Trick or Treachery (7 page)

It started, I’m told, when his wife died many years ago. Erica was just a little girl at the time, and her father felt a need to make up to her for the loss of her mother. While other holidays mean family celebrations, Halloween has long been an event for children—and grown-ups who enjoy dressing up like children, if only once a year. Paul made Halloween special for his daughter and her friends, and when she grew up, he continued the tradition of a Halloween party, now as much for himself as for her. His gardeners spent a week decorating the grounds, and the household staff devoted even more time and attention to turning the huge first-floor rooms of the main house into replicas of a vast dungeon, replete with catacombs and realistic spiderwebs, boiling cauldrons and faux stone walls. The sounds of rattling chains and eerie moans and cackles were piped through the stereo system, and grimacing jack-o’-lanterns and metal witch heads with pointed hats, flames dancing in their eyes from the illumination inside, were perched on every windowsill.

When I arrived with Seth at seven, the party had already begun. Catering and service trucks were parked on one side of the house, and the long driveway was lined with cars. Inside, about a hundred costumed citizens milled about to the strains of a Dixieland band. I’m not sure of the significance of Dixieland jazz to Halloween, but it didn’t matter; the music was wonderful, two-beat and happy, causing toes to tap and heads to nod.

The costumes ran the gamut from inventive to mundane, outrageous to subdued. The most prevalent, of course, were the identical moose costumes worn by more than a dozen invited employees of Marshall-Scott Clothing, Inc. and members of the host’s family. They were beautifully made, although I wondered how fatiguing—not to mention hot—it would be to carry the weight of those large moose heads all evening. Luckily for the moose people, it was a cool night.

There was no way of knowing whose faces were beneath the moose heads without talking to them, and even then I didn’t recognize most of the voices. Paul Marshall, whose voice I did know, came to where I stood chatting with Seth Hazlitt, Mort and Maureen Metzger, and the town’s newest lawyer, Joe Turco, and his date, who’d dressed as pilgrims. Like his employees, Paul wore a moose costume.

“My goodness, Mrs. Metzger, you do look just like Cher,” Marshall said to Maureen. “Everyone looks wonderful.” His voice held a smile. When he is not wearing a bulky moose costume, Paul Marshall is a handsome man with a strong, square face, tanned complexion—either from a Caribbean vacation or a tanning salon—and expertly trimmed steel gray hair. Only his diminutive height saves him from the central-casting look of a chairman of the board. He is small, like his daughter, not as delicate of course, and compact. Nevertheless, he moves with the requisite ease of someone in control. He speaks in the pinched, nasal voice that mimics use to portray stereotypical old-money New England.

He and Tony Scott had made quite a financial success of Marshall-Scott Clothing, perhaps not quite a rags-to-riches story, but certainly a case of local boys making good. When his partner was alive, Paul used to kid that Tony was the brains and he, Paul, was the beauty, using his persuasive personality to build and market their business.

“Great night for a Halloween party, Mr. Marshall,” Maureen observed. “The rain’s stopped, and you’ve even got a full moon.”

“Please, we’ll have no formality here this evening,” he said. “It’s Paul.” He turned to me. “The Legend lives!”

“Only for one night,” I said.

“I think she’s been living in one of my cottages ever since that dreadful woman arrived.”

“And who might that be?” Seth asked.

“The Swift woman, in the Rose Cottage,” Marshall replied. “I’ve never paid any attention to whom the real estate broker rents the cottages to. She’s never failed me before. But now . . . well, I think I’d better start paying more attention. All I know about Ms. Swift is what the agent told me, that she’s from Massachusetts, has solid financial credentials, and claims to be an expert on roses. But she’s been nothing but trouble. You heard, of course, about the Wandowski girl.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was there. Really, it was just a misunderstanding. She was baking cookies and—”

We were interrupted by Warren Wilson, who removed his moose head to reveal a very pale damp brow, which he mopped with a white handkerchief.

“We were just discussing our tenant Ms. Swift,” Marshall said. To me he added, “Warren will be instituting eviction proceedings first thing next week.”

“Why?” I asked, not sure I should be debating what was obviously none of my business. “Has she done anything to warrant that?”

Wilson answered the question. “People in town are starting to talk about her, Mrs. Fletcher. She makes them uncomfortable. Paul doesn’t want anyone on the property making trouble, and I agree with him a hundred percent. Everyone living on the property always got along just fine until she arrived. I haven’t gone near the Rose Cottage since she moved in, she’s so unpleasant.”

“But aren’t you being unfair to her?” I started to say, but Marshall dismissed my comment with a wave of his arm, then excused himself and walked off, with Warren following close at his heels. The last words I heard were Marshall telling Wilson in gruff terms to put the moose head back on.

“Dance, Jessica?” Seth asked a few minutes later when the band began a slow version of “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?”

“Sure you want to dance with The Legend?” I asked playfully.

“Ghosts never harm physicians, Jessica.”

“Is that so?” I said, joining him on the dance floor with dozens of other couples. “Physicians have special powers?”

“Of course. Every ghost knows that if they cross a medical doctor, they’ll be banished to an HMO where they’ll be denied necessary medical treatment by a clerk, and die a slow, painful death.”

I smiled and changed the subject. Give Seth Hazlitt, M.D., an excuse to complain about the current state of medicine, and he makes good use of it.

The song had almost ended, and Seth was in the process of leading me into a death-defying old-fashioned dip, when I started to laugh.

“I know I’m not Fred Astaire,” he said, but—”

“No, no,” I said, “it isn’t you. Look over there.”

He followed my gaze to where two moose were dancing slowly to the song’s rhythm, their huge moose heads snuggled against each other. One was considerably taller than the other and had to bend down for their cheeks to touch.

“I hope someone is taking pictures,” I said, still watching the furry couple.

“Richard is.”

Richard Koser, Cabot Cove’s preeminent photographer, moved close to the swaying couple and took a few shots.

“I wonder who they are,” I said as we left the dance floor, thinking that the shorter moose might be Erica Marshall.

“Can’t hardly tell,” Seth said, leading me to one of three portable bars, where he ordered two glasses of an orange-colored punch created by the bartenders for the occasion. The taste of pumpkin juice was unmistakable.

“Great party, huh?” said Doug Treyz, reaching for two glasses of punch. Doug, my dentist, wore a 1920s golfing outfit; his wife, Tina, was costumed as Marie Antoinette, or some other lady of the eighteenth century.

“Wonderful, as usual,” I said.

We were joined by Joan and Ed Lerner, and Jack and Marilou Decker, publishers of the
Cabot Cove Insider,
the award-winning monthly magazine that chronicles the comings and goings of our citizens.

“I never want to see another moose, unless it’s the real thing,” Jack quipped. He flipped up the black eye patch of his pirate costume and plucked two hors d’oeuvres from a passing tray held by a very pretty witch. After popping one of the hors d’oeuvres into his mouth, he handed the other to his wife, who wore a matching outfit.

“I keep trying to tell the female moose from the male moose,” Marilou said, “but those details seem to have been left out by the costume designer.”

Ed Lerner was dressed as a grizzly bear. “Bear is his nickname,” explained Joan, who wore a University of Michigan cheerleader costume. “Oh, by the way, Ed and I have decided to have a Veteran’s Day party in November. Everyone has to dress military. You’ll be perfect in that uniform, Dr. Hazlitt.”

The Lerners drifted off, and the rest of our little group eventually gravitated from the main room to one of several patios overlooking the sprawling grounds of the Marshall estate. Rain earlier in the day had emptied the clouds, and it was now a cool, clear night, the chill a welcome contrast to the party inside, where it had become increasingly warm.

“You’d never know Paul Marshall was in financial difficulty, judging from this place,” Doug Treyz said absently.

“Is he?” Decker asked.

“That’s the scuttlebutt from my treatment chair,” the dentist said. “The way I hear it, his partner, Scott, never did come up with a solution for BarrierCloth’s flamability problem, and paid the price with his life. Without that, the company can’t compete with L. L. Bean and Lands’ End.”

“One of my patients told me that the two partners took out hefty ‘key man’ insurance policies not long before the accident,” Seth said. “Paul should have collected on the policy—millions, I understand.”

“Yes, but I heard the company hasn’t paid yet because of the suspicious nature of the fire,” Tina Treyz added.

“Looks like if you want to know anyone’s financial condition around here, go for a root canal or a routine physical,” Marylou said, raising her eyebrows.

“Maybe he did perfect the formula,” Decker offered. “I heard he might have.”

A pair of large white doves, or maybe they were swans, joined us on the patio. They turned out to be Peter and Roberta Walters, owners of the area’s only radio station. “These people keep up on the news,” Jack Decker said, turning to the new couple. “We were just speculating on whether Tony Scott solved the flame problem with BarrierCloth before he died.”

“Can’t prove it by me,” Pete Walters said. “What’s new with the nut out on the old quarry road?”

“Lucas Tremaine?” Decker said. “Our copy editor, Brenda Brody, has been attending his . . . what would you call them, services?”

“Con games,” Seth said, guffawing.

“She calls them seances,” Marilou interjected. “You know Brenda lost her husband a year ago.”

“Ayuh,” said Seth. “He was my patient. Fell off a ladder while putting on a new roof. Damn fool was too old to be roofing.”

“Brenda believes in reincarnation and the ability to speak to the dead. I told her that giving money to Tremaine was a waste, but when someone is grieving the way she is, you grasp at straws. She swears Tremaine puts her in touch with Russell, that they have long conversations.”

“The man is a charlatan,” Doug said.

“Unconscionable,” added Pete.

“There’s got to be a law against what he’s doing,” Seth said.

“If there were,” I put in, “Mort Metzger would have invoked it long ago.”

“Look at that.”

We directed our eyes to the right, where Tina Treyz was pointing. Two party-goers in moose costumes could be seen walking through the small, ancient cemetery adjacent to Marshall’s property, where The Legend and her unfaithful spouse were buried. The moose couple’s antlered heads were silhouettes in the light of the full moon. Beyond the cemetery, I knew, were two cottages, the Rose Cottage, where Matilda Swift lived, and on the other side of a grove of spruce trees, the one inhabited by Robert and Lauren Wandowski and their daughter.

“Sneaking off for a little moose smooching, I suspect,” Seth said, smiling.

I turned to my right, where a lonely figure in a moose costume stood on a second patio, gazing out over the cemetery, where the couple was walking. Although he or she was a considerable distance from me, I could see from the stiff stance and fisted gloves that this person was not happy. Seconds later, another moose joined the first. The two exchanged a few words before stepping from view.

“That music is too good to waste,” Roberta Walters said, swinging her tail feathers around and taking her husband’s wing. “You promised me two dances this evening. You owe me one.”

We followed the Walters inside and wandered through the elaborate decorations in Paul Marshall’s mansion. In the dining room, where the walls and chandelier were draped with cotton cobwebs, a buffet rivaling the best on any cruise ship was set up along one wall. Cold shrimp and oysters cascading over tiered ice sculptures were displayed next to pots of hot chowder, pastas, carving stations of turkey, roast beef and lamb, and more salads and side dishes than I’d have time, or stomach, to sample.

Across from the buffet was a table right out of Dickens’s
Great Expectations.
It had been set to re-create Miss Havisham’s long-abandoned banquet—platters of moldy food, dusty champagne glasses tipped over and skeins of cobwebs on the candelabra that tilted in its center. Guests had gathered to admire the culinary displays both real and counterfeit, but before we were invited to partake of the overflowing buffet tables, our host asked that we gather around him at the foot of a winding staircase leading up to the second floor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends, I am so happy to see all of you here enjoying yourselves, and I know you’ll continue the festivities at the buffet tables. But it would be derelict of me not to mention that this night marks the one-year anniversary of the untimely, tragic death of a man who was not only my trusted partner, but also my friend. I speak, of course, of Anthony Scott, who died in that terrible fire one year ago today. Would you join me in a moment of silent tribute to his memory?”

Marshall lowered his head, and a hush fell over the room. Then he looked out over the throng of revelers, raised a glass of champagne he’d been holding and said, “To Tony Scott, partner, genius and sorely missed friend.”

Those holding drinks answered by raising their glasses.