Trick or Treachery Read Online Free Page B

that’s not a costume.”
    “It would be on someone who isn’t a sheriff,” I said, matching his volume, “but it isn’t for you. Why don’t you go as a soldier, too? Marcia Davis has a wonderful selection of uniforms at the theater. You could go as a World War Two doughboy, or someone from the Civil War.”
    “That’s a good idea. Of course, I wouldn’t want to step on Seth’s toes.”
    “I’m sure you wouldn’t unless you wore a red jacket and white knee pants.” The static was louder now.
    “Haven’t worn knee pants since I was five,” Mort shouted into the phone. “Well, sorry to have woken you, Mrs. F. I’ll check in with Marcia tomorrow morning.”
    “You do that, Mort,” I called out. “Say hello to Maureen for me. Good night.”
    I smiled as I sank down and drew up the covers. Cabot Cove was such a wonderful place to live, and I had such dear friends. But my final thought was of Lucas Tremaine and his speech downtown that afternoon, and of the strange lady, Ms. Swift, who was now a member of our community. My dreams reflected it—they were not pleasant dreams. I woke early in the morning groggy and out of sorts.

Chapter Three
    “Jess, it’s Matt.”
    “Hello, Matt. Getting a call from you is always a nice way to start the day.”
    “Wish all my clients felt that way. Jess, what’s this I hear about a Cabot Cove legend?”
    “Legend? Oh, you mean that legend.” I laughed. “How did you hear about it?”
    “It’s in this morning’s paper, something about a guy named Tremaine coming to Cabot Cove to drive this legend away.”
    “What paper?”
    “The New York Daily News. ”
    “Oh, my. I didn’t think the story would interest anyone outside of Maine. It’s all silliness, Matt. The legend goes back two hundred years. Hepzibah Cabot was the wife of the founder of Cabot Cove. She killed her husband when she discovered he’d been unfaithful to her, and then threw herself off a cliff into the sea. Even today people claim to see her in various places, wandering on the beach with seaweed streaming from her hair, or in the cemetery near her husband’s grave. Cabot House, her home, is now the headquarters of our historical society. Although The Legend has never been seen there, local history buffs love to retell the story every year, especially to the children who visit Cabot House. Of course they skip the reason she killed her husband.”
    “Raises a lot of goose bumps with the little ones, I bet,” Matt said.
    “Yes, it does. Children so enjoy ghost stories, and it seems to help interest them in history.”
    “Well, Jess, The Legend is an amusing tale, but it doesn’t seem to be especially newsworthy.”
    “It wasn’t until recently. About two months ago, a man named Lucas Tremaine arrived and claimed to have made contact with The Legend. He’s preaching—yes, that’s what I’d call it, preaching—that The Legend is about to raise her pretty head and wreak havoc on us, and that only he can stave it off.”
    “Can he?”
    “Can he? Matt! There is no Legend, and Mr. Tremaine is a con man. Besides claiming he’s our savior, he’s established quite a little cult for himself, putting the gullible in touch with deceased loved ones in the spirit world—for sizable fees, I might add.”
    “Could be a book in it.”
    “Maybe, but not from this writer.”
    “Just thinking out loud. Any plans to head down to New York this fall?”
    “None at the moment, but I’d like to,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Have to run, Matt. I’m due at a meeting and rehearsal in a half hour.”
    “Meeting? Rehearsal? About what?”
    “Our annual children’s Halloween pageant.”
    “That’s right. Halloween is just a few days away. Perfect time for spirits to come out of the woodwork and—Jess? Can you hear me?”
    “There goes the phone again. We’ve been having nothing but trouble with the lines all over town.”
    “I can barely hear you.”
    “Good-bye, Matt. We’ll talk when