by Leslie Meier
“No?” Bill was surprised.
“I’m starving. Let’s get a pizza.”
“Great idea!” Bill agreed. “Let’s go!”
* * *
On Monday morning, Lucy’s spirits were still high when she went to work, buoyed by the equally successful performances on Saturday evening and Sunday afternoon. Everyone agreed that A Christmas Carol was the Community Players’ best production in the group’s twenty-year history. Lucy suspected that the group members may have had short memories, as it seemed to her that they always believed their last show was their best. Still, she was smiling when she pushed the door open and set the little bell to jangling.
“Shhh,” Phyllis warned, pressing a raised finger to her lips.
“What’s going on?” Lucy asked.
“Ted’s meeting with Ben Scribner,” she said, looking serious. “They’ve been in the morgue for at least half an hour.”
“What’s it about?” Lucy asked.
“I don’t know, but Scribner was all business when he arrived, demanding an immediate meeting with Ted.”
“You don’t think he’s calling the note, do you?” Lucy asked anxiously.
“That would take some nerve,” Phyllis declared, “after what you did.”
“Don’t think I won’t tell him that to his face,” Lucy said, raising her voice.
At that moment the door to the morgue popped open and Lucy braced herself for bad news. Which, considering the fact that the two men were smiling and shaking hands, she immediately realized would not be necessary.
“This is excellent,” Ted said. “I’m going to put my best reporter on it right away.”
“On what?” Lucy asked, furrowing her brows.
“Ben here is developing a plan to sell back all the foreclosed homes to their previous owners at the current, reduced value with new, affordable mortgages,” Ted said. “He’s also offering refinancing on favorable terms to all mortgagors, including me, who are struggling to keep up with payments due to the recession.”
“What’s the catch?” Phyllis asked, suspecting a trick.
“No catch!” declared Scribner, who for once looked relaxed and cheerful, actually seeming happy. “It’s due to this lady here,” he said, with a nod to Lucy. “She risked her life to save my miserable skin and it got me thinking. The truth is, Jake Marlowe and I got carried away. We got greedy. We didn’t think about the people we were dealing with, and only thought about the money we were making. But when I was sitting there with that bomb strapped to my chest, I wasn’t thinking about how much money I’d made. I was thinking that I’d wasted my life. And then you came, little lady, and gave me a second chance. Believe me, I’ve done some thinking and I’m not going to waste a single second of the time I’ve got left.”
“That’s . . . wonderful.” Lucy was not quite sure what to say. It seemed to her that the earth had tilted on its axis and things were suddenly topsy-turvy.
“It’s also good business,” Scribner added, his blue eyes twinkling shrewdly. “What’s the sense of a town where all the houses are empty and decaying? Truth is, I can’t sell these properties. I’ve got too many on my hands and it’s costing me money just to keep up with repairs and maintenance. Nope, this’ll make our town, our community, stronger, and people will want to live in Tinker’s Cove. Prices will start to go up again, and the sooner the better.”
“It’s too bad you didn’t figure this out sooner,” Phyllis said, adding a “hmph.” “Coulda saved a lot of trouble.”
Scribner’s face clouded. “I know. I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for Al Roberts. I know there’s no excuse for what he did, but Jake and I, well, we certainly contributed to his troubles. I’m going to make sure he gets a good lawyer, and I’m going to help his family any way I can, especially that little girl.” He let out a big breath. “The truth is, I owe Roberts a huge debt. Jake Marlowe was a miserable person and now I’m free of him. I’m free to be myself and I’m determined to be a better person.”
Hearing this admission, the three Pennysaver employees were dumbfounded. Finally, Ted spoke. “Is that for the record?”
“Hell, no!” Scribner said, his face reddening. “And don’t think I won’t sue!”
Then they were all laughing, laughing until their tummies hurt and they had to sit down, and finally they couldn’t laugh anymore.
* * *
Word of Scribner’s conversion spread through town as everyone was eager to share the story of his remarkable change of heart. Christmas spirit seemed to grow with every telling; people smiled and laughed and greeted each other cheerily as they hurried to complete their preparations for the big day. The people in line at the post office to mail cards and packages shared jokes and stories, people shopping for last minute presents waited patiently for the salesclerks to ring up their purchases, and shoppers at the IGA paused to chat with each other and exchange favorite holiday recipes. In Lucy’s memory there had never been such a merry Christmas season in which everyone enjoyed such cheerful fellowship and genuine goodwill.
Lucy almost hated for it to end, but the number of remaining doors on the Advent calendar was down to two. And then there was only one and it was Christmas Eve. The presents were all bought and wrapped, the cookies baked, the tree decorated. The whole family went to church for the candlelight service; Patrick was adorable as a little lamb in the Christmas pageant. Afterward they all went on to Florence Gallagher’s open house, bearing covered dishes for the potluck supper.
Florence’s house was packed with people, but the jolly crowd was eager to make room for more. The table was loaded with delicious things to eat, carols were playing, everyone was eating and drinking and toasting the holiday. There was a hushed moment when Ben Scribner appeared, carrying a huge cooked turkey from MacDonalds’ farm store, and Florence rushed to greet him with a big hug. Then others joined in the greeting, shaking hands and patting him on the back. Watching, Lucy thought he probably hadn’t been greeted so warmly in many years, perhaps never.
She was chatting with Miss Tilley, telling her that the Angel Fund had swelled to over five thousand dollars thanks to a couple of large donations, including one from a secret giver she suspected was actually Ben Scribner, when she noticed Rachel and Bob, kissing under the mistletoe. She gave Miss Tilley a nudge, and the old woman smiled at the sight. “I’ve been so worried about Rachel,” she said. “But now it looks like things are back on track.”
“Moving in the right direction, anyway,” Lucy said, taking a sip of eggnog.
A few minutes later Sue popped in, saying she couldn’t stay long because she was on her way to New York. “Geoff’s in surgery,” she said. “He’s getting a new kidney. He’s part of a donation chain, which is actually the longest one they’ve done so far, with more than twenty exchanges. And guess what? Little Angie’s getting a kidney, too! She’s actually getting Sidra’s kidney.” She laughed. “My daughter’s kidney is coming home to Tinker’s Cove! Imagine!”
“It seems a toast is definitely called for,” Miss Tilley said, tapping her glass with a spoon.
Everyone fell silent, waiting expectantly, as Miss Tilley called for all to “charge their glasses,” using the old-fashioned phrase. When everyone’s glass had been filled, she raised hers: “To friends and family, to Tinker’s Cove . . . God bless us, everyone! Merry Christmas!”
With family tensions intensifying in Tinker’s Cove, part-time reporter Lucy Stone could really use some time off the grid. But after she RSVPs to an unconventional celebration on remote Holiday Island, Lucy realizes that disconnecting from reality comes at a deadly price....
Lucy doesn’t know what to expect as she arrives on a private Maine island owned by eccentric billionaire Scott Newman, only that the exclusive experience should make for a very intriguing feature story. An avid environmentalist, Scott has stripped the isolated property of modern conveniences in favor of an extreme eco-friendly lifestyle. A trip to Holiday Island is like traveling back to
the nineteenth Century, and it turns out other residents aren’t exactly enthusiastic about living without cell service and electricity. . . .
Before Lucy can get the full scoop on Scott, she is horrified to find one of his daughters dead at the bottom of a seaside cliff. The young woman’s tragic end gets pinned as an accident, but a sinister plot unfolds when there’s a sudden disappearance....
Stuck on a clammy island with murder suspects aplenty, the simple life isn’t so idyllic after all. Now, Lucy must tap into the limited resources around her to outwit a cold-blooded killer—before it’s lights out for her next!
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Leslie Meier’s next Lucy Stone mystery
INVITATION ONLY MURDER
coming soon wherever print and e-books are sold!
Chapter One
The little bell on the door to the Pennysaver newspaper office in the quaint coastal town of Tinker’s Cove, Maine, jangled and Lucy Stone looked up from the story she was writing about the new recycling regulations—paper, glass, and plastic would not be accepted unless clean and separate, no more single stream—to see who had come in, and smiled broadly. It was her oldest and best friend, Sue Finch, looking every bit as stylish and put-together as usual with her dark hair cut in a neat bob and dressed in her usual summer uniform: striped French fisherman’s jersey, black Bermudas, espadrilles, and straw sun hat. Skipping a greeting, Sue pulled an envelope from her straw carryall with a perfectly manicured hand and declared, “Guess what came in today’s mail? It’s an invitation to die for!”
Lucy, who was used to playing second fiddle to Sue, raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She was also dressed in her usual summer uniform: a freebie T-shirt from the lumberyard, a pair of cutoff jeans, and neon orange running shoes. She hadn’t bothered to style her hair this sunny June morning, thinking that it looked fine, and had missed a stubborn lock in back that curled up like a drake’s tail feather. “Do tell,” she said, leaning back in her desk chair.
“Just look at the paper,” cooed Sue, pulling a square of sturdy card out of the velvet-smooth lined envelope. “Handmade. And the lettering is hand-pressed. And, oh, the address on the envelope was done by a calligrapher,” she continued, handing the envelope to Lucy. “Trust me, something like this doesn’t come cheap.”
“Is it a wedding invitation?” asked Lucy, admiring the elaborate, swirling script on the front of the envelope. Turning the envelope over and studying the back, she recognized the formally identified senders: Mr. and Mrs. Scott Newman. Everybody in town had heard of the Newmans, who had recently bought an island off the coast and proceeded to hire every contractor in the county to restore the property’s long-abandoned buildings, including spending a fortune to save the magnificent barn that was considered an architectural masterpiece.
“No, it’s for a ‘night to remember,’ that’s what they’re calling it,” replied Sue, handing Lucy the invitation. “It’s to celebrate the Newman family’s donation of the island to the Coastal Maine Land Trust and to thank all the people who worked on the restoration.”
“I bet we’re invited, too, then,” said Lucy, whose husband, Bill, a restoration carpenter, had been the lead contractor for the project. “The invitation’s probably in the mailbox at home.”
“It’s going to be fabulous, if this invitation is any indication,” said Sue. “No expense spared and believe me, the Newmans have plenty of expense to spare.”
Lucy knew all about Scott Newman; she’d written a profile of the billionaire venture capitalist when rumors started floating that he was interested in acquiring Fletcher’s Island for his family’s summer vacations. When she interviewed him, she’d been somewhat surprised to learn that he was a keen preservationist who was interested in keeping the island completely off the grid and was refusing to install modern innovations, allowing only the original nineteenth-century technology. He planned to collect rainwater in a cistern, use a primitive electric generation system, and cook on an enormous woodstove, all of which were considered wonderfully advanced when the island was developed by lumber tycoon Edward T. Fletcher. When Lucy asked if this wasn’t rather impractical, Newman had replied that it was modern life that was impractical, citing scientific studies linking climate change to human activity. “The old ways were much kinder to the environment, and face it, we’ve only got one planet, there’s no planet B,” he declared. “We’ve got to take care of Earth, or we’re all doomed.”
Some of the locals hired to work on the restoration project had a good laugh over Newman’s proclaimed environmental stewardship, as restoring the nineteenth-century structures required using thousands of kilowatts of electricity, provided by gas-greedy portable generators. His insistence on using authentic materials such as lath and horsehair plaster rather than sheetrock, and searching out recycled flooring, windows, and doors, not to mention hardware, had required lots of workers who had to be ferried to and from the island on power boats that burned gallons of fossil fuel. “It’s like the cloth versus disposable diapers thing,” Bill had told her. “Sure, the disposables fill up the landfill, but washing the cloth diapers uses water and energy. It’s kind of six of one and half a dozen of the other when it comes to the environment.”
Most controversial was the restoration of the immense barn, which alone was estimated to cost at least two million dollars. The huge number of cedar shingles required for the roof and siding had created an industry shortage that sent the price skyrocketing and shook the commodities market. The Pennysaver had received numerous letters to the editor protesting the shingle shortage and arguing that there were better ways to spend so much money. One writer proposed restoring the sprawling local elementary school, for example, which he claimed was a prime example of 1960s architecture.
Locals had also refused to be bamboozled by Newman’s supposed generosity in donating the island to the land trust, while reserving his right to retain it for his own use during his lifetime. It was true that he’d also preserved the rights of the Hopkins family, long-term residents of the island, to remain there, but again, only during his lifetime. And while the agreement set limits on how the island could be used, and was intended to preserve the island’s environment in perpetuity, the gift had come with plenty of strings attached and had garnered a large tax deduction for the Newmans, a fact that many writers of letters to the editor had also pointed out.
Despite the controversy, however, the party was eagerly anticipated by everyone who received an invitation, and that included land trust board members, contractors, local officials, and media, which was pretty much a who’s who of the entire town. The question that was on everyone’s lips as the big day drew closer was, how were the Newmans going to pull off such a big party while preserving their nineteenth-century lifestyle? Sue Finch wasn’t the only one to wonder, “Are we going to have to swim there? And are we all going to be sitting in the dark, huddled around a campfire, toasting wienies on sticks?”
* * *
Lucy was pondering that very question when she drove home from work a week or so later and found a rusting and dented old Subaru parked in her driveway. The car was missing a couple of hubcaps, had a crumpled front fender, and the glass on a rear window had been replaced with duct tape and a plastic grocery bag. Continuing her examination with the keen eye of an investigative reporter, she noticed the registration tag was out of date, and so was the required state inspection sticker.
Climbing the porch steps of the antique farmhouse that she and Bill had renovated and entering the kitchen, she was greeted by her aging black Lab, Libby. Arthritis didn’t stop Libby from rising stiffly from her comfy dog bed and wagging her tail in welcome, earning her a treat and a pat on the head from Lucy.
Voices could be heard in the adjacent family room and Lucy stuck her head in, curious to learn who owned the Subaru. “Oh, hi, Mom,” said her daughter Zoe, quickly disentangling herself from the arms of a shabby-looking fellow with a stubbly, three-day beard. “Mom, this is Mike Snide
r.”
Mike didn’t bother to get up from the comfy sectional where he was reclining, or even to lift his head from the throw pillow it was resting on. “Hiya,” he said, raising one hand and giving a little flap.
Lucy glared at him, taking in his shaved head, tattooed neck, and torn jeans that clearly needed a wash. Worst of all was the T-shirt with a message that was clearly unprintable for a family newspaper like the Pennysaver. “Hiya, yourself,” said Lucy, turning on her heel and marching out of the room, leaving no doubt that this was a situation that did not meet with her approval.
Back in the kitchen, Lucy got busy on dinner, noisily pulling pots out of cabinets and slamming them down on the stove. She was filling a pasta pot with water when the couple appeared, holding hands, and were met with a low growl from Libby, who watched Mike through narrowed eyes and flattened ears from her doggy bed. She was clearly considering getting to her feet, painful though it would be, when Mike reached for the knob and pulled the door open. “Catch ya later,” he said, before stepping through the doorway. Moments later, Lucy heard the roar of the Subaru’s unmuffled engine, which sputtered out a few times before catching and carrying Mike away.
“Who is he? And where did you meet him?” Lucy demanded, turning to face Zoe. Zoe was her youngest, at twenty, and every bit as pretty as her older sisters, Elizabeth and Sara. She shared Elizabeth’s dark hair and petite build, but had Sara’s peachy skin and pouty lips. Today she was glowing, no doubt the result of her aborted activities on the sectional.
“At school, Mom,” she answered, referring to Winchester College, a local liberal arts university where she was a junior, currently majoring in French after trying political science, psychology, and art history. She had hopes of joining Elizabeth in Paris, where her older sister was working as an assistant concierge at the toney Cavendish Hotel. “Mike’s a TA in the computer science department. He’s really smart. Even Sara says so,” she added, bolstering her case with a reference to the family’s doubting Thomas, who was a grad student at Winchester.