Trick or Treachery (3 page)

“Wants to relive his World War Two days?”

“Maybe. At any rate, do you know if the wardrobe department includes military uniforms?”

“Sure it does, but I couldn’t tell you which ones. Want me to call Marcia? I spoke with her just a little bit ago. She’ll be at the theater all afternoon.”

“Would you? I’d really appreciate it.”

I settled back at my desk and resumed working until the phone rang fifteen minutes later.

“Jessica? Jess? Can you hear me? It’s Peter.”

A buzz filled my ear, then faded away.

“That’s better. I can hear you now.”

“This is really intolerable. I’ve been calling the phone company, and they just keep patting me on the head, figuratively, of course, and telling me they haven’t found the source of the problem, which is pretty apparent.”

“I’m sure they’re working on it as best they can,” I said. “Until this latest problem, service has always been good. Seth and I saw two repairmen in Mara’s this morning.”

“They should be out climbing telephone poles,” Peter said with a huff.

“Everyone has to eat.”

“I know, I know. Please don’t pay any attention to my grousing. It’s just that this whole phone thing has been frustrating.”

“Yes, I know,” I murmured sympathetically.

“I talked with Marcia,” he said, returning to his usual brisk manner. “She said they have a pretty good selection of military uniforms, World War One, World War Two, Vietnam, the Civil War, even a couple of replicas of Revolutionary times. What do you think Seth would like?”

“Undoubtedly the Revolutionary War uniform. He’s a real buff.”

“Well, fitting Seth’s front porch might be a bit of a problem. Why don’t you go over to the theater and see what’s there? I told Marcia you’d be by.”

“Great idea, Peter. Thanks. Hope I didn’t intrude on a busy day.”

“No, just fighting with the telephone company and trying to stay ahead of cataloguing scores, making order out of chaos.”

I smiled. What Peter Eder considered chaos would represent pristine orderliness to most of us. He’s the neatest man I’ve ever known.

Because I don’t drive, my instinct was to pick up the phone and call the local cab company, which had been taken over five years ago by a lovely Greek family. They’d bought it from the retiring owner and had built it into quite a business, including stretch limousines for longer trips and a minibus for larger groups. But as the sun streamed through my window and created lovely patterns on my desk, I decided it was too nice a day for a taxi. I went to the garage, pulled out my trusty bicycle, hopped on it and headed for the theater.

Marcia Davis was in the lobby when I arrived. She was hanging posters for the next production. She put down her stapler and took me backstage to the wardrobe rooms, where she’d already pulled out all the military uniforms in the inventory and hung them on a rolling garment rack.

“These are wonderful,” I said, fingering each one.

“We haven’t done a play with a military theme in a long time, but I believe in being ready in case we do.”

I took a uniform from the rack. “Revolutionary War?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“This is the British uniform, right?” I said. The bright red jacket had two sets of brass buttons down the front and braid along the shoulder. “It looks like it might fit Seth.”

“It is . . . large.”

“British soldiers in the Revolutionary War must have eaten well.”

“It’s just a costume, of course, not the real thing,” Marcia said, pulling a pair of white knee-length pants off a hanger. “But it’s authentic. Do you think Seth has white knee socks to go with these?” She laughed.

“I’m not sure, but I know where to buy them. I wonder how he’ll feel being on the losing side.”

Marcia’s smile turned to a frown. “If I had a colonist’s uniform, I’d give you that. Come to think of it, did the colonists even have a uniform? I hope Seth won’t be upset.”

“I was just kidding,” I said. “May I take it with me?”

“Of course.” Her smile reappeared. “I know you’ll return it in good shape.”

“Thanks, Marcia. You made it all very easy.”

“Oh, wait,” she said. “He’ll need the hat, too.” She rummaged through a large carton of hats wrapped in white tissue paper, and extracted a triangular package, pulling off the paper to reveal an ornate tricorn.

“Here you go.”

“What about shoes?” I asked.

“Can’t help there, Jess. He’ll have to make do with a pair of ordinary black ones.”

Marcia took the red coat off the hanger and folded it over the pants. She put the hat on top, and tucked the stack in a plastic bag that fit neatly in my bike’s rear basket.

I had a choice of two routes home. One would take me through the countryside, the other through town. I chose the latter, planning a stop at Charles Department Store to pick up white knee socks for Seth.

I’d reached the center of Cabot Cove when a disturbance at an intersection caught my eye. Being naturally curious—Seth Hazlitt is often dismayed at my inherent and obsessive curiosity—I pedaled closer to where the disturbance was taking place. Lucas Tremaine stood on a bench, addressing a group of bystanders. Gesticulating passionately, his voice rising and falling in concert with the movement of his arms, he’d attracted a small crowd that stood in rapt attention. He was shouting, his words reaching me clearly although I was fifty feet away.

“There is evil afoot in this community, and those of you who fail to realize it will be doomed to suffer the consequences. Yes, you laugh and scoff at the notion that restless spirits are in your midst, but the truth will out. The Legend of Cabot Cove walks. Many have seen her. At night. On the beach. In the cemetery. Which one of you has seen her, or felt her chilling presence, but were afraid to come forward?”

Tremaine pointed at a man in a brown-and-black checked flannel shirt, Artie Sack, an old-timer whose family had been in Cabot Cove for generations. Artie had a reputation for being “slow”—learning-impaired, it was said. He’d dropped out of school in the eighth grade and become a gardener for several local residents. If Artie’s academic abilities were limited, he made up for it by being a savant when it came to plants, flowers and almost anything else having to do with gardening. He could rattle off the Latin and common names of virtually every type of flowering plant, tell you when they were first introduced, and instruct you on how to plant and care for them. Roses were his specialty; the rose garden he’d created for Paul Marshall beside a cottage on his estate was considered to be one of the finest examples in the state of Maine, and photographs of it had appeared in a national home and garden magazine.

Artie Sack lived on Marshall’s property, in a small apartment above a four-car garage. I knew Artie pretty well. I’ve never been considered someone with a green thumb, and if the property around my house looked pretty in the spring and summer, it was because Artie showed up once a week to make it so. His widowed sister-in-law, who lived in town, worked as a housekeeper for Paul Marshall.

Tremaine spoke directly to Artie, like a sidewalk pitchman who’d found an easy mark, his voice becoming deeper, more urgent. “The Legend of Cabot Cove is not alone,” he intoned, shaking a finger at Artie, then raising his arms to the sky. “She is calling her spirit brothers and sisters to a convocation. Here!” He now pointed at the ground. His eyes were full of fire. “They will descend upon this village in the hundreds, possibly thousands. Their misery will permeate the atmosphere. They will haunt your homes, infect your workplace, creep into your hide-a-ways, wreaking their vengeance on all the citizens of Cabot Cove. Machines will malfunction, food will spoil, traffic will snarl, animals will howl, crime will run rampant through the streets. And unless you do something, ladies and gentlemen, do something now, there will be hell to pay.”

He was roaring now. “They’re coming. You mark my words. The Legend and her brothers and sisters will be here soon. But it’s not too late, not yet. I’m here to help you. Together we will see that they are driven out.”

The sound of a siren drowned out Tremaine’s next words as Sheriff Mort Metzger pulled up in his black-and-white squad car. “All right, folks, let’s move along now.” Mort’s voice boomed out of his vehicle’s loudspeaker. He got out and waved the crowd away. I looked around. In the short time I’d been listening, Tremaine’s audience had grown. Merchants stood in their shop doorways, their customers spilling out onto the sidewalk. It looked as if all Cabot Cove had stopped what they’d been doing to listen to this madman.

“Sheriff,” Tremaine yelled from his perch, “this is a legal gathering. Have you never heard of freedom of speech, freedom of assembly? You’re tromping on my rights. I demand to be allowed to communicate with these good people.”

“You can communicate all you want,” Mort shouted back, “but it’s public safety I’m concerned about, and you’re blocking traffic, not to mention alarming the citizens with your claptrap.”

Tremaine struck a defiant pose. “See?” he called to the departing crowd. “The officials in Cabot Cove are afraid of us. They know I’m telling you the truth, but they’re hiding the facts from you. It’s a cover-up. Don’t let them get away with it. Join me.”

Mort took a step toward the bench. Tremaine glared at him before climbing down and thrusting circulars into outstretched hands as he pushed his way through the few remaining listeners. Some teenagers jeered him, and a woman yelled, “You’re nothing but a nut case.”

Her comment caused Tremaine to stop and turn. I feared he would physically attack her. Instead, he muttered something I couldn’t hear, then stalked away.

The audience slowly dispersed, and Cabot Cove’s village center, as we refer to downtown, resumed its usual peaceful mien. I looked for Artie Sack, but he’d disappeared.

When I entered Charles Department Store, it was buzzing with gossip about Tremaine and his predictions of dire happenings. I crossed the creaky wooden floor, skirted the wooden display cabinets, waved to the group gathered at the cashier’s desk and found my way to the men’s department in the back, where bins of socks were located.

“Exciting afternoon, huh, Jessica?” said David Raneri, one of the store’s owners as he came down the aisle with an armload of sweaters.

“I don’t know if I’d call it exciting exactly. Disturbing comes closer to mind.”

“You’re the writer, so I’ll let you pick the words,” he said, grinning.

Richard Koser turned from the counter where he’d been examining a green cardigan and plucked a deep blue one from the pile in David’s arms. Besides being a wonderful commercial photographer—he’d shot most of the photos for my books’ dust jackets—Richard was one of Cabot Cove’s acknowledged gourmet cooks. “Thanks, Dave,” Richard said. “Just the right color.” He held it up to his chest. “What do you think, Jess?”

“Looks perfect to me,” I said.

“Told you about that maniac, didn’t I?” Richard continued. “He’ll probably get a good audience, too. P. T. Barnum was right, about a sucker being born every minute.”

David turned to me. “Can I help you find something, Jess?”

“I hope so. I need a pair of long white socks.”

“For you?”

“Actually, no. They’re for Seth Hazlitt.”

Richard and David exchanged amused glances.

“Not for his everyday use,” I quickly added. “It’s for his Halloween costume. Paul Marshall’s annual party.”

“What’s Doc going as,” Koser asked, “the lead dancer from
The Nutcracker
?” Richard could be as acerbic as he was talented with a camera.

“No,” I said, “he’s going as a Revolutionary War soldier.”

“An officer, I assume,” said Koser. “Doc Hazlitt would never be content as an enlisted man.”

“I think it’s an officer’s uniform,” I said. “I got his costume from Marcia Davis at the theater. I need the long white socks to finish it off.”

“Come with me,” David said, setting down the sweaters on a table. “Women’s section.”

In all my travels I have never encountered a store quite like Charles’s. It seems there is nothing they don’t have on hand—nothing. That David immediately handed me a pair of long white socks wasn’t at all surprising.

“Think they’ll fit Seth?” I asked.

“It’s the biggest pair we have,” David said. “Lots of elastic. They’ll expand to fit almost everyone. I think he’ll manage to get into them.”

I followed David to the checkout counter and stood in line behind the woman Mara had pointed out at breakfast that morning. She was in the process of paying for her purchases—a pointed shovel with a long handle, a sturdy rake and gardening gloves.

“Need help out to the car with those, Ms. Swift?” David asked her.

“No, thank you,” she said flatly. “I can manage just fine.”

The woman—I now knew her last name—gathered the garden tools to her chest and walked to the front door.

“She’s new in town, isn’t she?” I asked.

“Yes,” David said. “Matilda Swift. She’s renting one of the cottages on Paul Marshall’s estate.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I turned from him and looked about the store.

“Something wrong?” David’s brother, Jim, asked from behind the counter.

“No, I . . . I thought someone might have opened a window. I suddenly feel cold.”

“We’ve been complaining all day it’s too hot,” Jim Raneri said, laughing.

“The Rose Cottage,” David said as he placed the white socks in a bag. “She’s renting the Rose Cottage on Marshall’s estate.

“She’s lucky,” I said. “That garden is spectacular.”

“I know. Well, Jess, there you are. Doc Hazlitt’s all set for the party. Still cold?”

“No. It came as fast as it went. Thanks, fellas. You always come through with what I need.”

 

The vision of Lucas Tremaine preaching on that corner stayed with me through the rest of the day and into the evening. There’s always something disquieting about someone who espouses destructive thoughts because even though most folks might view such people for what they are, unbalanced zealots, they will always find some following. My hope was that Mr. Tremaine would fail in his enterprise and simply go away—not a particularly generous thought, but one that accurately reflected my feelings.