Trick Or Treat Murder. Leslie Meier
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sophomore at Bowdoin.
“Who did that belong to?”
“Nobody. It was listed ‘owner unknown’ in the tax files.”
“And now the Hopkins Homestead.”
“Don’t forget that fire at the old powder house. They caught it before it did much damage.”
“Right.” Lucy nodded. The powder house, a tiny relic of the Revolutionary War, stood in Brooks Park. “It’s kind of suspicious, isn’t it? All these fires?”
“Not really. They were all old buildings, but old buildings are more likely to burn. The wood gets dry.” Sue picked off a bit of shingle and it crumbled to dust in her hand. “I’ll bet this place is next. Want to take a look inside before it’s gone?”
“Can we? Isn’t it locked up?”
“I know how to get in.” Sue grinned mischievously.
“Okay,” said Lucy. “Zoe doesn’t seem very hungry.” Standing up she rearranged her clothes and refastened the baby carrier. “I’m game if you are.”
Hopping off the porch, Sue led the way around to the back of the mansion. Pushing aside some overgrown bushes she revealed a flight of stone steps.
“This is the kitchen entrance. We wouldn’t want tradesmen muddying up the front hall.”
“Of course not,” agreed Lucy, watching closely as Sue pulled off a loose board and opened the door. “You’re pretty good at this. How long have you been breaking and entering?”
“Practically my whole life. When I was in high school we used to sneak in here to smoke cigarettes and drink beer.”
“I’m shocked,” said Lucy, following her friend into the darkness. Zoe’s eyes, peeking out over the corduroy carrier, were very large and round.
“This is the kitchen,” said Sue, in her best real estate lady voice. “Very roomy.”
“It’s enormous,” said Lucy, glancing around at the cavernous, dungeon like room.
“All the latest in modern appliances,” said Sue, waving her arm. “The stove.” She pointed to a rusting hulk in one corner. “The dishwasher.” Sue indicated a soapstone sink complete with hand pump. “The refrigerator!” Throwing open a pantry door, she sent a startled mouse scurrying for shelter.
“Yuck. Can we go upstairs?”
“This way, madam.”
Sue led the way up a flight of surprisingly sturdy wooden steps and opened the door to the dining room. Lucy blinked at the brightness; dusty sunlight streamed through the filthy windows. Long brown ribbons of wallpaper were peeling from the walls, and the carcasses of dead flies crunched under their feet.
“The dining room needs a bit of freshening up,” conceded Sue. “The living room is this way, through the hall.”
Stepping into the hallway, Lucy paused and let her gaze follow the long curving staircase upward. Long ago the house must have been lovely, and beautiful young ladies in long gowns would have descended these stairs to greet the handsome beaux who waited for them below.
“I see this old place is casting a spell on you,” said Sue. “Would you like to see the ballroom?”
“Ballroom?”
“I kid you not.” Sue tugged at a pair of warped French doors and finally succeeded in opening them. She bowed with a little flourish as Lucy entered the room.
It was a long, rectangular room with three sets of French doors along one side. There was a magnificent, ornate marble fireplace at one end and a balcony for musicians at the other. Facing the French doors there was a wall of matching mirrors, now spotty and dusty. The panels between the doors were decorated with carved wood shaped into lavish bouquets of flowers. Gilt sconces, long since robbed of their crystals, lined the walls.
“Sue, how can you say you want to see all this demolished?” asked Lucy. “It’s fabulous.”
“It could be, if somebody had hundreds of thousands of dollars to spend fixing it up. But that’s not going to happen. It’s been empty for a zillion years, falling apart bit by bit. A rock through a window here, a piece of paneling ripped out there, it’s like the death of a thousand cuts. I’m all for a swift mercy killing.”
“You really care about this old place.”
“They just don’t build ’em like this anymore. Hey, I want to show you something.”
Returning to the hallway, Sue opened another oak-paneled door and revealed a tiny cabinlike room, barely ten feet square.
“This is the house Ezekiel Hallett was born in. When he got rich he built the mansion right around his boyhood home. They say he used to come here to get away from his social-climbing wife and daughters.”
Lucy examined the rough-sawn plank walls, the packed dirt floor, and the crude hearth.
“This was the entire house?”
“Yup. He was one of seven or eight kids. There’s a sleeping loft overhead.”
“From this to that,” said Lucy, trying to imagine raising a family in such cramped quarters. “It’s incredible.”
“He did it the hard way—selling guano.”
“What is guano, anyway?” asked Lucy, heading for the door. She found the tiny, windowless room claustrophobic. “I’m gonna go out on the porch. I need some air.”
“Okay,” said Sue. “I’ll lock the door behind you and backtrack through the house.”
“I forgot. We didn’t come in through the front door, did we?”
Lucy stepped outside and busied herself gathering the picnic things. She was struggling to her feet when Sue reappeared.
“You know, Lucy, it might be kind of fun to try out that gym,” she suggested.
“I think I’m past help. Besides, I don’t have any energy to spare.”
“They say working out gives you energy, though I don’t quite see how,” admitted Sue. “I’ll give them a call. See if they’ve got a good deal.”
“Don’t forget to ask if they have child care,” said Lucy, opening the car door and beginning the process of transferring Zoe from the baby carrier to the car seat.
“I’ll call,” said Sue, hopping into her little sports car and starting the engine.
Lucy watched as she zoomed down the dirt driveway, disappearing in a swirl of dust. Finally clicking the last strap in place, she looked down at the baby. “Do you think I’m too fat?” she asked.
Zoe folded her hands across her chest, and closed her eyes. She was as inscrutable as a little Buddha.
“Okay, be like that,” said Lucy, settling herself behind the steering wheel and turning the key in the ignition.
CHAPTER TWO
Ted Stillings, editor-in-chief, reporter, photographer, and publisher of The Pennysaver, parked his aging subcompact in front of the Hopkins Homestead and climbed out.
“Whew,” he said, shaking his head. He’d covered a lot of fires in his career, but never one this bad. There was literally nothing left of the house. The massive chimney, now black with soot and surrounded by a mound of charred rubble, was all that remained.
A yellow plastic ribbon encircled the site, and a few curious onlookers stood politely behind it. Inside the cordon, Fire Chief Stan Pulaski stood chatting with Police Chief Oswald Crowley. Ted lifted the yellow ribbon, ducked under it, and approached them.
“Hey, you! Stay behind that line,” ordered Crowley. He knew perfectly well who Ted