Candy Corn Murder

Book 22: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Mystery

Synopsis

Lucy's getting very annoyed that her husband Bill and his friend Evan have been working seemingly nonstop on their potentially prize-winning pumpkin catapult. But when the day of the big contest arrives, Evan is nowhere to be found - until a catapulted pumpkin busts open the trunk of the Dodge. Amid the pumpkin gore is a very deceased Evan. Bill is on the hook for the Halloween homicide, so Lucy knows she's got some serious sleuthing to do. With each new lead pointing her in a different direction, Lucy sees that time is quickly running out. If she wants to spook the real killer, she'll have to step into an old ghost story...

Release date: August 25, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Halloween already? It seemed to Lucy Stone that summer was hardly over. Even the trees had only just begun to turn in these last sultry days of September. Well, she admitted to herself, a few maples had blazed into bright displays of yellow, but the hills around Tinker’s Cove, Maine, were still mostly green. Nevertheless, the cut-glass canister full of candy corn that had appeared in Country Cousins, the coastal town’s general store, was a sure predictor of the coming holiday. The canister appeared every year, and shoppers were invited to guess how many pieces of candy corn it contained. The winner got a $250.00 gift certificate.

“Can I have some candy, Nana?” Lucy smiled down at her grandson, who was standing in front of the penny candy display, gazing longingly at the jars full of colorful treats. Patrick was four years old, and Lucy was taking care of him while his parents were overseas, in Haiti. Lucy’s son, Toby, who was pursuing a business degree, had received a fellowship to study fish farming there.

“But Haiti?” she’d asked when he announced the project. “Isn’t that awfully dangerous?”

“It’s a terrific opportunity,” Toby had replied.

Lucy had turned to Molly, her daughter-in-law. “Are you in favor of this?” she asked.

“Toby’s right. It would be a shame to pass it up.”

Lucy thought of the photos she’d seen of the slums in Haiti, the ramshackle structures that served as homes, and the faces of sick and hungry children, often with flies crawling on their skin. “But what about Patrick? You’re certainly not planning to take him to Haiti, are you?”

“That’s where you come in,” said Toby. “We’re hoping Patrick can stay with you and Dad while we’re gone.”

Lucy didn’t hesitate, not for one fleeting nanosecond. “Of course! I’d be delighted!” She adored Patrick, her only grandchild, and treasured every moment spent with him.

“We’ll be gone for about four months,” said Molly.

“Not a problem,” said Lucy, unable to restrain herself from smiling. Four months of bliss baking chocolate chip cookies together, popping corn and watching animated DVDs, and reading favorite children’s books, like Make Way for Ducklings and Blueberries for Sal.

Molly and Toby shared a glance. “We know how much you love Patrick . . . ,” began Toby.

“But you do tend to spoil him,” said Molly.

“Which is understandable, and fine, if it’s only for a few hours,” said Toby.

“But he can’t have unlimited sweets and TV and McDonald’s for four months,” warned Molly.

“I wouldn’t dream of . . . ,” began Lucy, sputtering. “I raised Toby, you know, and I think he would agree that Bill and I were rather strict parents.”

“That’s true,” agreed Toby as a smile crept across his face. “You were strict parents, but you two are not strict grandparents.”

“He can’t have sweets—absolutely no candy, no sugary drinks, and no ice cream,” began Molly.

Lucy wanted to protest that a wee bit of sugar and carbonation never hurt anyone and that ice cream was made from calcium-rich milk, but bit her tongue.

“No TV except for an hour or two on the weekend,” continued Molly. “And no fast food, ever.”

“Lots of fruits and vegetables . . . ,” said Toby.

“But no fruit juice—it’s full of sugar!” cautioned Molly. “And only fat-free milk.”

“And he needs plenty of exercise,” advised Toby.

“That will be Bill’s department,” said Lucy. “He’ll love tossing a football with Patrick.”

Molly’s eyebrows shot up. “No TV sports. I don’t want him sitting on a couch for hours, watching grown men in helmets brutally attacking each other.”

“But Bill loves the Patriots,” said Lucy, wishing she could suck the words right back into her mouth.

“Dad could watch at a friend’s house, right?” suggested Toby.

“Sure,” said Lucy, knowing full well that was not going to happen. On Sunday afternoons Bill liked to be close to his own TV and beer fridge. “So when do we start?” she asked.

Now, almost three weeks had passed since Patrick made the move from nearby Prudence Path to Bill and Lucy’s old farmhouse on Red Top Road, bringing a big suitcase of small size-four clothes and his favorite stuffed toy, Jack the Jaguar. She and Bill had made a real effort to stick to the routines that Toby and Molly had established, and Patrick had slipped easily into the household, pleased to be sleeping in his father’s old room, with its antique spool bed and faded Star Wars posters.

“Nana?” Patrick tugged at her arm. “Can I please have some candy?”

Lucy looked at the tempting display of treats, penny candy in name only. Nowadays each sugary piece, even a tiny little Tootsie Roll, cost at least twenty cents, sometimes more. Her glance traveled toward the counter, landing on a jar of pretzel rods, also twenty cents apiece. Surely Molly couldn’t object to a pretzel or two?

“Let’s get a pretzel,” she suggested, leading Patrick away from the candy and handing him one of the salty sticks. “And while we’re here, let’s enter the contest. How many pieces of candy corn do you think are in the jar?”

“A million,” said Patrick, biting the pretzel.

“Okay, I think that’s a bit high, but we’ll go for it. Can you write a one and six zeros?”

Lucy helped Patrick fill out the entry form, enjoying the quaint atmosphere of the country store while he laboriously drew all six zeros with a stubby pencil clasped in his plump little fingers. Country Cousins had managed to maintain the appearance of an old-fashioned general store that stocked everything anybody could possibly need, if anybody happened to be living in 1900. It was masterfully done, thought Lucy, and if you were a tourist buying a half pound of cheddar, which had to be cut with a wire from a giant wheel of cheese, you’d never guess that the true heart of Country Cousins was a massive complex of steel buildings on a back road behind Jonah’s Pond. Despite its size, Country Cousins was still a family business owned by the Millers, who had craftily taken advantage of the Internet boom to transform a regional catalog retailer into an international merchandising giant.

Patrick put down his pencil and picked up the remains of his pretzel.

“Good job,” said Lucy, folding the entry and giving it to him to stuff into the box. “This means Halloween is coming,” she said, taking Patrick’s hand. “Do you know what you want to be?”

Patrick certainly did. “A ninja,” he said.

“A ninja. Good idea,” said Lucy, noticing the rack of costumes in the corner, which featured plenty of ninjas, as well as princesses, mermaids, and superheroes. Whatever happened to pirates and gypsies? she wondered as she reached for the brass doorknob, with its elaborate design almost worn away by generations of customers’ hands.

Stepping outside, Lucy noticed a woman walking past with shocking orange hair that blazed in the sunshine. This was not a salon dye job, unless it had gone horribly wrong. It was one of those garish colors you sometimes saw on teens. But this woman wasn’t a teenager, not unless teens had suddenly decided to adopt tailored beige business clothes.

“Look at that lady!” exclaimed Patrick in his piercing childish voice, and Lucy quickly changed the subject.

“Why do you want to be a ninja?” she asked, leading him to the car, which was parked just a short distance down the street.

Hearing Lucy’s voice, the woman suddenly turned, doing an about-face, and walked directly toward them. Lucy was quite surprised to recognize her friend Corney Clark and wondered why she’d exchanged her expensive blond highlights for this bright orange.

“Hi, Lucy!” exclaimed Corney. “Fine day, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” said Lucy, unable to pull her eyes away from Corney’s hairdo, and desperately hoping Patrick wouldn’t say anything about it.

But Patrick piped right up. “Why is your hair orange?” he asked.

“Patrick! Apologize right this minute. It’s not polite to comment on a person’s appearance.”

“Never mind, Lucy,” said Corney, smiling at Patrick. “I want people to notice my hair. That’s why I dyed it.”

“It’s that spray stuff you can wash out, isn’t it?” asked Lucy, noticing that Corney’s carefully applied lipstick exactly matched her hair color.

“I sure hope so,” said Corney, who was an attractive woman well into her forties and was always perfectly coiffed and conservatively dressed. “I don’t want to be stuck like this. It’s a publicity stunt for the Giant Pumpkin Fest. I’m in charge, and I want to get folks excited about the big weekend. Halloween is big business, you know, second only to Christmas, and Tinker’s Cove has been missing out because we haven’t had any sort of fall festival to attract shoulder-season tourists to our town.”

“I think everybody’s excited,” said Lucy. “I see the banners up everywhere.”

It was true. All the stores on Main Street were flying colorful banners picturing plump pumpkins and announcing the festival.

“Sticking up a flag is one thing,” grumbled Corney, “but actually committing to taking on any responsibility is something else.”

“Isn’t the business community cooperating?” asked Lucy, resisting Patrick’s tug on her hand. She was a reporter for the local newspaper, the Pennysaver, and sensed a possible story.

“Not as much as I’d like,” said Corney, with a sigh. “Of course they’re all busy with their own problems. It’s not easy being in business these days.” She paused. “The truth is, I may have underestimated how much time the festival would take and overextended myself just a bit.”

“Take a deep breath . . . ,” advised Lucy as Patrick gave her arm another yank. It was time she got a move on. Patrick was surely bored by this grown-up conversation and most certainly hungry, as it was almost time for lunch.

“No time for deep breathing,” laughed Corney. “Actually, you could help.”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry, but I’ve got plenty on my hands these days, what with Mr. Impatient here.”

“Let’s see how many times you can hop on one foot, Patrick,” suggested Corney.

Patrick thought that was a great idea, and began hopping, still hanging on to Lucy’s arm, of course.

“What I have in mind,” began Corney, “is a story for the newspaper about the new leadership at Country Cousins. That’s my other job, you know. Buck Miller . . . Well, you knew him as little Sam Miller, but now he’s come back. He’s all grown up now, with a new name and a brand-new degree from the London School of Economics, and he’s the VP in charge of marketing. He’s got big plans for the company, and I think it would make a great story for the Pennysaver. Kind of a modern prodigal son, something like that.”

“He wasn’t much older than Patrick when he left Tinker’s Cove, was he?” asked Lucy, noticing that Patrick had got to nine hops.

“That’s right. He left with his mother after all that. . . .”

“Not really a G-rated topic,” warned Lucy, indicating Patrick. He was now up to twelve hops, and her arm was beginning to ache.

“Oh, right,” said Corney. “Well, you were around then. You know what happened. It’s not surprising that his mother didn’t want to stick around. She made a new life in Europe. She even started calling little Sam by his middle name, Buckingham. I don’t think she wanted to be reminded of her husband every time she called her little boy by name.”

“Marcia did what she thought best,” said Lucy. “But all that was a long time ago.”

“And now Buck is back, and the family is grooming him to take over. He’s a great guy. He’ll make a great story.” She smiled. “And he’s very photogenic.”

Lucy chuckled, knowing that Corney had a keen appreciation for handsome young men, and ruffled Patrick’s hair. He had finally stopped hopping and was leaning against her. “I’ll run it by Ted,” she said, naming her boss at the Pennysaver, Ted Stillings. “But now we have to get home for some mac and cheese.”

Patrick was a big fan of mac and cheese, so he clambered eagerly into the car and climbed into his booster seat, barely squirming while Lucy strapped him in. Raffi was singing about a baby beluga and Lucy’s mind was wandering as she drove the familiar route to Red Top Road and home. She appreciated the logic behind the Giant Pumpkin Fest. She really did. It was a smart plan to lure tourists to town, where they would presumably spend money, boosting the town’s economy. That was all well and good, but she really didn’t approve of some of the planned activities, which seemed silly in the extreme.

It was one thing, she thought, to have a giant pumpkin–growing contest, but quite another to encourage people to transform their giant pumpkins into extremely unstable watercraft for a foolish and dangerous race across the cove. And worst of all, she thought, turning into her driveway and spying the enormous wooden structure that was taking shape in her backyard, was the pumpkin hurl, featuring homemade catapults.

She really couldn’t understand why her husband thought he had to compete in this ridiculous contest to see whose machine could toss a pumpkin the farthest. To her mind, it was a senseless waste of time, energy, and money, since lumber certainly didn’t come cheap these days.

He never would have gotten involved, she thought, if he hadn’t fallen under the influence of Evan Wickes. Ev was a great guy. Everybody said so. He was ready for any challenge. Any challenge except taking a shower, thought Lucy. It was Ev who had convinced Bill to build the catapult and enter the contest, and it was Ev who was always around the house, making frequent trips to the beer fridge. “Can’t run on empty,” he’d say, tracking mud and dried leaves and bits of grass through the kitchen. “Man or machine, you gotta have gas if you wanna keep on keeping on.”

Privately, Lucy wished Ev would keep on going, taking his smelly self out of the house and out of their lives. But Bill was having a great time building the catapult and was convinced he and Ev would win the pumpkin-hurling contest. “Of course, it’s not really just about winning,” he had told her as he unloaded yet another expensive wood beam from his pickup truck. “It’s about the process, taking on the challenge and working to build something. . . .” Here he had paused, looking for just the right word, and had grinned broadly when he found it. “Something absolutely freaking fantastic!”

Next morning, the scent of Bill’s breakfast bacon was still lingering in the kitchen when Lucy went looking for her husband. A glance out the window revealed that his truck was still in the drive, so he hadn’t left yet, but he certainly wasn’t in the house. His egg-smeared plate and the pan he’d cooked it in were on the kitchen counter, so she slipped them in the dishwasher before stepping outside and onto the porch.

It was funny how people thought September was the beginning of fall, she thought, when it was really the tail end of summer. She always felt badly for the kids whose moms sent them off dressed in back-to-school sweaters and jeans on the first day of school; she knew from experience as a parent volunteer that the classrooms that faced south in Tinker’s Cove Elementary School became solar ovens in June and September due to their large windows. Today was no exception. The sun was bright, even though it was lower in the sky, and it looked to be a scorcher. The only hint that summer had truly ended was the lengthening shadows cast by the trees.

And there was Bill, as she’d suspected, out in the garden, checking on his giant pumpkin, Priscilla. He was on his knees, measuring her girth with a carpenter’s tape, rather like an anxious midwife checking a pregnant woman’s progress.

“How’s she doing?” she asked, crossing the patch of grass they called the lawn, now scorched and brown.

“She’s grown four more inches,” he said with a grin, letting the flexible steel tape reroll with a snap. He stood up, and even after twenty-plus years of marriage, Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. He was still the handsome guy she fell in love with in college, tall and lean, but now his beard was touched with gray.

“That’s good, right?” asked Lucy. “How much do you think she weighs?”

“A lot,” said Bill. “But it’s hard to tell. Hundreds of pounds, anyway.”

“What’s the record?”

“I think the biggest so far was well over two thousand pounds.” He cast a critical eye on Priscilla. “I don’t think our girl’s in that category, but I’m only guessing. We’ve got over four more weeks before the weigh in.”

“And to think, last May she was just a little sprout.” Lucy remembered the day the pumpkin seedlings were distributed at the local nursery. Back then each tiny peat pot contained little more than a swollen seed with a few roots and a couple of baby leaves on an arched stem.

“It’s the horse manure,” said Bill. “Every time I topdress her, she goes on a growth spurt.”

“Is it time for more?” asked Lucy.

Bill shook his head. “I can’t get any. I’ve been calling all over, and nobody’s got any.”

“It’s in high demand,” said Lucy. “Everyone who’s growing a giant pumpkin wants the stuff.”

“That’s just about everybody in town,” said Bill.

Lucy knew that was true. The entire population of Tinker’s Cove had turned out for the seedling giveaway, and almost everyone was planning to enter at least one of the Giant Pumpkin Fest events. It seemed there was no end to the uses for giant pumpkins. There was the pumpkin weigh in for the biggest pumpkins, and the pumpkin boat regatta, and the pumpkin-decorating contest. Smaller pumpkins could be included in the display of pumpkin people on the town green, and the weirdly misshapen and stunted ones would be smashed to bits in the catapult hurl.

“Nana!” Lucy looked up and saw Patrick, still in his Power Rangers pajamas, standing on the porch. “I want breakfast!”

“I’m coming,” she said, heading back to the house.

When she got to the kitchen, she found her youngest daughter, Zoe, sitting at the round golden oak table with Patrick. Zoe, now in high school, was working on a container of yogurt and had given Patrick a bowl of Cheerios.

“Do you want a banana with your cereal?” Lucy asked, but Patrick shook his head no.

“I’ll take one, if you’re giving them out,” said Sara, who was coming down the back stairway. “I’ve got to eat on the run.” Sara was a sophomore at nearby Winchester College and was suffering this semester with an eight o’clock class, which was required for her major. Today she was rather dressed up and. . .