Wicked Witch Murder (16 page)

“Nature abhors a vacuum, and so does the tax collector,” said Fred. “Compass does a lot of that. There's nobody better than Ike Stoughton at sorting out titles.”

“So they're acquiring land without paying for it?” asked Lucy, a note of outrage in her voice.

“Well, you could do it too. Anybody can.”

“So why don't they?” asked Lucy.

“Because it's a lot of bother. It takes years, and there are costs. The taxes, for one thing. Legal fees. It all adds up.”

“But it's worth it for them?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Fred.

 

Lucy was thoughtful as she drove back to Tinker's Cove. It seemed that her original valuation of Compass Construction might be way off base, and it might not be quite as well capitalized as she thought. Sort of like her friend Sue Finch, who dressed in designer clothes and was constantly redecorating her home in the latest style, but she wasn't nearly as wealthy as you might think. Sue was a ferocious bargain hunter who haunted boutiques and off-price stores, buying only when coveted items were discounted, sometimes by eighty or ninety percent, at the end of the season. She was generous with her inside knowledge, often informing Lucy of a terrific sale, but Lucy rarely followed up. She just wasn't interested; it was too much bother to race off to Portland for clothes she'd never wear, even if they were on sale. But bargain hunting sure paid off for Sue, and Lucy suspected it worked for Compass Construction too.

Spotting a roadside picnic area, she impulsively pulled over and called Detective Horowitz, catching him at his desk.

“I was planning to leave a message,” she said, stammering with surprise. “You're never in your office.”

“I can switch you to voice mail,” he offered.

“No, no. This is probably nothing, but I've come across some information….”

“Yes?”

“Well, Compass Construction needed Malcolm Malebranche's land for a big project, and now they've acquired land around Rebecca Wardwell. It's owner unknown, you see, and Miriam Stoughton, who just died, owned part of Compass Construction. It all seems pretty fishy to me.”

“You think Miriam Stoughton's death is linked to Malebranche's death?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Lucy.

“How exactly?”

“I haven't figured that part out yet.”

“I see,” said Horowitz. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” said Lucy.

“If you have any more ideas like this, please keep them to yourself, okay?”

“I know I'm on to something,” insisted Lucy.

“Don't bet on it,” said Horowitz, getting the final word.

T
he route back to Tinker's Cove took Lucy past the road leading to Peter Symonds's place, so she decided to pay him a visit, just to see how he'd fared in the flooding. The wind was picking up as she drove past fields and woods, and the tree branches were swaying to and fro. Small branches and leaves were tossed about, almost like a fall day. Except this was summer and the leaves were still fresh and green.

The road followed the river, which wound along on one side and then the other. The water was still higher than usual, tumbling in small cascades over the rocky bed, but it was nothing like the raging torrent she'd seen a few weeks ago. Symonds's house was still standing, which was a relief, but the yard was a muddy mess, with logs and strange objects, obviously detritus from the flood, strewn about.

Lucy had to struggle against the wind to open the car door, and she couldn't help laughing as it pushed her this way and that as she made her way to the front door. It was an odd feeling, rather comical, to step in one direction and find oneself going in another. But the wind was warm, almost playful, and Lucy gained Symonds's stoop with little difficulty. There was no doorbell, so she knocked as hard as she could, hoping he could hear her above the howling wind.

There was no answer, even when she yelled, so Lucy decided to walk around back to the kitchen door, which had a curtained window. Her luck was no better there, but she snapped a few photos of the devastated yard so the trip wouldn't be a complete waste. She figured they could run them along with photos she'd taken of the flood, as a sort of then-and-now feature. Then, before leaving the porch, she thought she'd try knocking at the door one more time. She was certain that when she turned around, she saw the dingy curtain twitch, but once again, her knock went unanswered.

Pretty weird, she thought, but the fierce wind blew everything else from her mind as she struggled once again to make her way back to the car. Once inside, she sat for a moment, trying to catch her breath, watching as the trees bent this way and that. It was blowing such a storm that she decided to head straight for home rather than risk going on to the office.

The trip soon became a nerve-wracking struggle against the wind to keep the car on the road, especially in the open stretches that ran past fields of hay and corn. The wooded patches were frightening, too, as the branches whipped around, and Lucy was afraid that a large bough or even an entire tree would fall on the car. She saw a couple of massive branches lying along the edge of the road, and the sweet smell of sap and raw wood was filling the air.

She didn't see any other cars on the road until she passed Packet Landing Road, almost home, where she encountered several vehicles stopped in the road. Braking behind them, she saw the problem—a massive maple tree had fallen across the road, landing on the hood of a black Honda Civic. It had also brought down the wires that ran on poles along the road, making the situation even more dangerous.

“Is anybody hurt?” she asked, reaching for her camera and running toward the smashed car, carefully avoiding the downed wires.

Two young girls were hugging each other and crying. The drivers of the other cars were trying to comfort them. She recognized Renee La Chance and Sassie Westwood, Sara's friends.

“It was so scary,” sobbed Renee. “We were just driving along when it crashed down right on top of us.”

“Good thing you weren't going too fast,” said one man.

“We called nine-one-one,” said another, “but they said it will be a while before they get here. I guess this isn't the only tree that came down.”

“What should we do?” asked Sassie, the wind whipping her long blond hair around her head.

“It's much too dangerous to stay out here. I'll give you a ride home,” said Lucy.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stone,” said Sassie. “Come on, Renee.”

“Are you sure I should just leave the car?” asked Renee doubtfully as they struggled against the wind. “In Drivers Ed they said you should never leave the scene of an accident.”

“It's not safe, with that power line down. Put a note inside the car and leave the keys—that's all you can do,” said Lucy. “It sounds like the rescue squad is overwhelmed, and we don't want to become victims.”

Soon a little caravan of vehicles was proceeding down Packet Landing Road, with frequent stops to clear branches out of the road. There were fortunately no more fallen trees, but Lucy, who was bringing up the rear, had a close call when a large pine tree came crashing down behind her. They could feel the road shudder from the impact, and it took all of her self-control not to gun the car and flee, but instead to keep their place in the little procession. She was so busy scanning the sky for falling debris that she didn't realize they had reached the temporary bridge by the Stoughton place until they came upon it. She sent up a little prayer as they crossed the rattling steel structure. Once safely across, Lucy thought of Abby and asked the girls if they'd been in touch with her.

“No,” said Sassie. “I called a few times, but they always said she couldn't come to the phone.”

“I ran into her brother at the post office, and he said she's been sick,” reported Renee.

Lucy was thinking this over when they rounded the bend and her house come into sight, standing straight and tall. But the large oak that shaded the backyard was on its side, its tangled roots exposed.

“That's scary,” said Sassie as they passed.

“The house looks okay,” said Lucy, more in hope than certitude as she turned onto Prudence Path. She quickly scanned the street, making sure that all the houses were undamaged, especially Toby and Molly's. Reassured that they all seemed to be sound, she parked as close as she could to Renee's front door and watched as the girls dashed for safety, bent double against the wind.

Then she slammed the Subaru into reverse, zoomed out of the driveway, and shifted into drive, speeding as fast as she dared toward home. She parked the car in the clearest part of the driveway, hoping it would be okay, and ran into the house, wondering at the kitchen's unusual darkness; then she realized the fallen tree was blocking the window.

“Mo-o-om,” cried Zoe, running into her arms.

“Thank goodness you're home,” said Sara in a quavering voice. “You've got to see upstairs. Some of the branches came through the roof.”

“Through the roof?” she asked, following the girls up the back stairway.

“Like nails, right through the roof,” said Zoe.

“There was a horrible sound, like a big truck roaring down the road, and then this enormous crash,” said Sara.

“We were really scared,” said Zoe. “Libby went under the kitchen table and we did too.”

Upstairs, in Bill's attic office, she saw it was true. Sharp spikes of wood had penetrated the roof, piercing right through shingles and tar paper, sheathing, insulation, and plaster. “Oh, my,” she said. “This must be a tornado.”

 

“Weather service says it wasn't a tornado,” said Ted the next morning. He'd been up all night, covering the storm and its aftermath. With roads clogged by fallen trees and wires and power out in much of the county, the usual Thursday edition of the paper hadn't been printed yet.

“It's a blessing in disguise,” declared Ted. “Now we can run a breaking news story about the storm, as soon as the press starts to roll.”

“Any idea when that will be?” asked Lucy. She had borrowed Zoe's bicycle to get into town, frequently dismounting and walking around fallen trees.

“Any minute now, according to our friend Mark McCullough.”

Lucy laughed, recognizing the power company's spokesman. “Our customers can rest assured that we are doing our very best to restore electric service as quickly as possible,” intoned Lucy, imitating the PR man's lugubrious tone. “In the meantime, we warn everyone to be aware of the danger posed by downed power lines, and in no circumstance should anyone try to move or repair them.”

“So how many people are without power?” asked Phyllis. “My lights went out yesterday afternoon and they're not back yet. And wouldn't you know, I've got two turkey breasts in the freezer I bought on sale at the IGA last week.”

“I can keep them for you,” said Lucy. “I've got power, but I've also got a large tree down. The branches came right through the roof. I think the weather service is wrong.”

“The weather service is calling it a significant anomalous event,” said Ted, who had all the latest figures at his fingertips. “Over ten thousand homes without power, innumerable trees down, most major roads blocked, emergency room overflowing but no deaths…”

“Thank heavens,” said Phyllis.

“Property damage in the millions, the old bowling alley collapsed, and the roof ripped off the middle-school gym….”

“Sounds like a tornado to me,” said Lucy, looking up as Ike Stoughton strode through the door.

Before she had a chance to greet him, or to ask how Abby was doing, Ike was waving a piece of paper in Ted's face. “Now will you believe me?” he demanded. “This windstorm was stirred up by that witch leaving town on her broomstick.”

“I checked with the weather service, and they didn't mention any broomstick sightings on the radar,” said Ted, keeping a straight face.

“They're calling it an ‘anomalous event,'” sneered Ike. “You know what that means? They don't have a clue. It was that witch—there's no other explanation. I've set it all out here in this letter, and my question is, are you going to print it or not?”

He handed the sheet of paper over to Ted, who unfolded it and read it carefully, peering through his half-glasses. When he finished, he refolded the letter and handed it back. “No.”

“Then I want to buy ad space,” said Ike, reaching for his wallet. “People need to know the truth.”

“We have a policy about ads,” said Ted. “No hate language, no slander, libel, defamation of character. No nudity or sexual content—”

“You mean you're censoring the truth?” demanded Ike.

“I practice responsible journalism,” said Ted. “At least I try to.”

“Well, I've got NEWS for you,” said Ike, narrowing his eyes. “Newspaper readership is down, and you know why? Because people don't have to put up with your self-righteous, politically correct, biased reporting anymore. They can get the true news, the real news, on the Internet. I can even crank up my printer and make copies of this letter and distribute them all over town, stick 'em on trees, under windshield wipers, hand them out at the supermarket.” He laughed. “You're irrelevant, Ted. You and your pathetic little excuse for a newspaper don't matter anymore. You're obsolete.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ted yelled after him. “You're the one who's about three hundred years behind the times!”

But Ike was gone. Ted was yelling at a closed door.

“Don't listen to him,” said Phyllis in a soothing tone. “He doesn't know what he's talking about.”

“She's right,” agreed Lucy. “People love the
Pennysaver.
”

“No, he's right,” said Ted glumly. “Sometimes I think I know exactly how the last dinosaurs felt. I'm fighting a losing battle for survival.”

Sure enough, as soon as the power was back, Ike's broadsheets began to appear all over town. Lucy saw them stapled to trees and utility poles, flapping in the breeze under car windshield wipers, and blowing about on the sidewalk and parking lots. When she left the IGA, pushing her heavy grocery cart, one of the bag boys offered to help her. When he finished unloading the bags into the back of her station wagon, she noticed one of the flyers poking out of one of the recyclable green cloth bags.

And people were taking the broadsheets seriously. Lucy noticed witching balls sprouting on lawns everywhere, and suddenly everybody seemed to be wearing a chain around their neck with a gold cross. On Monday morning, Phyllis, who had gone to church with Wilf Lundgren, reported the community church was bursting at the seams, standing room only, when just the week before, a handful of people barely filled the first few pews. And it was the same for the Catholics and the Episcopalians, she said, where the parking lots had been packed and cars had lined both sides of Main Street. Ike's campaign was definitely having an effect.