Trick or Treat Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Leslie Meier
place. She was just tucking Zoe's arms and legs into a stretchy little suit, when the music ended and the announcer read the news tease.
"Police say a suspicious Tinker's Cove fire claimed the life of at least one victim. More in a moment."
"Oh, no," she muttered, as she settled herself in the rocking chair. As Zoe nuzzled her chest, now eager for a late breakfast, Lucy wondered who the victim could have been.
It couldn't have been any of the Mayes, she assured herself. The family only used the house in the summer. Perhaps it was a vagrant or homeless person who had broken into the empty house looking for a night's shelter.
"Please, please don't let it be one of the kids," she sent up a little prayer. There wasn't much to do in Tinker's Cove, and Toby's friends sometimes did things they shouldn't. Exciting and forbidden things, like entering someone's deserted summer cottage.
Lucy began to nurse, gently stroking her baby's downy head. She bent down and sniffed Zoe's clean baby scent. It was the best smell in the world. Just then the announcer's voice interrupted her reverie.
"The fire that destroyed the Hopkins Homestead early Tuesday morning also claimed the life of its owner, Monica Mayes. Remains found at the site by state fire investigators have been positively identified by the medical examiner."
Lucy sat motionless as Zoe continued her rhythmic sucking. It took a minute for the information to sink in. Gradually, grief engulfed her and tears ran down her face.
"No, not Monica," she whispered.
"This means we are no longer investigating a case of arson," Lucy recognized Police Chief Oswald Crowley's voice, in a recorded sound bite. "This is now a homicide investigation."
Homicide? Who would want to kill Monica? She remembered Monica laughing, recounting how an inept young traffic cop had tied up traffic for miles on Route 1, by stopping the line of cars for every pedestrian who wanted to cross the street. They'd been standing outside, and Monica's coppery hair had blazed in the sun.
Lucy thought of the flames, flickering brightly as they consumed the Homestead.
She remembered Monica flipping through wallpaper books, determined to find exactly the right paper for the bathroom, and her excitement when Bill showed her the 1703 penny that had been placed under the threshold to guarantee prosperity.
Lucy thought of her husband, busy at another old house. He had been so fond of Monica, just as she had. He shouldn't hear this on the radio. She ought to tell him.
Zoe was asleep in her arms. Lucy knew she would sleep soundly for a couple of hours. She carried her upstairs and tucked her in the bassinet, then quickly showered and dressed herself.
An hour later, steering her little silver Subaru wagon along the back roads with Zoe securely fastened in the safety seat, Lucy thought of Monica.
She had been one of Bill's first clients, and initially had seemed to be just another pampered, rich doctor's wife who wanted a summer place that would impress her city friends. When they first discussed the restoration of the Homestead, Bill had come prepared with estimates for alarm systems, air-conditioning, even a Jacuzzi tub.
"I don't know," Monica had said doubtfully, shaking her head. "This is a very old house. Somehow these things don't seem to belong. I know we can't be one hundred percent authentic, after all, this isn't 1703 and I don't want to use an outhouse! But I'd like this to be a place where we live simply, and get back to the basics, know what I mean?"
Bill had nodded.
"What about your husband?" Lucy had asked. "Men don't like to give up their gadgets."
"He says he wants to make a woodpile." Monica shrugged. "I'm not sure he knows how. He's a gynecologist." She changed the subject. "This means so much to me. I've always wanted to have an old house."
At first, Lucy had been a little jealous of Monica. She had money and social status, and although older than Lucy, was still extremely
"Police say a suspicious Tinker's Cove fire claimed the life of at least one victim. More in a moment."
"Oh, no," she muttered, as she settled herself in the rocking chair. As Zoe nuzzled her chest, now eager for a late breakfast, Lucy wondered who the victim could have been.
It couldn't have been any of the Mayes, she assured herself. The family only used the house in the summer. Perhaps it was a vagrant or homeless person who had broken into the empty house looking for a night's shelter.
"Please, please don't let it be one of the kids," she sent up a little prayer. There wasn't much to do in Tinker's Cove, and Toby's friends sometimes did things they shouldn't. Exciting and forbidden things, like entering someone's deserted summer cottage.
Lucy began to nurse, gently stroking her baby's downy head. She bent down and sniffed Zoe's clean baby scent. It was the best smell in the world. Just then the announcer's voice interrupted her reverie.
"The fire that destroyed the Hopkins Homestead early Tuesday morning also claimed the life of its owner, Monica Mayes. Remains found at the site by state fire investigators have been positively identified by the medical examiner."
Lucy sat motionless as Zoe continued her rhythmic sucking. It took a minute for the information to sink in. Gradually, grief engulfed her and tears ran down her face.
"No, not Monica," she whispered.
"This means we are no longer investigating a case of arson," Lucy recognized Police Chief Oswald Crowley's voice, in a recorded sound bite. "This is now a homicide investigation."
Homicide? Who would want to kill Monica? She remembered Monica laughing, recounting how an inept young traffic cop had tied up traffic for miles on Route 1, by stopping the line of cars for every pedestrian who wanted to cross the street. They'd been standing outside, and Monica's coppery hair had blazed in the sun.
Lucy thought of the flames, flickering brightly as they consumed the Homestead.
She remembered Monica flipping through wallpaper books, determined to find exactly the right paper for the bathroom, and her excitement when Bill showed her the 1703 penny that had been placed under the threshold to guarantee prosperity.
Lucy thought of her husband, busy at another old house. He had been so fond of Monica, just as she had. He shouldn't hear this on the radio. She ought to tell him.
Zoe was asleep in her arms. Lucy knew she would sleep soundly for a couple of hours. She carried her upstairs and tucked her in the bassinet, then quickly showered and dressed herself.
An hour later, steering her little silver Subaru wagon along the back roads with Zoe securely fastened in the safety seat, Lucy thought of Monica.
She had been one of Bill's first clients, and initially had seemed to be just another pampered, rich doctor's wife who wanted a summer place that would impress her city friends. When they first discussed the restoration of the Homestead, Bill had come prepared with estimates for alarm systems, air-conditioning, even a Jacuzzi tub.
"I don't know," Monica had said doubtfully, shaking her head. "This is a very old house. Somehow these things don't seem to belong. I know we can't be one hundred percent authentic, after all, this isn't 1703 and I don't want to use an outhouse! But I'd like this to be a place where we live simply, and get back to the basics, know what I mean?"
Bill had nodded.
"What about your husband?" Lucy had asked. "Men don't like to give up their gadgets."
"He says he wants to make a woodpile." Monica shrugged. "I'm not sure he knows how. He's a gynecologist." She changed the subject. "This means so much to me. I've always wanted to have an old house."
At first, Lucy had been a little jealous of Monica. She had money and social status, and although older than Lucy, was still extremely
Similar Books
Clash of Star-Kings
Avram Davidson
Exposed - Part Two (The Exposed Series, #2)
Deborah Bladon
The Girl in the Glass
Susan Meissner
The Virtual Life of Fizzy Oceans
David A. Ross
The Weight of Small Things
Sherri Wood Emmons
The Julian Game
Adele Griffin
Anticipation
Tanya Moir
The Bird Cage
Kate Wilhelm
Angel and the Assassin 3: Sins of the Father
Fyn Alexander