Trick or Treachery (4 page)

I also reflected on the sudden chill I’d experienced in the department store. If I didn’t know better, the rush of cold air that seemed to have engulfed me had come from Ms. Swift, as though she was a refrigerator whose door had been opened. Warmth returned the minute she left the store.

I had a quiet dinner alone at home—clam chowder, crusty French bread and a salad topped with shavings of Parmesan cheese—and went to bed early. The problem was that someone else hadn’t gone to bed quite as early. The phone rang. I sleepily picked up the receiver. The line was clear.

“Hello?”

“Hi there, Mrs. F. Did I wake you?”

“As a matter of fact, Mort, you did, but that’s all right,” I said, throwing off the covers, sitting up and wriggling back to rest against the headboard.

“Just wanted to see if you had any idea what costume I might wear to Paul Marshall’s Halloween party.”

“You, too?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I picked up a costume for Seth today.”

“What did you get him?”

“He’s going to be a British soldier from the Revolutionary War.”

Mort chuckled. “He wouldn’t know one end of a musket from the other.”

“Be that as it may, he’s going as a ‘lobsterback. ’ I got the costume at the theater. You still haven’t decided what to wear?”

“Nope. Maureen’s going as that singer, Cher. Got herself a whole outfit complete with a long black wig from a mail order costume place down in New York.”

“Good for her. At least she was thinking ahead.” The sound of static began to crackle softly under our conversation.

“I thought I’d just come in my sheriff’s uniform,” Mort said, raising his voice. “But Maureen says that’s not a costume.”

“It would be on someone who isn’t a sheriff,” I said, matching his volume, “but it isn’t for you. Why don’t you go as a soldier, too? Marcia Davis has a wonderful selection of uniforms at the theater. You could go as a World War Two doughboy, or someone from the Civil War.”

“That’s a good idea. Of course, I wouldn’t want to step on Seth’s toes.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t unless you wore a red jacket and white knee pants.” The static was louder now.

“Haven’t worn knee pants since I was five,” Mort shouted into the phone. “Well, sorry to have woken you, Mrs. F. I’ll check in with Marcia tomorrow morning.”

“You do that, Mort,” I called out. “Say hello to Maureen for me. Good night.”

I smiled as I sank down and drew up the covers. Cabot Cove was such a wonderful place to live, and I had such dear friends. But my final thought was of Lucas Tremaine and his speech downtown that afternoon, and of the strange lady, Ms. Swift, who was now a member of our community. My dreams reflected it—they were not pleasant dreams. I woke early in the morning groggy and out of sorts.

“Jess, it’s Matt.”

“Hello, Matt. Getting a call from you is always a nice way to start the day.”

“Wish all my clients felt that way. Jess, what’s this I hear about a Cabot Cove legend?”

“Legend? Oh, you mean
that
legend.” I laughed. “How did you hear about it?”

“It’s in this morning’s paper, something about a guy named Tremaine coming to Cabot Cove to drive this legend away.”

“What paper?”

“The
New York Daily News.
”

“Oh, my. I didn’t think the story would interest anyone outside of Maine. It’s all silliness, Matt. The legend goes back two hundred years. Hepzibah Cabot was the wife of the founder of Cabot Cove. She killed her husband when she discovered he’d been unfaithful to her, and then threw herself off a cliff into the sea. Even today people claim to see her in various places, wandering on the beach with seaweed streaming from her hair, or in the cemetery near her husband’s grave. Cabot House, her home, is now the headquarters of our historical society. Although The Legend has never been seen there, local history buffs love to retell the story every year, especially to the children who visit Cabot House. Of course they skip the reason she killed her husband.”

“Raises a lot of goose bumps with the little ones, I bet,” Matt said.

“Yes, it does. Children so enjoy ghost stories, and it seems to help interest them in history.”

“Well, Jess, The Legend is an amusing tale, but it doesn’t seem to be especially newsworthy.”

“It wasn’t until recently. About two months ago, a man named Lucas Tremaine arrived and claimed to have made contact with The Legend. He’s preaching—yes, that’s what I’d call it, preaching—that The Legend is about to raise her pretty head and wreak havoc on us, and that only he can stave it off.”

“Can he?”

“Can he? Matt! There is no Legend, and Mr. Tremaine is a con man. Besides claiming he’s our savior, he’s established quite a little cult for himself, putting the gullible in touch with deceased loved ones in the spirit world—for sizable fees, I might add.”

“Could be a book in it.”

“Maybe, but not from this writer.”

“Just thinking out loud. Any plans to head down to New York this fall?”

“None at the moment, but I’d like to,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Have to run, Matt. I’m due at a meeting and rehearsal in a half hour.”

“Meeting? Rehearsal? About what?”

“Our annual children’s Halloween pageant.”

“That’s right. Halloween is just a few days away. Perfect time for spirits to come out of the woodwork and—Jess? Can you hear me?”

“There goes the phone again. We’ve been having nothing but trouble with the lines all over town.”

“I can barely hear you.”

“Good-bye, Matt. We’ll talk when they fix things.”

I hung up and considered placing a call to the phone company, but realized it wouldn’t accomplish anything. I’d already called a half-dozen times since the trouble began. Nothing to be gained by telling the company what it already knew.

The meeting about the pageant was scheduled to begin at ten at the elementary school. I had plenty of time and decided to walk. It was a typical fall day, the sky cobalt blue and without a cloud, a bright sun hurling shafts of light through the brilliant yellows of the sugar maples. It was truly a day to buoy my spirits, as though they needed uplifting. It was, as Seth Hazlitt would describe it, a “fat day.”

I took the shore route, stopping occasionally to take a deep breath of the bracing salt air and to admire the millions of dancing ripples on the ocean’s surface created by a stiff onshore breeze. I closed my eyes and allowed the sun to play over my face. When I opened them, I realized I was no longer alone. Standing there was Erica Marshall, daughter of Paul Marshall, at whose lavish home we would gather for our annual grown-up Halloween party.

“Hello there, Erica. Fabulous day, isn’t it,” I called out as I strode toward her.

She’d been looking down, examining the sand at the margin as the foam edged close to her shoe, her arms tightly crossed. Every time I see Erica Marshall, the term “delicate” comes to mind. She is doll-like, extremely slender and finely etched, her facial features like a perfectly carved cameo, hands and feet appropriately tiny. She couldn’t be taller than five feet, perhaps even an inch shy of that. Silky brown hair that curves under at her jaw adds to the overall impression of beauty in miniature.

She glanced up at the sound of my voice, a startled look on her young face.

“Sorry,” I said, stopping a few feet away. “Didn’t mean to disturb your thoughts.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Fletcher.” Judging from her frown, her thoughts might not have been pleasant.

“Taking some time off to appreciate this beautiful day?” I inquired. I knew Erica worked for her father in some capacity at his factory.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it,” she said sadly, looking out to sea. “No, I just took a little detour on my way to the office.”

“How’s your dad? Getting ready for the party?”

She looked as though she might break into tears. I wondered if the annual party at Paul Marshall’s estate, the first social gathering there since the tragic fire that took the life of her father’s partner, Anthony Scott, was distressing her. Perhaps the upcoming year anniversary of that melancholy event was in her thoughts. I was also aware through the town’s efficient grapevine that father and daughter had been estranged at times, although the reasons why seemed to evade those in the know.

She started to stammer. “Oh . . . oh, everyone’s fine, thanks. Yes . . . yes, getting ready for the party.”

“Well,” I said, annoyed I hadn’t been sensitive enough to couch my cheery greeting, “I’d better be going. I’ll see you there, dear.”

“ ’Bye, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I spent the rest of my walk to the elementary school reflecting on that terrible accident a year ago.

Anthony Scott had been Paul Marshall’s partner in a manufacturing and mail order business featuring a line of rugged outerwear that was popular with sportsmen. The business had been profitable for years . . . until competitors stepped up their sales efforts and chipped away at Marshall-Scott Clothing’s share of the market. That’s when Tony Scott’s scientific mind went to work. He was the technical genius of the partnership, Paul Marshall the marketing and sales expert.

Scott had been working on a new insulating material to line their clothing that he claimed was far superior to Thinsulate and other materials used by the competition. Their work had even been written about in the business press. The problem, again according to scuttlebutt around town, was that Scott’s invention, known as “BarrierCloth,” was too flammable to meet federal safety standards. Scott had been working day and night in a small laboratory at one end of the main manufacturing building to correct the problem in time to introduce the new line the following spring. But on Halloween night one year ago, while the party was in full swing at Marshall’s house, and while Scott worked into the night, a terrible fire destroyed the lab. Scott was burned beyond recognition.

What stuck in my mind as I turned the corner and headed for the school was the funeral that was held for him. . . .

 

It was a rainy day last year when the body of Anthony Scott was put to rest in the small cemetery adjacent to Paul Marshall’s property, Cabot Cove’s oldest final resting place of Hepzibah and Winfred Cabot and others who’d lived during the town’s formative stages. Because it is so small and crowded, larger cemeteries in other areas of the county are now utilized.

It could be said that Anthony Scott was a stereotypical scientist, introverted and absorbed in whatever he was working on at the moment, although he and his partner had been generous supporters of Cabot Cove’s civic activities. Scott’s nonworldly approach to life was the subject of good-natured humor. Holding a conversation with him was often difficult because his thoughts seemed always to be elsewhere. And he was accident prone, not surprising for someone who seemed incapable of focusing on where he was, or where he was going.

I remember one incident when Tony was almost run over in the center of town. The light had turned green for cars, and this particular driver, one of our librarians, proceeded through the intersection. Tony Scott, his mind elsewhere, casually stepped into the intersection and came within an inch of being struck by her car. To the driver’s surprise, Tony claimed she’d deliberately tried to hit him. He even went so far as to tell the officer who came to the scene that it wasn’t the first time his enemies had attempted to run him over. His claim was dismissed by the amused officer, who knew of Tony’s reputation as an eccentric. The incident was forgotten.

Another time, while Tony was walking through the woods during a rainy windstorm, a large branch broke away, landed on his shoulder and broke it. He told the nurses and doctor in the emergency room that someone had obviously sawed through the limb just enough for it to fall and hit him. “He’s so paranoid,” one of the E.R. nurses commented over coffee at Mara’s the next morning, laughing.

“He’s just an absentminded inventor,” her tablemate said. “Like Einstein. They’re all that way.”

Tony Scott was a dark-haired man, small in both height and build, and wore thick glasses over large blue eyes. His clothes served almost as a uniform: wrinkled chino pants, sweaters with holes in the elbows and tan work boots with thick soles. I didn’t know him well; I don’t think many people did. He was a widower and lived alone in one of the cottages owned by his partner—a simple lifestyle that seemed perfectly suited to him.

I did know that Scott had a son, Jeremy, who’d gone to live with his mother after she and Tony had separated—it was my understanding they’d never divorced. Mrs. Scott had died when Jeremy was in college, and he’d elected to stay where they were living, somewhere in California, and hadn’t returned to Cabot Cove until his father’s funeral. He was thirty at the time.

“I’m so sorry about your father, Jeremy. He was a fine man, and I understand, quite an inventor,” I said as we stood in Paul Marshall’s baronial living room after returning from the cemetery.

“He certainly was,” Jeremy replied. “He had an incredible mind for technical things.”

Jeremy Scott was a handsome young man, considerably taller than his father, and dressed in a conservative suit and tie appropriate to any corporate boardroom. He had inherited his father’s blue eyes, but his hair, worn short, was the color of beach sand. He had a pleasant smile that put you immediately at ease. Like many young executives of his generation, he’d taken to smoking cigars. This day he held an un-lighted one between his fingers. I noticed it had a distinctive wrapper.

“That’s a Cuban cigar, isn’t it?” I commented. “Aren’t they illegal in this country?”

He laughed. “My only vice, I’m afraid,” he said, “and yes, illegal. Friends of mine get them through a source in Prague. No harm done. We should have normal relations with Cuba anyway. Mind if I light up?”