Trick or Treat Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Once again she tried to sit up, and this time she succeeded. She was dizzy, but she could manage. She reached out with her arms and her hand met a rough wooden wall. She shifted herself around and leaned against it, trying to push down her fear and sort out her thoughts.

  The last tiling she remembered was returning to the Hallett House and searching for the diaper bag. Poor Zoe. She must be frantic with hunger by now. She had to get back to her.

  Lucy pulled herself to her feet and began feeling her way along the wall. Wherever she was, she had to find a way out. She came to a corner, turned, and then found another. It was hard to judge distances, but she seemed to be in a rather small shed, or maybe a closet. Groping with her fingers, she found the door. She reached for the knob, but found an old-fashioned latch, instead. It lifted, and she pushed against the door, but it didn't open. She was locked in.

  She leaned against the door, resting her forehead against it. This whole thing was crazy. Someone had knocked her on the head, and locked her in something that seemed to be Ezekiel Hallett's retreat, the old cabin he had insisted on preserving inside his fancy Victorian mansion.

  Was this a joke, a prank of some kind? Certainly the boys would never do anything like this. Lucy pounded on the door with her fist. "Let me out!" she screamed. "Let me out!"

  She coughed, choking on dust and fiimes. The duplicating fluid. Alcohol. Smoke.

  Her heart raced. She began to pound harder on the door. Her head was clear now; she knew she had to get out. Her fear gave her strength, and she beat her fists against the plank door as hard as she could.

  "Help! Help!" she yelled, at the top of her lungs. Pounding on the door didn't help, so she kicked at it. Coughing and sputtering, she pulled her shirt up and held it over her mouth. It was getting very smoky. She had to get out. She only had minutes.

  Stay low, she remembered. Crouching, she threw her whole body against the door, desperately trying to crash through. She did it again and again. Her shoulder throbbed. She was getting dizzy. She collapsed against the door. There was no air. She had to get out. She had to get back to Zoe, and Bill. She sobbed. One more time. She had to try one more time. She couldn't give up.

  She tried to gather her last bit of strength for one more as¬sault on the door, but she couldn't move. It was so hot, and there was no air. Something was pressing on her chest, getting tighter and tighter, and she couldn't get her breath. If she could just get one breath she could try again.

  The door shuddered. There was a splintering, ripping noise, and chunks of wood crashed around her.

  "Breathe in," barked a male voice, as something was placed over her nose. Sweet, fresh air. She sucked it in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY- SIX

  A noisy cart, rattling down the hallway woke Lucy around seven o'clock. She knew right away she was in the cottage hospital, where her babies had been born, but couldn't remember how she got there.

  Her mouth was dry, and she had a raging sore throat. She spotted the water pitcher on the bedstand, but was unable to reach it. Her left arm was taped tightly to her chest, and her right hand was encumbered with an IV tube. She leaned back against the pillow and took inventory. Her head throbbed and she was sore all over, but her most immediate problem was with her breasts. It had been quite a while since she had last nursed Zoe and they were painfully full.

  Poor Zoe must be starving, she thought. She had to get home. She looked for a call button, found it safety-pinned near her pillow and rang for the nurse.

  "How are we doing this morning?" inquired the nurse. She was a brisk woman in her early fifties, whose short gray hair was cut in a no-nonsense style.

  "Thirsty," croaked Lucy, surprised at the sound of her voice.

  "I'll bet you are," said the nurse, as she raised the bed to a sitting position and rolled the tray table closer to Lucy. She poured a glass of water, and held it for Lucy. "Sips, dear, tiny sips."

  She let Lucy take five or six sips, and then set the glass on the table. Lucy immediately reached for it, but a deep, racking cough shook her body and filled her mouth with phlegm. The nurse handed her a tissue, and Lucy spat out a wad of gray-tinged mucous.

  "Ugh," said Lucy, rather alarmed.

  "From the fire," the nurse explained. "You inhaled quite a lot of smoke."

  "What happened?" asked Lucy. "I don't remember a fire. Are the kids all right?"

  "I don't really know the details," said the nurse. "I only came on duty a few minutes ago. You'll have to talk to the doctor."

  "I have a little baby. I need to get home to her," said Lucy.

  The nurse shook her head sympathetically. "The doctor will be in soon. Meanwhile, you're supposed to take these." She held out a cup containing two white pills. "For pain."

  Lucy obediently took the pills in her mouth and swallowed them down with a swig of water. The nurse patted her hand, and left the room. Lucy closed her eyes and hoped the pills would work soon.

  She started to drift off, when a startle reflex shook her body and jerked her awake. Fire. The nurse had said fire. Her stomach felt hollow and she began to breathe rapidly. Where was the fire? Why hadn't they told her? What were they keeping from her? She had to know what happened, and whether Bill and the kids were all right.

  She reached for the call button, but fell asleep before she could ring.

  When she woke a few hours later Doc Ryder was standing over her. "Up to your old shenanigans," he said, waggling a finger at her. An old-fashioned country GP, Doc Ryder had delivered Lucy's babies, stitched up Toby's foot when he cut it on a broken bottle while swimming at the lake, and prescribed countless bottles of sticky pink antibiotic syrup for ear infections. He flipped open Lucy's chart and reviewed it.

  "Looks like you'll live," he said. "But you're going to feel pretty miserable for a couple of days. You've got a concussion there, and a dislocated shoulder. We've got that strapped up, should heal nicely. Smoke inhalation's tricky, though. Don't want you to get pneumonia, got you on antibiotics through the IV."

  "Can I go home?" asked Lucy.

  "We're just going to take things one day at a time," he said. "I want to keep an eye on that concussion. Give you a chance to rest."

  "The baby needs me," said Lucy.

  "Now, now," he said, patting her hand. "Why don't you let us take care of you for a change?"

  She wanted to tell him that a nursing mother and baby needed to be together, bound as they were by the law of supply and demand, but she couldn't summon the energy to argue before he was gone. All alone, she tried to remember what had brought her to the hospital. The nurse said she had been in a fire, but she couldn't remember when or where. And why was Doc Ryder so evasive when she asked if she could go home? Did she still have a home, or had

  it burned down? And why couldn't she have the baby? Was Zoe all right?

  Spotting the telephone on the bedstand, she pulled herself up until she could reach it. Her first attempt to punch in the number failed, and she blinked back tears of frustration. Taking a deep breath she tried again, but only got a busy signal. Relieved, she dropped back onto the pillows. Everything must be okay if somebody was talking on the phone, she decided. Reassured, she closed her eyes to go back to sleep. She was so tired. Between sleep and consciousness she heard the insistent beep of the busy signal. She saw the wall phone at home; the receiver was dangling.

  She started, suddenly wide awake. The busy signal didn't mean anything, she realized. All it meant was that the receiver was off the hook. For all she knew, the house could have burned down around it. She remembered Lenk sneering at her. "This is all your fault," he'd said. "You and that husband of yours." She wanted to try calling again, but didn't have the energy to reach for the awkwardly placed phone. She felt tears pricking her eyes and lifted her hands to brush them away, but her hand dropped to her chest as she fell asleep.

  Waking a few hours later, Lucy once again assessed her condition. Her headache had subsided; it was still there but it was manageable. The same with h
er throat. It only hurt when she swallowed. Breathing was a bit of a problem; her breathing passages were raw and she was painfully aware of each breath. Her breasts were tender and a constant reminder of how much she missed her baby.

  "So, how's Sleeping Beauty?" inquired the gray-haired nurse with a warm smile.

  "Better," she said with a wan smile. "Could you hand me the phone?"

  "First things first," said the nurse, producing a thermometer. "Open wide."

  Conversation was temporarily shut off as the nurse tended to Lucy's needs. Finally, she tucked the sheet around her and pulled out the thermometer.

  "Hmm," she said, making a notation on Lucy's chart.

  "What does that mean?" asked Lucy.

  "Looking good," said the nurse, with a grin. "I'd tell you if I could, but it's against hospital policy. Only the doctor can discuss your condition with you."

  "Can you tell me anything about last night? About why I'm here? I'm so afraid something has happened to my family."

  The nurse shook her head sympathetically. "I don't know, but I'll see what I can find out. Meanwhile, why don't you call?" She placed the phone on the bed, next to Lucy.

  "Thanks," Lucy said. She punched in the familiar numbers, but all she got was the same busy signal. She tried Sue's number, but there was no answer. In desperation she dialed her mother's number, long distance to New York, thinking she would have heard if there was a tragedy. She let the phone ring and ring, she counted thirty times, and then gave up.

  She was sitting, staring at the phone in her lap, when the door opened. An orderly brought in a lunch tray, set it on the table in front of her, and lifted the cover.

  Lucy leaned forward; she was hungry and eager to see what was for lunch. There was milk, in a little carton, and a plastic cup of tea. Also a small container of orange juice and two slices of white bread in plastic wrap with a pat of margarine on top. The entree appeared to be a slice of meatlike substance smothered in thick pinkinsh-tan gravy, surrounded by rounded humps of red cabbage, instant mashed potatoes, and a tiny bowl of stewed tomatoes. Dessert was a bowl of applesauce.

  Lucy took a sip of tea and a spoonful of applesauce. It was unsweetened. She looked for sugar, but there wasn't any. She poked at the mystery meat with her fork but the thought of eating it made her nauseous. She pushed the tray away and sank back onto the pillow.

  She punched out her number on the phone and again got the busy signal. She couldn't stand it; she had to know what had happened. She felt incomplete without her family, especially the baby. Her little round head, her fuzzy hair, her fat baby cheeks. They had rarely been apart—Lucy was used to nursing whenever and wherever Zoe seemed hungry. They were rarely apart—Zoe spent a good part of the day in the baby-carrier, nestled under Lucy's chin.

  She felt much stronger, she decided, wiggling her toes. There didn't seem to be anything the matter with her legs. She bent her knees, and stretched her legs out. The movement hurt. She flexed her ankles, and walked her feet up and down the bed, trying to work out the soreness.

  She eyed the IV tube in her hand. The needle, she saw, was held in place by a big piece of tape. She raised her hand to her mouth and took hold of a corner of tape with her teeth. She gave a little tug and it pulled away. In a matter of seconds she had peeled the tape off.

  She looked at the needle sticking into her hand. Carefully, she bit down on the plastic collar that connected the needle to the tubing and gave her head a quick jerk. The needle came out smoothly. Lucy watched a bead of blood well up, and licked it away. No more blood appeared.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, feeling an immediate draft on her bare backside. So far, so good. She wasn't even dizzy. She opened the bedside stand and found a plastic bag containing her clothes.

  Opening it, she grimaced. The baseball shirt and pants. What had she been dressed for? A costume party? She wrinkled her nose. They stank of smoke. Too bad, they would have to do.

  Getting dressed with only one arm was a bit tricky, she discovered. Leaning her fanny against the bed she pulled on the tight pants, first tugging one leg and then the other. Socks didn't seem worth the trouble; she jammed her bare feet into her sneakers. The bra would be impossible so she ignored it and pulled the striped shirt over her head, leaving the left arm empty. She sat for a minute on the chair, holding her purse in her lap. Then, taking a deep breath she stood up and headed for the door.

  Hearing voices approaching, she froze in her tracks. Thinking quickly she climbed back in bed and pulled the covers up over her. The johnny was on the floor but it was too late to do anything about it. The door was opening.

  "Oh, didn't I put this in the laundry?" asked the nurse, picking it up. She shook her head. "Sometimes I think I'd forget my head if it wasn't fastened on! I forgot your meds—here you go."

  She held out the little white cup with two pills and Lucy tossed them back, following with a swallow of water from a second cup.

  "I'm so sorry," said the nurse. "I hope you weren't too uncomfortable."

  Lucy shook her head. "I'm feeling much better."

  "Not much appetite, I see," she said, indicating the tray.

  "I just can't," Lucy said apologetically.

  "Never mind. I'll take this away and let you get some rest." She picked up the tray and swept out of the room.

  Lucy waited for a few minutes after the nurse left, then got up very cautiously. She tiptoed to the door and peeked out. The hall was empty, blocked by double doors at either end. A clutter of wheelchairs and a meds cart at one end seemed to indicate the nurses' station, so she went the other way.

  Pushing through the doors she found a staircase. She went down a floor, backtracked through another hallway, and found herself in the lobby. She sat down in an armchair and considered her next step.

  Call a taxi? She checked her wallet. Two bucks. No problem, they probably took VISA. She spotted a pay phone and stood up. The room whirled around her. Maybe she wasn't in such good shape after all. She waited a minute or two and the dizziness subsided. Careful not to move too fast she made her way to the phone. The number for the taxi company was conveniently printed on a sign above the phone. She was rummaging for a dime when she heard a voice.

  "Lucy! What are you doing here?" It was Doug Durning.

  "I don't really know," said Lucy. "They said I was in a fire."

  "Really? The Hallett House burned down last night. Were you there?"

  "I guess I must have been," said Lucy, as memories of the party flooded back. She looked down at the baseball outfit. "I wore this as a costume."

  "That was some costume Bill wore—a giant bumblebee. He's got some balls, that's all I can say."

  "Was anybody hurt in the fire—besides me, I mean?" Lucy grabbed his hand. "Is my family okay?"

  "Sure," Doug said. "Why wouldn't they be?"

  "I don't know," Lucy admitted. She couldn't help smiling foolishly; she felt light-headed with relief. "They wouldn't tell me anything here. I got a little crazy, I guess. I just want to go home."

  "Can I give you a lift?" Doug's brow was furrowed with con¬cern. "You look a bit shaky to be out on your own."

  "I feel a bit shaky," confessed Lucy, gratefully taking his arm. "This is really nice of you."

  "No problem," said Doug, carefully supporting her as he led her out to his car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Seated in Doug's aging Saab, Lucy felt unaccountably weepy.

  Embarrassed, she brushed away her tears.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm an awful mess."

  "It's probably the medication," said Doug, starting the engine.

  That was probably it, thought Lucy, wondering what they had been pumping into her. Whatever it was, it was taking her on an emotional roller-coaster ride. "Thanks for the lift," she said. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

  "It's nothing," said Doug, turning smoothly out of the parking lot. "So, what happened to you?"

  "I don't kno
w. I really can't remember much. They said I was in a fire."

  "Like I said, the Hallett House burned down last night. It was a total loss."

  "Oh." Lucy sat stunned. Poor Monica had died in a fire ... the same thing could have happened to her.

  "A bunch of kids discovered it. They called the fire department. Probably saved your life."

  "I was lucky," said Lucy, wondering what she had been doing at the mansion. She should have been home.

  "Yeah," said Doug. "Say, why don't we take a look at the place? Survey the damage. It's right off this road."

  "I don't want to go there," said Lucy, as her stomach gave a lurch. "Could you take me home first? It's just a little bit farther."