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Overview
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
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781496721587 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 08/27/2019 |
| Series: | Lucy Stone Series |
| Pages: | 496 |
| Sales rank: | 502,887 |
| Product dimensions: | 4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.40(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
"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.
CHAPTER 2Ted 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.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Halloween Murder"
by .
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