Haunted House Murder

Book 0: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier, Lee Hollis, Barbara Ross

Genres: Holiday books; Mystery Anthologies & Collections; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Tricks and treats keep the Halloween spirit alive in coastal Maine. But this year the haunted house theme is getting carried a little too far . . . HAUNTED HOUSE MURDER by LESLIE MEIER Newcomers to Tinker’s Cove, Ty and Heather Moon have moved into a dilapidated house reputed to be a haven for ghosts. Now strange noises and flickering lights erupt from the house at all hours and neighborly relations are on edge. And when a local boy goes missing near the house, it’s up to Lucy Stone to unravel the mystery of the eccentric couple and their increasingly frightful behavior. DEATH BY HAUNTED HOUSE by LEE HOLLIS For the past two years, the house next door to Hayley Powell has sat abandoned after the owner died under mysterious circumstances. The Salinger family has recently taken possession of the property, but the realtor behind the deal has vanished—after a very public and angry argument with Damien Salinger. If Bar Harbor’s newest neighbors are murderers, Hayley will haunt them until they confess. HALLOWED OUT by BARBARA ROSS With its history of hauntings and ghost sightings, Busman’s Harbor is the perfect setting for Halloween festivities. But when a reenactment of a Prohibition-era gangster’s murder ends with a literal bang and a dead actor from New Jersey, Julia Snowden must identify a killer before she ends up sleeping with the fishes. PRAISE FOR HAUNTED HOUSE MURDER “Haunted houses, a holiday staple, are an especially good fit for the authors’ folksy Down East setting. All three tales offer a dash of detection, but their strong suit is hometown charm.” —Kirkus Reviews “Enjoyable. . . . The well-drawn main characters, not the spooky goings-on, are the main attraction. Cozy fans are in for a Halloween treat.” — Publishers Weekly

Release date: August 27, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 338

Sample

“But that place is a death trap! Someone’s going to die in there!”

There was no mistaking the emotion in the speaker’s voice, which rose above a hum of other, discontented voices. Reporter Lucy Stone found herself quickening her steps as she carefully negotiated the steep cement steps that led from the parking lot to the basement meeting room in the town hall. As usual, she was running late, which was rarely a problem when she was covering meetings in the tiny coastal town of Tinker’s Cove, Maine. Experience had taught her that nothing ever started on time, so she had developed the habit of planning to arrive at least fifteen minutes late. She was a busy wife and mother and she didn’t have fifteen minutes to spend twiddling her thumbs while waiting for a meeting to start.

Truth be told, the weekly selectmen’s meetings were usually poorly attended, as the five members debated mundane matters such as adding storm windows to the harbormaster’s shed or arguing whether it would be more cost effective to repair or replace the oldest of the town’s two police cruisers. The meetings were televised on CATV, but hardly anyone watched, and only a few regulars bothered to attend. Those included Stan Wysocki, the town’s resident curmudgeon, and fussbudget Verity Hawthorne, who always brought her knitting. And the media, of course, in the person of Lucy, who worked part-time for the town’s weekly paper, the Pennysaver.

Today, however, she seemed to have miscalculated. That realization hit her when she stepped inside the cement block walled meeting room, which even yellow paint couldn’t brighten, and found that every single folding chair was occupied. Well, taken, not exactly occupied, because emotions were running high and most people were on their feet.

Selectman chairman Roger Wilcox was banging his gavel, attempting to call the meeting to order, but nobody in this crowd of agitated citizens was about to settle down.

“Think of the children!” cried Anna Keller, who had her youngest, barely four months old, nestled against her chest in a Snugli baby carrier. “That place is right across the street from the elementary school!”

“I dread to think what would happen if some kids ventured inside,” added Lydia Volpe, who was a retired kindergarten teacher. “What if the floor gave way, or the stairs?”

“And often, too often, there are kids hanging around the fields, waiting to be picked up after soccer practice or after-school programs,” said Janet Nowicki, who coached a youth soccer team. “You know the town meeting refused to fund a late bus for those kids.”

“It’s up to the town to do something! They should raze it, or let the fire department do a controlled burn,” declared Lori Johnson, whose husband was a firefighter. “It’s not only dangerous, it’s an eyesore!”

“And I’m afraid it’s going to bring down property values,” predicted Franny Small, a former selectman who happened to live next door to 66 School Street, which Lucy suspected was the property in question. She had often wondered about the house, a once impressive Victorian mansion which now had peeling paint, a sagging porch, and curling shingles. And with Halloween approaching, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if a ghost or two had taken up residency in the tall tower that stood on one side of the formerly stately home.

It was Franny’s dire prediction about property values that caught everyone’s attention, and the chairman was able to seize the moment. “Order! Order! Sit yourselves down,” Roger bellowed, pounding the gavel on the bench. “This is unacceptable. I suggest you organize in some fashion, choose a spokesperson, and put your issue on the agenda for our next meeting.” He banged the gavel again. “We have business to attend to. Item one: Repairs to the bandstand on the town common.”

Franny Small raised her hand.

“Do you have something to say about the bandstand?” asked Roger.

“No.” Franny stood up and smoothed the autumnal silk scarf she’d added to her Talbots cashmere twin set. She was now retired from the costume jewelry company she’d created and sold, for what was reputed to be more than two million dollars, and was considered the town’s wealthiest year-round resident, although she played down that fact pointing out that there were several much wealthier summer residents. “As a former selectperson I would like to remind the chairman that the first item on the agenda is Citizen Concerns. These good people deserve to be heard.”

“Um, yes,” said Roger, looking extremely annoyed. “And I think they’ve made themselves perfectly clear.”

“But you haven’t,” countered Franny. “We haven’t heard a response from the board. What exactly are you going to do about this problem?”

There was a definite buzz from the concerned citizens, who wanted answers from the five members of the town’s governing board.

“Dodging the issues, as always,” muttered Stan.

“If I may,” said Joe Marzetti, a longtime board member who happened to own the town’s grocery store. “I think that since these concerned citizens have gone to the trouble of coming to the meeting that we can tweak the agenda and accommodate them.”

“I don’t . . .” began Roger, but sensing a certain resistance from the other board members, he changed his tune. “Well, if we’re all agreed?”

Receiving nods from the other board members, he turned to insurance broker Jim Moskowitz, who was seated next to him. “What do you think, Jim? Is the town liable?”

Lucy was especially interested in Jim’s response, as her son, Toby, was married to Jim’s daughter, Molly, and they shared a grandson, Patrick, who unfortunately lived in Alaska with his parents.

“I know the property in question and I think it is certainly what we in the business call an attractive nuisance. First things first. Let’s have the building inspector conduct an examination and determine if the building is dangerous, and what should be done about it.”

Lucy found herself nodding along in agreement with Jim’s proposal; lately she had found herself growing closer to him, considering him a sound sort of fellow. She couldn’t quite say the same about his wife, Jolene, whom she was ashamed to admit, she viewed as a competitor for Patrick’s affection.

“And if I may,” said member Fred Rumford, who was a professor at nearby Winchester College. “I suggest we have the town collector investigate and find out who, if anyone, actually owns the property. The town might very well be able to take it for uncollected taxes.”

These proposals were generally met with approval, followed by a small voice. “I have some information. . . .”

“Ah, yes. The chair recognizes building inspector Fred Willets.”

Fred, a very small man with thinning hair and a wispy mustache, stood up and consulted his clipboard. “As it happens, my office has recently received several inquiries from neighbors of the property in question at Sixty-Six School Street, and I conducted a thorough inspection yesterday. From the outside I have to agree that it looks to be in very poor shape, but that is merely surface. The structure itself is remarkably sound; those old folks sure knew how to build. Tax records show the house was constructed over a hundred years ago and I expect it to stand for another hundred.”

“But what about the systems?” demanded Anna, smoothing her baby’s silky head, which was tucked under her chin. “We all know about those gas explosions in Massachusetts.. . .”

“There’s no gas in the house,” said Fred. “The boiler is oil fired and was installed a few years ago. The wiring is up to code, and so is the plumbing. Someone could move in there tomorrow.”

Frankie LaChance, who was the town’s foremost real estate broker, as well as Lucy’s friend and neighbor, was raising her hand.

“Ah, Ms. LaChance,” said Roger, beaming as he recognized the attractive woman who was dressed as usual in business casual, wearing a quilted green jacket over her silky blouse. “Perhaps you have some information to share?”

“I do,” said Frankie, tossing her auburn curls and smiling broadly. “I’m happy to say that Sixty-Six School Street is under agreement and the closing is imminent.”

This news generated a certain excitement as everyone wondered who the buyers might be. Someone who already lived in town, or newcomers?

“They’re a lovely young couple. Ty and Heather Moon. They are relocating from Portland where they lived in a tiny condo, and are very excited about the antique home’s unique features and potential for a truly spectacular renovation, its generous square footage and the spacious yard, which is over an acre. I suspect they are thinking of starting a family.”

The next question on everyone’s mind, including Lucy’s, was the price. Frankie wasn’t about to reveal it, but she did offer a clue. “The owners . . . you may remember Hilda and Bob Edmiston? They moved into assisted living a few years ago, intending for their son to manage the property, but he got a job in California and moved out there. There was no one taking care of repairs and maintenance, which was unfortunate.”

Lucy took this to mean that the Moons got a good deal.

“In the end, the Edmistons are very relieved that the house will be in good hands in the future,” concluded Frankie.

Make that a very good deal, decided Lucy, making a note to follow up tomorrow with a call to Frankie. She noticed that the emotional temperature in the room had definitely cooled, and people were gathering up their belongings, chatting quietly as they made their way to the door. The room was soon back to normal, with Stan and Verity in their usual seats, as well as a handful of town officials who were there to advise the board members on agenda items.

“Item one,” announced Roger, with a tap of his gavel. “Bandstand repairs. Fred, what’s the situation?”

Lucy yawned, realizing the meeting was going to run late and trying to keep her mind on the much less interesting items that remained on the rather lengthy agenda. But instead, she found herself speculating about Verity’s knitting, which it seemed she had been working on for a very long time. It was a horrible shade of green and there seemed to be a lot of it. Was it a sweater for a very large relative? An afghan for a hopefully color-blind friend? A camouflage cover for a tank? Whatever it was, she concluded, watching as Verity’s needles clicked away, there seemed to be no end in sight.

Next morning, Lucy got to work later than usual. Phyllis, the receptionist at the Pennysaver, looked up from her spot behind the reception counter when the little bell on the door announced her arrival. “Late night?” asked Phyllis, peering at Lucy over her tiger-striped cheaters, which matched her bright orange sweater. Phyllis observed all the holidays, and this was one of her Halloween outfits.

“I didn’t get home ’til after midnight,” said Lucy, yawning as she hung up her fleece jacket. She then went straight for the coffeepot and filled her #1 Mom mug, looking up as the bell on the door jangled again, announcing the arrival of Ted Stillings. “Concerned citizens hijacked the agenda.”

“What were the citizens concerned about?” asked Ted, who was the Pennysaver’s publisher, editor, and chief reporter. He’d inherited the paper, as well as his prized antique roll-top desk and the Regulator clock that hung on the wall above it, from his grandfather, a nationally renowned journalist.

“That old haunted house opposite the elementary school,” said Lucy. “They’re concerned it poses a danger to the kids.”

“I suppose they have a point,” conceded Ted, hanging his barn coat on the stand next to the little table containing the coffeepot. “What’s the town going to do? Raze it?”

“Nope,” said Lucy, taking a long drink of coffee. “It’s under agreement. New people bought it.”

“That old wreck?” asked Phyllis.

“The building inspector says it’s not a wreck at all; it’s structurally sound underneath all that peeling paint.”

Ted filled his Best Boss mug with coffee and stirred in a couple of packets of sugar and a healthy dollop of fake cream, then took a sip. “That sounds like a good story, Lucy,” he said, adding another packet of sugar. “Historic home saved from wrecking ball.”

“Actually, I think the suggestion was to have the fire department do a controlled burn, for practice,” said Lucy, furrowing her brow as she seated herself at her desk. “And if all that sugar doesn’t kill you, that fake creamer will.”

Ted added a bit more creamer and resumed stirring his coffee. “It’ll be a great seasonal story,” he continued, ignoring her objection. “We’ll put a big photo of the house right on the front page, above the fold. Maybe jazz it up with a full moon and a bat, something like that. It’s amazing what you can do with photos these days. A real Halloween haunted house.”

“Whatever happened to journalistic integrity?” asked Lucy.

“An increase in the price of newsprint,” said Ted, sighing and seating himself at his desk, where he fired up his computer. “That’s what.”

“Gotcha,” said Lucy, flipping open her notebook and reviewing her notes, looking for a way to perk up her account of the meeting. She was just about to reach for her cell phone to call Frankie La Chance when it rang, and she began frantically digging into her jumbo purse, which was big enough to contain a couple of reporter’s notebooks, countless pens, grocery coupons, wallet, keys, first-aid supplies, lunch, snacks, and finally, lurking in the bottom, her phone.

“Hi,” she said, hoping the caller hadn’t been sent to voice mail.

“Hi, Mom.” She smiled, recognizing the voice of her son, Toby, calling from far-off Alaska. In Lucy’s mind, Alaska was covered with snow year-round, was populated by polar bears, and everyone wore fur-lined parkas and lived in igloos.

“Hi, yourself,” she said, absolutely delighted. Toby rarely called, relying instead on Facebook to keep in touch, and she was looking forward to a nice chat. Then that little niggle of anxiety wormed its way into her mind. “Is everything okay?”

“What? You only think I call because something’s the matter?”

“Well . . .” began Lucy, not sure how to respond, because Toby most often called when there was some sort of problem.

“You’re right, Mom, we are in a bit of trouble.”

“Is it Patrick?” she asked, fearing the worst.

“No, he’s fine. It’s Molly.”

Lucy was hugely relieved, then immediately guilt-stricken. She loved Molly, she really did, but she had to admit she sometimes found her a bit difficult. She hadn’t approved of Molly’s plan announced last Christmas to leave her husband and child for a year to study German language and folktales in Heidelberg, and had been much relieved when she decided instead to become a dog trainer after an unfortunate incident when Skittles bit her mother. As far as Lucy knew, Jolene was still struggling to recover full use of her leg. “Oh, no. What’s happened?”

“One of the sled dogs she was working with bit her hand; she was training for the Iditarod, you know.”

Lucy hadn’t known of Molly’s latest ambitious scheme. “That long dog sled race?” asked Lucy.

“Yeah, it was a dream of hers, but it’s out of the question now.”

Lucy thought of the extensive damage Skittles had inflicted on Jolene, a wound that stubbornly resisted healing as well as causing persisting pain and muscle damage, and was afraid Molly might lose her hand. “Will she be all right?”

“Eventually,” said Toby, with a big sigh. “It’s her right hand and she’s going to need several surgeries and a lengthy rehab.”

“I’m glad they can repair her hand,” said Lucy. “But it’s going to be a long haul, for you and Patrick, too.”

“That’s the problem, Mom. I’ve been asked to take part in a research cruise out of Woods Hole; you know, the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute in Massachusetts. It’s quite an honor, even though I’ll be filling in for the first guy they asked; he actually needs chemo and won’t be able to go. Anyway, it’s a two-month commitment. . . .”

“But Molly needs you,” said Lucy. She was trying to think how she could help, but she wasn’t free to go to Alaska. She had plenty of responsibilities here at home. It was true that youngest daughter Zoe was spending her junior year abroad in France, where her older sister Elizabeth now lived, but there was still her husband, Bill, her middle daughter, Sara, and her job.

“Actually, Molly’s okay with me going. She says it will be easier for her if she can just concentrate on getting her hand fixed. The problem is Patrick. We need someone to take care of him.”

“I’d love to help, but I can’t just pick up and go to Alaska. I don’t suppose Jolene . . .”

“She’s gone to stay with her sister in Florida. There’s a top wound-care clinic there, and she’s hoping they can fix her leg. She’s planning to stay for a couple of months,” said Patrick. “And you won’t have to come to Alaska. I could bring Patrick to you when I report to Woods Hole,” said Toby. “Would that be okay? I know it’s a lot to ask. . . .”

“Okay? It would be great,” said Lucy, her heart leaping. Two months. Two months with Patrick. It was a grandmother’s dream come true. “When are you coming?”

“In two weeks?”

“Super! I’ll make cookies.” Then, ashamed, she remembered poor Molly, who would be dealing with a painful recovery all alone. “Is there something I can send Molly?”

Lucy gave the comforter on the bed in Toby’s old room a tweak, and smoothed the freshly changed pillowcase, satisfied that everything was ready for Patrick and Toby’s arrival sometime in the afternoon. Everything except the grocery shopping, which was the last thing on her list. Well, except for the peanut butter cookies that were Patrick’s favorite, and she’d make them as soon as she got back from the store.

She had a big list, intending to stock up on all the foods she knew kids liked and that Patrick’s mother didn’t necessarily approve of, like Cocoa Puffs cereal. Molly had e-mailed her with a list of foods she wanted Lucy to provide for Patrick, things like kale and quinoa, and even a few that Lucy had never heard of, like faro and acai berries. Lucy had studied the list and decided it was probably a case of wishful thinking on Molly’s part, and decided to spend her money on foods the child would actually eat. She’d seen plenty of pictures of Patrick on Facebook, and she was worried he looked much too thin. She was going to feed him up with good, old-fashioned mainstays like Cheerios, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and spaghetti and meatballs. After school, he would snack on homemade cookies and a big glass of full fat milk.

Lucy usually did her grocery shopping on Wednesdays, after the week’s deadline when she had a free afternoon, and the IGA was not very busy. This week, she’d held off until Saturday morning, and the store was humming with shoppers getting ready for Halloween. Pumpkins and chrysanthemums were displayed outside the store and inside the produce section was brimful of winter squash, colorful gourds, tote bags of apples, and gallon bottles of cider. Lucy grabbed it all and her cart was nearly full, thanks to a very large pumpkin, when she headed on to the fish counter. Cod was on sale and she was planning to make chowder, which she figured was a surefire way to get Patrick to eat some fish. And since it was only going into chowder, she figured the cheap “previously frozen” fish from the grocery store would be just fine.

Franny Small was already there, buying a single swordfish steak. “That’s much too big,” she told the clerk, Carrie Bennett, who was weighing out the fish. “That’s more than half a pound. I can’t possibly eat that much.”

“I can cut it in half,” offered Carrie.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” said Franny.

“Not at all.” Carrie removed the fish from the scale and sliced it in half, holding out one of the pieces for Franny’s approval.

“Oh, that’s much too small,” said Franny.

“Let’s try another piece,” said Carrie, plopping another steak on the scale. “Six ounces. How’s that?”

“You know, I don’t really like swordfish all that much. I don’t think I want any after all.”

Carrie pressed her lips together, struggling to keep her temper. “Have a nice day,” she told Franny, who was already headed off in the direction of the meat counter. She turned to Lucy. “What can I get for you?”

“Two pounds of cod,” said Lucy, upping her order in an attempt to make up for Franny’s annoying behavior.

Hearing her voice, Franny whirled around. “Oh, Lucy. I didn’t see you there, behind me.”

Lucy smiled. “Well, you don’t have eyes in the back of your head.”

“No, but the ones in front are perfectly fine,” said Franny, eager to announce her big news. “Guess what? I think my new neighbors have moved in. The lawn has been mowed and there are lights on at night.”

“So soon?” Lucy hadn’t expected the sale to move so quickly. “It must be nice to finally have neighbors after the house was empty so long. I wonder if they’re planning to remodel?” Lucy’s husband, Bill, a restoration carpenter, was just finishing up his latest job and didn’t have another lined up.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Franny, with a little jerk of her head. “I haven’t actually spoken to them.”

“But you’ve seen them?”

“Only briefly.” Franny clearly did not approve of the situation. “I’ve had glimpses, the briefest of glimpses, when FedEx delivers a package and they open the door to grab it. Then it shuts, and they’re out of sight.”

Lucy suspected that Franny was keeping a close watch on her new neighbors, perhaps even resorting to binoculars.

“Didn’t you see them mowing the lawn? What about when they moved in? Did they move themselves or did they hire a moving company?”

“Landscapers came one afternoon and did the lawn,” reported Franny. “That was my first clue that s. . .