Candy Corn Murder (7 page)

“He drives too fast,” said Bill. “Did you see him peel out of the driveway?”

“I missed that,” said Lucy, who hadn't heard a thing and was pretty sure Hank had made a careful exit.

“And I don't like this scuba stuff,” continued Bill. “It's ridiculous, going in the water this time of year. . . .”

“They wear wet suits,” said Lucy.

“It's still dangerous,” said Bill. “And what do they wear under those wet suits? Where do they change?”

“I have no idea, Bill,” said Lucy, turning the meat into a pan and patting it into shape. “I think you're just being an overprotective father.” She slipped the meat loaf into the oven. “Look, I don't know this guy, but you've got to admit, he's probably better for Sara than that Seth Lesinski she was so hot on last spring. Remember him? The campus agitator and radical, the guy who got her arrested at a demonstration?”

“Oh, him,” snorted Bill, getting up and pulling a bottle of beer out of the fridge and unscrewing the cap.

“Have some faith in your daughter's good sense,” she urged, resolving to take her own advice.

“C'mon, Patrick,” said Bill, reaching for his cap. “Let's make sure the pumpkin security system is up and running.”

“The siren, too?” asked Patrick, hopping down from his chair.

“Absolutely,” agreed Bill. “We've got to make sure the siren works.”

Lucy sighed and got busy scrubbing some potatoes. She was putting them in the oven, beside the meat loaf, when she discovered that the siren on the security system was working just fine.

Chapter Six

T
hat evening, when Lucy had finished loading the dishwasher and was giving the kitchen counters a final wipe, the doorbell rang. When Lucy opened the door, she was surprised to encounter the bearded, smiling face of Seth Lesinski. He was dressed in the army jacket she remembered, and was holding a box of copy paper.

“Hi!” he said. “I'm dropping off some stuff for Sara.”

“Oh,” said Lucy. “She didn't say you were coming.” Lucy was wishing she hadn't spoken earlier; her confident claim that Sara was no longer involved with Seth had obviously jinxed the situation.

“Sorry, Mom,” said Sara, appearing in the kitchen. “I forgot.”

Lucy had her doubts about that, noticing Sara had swapped the baggy sweatshirt she had been wearing for a clingy sweater and was wearing fresh lipstick.

“No problem,” said Lucy. “Your friends are always welcome.”

“I'm not staying,” said Seth, indicating the box of copy paper. “These are just the posters for the Take Back the Night March, fresh from the copy shop.”

“Right,” said Sara with a dazzling smile. “I'll distribute them tomorrow.”

“What march is this?” asked Lucy, wondering if it was a possible story for the
Pennysaver.

“We do it every year, the first Sunday night after daylight savings ends and it's dark at four in the afternoon,” said Seth. “It's to raise awareness of violence against women.”

“Every year?” asked Lucy, wondering how she'd missed this annual event.

“On the campus, Mom,” said Sara. “It's just a college thing. At least it was. This year we're bringing it into town because of Mary Winslow.”

“The woman who was nearly killed by that TV guy?” asked Zoe, who had come downstairs, wondering who was at the door.

Lucy had followed the story, which had filled the newspapers for weeks. Mary Winslow's lover and attacker, popular cable news weatherman Brian Mitchell, had been accused of abusive behavior by several girlfriends but had always gotten off with a warning, despite the fact that the incidents had become increasingly violent. The attack on Mary Winslow hadn't been so easy to brush aside. For one thing, it had been particularly brutal, leaving her paralyzed and unable to use her legs, but perhaps the biggest factor in bringing the case to public attention was the fact that Mary's father was a powerful aide to the governor. Mitchell was now in jail, facing charges of attempted murder, and serious questions were also being asked as to how he had been able to avoid justice for so long.

“We want to draw attention to the fact that the cops and the courts are too lenient when it comes to violence against women,” said Seth.

“Especially if the perpetrator is popular and well connected,” added Sara, flipping her hair.

“We want to make sure that Mary Winslow gets justice,” said Seth.

“If you give me some more information, I can put it in the
Pennysaver,
” said Lucy. “Why don't you sit down and I'll get my notebook?”

“Good idea,” said Sara enthusiastically.

“Actually,” said Seth, glancing rather furtively at the regulator clock that hung on the wall, “I've got a, um, previous engagement. But, Sara, you can fill your mom in on the details, right?”

“Sure,” said Sara, smiling rather too brightly.

“See ya when I see ya,” said Seth, backing out the doorway.

“Yeah,” said Sara, opening the box and extracting a couple of posters.

“Okay,” said Lucy, sensing her daughter's disappointment at Seth's departure, but breathing a sigh of relief that he did not seem interested in Sara romantically. She sat down next to Sara and flipped open her notebook. “What's the story?” she asked.

“I bet he's taking Callie Obermeyer to the sea chantey concert tonight,” said Zoe, who was looking in the fridge for a snack.

“You just ate,” said Lucy in a disapproving tone. “Supper was less than an hour ago.”

“Why do you think he's dating Callie?” Sara asked Zoe.

“I saw them at Jake's the other day,” said Zoe, who had found a container of yogurt. “She had cappuccino, and he had regular coffee.”

“That's the last one, and I was planning on having it for breakfast,” said Lucy, plucking the pot of yogurt from Zoe's hand and replacing it in the fridge. “Have an apple.”

“I bet she got that froth on her lip and was licking it . . . ,” speculated Sara.

“Actually, he used his finger,” said Zoe, choosing an apple from the bowl on the counter. “And then he put that finger in his mouth.”

“Disgusting!” cried Sara.

“We were talking about the march . . . ,” prompted Lucy, bringing her daughter back to the matter at hand.

“All the information is on this poster,” began Sara.

“Tell me why it's important to you,” said Lucy, who needed more for a story.

“And not because you want Seth to notice you,” teased Zoe, biting into the apple.

“It's important to me,” said Sara, “because men are scum and they get away with everything!”

“Yeah, Mom,” said Zoe. “You always let Toby eat whatever he wanted.”

“I'm sure that's not true,” said Lucy, defending herself at the same time she wondered if her daughter was right. Had she treated Toby differently from the girls? Had she given him preferential treatment? “Anyway, boys are different. They need more food.”

“And they don't have to watch their figures,” said Sara. “How unfair is that?”

 

Saturday morning, Lucy was back at Miss Tilley's, finishing up Patrick's ninja costume. She was putting a zipper in the back, using the treadle sewing machine, which stitched along at a stately pace as she rocked her feet back and forth.

“This machine is fun to use and so good for your legs,” she said, pausing to snip the thread. “I used to be a little afraid of my electric one.”

“I remember a girl in my home ec class who sewed her hand,” said Rachel with a grimace. “Ouch.”

“Do they still have sewing and cooking classes in high school?” inquired Miss Tilley. “I remember boys used to have wood shop and girls got home economics.”

“Not so much,” said Lucy. “They have more choices now, so the academically challenged students end up taking classes like that and the college bound take advanced placement.”

“And they say there's no child left behind,” scoffed Rachel.

“Actually,” said Lucy, “Zoe's taking wood shop—it was the only class that fit into her schedule—and she's loving it. I think she's her father's daughter.”

“Good for her,” said Miss Tilley. “Are there many girls in the class?”

“I didn't think to ask,” admitted Lucy, checking that the zipper worked smoothly. “I guess we girls have come a long way.”

“I don't know,” said Rachel, who was watering the African violets that were flourishing on Miss Tilley's windowsill. “Take that Brian Mitchell. I used to enjoy watching him give the weather report, and all that time he was beating up his girlfriends and getting away with it.”

“A stormy personality,” said Miss Tilley, who was seated in her Boston rocker, with her beautiful Siamese cat, Cleopatra, on her lap.

“Sara and some other kids at Winchester College are holding a Take Back the Night March a week from Sunday,” said Lucy. “It's been an annual event at the college, but this year they're taking it to Main Street. It's going to be a candlelight vigil for Mary Winslow.”

“Good for them,” said Rachel. “I'll go.”

“Me, too,” said Miss Tilley, surprising her friends. “If you'll give me a strong arm to lean on.”

“Absolutely,” said Rachel.

“You can count on me, too,” said Lucy, snapping the last thread on the costume and giving it a shake. She laid the black costume out on the dining table and began folding it. “But the march will be tiring, and it might be chilly. Are you sure you want to risk catching cold?”

“Lucy, I'm surprised at you,” chided Miss Tilley. “You can't catch a cold from the cold.”

“I know,” said Lucy. “But if you get chilled and tired, it puts a strain on your immune system, doesn't it?”

“She's right,” said Rachel. “Remember how long it took you last winter to get over the flu?”

“Flu, shmoo,” scoffed Miss Tilley. “You may not realize it, but I was a feminist pioneer here in Tinker's Cove. I started one of the first women's liberation groups in the state, right here at the library, back in nineteen seventy-nine.”

“I had no idea,” said Lucy, impressed.

“I'm not surprised,” said Rachel. “You've always been a bit of a rebel.”

“And back then, we really made a difference. If this Mary Winslow had come to us, we could have got her away from that Brian Mitchell. We had safe houses, a whole underground system to help battered women escape from dangerous situations.”

“That would make a great story,” said Lucy.

“Sure,” said Miss Tilley with a shrug. “I remember one woman in particular. She was practically a prisoner in her own home, but we got her away.”

“Who was she? Can I interview her?” asked Lucy.

Miss Tilley shook her head, and Cleopatra leaped lightly off her lap, then stretched in a perfect cat's pose, one that the most lithe yogi could only hope to imitate. “We never heard from her again, but that was the way it worked. It was like the witness protection program. The woman had to cut off all ties in order to be safe. Otherwise, there was always the risk that the husband or boyfriend or father—whoever the abuser was—could track her down.”

“What happened to the group?” asked Rachel.

“Oh, you know how those things are,” said Miss Tilley, with a flap of her big, clawlike hand. “I think our little group was a victim of its own success. The members went back to school and got degrees and jobs, some of the very unhappy ones got divorces, a few moved away, and after a while nobody was coming to meetings anymore.”

Lucy nodded, seeing a parallel to her own life. When the kids were small and she was home caring for them, she had time for club meetings and volunteer jobs, like being a Cub Scout den mother. As they grew older, however, and she began to work outside the home as a reporter for the
Pennysaver,
she found she had less free time for such activities. All of a sudden the days were too short for everything she had to do, the shopping, cooking, cleaning, the chauffeuring, and the interviews, the writing, and the deadlines.

“I'm glad they're having the march,” said Rachel. “It's overdue.”

“Quite frankly, I think women are losing ground,” said Miss Tilley. “They're losing control of their own bodies.”

“I heard that in some states they're arresting women who have miscarriages, charging them with child endangerment or some such thing,” said Rachel.

“How can that be?” asked Lucy.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “It is something Bob told me. I guess the presumption is that the mother was taking drugs or drinking alcohol or misbehaving in some way that caused the miscarriage.”

“That's a scary thought,” said Lucy, thinking of her three daughters, who were all of childbearing age. She certainly didn't want them to become prisoners of their biology; she wanted them to have the freedom to determine their futures. “I guess I'm going to be marching, too.”

“But I'm not burning my bra,” said Miss Tilley with a wicked grin. “Those days are over.”

“Did you ever?” asked Lucy.

“Off the record, yes,” she said as the grandfather clock in the corner began to chime eleven o'clock.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Lucy, hopping up. “I'm late. I'm supposed to cover the opening of the Harvest Figure Display. Corney's going to kill me!”

Lucy stuffed the costume in her tote bag and grabbed her jacket off the hook. At the same time Rachel retrieved her handbag from the chair where it was resting and handed it to her. Then Lucy was out the door with a wave, dashing down Miss Tilley's steps, where a gray and blue salt-glazed crock held a gorgeous bronze chrysanthemum, and hopping into her car.

Fortunately, it was only a couple of blocks to the town common, the big, open space in the center of town, which had once been used by residents to pasture their cattle. Now it was a park, with a bandstand and a grassy lawn, dotted with bright yellow–leaved maple trees. Lucy arrived just as things were getting started, and found Corney Clark and several town officials gathered beneath a Giant Pumpkin Fest banner that was hanging from the bandstand. The town band played the last notes of “America the Beautiful,” and Corney stepped forward, microphone in hand.

“Thank you so much. That was our talented town band, led by Norm Philpott.”

A handful of citizens who had gathered for the event, mostly seniors and a few moms with small children, gave a little burst of applause.