Halloween Murder, page 38
“Oh, all the time,” said Winslow.
“In the courts?” she asked.
“If we have to, we will. There’s a process, of course. We start with the guidance counselor. If that doesn’t improve matters, we go on to the truant officer, and if he can’t make any headway, we refer the case to the district attorney.”
“So any case that went to court would be a public record?” asked Lucy.
“Not if the truant is a minor,” said Winslow. “Then the file is sealed.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, disappointed.
“We really try to be sensitive,” said Winslow, sounding for the first time like a human being instead of reciting administrative jargon. “We don’t want to get people in trouble. All we want, you know, is what’s best for the student. A lot of the time we’re the only ones looking out for the kid; we’re the only ones who can step in and protect the child.”
“Have you seen an uptick in abuse?” asked Lucy. “Considering the economy, the high gas and food prices, the foreclosures?”
“These are difficult times for a lot of our families,” said Winslow. “Andy French, the business manager, can give you the latest figures on the school lunch program.”
Lucy took the hint. “Thanks for your time,” she said as an instant message from Phyllis appeared on her computer screen, advising her that there were a large number of legal ads this week.
She opened the file and discovered at least twelve foreclosure notices. Scanning through them, she recognized quite a few names. Some were people whose families had lived in town for generations, and others were newcomers, often immigrants, who’d originally come to Maine as summer workers and stayed on. The very last announcement was a shocker, however: Peter Symonds. No wonder he’d been so angry with her; she’d be angry, too, if she was about to lose her home.
Acting on impulse, she called the police station and asked for her old friend Barney Culpepper.
“Just a follow-up,” she began, staring at Symonds’s foreclosure notice on her screen. “Has there been any progress in the Malebranche case? You know, the guy who was burned.”
“Don’t remind me. I think about that poor bastard every day.”
“So I guess that means you’re not any closer to solving it?”
“You said it.”
“It’s been a long time. . . .”
“Almost four months.”
“I see that his assistant, you know, the guy who made the balloon animals, is losing his house.”
“That’s not surprising. He lost his job, after all, when Malebranche died.” Barney sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s much call for magician’s assistants. It’s kind of a specialized thing.”
“I suppose not,” admitted Lucy. “You must have questioned him, right? He’s kind of an oddball.”
“That doesn’t make him a murderer,” chided Barney. “I’m sure he was questioned pretty thoroughly. I never heard him mentioned as a suspect.”
Lucy’s ears pricked up. “Who was mentioned?” she asked.
“You know I can’t tell you that, but off the record, I heard they took a long, hard look at the members of that coven, including your buddy Diana. There was a certain amount of jealousy among the members, and there were some jokes about that Lady Sybil.”
Lucy was incredulous. “Was she a suspect?”
Barney was noncommittal. “They all came up clean—and this is strictly off the record, mind you.”
“I know. I’m just killing time here, having a nice chat, looking for deep background, as we call it in the news business. Say, do you happen to know who’s the truant officer?”
“That would be me.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said.
“Oh, yeah,” he replied. “It’s not my favorite job. I like the community outreach part of my job a lot better.” As community outreach officer, Barney conducted home-safety workshops for senior citizens, organized a bike-safety program for kids every spring, and issued warnings about the danger of fireworks in July and about Christmas tree fires in December. Soon he’d be visiting classes in the elementary school to remind students to wear reflective clothing when they went trick-or-treating and to make sure their parents examined their candy before they ate it.
“I heard a rumor that the school department is taking Ike Stoughton to court because Abby’s been out of school for over a month with no doctor’s note.”
“Lucy, for Pete’s sake! I can’t talk about that.”
“So it’s true,” said Lucy.
“You didn’t hear it from me,” said Barney.
“You don’t happen to know the court date, do you?”
“What good would that do you? It’s a closed hearing.”
“If I just happened to be there, in the lobby, I could ask some questions.”
“Dinner, at your place?” said Barney, his voice suddenly quite loud.
“What the . . . ?” asked Lucy, puzzled.
“Oh, sorry, we can’t make it October fifteenth. Marge’s sister is visiting.”
Lucy suddenly got it; Barney was afraid somebody was listening to his conversation. “You’re a peach!” she said, marking the date in her calendar.
When she left work, Lucy noticed that Halloween decorations were appearing on Main Street. Many of the merchants had filled window boxes and planters with autumn arrangements of chrysanthemums, winter kale, gourds, and pumpkins. The Chamber of Commerce offered a prize every year for the best display of harvest figures, and they were also starting to appear—scarecrow-like figures made from old clothes stuffed with straw—in various and humorous poses. One real estate company had blown up a large photograph of all the agents, then created caricature figures that were arranged in the same poses as the people in the photo. A restaurant had set out a scantily clad female figure in a bikini, lounging in an inviting position on the bench used in summer by tourists waiting for tables, and the Queen Victoria Inn had produced a version of their namesake, complete with voluminous black skirts, shawl, lace cap, and double chin and had seated her in one of the porch rockers.
Feeling somewhat ashamed that the barrel out by the mailbox was still sporting the rather withered impatiens she’d planted last May, Lucy turned in at the IGA, where she’d seen a big crate of pumpkins. She was looking them over, trying to decide whether one big one would be better than several small ones, when she spotted Ike Stoughton coming out with a cart full of grocery bags. It seemed as if pushing the cart took every bit of energy he could muster.
“Howdy, neighbor,” she said in a voice she hoped sounded cheerful and friendly.
“Oh, hi,” he replied, as if he’d been lost in his thoughts. “How are you?”
“You know how it is,” she said conversationally. “School’s started, and the girls have cheerleading and field hockey. All of a sudden we’re always on the go.” She paused. “I heard Abby’s been too sick to go to school.”
“We’re praying for her recovery,” he said, glancing toward heaven. “Good is greater than evil,” he declared, sounding almost like the Ike of old.
“Well, you’ve certainly had a difficult time lately,” said Lucy. “Perhaps your luck will change. After all, bad things come in threes.”
Ike glared at her. “That’s Devil talk! I’d be careful if I were you.”
“I didn’t mean any harm,” said Lucy, stunned. “It’s just a turn of phrase.” She paused, wondering whether or not to say what she was thinking, then decided to go for it. “My girls would love to visit Abby, if she’s well enough.”
“Maybe sometime,” said Ike noncommittally, beginning to push his cart toward the parking lot. “Well, nice seeing you,” he said. “Say hi to Bill for me.”
“Will do,” said Lucy, watching as he made his way across the parking lot, walking like a very old man. His body language told it all, thought Lucy. Ike Stoughton was a troubled man. Or maybe, the thought flitted through her mind unbidden, a man with a guilty conscience.
Back at home, Lucy was unloading the car and trying to arrange the pumpkins in a pleasing way in the whiskey-barrel planter when Sara came running down the driveway, carrying the cordless phone. “It’s Diana, Mom,” she was yelling. “She’s at the airport and wants to know if you can pick her up.”
“Right now?” asked Lucy, who was thinking it was time to start cooking dinner.
“Yeah, right now. It won’t take long. Can I come too?”
Lucy was struggling with a small pumpkin that didn’t want to stay put and was threatening to roll out of the barrel. “Can’t she catch a bus?”
Sara had her hand over the mouthpiece. “That’s not very nice, Mom,” she hissed. “She’s a friend. You don’t make friends take the bus.”
This was a new one to Lucy, but she figured Bill could get something to eat over at Toby and Molly’s. Zoe, she knew, would insist on coming along to the airport. “Okay,” she said, letting go of the pumpkin, which amazed her by staying in place. Her decision must have appeased the many and various natural forces in the universe. Either that or she was a pumpkin whisperer, able to tame even the most unruly pumpkin.
Lucy’s whimsical mood was contagious, and she and the girls were in high spirits as they drove to the airport, fueled by a stop at Mickey D’s for burgers, fries, and shakes. The mile markers sped by as they sang along to the Beatles songs on the oldies station, enjoying an unexpected break in their everyday routine. The girls chattered on about school and friends. Lucy listened with one ear, picking up the news that Mrs. Gruber was pregnant, Kyle Saperstein had a crush on Sassie but she told him her horse had to come first, and Tommy Stanton had finally made the varsity football team.
“He’s really filled out,” reported Sara. “He’s looking go-od. I’m hoping he’ll ask me to the Halloween Hoedown.”
“You could ask him,” suggested Lucy.
Zoe didn’t approve. “No, she can’t, Mom.”
“Sure she can—haven’t you heard of women’s lib? Aren’t you a feminist?”
Zoe fell silent, thinking this over as they turned onto the airport road and approached the terminal. Diana was standing outside, along with an enormous roller suitcase, and the girls immediately began shrieking and waving as Lucy braked to a stop and hopped out. They had only a minute, because of security rules, so quick hugs were exchanged, the suitcase was hoisted into the back, Sara hopped out of the front seat, and into the back, Diana took the front seat, and off they went.
“How was your flight?” asked Lucy.
“Don’t ask—a nightmare, but that’s beside the point. How’s Abby?”
“We’re not allowed to visit,” said Sara.
“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Diana, drumming her fingers on her lap.
“You better be careful,” advised Lucy. “Ike isn’t going to welcome any interference, especially from you. He thinks you hexed him. He blames you for all his troubles.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Diana, fingering a turquoise and silver squash blossom necklace. “But I did pick up a few tricks in Arizona, from a very old, very wise shaman. I plan to stir things up a bit.”
“So mote it be,” said Lucy.
V
SPIRIT
Our planet spins in Nature’s gyre,
Water, Air, Earth and Fire,
Tho mighty be these elements four,
’Tis Spirit rules forevermore.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lucy couldn’t decide whether it was a coincidence or not, but soon after Diana’s return, she seemed to notice a new attitude in town. People seemed more cheerful and greeted each other enthusiastically when they happened to meet on the sidewalk, at the hardware store, or at the IGA. Mrs. Mulcahy was telling everyone how the allergies that had been plaguing her all summer had suddenly disappeared, Sally Johanson noticed the rash that had been bothering her husband had magically cleared up, and Molly reported with great relief that little Patrick was now sleeping through the night.
Even the weather was cooperating, as September’s warm mugginess gave way to the golden, crisp days of October. One sunny day followed another, and the cloudless blue sky was a luminous backdrop to the changing hues on the mountains, where the tired green foliage was now a blaze of dazzling gold, crimson, and orange.
Festive decorations seemed to appear daily, and the harvest figures that were multiplying like rabbits seemed livelier, almost as if they might rise from the hay bales and old chairs where they were posed and join the fun. Women thronged to Diana’s shop, leaving with purple bags clutched tight in their hands and secretive Mona Lisa smiles on their faces. Plans for the party advanced, too, as Rebecca was persuaded to take a turn as a storyteller, and Diana set to work making little black satin protection bags containing herbs for each child.
The one thing that didn’t seem to change, however, was a great disappointment to Lucy. Despite Diana’s promise to intervene, Abby remained at home, isolated from her friends and completely under the thrall of her father. Ike had even put a stop to Lydia Volpe’s tutoring sessions, claiming his daughter was too weak to study. Ike himself seemed to be shrinking, too, and hadn’t even made an appearance at the Giant Pumpkin Contest on Columbus Day weekend. Diana was the surprise winner, beating Rebecca’s massive 690-pound entry by a mere three pounds. The behemoth had grown largely unattended in her backyard, planted Indian fashion with fish for fertilizer. Now all the giant pumpkin entries were on display in the bandstand on the town common.
The day of Abby’s truancy hearing finally rolled around, and when Lucy went to the courthouse, she was shocked at Abby’s appearance. The girl was so thin and frail that she had to be pushed into the judge’s chambers in a wheelchair, and it was all done so quickly that she wasn’t able to question Ike Stoughton, who was accompanied by his dour sons. It was only moments later that an ambulance appeared, and Abby was wheeled out on a gurney and whisked away.
Lucy was considering following the ambulance, which she assumed was going to the state hospital, when Ike exited the courtroom and marched right up to her, trailed by his two boys. This time he had plenty to say.
“This is a travesty!” he exclaimed. “The judge has taken my daughter—MY DAUGHTER—and has committed her to a mental institution. What about the sanctity of the family, the right to privacy? A MAN’S HOME IS HIS CASTLE? Not anymore, that’s for sure, when the state can just come in and take your child away—in violation of your deepest beliefs. WHAT ABOUT RELIGIOUS FREEDOM? What happened to that?”
Behind him, Lucy noticed Pete Winslow, the superintendent of schools, making a hurried exit, clearly only too happy that Ike’s attention was elsewhere. But he didn’t make the clean getaway he was hoping for; one of the boys noticed him and tapped his father on his arm. Whirling around, he caught sight of Winslow and charged across the lobby to angrily confront him.
“I bet you’re real proud of what you’ve done,” he demanded, blocking the doorway. He was gesturing, jabbing at Winslow’s chest with an extended forefinger, causing the superintendent to back up to avoid being poked. Winslow was looking every which way for help, but none of the court officers was to be seen, and the handful of people who had been waiting in the lobby were backing away.
“Now, now,” he said, trying to placate Ike. “This is for Abby’s own good. She needs medical and psycho—”
“Are you saying my daughter is CRAZY? Is that what you think?”
“That isn’t the word I would—”
“And I’m neglecting her? You think I don’t love her? You think I don’t beg her to eat? She’s bewitched, I tell you. Bewitched! That witch has cast a spell over my whole family!” Ike’s face was red, and he was spraying the superintendent with saliva. Behind him, the two boys seemed only to be waiting for permission from their father to attack Winslow and tear him limb from limb.
Lucy found she was shaking as she tried to write it all down. She was raising her camera to snap a picture when the bailiff finally appeared. She got a good shot of him stepping between the two men, only to receive a jab in the eye from Ike. Then all hell broke loose as he blew a whistle and the other court officials, uniformed bailiffs, and lawyers in suits, all came to his aid. The upshot was that Ike Stoughton was hauled into a courtroom and judged in contempt and confined to the county jail for forty-eight hours without bail. The boys got stiff warnings, even though neither one had thrown a punch.
Lucy followed them when they left the courtroom, pouring on the sympathy in hopes of getting more information and maybe a quote or two.
“I can’t believe the judge is sending your father to jail,” she began.
“Me neither,” said Thomas, who had confusion written all over his face. “What do we do now?”
“Yeah,” chimed in Mather. “Dad’s in jail and Abby’s in the loony bin. And Mom’s dead,” he added, looking terribly young and sad.
“It’s only two days,” said Lucy, trying to offer some support. “How long is your sister going to be in the hospital?”
“Two weeks,” he replied, shaking his head. “She’s not crazy; she’s sick, like Mom was.”
“They’ll do a complete physical, as well as a mental health evaluation,” said Lucy.
“And you know what they’re going to find, after all their tests and stuff?” demanded Thomas angrily. “Absolutely nothing. Because Dad’s right—Abby’s been cursed by that witch Diana! She’s cursed our whole family!”
“That’s not true,” said Lucy, but the boys were already walking off, their heads together, as if trying to come up with a course of action.
Lucy reached for her cell phone and called Diana, telling her what had happened and warning her about Stoughton’s sons. “They blame you—you need to be careful and watch your back.”
“They can’t hurt me,” said Diana, her voice full of confidence that Lucy felt was entirely unwarranted, “but thanks for the warning.”
Lucy ended the call and followed the boys out to the parking lot, aware that the clock was ticking steadily toward deadline and she had a big story to write. She was starting her car when the boys peeled out of the lot in an oversized pickup truck with the Compass Construction logo on the door.
