Trick Or Treat Murder. Leslie Meier

to find it empty. Of course, she reminded herself. Until now, she had only been here in the summer, when the town was full of tourists and summer residents. Now it was fall. Dark came much earlier, and the only signs of life were the lighted windows of the houses.

      She stopped at the blinker and turned left, then left again onto Hopkins Homestead Road. The road was named for her house. Hopkins Homestead, the oldest house in Tinker’s Cove.

      She took one last turn onto the familiar dirt driveway and parked the car neatly in the vine covered carport behind the woodshed.

      Her key turned easily in the lock and the heavy pine door swung open. She eagerly inhaled the spicy, old wood smell of the house.

      Ignoring her reflection in the spotted glass of the hall mirror she stepped into the tiny parlor and switched on a lamp.

      It was just as she remembered. Bare, wide plank floors, a camelback sofa, a scarred old sea chest serving as a coffee table. There were no curtains on the windows; Monica loved the way the garden became an Impressionist landscape when viewed through the wavy old glass. Anyone passing the house could have looked in and seen her, but no one did.

      She went into the next room, the dining room. A collection of Currier and Ives lithographs hung on the wall, and a pine drop leaf table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by six yellow painted chairs. The chairs were the first purchase she’d made for the old house, hesitantly raising her hand at a country auction. “Sold,” announced the auctioneer, bringing down his gavel. The bidding was over almost before it had begun. Soon she’d become a regular, rescuing fine antiques from the greedy dealers who stripped off the original finishes and slapped on high prices, taking advantage of ignorant buyers.

      Passing through the kitchen, she stepped up into the borning room. Here, close to the warm kitchen hearth, was where the first inhabitants of the house had given birth, nursed the sick, and died. This was where she had put her most prized possession, the curly maple sleigh bed.

      Monica pulled back the blue and white hand-woven coverlet and found crisp, white sheets. So, she had left the bed made after all. She paid a quick visit to the bathroom, grateful she’d decided to put off closing the house and draining the pipes. Why had she done that? Had she known on some subconscious level that she would need the house? Shivering, she checked the thermostat and raised it to sixty-eight.

      Then she pulled off her shoes, slipped off her slacks, and climbed into the bed, pulling the covers around her shoulders. Involuntarily, she let out a long, shuddering sigh.

      She was so tired. Here was where she would rest, lick her wounds, and gather her strength. The house was old; it had endured centuries of nor’east storms, winter blizzards, summer heat waves, and decades of neglect. She had restored it and brought it back to life. Now, it was the old homestead’s turn to shelter and protect her. She felt safe here. She reached up and turned off the light. She slept.

      CHAPTER ONE

      “This place is a firetrap. It ought to be torn down.”

      Sue Finch bit neatly into a crisp apple, closed her eyes, and raised her face to the warm October sun while she chewed. She was sitting on the ramshackle porch of the Ezekiel Hallett house, once the grandest mansion in Tinker’s Cove. Now, it was little more than a decaying pile of tinder.

      “How can you say that?” asked her companion, Lucy Stone. She thought of the fantastic tower rising above their heads, the mansard roof, and the fanciful urns that perched on every corner. “It’s a fabulous example of Victorian seaside architecture. It ought to be restored.”

      Lucy spoke softly. She didn’t want to disturb six-week-old baby Zoe, who was asleep in the red corduroy baby carrier she wore strapped to her chest.

      “As what? It’s much too big for a family.”

      “It could be a restaurant, or an inn. Just look at this view.”

      From where they sat on the porch the two women could see the little town of Tinker’s Cove spread out before them. Low, rocky hills sheltered the harbor where a few Cape Island boats bobbed at anchor off the fish pier. The water was a deep blue today, and the tree covered hills wore their fall colors of red and gold.

      “Think of the heating bills,” said Sue, pulling her sweater off over her head and shaking out her hair.

      “That’s new, isn’t it?” asked Lucy. “Where’d you get it?”

      “At the Carriage Trade,” said Sue, naming an expensive specialty shop. “Twenty bucks. Last spring.”

      “Some people have all the luck,” grumbled Lucy. “When I go there all I find is real expensive stuff that I don’t have any place to wear. Even if I did find something on sale, I wouldn’t know what size to buy. I can’t seem to get rid of these extra baby pounds.”

      “There’s a new aerobics studio opening across from the Laundromat. If we weren’t so lazy we’d sign up for something. What’s the latest? The step, the slide?” said Sue, yawning.

      There was a pause in the conversation. The bright sunshine and fresh air, combined with a hearty lunch, was making the women drowsy.

      “Are you making Halloween costumes for the kids?” asked Sue.

      “No way. Toby’s going to wear his werewolf mask and hairy hand gloves from last year. The girls are going as ballerinas—in the tutus they wore in the show last spring.”

      “They’ll freeze,” warned Sue.

      “I’m having them wear pink tights and turtlenecks underneath. They won’t be out too long.”

      “Is there a party at the church, or the youth center? Something to keep them out of trouble?”

      “Not that I know of,” said Lucy. “I wish there was. I don’t even like them trick-or-treating. You always hear about some maniac who poisoned the candy or put razor blades in the apples. Toby won’t go with me and the girls—he wants to go out with his friends. I hope they don’t come here. A place like this is a real magnet for kids. Especially on Halloween. Think what could happen if they played with matches, or experimented with cigarettes. It wouldn’t take much to burn this place down.”

      “Like the Hopkins Homestead,” said Sue.

      “Bill was awfully upset when he heard the news on the radio this morning. That house was his first big project.”

      Lucy’s husband, Bill Stone, was a restoration carpenter.

      “That’s too bad.” Sue was sympathetic. “They said it burned to the ground.”

      “It did. I drove by on my way to your house. Nothing’s left but the chimney. I’m worried Bill’s going to take it hard. He really put his heart and soul into that place.”

      “Is there insurance? Do you think they’ll rebuild?” Sue was practical.

      “I don’t know. Bill tried to call the owners, but there wasn’t any answer. He wanted to tell Monica himself, before she heard it on the news or something.”

      “Her husband’s a doctor, right?”

      “Yeah. They live near Boston. The house was really her project. Bill said she was the perfect client. Lots of money, and good taste, too.”

      “A rare combination,” said Sue.

      Lucy smiled. Zoe was shifting around in the baby carrier and it felt a bit like being pregnant again. She got up on her feet and walked back and forth on the porch, hoping to lull the baby back to sleep.

      “Doesn’t it seem like we’re having an awful lot of fires lately?” she asked, leaning against a post.

      “Well, yeah, now that you mention it. There was the old movie theater just after the Fourth of July. It was damaged, but they were able to save it. Winchester College is going to renovate it, turn it into a performing arts center.”

      “Then