Too bad, thought Lucy. That car had certainly given Miss Tilley good service. She'd had it forever. Of course, she had taken good care of it. There wasn't a speck of rust on it

  Sensing movement ahead, Lucy automatically flipped the signal stick, and shifted into first, ready to follow the Chrysler. Instead of accelerating gradually, however, Miss Tilley's Chrysler suddenly lurched ahead, apparently out of control.

  Careening wildly into oncoming traffic, the huge black car smashed head on into a tiny red Toyota Tercel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The sickening thud of the collision was still echoing in Lucy's ears when she remembered what she had meant to tell Barney. She had wanted to discuss Miss Tilley's erratic driving, in hopes of avoiding an accident like the one she had just witnessed.

  Fighting off shock and willing her wooden limbs to move, Lucy hurried up to Miss Tilley.

  "Are you all right?" she demanded, yanking the door open. "I seem to be," answered the old woman. Her voice was shaky and uncertain, and her eyes weren't quite focused.

  Giving her hand, which was still clutching the steering wheel, a quick pat, Lucy rushed over to the red Tercel.

  The damage was worse than she thought. The entire front hood had crumpled under the force of the impact, it was simply gone. The tiny naked wheels were askew; the windshield was smashed; the doors deeply dented.

  "I can't get the door open," panted the gas station attendant. For the first time, Lucy noticed that the name embroidered on his shirt was Rob.

  "Did somebody call rescue?"

  "Yeah. The boss." He grunted, straining to wrestle the twisted metal open.

  "I think they'll have to use the jaws of life or something," said Lucy. "Who's the driver?" Leaning forward she peered through the crackled side window.

  "Oh, no." Her legs buckled under her in shock as she recognized the driver. She stumbled forward, catching herself on the tiny car. "That's Jennifer."

  "Yeah. She don't look too good, either."

  Jennifer was unconscious, her face cut and bleeding. But that wasn't what worried Lucy. With no airbag to protect her, Jennifer must have been thrown against the steering wheel, suffering internal injuries. The way the car folded in the crash, Lucy knew the weight of the engine would be crushing her legs and feet.

  "When are they going to get here?" Lucy moaned, growing frantic at the delay.

  "I hear a siren," said Rob.

  Lenk appeared next to them, carrying a filthy old quilt. Lucy took it with shaking hands and went to help Miss Tilley out of her car.

  "Help is on the way," said Lucy, swallowing hard to avoid sobbing. "Here, let me help you out of the car. We'll put this blanket around you and you can sit in my car."

  Miss Tilley didn't respond, so Lucy took her elbow. Moving slowly and stiffly, she allowed Lucy to help her out of the big old Chrysler. As far as Lucy could see, except for a smashed headlight and a few dents, the car was undamaged.

  "Who's in the other car?" asked Miss Tilley, as Lucy put the nasty quilt around her shoulders.

  "Jennifer Mitchell."

  "Is she all right?" Lucy felt Miss Tilley's hand tighten on her arm.

  "I don't know. We can't get the door open."

  Lucy got Miss Tilley settled in the passenger seat of the Sub' aru, then climbed in behind the wheel. She wanted to move the car out of the way, to give the arriving rescue workers plenty of room to work. Her hands trembled as she turned the ignition key; she wanted to drive away as fast as she could.

  She couldn't do that. She had witnessed the accident; she had Miss Tilley in her car. She was sure they would have to answer some questions. She shifted the car into reverse and parked in the corner of the gas station

  .

  Realizing that Zoe was fussing in her car seat, Lucy got out of the car. She unfastened the straps holding the baby and lifted her up, pressing her tiny body against her chest. Holding Zoe against her shoulder, and patting her back, Lucy paced back and forth alongside the passenger side of the car.

  "I hope she isn't hurt," said Miss Tilley.

  Not much chance of that, thought Lucy, drawing Zoe closer. She was supposed to be consoling the baby, but instead, she was drawing strength from Zoe's regular breathing and sweet warmth. Instinctively rubbing her chin against Zoe's fuzzy head, she tried to reassure Miss Tilley.

  "She's in good hands."

  They watched as the rescuers went about their work. An ambulance and a fire engine were on the scene, police cruisers had arrived and officers were directing traffic away from the wreck. Rescue workers, dressed in fire hats, slickers, and boots went back and forth between the vehicles and their truck, getting supplies and equipment. Lucy heard the whine of power machinery, and the ever-present cackle of the radios.

  A fireman was pumping white foam out onto the road, and Lucy belatedly realized there was a chance of the whole mess exploding and going up in flames.

  "Oh, God, please let Jennifer be okay," she whispered, closing her eyes as tears rolled down her face. "Please, please, please."

  "I just have a few questions I need to ask you," said a young officer, approaching her.

  Lucy brushed away her tears, and focused hard on his name- plate. "Kirwan, T." it read. He must be one of Dot Kirwan's boys, she thought, placing him. Dot Kirwan was a cheerful, gossipy lady who cashiered at Marzetti's IGA—several of her children worked in the police and fire departments.

  "Did you witness the accident?" he asked, producing an accident report form.

  Lucy nodded.

  "Miss Tilley was driving the Chrysler?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you tell me what you saw?"

  "All of a sudden her car started moving—fast," remembered Lucy.

  "Do you think the brakes failed?"

  "She didn't brake," said Lucy, picturing the rear end of the car. "The brake lights never went on." Lucy sniffled. "Is Jennifer going to be okay?"

  For a moment, the young officer's true emotions broke through his professional demeanor, and Lucy caught a glimpse of ragged grief. He quickly caught himself, his back straightened, and he answered in clipped tones.

  "They're doing everything they can, but I don't want to mislead you. It doesn't look good."

  Lucy swayed a bit, catching herself against the Subaru.

  "Can I take Miss Tilley home? She's very old. I'm worried she'll go into shock."

  "Sure," he said. "Someone'll be in touch with you later."

  After she had returned Zoe to her car seat and was back in the driver's seat, she turned to face Miss Tilley.

  "I'm going to take you home."

  "We mustn't leave."

  "The officer said we could. They'll follow up later."

  "I want to make sure Jennifer is all right. I remember when she got her first library card. Such a bright little girl."

  "They'll soon have her out of the car and off to the hospital," Lucy lied. "Everything's going to be okay."

  "Don't patronize me," snapped Miss Tilley. "Anyone can see she must be severely hurt. We must stay and make sure she's properly cared for."

  "Trust me, they're doing everything they can," Lucy said, with a sudden flash of temper. Miss Tilley had been bossing people around for too long, she decided, starting the car. "We're in the way here."

  Miss Tilley put up no further opposition as Lucy drove her home. By the time they arrived at her little half-Cape house, Lucy was beginning to regret her outburst. The poor old woman was doubtlessly carrying a heavy burd
en of guilt and grief, as well as the shock of the accident.

  When Lucy helped her out of the car she noticed that her wrists stuck out of her coat sleeves like sticks, and she stood unsteadily for a minute until Lucy took her arm and helped her up

  the walk. She was probably living on nothing but tea and toast, guessed Lucy, as she went back for Zoe.

  Lucy soon had Miss Tilley installed in her usual armchair, snugly wrapped in a soft afghan. Folding Lenk's filthy quilt, Lucy set it outside on the back porch. Returning to the kitchen, she sniffed. The house smelled stale, something she had never noticed before.