Wicked Witch Murder (19 page)

That night, she called Diana at her mother's home in Arizona.

“I was just going to call you!” exclaimed Diana. “I'm coming back. I can't miss Samhain with the coven.”

“Samhain?”

“It's our new year, but you know it as Halloween.”

“Oh,” said Lucy. “I suppose you'll all be riding around on broomsticks.”

“Not quite.” Diana laughed. “But it is the most important holiday in the Wiccan calendar, and Lady Sybil has called me to help the coven prepare for it. I also promised to help Pam with the kids' party.”

“I thought you'd forgotten,” said Lucy.

“Nope. I'm on it. I've got all sorts of ideas for games and decorations.”

“That's terrific,” said Lucy. “I'm glad you're coming home. I don't know if you're aware that Abby Stoughton is seriously ill….”

“No! How long has this been going on?”

“Since before school began. Lydia Volpe's been tutoring her, and she says the situation is very bad, even life-threatening—Abby refuses to eat. They're probably going to take the father to court.”

“This is awful!”

“I know. I was hoping you could do something. I know you're very fond of Abby.”

“I am! We correspond, you know, through Lydia. She hides the letters in Abby's schoolwork.”

“But you didn't know she was sick?”

“Not a word. She never mentioned it.”

“What did she write about?” asked Lucy.

“How much she missed the coven, advice on being a solitaire, how much she hates her brothers, things like that.”

“Wow,” said Lucy, amazed by Abby's behavior. “So when are you coming home?”

“As soon as I can get a flight,” promised Diana. “And believe me, nothing is going to keep me from seeing that girl, even if I have to use my six-guns and go in with both barrels blazing!”

As she ended the call, Lucy hoped she'd done the right thing by calling Diana, but she wasn't convinced. Hadn't her mother always said the path to hell was paved with good intentions? Was this one of those times?

L
ucy knew when a story had legs and would run, and Lydia's tip-off about the school system taking Ike Stoughton to court was one of those stories that was full of human interest. Depending on your point of view, it pitted a stern father against a helpless child, or it pitted a taxpaying citizen against a meddlesome government bureaucracy. Did a parent have the right to impose his beliefs on a child, even when it was detrimental to the child's safety and well-being? And how far could society, represented here by the school system, intrude into the privileged sanctity of the home? These were all legitimate questions that would get strong reactions from readers, but Lucy still felt like a muckraker when she called the superintendent's office and asked if the school department was going to take Ike Stoughton to court.

“You know I can't comment on an individual student,” said Pete Winslow. “Student records are confidential. Strictly confidential. But I can tell you this,” he began, warming to his subject. “We have a strict attendance policy in the Tinker's Cove school system, and we take absences, especially extended absences, very seriously.”

Lucy suspected the superintendent wanted to get the word out and was issuing a warning to Ike as well as to any other delinquent families.

“If a student must be absent due to illness for more than a week, we require a doctor's note. If there is no note, the student is considered a truant, and we will prosecute both the student and the responsible—or perhaps I should say irresponsible—parent or guardian.”

“So this is simply a matter of truancy? You don't intervene if you suspect abuse?” asked Lucy.

“Frankly, that's the reason for the doctor's note. We want to make sure that a child who cannot come to school is seen by a medical professional. You'd be surprised how many abuse cases are discovered this way.”

Actually, Lucy wouldn't be surprised. She'd been a reporter for a long time, and she knew more than she wanted to about domestic abuse. “So is the school department currently pursuing any truancy cases?” she asked.

“Oh, all the time,” said Winslow.

“In the courts?” she asked.

“If we have to, we will. There's a process, of course. We start with the guidance counselor. If that doesn't improve matters, we go on to the truant officer, and if he can't make any headway, we refer the case to the district attorney.”

“So any case that went to court would be a public record?” asked Lucy.

“Not if the truant is a minor,” said Winslow. “Then the file is sealed.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, disappointed.

“We really try to be sensitive,” said Winslow, sounding for the first time like a human being instead of reciting administrative jargon. “We don't want to get people in trouble. All we want, you know, is what's best for the student. A lot of the time we're the only ones looking out for the kid; we're the only ones who can step in and protect the child.”

“Have you seen an uptick in abuse?” asked Lucy. “Considering the economy, the high gas and food prices, the foreclosures?”

“These are difficult times for a lot of our families,” said Winslow. “Andy French, the business manager, can give you the latest figures on the school lunch program.”

Lucy took the hint. “Thanks for your time,” she said as an instant message from Phyllis appeared on her computer screen, advising her that there were a large number of legal ads this week.

She opened the file and discovered at least twelve foreclosure notices. Scanning through them, she recognized quite a few names. Some were people whose families had lived in town for generations, and others were newcomers, often immigrants, who'd originally come to Maine as summer workers and stayed on. The very last announcement was a shocker, however: Peter Symonds. No wonder he'd been so angry with her; she'd be angry, too, if she was about to lose her home.

Acting on impulse, she called the police station and asked for her old friend Barney Culpepper.

“Just a follow-up,” she began, staring at Symonds's foreclosure notice on her screen. “Has there been any progress in the Malebranche case? You know, the guy who was burned.”

“Don't remind me. I think about that poor bastard every day.”

“So I guess that means you're not any closer to solving it?”

“You said it.”

“It's been a long time….”

“Almost four months.”

“I see that his assistant, you know, the guy who made the balloon animals, is losing his house.”

“That's not surprising. He lost his job, after all, when Malebranche died.” Barney sighed. “I don't suppose there's much call for magician's assistants. It's kind of a specialized thing.”

“I suppose not,” admitted Lucy. “You must have questioned him, right? He's kind of an oddball.”

“That doesn't make him a murderer,” chided Barney. “I'm sure he was questioned pretty thoroughly. I never heard him mentioned as a suspect.”

Lucy's ears pricked up. “Who was mentioned?” she asked.

“You know I can't tell you that, but off the record, I heard they took a long, hard look at the members of that coven, including your buddy Diana. There was a certain amount of jealousy among the members, and there were some jokes about that Lady Sybil.”

Lucy was incredulous. “Was she a suspect?”

Barney was noncommittal. “They all came up clean—and this is strictly off the record, mind you.”

“I know. I'm just killing time here, having a nice chat, looking for deep background, as we call it in the news business. Say, do you happen to know who's the truant officer?”

“That would be me.”

“I didn't know that,” she said.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied. “It's not my favorite job. I like the community outreach part of my job a lot better.” As community outreach officer, Barney conducted home-safety workshops for senior citizens, organized a bike-safety program for kids every spring, and issued warnings about the danger of fireworks in July and about Christmas tree fires in December. Soon he'd be visiting classes in the elementary school to remind students to wear reflective clothing when they went trick-or-treating and to make sure their parents examined their candy before they ate it.

“I heard a rumor that the school department is taking Ike Stoughton to court because Abby's been out of school for over a month with no doctor's note.”

“Lucy, for Pete's sake! I can't talk about that.”

“So it's true,” said Lucy.

“You didn't hear it from me,” said Barney.

“You don't happen to know the court date, do you?”

“What good would that do you? It's a closed hearing.”

“If I just happened to be there, in the lobby, I could ask some questions.”

“Dinner, at your place?” said Barney, his voice suddenly quite loud.

“What the…?” asked Lucy, puzzled.

“Oh, sorry, we can't make it October fifteenth. Marge's sister is visiting.”

Lucy suddenly got it; Barney was afraid somebody was listening to his conversation. “You're a peach!” she said, marking the date in her calendar.

When she left work, Lucy noticed that Halloween decorations were appearing on Main Street. Many of the merchants had filled window boxes and planters with autumn arrangements of chrysanthemums, winter kale, gourds, and pumpkins. The Chamber of Commerce offered a prize every year for the best display of harvest figures, and they were also starting to appear—scarecrow-like figures made from old clothes stuffed with straw—in various and humorous poses. One real estate company had blown up a large photograph of all the agents, then created caricature figures that were arranged in the same poses as the people in the photo. A restaurant had set out a scantily clad female figure in a bikini, lounging in an inviting position on the bench used in summer by tourists waiting for tables, and the Queen Victoria Inn had produced a version of their namesake, complete with voluminous black skirts, shawl, lace cap, and double chin and had seated her in one of the porch rockers.

Feeling somewhat ashamed that the barrel out by the mailbox was still sporting the rather withered impatiens she'd planted last May, Lucy turned in at the IGA, where she'd seen a big crate of pumpkins. She was looking them over, trying to decide whether one big one would be better than several small ones, when she spotted Ike Stoughton coming out with a cart full of grocery bags. It seemed as if pushing the cart took every bit of energy he could muster.

“Howdy, neighbor,” she said in a voice she hoped sounded cheerful and friendly.

“Oh, hi,” he replied, as if he'd been lost in his thoughts. “How are you?”

“You know how it is,” she said conversationally. “School's started, and the girls have cheerleading and field hockey. All of a sudden we're always on the go.” She paused. “I heard Abby's been too sick to go to school.”

“We're praying for her recovery,” he said, glancing toward heaven. “Good is greater than evil,” he declared, sounding almost like the Ike of old.

“Well, you've certainly had a difficult time lately,” said Lucy. “Perhaps your luck will change. After all, bad things come in threes.”

Ike glared at her. “That's Devil talk! I'd be careful if I were you.”

“I didn't mean any harm,” said Lucy, stunned. “It's just a turn of phrase.” She paused, wondering whether or not to say what she was thinking, then decided to go for it. “My girls would love to visit Abby, if she's well enough.”

“Maybe sometime,” said Ike noncommittally, beginning to push his cart toward the parking lot. “Well, nice seeing you,” he said. “Say hi to Bill for me.”

“Will do,” said Lucy, watching as he made his way across the parking lot, walking like a very old man. His body language told it all, thought Lucy. Ike Stoughton was a troubled man. Or maybe, the thought flitted through her mind unbidden, a man with a guilty conscience.

Back at home, Lucy was unloading the car and trying to arrange the pumpkins in a pleasing way in the whiskey-barrel planter when Sara came running down the driveway, carrying the cordless phone. “It's Diana, Mom,” she was yelling. “She's at the airport and wants to know if you can pick her up.”

“Right now?” asked Lucy, who was thinking it was time to start cooking dinner.

“Yeah, right now. It won't take long. Can I come too?”

Lucy was struggling with a small pumpkin that didn't want to stay put and was threatening to roll out of the barrel. “Can't she catch a bus?”

Sara had her hand over the mouthpiece. “That's not very nice, Mom,” she hissed. “She's a friend. You don't make friends take the bus.”

This was a new one to Lucy, but she figured Bill could get something to eat over at Toby and Molly's. Zoe, she knew, would insist on coming along to the airport. “Okay,” she said, letting go of the pumpkin, which amazed her by staying in place. Her decision must have appeased the many and various natural forces in the universe. Either that or she was a pumpkin whisperer, able to tame even the most unruly pumpkin.

Lucy's whimsical mood was contagious, and she and the girls were in high spirits as they drove to the airport, fueled by a stop at Mickey D's for burgers, fries, and shakes. The mile markers sped by as they sang along to the Beatles songs on the oldies station, enjoying an unexpected break in their everyday routine. The girls chattered on about school and friends. Lucy listened with one ear, picking up the news that Mrs. Gruber was pregnant, Kyle Saperstein had a crush on Sassie but she told him her horse had to come first, and Tommy Stanton had finally made the varsity football team.

“He's really filled out,” reported Sara. “He's looking go-od. I'm hoping he'll ask me to the Halloween Hoedown.”

“You could ask him,” suggested Lucy.

Zoe didn't approve. “No, she can't, Mom.”

“Sure she can—haven't you heard of women's lib? Aren't you a feminist?”

Zoe fell silent, thinking this over as they turned onto the airport road and approached the terminal. Diana was standing outside, along with an enormous roller suitcase, and the girls immediately began shrieking and waving as Lucy braked to a stop and hopped out. They had only a minute, because of security rules, so quick hugs were exchanged, the suitcase was hoisted into the back, Sara hopped out of the front seat, and into the back, Diana took the front seat, and off they went.

“How was your flight?” asked Lucy.

“Don't ask—a nightmare, but that's beside the point. How's Abby?”

“We're not allowed to visit,” said Sara.

“Well, we'll see about that,” said Diana, drumming her fingers on her lap.

“You better be careful,” advised Lucy. “Ike isn't going to welcome any interference, especially from you. He thinks you hexed him. He blames you for all his troubles.”

“That's ridiculous,” said Diana, fingering a turquoise and silver squash blossom necklace. “But I did pick up a few tricks in Arizona, from a very old, very wise shaman. I plan to stir things up a bit.”

“So mote it be,” said Lucy.