Halloween Murder, page 1
Praise for Leslie Meier and
her Lucy Stone Mysteries!
TURKEY TROT MURDER
“Timely . . . Meier’s focus on racism gives this
cozy a serious edge rare for this subgenre.”
—Publishers Weekly
BRITISH MANOR MURDER
“Counts, countesses, and corpses highlight Lucy
Stone’s trip across the pond . . . A peek into British
country life provide a nice break.”
—Kirkus Reviews
CANDY CORN MURDER
“Meier continues to exploit the charm factor in her
small-town setting, while keeping the murder plots as
realistic as possible in such a cozy world.”
—Booklist
FRENCH PASTRY MURDER
“A delight from start to finish.”
—Suspense Magazine
CHRISTMAS CAROL MURDER
“Longtime Lucy Stone series readers will be happy
to catch up on life in Tinker’s Cover in this
cozy Christmas mystery.”
—Library Journal
EASTER BUNNY MURDER
“A fun and engaging read. It is quick and light and has
enough interesting twists and turns to keep you turning
the pages. If you like this type of mystery and this is your first
meeting with Lucy Stone, it will probably not be your last.”
—The Barnstable Patriot
Books by Leslie Meier
MISTLETOE MURDER
TIPPY TOE MURDER
TRICK OR TREAT MURDER
BACK TO SCHOOL MURDER
VALENTINE MURDER
CHRISTMAS COOKIE MURDER
TURKEY DAY MURDER
WEDDING DAY MURDER
BIRTHDAY PARTY MURDER
FATHER’S DAY MURDER
STAR SPANGLED MURDER
NEW YEAR’S EVE MURDER
BAKE SALE MURDER
CANDY CANE MURDER
ST. PATRICK’S DAY MURDER
MOTHER’S DAY MURDER
WICKED WITCH MURDER
GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER
ENGLISH TEA MURDER
CHOCOLATE COVERED MURDER
EASTER BUNNY MURDER
CHRISTMAS CAROL MURDER
FRENCH PASTRY MURDER
CANDY CORN MURDER
BRITISH MANOR MURDER
EGGNOG MURDER
TURKEY TROT MURDER
SILVER ANNIVERSARY MURDER
YULE LOG MURDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
HALLOWEEN MURDER
LESLIE MEIER
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Compilation copyright © 2018 by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Trick or Treat Murder © 1996 by Leslie Meier
Wicked Witch Murder © 2010 by Leslie Meier
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1835-8
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1835-6
Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2018
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1834-1
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
TRICK OR TREAT MURDER
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
WICKED WITCH MURDER
PROLOGUE
I - FIRE
II - WATER
III - EARTH
IV - WIND
V - SPIRIT
Witch’s Brew
Witch’s Cauldron
TRICK OR TREAT MURDER
PROLOGUE
“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. Dark 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.
CHAPTER ONE
“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.
