Trick Or Treat Murder. Leslie Meier

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      Elizabeth glared at her, then stomped off to the bathroom.

      “More coffee?” Bill had the pot ready.

      “Please. Intravenously.”

      “Mom, can you come to school tomorrow?” asked Sara. “Officer Barney is visiting our class.” Sara was in kindergarten, and she loved it. After watching Toby and Elizabeth go off to school every day, she was finally in school, too.

      “Sure,” said Lucy. She looked up as Elizabeth returned. “That looks much better.”

      “All the other girls wear makeup.”

      “Right.” Lucy heard the roar of the school bus engine, as it began the climb up Red Top Road. “You better get going. The bus will be here any minute.”

      The kids pushed and shoved, grabbing their backpacks and lunches, then clattered out, slamming the door behind them. Lucy picked herself up and started up the stairs, heading back to bed.

      “What the hell?” Bill was peering out the kitchen window, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

      Lucy joined him. “Oh, my God,” she groaned, spotting a huge old Chrysler Imperial turning into the driveway, narrowly missing a whiskey barrel planted with bronze chrysanthemums. “It’s Miss Tilley. What could she want so early in the morning?”

      “The old witch probably hasn’t been to bed yet,” said Bill. “Probably been riding her broomstick all night.”

      Stifling a yawn, Lucy opened the door. “Miss Tilley, what a nice surprise!”

      Like most everyone in Tinker’s Cove, Lucy didn’t dare address the old woman by her first name. Only a select group of her dearest friends referred to Julia Ward Howe Tilley, the former librarian of the Broadbrooks Free Library, as Julia.

      Casting a disapproving glance at Lucy, who found herself involuntarily buttoning up her ratty old velour robe, the old woman wasted no time getting to the point. “Bill, it was really you I came to see,” she said, baring her complete set of rather dingy original teeth in a ferocious smile.

      “Me?”

      “Sit down. I have something I want to discuss. You, too, Lucy.”

      Meekly, they obeyed, waiting while the old woman settled herself.

      “As you know,” she began, folding her knobby, arthritic hands together on the edge of the table, “I am a member of the Tinker’s Cove Historic District Commission. The chairman, in fact. Unfortunately, we have a vacancy now that Porter Lambkin has resigned. He has cancer and says his treatment will prevent him from attending meetings.” From Miss Tilley’s expression, it was clear she disapproved. In her eyes, sickness was usually nothing more than a convenient excuse for neglecting one’s duty.

      “I wouldn’t have expected it of him,” she fumed. “He’s left us in a terrible predicament.”

      “What do you mean?” asked Lucy.

      “Remember when the commission was created? It was supposed to protect the town from tasteless, rampant development. People saw what happened in Freeport, and wanted to make sure that could never happen here. They voted to designate almost all of the town as a historic district, and set up the commission to review all proposals for change within the district. No one who owns property within the district can make any changes without getting a certificate of appropriateness from the commission.”

      Lucy and Bill knew all about the commission, usually referred to in The Pennysaver as the TCHDC. More and more, however, people were calling it the “hysterical commission.” While most everyone agreed it was important to preserve the character of the town, they resented having to get official approval whenever they wanted to change the color of the front door.

      “I’ve been on the commission from the beginning, and so has Porter and Hancock Smith. You know Hancock—the president of the Historical Society. And then there was Kitty Slack and Gerald Asquith from the college. Gerald decided not to run for reelection, and, well, you know all about Kitty.”

      Lucy did. Only a few months had passed since Kitty, a wealthy widow, had jilted her faithful suitor Gerald Asquith and left town unexpectedly, accompanied by a silver fox of a time-share salesman.

      “Only three people were on the ballot for two seats, and one of them was Kitty. It was too late to get her name off the ballot so Jock Mulligan and Doug Durning really ran unopposed. We used to have a nice unanimous board, but those two apparently have a different agenda. They will approve anything. It didn’t matter while we had Porter, but now that he’s gone the commission has been stalemated. Our votes are always tied. We can’t even agree on a fifth member to fill in until elections next year. Then I thought of you, Bill.”

      He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Me?”

      “You.” Sitting with her back to the window, Miss Tilley’s white hair glowed angelically. Her blue eyes twinkled. She smiled sweetly. Anyone who didn’t know her would think she was a perfectly nice old lady.

      “It’s positively Machiavellian, if I say so myself,” she cackled. “They can’t say no to you. You’re a restoration carpenter. You have impeccable credentials.”

      “I’d like to help,” said Bill, “but I don’t think I have the time.”

      “Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “And what do you do most evenings?”

      Bill squirmed uneasily.

      “I bet you watch TV. Mental masturbation, that’s what I call it.”

      Lucy pressed her lips together, to keep from giggling, and looked at Bill.

      “There’s nothing the matter with TV,” he grumbled. “How often does this thing meet?”

      “Once a month.”

      “I guess I can manage that,” he agreed. “But I’m warning you, I’ll have to vote the way I see fit.”

      “Of course, you must vote your conscience,” she said, laying heavy emphasis on the last word. “Then we’ll see you tomorrow night. Seven o’clock at the town hall.”

      “Tomorrow? That means I’ll miss Seinfeld!”

      Miss Tilley silenced him with a stare. Only one avenue was left. Bill grabbed his lunch box, gave Lucy a peck on the cheek, and hurried out.

      “I’m glad you asked him,” said Lucy. “He has a lot to offer. It’s about time he got involved. He needs something to take his mind off the Hopkins Homestead fire.”

      “My thoughts exactly,” said Miss Tilley, casting an appraising glance at Lucy. “My dear, I hope you’ll take a little bit of advice from an old friend. Even a spinster like myself knows you’ll never keep a man interested if you let yourself go the way you have.”

      Lucy ran a hand through her hair, suddenly self-conscious.

      Miss Tilley rose. “You’re really quite attractive when you make an effort, my dear. Now, I must be off.”

      Lucy watched СКАЧАТЬ