Trick Or Treat Murder. Leslie Meier

      “Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “And what do you do most evenings?”

      Bill squirmed uneasily.

      “I bet you watch TV. Mental masturbation, that’s what I call it.”

      Lucy pressed her lips together, to keep from giggling, and looked at Bill.

      “There’s nothing the matter with TV,” he grumbled. “How often does this thing meet?”

      “Once a month.”

      “I guess I can manage that,” he agreed. “But I’m warning you, I’ll have to vote the way I see fit.”

      “Of course, you must vote your conscience,” she said, laying heavy emphasis on the last word. “Then we’ll see you tomorrow night. Seven o’clock at the town hall.”

      “Tomorrow? That means I’ll miss Seinfeld!”

      Miss Tilley silenced him with a stare. Only one avenue was left. Bill grabbed his lunch box, gave Lucy a peck on the cheek, and hurried out.

      “I’m glad you asked him,” said Lucy. “He has a lot to offer. It’s about time he got involved. He needs something to take his mind off the Hopkins Homestead fire.”

      “My thoughts exactly,” said Miss Tilley, casting an appraising glance at Lucy. “My dear, I hope you’ll take a little bit of advice from an old friend. Even a spinster like myself knows you’ll never keep a man interested if you let yourself go the way you have.”

      Lucy ran a hand through her hair, suddenly self-conscious.

      Miss Tilley rose. “You’re really quite attractive when you make an effort, my dear. Now, I must be off.”

      Lucy watched from the door as she trotted across the yard and climbed into her huge old Chrysler, a 1974 Imperial. That was some car, thought Lucy, guessing it was nearly ten feet long. A dinosaur of an automobile decked with tons of chrome. She winced as it lurched into gear, and Miss Tilley slowly wrestled it through a three-point turn. Built on the theory that size equals comfort, the designers had given little thought to maneuverability. In this car you didn’t avoid obstacles, you ran right over them.

      Miss Tilley finally had the car pointed in the right direction, and gave Lucy a little wave before flooring the gas pedal. Lucy wondered if she could actually see over the steering wheel as she careened down the driveway. She never even noticed when she knocked over the mailbox.

      Lucy shook her head, and was thinking of slipping back between the sheets for a quick nap when the phone rang.

      “Are you okay?” inquired Sue.

      “Sure. Why?”

      “You sound so groggy. Do you have a cold?”

      “No. Zoe didn’t sleep much last night.”

      “Six-week growth spurt?”

      “Probably.”

      “Listen, Lucy. I had a great idea. I want to have a big Halloween party for the whole town in the Hallett House. Whaddya think?”

      “Sounds like fun. Will the fire chief let you do it?”

      “I just got off the phone with him. He said he’ll issue a temporary occupancy permit if we clean the place up and it passes his inspection.”

      Hearing a cry from upstairs, Lucy was distracted.

      “What? I think I hear Zoe.”

      “Listen, Lucy, will you help with the party?”

      Zoe’s cries were coming more frequently, threatening to become a full-blown wail. “Sure. What can I do?”

      “Cupcakes?”

      Zoe was now screaming, and Lucy could feel her breasts tingle as her milk let down. All she could think of was the baby. “Sure. No problem. How many?”

      “Twelve dozen?”

      “Okay. I gotta go. Bye.” Lucy slammed the earpiece onto the hook, hiked up her long flannel nightie and robe, and started up the stairs taking them two at a time. “Hang on, baby! Mommy’s coming!”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      “What’s all the fuss about?” crooned Lucy, bending over the bassinet. Zoe’s face was red with rage; she was in no mood for small talk. “I bet you want your breakfast,” said Lucy. She scooped up the baby and perched on the side of the bed, offering her breast.

      Zoe took it greedily, and began sucking energetically. Feeling herself beginning to relax, Lucy considered falling back on to the pillows, but Zoe was having none of that. She suddenly pulled her head away, leaving Lucy to clamp a diaper over her spraying milk ducts. Lucy tickled the baby’s cheek with her milky nipple, but Zoe wasn’t interested. She had a soaking wet diaper, and knew perfectly well that it was time for a change and a bath. Lucy knew it, too, but had hoped to postpone it for a bit.

      “You’re so…conservative,” she said, placing the baby on her shoulder. “If it’s eight-thirty, it must be bath-time.”

      In the kitchen, Lucy propped Zoe in her plastic baby seat and set it on the counter. She flipped on the radio and began loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. She gave the counter a quick wipe, lined the big porcelain sink with a hand towel, and began filling it with warm water.

      Cocking an ear to the radio for the morning news, she gave Zoe a big smile, tickled her tummy, and eased her out of her rather damp terry suit. Removing the wet diaper, she slipped the naked baby into the water.

      Cradling her head in the crook of her arm, Lucy listened to the Oil Peddler promise 24-hour delivery as she gently splashed water on Zoe’s round tummy.

      “Regular exercise can make you look and feel better,” advised a feminine voice.

      “That’s right,” said Lucy, nodding and smiling at the baby. At six weeks, she was looking less like a newborn and more like a real baby. Her little limbs were no longer folded tight against her torso. “You love to exercise, don’t you? You love to wave those arms and kick those legs.”

      “My name is Krissy Wright,” continued the voice, “and I’m inviting you to stop by my new exercise studio, the Body Shop, for a free introductory class.”

      “Shall we do that? Would you like to work out? Oh!” said Lucy in surprise, as Zoe splashed her in the face. Zoe gave a little chuckle, and smiled.

      “Is that a smile?” cooed Lucy, returning the gesture.

      Zoe’s eyes were fixed intently on her mother’s face, and she smiled again.

      “Definitely a smile,” crowed Lucy. “Aren’t you a smart little girl!”

      Zoe agreed, and flapped her arm rhythmically in the water, startling herself with the resulting splash. Before she could cry, Lucy distracted her by singing along with the radio. “Hey, where ya goin? I’m goin’ to the Lobster Bar, ’cause that’s where the best…lobsters are!”

      Lucy hummed along with the radio as she quickly soaped Zoe’s silky, tiny body, and rinsed her off, then wrapped her in a fluffy towel. With the baby propped against her shoulder, she waltzed around the kitchen gathering the diapering supplies.

      Spreading the towel beneath her, she laid Zoe down on the kitchen table. Whenever Lucy saw her like that, naked and helpless, she felt a little stab of fear. So many things could happen to a baby. Just last night she had watched a TV news segment about a dangerous cradle. Nine unwary mothers had tucked their babies in for the night only to find them dead in the morning.

      Then there was her own private nightmare, in which she drove off on an errand and forgot the baby. She’d dreamt it often since coming home from the hospital, and always woke up in a panic. Then, she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep until she checked the bassinet and made sure Zoe was safe.