Death of a Pumpkin Carver (14 page)

“Your father could have forged that paper,” Hayley said as she set three rows of corn taco shells down on a baking pan and slid them in the oven in her kitchen.

“Sergio doesn't think so. The signature matches a few other signed documents Otis had in a file drawer,” Gemma said, shredding lettuce and chopping tomatoes on a cutting board.

Hayley was deeply skeptical about what the police found after meticulously going through all of the late Otis Pearson's belongings recovered at his cabin in the hopes of finding a reason someone would want him dead.

What turned up was a signed will from Otis, nothing official or notarized, but stating it was his wish that Danny be bequeathed the remaining amount of his life savings in the event of his death.

“So does this mean Sergio's going to drop the theft charge?” Hayley asked.

“It looks that way. Although he was still mad at Dad for jumping the gun and taking the money before the investigation was completed and the will was recovered,” Gemma said, scraping the lettuce and tomatoes off the cutting board and onto the plate.

Hayley stirred a bubbling skillet of seasoned taco meat with a wooden spoon. “Well, he's still in the doghouse. He came here with the Boston Mafia on his tail and put us all in danger.”

“He didn't know they were chasing him until after he got here. And Dad told me he used most of his inheritance from Otis to pay off his debt so those two guys who were following him around have already gone back to Boston. Everything's fine now,” Gemma said, sliding a block of cheddar cheese up and down a steel shredder. “I just hate thinking of him staying all alone in that fleabag motel.”

Hayley tasted a small piece of sizzling taco meat to test the seasoning.

She added some more chili pepper. “If I let him come stay here again, you and Dustin need to know . . .”

“It's only temporary. You're never getting back together. We get it, Mom. Seriously. But we hardly ever see him and he's only going to be in town a few more days and it would be nice having him around,” Gemma said.

“Let me think about,” Hayley said, sighing. “Now go call your brother for supper.”

Gemma smiled, knowing she had won the argument and her mother would cave. She bounced out of the kitchen and called up the stairs. “Tacos are ready!”

Dustin bounded down the stairs with Spanky right behind him.

When Hayley arrived home from work, she hadn't expected to see Spanky hanging out in Dustin's room discussing their film adaptation of his horror novel. And Dustin was surprised his mother so readily invited Spanky to stay for supper, unaware she had an ulterior motive.

The boys took their places at the dining room table as Gemma set out the bowl of taco meat, plate of warm shells, and all the fixings.

Hayley retrieved the homemade guacamole she had prepared earlier from the fridge and then joined the kids at the table as they began making their tacos.

“So how's the book coming along, Spanky?” Hayley casually asked as she watched him stuffing his shell with meat and vegetables.

Spanky shrugged. “Good.”

“Tell us more. It's all very exciting,” Hayley said. “Have you heard from Mr. Cross yet?”

Spanky shrugged. “No.”

“He's not supposed to talk about it,” Dustin said, shutting his mother down.

“Why not?”

Spanky took a big bite out of his taco and chewed.

“Who told you not to talk about it?” Hayley asked.

“My mother always yells at me for talking with my mouth full,” Spanky said, bits of taco shell and strands of cheese falling out of his mouth.

“Well, I'll wait,” Hayley said, determined to find out more.

They all waited as Spanky chewed and chewed and chewed before finally swallowing the food in his mouth in one big gulp.

He went to take another bite of the taco in his hand while the sauce dripped down his hand and onto the table. Hayley reached out and grabbed his wrist before the messy taco could reach his mouth. “Who told you not to talk about it, Spanky?”

“Shane.”

And then he crunched down and bit off another hunk.

“Mr. Cross's writing assistant?”

Spanky nodded.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

After another big swallow, Spanky wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “He said it was probably best, at least until Mr. Cross has had a chance to read my book.”

“What else did Shane tell you?” Hayley asked.

But she was too late.

Spanky shoved the remaining taco deep inside his mouth.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Hayley waited patiently.

Even Gemma and Dustin were now curious and leaning forward, impatiently waiting for Spanky to swallow.

Spanky smiled at them as he continued chewing.

Taking his time.

Savoring the spicy taco meat.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Spanky swallowed and everyone at the table held their breath in anticipation.

“Nothing.”

“Really? That's it? That's all we get?” Gemma said, throwing her napkin down on the table.

“Shane's really nice. I think he wants to be a writer too. That's why he's trying to help me out. We have a lot in common.”

Spanky reached for another taco shell and began filling it up.

Hayley wasn't ready to tell the poor boy she had seen his original manuscript lying on top of Crystal Collier's desk.

No, she had to find out more about this Shane Hardy first.

“I remember Shane had a very strong taste for older women. He used to hit on all his female professors. Including me,” Judith Ann Moore said as she walked with Hayley across the campus of the College of the Atlantic, located just outside of town where Professor Moore had an office. “He was also a very driven young man, dare I say ruthless, willing to do anything to become a published author,”

It was a brisk afternoon, leaves blowing all around from a gusty wind, and Judith Ann buttoned up her fleece coat to keep warm. She was an attractive woman in her early seventies, with a heart-shaped face and infectious smile. She had to keep tucking her long dyed-blond hair behind her ears to keep it from blowing around and covering her eyes.

That morning Hayley had asked Sal during the staff meeting if he had heard of Shane Hardy. Sal knew the name but didn't know much about him. But it was Bruce who recalled the young man applying for an internship position at the
Island Times
a few years back, when he was still in college, to shadow a reporter and learn more about the day-to-day workings of newspaper journalism.

After Sal adjourned the meeting, Hayley searched the files on her computer and very quickly found Shane's application. His résumé lacked experience, which wasn't surprising for his young age, and his essay on why he wanted to work at the paper was brief and uninspired, but he still had been brought in for an interview.

Only after meeting with Sal here at the office was he rejected for the position.

Sal had no recollection of meeting with him, nor what they talked about, or why he wasn't hired. Bruce remembered running into Shane the day he came in to meet with Sal, and did recall thinking at the time that he was a rather “odd bird,” but beyond that, he made very little impression on anyone.

Hayley figured she must have been running an errand or out that day dealing with a “kid emergency” because she had no memory of him whatsoever.

One detail on his application did stand out.

He purported to have studied with Judith Ann Moore, a writing professor at the local college.

Judith Ann and Hayley's mother, Sheila, had grown up together. They lived next door to each other when they were little girls until the famous 1947 Bar Harbor fire swept through town ravaging homes and businesses not to mention acres of forests in Acadia National Park.

Hayley's grandparents' house on Greeley Avenue where her mother lived had been hosed down and spared but Judith Ann's house right next door was decimated. Her family had to move in with relatives until they could rebuild. Sheila and Judith Ann remained friends throughout the years, the devastating loss from the tragedy bonding them even more, and they were still tight to this day. Once a year when her classes were not in session, Judith Ann would book a cheap flight down to Florida and spend quality time with her childhood best friend.

So it was easy for Hayley to pick up the phone and call Judith Ann, and see if she would mind Hayley swinging by the college that afternoon to ask her a few questions about a former student.

“‘Ruthless' is a pretty strong word,” Hayley said, her lips quivering from the chilly late fall air. “How ruthless?”

Judith Ann took a deep breath. “I had a student, Connor Newman, who was very talented and well respected by his peers for his exceptional writing ability. He came to me and accused Shane of plagiarizing one of his short stories. He had asked Shane to read it and give him some notes, and Shane had come back with several pages of thoughts and so Connor decided to write a new draft. But before he was able to finish the revisions, his original story was published in the student literary journal under Shane's name. I brought Shane in and asked him about it and he adamantly denied any wrongdoing and said if anyone had stolen the story it was Connor. I couldn't prove that Shane had plagiarized the story because according to Connor he never showed anyone else the piece before Shane. So it was Connor's word against Shane's.”

“But your instinct told you Shane was the guilty party,” Hayley said.

Judith Ann nodded. “I was certain. But there wasn't anything I could do about it.”

“And that was the end of it,” Hayley said.

“Not quite,” Judith Ann said, trying one more time to tuck her long hair behind her ear to keep it out of her face as the winds whipped up all around them. “Connor wouldn't let it go. He tried to involve the student peer committee, the college president, the board of trustees. The more actions he took the angrier he made Shane and there was a rumor . . .”

“What rumor?”

Judith Ann hesitated.

“What rumor, Judith Ann?”

“Let me be clear, Hayley, the rumor was never substantiated. It was just talk.”

“I understand. Please tell me.”

Judith Ann took another deep breath. “I've never spoken about this to anyone because it's in the past and nothing was ever proven. But just as Connor seemed to be making progress with the administration and there was actually talk of a formal investigation . . .”

“Go on . . .” Hayley said, unable to stand the suspense much longer.

“Connor dropped out. He had his parents pick him up and take him home to Connecticut.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Nobody knows. But there was a story going around campus that Connor was at a party and Shane brought him a cocktail made with lemonade as sort of a peace offering. But very quickly Connor got sick and had to be rushed to the hospital. He almost died. The doctors assumed he had drunk too much and was suffering from alcohol poisoning. They pumped his stomach and mercifully he pulled through. But there were some very scary moments until they were able to stabilize him.”

“Did Connor have a lot to drink before running into Shane?”

“No. He claimed he had just arrived at the party and was stone-cold sober. Alcohol poisoning didn't make any sense.”

“So what caused him to get sick?”

“Apparently there was a girl at the party who saw Shane spiking the lemonade with some kind of poison . . .”

“He was trying to
kill
Connor?”

“Or scare him so bad that he would stop trying to come after him.”

“I guess it worked,” Hayley said, stunned. “Did the police talk to the girl who witnessed Shane spiking the lemonade?”

Judith Ann shook her head. “No. Like I said, it was just a story. And the girl didn't want to come forward and get involved. Connor left town shortly after that without taking any tests to prove it was something else besides too much alcohol in his system. So with no witness or any physical evidence, the whole matter was dropped. And frankly, the administration was relieved. What would it look like if one of their students was caught trying to poison a classmate?”

“And so Shane continued his studies as if nothing had happened?”

“Yes. And that story he purportedly stole won a national student literary award. He even got a small cash prize.”

Hayley couldn't believe it.

Just like Judith Ann's instinct, Hayley's gut was telling her the rumor was true.

And history was about to repeat itself.

She was certain Shane Hardy had no intention of ever showing Spanky's horror novel to Norman Cross.

He was going to steal it and claim it as his own.