Trick or Treachery Page 4

  “Here in Paul’s house until I find something else. He’s been very generous with me in many ways, Mrs. Fletcher, including giving me the master guest suite on the top floor.”

  “Not one of the cottages?” I asked, thinking that the Rose Cottage in which his father had lived was probably available.

  “No. Paul decided to completely renovate Dad’s place. He’s in the process of gutting it. Besides, I sort of like living here in the main house. It’s so big I never see Paul, or anyone else for that matter. I feel like lord of the manor.”

  I laughed. “I understand what you mean,” I said. “It certainly is an impressive house. Mansion would be more apt, I suppose. He moves fast, doesn’t he, your new boss?”

  “How so?”

  “The Rose Cottage. Tearing it apart so quickly. It was so beautiful the way it was.”

  “He’s decisive, that’s for sure. The outside, with all the roses, is great, but Paul says the inside became pretty shabby. Anyway, if I do decide to move out of this house, there might be another cottage coming up for rent on the property in a few months. The family in it is talking about leaving. In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime you’ll enjoy your host’s hospitality.”

  “My boss’s hospitality.”

  Our conversation ended when Paul Marshall’s daughter, Erica, joined us.

  “Hi,” Jeremy said. “I was just telling Mrs. Fletcher that I’ll be staying in Cabot Cove and working for your father. I really appreciate his taking me into the business.”

  “Oh, yes, my generous, compassionate father,” Erica said. Her words were kind, her tone not quite so benevolent.

  Jeremy picked up on it. “Now, now, Little Ricky,” he said, smiling. “Still jealous of me?”

  Erica blushed. “Please don’t call me that. I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “Last time I saw you, you were. ‘My how you’ve grown.’ Isn’t that the usual line?”

  “Do you have to smoke that vile cigar?” she said.

  “Have one with me,” he said, laughing. “Cigar smoking is all the rage with young women these days.”

  They excused themselves and walked away, and I couldn’t help but think they made an attractive couple. Erica was just a child when Jeremy went to live with his mother in California, but here she was all grown-up and beautiful. I doubted Jeremy still saw her as a kid sister.

  And here it was a year later. Another Halloween to tickle the fancy of Cabot Cove’s children, and its adults, too, Tony Scott’s death now an unfortunate memory.

  I entered the school and went to the auditorium, where the meeting and rehearsal were being held. Our mayor, Jim Shevlin, was there along with a dozen other government, civic and business leaders. Among many reasons I love Cabot Cove, the enthusiastic involvement of its citizens ranks high on my list. Beth Mullin, who with her husband, Peter, owned the Olde Tyme Floral Shop, gave a report on ticket sales for that evening’s pageant. “Almost sold out,” she said happily, “just a handful of tickets left.”

  “That’s great,” Warren Wilson said. “We’ll buy up any unsold tickets.”

  “That’s not necessary,” answered town attorney Ralph Mackin. “Marshall-Scott Clothing has been more than generous already.”

  Wilson had moved from Vermont to Cabot Cove two years ago to become vice president of Marshall-Scott Clothing, responsible for the company’s manufacturing and administrative operations. Paul Marshall, whose generosity was well known to everyone in town, had added to Wilson’s duties the role of community relations director. In that capacity, he’d become a highly visible presence in town, showing up at virtually every meeting, particularly when charitable events were involved.

  Wilson, a beefy, muscular man whose hair was prematurely abandoning him, waved his hand and laughed. “You know our company’s motto, Ralph. ‘An involved company is a good company.’ Paul Marshall feels, and I certainly agree, that supporting our kids is one of the most important things we can do for Cabot Cove.”

  “And it’s deeply appreciated, as always,” Mayor Shevlin said.

  As the discussion at the rear of the auditorium drifted on to other matters, I wandered down to the front, where the high school’s drama teacher was putting finishing touches on a scene from the pageant. The children, dressed in a variety of Halloween-related costumes, were adorable as they played the roles of witches. A large black pot containing dry ice sent what looked like steam into the air as two little girls, wearing large black hats that kept slipping off their small heads, pretended to stir the witches’ brew. The teacher, Pat Hitchcock, noticed me.

  “Hi, Jessica,” she said.

  “Hi, Pat. Everything shaping up for tonight?”

  “I think so,” she said, directing a stream of air at an errant wisp of hair. “It always seems to come together at the last minute.”

  “No small thanks to you,” I said.

  A little boy in an orange goblin costume interrupted from the stage. “I have to go to the bathroom, Mrs. Hitchcock.”

  Pat smiled. “Nature calls even for goblins, Jessica. Excuse me.”

  I took a seat near the stage and turned to see the others who were still meeting at the back. Warren Wilson was an interesting man, I thought. He was a bachelor, which made him fair game for rumors about his romantic involvements. Not a few single women had designs on Warren, dropping off casseroles or cakes with his landlady in hopes of impressing him with their culinary skills. But for more than a year the woman most frequently linked to Warren had been Erica Marshall, the proverbial boss’s daughter. They’d been seen together socially on a number of occasions, although some claimed that all was not well between them. But that could simply have been the sour reflections of a lady whose efforts were going unrewarded.

  My reverie was interrupted when two women took seats in the row behind me and began an animated conversation. At first, I was irritated by their rudeness, talking while the rehearsal was still going on, but then I heard a name that grabbed my attention, and I tuned into what they were saying.

  “Did you hear those dogs last night? Gave me the willies.”

  “I know, I know. Our Buster certainly heard ’em. He started howling to wake the dead.”

  “That’s what Tremaine said was comin’, you know—dogs running wild, machines not working right and rampant crime.”

  “It’s already here. Peggy Johnson told me someone stole John’s flannel shirt right off her clothesline last week. And Hap Gormley’s car wouldn’t start after the concert, and it had been working just fine till then.”

  “It must be because of her. All kinds of odd things have been happenin’ since that strange lady—Matilda Swift, is it?—moved here.”

  I rejoined my friends at the rear of the theater.

  “Well, that about covers everything,” Mayor Shevlin said. “Unless anyone has something else to add.”

  “Nothing from me,” Wilson said. “Have to get back to the office.”

  “Once again, Warren, we owe you and the company a debt of gratitude for your generous support of the pageant,” Shevlin said. “Please extend our thanks to Mr. Marshall.”

  I left the school with Wilson.

  “See you at the party?” he asked as he unlocked the door of his car, parked directly in front of the school.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

  “Good. Paul is pulling out all the stops. The company people will all be wearing the same costume.”

  “That’s a new approach. What will you be coming as?”

  “We’re all coming as moose. Mooses? Meese? This is Maine, after all.” He laughed. “Paul had the costumes specially made in Boston.”

  “You were right the first time, Warren. The plural of moose is moose. I look forward to seeing them.”

  As he extended his hand, I noticed the back of his right one had been scratched. “Those are nasty scratches,” I said.

  “Damn cat,” he said, looking at his hand. “We’ve had a woman move into one of th
e cottages on Paul Marshall’s estate, the Rose Cottage.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said.

  “She’s got a black cat with a mean disposition. If I’d known what a nasty critter he is, I wouldn’t have tried to pick him up when I was down at the cottage the other day. They say animals take on the personality of their owners, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s true in this case. The cat and its owner are both nasty creatures.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” I said. “Take care, Warren.”

  “You, too, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I decided to stop by Mara’s Luncheonette for coffee and to see what other news was making the rounds. I’d reached the parking lot and was heading for the door when the loud sound of a revving engine caused me to turn. Matilda Swift backed her automobile from its spot. It was a long black car shined to a mirror gloss. As it moved away, I saw for the first time another occupant, a big black cat with a piercing gaze, sitting on the rear shelf, glaring at me. Although it wasn’t a particularly cool day, and I was dressed warmly, a sudden chill went through me.

  “Coffee, Jess?” Mara asked after I’d taken a booth.

  “What?”

  “Coffee? You okay?”

  “Okay? Oh, sure. I’m fine. Just chilled, that’s all. Winter’s in the air. Clam chowder, please, and make it hot. Very hot.”

  Chapter Four

  The chill I woke up to the next morning had nothing to do with large black cats with piercing eyes, or a lady named Matilda Swift. It had to do with a cold front that had barreled through Cabot Cove during the night, dropping the temperature close to freezing.

  After showering, dressing in layers and bringing my plants in from the patio in the event we got down to the frost level, I spent the morning finishing up my leftover paperwork. After a late lunch, I headed off for town, not with any specific destination in mind, but more to get the blood flowing. As often happens, I ended up wandering into police headquarters, where I knew Mort Metzger, our sheriff, usually had a pot of relatively decent coffee brewing. As an admitted “coffee snob,” I choose where to have my coffee with care. A year ago, I wouldn’t have gone near Mort’s station house brew. But after I complained enough, he allowed me to give him a lesson in coffee making, and let me choose which blends to use. As a result, the quality had improved considerably, enough to satisfy my finicky palate.

  I paused outside his office when I saw he wasn’t alone, but he waved me in. Seated across the desk from him were Ed and Joan Lerner, relative newcomers to Cabot Cove who’d retired here after completing distinguished careers in education. I’d attended a welcoming party for them at the Unitarian-Universalist church, where I learned that one of their daughters, Liz, was a minister in Maryland; a second daughter, Jenny, a social psychologist, lived in Pittsburgh.

  The Lerners had immediately become an integral part of the town’s social and civic life, throwing a Bastille Day party at their home not long after moving in, and establishing a play-reading group that quickly became popular.

  “Don’t want to interrupt anything,” I said.

  “We were just about to leave,” Joan said.

  “The Lerners were saying how flattered they were to be invited to Paul Marshall’s Halloween party,” Mort said, “being new to town and all.”

  “We used to throw our own Halloween party each year,” Ed said, “but I understand Mr. Marshall’s puts most gatherings to shame. We wouldn’t want to compete with that.”

  “It is lavish,” I said.

  Joan laughed. “If we don’t have a Halloween party, we’ll just have to find another excuse for a bash. Canadian Bank Day. Boxing Day. Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.”

  They stood to leave.

  “Now, don’t you be concerned, folks,” Mort said, ushering them out. “I’ll look into it.”

  “See you at the pageant tonight?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said Joan. “Or the party.”

  “Judging from them,” I said to Mort when they were gone, “retirement doesn’t necessarily mean slowing down.”

  “That’s the way it ought to be.” He sat down behind his desk again and picked up his pen. “They’re good people, Mrs. F.,” he said, jotting a note on his pad and putting the report aside.

  “They were at a function down at the Unitarian Fellowship last night and overheard some grumblings concerning Tremaine and his activities. He’s made a lot of enemies, that one. There’s some who’re threatening to take matters into their own hands. The Lerners don’t like the man, but they don’t want to see his civil rights trampled on either.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s easy to support freedom of speech when you agree with the speaker—much harder when you don’t.”

  “As long as Tremaine doesn’t break any laws, there’s not anything I can do about him. I’m not real worried about the threats. Probably just some hotheads shooting their mouths off. But I’ll nose around town later. Appreciate it if you’d keep an ear out, too. Coffee, Mrs. F? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “Love a cup.”

  With two steaming mugs in front of us, I asked whether things were quiet on the crime front.

  “Ayuh,” he said, Maine-speak for yes. “Pretty much so. Got one drunk back in a cell still sleepin’ it off and looks like we might have a laundry bandit on the loose. Mrs. Johnson reported a missin’ shirt, and Aggie Taylor complained someone walked off with a pair of skivvies she left dryin’ on the porch. Other than that, and the Lerners’ concerns, everything’s pretty quiet.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said, raising my mug.

  Our moment of celebratory reverie was shattered when one of Mort’s deputies, Wendell Watson, barged through the door. “Got a nine-one-one, Sheriff,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Out to Paul Marshall’s place. Kid missing from one of the cottages.”

  “Missing kid? What kid?”

  “Don’t know. Marie says the woman’s hysterical. Name’s Wandowski.”

  “Robert and Lauren Wandowski rent one of Paul’s cottages,” I said. “They have a little girl.”

  Mort jumped up and grabbed his tan Stetson from where it hung from a set of moose antlers, then headed for the door.

  “Mind if I tag along?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t matter if I did. Come on.”

  When we pulled up in front of the Wandowski cottage, the parents of the child were waiting in front of a compact car, the motor running. Mort and Wendell got out and approached them. I remained in the squad car with the window down.

  “Afternoon,” Mort said. “What’s goin’ on, folks? Got a report says your youngster is missin’. Fill me in.”

  Bob and Lauren started talking at once.

  Mort held up his hand. “Easy, now,” he said. “One at a time.”

  The father spoke. “Julie is gone. That’s our daughter, she’s eight. My wife called me at work. I just got here. School let out early today. Kids had just a couple ’a hours this morning.”

  “A teacher conference,” Lauren said.

  “Julie never made it home,” Bob said. “She’s disappeared. She’s been kidnapped.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Mort said, reaching in the window and turning off the engine of the compact. “Might be she decided to stop off someplace, see a friend.” He handed the keys to the father.

  “Julie wouldn’t do that without telling me,” Lauren said, glancing at her husband.

  “She knows better,” Bob Wandowski added sternly.

  “Well, then,” Mort said, “let’s take a walk, backtrack along the route your daughter always takes to school, and see if we can learn anything. One of you stay here in case she comes back or calls.”

  A teary Lauren Wandowski agreed to remain behind as Mort, Wendell and Bob set off on foot. I got out of the car and joined them. The trail we took passed through a small spruce grove. When we emerged into a clearing, the Rose Cottage came into view, a hundred yards ahead. A black car was parked alo
ngside it. A five-foot-high wall curved toward the cottage, the remnants of summer roses clinging to its red-brick facade. Artie Sack, the gardener, was spreading mulch at the base of the rose bushes in preparation for a cold winter. I waved, and he waved back. A black cat—probably the same scary animal I’d seen in the back of Matilda Swift’s car—was curled up atop the brick wall, its yellow eyes following Artie’s labors.

  “How are you, Artie?” I called.

  “Doin’ good, doin’ good,” he replied. The cat jumped onto his shoulders as I approached.

  “Ooh! Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked, watching the cat dig its paws into him.

  “This little guy? This little guy?” Artie Sack had a habit of saying things twice. He pulled the cat into his arms and stroked the black head, scratching behind the cat’s ears, eliciting a loud purr. “He couldn’t hurt anyone, even if he wanted to. This is a nice cat, nice cat, not like them barn cats.”

  “What are we doing here?” Bob growled, drawing my attention away from Artie.

  “That’s Ms. Swift’s home,” I said, pointing to the Rose Cottage and moving back to our little group. “Maybe she’s seen your daughter.”

  “That witch!” Bob muttered.

  “Witch?” I said.

  “Just ask around. Nothing but trouble in town since she came,” he spat. “We’ve been thinking of leaving for some time now. Cabot Cove isn’t what it used to be. Too many upstarts and weirdos moving in—like her.”

  The venom in his voice took me aback. I was about to ask whether he had a reason for his obvious hatred of Matilda Swift, a tangible problem to cause him to speak so ill of her, when the door to the cottage opened. The woman in question stepped outside, followed by a little girl eating a large cookie.

  “Julie!” her father shouted, breaking into a run toward them. The girl came around from behind Matilda and waved. “Hi, Daddy,” she chirped, running to him. He scooped her up in his arms, grabbing the cookie and flinging it to the ground.

  “ ’Morning, Ms. Swift,” Mort said, tipping his hat.