Wicked Witch Murder Page 12

  “It’s my job to follow up leads, wherever they take me,” said Lucy, hoping to mollify Kipfer. She gave him a rueful smile. “This one seems to have led nowhere.”

  “Exactly.” He nodded. “Hell of a thing, though, the way that Malebranche was killed.” The nods were coming faster. “I’m sure glad it wasn’t in my jurisdiction, that’s for sure.”

  “It wasn’t pretty,” said Lucy, recalling the gruesome discovery in the woods.

  “Well, we’re fortunate here in Shiloh,” he said smugly. “We’ve got a nice, quiet town with good people, and I aim to keep it that way.”

  As if Tinker’s Cove was a rotten borough filled with criminals, thought Lucy, biting her tongue. “Thanks for your time,” she said, rising to go.

  “Remember what I said, now,” he said, opening the door for her. “And don’t go looking for what isn’t there.”

  “I’ll remember,” said Lucy. But as soon as she was back in her car, she reached for her cell phone and placed a call to Detective Horowitz of the state police. Maybe Chief Kipfer was right; maybe Kyle Compton and everybody else who lived in Shiloh was absolutely innocent of any evil, but she doubted it. The chief had only managed to convince her of one thing: that Kyle Compton was too good to be true.

  Chapter Twelve

  An automated voice informed Lucy that Detective Horowitz was either away from his desk or on another line, so she left a message, asking him to call her. While she was talking, a pickup truck with the COMPASS CONSTRUCTION logo painted on the door passed her parked car, and noting the Main Street address, she impulsively decided to pay a visit on the off chance that Kyle Compton was in his office.

  Compass Construction was just a few blocks down Main Street, at the point where the compact town center gave way to gas stations, a garden center, and a supermarket, all businesses that needed a lot of space. She pulled up in front of the neat brick building, with its attractively landscaped bit of lawn dotted with shrubs, and went inside. A receptionist greeted her with a big smile, and when she asked for Compton, she immediately relayed the message by phone. Seconds later, Kyle appeared in the hallway, right arm extended, and grasped her hand in a hearty shake. It was obvious that Compass Construction did its best to turn every prospect into a customer. He ushered her down the hall, which was practically papered with civic awards, and seated her in a padded captain’s chair.

  “I’m not a customer,” said Lucy, eager to clear up any misconceptions about her visit. “I’m Lucy Stone, and I’m a reporter for the Tinker’s Cove Pennysaver newspaper.”

  “Well, what can I do for you?” asked Kyle, smiling affably from his seat behind the desk.

  “I’m doing a follow-up story on Malcolm Malebranche, the magician who was burned to death a couple of months ago.”

  Kyle shook his head. “That was terrible, terrible.” He paused, his clear blue eyes meeting hers. “They never solved that case, did they?”

  “No,” said Lucy. “That’s why I’m taking another look at the story. I understand you had some business dealings with Malebranche.”

  “I tried. I did my best,” said Kyle with a rueful shake of his head. “But he resisted all my offers. I wanted to buy his property for a project of ours. I offered him far more than it was worth on the market, but he wouldn’t budge.”

  “That must have been very frustrating,” said Lucy.

  “You’re not kidding,” said Kyle, giving her a sideways glance. “You’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with his death because of that, are you?”

  Lucy gave him her best, most disarming smile. “As a reporter, I can tell you that people have been killed for far less. I know of a woman who killed her neighbor over a chicken.”

  “A chicken?” asked Kyle.

  “It was a prizewinner, and the woman was very fond of it,” said Lucy.

  “But still,” said Kyle, who seemed troubled by the idea. “A chicken seems a poor excuse for murder.”

  “Frankly, I don’t think there’s any excuse for murder,” said Lucy.

  Kyle was quick to reply. “Of course, you’re right. There’s absolutely no excuse.”

  “Did you know Malcolm Malebranche, apart from his refusal to sell to you?” asked Lucy, trying to get back on track.

  “Yeah, I mean, we live in the same town. I knew who he was. I took my kids to see him perform at the library, things like that. He was an aquaintance—I guess that’s the best way to put it. I thought he was kind of unusual, not your average Joe, but I suppose that goes with being a performer.”

  “Did you dislike him?”

  “Are you asking if I wanted to screw him on the deal?” Kyle let out a harsh laugh and looked her straight in the eye. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and I have a pretty decent reputation of treating people fairly. I’ve also learned not to take things personally and not to get upset by things I can’t control: the weather, stubborn property owners, difficult customers. I focus on what I can do, so I decided to go ahead with the project without Malcolm’s land. I have plenty of acreage out there. I figured I’d fence him off, put up some shrubs—nobody’d even know he was there. And there was always the chance that once he saw I was going ahead without him, he’d decide to sell after all.”

  “I heard you were trying to get the town to take the land by eminent domain,” said Lucy.

  Kyle grinned, showing very white teeth. “That was plan B,” he said.

  Lucy was thoughtful. “It seems like you had him cornered. He must have been very frustrated, and when people are angry, they sometimes let it get the better of them. Did he threaten you or try to harm you in any way?”

  “He put up some signs on his property accusing me of destroying trees and causing global warming,” admitted Kyle. “There was some yelling and shouting at planning board meetings, things like that. It’s all in the public record. He made it clear he was going to take this fight as far as he could, even if it meant going to court.”

  “And how’d you feel about that?”

  “Bad, that’s how I felt, because I knew he’d lose. I have my ducks in a row, Lucy. That’s how I operate. I have every right to build an industrial park on that land, and that’s what I intend to do. I’m following the law down to the teeniest little comma, period.” He grinned again, the rueful grin.

  “He might have used other methods,” said Lucy. “Did you know he was a witch?”

  Kyle’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. “You mean he might have cursed me in some way? Put a hex on me, or a spell?”

  “It’s possible,” insisted Lucy.

  “Well, I think that stuff doesn’t work unless you’re a believer. You know, voodoo only works if you believe it will, and then the witch doctor points his staff at you and your heart stops—boom—and you drop dead. So, the answer is no. I didn’t know he was a witch, and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter because I don’t believe in witchcraft. Or the benefits of organic food or that coffee is bad for you or that Saddam Hussein was responsible for nine-eleven!”

  “Can I quote you on that?” asked Lucy, laughing. It was impossible not to like the guy. He was smart and good-looking, and he had a sense of humor. Too bad she was married; too bad she was too old for him.

  “You can write whatever you damn well please, for all I care,” he said, smiling. “Just be sure you spell my name right.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” said Lucy, rising from her chair. “Well, thanks for your time. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

  “Same here,” he said, standing and extending his hand. “And don’t forget, I’m here to serve your real estate and construction needs.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Lucy, taking his hand and once again finding his grasp firm and warm. The honest grip of a man who needed no more than a handshake to seal a deal.

  That’s what she was thinking, anyway, as she left the office and went back to her car, pausing for a moment to admire the landscaping and to check the identifying tag on one
particularly attractive rosebush. It was called “Knock Out,” and it was, she thought, a real stunner. Probably expensive, but worth checking out, she decided as she jotted the name down. Then, turning to go, a glint of reflected sunlight caught her eye, and she discovered a witch’s ball set among the plants, a reflective globe that was supposed to confuse a witch and thereby offer protection from spells.

  Interesting, she thought as she started the engine. Maybe it was purely decorative, or maybe Kyle Compton hadn’t been entirely truthful with her. Maybe he’d decided he needed to repel Malcolm Malebranche’s evil spells.

  What the heck, she decided. She was in the neighborhood, and she had nothing better to do at the moment; she might as well drive back out to Malebranche’s place and take a closer look. Oddly enough, “Witchy Woman” was playing on the radio when she arrived at Malcolm’s overgrown yard and turned into the rutted driveway. She sat there for a moment, bopping along to the music and surveying the scene.

  What on earth made him so attached to this place? she wondered, taking in the sagging roof with cracked and moldy shingles, the ripped screen door that hung askew from its frame, and the drooping porch. Any sane person would have taken the money and ran with it, straight to a bright, clean condominium.

  She couldn’t find a path amid the tall grass and weeds that reached above her knees, so she walked on through, hoping the many buzzing bees and wasps feeding on the goldenrod wouldn’t take offense at the intrusion. She made it safely to the porch and was about to try peering through one of the very dirty windows when she noticed the front door was ajar. Pushing it open, she stepped inside the ramshackle structure and blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The scene gradually came into view, and she found herself in a living room, or what used to be a living room. The couch had been ripped open, revealing ugly yellow foam padding. Throw pillows had also been ripped apart, and clumps of white filling were strewn everywhere. Wooden furniture had been broken, and some had been stuffed into the fireplace to burn. The resulting fire had charred the hearth and mantel.

  Lucy peeked in the kitchen and found that boxes of staples like cereal and rice had been torn open and the contents thrown around. Empty liquor bottles and beer cans were everywhere, indicating that whoever had vandalized the place had helped themselves to refreshments.

  The bedroom was much the same, clothes and bedding thrown everywhere. Malcolm had used another, smaller bedroom to store his magic props, and they, too, had been found and destroyed. His top hat had been trampled flat, bits of glass and wood were everywhere, and a string of colorful scarves fluttered in the breeze from the broken window.

  Lucy shook her head at the mess, wondering who would do something like this. There was no painted pentagram, no graffiti, just a lot of broken stuff, as if someone, or more likely some group, had gone on a destructive rampage, fueled by Malcolm’s booze. Kids, she decided, partying in an empty house. What a waste, she thought, making her way to the door. It was pathetic that kids did things like this, especially when they could be doing something constructive.

  She was almost out the door, shaking her head at all the damage, when something warm and furry brushed against her leg, causing her heart to jump in her chest. Grabbing the doorjamb for support and expecting to see a rat, she instead found a small Siamese cat twining itself around her ankles.

  “Well, who are you?” she asked, bending down and picking up the cat. It was as light as a feather and very soft, and it didn’t seem to mind being held at all. Lucy could feel its heart beating a mile a minute in its chest and heard it switch on a rumbling purr. “You look hungry to me,” she said, and the cat blinked its astonishing sapphire blue eyes. “Let’s say we go get something to eat.”

  The cat seemed agreeable to the idea and allowed Lucy to carry her out to the car, where it sat sphinx-like on the passenger seat for the short drive to Sue’s Summer Shack. Lucy got a small bowl of vanilla for the cat and a double-scoop peach cone for herself. She was sitting in the driver’s seat but turned sideways, with her legs outside the car. The cat was on the ground, daintily licking the ice cream. They had the place pretty much to themselves. It was around two, too late for lunch and too early for an afternoon snack, and Lucy was enjoying the simple pleasure of eating an ice-cream cone on a warm, sunny day when her cell phone rang.

  It was Detective Horowitz, returning her call. “I hope you haven’t found another body,” he was saying.

  “No, thank goodness,” said Lucy. “But I did come across some information about Malcolm Malebranche.”

  “Shoot,” said Horowitz.

  “It turns out he had a house in Shiloh that Compass Construction wanted, but he wouldn’t sell. It’s right smack in the middle of a proposed industrial park.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Horowitz.

  “That’s it,” said Lucy. “That’s all I got.”

  “Thanks for calling,” said Horowitz.

  “Is that it?” asked Lucy. “Aren’t you going to warn me to mind my own business?”

  “Well, I would,” he said in a resigned tone. “If I thought it would make a difference.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy as the cat seated itself on her foot and started cleaning its whiskers. “Would you like a cat?” she asked. “It’s a pretty Siamese, very friendly.”

  “I’m allergic to cats,” said Horowitz.

  Lucy looked down at the cat, and it looked right back up, gazing into her eyes. “Well, if you know anybody who wants a cat, give me a call,” she said.

  “Oh, right,” said Horowitz, sounding vague, like something else was demanding his attention. “Gotta go.”

  When Lucy closed her phone, the cat jumped in her lap and curled itself into a small, purring ball. She sat there, licking her cone, admiring her new little friend and wishing she could keep her.

  But back at home, Libby had other ideas. When Lucy walked into the kitchen with the cat in her arms, Libby rose on her hind legs to give her a nosy once-over. Next thing Lucy knew, her arm was scratched and bloody, the cat was hunkered down on top of the refrigerator, and the dog was barking hysterically.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Sara, rushing into the kitchen.

  “I found this stray cat,” said Lucy, running cold water over her arm and then wrapping it in a dish towel. The scratches were superficial, but they wouldn’t stop bleeding. “Take the dog out for me, will you?”

  Sara lunged for Libby’s collar but the dog eluded her, running around the kitchen and barking at the cat. She opened the door, but Libby ignored it and kept her focus strictly on the intruding cat.

  “It’s so pretty,” said Sara, reaching up to pet the cat. The cat was in no mood to be friendly, however, and hissed at her.

  “Better leave her alone,” said Lucy as the cat sailed over her head and ran up the stairs, the dog hot on her tail. They stood for a moment, listening to thumps and bumps, hisses and barks, when the cat sped back downstairs and out the open door followed by the dog.

  “Oh, no,” said Lucy, standing on the porch and watching as the cat scaled a maple tree, stopping only when she ran out of trunk. Far below, on her hind legs with her forepaws planted on the tree trunk, Libby smiled in triumph, tongue lolling out of her mouth.

  “Mom, we’ve got to call the fire department,” said Sara.

  “Maybe the cat will come down of its own accord,” said Lucy. “It’s a nice cat. It seems to like me. I was hoping to keep it.”

  They both looked at Libby, who was keeping an eye on the cat. “I don’t think that’s going to work,” said Sara.

  “Maybe you could take it to Friends of Animals?” suggested Lucy.

  “They’re still trying to find homes for the spring kittens,” said Sara. “It would be better if we could find a home for it—if it ever comes down from that tree.” Libby was now sitting, but clearly on sentry duty. No cat was going to get past her.

  “Diana likes cats. Maybe she’ll take her,” said Lucy. But when she called the witch, she decline
d.

  “I couldn’t do that to Piewocket,” she said. “He’s my one and only. It would break his heart.”

  Nothing Lucy said would get her to change her mind. Not even the fact that it was Malcolm’s cat, and Siamese, and apparently very healthy. Resigned, Lucy dragged the protesting dog inside, then diced up some leftover chicken and put it in a dish that she carried outside. She was standing out there beneath the tree, holding a dish of chicken over her head, when Bill came home.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  “Trying to get the cat down.”

  “We don’t have a cat.”

  “We do now.”

  “No, we don’t,” he said, in a tone that indicated this was his final word on the subject, and marched into the house.

  No sooner had the door closed behind him than Lucy felt the cat land lightly on her shoulders. She set the dish on the ground and watched the cat eat; then she picked her up and carried her out to the shed, apologizing for shutting her inside and promising to be back in a minute with more food and a bowl of water. “Don’t worry, this is just temporary. I’ll find a home for you, I promise.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When supper was over, Lucy turned her attention to finding a home for the cat. After working her way through much of her address book, she got lucky with Rachel.

  “I think Miss Tilley would enjoy having a little pet,” she said, referring to the town’s oldest resident. Julia Ward Howe Tilley. Miss Tilley to everyone, was well over ninety, and Rachel had been her caregiver for years. It started as a neighborly affair, simply stopping by for a visit and bringing some nourishing food after the elderly woman had an auto accident, but it had gradually evolved into a paid home-care position through the local senior center. Now Rachel arrived around ten, did the housekeeping and grocery shopping, and prepared a hot lunch and a cold dinner that she left ready on a tray before leaving around two.