Halloween Murder

Book 0: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Holiday books; Amateur Sleuth; Mystery Anthologies & Collections; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Fall & winter reads

Synopsis

In these two beloved mysteries now collected in one volume for the very first time, Lucy Stone finds that on Halloween in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, the treats aren’t just sweet and delicious. Sometimes they’re also deadly. Trick or Treat Murder While Lucy Stone is whipping up orange-frosted cupcakes for her town’s annual Halloween festival, an arsonist is on the loose in Tinker’s Cove. When arson turns into murder, a little digging in all the wrong places puts Lucy too close to a shocking discovery that could send all her best-laid plans up in smoke . . . Wicked Witch Murder Not everyone in Tinker’s Cove is enchanted with newcomer Diana Ravenscroft and her quaint little shop offering everything from jewelry to psychic readings. But a gruesome murder of Diana’s friend has Lucy Stone uncovering a deadly web of secrets—and a spine-chilling brush with the things that go bump in the night . . . “Reading a new Leslie Meier mystery is like catching up with a dear old friend.” —Kate Carlisle, New York Times bestselling author

Release date: August 27, 2019

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 432

Sample

“I could just kill him.”

Monica Mayes pressed the gas pedal of her little BMW to the floor and zoomed around a pokey Dodge Caravan, cutting it a bit too close as she pulled back into her lane. The driver of the Caravan braked, and the van swerved, but Monica didn’t notice.

“How could he do this to me?” she asked herself, pulling out the cigarette lighter. With a trembling hand she held it to the end of a Virginia Slim and took a long, slow draw. No longer used to the smoke since she hadn’t had a cigarette in years, she coughed.

“He’s not worth it,” she decided, tossing the cigarette out the window. She was damned if she was going to sacrifice her health for him. He’d gotten enough from her already. Thirty-two years of marriage, three grown children.

Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t believe how much it hurt, actual physical pain. Her chest ached with every breath; she could hardly swallow. He’d never laid a finger on her, but she felt bruised and beaten anyway.

She hadn’t seen that final blow coming. If she had she might have taken care to avoid it. But she’d never suspected a thing.

She’d left the house at a quarter to one for her weekly shift at the Hospital Auxiliary thrift shop. Realizing she’d forgotten a couple of Roland’s old suits that she’d planned to donate, she returned home. She’d hurried upstairs, thrown open the bedroom door, and was halfway across the room before she even saw them.

Roland and Krissy, her aerobics instructor. Her aerobics instructor, for God’s sake! And in her own bed—their marriage bed.

“How could he do that?” she asked herself. He was such a bastard. Why hadn’t she realized it sooner? She’d just gotten used to it. She gave and he took. That’s the way it was. Her job was to please him. She cooked for him. She cleaned for him. She washed and ironed for him. She entertained for him, and decorated the house for him. She dressed for him, and dieted, and even took aerobics for him.

She’d been a fool. She’d thought their marriage was as important to him as it was to her. Him. The doctor. The head honcho. The chief of staff.

Angry now, she impatiently brushed the tears from her cheeks. She’d show him, she decided. She’d hit him where it hurt. He wasn’t going to get off scot-free. He’d have to pay. She began making a mental list as she flew along the turnpike, empty on this weekday night now that the tourist season was over.

First of all, she wanted the house in Tinker’s Cove, and all the furniture. She’d need her car, of course, and money. A nice little nest egg, plus a big fat alimony check every month. It was her due. She’d earned it. She wasn’t going to settle for less.

Was that her exit already? Braking hard she careened off the highway, almost losing control of the car on the tight curve of the exit ramp. Shaken, she pulled to a stop at the intersection and paused, taking a few deep breaths. Then she proceeded, carefully turning onto Route One and was soon driving down Main Street, surprised to find it empty. Of course, she reminded herself. Until now, she had only been here in the summer, when the town was full of tourists and summer residents. Now it was fall. Darkness came much earlier, and the only signs of life were the lighted windows of the houses.

She stopped at the blinker and turned left, then left again onto Hopkins Homestead Road. The road was named for her house. Hopkins Homestead, the oldest house in Tinker’s Cove.

She took one last turn onto the familiar dirt driveway and parked the car neatly in the vine-covered carport behind the wood shed.

Her key turned easily in the lock and the heavy pine door swung open. She eagerly inhaled the spicy, old wood smell of the house.

Ignoring her reflection in the spotted glass of the hall mirror, she stepped into the tiny parlor and switched on a lamp.

It was just as she remembered. Bare, wide plank floors, a camelback sofa, a scarred old sea chest serving as a coffee table. There were no curtains on the windows; Monica loved the way the garden became an Impressionist landscape when viewed through the wavy old glass. Anyone passing the house could have looked in and seen her, but no one did.

She went into the next room, the dining room. A collection of Currier and Ives lithographs hung on the wall, and a pine drop leaf table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by six yellow painted chairs. The chairs were the first purchase she’d made for the old house, hesitantly raising her hand at a country auction. “Sold,” announced the auctioneer, bringing down his gavel. The bidding was over almost before it had begun. Soon she’d become a regular, rescuing fine antiques from the greedy dealers who stripped off the original finishes and slapped on high prices, taking advantage of ignorant buyers.

Passing through the kitchen, she stepped up into the homing room. Here, close to the warm kitchen hearth, was where the first inhabitants of the house had given birth, nursed the sick, and died. This was where she had put her most prized possession, the curly maple sleigh bed.

Monica pulled back the blue and white handwoven coverlet and found crisp, white sheets. So, she had left the bed made after all. She paid a quick visit to the bathroom, grateful she’d decided to put off closing the house and draining the pipes. Why had she done that? Had she known on some subconscious level that she would need the house? Shivering, she checked the thermostat and raised it to sixty-eight.

Then she pulled off her shoes, slipped off her slacks, and climbed into the bed, pulling the covers around her shoulders. Involuntarily, she let out a long, shuddering sigh.

She was so tired. Here was where she would rest, lick her wounds, and gather her strength. The house was old; it had endured centuries of nor’east storms, winter blizzards, summer heat waves, and decades of neglect. She had restored it and brought it back to life. Now, it was the old homestead’s turn to shelter and protect her. She felt safe here. She reached up and turned off the light. She slept.

“This place is a firetrap. It ought to be torn down.” Sue Finch bit neatly into a crisp apple, closed her eyes, and raised her face to the warm October sun while she chewed. She was sitting on the ramshackle porch of the Ezekiel Hallett house, once the grandest mansion in Tinker’s Cove. Now, it was little more than a decaying pile of tinder.

“How can you say that?” asked her companion, Lucy Stone. She thought of the fantastic tower rising above their heads, the mansard roof, and the fanciful urns that perched on every corner. “It’s a fabulous example of Victorian seaside architecture. It ought to be restored.”

Lucy spoke softly. She didn’t want to disturb six-week-old baby Zoe, who was asleep in the red corduroy baby carrier she wore strapped to her chest.

“As what? It’s much too big for a family.”

“It could be a restaurant, or an inn. Just look at this view.”

From where they sat on the porch the two women could see the little town of Tinker’s Cove spread out before them. Low, rocky hills sheltered the harbor where a few Cape Island boats bobbed at anchor off the fish pier. The water was a deep blue today, and the tree covered hills wore their fall colors of red and gold.

“Think of the heating bills,” said Sue, pulling her sweater off over her head and shaking out her hair.

“That’s new, isn’t it?” asked Lucy. “Where’d you get it?”

“At the Carriage Trade,” said Sue, naming an expensive specialty shop. “Twenty bucks. Last spring.”

“Some people have all the luck,” grumbled Lucy. “When I go there all I find is real expensive stuff that I don’t have any place to wear. Even if I did find something on sale, I wouldn’t know what size to buy. I can’t seem to get rid of these extra baby pounds.”

“There’s a new aerobics studio opening across from the Laundromat. If we weren’t so lazy we’d sign up for something. What’s the latest? The step, the slide?” said Sue, yawning.

There was a pause in the conversation. The bright sunshine and fresh air, combined with a hearty lunch, was making the women drowsy.

“Are you making Halloween costumes for the kids?” asked Sue.

“No way. Toby’s going to wear his werewolf mask and hairy hand gloves from last year. The girls are going as ballerinas—in the tutus they wore in the show last spring.”

“They’ll freeze,” warned Sue.

“I’m having them wear pink tights and turtlenecks underneath. They won’t be out too long.”

“Is there a party at the church, or the youth center? Something to keep them out of trouble?”

“Not that I know of,” said Lucy. “I wish there was. I don’t even like them trick-or-treating. You always hear about some maniac who poisoned the candy or put razor blades in the apples. Toby won’t go with me and the girls—he wants to go out with his friends. I hope they don’t come here. A place like this is a real magnet for kids. Especially on Halloween. Think what could happen if they played with matches, or experimented with cigarettes. It wouldn’t take much to burn this place down.”

“Like the Hopkins Homestead,” said Sue.

“Bill was awfully upset when he heard the news on the radio this morning. That house was his first big project.”

Lucy’s husband, Bill Stone, was a restoration carpenter.

“That’s too bad.” Sue was sympathetic. “They said it burned to the ground.”

“It did. I drove by on my way to your house. Nothing’s left but the chimney. I’m worried Bill’s going to take it hard. He really put his heart and soul into that place.”

“Is there insurance? Do you think they’ll rebuild?” Sue was practical.

“I don’t know. Bill tried to call the owners, but there wasn’t any answer. He wanted to tell Monica himself, before she heard it on the news or something.”

“Her husband’s a doctor, right?”

“Yeah. They live near Boston. The house was really her project. Bill said she was the perfect client. Lots of money, and good taste, too.”

“A rare combination,” said Sue.

Lucy smiled. Zoe was shifting around in the baby carrier and it felt a bit like being pregnant again. She got up on her feet and walked back and forth on the porch, hoping to lull the baby back to sleep.

“Doesn’t it seem like we’re having an awful lot of fires lately?” she asked, leaning against a post.

“Well, yeah, now that you mention it. There was the old movie theater just after the Fourth of July. lt was damaged, but they were able to save it. Winchester College is going to renovate it, turn it into a performing arts center.”

“Then there was that barn out on Bumps River Road,” said Lucy, sitting down Indian fashion and undoing the carrier straps so Zoe could nurse. “When was that?”

“Mid-August. I remember because I was getting Sidra ready to go back to school.” Sue’s oldest daughter was a sophomore at Bowdoin.

“Who did that belong to?”

“Nobody. It was listed ‘owner unknown’ in the tax files.”

“And now the Hopkins Homestead.”

“Don’t forget that fire at the old powder house. They caught it before it did much damage.”

“Right.” Lucy nodded. The powder house, a tiny relic of the Revolutionary War, stood in Brooks Park. “It’s kind of suspicious, isn’t it? All these fires?”

“Not really. They were all old buildings, but old buildings are more likely to burn. The wood gets dry.” Sue picked off a bit of shingle and it crumbled to dust in her hand. “I’ll bet this place is next. Want to take a look inside before it’s gone?”

“Can we? Isn’t it locked up?”

“I know how to get in.” Sue grinned mischievously.

“Okay,” said Lucy. “Zoe doesn’t seem very hungry.” Standing up she rearranged her clothes and refastened the baby carrier. “I’m game if you are.”

Hopping off the porch, Sue led the way around to the back of the mansion. Pushing aside some overgrown bushes she revealed a flight of stone steps.

“This is the kitchen entrance. We wouldn’t want tradesmen muddying up the front hall.”

“Of course not,” agreed Lucy, watching closely as Sue pulled off a loose board and opened the door. “You’re pretty good at this. How long have you been breaking and entering?”

“Practically my whole life. When I was in high school we used to sneak in here to smoke cigarettes and drink beer.”

“I’m shocked,” said Lucy, following her friend into the darkness. Zoe’s eyes, peeking out over the corduroy carrier, were very large and round.

“This is the kitchen,” said Sue, in her best real estate lady voice. “Very roomy.”

“It’s enormous,” said Lucy, glancing around at the cavernous, dungeonlike room.

“All the latest in modern appliances,” said Sue, waving her arm. “The stove.” She pointed to a rusting hulk in one corner. “The dishwasher.” Sue indicated a soapstone sink complete with hand pump. “The refrigerator!” Throwing open a pantry door, she sent a startled mouse scurrying for shelter.

“Yuck. Can we go upstairs?”

“This way, madam.”

Sue led the way up a flight of surprisingly sturdy wooden steps and opened the door to the dining room. Lucy blinked at the brightness; dusty sunlight streamed through the filthy windows. Long brown ribbons of wallpaper were peeling from the walls, and the carcasses of dead flies crunched under their feet.

“The dining room needs a bit of freshening up,” conceded Sue. “The living room is this way, through the hall.”

Stepping into the hallway, Lucy paused and let her gaze follow the long curving staircase upward. Long ago the house must have been lovely, and beautiful young ladies in long gowns would have descended these stairs to greet the handsome beaux who waited for them below.

“I see this old place is casting a spell on you,” said Sue. “Would you like to see the ballroom?”

“Ballroom?”

“I kid you not.” Sue tugged at a pair of warped French doors and finally succeeded in opening them. She bowed with a little flourish as Lucy entered the room.

It was a long, rectangular room with three sets of French doors along one side. There was a magnificent, ornate marble fireplace at one end and a balcony for musicians at the other. Facing the French doors there was a wall of matching mirrors, now spotty and dusty. The panels between the doors were decorated with carved wood shaped into lavish bouquets of flowers. Gilt sconces, long since robbed of their crystals, lined the walls.

“Sue, how can you say you want to see all this demolished?” asked Lucy. “It’s fabulous.”

“It could be, if somebody had hundreds of thousands of dollars to spend fixing it up. But that’s not going to happen. It’s been empty for a zillion years, falling apart bit by bit. A rock through a window here, a piece of paneling ripped out there, it’s like the death of a thousand cuts. I’m all for a swift mercy killing.”

“You really care about this old place.”

“They just don’t build ’em like this anymore. Hey, I want to show you something.”

Returning to the hallway, Sue opened another oak-paneled door and revealed a tiny cabinlike room, barely ten feet square.

“This is the house Ezekiel Hallett was born in. When he got rich he built the mansion right around his boyhood home. They say he used to come here to get away from his social-climbing wife and daughters.”

Lucy examined the rough-sawn plank walls, the packed dirt floor, and the crude hearth.

“This was the entire house?”

“Yup. He was one of seven or eight kids. There’s a sleeping loft overhead.”

“From this to that,” said Lucy, trying to imagine raising a family in such cramped quarters. “It’s incredible.”

“He did it the hard way—selling guano.”

“What is guano, anyway?” asked Lucy, heading for the door. She found the tiny, windowless room claustrophobic. “I’m gonna go out on the porch. I need some air.”

“Okay,” said Sue. “I’ll lock the door behind you and backtrack through the house.”

“I forgot. We didn’t come in through the front door, did we?”

Lucy stepped outside and busied herself gathering the picnic things. She was struggling to her feet when Sue reappeared.

“You know, Lucy, it might be kind of fun to try out that gym,” she suggested.

“I think I’m past help. Besides, I don’t have any energy to spare.”

“They say working out gives you energy, though I don’t quite see how,” admitted Sue. “I’ll give them a call. See if they’ve got a good deal.”

“Don’t forget to ask if they have child care,” said Lucy, opening the car door and beginning the process of transferring Zoe from the baby carrier to the car seat.

“I’ll call,” said Sue, hopping into her little sports car and starting the engine.

Lucy watched as she zoomed down the dirt driveway, disappearing in a swirl of dust. Finally clicking the last strap in place, she looked down at the baby. “Do you think I’m too fat?” she asked.

Zoe folded her hands across her chest, and closed her eyes. She was as inscrutable as a little Buddha.

“Okay, be like that,” said Lucy, settling herself behind the steering wheel and turning the key in the ignition.

Ted Stillings, editor-in-chief, reporter, photographer, and publisher of The Pennysaver, parked his aging subcompact in front of the Hopkins Homestead and climbed out.

“Whew,” he said, shaking his head. He’d covered a lot of fires in his career, but never one this bad. There was literally nothing left of the house. The massive chimney, now black with soot and surrounded by a mound of charred rubble, was all that remained.

A yellow plastic ribbon encircled the site, and a few curious onlookers stood politely behind it. Inside the cordon, Fire Chief Stan Pulaski stood chatting with Police Chief Oswald Crowley. Ted lifted the yellow ribbon, ducked under it, and approached them.

“Hey, you! Stay behind that line,” ordered Crowley. He knew perfectly well who Ted was, but enjoyed being as obnoxious as possible.

“Cut it out, Crowley,” yelled Ted. “I need some information.”

“You think writing that paper of yours gives you special privileges or something?” Crowley narrowed his eyes, and picked at his yellow teeth with his fingernail.

“People want to know what happened and I want to tell them,” said Ted, turning to face Pulaski. “So, Chief, what’s the story?”

“I haven’t finished the report yet,” he answered affably. “Soon as I do you can pick up a copy at the station.”

“Thanks.” Ted surveyed the scene. “Mind if I take a few pictures?”

“I guess that’ll be all right. Stay clear of the debris, okay?”

“Sure.”

Ted walked off a short way and pulled his camera out of the worn bag that hung from his shoulder. He busied himself screwing on a lens and adjusting the exposure while keeping one ear cocked. He wasn’t above a little discreet eavesdropping.

“Damn reporters,” he heard Crowley mutter.

“Better get used to it,” advised Pulaski. “This is gonna be a big story, soon as somebody figures out we’ve had four fires in four months.”

Ted looked through the viewfinder and stepped a little closer to the two chiefs.

“He’s late.” Crowley consulted his watch. “Girl in his office said he’d be here at nine.”

“Here he is,” announced Pulaski, nodding as an official blue van pulled into the driveway. Neat white letters on the side and back read FIRE MARSHAL.

Ted whistled softly to himself, pulled out his notebook, and joined the two chiefs in greeting the newcomer.

“Mike Rogers, assistant fire marshal,” he said with a grin, extending his hand. Rogers was a friendly fellow.

“Ted Stillings, Pennysaver Press,” said Ted, shouldering his way between Crowley and Pulaski and grasping his hand. “Have you got Sparky with you?” Ted knew all about Sparky, the accelerant-sniffing dog, from the frequent press releases issued by the state fire marshal’s office.

“Sure do. He’s right here.”

Rogers opened the back door of the van and released the dog, a youthful black Labrador, from his portable wire kennel. Sparky gave an enormous yawn, stretched, shook himself, and waited patiently while his leash was fastened. Then, walking smartly beside his handler, he went to work.

“This dog’s been trained to identify more than a hundred different accelerants?” asked Ted, pointedly ignoring Crowley’s disapproving glare.

“That’s right. He went to a special school in Michigan. I went, too. We work as a team.”

“Is that right?” asked Ted, scribbling away in his notebook. “Where does Sparky live?”

“He lives with me. He’s part of the family. When I go to work, he goes, too.”

“Is he a good pet?”

“He’s great. My kids love him,” said Rogers, pausing at the edge of the debris and scratching the dog’s neck. “Okay, the way we do this is we sweep the site in a systematic way, working from the outside in. Don’t follow me, Ted. There may be hot spots and I don’t want to disturb any evidence.”

“So what made you call in the fire marshal, Chief?” Ted threw out the question in a deliberately offhand manner as he peered through the viewfinder. “Is there something suspicious about this fire?”

Crowley and Pulaski exchanged glances.

“It was a very fast, very hot fire. The house was completely engaged in a matter of minutes. That doesn’t happen unless there are multiple points of origin.” Pulaski took off his peaked cap and wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.

“You mean arson?”

“Maybe.”

“Crowley, have you got any suspects?” There was a slight challenge in Ted’s tone.

“No comment.” Crowley’s attention was on the dog, who had assumed a classic pointing position. “There?” he called.

“Yup,” said Rogers, squatting down and opening a toolbox. As they watched he took a sample of the burned material and carefully placed it in a jar.

Sparky indicated the presence of accelerant in three more locations along what had been the outside wall of the house. Once he began investigating the inside, however, he didn’t seem to find anything. The man and the dog worked slowly, stepping gingerly among the blackened boards and other charred remains. Ted had plenty of time to get some dramatic photos of Sparky in action.

Rogers spoke softly to the dog, encouraging him and keeping his mind on his task. They had reached the far side of the house, behind the chimney, when the dog began whining and scratching frantically at the rubble.

“What’s he found?” shouted Pulaski, hurrying over. “More accelerant?”

“No.” Rogers shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve got some human remains here.”

“A body?” Crowley was doubtful. “This is just a summer place. Nobody’s here after Labor Day.”

“He only does this when he finds a body,” said Rogers. He glanced at the dog who was standing rigid and shivering.

“There is no body here,” insisted Crowley. “I don’t see a body. There’s nothing but ashes.”

“It was a hot fire,” Rogers reminded him. “There’s probably teeth, bone fragments, maybe even jewelry. I’ll have to call in specialists from the medical examiner’s office. Meanwhile, let’s get this area secured and covered with a tarp.”

“Winchell,” Crowley yelled to a young officer who was stand ing nearby. “Find Carter. Get on this right away.”

“Okay, Chief,” he said, setting off across the yard at a trot.

“I think we’re about done here,” said Rogers, gently tugging at Sparky’s leash and leading the trembling dog back to the van. “Good boy.” He stroked the animal behind his ears. Sparky gave him a look of doggy adoration and licked his hand.

“What happens now?” Ted asked the chief. But before Crowley could tell Ted to mind his own business he was interrupted by Winchell.

“Chief, Carter’s found a car behind that shed. A BMW.”

“Damn,” said the chief. The last thing he wanted was a homicide.

“You, Stillings.” He stabbed a fat finger at Ted’s chest. “I want you out of here.” He cocked his thumb. “Now.”

“Okay, okay,” said Ted, holding his hands up. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

He started off toward his car, and Pulaski joined him, walking companionably alongside. Unlike the police chief, Pulaski understood the value of a good working relationship with the local media.

“Check at the station, Ted. We’ll be scheduling a press conference this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He paused. “I have something to say.” Ted got out his pad, and when he was ready, Pulaski continued. “I hate arson. Every time my men go out to fight a fire, they put themselves at risk. Every time. And now we’ve got a death. Somebody died in this fire.

“This is my pledge to the people of Tinker’s Cove: I’m going to catch this bastard. But I need help. Anybody sees any suspicious activity, especially around a vacant building, call us. Call right away. Arson’s hard to prove, unless the perpetrator is caught in the act. Got that?”

“Got it.”

Humming softly to himself, Ted got behind the wheel of his car. He was already rearranging the front page in his mind. Scratch the photo of the jack-o’-lantern, put the “Healthy Holiday Treats” interview with the school dietitian on page five, move “Officer Culpepper’s Rules for a Safe Halloween” to page six. Arson, homicide, this was going to be one hell of a Halloween issue.

There was an annoying buzz in the room. If she didn’t stop it, it would wake up the baby.

Lucy sat up in bed. She opened her eyes. Zoe was sleeping peacefully in her white wicker bassinet. She couldn’t find the hum.

“Lucy, turn off the alarm.”

“Unh.” She reached out and pressed the button. She flopped back on her pillow and felt herself slipping back in the warm cocoon of sleep. So easy to drift off, except for the tug of her conscience. She had to get the kids ready for school, and Bill off to work. She threw off the covers and sat up, groping for slippers and robe. Standing, she staggered slightly and caught her balance on the door frame.

She crossed the hall to her eleven-year-old son’s room. Picking her way carefully across the dirty clothes and sports equipment that littered the floor, she gave his shoulder a shake. “Toby, it’s time to get up.”

Next she stuck her head in Sara and Elizabeth’s room. “Good morning, girls,” she called. Elizabeth was nine, going on twenty-nine, and Sara was five.

She went down the steep back stairs to the kitchen, made the coffee, and continued on into the downstairs bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face and looked in the mirror. Short black hair stuck out all over her head and there were bags under her eyes. She looked terrible. What did she expect? She’d been up most of the night with the baby. She brushed her teeth.

Back in the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, resting her head on her hands.

“Mom, I need you to sign this.” Toby’s voice pulled her back to consciousness.

“What is it?”

“A pledge that you won’t abuse your body by taking any illegal drugs.”

“No problem,” she mumbled, scribbling her name. “Got any speed, man?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She took a long swallow of coffee.

When she next opened her eyes, she saw Bill standing at the counter, dressed for work in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans, buttering a pile of toast.

“Sara, that pink scrunchy is mine,” said Elizabeth.

“No, it isn’t.” Sara’s voice started to climb the scale. “It’s mine!”

“Let her wear it,” said Lucy.

“That’s so unfair. You’re always siding with her.” Elizabeth stamped across the kitchen and plunked herself down on a chair.

“What’s the matter with your eye?” asked Bill, setting a glass of orange juice in front of her.

Lucy squinted suspiciously at Elizabeth. She reached out and ran a finger across her eyelid.

“Eye shadow! Wash it off.”

Elizabeth glared at her, then stomped off to the bathroom.

“More coffee?” Bill had the pot ready.

“Please. Intravenously.”

“Mom, can you come to school tomorrow?” asked Sara. “Officer Barney is visiting our class.” Sara was in kindergarten, and she loved it. After watching Toby and Elizabeth go off to school every day, she was finally in school, too.

“Sure,” said Lucy. She looked up as Elizabeth returned. “That looks much better.”

“All the other girls wear makeup.”

“Right.” Lucy heard the roar of the school bus engine, as it began the climb up Red Top Road. “You better get going. The bus will be here any minute.”

The kids pushed and shoved, grabbing their backpacks and lunches, then clattered out, slamming the door behind them. Lucy picked herself up and started up the stairs, heading back to bed.

“What the hell?” Bill was peering out the kitchen window, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

Lucy joined him. “Oh, my God,” she groaned, spotting a huge old Chrysler Imperial turning into the driveway, narrowly missing a whiskey barrel planted with bronze chrysanthemums. “It’s Miss Tilley. What could she want so early in the morning?”

“The old witch probably hasn’t been to bed yet,” said Bill. “Probably been riding her broomstick all night.”

Stifling a yawn, Lucy opened the door. “Miss Tilley, what a nice surprise!”