All Hallows Evil

by Valerie Wolzien

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she said gratefully, and paused to catch her breath before beginning her story. “Well, let me see. Charles Grace called me early yesterday morning. It was very early—hours before the library opened. I had just gotten out of bed; I hadn’t even had time to shower. I hadn’t even glanced at the Times, and I always manage to read it first thing every morning—even if I only have time to peek at the headlines. I think it’s very important to stay up-to-date.…”

  “So Charles Grace called very early, did he?” Brett nudged her back to the topic at hand.

  “Yes, and he said it was urgent that we speak. Naturally I told him I would get to the library as soon as possible.”

  “He didn’t suggest meeting somewhere else?” Susan asked.

  “No. In fact, I suggested that we meet at the inn for breakfast—it being so early and everything—but he said he had a full day scheduled and needed to finish some paperwork. Meetings, I guess, and, of course, there was the Halloween party.”

  “He mentioned the Halloween party?” Brett asked.

  “I’m not sure. He did mention Halloween because that reminded me that I hadn’t bought my candy yet, and so, of course, I did that, and what with showering, errands, and everything, I turned out to be late, and we didn’t get a chance to talk after all.”

  “You didn’t?” Susan was confused.

  “Well, you didn’t expect us to discuss it with a dead body lying on the floor, did you?” Amy replied. “I just explained that I had numerous errands to run, didn’t I?”

  “So when did he tell you about this?” Brett asked gently.

  “Last night. He called me on the phone. It was very late, and I could see that my husband didn’t like it, but I felt it was very important to listen. The poor man was obviously distressed. It was my duty as a library board member and a friend.

  “Well, the poor man hemmed and hawed. It was obviously very difficult for him to talk. But I reassured him that he could tell me anything, that I would keep his confidences and do anything I could for him. You know the types of things people say.” She looked around the table. Susan wondered if anyone had missed the manner in which Amy kept confidences, but she said nothing, and after a minute Amy continued.

  “Well,”—Susan was beginning to wonder if Amy knew how to start a sentence without using that particular word—“it took him the longest time to get the words out, and then he talked around in circles for a few minutes, and I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. And when he did finally explain, I felt so bad for him.…”

  “What,” Rebecca asked rather coldly, “was his problem?”

  “He was hurt by his own generosity,” Amy said dramatically.

  “What happened?” Brett asked calmly. Susan was impressed. She was resisting an urge to pour her wine over Amy’s head—barely resisting.

  “Well, Charles believes in public service. He knows that it’s an old-fashioned idea, but that doesn’t make it any less valid. So he expects each librarian, no matter what his or her position, to serve the public. So,” she hurried on, glancing at Susan, “when people ask for recommendations of what to read, he helps them. Of course, it is impossible for him to know exactly what the other person is looking for without knowing that person. For instance, when I want to read a good mystery, I want something with English villages and vicars and tea parties; another person might think a good mystery needs a lot of blood and S & M sex stuff. You know?” She looked at Brett.

  “Tastes vary,” he agreed.

  “Yes.” Amy nodded vigorously. “So when people come to him, he can only guess at what they might like to read. Also, he’s a very busy person. He doesn’t have time for a whole lot of reading, so he has to trust the reviewers—and who knows who they might be.” She spoke as though she suspected all reviewers of sliding along on their stomachs leaving a trail of slime behind, Susan thought.

  “And this problem has something to do with the books he’s been recommending to people,” Brett suggested.

  “His problem is the books he had recommended,” Amy corrected him. “You see, it seems he suggested some novels with some pretty strange or … uh, exotic … sex scenes to some of the elderly women in town.”

  “How many?”

  “What?” Amy stared at Brett.

  “How many times did this happen to how many elderly women?”

  “Well, I don’t actually know. It couldn’t be too many, could it? I do know,” she continued quickly, perhaps feeling the irritation level in the room beginning to increase, “that the women had come to him the day before, complaining about his suggestions, and that very night the husband of one of the women had called Charles at home demanding that he resign or face public censure—at least, that’s how Charles explained it.”

  “That’s crazy,” Rebecca commented.

  Apparently the story wasn’t destined to be on “This Morning, Every Morning,” Susan thought. “It does seem to be a rather drastic response.”

  “Just how explicit were the books?” Jed asked.

  Amy winced. “Very. At least that’s what I understand. Charles explained that he hadn’t read the books—that he had no idea.

  “He wanted to make sure I understood that this wasn’t a question of censorship. The library has some very explicit books on the shelf. There are the traditional marriage manuals, of course. And they have some of the more current sex books in the paperback section. There’s one on what every mistress should know that has some unusual suggestions about oil of wintergreen, and apricots, and other rather exotic ideas—and no one has objected to that book. It’s just that these women expected something different when Charles recommended the book.”

  “Apricots?” Susan wondered if she had been spending too much time in the fiction department.

  “It sounds to me as if a few people have been making mountains out of molehills,” Jed suggested. “Surely it isn’t serious enough to bother the chief of police over.”

  “I assured Charles that the library board could deal with it, not that we haven’t been terribly busy, what with funding the new building and now this dreadful murder. But Charles is so sensitive, and I’m afraid this is hurting him terribly. These women are talking to everyone. He says you wouldn’t believe the dreadful phone calls he’s been getting lately.”

  Susan was wondering if the call her daughter overheard had anything to do with this when she heard the front door open. “Chad? Is that you? We’re here—in the dining room,” she called out.

  Her son appeared in the doorway. Mud dripped off the boy from his hair to the tops of his socks. He was shoeless.

  “Maybe you would like to take your shower in the basement,” his mother suggested. “That’s why we had the bathroom added beside the laundry room,” she reminded him.

  “But I’m starving. The coach let us go late, and lunch at school was disgusting today. Just let me get a snack in the kitchen first.”

  “Please clean up right away.” She knew that Chad had probably consumed his weight in chocolate since last night. She didn’t think he would starve.

  “You’re having garlic bread,” the boy cried out, seeing the almost empty basket in the middle of the table.

  “There’s an untouched loaf in the oven,” his mother assured him. “But you really have to clean up first.”

  “Okay!” Chad bounded from the room, flakes of mud flying up behind him. Susan restrained herself from further comment. Not in front of company, she decided.

  The phone rang, and Susan got up to answer it. “The very second they get home, that thing starts,” she muttered, smiling at Jed and pushing open the door to the kitchen.

  “You don’t think this is a police matter, do you?” she heard Amy ask as the door swung closed behind her.

  Her daughter was on the other end of the line. “Chrissy, I’m so glad you called. You can answer a question for me.”

  “Sure, Mom. What do you need?”

  “When you overheard Charles Grace talking on the phone
yesterday morning, did he say anything at all about recommending books? Or anything about explicit sexual passages? Or anything like that?”

  “Gee, I don’t think so.” There was a silence while, presumably, the girl thought it over. “I think he said something about being insulted. Something melodramatic like ‘How could you think I would do such a thing’—know what I mean?”

  “Hmmm. I do.” And it all fit together. “Why are you calling, hon?”

  “I’m going to be late. Dorian and I are going to work on that report for American history class, but I helped her clean eggs off their porch first.”

  “Halloween tricksters?”

  “Yeah, and it was gross. They were bombed in the middle of the night, and by the time her parents discovered it this morning, all the eggs had hardened. We hosed it all down and then used long-handled scrub brushes to get it up. Egg yolk would make great glue, if you’re ever desperate.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Susan said, shuddering at the thought. “Be home before eleven.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  “Bye.” Susan hung up the receiver and rather absentmindedly looked around the room. She should probably start some decaf brewing and scrounge around for dessert. There was coffee ice cream in the freezer, and she had once heard of a sauce that she wanted to try.… But first she had one more call to make. David was home, apparently alone and willing to talk. But he hadn’t heard about this other problem with Charles Grace. “It’s like I told you, I’m only on the board to worry about financial and business matters. He wouldn’t necessarily bother me with something like that unless one of the offended ladies decides to sue—or he resigns. But I can’t see either thing happening. That man loves his work. Who wouldn’t? What other town would raise so much money for an elegant new library? And his book budget is astounding. Say, you don’t think he’s intentionally shocking those old ladies, do you?”

  “It’s probably just an accident. I know that the artwork on a book’s cover frequently has little to do with what is in it. He could have handed out books with a picture of two women in crinoline sipping tea from porcelain cups and it could turn out to be the story of twin lesbian hookers—don’t laugh. It is possible.”

  “I prefer to think he’s getting his kicks shocking little old ladies—it makes him seem less like a little old lady himself.” David added a salutation, and they both hung up.

  Susan had been stirring a pot while talking. She now put it on a back burner to keep warm and went to clean off the table.

  The group around the table was no longer discussing Charles Grace. Rebecca was talking. As Susan cleared off the table, she realized that Rebecca was speaking of Jason.

  “Jason had always wanted to live in a Victorian home. In the town where he grew up, the big white house on Main Street was the status symbol—except that in this day and age it’s usually the local funeral parlor. I used to kid him about it when we were first dating. So I wasn’t at all surprised when he fell in love with our house.”

  “Everyone in town loves that house,” Amy said. “I think it reminds everyone of their childhood, don’t you?” she asked Rebecca.

  “Frankly, it didn’t turn out the way I thought it would. I was imagining something light and airy. My apartment in the city had just been done up in gray and puce, and I wasn’t very happy with that—too dark and dreary even if it was very chic. So I was thinking of light prints and lots and lots of white wicker, and maybe some moiré-striped paper on the walls. But the decorator was so insistent on authentic, and Jason was so thrilled with the idea of antiques … well, you’ve seen it. I can’t imagine how all those Victorians lived like that—so dark and ornate.” She shuddered.

  “So you’re going to have it redone?” Susan asked, heading back to the kitchen with a tray full of dirty dishes.

  “Oh no. I really don’t care that much about where I live. Besides, Architectural Digest is doing a big spread on the house in their February issue. I’d look pretty stupid if I redecorated before the publication date.”

  Susan wasn’t going to argue with that. She left the room as Amy began to reassure Rebecca that her home was wonderful, absolutely wonderful.

  Chad was standing in front of the stove, trying to unwrap garlic bread without burning himself on the aluminum foil in which it had been heated. “Halloween is going to make you fat, you know,” he said.

  Susan pulled the loaf from his hands, removed the wrapping, and gave him a slice. “I thought I was being pretty good about not eating candy this year.”

  “ ‘Good’? Look at all those candy wrappers!” He pointed to a large pile of paper next to the stove. “How many Hershey’s bars can one person eat?”

  “I didn’t eat them,” she protested. “I melted them to make sauce for coffee ice cream. It’s all I could think of for a quick dessert.” She removed a half-dozen glass bowls from the cupboard. “Didn’t I hear the phone ring while I was talking with Rebecca? Who called?”

  “Kathleen. She asked if you were busy, so I told her that you were in the middle of dinner. She said to give her a call when you have a free moment—but that it’s not important. Can I take the garlic bread up to my room?”

  “No, you may not. I’ll fix you a tray, and you may eat in your father’s study if you don’t want to stay out here. Just let me put out the coffee and dessert.” She knew that her son would skip salad and milk if he got his own meal.

  “Everyone at school is talking about Mrs. Armstrong staying here.”

  “What are they saying?” his mother asked, starting to scoop ice cream into the bowls.

  “They’re all really curious about her—whether she’s glamorous, whether she sits around crying over her husband’s death—things like that. I just tell the kids that I don’t know, that she keeps pretty much to herself. One of the men who was here yesterday made a big deal about not helping rumors get started and stuff like that. Basically he wanted to make sure that Chrissy and I shut up.”

  Susan didn’t like people ordering around her children, but she tried to hide her anger from her son. “We don’t want to cause problems for Rebecca, but those men are guests, and they really don’t have any right to tell you what to do, Chad.”

  “I know.” He stuck his finger in the almost empty icecream carton. “They all think she did it, don’t they?”

  “What?”

  “The network people think she killed her husband.”

  “Why on earth would you say that?”

  “Why else would they stay here with her?” He licked off his finger. “Look at it this way: If Mr. Armstrong had been killed in the middle of the street with lots and lots of witnesses to see who did it, would Mrs. Armstrong have gone to live in a strange home surrounded by people who work with her? It doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t, does it?” Susan agreed slowly.

  “We were talking about it before practice today, and the only thing we could figure out is that she killed her husband and all these people are here to make sure that no one finds out.”

  “Do you need some help out here?” Jed joined his wife and son. “I think that ice cream is beginning to melt,” he added, looking at the tray of desserts.

  “Would you take this out? I’m going to get Chad some dinner.”

  “Sure.” He looked at his wife. “Anything wrong?”

  “No. Chad just gave me something to think about, that’s all—so I don’t want him to starve,” she added in a less serious voice.

  “Then I’ll take care of this.” Jed took the full tray from the counter and left the room.

  “Any other thoughts on the subject?” she asked her son as she prepared his dinner.

  “I … I think I overheard something yesterday that might interest you—but I’m not sure. I was going to tell you last night, but then I thought that maybe I hadn’t heard correctly, or maybe I was misinterpreting it, or maybe it wasn’t significant. It was probably nothing.”

  Susan smiled. “Look, i
t’s okay. I promise I won’t make a big deal about whatever it is. But you really should tell me the whole story—then maybe we can figure out what is going on. Okay?”

  “Okay, just as long as you don’t hold me to it. I’m really not completely sure that I heard what I think I did,” the boy insisted.

  “Why don’t you tell me the whole story. Who said what to whom and where it was said,” Susan suggested.

  “It was yesterday, but I said that, didn’t I?” he began nervously.

  Susan nodded yes.

  “Well, I was trick-or-treating late, remember?”

  She nodded again.

  “But that snake got to be a real pain in the … pain. You know what I mean?”

  She did.

  “So I came home to drop him off, and I could see through the front window that there were all these people in the living room. So since I didn’t want to disturb anybody, I came in through the back door. You know?”

  Yes. She knew: He was afraid that if his mother and father spied him, they would tell him that it was late and he shouldn’t go back out.

  “But there was a man in the kitchen with that woman—the one who spent the night last night.”

  “Hilda Flambay.”

  “And I heard them talking.”

  “They didn’t see you?”

  “No, the window next to the back door was open a crack. The house really smelled. Some chili had burned on one of the burners, and someone had probably left open the window to let out the stink. So I heard them while I was standing on the back steps.”

  “And you could hear what they were saying to each other?”

  “I heard what the woman said. I couldn’t even tell you who the man was. I only saw his back, and one business suit looks just like another.”

  “And what were they talking about?” Susan asked patiently.

  “Well, that’s just it. They were talking and I heard them, but nothing really stood out—you know what I mean?—it was just sort of voices, and then the man said something like do you really think she did it.”

  “And?”

  “And the woman said yes very seriously, and they both stared at each other for a few minutes. Then he says that she could go to jail for something like that and that wouldn’t be good for the show, that it wouldn’t do to have a jailbird anchoring the morning news, and she says yes again. So they must have been talking about Mrs. Armstrong because she is the anchor of ‘This Morning, Every Morning,’ isn’t she?”