Candy Corn Murder (13 page)

“You have any idea what his plans were for the evening?” asked DeGraw. He was staring hard at Bill, knitting his thick brows together.

“He didn't say,” said Bill.

DeGraw pressed the issue. “Well, what did he usually do? Do you know?”

“Not really,” said Bill, with a shrug. “He could've gone home. He has . . . I mean had, a little house out on Bumps River Road. Sometimes he went out to the roadhouse, especially if there was a game. He liked the Bruins and the Patriots.”

“Did you owe him money?” asked Ferrick.

“No,” said Bill. “I did pay him,” he added, glancing at Lucy. “I insisted on it. I knew he didn't have much money, and he was spending a lot of time on the project, but he said he didn't want any money. We finally agreed I'd give him fifteen bucks an hour. That's what I pay a carpenter's helper. He was much more skilled than that, but he wouldn't take any more.” Bill rested his hand on Lucy's thigh. “I settled up with him last night, gave him a check for six hundred dollars.”

“We didn't find any check,” said DeGraw.

“Maybe he cashed it,” said Bill.

“Didn't have any cash, either,” said DeGraw.

“Well, maybe he spent it,” said Bill. “I can show you the carbon in my checkbook, and the bank will have records.”

Lucy had been so intent on the conversation that she hadn't noticed Patrick, who suddenly climbed on her lap and pressed a couple of Legos into her hand. “I can't get them to work,” he said, studying the cops. “Who are they?”

“These are policemen. They're here about Mr. Wickes's accident,” said Lucy.

Bill took the Lego pieces from Lucy and stood up, pressing the plastic pieces together with a snap. “Do you have any more questions?” he asked.

“Not at the moment,” said Ferrick, rising and pushing his chair back.

“But we might want to talk to you again,” said DeGraw, also rising.

“You know where I live,” said Bill, lifting Patrick off Lucy's lap and taking him by the hand. “Let's see if we can make a catapult out of these Legos, okay?”

“Good idea, Grandpa,” said Patrick as they went into the family room.

Lucy opened the door for the cops, who weren't in a hurry to leave. DeGraw glanced around the kitchen, as if memorizing the decor, while Ferrick reviewed his notes before finally pocketing the notebook.

“Mind if we look around?” asked Ferrick, standing in the doorway.

“Not at all. We have nothing to hide,” said Lucy, whose heart was pounding in her chest, “but my lawyer friend would be very disappointed in me if I didn't insist on a warrant.”

DeGraw placed himself squarely in front of her, facing off. “Are you sure you want to play it that way? Because we can make things very unpleasant for people who don't cooperate.”

Lucy took a deep breath, willing the flutters in her chest to subside. “It's time for you to leave,” she said, hoping she wasn't making a big mistake.

“We'll be back,” growled DeGraw, before stepping through the doorway.

When they were both outside, on the porch, Lucy was tempted to slam the door behind them but thought better of it. Instead, with shaking hands, she found the bottle of chardonnay she kept in the fridge and poured herself a glass, which she gulped down.

Chapter Twelve

T
hat night Lucy didn't sleep well. For one thing, she couldn't erase the image of Ev stuffed in the trunk of the Hyundai and spattered with pumpkin gore that kept popping up every time she closed her eyes. That was bad enough, but even more troubling to her peace of mind was the interview with the state cops, DeGraw and Ferrick. They seemed to have identified Bill as their prime suspect in Ev's death, and she had an uneasy feeling that they wouldn't give up, even if there was no evidence. She'd heard of cases where police had falsified and even manufactured evidence, and she was afraid they might stoop to such behavior rather than admit they were wrong.

It was just plain bad luck that Horowitz was on vacation, she thought with a sigh. He was one cop she respected and trusted. She knew he was a careful and thorough investigator, and although he would have had to include Bill on his initial list of suspects, she was confident he would have promptly eliminated him. Well, she thought as she flipped over onto her other side, maybe he was taking only a short vacation and would be back soon. There was no sense worrying, she told herself, because this was one matter that was out of her hands. This was one situation she could not control. And with that thought, she finally dozed off. Next thing she knew, Patrick was banging on her bedroom door.

“Wake up, Nana! Today's the pumpkin boat race!”

“I'm coming,” she answered, throwing back the covers and reaching for her robe. It was early, barely seven o'-clock, and she had a lot to do. She had planned a special day for the family, intending to make pumpkin muffins for breakfast and to pack an elaborate picnic lunch to take along to the pumpkin boat regatta, and she had to get moving.

Hurrying downstairs to the kitchen, she found the girls and Patrick at the table, but there was no sign of Bill.

“Where's your dad?” she asked, noticing they were eating the sour cream apple cake and hard-boiled eggs intended for the picnic basket. “Those were for the picnic lunch,” she said in rather a sharp tone.

“Oops,” said Sara. “Sorry.”

“There's plenty left,” added Zoe, with a nod at the half-eaten cake. “And Dad's out in the garden.”

Lucy glanced out the window and saw that Bill was clearing out the garden, hacking away at Priscilla's abandoned vine. She was reassured that he was coping, working off his sadness.

She wasn't doing quite so well, she realized, when a glance at the half-eaten cake brought memories of Ev wolfing down leftovers and made her want to cry. She quickly turned around and poured herself a cup of coffee. Cradling the warm mug made her feel a little better. “I was going to make pumpkin muffins for breakfast.”

“You still can,” said Zoe brightly. “Or even better, Patrick and I will make them for the picnic.”

Patrick really liked this idea. “Yeah!” he said.

“Okay,” said Lucy, joining them at the table, where she sipped her coffee. “I don't know what came over me. We can take some cheese instead of the eggs.”

“Or cookies,” suggested Patrick.

Lucy smiled. “And cookies.”

Lucy's spirits had improved by the time they left for the regatta, with the revised picnic tucked into the back of the SUV, along with a generous supply of blankets and the family's collection of beach chairs. Plenty of people had gathered to watch the spectacle, which was taking place in the town cove, with judges arranged on the fish pier. Most of the spectators had the same idea as the Stone family and had brought picnics, which they spread out on the grassy hill beside the parking area. It was a classic October day, with a clear blue sky and a nip in the air, so Lucy was glad they'd thought to dress warmly and bring blankets. It was not a day, she thought as she unfolded her chair, in which she would like to risk a dunking in the cold water of the cove.

“Quite a few entrants,” said Bill, seating himself beside her.

She took his hand, knowing the effort he was making to keep his emotions from affecting the family's good time.

The contestants were busy unloading their pumpkin watercraft, which varied greatly in design. Some had gone for a catamaran concept, attaching their hollowed-out pumpkins to big blocks of Styrofoam, often carved into a streamlined shape. Another enterprising contestant had cut the front and back off an old canoe and had inserted his pumpkin in the middle, a design that Bill thought had potential. Others had simply gone with the pumpkin itself, often adding decorations and even, in one case, a beach umbrella canopy. Means of locomotion also varied: some attached small trolling motors, while others relied on oars and paddles.

“Wanna make a bet?” asked Ted, plopping himself down on the ground. Pam was with him, struggling to unfold her rusty beach chair.

“I'm not a betting man,” said Bill, jumping up. “Let me help you with that.”

“No, I can do it. There's a trick,” said Pam.

“The trick would be to buy yourself a new one,” advised Ted. “They're on sale, now, you know.”

“I just like this one,” said Pam, finally succeeding in opening the chair, which squeaked in protest. She'd no sooner sat down than she jumped up. “Look. They're going in the water. It's going to start!”

“It's not starting for that guy,” said Ted, as one of the pumpkin crafts began sinking the moment it was boarded.

“That poor man,” shrieked Pam.

“He's going to get soaked,” said Lucy, wrapping her blanket a bit tighter around her legs. She glanced at Patrick, making sure he wasn't chilled, and saw that excitement was keeping him warm. He was hungry, however.

“Nana, when are we going to eat?” he demanded.

“Right now,” said Lucy, opening the picnic basket. “Who wants a sandwich? I've got tuna, egg salad, peanut butter. . . .”

“What a feast!” exclaimed Pam.

“I feel a little weird about it,” confessed Lucy, whispering in her friend's ear. “About all this, I mean. It seems disrespectful.”

“They couldn't cancel the whole festival because of Ev,” replied Pam, whispering Ev's name. “So much work went into it.”

“There goes another!” exclaimed Zoe, pointing. Lucy looked up just in time to see one of the pumpkin boats keel over, depositing its sole occupant, a woman dressed as a witch, into the water.

“They used to test witches with water, didn't they?” asked Bill, managing a chuckle. “If they floated, they were witches, right?”

“And if they sank, they weren't witches, but they were dead, anyway,” added Sara.

“But they passed the test,” said Pam, her eyes widening in horror. “Oh, my gosh!”

The woman in the water was also passing the test, despite struggling to stay afloat, encumbered by her heavy witch costume. Fortunately, a crewman in the Coast Guard boat noticed her distress and tossed her a life ring, which she was able to grab.

“It won't do the festival any good if people keep dying at the events,” observed Ted wryly.

Lucy could have strangled him for the callous remark, even though she knew that maintaining a flippant attitude was a professional trick, a way journalists protected themselves from the tragic and disturbing stories they had to cover.

“Ev didn't die at the pumpkin hurl,” said Bill in a voice tight with emotion.

“Details, details,” replied Ted, getting a warning glance from Lucy. “Doesn't matter, since his body was found there.”

“Little pitchers have big ears,” she said, with a nod at Patrick, who was happily munching on a chocolate chip cookie.

“Well, I'm glad they're going forward with the festival,” said Pam, accepting a glass of cider from Lucy.

“We had to cancel the underwater pumpkin-carving contest,” said Sara. “Bummer.”

“That's too bad,” sympathized Pam.

“Some of the kids in the scuba club knew Ev,” said Sara. “They said he sold them pot.”

This news stunned them all, except for Patrick, who had finished his cookie and had moved on to a pumpkin muffin.

“Is that true?” demanded Ted, who, Lucy knew, was sensing a scoop for the
Pennysaver.
“Will they talk to me?”

“Not if it's going to get them in trouble,” said Sara.

“Talk about trouble!” exclaimed Pam, pointing at the cove, where the wake from the Coast Guard boat had capsized all the remaining contestants. “Look at that!”

“Camera, Lucy!” yelled Ted. “Get a photo!”

After the excitement at the pumpkin boat regatta, Lucy expected the atmosphere would be much calmer at Country Cousins, where the winner of the candy corn contest would be announced. She was surprised when Patrick insisted he wanted to go along with her and Pam, certain that his guess of one million would win.

“But, Patrick,” Lucy asked as the three climbed the hill from the cove, “what would you do with a gift certificate?”

“I'll buy something for Mom,” he said as they turned onto Main Street.

“What a nice idea,” said Pam.

Lucy agreed, pleased by his thoughtfulness. But as they continued along the street, which was filled with day trippers lured by the jack-o'-lanterns displayed outside every business, she began to worry that he might be disappointed when he didn't win. “I don't think you'll win, Patrick. A million is a very great many, more than the canister could possibly hold.”

“Well, maybe I'll get a prize, anyway,” he said philosophically as they paused to admire a jack-o'-lantern wearing a mail carrier's cap displayed on a hay bale outside the post office, along with a bag filled with mini pumpkins complete with stamps and addresses. “None of the pumpkin boats finished the race, but they all got prizes.”

“I'm glad they gave a prize to that poor witch,” said Pam. “Wettest, wasn't it?”

Lucy laughed, remembering the ridiculous ceremony. Although none of the ridiculous watercraft had made it to the finish line, the judges had hastily revised their criteria and had awarded prizes for closest to the finish line, most colorful, and wettest.

When they reached Country Cousins, they discovered a crowd had already gathered in front of the old-fashioned shop's front porch, which was roped off. The long deacon's benches, one each for Republicans and Democrats, were sporting clever jack-o'-lantern displays that made Lucy smile. The Republicans had a pumpkin carved to resemble an elephant, with cabbage ears and a long gourd for a trunk, and the Democrats had one like a donkey, with a butternut squash nose and pointy parsnip ears.

A podium equipped with a public address system had been set up, and all was ready for the awarding of the grand prize by Country Cousins CEO Tom Miller. Lucy observed that the candy corn contest had attracted many more local residents than the pumpkin boat regatta; folks in Tinker's Cove were clearly more interested in cash than glory. Miss Tilley and her friend Rebecca Wardwell were there, of course, and Lucy noticed that Miss Tilley was keeping her fingers crossed.

“I thought you were confident that you'd calculated correctly,” teased Lucy, stepping beside her. “What's with the crossed fingers?”

“I'm taking no chances,” said Miss Tilley, whose gaze was fixed on the temporary podium.

Rebecca was more philosophical. “What will be, will be.”

Just then the door opened and Tom Miller stepped out, carrying the glass canister filled with candy corn. He was accompanied by his nephew Buck and Corney Clark. Stepping up to the podium, he raised the canister above his head, causing everyone to gasp. The cut-glass facets of the canister had caught the sunlight, which was bouncing every which way in dazzling rainbow effects.

“Can you see, Patrick?” asked Lucy. “Can you see the rainbows?”

“Yeah,” said Patrick, clearly awestruck. “Wow.”

“People are acting like it's some sort of holy relic,” said Pam, who didn't approve. “It's nothing but diffraction, you know.”

“It's pretty,” said Lucy, giving Patrick's hand a squeeze.

“It's crass commercialism, the glorification of consumer goods,” insisted Pam, who had been a bit of a hippie in her youth and had retained some of her counterculture views.

“I'd like to welcome everyone here,” began Tom, but before he could go any further, Corney stepped up and whispered in his ear. He covered the microphone with his hand and said something in reply, something that caused Corney to shake her head and give his arm a tug.

“As I was saying,” continued Tom, speaking into the mike, “it's a great day today in Tinker's Cove, and we here at Country Cousins are very excited—”

He was interrupted by Buck, who had stepped forward and taken Corney's place beside him.

“Oh, in case you haven't heard,” said Tom, realizing an introduction was necessary, “this is my nephew Buck Miller, who has recently joined the firm.”

“Right,” said Buck, coolly plucking the mike from his uncle's hands. “And I'm very pleased today to be able to award this two-hundred-fifty-dollar gift certificate.”

Tom's jaw had dropped; he looked completely stunned. “But . . . ,” he protested, only to be shushed by Corney and pulled aside.