Candy Corn Murder (9 page)

“I'm sorry to bother you at work,” she began, “but Patrick is having a very difficult day, and I'd appreciate it if you'd pick him up.”

“Is he sick?” asked Lucy, suddenly anxious for her grandson.

“No. It's a behavioral issue.”

Lucy didn't understand. “I'm sorry, but isn't this what you guys do? You're a day-care center, and you take care of kids while their folks are at work. Isn't that what I'm paying you to do?”

“Little Prodigies isn't simply a babysitting service,” said Heidi, sounding affronted. “We're a child-care facility, and we take great pride in caring for our little ones and doing what's best for them, not what's most convenient.”

“It isn't a question of convenience,” said Lucy, picking up on Heidi's attitude. “I have a job to do, and my employer expects me to do it. I can't just leave.”

“I'm afraid I must insist,” said Heidi, “or we'll have to disenroll Patrick.”

Lucy wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. “Disenroll?”

“That's right,” said Heidi. “We have a waiting list of families who would be more than happy to take his place.”

“So it's either pick him up this afternoon or lose his spot at the center?”

“I'm afraid so,” said Heidi. “It takes a village, you know, and we believe in working together as a team. . . .”

Lucy had heard enough. “I'll be right over,” she said, slamming down the phone.

When she arrived at Little Prodigies, she heard childish shouts and laughter but didn't see Patrick among the children who were playing outside, among the swings and slides and sandbox, so she approached the teacher who was supervising.

“Patrick needed a time-out,” she explained. “He got in a fight with one of the other children during outdoor play. He's inside.”

Lucy stepped inside and found Patrick sitting in the classroom, his dirty face tracked with tears. “What happened?” she asked.

Heidi, who was sitting beside Patrick at the table, writing, looked up. “Oh, Mrs. Stone, I'm just writing up an incident report. It seems that Patrick attacked another little boy.”

“He took my truck,” said Patrick with a sniffle.

“All the toys here belong to everyone,” said Heidi. “We have to share.”

“I had it first,” said Patrick.

“If that happens, and someone takes a toy you are playing with, you must talk to a teacher. We can't hit, ever,” insisted Heidi.

“No, you can't hit,” agreed Lucy, taking Patrick's hand. “I presume Patrick will be welcome here tomorrow?” she asked, leading him to the cubby where his jacket and lunch bag were stored.

“Absolutely, but Patrick will need to apologize to the group at circle time.”

“This place is beginning to sound like Communist China during the Cultural Revolution,” muttered Lucy.

“I'm sure we seem a little . . . Well, let's just say that child development is better understood now than it was in your day, Mrs. Stone,” said Heidi with a condescending smile. “And one area where we've made great strides is in the area of diet and how foods can affect child behavior. Gluten, for instance, is a real troublemaker, and I've noticed that Patrick's lunch often includes wheat bread and sugary cookies, and a great deal of dairy, which we know many children are sensitive to.”

That morning, Lucy had packed the same lunch for Patrick as she had made for herself: a ham and cheese sandwich on multigrain bread, a sippy box of low-fat milk, an apple, and a homemade oatmeal-raisin cookie. “What foods would you suggest?” she asked.

“Kale is fabulous, and there's broccoli and quinoa, and almond milk is preferable to cow's milk. The list goes on and on. I can give you our list of lunch guidelines,” said Heidi, pulling open a drawer and producing a sheet of paper.

Lucy glanced at the list, which included many foods she'd never heard of and others she knew from experience that children didn't like. “So how exactly do I give him brussels sprouts?” asked Lucy. “Raw?”

“Oh, no,” laughed Heidi. “You steam them and put them in a little plastic container with a little bit of hummus for dipping. They're so cute, like little cabbages, and the kids pretend they're bunnies eating baby cabbages.”

Lucy didn't believe the children actually ate brussels sprouts, not for a minute, even if they were accompanied by hummus. “Well, I'll try to do better,” she said, intending to add some baby carrots to Patrick's lunch bag tomorrow.

“Whatever you do, no raw carrots,” said Heidi. “They're a choking hazard.”

“Thanks for telling me,” said Lucy, heading for the door.

Once they were outside and walking to the car, she asked Patrick for his side of the story. “Why did you hit that boy?” she asked.

“He took the truck. He said it was his because his daddy drives a truck.” Patrick sniffled. “He said I don't have a daddy.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, beginning to understand the situation. “Of course you have a daddy. Your daddy is in Haiti, but he'll be home soon, and Mommy, too.”

“When will they be home?”

“For Christmas,” said Lucy, aware that two months was an eternity to a small child. “But you know what? We'll put in a call tonight. How about that?”

“Okay,” agreed Patrick, brightening up as she strapped him into the booster seat. “And when we get home, can I make the siren go?”

Lucy sighed, suspecting that Patrick was taking advantage of the situation, and figuring it didn't really matter. “Sure,” she said, giving him a hug.

Chapter Eight

P
atrick was in a better mood the next morning, and Lucy's spirits were lifted, too, when she discovered Heidi was home, sick, and Sue was filling in for her at Little Prodigies. Sue greeted them both warmly, with a big smile and a hug for Patrick. Lucy had helped Sue out at the center in the past, and she was confident that circle time would feature songs and finger plays, not forced confessions and apologies.
Sometimes,
she thought, giving Patrick a good-bye kiss,
you just got lucky.
Then she was off to the elementary school, where she was covering Officer Barney's annual Halloween safety program.

It had been years since she'd had a child in elementary school, but one whiff of the school's unique scent took her right back to the day she enrolled Toby in kindergarten. What was it exactly? she wondered, trying to identify the source of the scent. Well-worn sneakers, floor wax, childish sweat, chalk dust?
A little bit of each,
she decided, stepping into the front office and signing in.

That was a new procedure, instituted after school shootings became so prevalent. There was a time, she remembered, when such a thing was never thought possible, but that was long ago. She took the temporary pass provided by the school secretary, Tina Simms, and hung it around her neck. “This makes me feel like I'm on my way to the bathroom,” she said.

“Better be careful. The sink and toilets are quite low,” said Tina with a wink.

“I guess I'll take a pass,” said Lucy, making a little play on words. “Is Barney in the multipurpose room?”

“I guess you've done this before,” said Tina.

“You betcha,” said Lucy, heading out the door and down the long tiled corridor. The multipurpose room, a combination auditorium, gym, and cafeteria, was at the very end. When Lucy opened the door, she was hit with a blast of sound, the result of several hundred high-pitched young voices. Barney was already there, standing in front of the room and chatting with the principal, Paul Nesbitt, and waiting for a class of kindergarteners to seat themselves on the floor in the very front of the room.

“Good morning, children,” said Nesbitt, raising his hand for silence.

The children chorused back, “Good morning, Mr. Nesbitt.”

“Today we have a special guest, Officer Barney from the police department, who is going to talk about Halloween safety. I expect you all to pay close attention. Officer Barney . . .”

Barney stepped forward, adjusted his heavy belt, and planted his feet, shod in sturdy regulation oxfords, wide apart. His buzz cut was gray now but hadn't thinned a bit, although his round belly had grown an inch or two. He still looked a bit like a bulldog, with jowls and a pug nose.

“Good morning, children,” he began, launching once again into the speech he'd given every October for more years than Lucy liked to count. “Who's going trick-or-treating on Halloween?” he asked, getting an enthusiastic response, as every small hand in the room was raised.

“It's very important to carry a flashlight,” he said. “And be extra careful when you cross the street. If you wear a mask, it can make it hard to see, so you have to look both ways and then look again, right?”

Many heads were nodding.

“And what about that candy?”

This got a cheer from the kids.

“It's good, isn't it? But you aren't going to eat any until you get home, where your mom or dad will look it over and make sure that it's all wrapped and good for you, right?”

A little girl raised her hand. “My mom says candy isn't good for you.”

Barney thought for a minute, clearly struggling to come up with a politically correct reply. “Well,” he began, “your mom knows what's best for you. You might get apples or raisins or sugar-free gum, and those are good treats, right?” The little girl nodded. “But just like candy, you need an adult to check every treat before you eat it, okay?”

There were nods all through the room. A little boy raised his hand and, getting a nod from Barney, posed the question all the little boys in the room wanted to ask. “Officer Barney, can we see your gun?”

Barney stood his ground. “This gun is my responsibility, and it's going to stay exactly where it is, which is in my holster.”

This was met with a chorus of groans.

“Guns are dangerous, and if you find one, you should not touch it, but tell an adult. This is very important, and I want you to remember it. Never, ever touch a gun, because it might be loaded and hurt someone, maybe even you.” He paused, letting this advice sink in. “But I do have
Play It Safe
coloring books and Tootsie Rolls for everyone,” he added, concluding his talk. This time he got cheers.

Afterward, as the children were filing out and heading back to their classrooms, Lucy approached her old friend. She and Barney first became acquainted years ago, when they were both on the Cub Scout pack committee. “Great talk, Barney, as always.”

“Thanks, Lucy.” He rocked back on his heels. “It's one of my favorite duties.”

“The Fourth of July fireworks talk is also good,” said Lucy.

“Yeah, but that's for the summer rec program. There aren't as many kids.”

“I always like it when you explode the watermelon with a firecracker,” said Lucy.

Barney smiled at the memory. “Yeah,” he said.

“So tell me,” continued Lucy, “any progress on the pumpkin murders?”

“Aw, Lucy, you know I can't talk about department stuff. You gotta talk to the chief.”

“I did. He says that every time this perpetrator acts, the department gets a little closer to apprehending him.”

“Or her,” added Barney.

“Right,” said Lucy, thinking that when it came to perpetrators, the department was strictly equal opportunity, but not so much when it came to hiring.

“A lot of folks have installed security cameras. It's just a matter of time before we get a photo.”

“But no leads so far?” asked Lucy, pressing the matter.

“No comment,” said Barney, grinning.

Leaving the school, Lucy got a text from Ted asking her to cover a special emergency meeting of the board of selectmen, which had just been announced. There had not been time for the meeting to be posted in advance, so only a handful of town hall loyalists were sitting in attendance in the town hall basement meeting room, along with the police and fire chiefs. Bob Goodman, who was the town's legal counsel, met her in the doorway.

“This is most unusual, Lucy,” he said. “The meeting is taking place under the provisions in the town charter for emergency situations that require action by the board. The board is mindful of the state's open meeting law, and the minutes will be available to any interested citizens.” He gave her a copy of the relevant section of the charter. “We don't want any misunderstanding,” he said. “I'm counting on you to make it clear in your story that the board is acting in an open manner under the provisions of the town charter.”

“Okay. I understand,” said Lucy, who knew the taxpayers association was always ready to pounce on any perceived misconduct by town officials. “But what exactly is the emergency?”

“The fire department is asking for an emergency appropriation to cover unanticipated costs for the Pumpkin Fest,” he said as Corney Clark joined them.

“What a mess!” she exclaimed, running her fingers through her orange hair. For once the always perfectly turned out Corney looked rather the worse for wear. Her eye makeup was smudged, as if applied in haste, and her rumpled red jacket clashed with her pumpkin-colored hair. “This festival is going to be the death of me.”

“Take a deep breath,” counseled Lucy. “Think happy thoughts.”

“I'll tell you a happy thought,” growled Corney. “I'm miles away from here, on a Caribbean beach, sipping a piña colada, and there are no pumpkins anywhere.”

“Can I come?” asked Bob.

“Sorry, Bob, but nobody from Tinker's Cove is allowed in my daydream.”

“I understand,” he said with a grin. Then he walked to his seat in the front of the room, where he would be available to advise the board members. Moments later the selectmen filed in and took their places at the long table on the dais.

“I'm calling this meeting to order,” declared Roger Wilcox, who was the longtime chairman of the board. “This is an emergency session to consider a budget request from the fire department. Chief Bresnahan, you've got the floor.”

Lucy and Corney sat down next to each other, and Lucy pulled her notebook from her bag and opened it.

“Thank you, Chairman,” said Bresnahan, who was wearing his dress uniform, the one he wore to fire department funerals throughout the Northeast. “I have been informed by the Coast Guard that the department will have to deploy the water rescue craft for the duration of the pumpkin boat regatta. This means additional manpower, to the tune of sixteen hundred dollars.”

“That seems high,” said Florence Whittaker, the board's newest member, who had campaigned promising to keep a sharp eye on town finances.

“May I speak?” asked Corney, raising her hand.

Roger gave her a nod. “Ms. Clark.”

Corney stood up. “As you know, I represent the chamber of commerce, which is sponsoring the Giant Pumpkin Fest. This is the first year for this autumn festival, which we hope will become an annual event. I am happy to report that the event is getting a lot of attention, a lot of notice, and people are enthusiastic and excited. Our members in the hospitality business tell me bookings are up, rooms are filled, and restaurants are turning away requests for reservations. This is not only good for the business community, but the Giant Pumpkin Fest is also an event the whole town can enjoy. It's bringing people together to celebrate our way of life here in Tinker's Cove.”

“I don't know about that,” muttered Chief Bresnahan. “As far as I can tell, this festival of yours is causing a lot of trouble. I've already committed to the pancake breakfast, and now this. I just don't have the manpower.”

“I find I must agree with the chief,” said Roger. “I understand that the Pumpkin Fest is something new, but it doesn't seem to me that it's very well planned. There's no excuse for under-budgeting. . . .”

“I have to say that there was no way we could have anticipated the Coast Guard's demand . . . ,” began Bresnahan, defending his budgeting.

“You couldn't have made a phone call, asked if there were any special requirements for a pumpkin boat regatta?” asked Florence. “I mean, this so-called regatta involves putting people in unstable watercraft in very chilly weather, but you figured there was no need for extra safety measures?”

“I will take complete responsibility . . . ,” began Corney, noticing the fire chief was growing rather red under his collar.

“Both the police department and the fire department have been most cooperative,” said Angus MacDonald, owner of MacDonald's Farm. “I'm not satisfied that the police department is any better prepared than the fire department.”

The police chief, Jim Kirwan, wasn't about to take this sitting down. He rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “I want to assure the board that my department is indeed prepared. I have scheduled extra details for the duration of the festival, and we are bringing in additional manpower, in the form of special details from our neighboring towns. The budget for this has been approved by the finance committee, with the understanding that the chamber will bear the cost for the special details.”

“I certainly commend your careful planning and most especially encourage these public-private partnerships,” said Florence.

“Yeah, you've got the festival covered, but what about this vandalism?” demanded Bresnahan, who had not come to terms with the loss of his giant pumpkin. “My giant pumpkin . . . Well, it was a terrible sight to see.”

Everyone in the room was silent, acknowledging the fire chief's loss.

Finally, the police chief responded. “We're coming closer to making an arrest. Every day we're a little closer.”

“That's all well and good,” said Bresnahan, whose quavering voice betrayed the depth of his emotion, “but nothing can bring back my pumpkin.”

“There's one way we can honor the chief's loss,” said Corney, speaking in a reverential tone. “And that's by refusing to give up. We must be strong and not give in to these vandals. I'm asking you for your support, for your vote to provide the necessary funding so the Giant Pumpkin Fest can take place as an example of civic pride and fortitude.”

“All in favor?” asked Roger.

The measure passed, four to one, with Florence the only nay vote.

“Boy, that was close,” said Corney as she and Lucy walked out to the parking lot.

“Not that close,” said Lucy. “There was only one nay vote.”

“It could have gone the other way,” said Corney, tossing her bag into her car and climbing in after it. “I'm off to the next crisis,” she said, checking her smartphone. “Buck needs his hand held. He's getting a lot of blowback from old-timers at the company.”