Death of a Pumpkin Carver (15 page)

Hayley's head was spinning as she drove back to the
Island Times
office after leaving the College of the Atlantic. She kept one eye on the road as she scrolled through her list of contacts on her phone to find Carla McFarland.

With her thumb, she hit Carla's number and then slammed the phone to her ear as she impatiently waited for her to answer the call.

After four interminable rings, she heard Carla say, “McFarland residence. This is Carla.”

“Carla, it's Hayley Powell.”

“Oh, hello, Hayley. Hey, have you given any thought as to what you're baking for the upcoming PTA—”

“Not now, Carla! This is very important. Is Spanky at home with you right now?”

“Well, gosh, I don't know. I just walked through the door and I'm putting away groceries. Why? Is anything the matter?”

“Would you check his room, please?”

There was a pause as Carla considered Hayley's panicky tone.

“Hayley, you're making me nervous . . .”

“Please, Carla, just check to see if Spanky is home.”

“Hold on.”

Carla put down the phone.

Hayley suddenly had to jerk the wheel and swerve her car over the yellow line to avoid a wide-eyed squirrel dashing from one side of the road to the other. The little creature made it within inches of his life, much to Hayley's relief. She didn't need roadkill splattered all over the bottom of her new set of Cooper tires.

After about a minute, Carla was back on the phone. “No, he's not. What's going on, Hayley? What's happened?”

Hayley suddenly realized the last thing she should do at the moment was to scare Carla unnecessarily. After all, she had no proof Spanky was in some kind of real danger or that Shane Hardy was any kind of imminent threat. She only knew that someone was passing off Spanky's story as his or her own, and that according to his former teacher Judith Ann, the most likely suspect was Shane Hardy.

But the attempted-murder-of-a-rival-student story she had heard from Judith Ann was at this point just that.

A story.

“It's nothing, Carla. Did Spanky happen to leave you a note or a phone message letting you know where he is?”

“No. The only message on the machine was from that young man who works for Norman Cross. Shane something. He just said for Spanky to call him back as soon as possible.”

Hayley's heart leapt into her throat.

But she tried to remain calm for Carla's sake.

She could be wrong about this whole thing.

“Well, when he comes home would you please give me a call and let me know?”

“You've got me twisted up in knots, Hayley. What's this all about?”

“I'm just looking for Dustin, that's all. And we both know where you find Spanky you will usually find Dustin.”

“Well, that's for sure,” Carla said, laughing, a hint of relief in her voice.

Hayley hung up just as she squealed to a stop in front of the office of the
Island Times
, where the sun had already set and darkness was slowly enveloping the town. She jumped out of her Kia and raced up the sidewalk.

The door to the office was locked.

She fished through her ring of keys, unlocked the door, and hurried inside.

All the lights were off.

It was past five and the whole staff had already gone home.

Hayley clicked on her recent calls and speed-dialed Bruce Linney's number.

She tapped her foot, impatiently waiting for him to answer.

“Damn it, Bruce! Why don't you ever pick up?”

Beep.

“Bruce, it's Hayley. It's urgent I talk to you. I need your help. Call me the second you get this message.”

She ended the call.

She knew she couldn't wait until she heard back from Bruce.

There was a chance Spanky was already on his way to Norman Cross's mansion to meet Shane Hardy, or God forbid he was already there, and what if Shane at this very moment was implementing his evil plan to bump off the poor unsuspecting boy, thus disposing of any evidence that
The Devil's Honeymoon
was written by anyone but him?

But she couldn't go over there alone.

It was too dangerous.

She was counting on Bruce to be her bodyguard and protector.

But Bruce Linney was AWOL.

She had to call somebody.

And then
his
name popped into her head.

He was the only one she could think of at the moment.

She hated calling him.

But time was of the essence.

Hayley bolted out of the
Island Times
office back to her car, her phone clamped to her ear.

After one ring, he picked up.

“Hello?”

“Danny, it's me.”

“Oh hey, babe, I was just thinking of you as I'm lying on top of this ratty, bug-infested bed in this nearly condemned tenement they call a motel . . .”

“Danny, I don't have time for this. I need your help. Be out front in five minutes. I'm driving by to pick you up.”

As she screeched around the corner, Danny was standing there waiting with a big grin on his face.

He was relishing the fact he had actually heard Hayley say the words “
I need your help
.”

Hayley barely rolled the car to a stop and he had to jog a little bit after opening the passenger side door just to keep up so he could jump inside before she roared away.

After he strapped himself in with the seatbelt, Hayley quickly brought him up to speed and his smile slowly faded at the seriousness of the situation.

When they pulled up in front of Norman Cross's home, it was already pitch-black outside. The one streetlight on the corner was busted so the only source of light was coming from inside the mansion. A few dim lamps downstairs and five flickering candles in the upstairs windowsills.

Hayley and Danny pushed their way through the rusty, squeaky wrought-iron gate and up the dirt path to the main house, where they ascended the creaky porch steps before reaching the front door.

Hayley rang the bell.

They waited about a minute and then Danny banged his fist on the door several times.

After another few seconds the door slowly opened and Shane Hardy was there to greet them with a pleasant yet crooked smile. “May I help you?”

“We're looking for Spanky,” Hayley said.

“I'm sorry, who?” Shane asked, not quite placing the name.

Or pretending not to place the name.

“Spanky McFarland,” Danny said. “We have reason to believe he's here.”

“I can assure you he's not,” Shane said emphatically. “Who is he again?”

“I'm sure you remember him. You promised to show his manuscript to Mr. Cross just as soon as he was feeling better,” Hayley said.

Shane reacted as if a light bulb had just gone off inside his head. “Oh, yes. Spanky. Now I remember him. He was a big fan of Mr. Cross. He kept showing up on the doorstep asking to meet him. It was cute at first but he very quickly became a nuisance so I had to shoo him away.”

“What about the manuscript?” Hayley asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I promise you I have no idea what you're talking about,” Shane said, recoiling like a copperhead snake, his long hair falling in front of his face.

“I don't believe you,” Hayley said.

“Fortunately it makes no difference whether you believe me or not,” Shane said, moving to close the door.

Danny stopped it with his boot.

“Spanky! Are you in there?” Hayley yelled.

“I told you he's not here!” Shane growled.

Danny shoved the door open, surprising Shane who stumbled back. “I'm sure you don't mind if we take a look-see for ourselves just to make sure.”

Hayley was impressed by Danny's bravado and followed him inside.

They looked around but the living room and parlor were empty.

It was deathly quiet.

The only sound in the room was from a crackling fire in the fireplace.

“I could call the police and have you removed, but my mother taught me the proper etiquette of being a good host. So I'm going to ignore the fact that you just pushed your way in here uninvited and I'm going to treat you as my guests,” Shane said.

“You mean Mr. Cross's guests. This is Mr. Cross's home,” Hayley said.

“Yes, of course,” Shane said through gritted teeth. “Now, let's all try to calm down. Why don't you have a seat in the parlor and perhaps I can help you find this boy Spanky? How does that sound? Can I offer you a drink? Some of my freshly squeezed lemonade?”

A shiver shot up Hayley's spine.

“No! No lemonade!” she blurted out.

Shane nodded and turned to Danny. “What about you, sir? It's my special recipe.”

“Sure. Why not? I'll try some.”

Hayley's heart nearly stopped beating.

“Make yourselves comfortable in the parlor and I'll be right back,” Shane said, turning and retreating into the kitchen to fetch his likely poisonous concoction.

Hayley grabbed Danny by the arm. “I don't have time to explain but whatever you do, do
not
drink that lemonade.”

“But I'm thirsty,” Danny whined.

“For once in your life, just listen to what I'm saying, okay, Danny? Do not drink the lemonade. I don't want the kids losing their father while they're still young!”

Danny's eyes widened at her last comment and he nodded his head.

Hayley's phone buzzed and she scooped it out of her coat pocket.

There was a text from Carla McFarland.

Hayley heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Everything good?” Danny asked.

“Yes. He's home safe.”

“Good. Then we can get the hell out of here.”

Shane entered with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. He winked at Hayley. “I brought an extra glass in case you change your mind.”

“We're going to have to take a rain check,” Danny said.

“Did you find your lost boy?” Shane asked, feigning interest.

“Yes. He's home with his mother,” Hayley said.

“See? All that worrying for nothing,” Shane said, pouring lemonade into one of the glasses, filling it all the way up to the rim. “Are you sure you don't want some?”

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Danny said, furtively glancing at Hayley.

She kept her eyes fixed on Shane. “So tell me about your new book, Shane.”

“What new book?” he asked, a puzzled look on his face.

“
The Devil's Honeymoon
,” Hayley said, hitting every word.

There was a flicker of concern on his face.

For a brief second.

Then he got it hastily under control and kept that same bland, insincere, nonthreatening crooked smile on his face.

But he was at a loss for words.

He obviously hadn't expected to hear that title roll off someone else's lips.

The Devil's Honeymoon
.

He was fighting to remain unruffled.

But it was a challenge.

Hayley could tell on the inside he was freaking out.

“I'm not sure what you're talking about,” Shane said, standing motionless after setting the pitcher of lemonade down on the tray.

“I saw the manuscript in your lawyer's office,” Hayley said. “Crystal Collier is representing you, isn't that right? She's acting as your literary agent and contract lawyer. At least that's what she told me.”

She hadn't told her the client was Shane.

But he didn't have to know that.

“I'm sure she didn't . . .” Shane said, his voice cracking.

“She most certainly did. Shane Hardy. The hot new author who was going to be the next Norman Cross,” Hayley said.

Shane just kept shaking his head. “No . . . No . . . she didn't . . .”

“The funny thing is I had seen that title before.
The Devil's Honeymoon
. On the cover of the manuscript Spanky McFarland brought over to my house just over a week ago.”

“You can't copyright a title. Lots of books have the same title,” Shane said weakly.

“You're right,” Hayley said. “But you see, when Crystal left her office for a few minutes I took a moment to skim your book. Imagine my surprise when I read a few pages only to discover it was the exact same story with the exact same characters, all with the same names, as Spanky's book.”

“The boy was here in this house. He could have gotten his hands on
my
manuscript and made a copy for himself to claim as his own,” Shane spit out.

“Yes, but your mistake was thinking that Spanky was a loner, a misfit, with no friends. But he and my son are best buddies, and my son has been a witness to Spanky's creative process every step of the way, for months, long before you even thought to pretend you were working on your own book.”

“But I made him promise he hadn't—” Shane stopped himself.

“Shown anyone else the book? You can't blame the boy for lying. I think I'd say just about anything if it meant getting my hero to read my work.”

“This is all just a huge misunderstanding . . .” Shane sputtered.

“Does Mr. Cross know what you've been up to?” Hayley asked.

“Hey, I have an idea. Why don't we go ask him?” Danny said, stepping toward the staircase.

Shane snapped out of his shock to throw his body in front of the steps, blocking Danny's path.

“I told you he's not feeling well. He's resting right now and cannot accept visitors!” Shane cried.

But Danny was bigger and bulkier and Shane was no match for him. Danny flung him to the side like a straw-filled scarecrow and mounted the stairs.

Shane watched helplessly as Hayley pushed past him and followed Danny up to the master suite.

Danny was already inside the bedroom when Hayley caught up with him.

He was standing in the middle of the room just staring at the bed.

Hayley came up on his left and stopped next to him.

The room was empty.

The bed was made.

There was no sign of Norman Cross.

They heard Shane huffing and puffing behind them as he entered the room.

Danny whirled around and barked, “Where is he? You said he was resting. What have you done with him?”

Hayley gasped at the sight of Shane Hardy, standing in the doorway, gripping a semiauto rimfire pistol in his right hand.