Candy Corn Murder by Leslie Meier Page A

throw some concrete blocks in there and invite people who enjoy diving to try their hands at carving pumpkins.”
    â€œOh,” said Lucy. “I get your point.”
    â€œAnd what I think,” continued Hank, “is that the guy who voted against the contest at the Conservation Commission meeting . . .”
    â€œTom Miller?”
    â€œYeah, him. I think he ratted us out to the DEP because he doesn’t want us to have the contest. He got outvoted, so this is how he thinks he can stop us.”
    â€œMaybe it’s just routine,” said Lucy. “Maybe the committee always checks with the DEP when waterways are involved.”
    â€œMaybe,” admitted Hank, “but I doubt it. Anyway, I thought there might be a story there.”
    â€œThanks for the call,” said Lucy.
    She flipped through her Rolodex and then put in a call to the committee chairman, Caleb Coffin. He wasn’t home, but his wife said she’d be sure to pass along the message. Lucy’s next call was to the state DEP, where she had a contact, but her call went straight to voice mail. She glanced at the clock, discovering it was almost noon, which meant she had forty-eight hours until the Wednesday noon deadline to track down this story, which she wasn’t sure was a story. Not a lot of time, she thought, scribbling a reminder to follow up on a sticky note and pasting it on her computer screen.
    She got up to retrieve her lunch from the office fridge, and when she brought it back to her desk, her phone was already ringing. When she picked up, fire chief Buzz Bresnahan was on the line.
    â€œI’m sorry about your pumpkin,” she said, thinking it was only polite to express her condolences.
    â€œOh, yeah, that was a blow,” he said, “but that’s not why I’m calling. It’s because the Coast Guard just called and informed me that I’m going to have to keep the department’s rescue boat on standby during the pumpkin boat regatta.”
    â€œSounds like a sensible precaution,” said Lucy, picturing a wide variety of unstable watercraft constructed from giant pumpkins that were likely to capsize in the chilly water of the town cove.
    â€œIt may be sensible, but it’s not in my budget,” said Chief Bresnahan. “If I put the rescue boat out, I’ve got to man it, and that means overtime, which I do not have funds for. That’s why I’m calling you. I’ve got to go to the selectmen for an emergency appropriation, and I need some support for that request. We gotta have some interested citizens there to speak up, or this whole thing is going down in flames. There isn’t much time. The race is next Sunday. That’s less than a week away.”
    â€œDoes the Coast Guard usually get involved in stuff like this?” asked Lucy, thinking she’d never really heard of a similar situation. She had thought the Coasties at the local station had their hands full inspecting fishing boats and enforcing safety regulations.
    â€œNot until now,” fumed Bresnahan. “I think somebody musta made a fuss about the regatta, somebody with connections, but that’s off the record.”
    â€œGot it,” responded Lucy, who was beginning to agree with Corney that somebody was out to spoil the Giant Pumpkin Fest. But who? And why? Was it really Tom Miller, like Hank thought? She dismissed the idea, remembering that Tom had been an early supporter of the festival, which, he had argued, would bring lots of business to the town and especially to Country Cousins.
    Lucy spent a frustrating afternoon trying to contact sources at the state DEP and the Coast Guard and not getting anywhere. When her phone finally did ring, it wasn’t one of her contacts calling back. It was Heidi Bloom at Little Prodigies.
    â€œI’m sorry to bother you at work,” she began, “but Patrick is having a very difficult day, and I’d appreciate it if