The Pumpkin Man

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FIVE

Scott Barkiewicz pulled off the broken, one-lane asphalt road and onto a sandy gravel driveway next to a beat-up brown van that saltwater air had not been kind to. The house beyond was typical of those halfway up the hill on the edge of town: a pale cerulean and white frame that looked as if it needed a new coat of paint ten years ago. But, Scott expected that the inside of the small home would likely defy the outside. Looks were deceiving. The ocean air aged everything here twice as fast as anywhere else, and most of the homes he’d been in since he started on the force here were modest but well kept.

He stepped out of the squad car and walked across a string of pale pink paving blocks to a concrete step. The inner door was open beyond a screen door, and he could hear the doorbell echo inside when he touched the button.

It only took a moment for a thickset Italian woman to emerge from the back of the house. She looked about fifty, he guessed, with shoulder-length dark hair and equally black eyes. Her blouse woke the eye with a kaleidoscopic pattern, and the chest and belly beneath jiggled as she walked. Mrs. Foster was no stranger to good eatin’.

“Can I help you?” she asked through the screen.

“Emmaline Foster?” he asked.

She nodded. “That’s me.”

“I was hoping I might be able to talk a bit with you and your husband.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That might prove a bit difficult.”

“Why’s that?” Scott asked.

“Well, he’s been dead these last twenty-plus years.” Her voice betrayed enjoyment that he’d not done his homework.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. But his stomach sank. If Harry had been dead all this time, he couldn’t be involved in the current mess. And it might also explain why the local victim list remained incomplete when it came to the parents of the children murdered in the original Pumpkin Man spree: Harry wasn’t here to be murdered.

Of course, she still was.

“Would you mind giving me a few minutes of your time?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to you about—”

“The Pumpkin Man?” she said. “You know, Captain Jones stopped by here a couple months ago.”

Scott nodded. “I was hoping to get a little different perspective,” he explained. “I’m new to town and don’t have the same history he does.”

The woman gave a slight smile and pushed the door open. “Don’t know what good it will do, but sure, I’ll talk to you.”

When he stepped inside, Emmaline Foster’s living room appeared well lived-in. The walls were a deep red, but the room wasn’t dark, because there were also dozens of framed photos and pieces of art. Her walls were a gallery dedicated to her life.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked, gesturing for him to sit on the couch. “I just brewed a pot.”

“Thanks,” he said, sinking into one of the deep brown cushions. “I’d love one. Black with a little sugar, please.”

She disappeared through an arched entryway, and Scott could see startlingly white tile and the corner of a kitchen table beyond. Its surface was black, and the chairs surrounding it were framed in silver metal with black cushion seats. Very deco, he thought.

Glasses clinked in the kitchen as he took in the room around him. It held a single couch and two light-blue easy chairs on either side of a low, stained coffee table. There was no TV or fireplace. Where the walls weren’t covered by frames, they were hidden by two bookcases and a curio cabinet. In the cabinet were a number of statuettes and some odd pieces of sculpture he couldn’t quite identify from across the room. Behind him on the wall were several pictures that featured Emmaline. She was younger, her hair longer, but the basic frame of the woman seemed unchanged. And while she’d always been thickset, going by the way her arms draped various men and women and the constant smiles and glinting playfulness in those teardrop eyes, she’d always been the life of the party.

She returned with two tall ivory mugs on a small rectangular tray that she set on the table. Motioning to a small ceramic pot she said, “I didn’t know how much you take, so I just brought the sugar.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” he said, and spooned in two heaps. “Was that your husband?”

He nodded at one of the photos in a black frame immediately behind his head. The tall, long-faced man appeared in several photos around the room, he’d noted. In this one, the man stood with his arm draped easily around a young Emmaline’s shoulders. The pictured room was crowded, and they both were dressed in fancy clothes. They appeared to be at some formal function.

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “That was my brother George. Harry’s over there.” She pointed to a picture of a heavyset, thirtysomething man with his hands on the shoulders of a young boy.

“Your son?” Scott probed, eyeing the youth.

She shook her head no but recanted. “Well, yes, he was mine for a few years. Justin was Harry’s boy from another marriage. We lost him when he was just twelve years old.” She sipped from her cup and didn’t elaborate.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Scott said, feeling lame.

Emmaline shrugged. “It was many years ago. I’m afraid time leaves everyone scarred.”

“It must have been very hard for you to lose your son and then your husband,” Scott said, then again felt stupid as the words left his mouth. She only nodded and stared, waiting for him to get to the point.

Scott shifted in his seat. “You obviously know that the Pumpkin Man killings have begun again,” he said. “And most of the victims have been the parents of the children who were killed in the eighties. Are you worried for your safety?” He inwardly rolled his eyes. That’s the best fishing you can come up with? he asked himself.

“No, I’m not worried,” she answered. “I think if he was going to come for me, it would have happened already. And anyway, I keep protection in my nightstand. He wouldn’t stand a chance.” She raised her eyebrow to punctuate a grin. It said, Just try to fuck with me and see what happens.

Scott nodded, pleased she wasn’t scared. “Can you tell me a little about the original killings?” he asked. “I mean, I’ve read the files, but I’ve not had the opportunity to talk to any of the other parents.”

Emmaline laughed. “Well no, you wouldn’t have, would you? Aren’t many left.”

Scott felt himself blush.

“It was a horrible couple of years,” she admitted. “Everyone blamed George for it, but I knew that he wasn’t guilty. My brother would never have done something like that. He wasn’t like the rest of the family. He was gentle as gentle could be.”

“Wait a minute,” Scott said, feeling stupid again for not having done his homework. “I hadn’t realized your maiden name was—”

“Perenais?” she finished for him. “Yes. I am Emmaline Perenais, and yes, the man everyone called the Pumpkin Man was my brother.”