Trick Me, Treat Me

“Toldja no kids would recognize you as Glenda the Good Witch.” Aunt Hildy rolled her eyes as she again examined Gwen’s pink dress and the long ringlets she’d curled into her hair.

“But everybody’s seen The Wizard of Oz.”

“Bo-o-o-ring. You gotta stop playing it safe. You’re a hot tomato, sugar lips. You just need to get back to normal, be daring like you used to be.”

She ignored the lecture on not playing it safe—lord knew, she’d been hearing it almost daily for almost two years, since her parents’ untimely death had shocked her into a life of safety and solitude. The ugly public breakup with her former fiancé had also made her “tuck up inside her shell like a pansy-ass turtle,” as her Aunt Hildy liked to say.

She didn’t mean to play it safe. In fact, recently she’d begun trying to do at least one spontaneous, risky thing each day, even if it was only wearing a darker shade of eye shadow, or a thin, filmy blouse on a windy October day. With a bra.

She could also admit, if only to herself, that it probably was the old Gwennie who had fallen crazy in love with this dark, gothic-looking house from the moment she’d laid eyes on it.

“You should’ve dressed up as that singer Madonna,” Hildy added. “Moe says you coulda superglued some of them big, pointy ice cream cones over your ta-tas and looked just like her in one’a her bustiers.”

Gwen also ignored the ta-ta remark. She didn’t want to think about the possibility of supergluing anything to her breasts. Particularly since the suggestion had been made by Moe. Her great-aunt’s best pal. The dead gangster whose ghost currently made his home in their basement.

She supposed there were worse ways Hildy could spend her golden years than talking to the ghosts from her past. She was just thankful Hildy had lived to see her golden years. And that Gwen was around to take care of her and share them with her.

Hildy’s family had disowned her when she was a disgraced teenager, having fallen in with a notorious gang of Chicago bank robbers back in the thirties. From what Gwen could gather, Hildy’s own parents had done nothing to help her when she’d been thrown into jail, only grudgingly letting her come home after she’d served her three-year prison sentence.

Aunt Hildy’s life hadn’t gotten much easier once she was released. Never allowed to forget she’d disgraced the family, her sadness had led to deep depression, and eventually a nervous breakdown. She’d spent years in and out of mental institutions. Something Gwen still had trouble fathoming, considering Aunt Hildy had been a smiling, gentle presence through her whole life.

She put her arm around her elderly aunt’s frail shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Gwen was too grateful to have the slightly zany, but deeply loving old woman around to quibble over trifling matters like talking to a dead gangster. Hildy was the only family she had left. And Gwen would do anything to make her final years happy, tranquil ones. Anything to help Hildy forget that her family had once betrayed her.

“How would Moe know about Madonna?” she finally asked, knowing demonstrations of affection made Hildy uncomfortable.

“TV.”

She turned out all but one light in the foyer, partially to prevent her aunt from seeing her amusement. “Of course. Moe loves TV, I remember.” Personally, when she was in Moe’s position, Gwen hoped television would have no part of her existence. A world without TV—no reality shows, no WWF smack-downs and no Jerry Springer—sounded like heaven to her. Then remembering the Madonna bustier suggestion, she added, “You know, those ice cream cones would break in no time flat.”

Hildy thought about it. Finally, her eyes narrowed and her brow pulled into a frown. “That dirty old geezer. He always was…”

“Never mind, Aunt Hildy. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything.” No way did she want to get into a discussion about Aunt Hildy’s former associates tonight. Yes, she’d loved the stories as a kid…the gorier the better. Hildy used to call her Gruesome Gwen because she’d been so fascinated by the wicked old days. She’d learned all anyone could know about prohibition, the benefits of a Tommy gun, how many men Pretty Boy Floyd had murdered and John Dillinger’s penis size before her eighteenth birthday.

The penis size thing was still pretty interesting.

But she hadn’t had time for stories since they’d moved here.

“All the candy gone?”

“Just about. I’m glad you insisted on buying so much.” Gwen lifted the nearly empty bowl, casting a rueful eye to one lone piece of bubble gum and a few forlorn-looking Tootsie Rolls. “I never knew there were so many kids in Derryville.”

Hildy tugged her wig off and patted a strand of white hair into her bun. “And every one of them had to come here.”

Gwen couldn’t count the number of times a group of children had come to the door tonight, looking uniformly terrified but so excited they couldn’t stand still. Each time, they’d pushed forward one unlucky little soul to be their spokesman. The voice would tremble, the eyes would sparkle with fear. Eventually each would muster up the courage to whisper, “Trick or treat.”

They’d peer around her, trying to get a look inside the infamous house, which had cleaned up rather well after months of work. Well enough to open their inn before the end of the year, as she and Hildy had hoped when they’d moved here last February.

“I’m bushed,” Hildy said, rubbing at her hip, visibly fatigued. “You think you can close up for the night, sugar lips?”

Nodding, Gwen kissed the old woman’s forehead, wishing she’d realized sooner that Hildy wasn’t feeling well. “Go on.” Hugging her aunt again, she took care to be gentle with those fine, delicate old shoulders, on which Gwen had leaned more than once as a girl.

As Hildy walked away, she said, “Don’t forget to thaw out the muffins so they’ll be ready for the morning.”

“I won’t forget.”

But, of course, she did.

JARED REACHED Derryville very late, due to Friday night traffic on the interstate, but he didn’t worry. This gathering was set to last the whole weekend. Besides, since he wasn’t expected, it would be easier to slip inside—in character—to surprise his cousin. If he got the chance, he could manipulate the “evidence” and pin the crime on Mick. Guilty or not.

Mick deserved some payback for the Maxwell Smart stuff.

He cut off his headlights as he drove up the hill leading to the old Marsden house, not even fully realizing he was holding his breath as the imposing building came into view.

It hadn’t changed. Dark and angled, it was an architectural monstrosity that had never fit in with the quaint mid-western town. It overlooked Derryville like a crouching dragon guarding its village for its supply of tasty virgins.

Several cars were parked in the lot at the side of the house, evidence of the party underway. The building appeared dark, so it was possible some people had retired for the night. Or, perhaps, they were busy being bumped off in Mick’s game of “figure out who the killer is before you get murdered yourself.”

Jared got out of the car after tucking his keys up behind the sun visor. As soon as he had a chance, he planned to come back and move his Viper into the garage. He also left the invitation and his wallet in the glove box, intending to be in character as of this moment. He didn’t worry about anyone stealing anything. This was Derryville, after all.

As he walked to the porch, he noticed a small sign. Mick had gone all out, having a fake sign painted for his inn. In print, it didn’t make much sense. Little Bohemie Inn. Spoken aloud, however…“Little Bohemian. Cute, Mick.”

He paused at the bottom step. “Finally gonna get to see the inside,” he murmured. His mind tripped back to long, restless nights when he’d lie awake in his bed, imagining the horrors buried beneath the floorboards of Miser Marsden’s house.

What would old man Marsden say if he knew one of the town’s most famous residents had used descriptions of his home in his earliest horror-writing efforts? The Marsden house, with its dusty turrets, so dark and imposing against even the sunniest summer skies, had definitely been inspiring when it came to writing spooky tales. But practically nobody knew about the stories, long buried in trashed periodicals or out-of-print slasher rags. Jared was now on the bestseller lists with nonfiction, not the dreck he’d tried to write while in college.

He’d never seen the inside of the house—though not for lack of trying. He and Mick had climbed the rickety outside steps up to the wide, creaking wooden porch to ring the doorbell once, years ago. They’d done it on a double-dog dare, to see if old man Marsden really did have a Doberman named Killer, trained to bite the nuts off any boy stupid enough to trespass on his property.

Marsden hadn’t answered. Neither had Killer. Which left Jared with hope that he might someday be able to father a rugrat or two. He also hoped that if there were any ghosts in the Marsden place, Killer wasn’t among them.

A dog howled in the distance and he had to laugh at his own start of surprise. Shaking off old memories, he put one foot on the step, then paused. Miles Stone, superspy extraordinaire, would never walk through the front door—or worse, knock.

Without another thought, he turned and made his way around to the back of the house. He’d just stepped through an unlocked back door when he realized he wasn’t alone.

A figure in white—either a ghost or the most attractive female he’d ever seen—stood a few feet away. Jared froze, watching her move into the kitchen, unaware of his presence.

She was clad in a shimmering gown, and her golden hair was long and wildly curled against her curvy body. While she’d been silhouetted in the doorway, he’d gotten a glimpse of a sweetly soft face complete with full pouty lips. Every male instinct he possessed came to attention instantly in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Remaining in character, Miles Stone prepared to do what any James Bond would do. Find out who she was. Remove any weapons she might be carrying.

Then get her into bed.

2

GWEN HAD REMEMBERED the muffins forty minutes after she’d gone to bed in one of the upstairs guest rooms. “Damn,” she’d sworn at her absentmindedness. How could she have forgotten when Hildy had reminded her?

To give herself credit, she had been working awfully hard. Eighty-hour workweeks filled with ladders, paint cans, scrub brushes and sewing machines could drive every thought out of anybody’s head. But it wasn’t anybody who was going to have to oversee breakfast for their guests. It was her body.

Sighing heavily, she’d gotten up, wishing she’d thought to grab a bathrobe from her own room before coming upstairs for the night. Her thin negligee had done nothing to warm her. She’d made a mental note to stop to get the robe before coming back up.