Trick or Treat Murder Page 7

  Miss Tilley's eyes widened and she gave Hancock a wry smile. She was beginning to suspect that Bill's appointment might not work out the way she had hoped.

  "Since this is such a large project, and it affects so many people, I think we really ought to hold a public hearing," Miss Tilley said. "As proposed this will really change the appearance of the whole town. Especially if trees are cut."

  "Are you saying I can't cut trees on my own prop'ty?" Lenk was ready to defend his rights as a landowner.

  "We're not saying anything, Mr. Lenk," observed Hancock Smith. "What Miss Tilley has suggested, very wisely, I might add, is that the entire matter be discussed in a public forum. That way, all the interested parties can be heard."

  "Who's interested? It's my land. I can do whatever I want." Lenk was beginning to get agitated.

  "Your land is in the historic district," explained Doug Durning. "Special rules apply."

  "I've got rights," insisted Lenk, raising his voice. "I'm payin' taxes on that land. What happened to democracy? "

  "Mr. Lenk," began Jock Mulligan. "Let me assure you that America is indeed, still a democracy. What we must do here, is weigh the rights of the individual against the r-r-rights of the community. Your neighbors also pay taxes, and they have an interest in the appearance of their town. Do you understand?"

  "Can I tell Northstar to go ahead, or what? 'Cause if you say no, you're all gonna be sorry. Real sorry." Lenk was at the end of his rope; he was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, and rhythmically clenching his hands.

  "Nothing will be decided tonight," said Miss Tilley, in the voice that had maintained silence in the Broadbrooks Free Library for more than thirty-five years. "We'll schedule a hearing for next week. Is the board agreed?" Miss Tilley received nods of assent from the other members. "We'll see you next week, Mr. Lenk. Bring whomever you want. Lawyers, company representatives, plans— we'll go over everything. Understood?"

  Lenk nodded.

  "A word to the wise," she said, leaning forward and waving a gnarled finger at him. "Don't make any changes to that property until you have a certificate of appropriateness from this board. I'm warning you. This board takes violations very seriously."

  From the expression on Lenk's face as he headed for the door, Ted was pretty sure the commission was going to have one hell of a fight on its hands.

  "Anything else? If not, meeting adjourned," Miss Tilley decreed without calling for a vote. "Oh, Bill, do you have a minute? I have a few thoughts I'd like to share with you."

  Poor Bill, thought Ted, standing and slipping his notebook into his pocket. He looked as if he had been caught stuffing over' due books into the Book Return slot. Even though Miss Tilley could no longer charge overdue book fines, she would undoubtedly find some way to make him pay for his insubordination.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Did you tape Seinfeld?" Bill asked at breakfiast the next morning.

  Lucy put down the piece of toast she was about to bite and shook her head. "I forgot."

  "How could you forget?" demanded Bill.

  "Well —" said Lucy. "The evening started out peacefully enough but pretty soon the baby began fussing and then Toby couldn't find his gym shoes and Elizabeth needed help finding out why Connecticut is called the Nutmeg State and somehow it was too late and the show was over when I remembered. I'm sorry."

  "I only asked you to do one simple thing," continued Bill, unwilling to drop the matter.

  "It was only a TV show—it will be rerun before you know it. How was the meeting?" Lucy had been asleep when Bill came home.

  "I should never have said I'd be on that damn commission." Bill shook his head and sat down with a cup of coffee.

  "That bad?"

  "Worse. Miss Tilley was not pleased with me. She told me independence of spirit is a fine thing, but not if it has a negative effect on the community. She also said I was a show-off."

  "You? You're usually so quiet."

  "I voted to let this couple paint their house green. I told them that early houses were often painted in bright colors but they didn't like it. The approved colors are white, off-white, and gray. Maybe yellow, if it's not too bright."

  "It's bound to be a little awkward at first. You all have to get used to one another."

  "They brought me on because I'm a restoration carpenter, right? I know about this stuff. It's how I make my living. But they don't want to listen to me. They've got some half-assed idea of what historic means, and they don't want to hear anything different. To them, a house is colonial if it's white and has shutters. They don't even care if the shutters are the right size for the windows. As long as it's a shutter, it's okay."

  "Maybe you need to compromise a bit, too," said Lucy. "Nobody today wants to spend a lot of money on authentic shutters they'll never use."

  "That's my point. They don't care if it's right. They might as well call it the Pseudo-Historic District, the Disney District. I think I'm gonna resign."

  "You can't resign after one meeting."

  "Why not? Besides it's gonna take a lot more time than I thought. You wouldn't believe the pages and pages of zoning bylaws she gave me. I'm supposed to 'familiarize myself' with them by the next meeting."

  "It'll work out. You'll see. They really need you."

  "I doubt it."

  "Well, at least give it a while longer. You wouldn't let Toby quit Little League last spring, even though he wanted to. What did you tell him. Only quitters are losers?"

  "That's the worst thing about being a parent," said Bill, grinning for the first time that morning. "Your words come back to haunt you."

  "That's for sure," said Lucy, getting up to fetch Zoe, who was demanding her breakfast. "Was I the one who said another baby would be no trouble at all?"

  Later, after Bill had gone to work and the kids had left for school, and Zoe had been bathed and fed and put down for her morning nap, Lucy got out Monica's book and set it on the table.

  It was a wire-bound sketch book, which Monica had covered with blue Waverly plaid fabric. Lucy recognized the pattern, Monica had chosen it for the homing room curtains. She ran her fingers over it, and then opened the book.

  The first page had several photographs of the house as it was when the Mayes bought it. Overgrown bushes covered the windows, there was a hole in the roof, and the original pine clapboards were covered with crumbling asphalt shingles.

  "My heart stopped when I saw it," Monica had written in bold black ink. "Somehow I knew that this house would be mine. It was the house I'd always dreamed of having."

  The statement gave Lucy pause; never in her life had she decided something should be hers simply because she wanted it. For her, life was a constant juggle of too little time, too little money, and too much to do.

  Turning the pages, Lucy saw photos chronicling every stage of the restoration process. The plaster was stripped away from the walls, revealing the aged wood lath underneath. The chimney was torn down and rebuilt. The roof was replaced with bright new cedar shingles.

  Lucy smiled to see snapshots of Bill and herself. He looked impossibly young. She, pregnant with Toby, was absolutely huge. There were also photos of Monica's teen-aged children, tan in swimsuits, scraping the paint off a door. Their names were obligingly penned in beneath the pictures: Roily, Mira, and Tiny. Monica, Lucy remembered, had a penchant for nicknames.

  Once the house had been made sound and weather tight, Monica had focused her attention on decorating it. There were pictures of furniture found at auctions, paint chips, and fabric scraps. Sketches showed how each room was arranged. Once she had made a decision, recalled Lucy, Monica never changed her mind. She was not one to spend an afternoon rearranging the furniture.

  Closing the book, Lucy clutched it to her chest. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. She tried to guess how much the restoration had cost, but couldn't even remember how much Bill had charged.

  Curious, she climbed upstairs to the little attic room he u
sed for an office. There, under the slanted ceiling, he had set up a drafting table and a couple of file cabinets.

  His files, as she discovered when she pulled out a drawer, were neater than she would have expected. She had no trouble at all finding the thick folder for the Hopkins Homestead. Lucy sat down at the desk and pushed aside the big stack of zoning bylaws Bill had left there. She opened the file; right on top was the estimate he had drawn up—labor and materials came to nearly one hundred thousand dollars.

  Lucy whistled softly under her breath. She had no idea. And this was more than ten years ago—it would be a lot more at today's prices. Bill's figures didn't include the cost of the property itself, or what Monica had spent to furnish or decorate the place. Lucy wouldn't have been surprised if Monica's little project—the house she was determined to have—had cost Roland close to a quarter of a million dollars. Lucy even remembered Monica joking about it, she had once said Roland would have to deliver a lot of babies to pay for it.

  Thinking back, Lucy couldn't recall even one picture of Roland Mayes in the scrapbook. It was a real old-fashioned marriage, thought Lucy. He made the money, and Monica spent it.

  Closing the file to replace it, Lucy's eyes fell on a penciled phone number. Monica had given it to them a few years ago, when she had taken a trip. They had agreed to keep an eye on the Homestead, and if anything happened, they were supposed to call Mira. She was married, now, and lived in a Boston suburb with her husband and baby. Impulsively, Lucy reached for the phone, then hesitated. She certainly didn't want to add to the woman's grief by asking a lot of questions. On the other hand, she rationalized, it wouldn't hurt to let Mira know that others shared her grief.

  "Mira? This is Lucy Stone, in Tinker's Cove. I wanted to call and let you know how sorry I am about your mother."

  "Lucy, thanks for calling. It's so sweet of you."

  "It's the least I could do. I feel absolutely awful about the fire."

  "I don't think I've really taken it in yet. I keep expecting Mom to call and ask how I'm feeling." Mira paused. "I'm pregnant again, you know."

  "I didn't know," said Lucy, thinking how sad it was that Monica would never see her second grandchild. "When are you due?"

  "In about a month."

  "And how old is the baby?"

  "Freddie's almost two."

  "You'll have your hands full." What a shame, thought Lucy, for Mira to lose her mother just when she needed her so much.

  "I sure will," said Mira, her voice trembling.

  "I don't want to keep you," said Lucy quickly. "I was just wondering when the service will be. I didn't see anything in the paper."

  "I know." Mira fell silent. "I'm ashamed to say we haven't planned anything yet. It's all been so sudden. We're still in shock. You'd think something like this would make us all closer but instead it's ripping the family apart."

  "Oh, Mira, every family's different. There's no right way to deal with death." Lucy hesitated a moment, then plunged ahead. "I saw your dad yesterday. He came by the house. He seems to be taking it pretty hard."

  "Harder than I expected, that's for sure." There was an edge to Mira's voice. Lucy wondered how much Mira knew about her father and Krissy.

  "Well, as you said, it was very sudden."

  "Very convenient if you ask me." There was no mistaking the anger in Mira's voice. "He'd told Roily he was thinking of divorcing Mom. There was somebody else."

  "Oh, no. Did your mother know?"

  "I don't know how she could have missed it. Everybody knew. I used to see his Mercedes and Krissy's Fiero parked side by side all over town." Mira sniffled; Lucy was pretty sure she was crying. Suddenly, Lucy was ashamed of herself. She didn't want to add to Mira's pain.

  "I'm sorry, Mira. I shouldn't have called."

  "I'm glad you called," sobbed Mira. "I've felt so alone, like I'm the only one who loved her. It really helps to know that you cared about her, too. I'll let you know when we decide on a time for the service."

  "Oh, Mira," said Lucy, her voice breaking. "Bill and I both loved her. She was very special to us. If there's anything we can do to help, please let us know." Lucy wiped her eyes and hung up the phone. Suddenly shaky, she sat down at the kitchen table. She crossed her arms across her stomach and hugged herself, waiting for the sick feeling to go away.

  This was ridiculous, she thought. Mira had confirmed her suspicions about Dr. Mayes and Krissy. She was right after all. So why did she feel so horrible?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mrs. Stone. Back already?" Krissy looked up from the class schedule she was decorating with little jack-o'-lanterns. "Vicki may have forgotten to mention it, but it's better to wait a day or two between sessions."

  "Really?" said Lucy, feigning disappointment. "That's too bad. I was really counting on another workout before the weekend."

  "I wouldn't advise it," said Krissy, staring right through her. The dazzling smile was definitely gone, Krissy seemed almost hostile. Lucy wondered why. Was it because Lucy had told her she knew Monica?

  "Oh, well, there's something else I wanted to talk to you about." Lucy glanced around the counter area that was open to the public. "Is there someplace a bit more private, like an office, where we could talk?"

  "I'm afraid not," said Krissy flatly.

  "I suppose you haven't even finished unpacking yet," said Lucy, refusing to be deterred. "Never mind," she said, leaning over the counter and lowering her voice. "A group of us mothers are putting on a Halloween party for the kids. To try and keep them off the streets, you know. We're cleaning up the old Hallett house this weekend. Would you like to help?"

  "I'm afraid I couldn't possibly. Allergies."

  "Oh, I didn't mean for you to help with the cleaning," said Lucy with a little laugh. "A lot of businesses in town are making donations."

  "A donation?" Krissy looked relieved. "Sure. Is twenty-five dollars okay?"

  "More than okay. Terrific," said Lucy, accepting the cash. "Thanks so much."

  "No problem," said Krissy, dismissing her and turning back to the schedule she was decorating.

  "So, what made you decide to open a studio in Tinker's Cover Lucy asked, ignoring the cue.

  "I was tired of working for other people. I tried giving private lessons, but, well, the customers kind of got on my nerves."

  "Like Monica?" Lucy smiled slyly, and leaned forward slightly. She wanted to give Krissy every encouragement to discuss her rival.

  "Oh, that's right. You said you knew her." Krissy was wary.

  "My husband did some carpentry work for her." Lucy lowered her voice. "Very demanding. A real pain in the you know what."

  "Tell me about it," said Krissy, succumbing to temptation. "She had nothing to do all day, she didn't work or anything, but she still had to keep changing appointments. Sometimes ten minutes before she was due I'd get a call. Can we make it tomorrow instead? So inconsiderate. Never occurred to her that my income depended on a full schedule. And my other clients didn't appreciate getting moved all around to accommodate her. But that was the least of it. She was so rude to me. Treated me like I wasn't as good as her. Nobody was, not even her husband. She was really nasty to him. She really didn't understand him."

  Some things never change, thought Lucy. "Sounds typical. A lot of summer people are like that. They think the town was created for them. Never occurs to them that we were here first. So how do you like Tinker's Cove?"

  "Everybody's so nice. Just folks. And the ladies seem real pleased to have a place of their own to work out"

  "You've really made it attractive." Lucy waved an arm, indicating the mauve carpeting and freshly sandblasted brick walls. "Nobody would guess they used to can sardines here. Not a trace of the old smell."

  "We have a really good ventilation system," said Krissy. "And you wouldn't believe the amount I spend on air freshener."

  "I've heard it's really hard for women to get small business loans. Did you have any trouble?"

  "Not really. I have
a partner—he invested some of his own money and arranged for me to borrow the rest"

  "Oh, that's right. Didn't you say Dr. Mayes is your partner?"

  "Did I say that?" At least Krissy had the decency to blush. "Yes, I think you did. You said your partner's wife had been killed in a fire and I asked if it was Monica and you said..."

  "I may have," Krissy interrupted, glancing at a couple of women who had just entered. She greeted them and they gave her a wave, proceeding on into the dressing room. "I don't think he wants it widely known. He's kind of a silent partner—really just doing me a favor. He's such a sweet guy."