Wicked Witch Murder by Leslie Meier

said Ike, handing his plate to his wife for a refill. She quickly gave her own plate to Abby to hold and hurried over to the buffet table while Ike continued. “In time, her wickedness will be revealed. There are disturbing signs already—like that poor soul found burned in the woods.”
    His words cast a pall over the group, and conversation faltered as the smoke column grew thicker and darker as the fire spread through the dry woods. They were all keeping a nervous eye on the mountain as they filled their paper plates and ate their salads and hamburgers and watched the kids playing tag. Soon people began collecting their belongings and drifting along home. The Stoughtons were among the last to leave, so Lucy didn’t even have the satisfaction of discussing their odd behavior with her neighbors.

Chapter Five
    L ucy was wakened early Sunday morning by the phone. It was Ted, asking her to go to the crisis center at the police station. The fire was still raging, and he was out with the firefighters, covering the story.
    â€œHave you been up all night?” she asked, grasping the situation.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThis is bad,” she said, her thoughts immediately turning to Toby. She sent up a quick prayer for his safety.
    â€œYup. They’re evacuating some campgrounds, trying to notify people with cabins in the area.”
    â€œI’m on it,” she said, throwing back the covers.
    â€œI knew I could count on you.”
    Lucy was certain they would have been notified if they were in any danger from the fire, but she still went straight to the window, just to make sure. Smoke was still rising from the mountain, but the fire seemed to have moved to the other side, away from the town center. Somewhat reassured, she went into the bathroom to wash up. A few minutes later, she was leaving the house, carrying a commuter mug of coffee.
    She noticed the smell of smoke the minute she stepped out the door—it irritated her nose and stung her eyes—and she hurried to the car, where she made sure the windows were shut tight and turned on the AC. It was still early and there was little traffic, which was normal for a Sunday morning, but there weren’t even any joggers running along the road because the air was so bad. Lucy felt a sense of suspended animation, similar to the period of time after a storm warning was announced but before the storm watch actually began and people started boarding up their windows and pulling their boats out of the water.
    When she reached Main Street, she saw the white satellite trucks that indicated the Boston and Portland TV stations were covering the fire. The parking lot at the police station was full, forcing her to park in the little lot behind the Pennysaver office. She felt a rising excitement as she hurried across the street and through the parking lot to the back door of the police station. The crisis center was located in the basement, a windowless area that was deemed secure from flood, wind, and reporters. A small group of newshounds, including several men with TV cameras, were gathered at the gray steel door.
    â€œNobody’s getting in,” said one guy with an NECN cap.
    â€œThere’s not much room inside,” said Lucy, who’d been given a tour when the crisis center opened. “And I suppose they’ve got more important things to do than talk to reporters.”
    â€œI’ve got to make a report in ten minutes,” said a young woman in a WCVB Windbreaker. “What am I going to say?”
    Lucy gave her a sympathetic smile, thinking that perhaps there were advantages to a weekly deadline. She didn’t have to file her story on the fire until Wednesday morning.
    It was then that the door opened just wide enough for an arm to protrude, and they all watched as a notice was taped to the outside, announcing a press conference in an hour.
    â€œMight as well get some coffee,” muttered one guy, and the crowd