Trick or Treat Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy felt a small bubble of anger welling up in her throat, and she swallowed it down. Scolding at the old woman wouldn't accomplish anything. It certainly wouldn't help Jennifer.

  "That's all well and good then," said Liz, carefully lowering her rather ample bottom onto Miss Tilley's prize Windsor chair. It squeaked a bit, but held, much to Lucy's amazement. She had expected the chair to splinter under Liz's weight. "You'll be able to get a good price when you sell it."

  "I don't plan to sell it," said Miss Tilley.

  "Of course you're going to sell it," said Liz, with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. "You can't continue to drive after what happened."

  "I certainly can. If I stop driving I'll lose my independence. It would be like giving up and dying."

  "That's ridiculous," said Liz flatly. "Besides, they'll probably revoke or suspend your license. You'll be lucky if you don't go to jail. I heard the police are considering manslaughter charges, maybe even vehicular homicide, if Jennifer dies."

  "Is that true?" Miss Tilley turned to Lucy. "Is she going to die?"

  "I don't know," Lucy answered. "I called the hospital this morning and they said she was in intensive care. She's listed in poor condition."

  "Well, there's no use crossing that bridge until we get to it," said Liz brightly. "And if the need arises, Senior Services has free legal counseling. In fact, I think you'll be amazed at the range of services we offer. I like to tell people it's like an all you can eat buffet. You take all the services you want and leave the rest."

  Lucy doubted Miss Tilley had ever attended an all you can eat buffet; in fact, she suspected her old friend would find the very idea repulsive.

  "I think I'll put the kettle on," said Lucy, rising. As she puttered about in the kitchen, she listened to the conversation in the other room.

  "We have Meals on Wheels," said Liz. "Delicious hot nutritious meals brought right to your home every day."

  "Macaroni and cheese in tin foil," snorted Miss Tilley.

  "We have trained home care aides, to help you with light housekeeping and personal care."

  "Snoops and busybodies." Miss Tilley waved away the brochure.

  "We have friendly visitors, volunteers who will pay you a visit to brighten your day."

  "Ghouls," Miss Tilley snapped. "Waiting to snatch the silver."

  "What shall I put you down for?" asked Liz, licking her pencil.

  "You can get lead poisoning doing that," said Miss Tilley. "Not to mention that it's a very unattractive habit." She folded her hands in her lap.

  "Maybe you'd like to think about it for a bit," Lucy suggested, bringing in the tea tray. "She doesn't have to decide today, does she?"

  "Oh, no," Liz agreed. "Give me a call anytime. Actually," she checked her watch, "I have to scoot, or I'll be late for a meeting."

  "Don't let me keep you," said Miss Tilley.

  "I can see what you meant when you called yesterday," Liz whispered as Lucy showed her to the door. "She's a stubborn old dear, but she'll come around. They all do. They fight it at first, but eventually they realize that they need help."

  "We'll work something out," said Lucy. "Thanks for coming." Standing in the tiny hall with Liz, Lucy felt smothered.

  "Some of these old folks live in shocking conditions, but this is the worst I've seen in a while." Liz raised an eyebrow. "Not even a TV."

  "Oh, that's because.."

  "I'm sure we can find her a used one. And that furniture! Absolutely filthy. Needs a good scrubbing if you ask me."

  "Maybe a bit of lemon oil," said Lucy, imagining Liz taking a sudsy sponge to Miss Tilley's priceless antiques.

  "Don't you worry, we'll soon have everything ship-shape." Liz patted Lucy's hand and clumped down the path in her sensible shoes, clutching her flowing Guatemalan wrap around her bulky form.

  "What a remarkably ugly woman," said Miss Tilley, when Lucy returned. "Why doesn't she get that huge hairy mole removed?"

  "Beats me," said Lucy. She took a sip of tea. "Is it true that you don't cash your social security checks?"

  "That's rather a personal question, don't you think?"

  "I was thinking that if you cashed them you could hire someone to help out a couple of hours a day. Cook a hot meal for you, and drive you wherever you wanted to go."

  "Like Cynthia Durning?"

  "Who?" Lucy was distracted, today she didn't have the pa¬tience to listen to one of Miss Tilley's stories. She couldn't help worrying about Jennifer.

  "Douglas's mother. She kept house for Wilfred Peters for years. Some people said she did more than keep house." The old woman cackled wickedly. "That's why old Peters left her his house. Too bad it's gone, now."

  "It's too bad," Lucy repeated.

  "That's right. Used to be Mr. Peters's house. People talked, of course, but I thought it was fitting, really. He didn't have any family except for that daughter of his who ran off with Rupert Lenk. After that Mr. Peters wouldn't have anything to do with her, and I think he was absolutely right. He warned her she was throwing her life away, that Lenk was trash. And he was."

  "Who was Rupert? Randy's father?" Lucy snapped to attention. This was getting interesting.

  "That's right. He was a vicious sort of man, and never took care of anything. He would have let it foil to rack and ruin, of course. When Randy was a little boy I wouldn't even let him in the library, he was so foul-mouthed and dirty. Just like his father. Douglas, on the other hand, was such a nice, polite boy. I felt badly when he brought that project of his before the commission and we had to turn him down. It didn't set well with a lot of people."

  "What project? Do you mean Doug Durning's place?"

  "That's right. The old Peters house." Miss Tilley was growing impatient. "He wanted to remodel that lovely old house into an office complex. It was quite grand, with a gazebo and an ATM machine. But it wasn't very well thought out. He was going to rip off that fine pine clapboard and stick in a stainless steel machine!"

  "Really?" Lucy sighed. She couldn't spend all day sitting around with Miss Tilley. She had to get ready for the Halloween party tonight. Not that she felt like going to a party.

  "It was one of the first cases that came before us," reminisced Miss Tilley. "In fact, he just missed the deadline. If he'd submitted his plans a day or two earlier, he wouldn't have needed commission review." Miss Tilley gave a big yawn. "I'm tired today. I didn't sleep very well last night."

  "Why don't you take a little nap?" Lucy suggested, rising. "I'll clean up the tea things." She had to get moving, she had a million things to do.

  Lucy took the tray into the kitchen and began filling the sink. The trash was full so she carried it outside to empty into the barrel that stood on the back porch. As she lifted the lid she noticed Lenk's quilt on the bench, where she'd left it the day before.

  It always seemed to keep coming back to Lenk, she thought. What had Miss Tilley said? Doug Duming had inherited a house from Randy's grandfather. Was it his office? she wondered. Was that what it was all about? Had Randy been simmering with jealousy all these years, and finally decided to do something about it? Something spectacular that everybody would notice?

  Lucy picked up the quilt and fingered it thoughtfully. It wouldn't hurt to stop off at Lenk's gas station to return the quilt. Maybe this time she would find a clue, something that would connect Lenk to the fires.

  She went back inside and finished washing the tea things, leaving them to dry on the drainboard. Tiptoing, so as not to disturb Miss Tilley, she went into the front room to retrieve her purse.

  "I'm not asleep," said the old woman.

  "I have to go."

  She nodded, and grasped Lucy's hand. "I've been thinking. I've decided to surrender my driver's license."

  "I think that's the right thing to do."

  "Did you notice that young man who works for Lenk?"

  "Rob?"

  "He seemed awfully taken with my car. I bet he'd enjoy driving it around town, even with me in it."


  "That's a good idea."

  "Who knows? If he really likes my classy chassis, I might even leave it to him."

  "You're a filthy old witch," said Lucy fondly, placing her hand on Miss Tilley's shoulder and bending down to kiss the top of her grizzled head.

  "I know," said Miss Tilley.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Lucy wished she had thought to put Lenk's quilt in a bag; it was so saturated with oil and grease that it left her hands feeling dirty.

  Nothing the matter with a little dirt, she told herself, taking the quilt out of the car. You can always wash your hands.

  She crossed the gritty asphalt of the service station and opened the office door.

  "I'm returning your blanket," she said, cautiously poking her head in.

  Lenk stared at her, his little piggy eyes were hostile.

  "I'll just put it down here," said Lucy, abandoning her plan of looking for clues in her hurry to escape.

  "Not so fast," he growled. "You're married to Stone, ain't ya?"

  "I'm married to Bill Stone, if that's who you mean."

  "That's the guy. I want you to tell him about this," said Lenk, waving a piece of limp letterhead in front of her face.

  Lucy stepped forward, reaching for the letter, and heard the office door thud shut behind her. It was broad daylight, she was in a public place, so why did she feel trapped? Was it the confined space of the office, the clutter of papers and the stacks of dusty old cardboard boxes that climbed the walls?

  "I'll tell him," said Lucy. "What is it?"

  "That's for me to know and you to find out," teased Lenk, sensing her discomfort.

  "I'm outta here," said Lucy, turning to go.

  "There a fire or something?" he asked, putting a hand on the door and holding it shut. "It's from Northstar, that's what it is. They don't want my station anymore—they're not renewing my contract."

  "Let me see that," said Lucy.

  The letter was short and to the point. Following the meeting with the historical commission, Northstar's marketing department had reviewed the situation and determined that an alternative location would be preferable for their full-service station. In line with the company's current marketing policies, they would be unable to renew Mr. Lenk's contract as a dealer. They were grateful for Mr. Lenk's years of participation as a member of the Northstar team and wished him all the best in the future.

  Lucy had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She slowly raised her eyes and met Lenk's.

  "It's because of the commission. I lost my chance to fix up the station—'cause o' your husband!" He shoved his face right in hers, giving her the full benefit of his foul breath.

  "It wasn't just Bill," said Lucy, standing her ground. "They didn't even vote. They asked Norths- tar to come back with an improved plan, that's all."

  "Big companies like Norths tar ain't gonna waste time on a bunch o' small-town cranks. They can go anywhere. They sure don't need me. They'll put whatever kinda station they want out on the highway—they'll put an igloo out there if they want."

  "You're right," said Lucy, sympathizing with him in spite of herself. "Can't you become an independent dealer? Get some no-name gas?"

  "Lookee here, missy," he said, pointing a blackened finger at her. "This here's all your fault, you and that husband o' yours. Think you can move in and tell people what to do. That commission wrecked the best deal I was ever gonna get."

  Lenk was working up quite a head of steam and Lucy decided the office was definitely too small for both of them. The pungent smell of gasoline and assorted engine fluids, not to mention Lenk himself, was overpowering. Her head began to swim.

  "Who's gonna make that up to me, hunh?" he demanded, stepping closer to her. "Nobody, that's who!" His face was just inches from hers. "I got screwed, and I know who did the screwing."

  Lenk paused for breath, and Lucy took the opportunity to slip through the door. Her heart was pounding wildly as she gulped great mouthfuls of fresh air. Hurrying to the car, she quickly climbed inside, half expecting him to follow her. He didn't, however. In fact, when she looked back and saw him standing in the doorway, she could have sworn he was laughing at her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  "I don't like it one bit," Lucy complained to Bill. "He's really got a grudge against you, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if we came home tonight and found the house burned to a pile of cinders."

  "Chief Crowley promised to put on an extra patrol—said he's aware of the situation and keeping an eye on things."

  "Why doesn't that make me feel a whole lot better?"

  "Do you want me to stay home? I could borrow a shotgun from Mr. Sanford." The Sanfords were the Stones' nearest neighbors on Red Top Road, and Mr. Sanford was always taking potshots at the groundhogs that raided his garden.

  "And miss the party? We'll just have to hope for the best," Lucy grumbled, slipping the last of the dinner plates in the dishwasher and shutting the door. "Now, would you please get down those boxes on the top shelf."

  "Sure. What's in them?"

  "Cupcakes. Twelve dozen."

  "When did you have time to bake cupcakes?"

  "In batches. I got the last two dozen done this morning. Zoe didn't go back to sleep after her midnight snack so I baked cup-cakes."

  "In the middle of the night? You're nuts," said Bill.

  "Who needs sleep, anyway?" Lucy said, yawning.

  "I'll take everybody out tomorrow so you can have a nice long nap," said Bill, slipping his arms around her. "It's a promise."

  "Really?" Lucy turned her face up to his.

  "Yup." He bent down to kiss her.

  "Mom, Elizabeth's hogging all the makeup!" Sara burst open the pantry door.

  Startled, Lucy turned.

  "Sara, you look great!" Sara was already in her costume, the pink tutu she'd worn in the ballet recital last spring.

  "This turtleneck itches," she complained, scratching her neck.

  "You'll need it, though. It's cold tonight," said Lucy. "And it really doesn't show too much."

  Elizabeth, she saw, was seated at the kitchen table surrounded by every cosmetic Lucy owned.

  "Mom, don't you have any eye shadow?" Elizabeth was also wearing her tutu, but she'd added a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of clunky black oxfords.

  "Is that your costume?" asked Lucy.

  "Yup. I'm a punk ballerina."

  "That's kind of cute. Want me to pierce your nose for you?"

  "That's not funny, Mom." Elizabeth's tone was withering. "What I really need is a tattoo."

  "I think we've got some. The kind that wash off."

  "Yeah. Right." Elizabeth was skeptical.

  "In a cereal box." Lucy went back in the pantry and emerged triumphant with a huge box of crispy flakes. She dumped the contents into a bowl, plucked out the cellophane-wrapped sheet of tattoos, and then carefully poured the cereal back into the box.

  "You have to eat this stuff up, you know."

  "Thanks, Mom. I will," said Elizabeth, studying her face in the mirror she had propped up.

  "Where should I put it? On my cheek?"

  "On your neck?"

  "Neat. Say, Mom, what are you going as?"

  "Myself."

  "You've got to wear a costume!"

  "That's right," agreed Bill. He had stuffed himself into Lucy's black maternity tights, added a yellow and black striped T-shirt, and topped off his ensemble with a bobbing antennae headband.

  "What are you supposed to be?"

  "A bumblebee. I thought it was obvious."

  "I get it," said Lucy, stifling a giggle. "You just took me by surprise."

  "I need a stinger. Got any ideas?"

  "Aluminum foil?"

  "Great." Bill ripped a big sheet off the roll, sat down, and began shaping it.

  "Mom, I can't find one of my hairy hands," bellowed Toby from upstairs. "The left one."

  "Did you look under your bed?"

  "I can't find it anywhe
re," he insisted.

  "I'd better help him," said Lucy. "Not too much makeup, okay, girls?"

  "Sara, why don't you try this Very Berry lipstick," offered Elizabeth, in a rare display of sisterly helpfulness.