Wicked Witch Murder (14 page)

Rebecca seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Lucy wondered if she was anxious about something, but then she smiled. “I strive to live in harmony with nature—that's why it seems so peaceful.”

“So that's the secret. I've got to live in harmony with a husband, four kids, and a boss! So how much do I owe you?”

Rebecca pronounced a shocking sum, but Lucy paid up gladly, telling herself it was important to encourage local growers. And besides, she reminded herself as she carried off her purchases, she'd gotten more than her money's worth, because shopping at the farmlet was a sensual experience. She'd feasted her eyes on beauty, she'd felt the warm sun on her skin, she'd inhaled the heady fragrances of the herbs, and she'd heard the cry of the owl. And now, as she started the car, she was tasting the incomparable flavor of a sun-ripened raspberry.

 

Back in the office, Lucy found a stack of papers on her desk.

“Ted wants you to go through those letters and decide which ones to print. When you're done with that, I need you to proofread the legals for me.”

“Okay,” said Lucy with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. Picking the letters wasn't so bad, but reading those complicated and lengthy legal ads was a tiresome chore. However, it did sometimes yield a story, like when a millionaire CEO who owned a luxurious summer home featured in several shelter magazines was included in the town treasurer's annual list of unpaid real estate taxes. That was quite a scoop, but the ads were rarely that interesting, so Lucy started with the letters.

They included the usual complaints about town officials who wasted the taxpayers' money, thank-yous to the rescue squad paramedics for their “quick response and considerate behavior,” and promos for upcoming events such as the Hook Fishermen's “Hookers' Ball” and the “Twice Round the Cove” road race. Lucy decided to focus on the positive this week and set the complaints aside; she was trying to decide which worthy event to include when Phyllis handed her some new letters that had just been delivered.

“Wilf just brought these,” she said, in that special voice she used for the mailman.

“How's that going?” asked Lucy, taking the letters. “Is he still bringing you flowers and taking you out to dinner?”

“Yes, he is,” said Phyllis, checking her reverse French manicure with white nails tipped with coral. It was the latest thing, according to Phyllis, and all the rage at the nail salon.

“You're a lucky girl,” said Lucy. “He's a real gentleman.”

“Don't I know it,” said Phyllis, gazing out the window and watching as her knight in shining armor—actually blue shorts—proceeded across the street, pushing his little wheeled cart. “He's such a romantic. It's kind of hard not to disillusion him.”

“You're afraid of falling off the pedestal?” asked Lucy, attacking the handful of envelopes with her letter opener.

Phyllis grimaced. “I'm not sure our relationship would survive the crash.”

“I don't think you need to worry,” said Lucy, extracting one of the letters and unfolding it. “You've got a lot going for—” She stopped abruptly as she read the letter. “Here we go again.”

“What?” Phyllis was leaning over her shoulder to read the letter, and Lucy could smell her Jean Naté body splash.

“It's Ike Stoughton, going after Diana Ravenscroft again.”

“He doesn't mince his words, does he?” said Phyllis. “‘Ungodly wickedness, undermining parental authority, corrupting the town's youth…'”

“‘Must not be allowed to continue,'” quoted Lucy. “He's calling on the town's God-fearing citizens to take whatever steps are necessary to rid the town of this, and here I quote, ‘suppurating sore.'”

“What exactly is a suppurating sore?” asked Phyllis.

“I'm not sure, but it sounds disgusting,” said Lucy, unfolding the next letter. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, reading it. “This is another one, but it's from Cynthia Brock.”

“She's a crank, isn't she?”

“Yeah, she usually writes about the school budget.” Lucy was opening another letter. “My gosh, this is another one.”

“It must be a campaign,” suggested Phyllis. “I bet Ike Stoughton's behind it.”

“I think you're right,” said Lucy, quickly flipping through the remaining letters. “They're all practically identical.”

“Are you going to print them?” asked Phyllis.

“Not me,” said Lucy, clipping the letters together and putting them on Ted's desk. “This is one for the boss.”

Lucy went ahead and compiled a selection of less inflammatory letters for the editorial page and sent it to Ted's queue, figuring he could substitute one or two of the anti-witch letters if he wanted. If it was up to her, she would get the story behind the letters and print that, but it wasn't her call. Glancing at the clock, she realized she had plenty of time left for the legals—too bad.

Fortunately, they were submitted electronically, so all she had to do was read the text and make sure there were no misspellings or omissions. She slogged through several announcements of mortgagees' sales of real estate, always heartbreaking, and notices of a couple of wills presented for probate. She saved the planning board's monthly notice for last, because it was the easiest, merely listing the petitioners scheduled for the next meeting. It was a bit of a shock, however, when she spotted Compass Construction among the petitioners and learned the company was seeking approval for a site plan for a shopping mall adjacent to Rebecca's little farm.

L
ucy's first reaction was to telephone Rebecca; then she remembered Miss Tilley fretting that her friend didn't have a telephone. So she quickly finished editing the legals, then grabbed her bag and headed back out to the farm. She found Rebecca sitting under the grape arbor, sipping a glass of iced herb tea. Oz, the little owl, was perched on the back of the chair, napping.

“Would you like some?” she asked, indicating a frosty stoneware pitcher. “It's my own blend of rose hips, camomile, and mint, with a dash of strawberry syrup.”

“That sounds delicious,” said Lucy, easing into a twig chair that was a lot more comfortable than she would have suspected.

“It is,” said Rebecca, filling a glass for her. “I was expecting you.”

“You were?” asked Lucy, wondering if the witch had ESP or something.

“I got the certified letter from the planning board today, and I knew they'd be printing the legal notice.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, slightly disappointed. She took a sip of tea and held it on her tongue for a minute, savoring the refreshing flavors before swallowing. “Has Compass Construction offered to buy you out?”

“Oh, yes. A nice young man came by some weeks ago and offered me a shocking sum of money.”

“You refused?”

“Of course. I was born in this house. My family has lived here for, well, as long as people have lived in these parts. Mother told me that one of our ancestors married into the Native American tribe that was here when he arrived, so our ties to the land go back further than the European settlers.” She shrugged. “There's no way I could sell. The way I see it, it's not really mine to sell.”

An unusual sense of calm had come over Lucy, and she sat quietly, thinking about Rebecca's reply. Finally she spoke. “When your time comes, who will the land go to?”

“My daughter, of course.”

Lucy was shocked. For some reason, she thought Rebecca was childless, a maiden lady like Miss Tilley. “I didn't know….”

“How could you? She lives over in New Hampshire, with her daughter.”

Lucy was relieved. Though it was by no means certain that Compass Construction had anything to do with Malcolm's grisly death, she had been frightened for Rebecca's safety when she saw the ad. But knowing she had an heir changed the situation and seemed to protect her. She looked up, gazing at the forest that surrounded the farmlet. “I thought this was all owned by the conservation land trust,” she said.

“Most of it is, to the north and west, but there's about fifty acres to the south that is listed as ‘owner unknown.' I guess Compass Construction found the owner after all.”

“They tried to buy out Malcolm Malebranche—you know, the man who—”

Rebecca laid her hand over Lucy's. It was warm and much softer than Lucy expected, considering how hard Rebecca worked in the garden. Once again, she felt the same calming sensation flow through her veins. “I know, dear. Now, you mustn't worry about me. Oz and I will be fine.”

Hearing his name, the tiny bird opened his eyes, which were as large as quarters, and blinked.

Lucy smiled. “Okay, then,” she said, but she knew it wasn't okay. Now, more than ever, she shared Miss Tilley's concern for her friend.

“Now do you want to see my pumpkins?”

“Sure,” said Lucy, following Rebecca to a goodly patch of garden filled with sprawling vines in raised beds.

Rebecca pushed some leaves aside, almost as if folding back a blanket to reveal a newborn baby, and pointed to a green globe about the size of a volleyball. “This one is very promising,” she said.

Lucy nodded. “How so?”

“It's growing faster than the others, it's nice and round, and I just have a good feeling about it.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” said Lucy. “I see you're not worried about sabotage, like some of the other growers.”

“You mean Ike Stoughton?” Rebecca chuckled. “That man is paranoid.” She gave the pumpkin a pat and let the leaves fall back in place, covering it. “Oz and I are concentrating on the real troublemakers: mice and groundhogs.”

And with that, Oz soared into the sky and began patrolling the garden.

But as she took the roundabout way home, Lucy worried that Miss Tilley was right to be concerned about her friend's safety and wondered if she could persuade Rebecca to accept one of the cell phones the Council on Aging distributed that were programmed to call 911. But as soon as she arrived home, she received such shocking news that her fears for Rebecca were suddenly insignificant.

“Mom! Mom!” shrieked Sara, erupting from the kitchen door and dashing down the porch steps with Libby at her heels. “It's awful!”

“What is?” asked Lucy, enfolding the girl in her arms. “What's happened?”

“Abby's mother…,” she began, then exploded into sobs.

“What happened to Abby's mother?” asked Lucy, wiping tears from her daughter's face with her hand.

“She died,” said Zoe, who had followed her older sister outside.

Stunned, Lucy drew Zoe to her, hugging both girls. She'd known that Miriam was ailing, but she hadn't expected this. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“Abby called.”

Lucy saw a glimmer of hope and seized on it. After all, teenage girls weren't especially reliable. “What exactly did Abby say?”

“She said the men from the funeral place had come and taken her mother away.” Sara sniffled. “She was pretty upset.”

“Of course she was,” said Lucy, hugging the girls tighter.

“Mom, can we go over there? To be with her?”

Lucy hesitated. She knew the girls were good friends, but she doubted that Ike Stoughton would welcome outsiders at a time like this. “Not today,” she said, coming to a decision. “It's too soon and I'm sure her father wants privacy. But tonight we'll make a cake or something and take it over tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Sara, pulling away from her mother and sighing. “That's a good idea.”

“I wonder what kind we should make?” said Lucy, walking hand in hand with Zoe toward the house.

“I think a pound cake is always nice,” said Zoe, sounding like Martha Stewart. “It's so versatile.”

That was the wonderful thing about kids, thought Lucy: the way they would surprise you by coming out with something completely unexpected. And then she thought how Miriam would have no more wonderful surprises. She'd never see her children marry; she'd never take a newborn grandchild in her arms. And that's when the tears began to flow.

 

Lucy was true to her word, and that night the girls mixed up a pound cake while she tidied up the supper dishes. Once again, her little homemaker, Zoe, surprised her by announcing that pound cake was always better after it had aged for a day.

“Where are you getting this stuff?” she asked.

“The cooking channel,” explained Zoe. “I've also got some ideas for window treatments, if you're interested.”

“HGTV,” said Sara, seeing her mother's shocked expression. “We discovered all these shows during that rainy spell when there was nothing else to do.”

“And now we're addicted,” said Zoe. “You know, Mom, miniblinds are really out. They're the first thing these designers chuck out.”

“Leave my miniblinds alone,” declared Lucy, tucking a platter in the dishwasher. “They're cheap and functional, and when they get dirty, I just throw them out and get new ones.”

“Filling up the landfill,” said Zoe in a disapproving tone.

“We should get those energy-efficient lightbulbs too,” suggested Sara.

“I guess we could afford those lightbulbs and get new window treatments, too, if you girls give up your new back-to-school clothes,” said Lucy, putting an end to that discussion.

The next morning, however, Zoe was right back on the case. “Use aluminum foil to wrap the cake,” she advised her mother. “It's recyclable, and plastic film and even wax paper are made from petroleum—that's oil, you know.”

“I know,” said Lucy, pulling off a length of expensive foil. “Do you think you could manage to write a note?” she asked.

“On recycled paper?” asked Sara.

“I don't know if it is or not, but I've got a drawer full of note cards and it would be better to use them up, right?”

“I suppose so,” grumbled Sara, heading for the secretary that stood in the corner of the living room. “What shall I write?” she asked when she returned with a note card with a drawing of a summer rose on the front.

“Just something simple like ‘Thinking of you at this sad time.' And sign it from all of us.”

“Okay,” she said, bending to the task.

Soon, Lucy and the girls were all in the car, bouncing over the temporary bridge to the Stoughton place. After delivering the cake, Lucy would drop the girls at Friends of Animals day camp where they had summer jobs—Sara's paid and Zoe's volunteer—and Lucy would go on to the
Pennysaver.
She wasn't looking forward to encountering Ike Stoughton, or his sons, and she was hoping that they would be out and only Abby would be home. But it was Mather who came to the door, the older one, who was a spitting image of his father, minus the shoulder-length silver hair.

“We just wanted to say how sorry we are for your loss and to give you this cake that the girls made,” said Lucy, holding out the foil-wrapped loaf.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, opening the screen door just enough to take the cake.

“Is your sister home?” asked Lucy. “The girls would like to express their condolences—”

“What's going on here?” demanded Ike, suddenly looming behind his son. He was scowling and glaring at them.

“They want to see Abby,” said Mather.

“We wanted to say how sorry we are about your wife, and we brought this cake,” said Lucy quickly.

“That's very neighborly,” said Ike in a gentler tone. “Abby's too upset to see anyone right now.”

“Well, give her our love,” said Lucy, turning to go. “We're all very sorry for your loss.”

Ike suddenly erupted, grabbing her arm. “It didn't have to happen!” he declared. “It was that witch—that evil witch!”

Lucy froze in her tracks. This was exactly the sort of scene she'd been dreading, and she didn't know what to do. She turned and faced him, trying to think of the right thing to say but unsure what exactly that was. When she saw his anguished expression, however, the words came to her. “I think that's the grief talking,” she said softly. “Of course you want someone to blame, some explanation—”

“How's this for an explanation?” thundered Ike. “My wife was healthy and happy until that woman came to town. The very day Diana Ravenscroft opened her shop, my poor Miriam started to ail.”

“A coincidence,” said Lucy. “That's all.”

“No! It's no coincidence. Miriam was good, a living saint, and that's why she had to die. Witches can't stand goodness. They have to destroy it.”

This was an old theme, thought Lucy, seeing how Ike's son was nodding along. He'd certainly heard this before, and believed it.

Ike's eyes were glittering, and he was spitting out the words. “I believe she's bewitched Abby.”

“Oh, no,” said Lucy, frightened for the girl. “That's ridiculous. Diana has no special powers. She's a witch the same way some people are Catholics or Protestants. It's a religion, like Hinduism or Buddhism. Just because we don't understand it or believe it doesn't make it evil.”

“You're fooling yourself,” hissed Ike, looking and sounding like a fire-and-brimstone preacher. “I've seen Lucifer in that woman's eyes.”

Somewhat unnerved, Lucy saw no option but a dignified retreat. “We have to go,” she said, taking the girls by the hands. “Once again, we're very sorry for your loss.”

“You never know how grief will take people,” she told the girls as they walked down the drive, past the garden that now looked sad and bedraggled. Only the belladonna plants along the fence were thriving.

“Poor Abby,” said Sara when they were all back in the car.

“Her father is really scary,” said Zoe.

“He's very upset,” said Lucy, her heart heavy as she followed the familiar roads. She never would have guessed he was that devoted to his wife, considering the controlling way he treated her, but his enormous grief just went to show that you could never really know how another person felt. She didn't doubt his grief was genuine, but his extreme reaction worried her, especially the way he was blaming Diana. She didn't see how any good could come out of this situation.

When Lucy got to work, she found the funeral director had already faxed over an obituary and a funeral announcement for Miriam Stoughton, which was a big time-saver on this deadline day. She quickly read the obituary, noting that it was extremely brief, noting only Miriam's immediate family, her devotion to her children, and her love of homemaking. If she had ever held a job, it wasn't mentioned, and neither were any clubs or organizations. It also omitted the cause of death, so Lucy called the town clerk to find out who issued the death certificate.

“That would be Doc Ryder,” said Audrey Lyons.

“And the cause of death?”

“It says heart failure,” replied Audrey.

“Well, thanks,” said Lucy, ending the call and dialing Doc Ryder's office. She'd caught him at a good time, his receptionist told her; he'd just come in from rounds at the hospital, and his office hours hadn't started yet. Lucy filed the fact away for future reference.

“Well, good morning to you,” he said, sounding chipper.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” she began.

“No bother,” said Doc Ryder. “I was just sitting here, going over lab reports.”

“Well, I have a question about Miriam Stoughton's death. According to the death certificate, it was due to heart failure?”