by Leslie Meier
“Well, I know Dora has a unique sense of humor, but getting in trouble for a high school stunt is one thing and murder is another,” said Lucy.
“A double murder,” offered Dot Kirwan, joining the knot of gossipers. They all looked at her expectantly, knowing she was the police chief’s mother and most likely had the latest information. “They’re most likely charging her with Max’s murder, too.”
“Now that I don’t believe,” said Luanne. “They’ve been on and off ever since junior high school. I mean, even though they’re divorced, I still think of them as a couple. I think everybody who was in school with them does. They were always fighting and making up. The girls would side with Dora and the boys with Max; it was high drama in the cafeteria. A real soap opera, a new installment every day.”
“Well, if it was a soap opera, this was the final episode,” said Dot. “They’ve got witnesses who saw Dora on the ice, arguing with Max, the evening before he was killed.”
If that was true it was bad news for Dora, thought Lucy, who remembered Barney telling her that Dora said the last time she saw Max was at the house, when he came to help her with her car. Did she lie, or were the witnesses mistaken? Was it Dora, or someone else?
“Max had been seeing a lot of Tamzin,” said Luanne, who worked at the Irish pub by the harbor. “They came in for drinks quite a few times.”
“A classic love triangle with a tragic ending,” said Lydia, welling up with tears. “I remember Max and Dora, they were in some of my first classes. I had such high hopes for them—especially Dora. She was such a bright little thing.”
Lucy gave her a hug. “Well, she’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“That’s right,” said Dot, with a smart nod. “If you ask me, I don’t think Dora would hurt a fly.”
“You know she makes those dirty chocolates,” said Franny, pursing her lips with disapproval. “She sells them on the Internet.”
“I’ve seen the chocolates—they’re not offensive,” said Lucy. “My own daughter works there, packing them, and I certainly wouldn’t let her handle anything I didn’t approve of.”
“Dora’s always marched to her own drummer,” said Dot, “but that doesn’t make her a murderer.”
“Is the case against her strong?” asked Lucy. “They must have evidence... .”
“Circumstantial,” said Dot. “And she’s a smart girl. Last I heard, she’s refusing to talk to investigators—you know most perpetrators are only too happy to incriminate themselves. My Jim says if it wasn’t for the fact that the bad guys aren’t too smart and love to talk, they’d hardly convict anybody.”
“I saw Flora this morning,” said Lucy. “She said they’re looking for a lawyer.”
“Smart,” said Dot, with an approving nod. “That’s the other thing in Dora’s favor. She’s got a lot of support from her family.”
“That’s for sure,” agreed Lydia. “Flora was always there for every conference, every school event. And Fern, too. And then when Lily came along, all three of them would show up.”
Sue was tapping on a glass with a spoon, so conversation ceased as everyone focused on the panel of judges gathered beside her. Sue then made the introductions, but Lucy wasn’t listening because she recognized them all: Roger Wilcox, chairman of the board of selectmen; Hildy Schultz, who owned a bakery; and Fred Farnsworth, executive chef at the Queen Victoria Inn. They were nodding and smiling and saying nice things about all the entries, but Lucy’s mind was miles away, thinking of Dora, sitting in the county jail. As a reporter Lucy had been there numerous times, covering various stories. It was one of her least favorite assignments; she hated the moment the door clanged shut behind her, even though she knew she could leave whenever she wanted. Nevertheless, she always sympathized with the inmates, who couldn’t.
Of course, Dora was tough. She was probably better able to withstand the indignities of imprisonment than most. And, as Dot had mentioned, she had plenty of support from her family. If anybody could successfully conceal a saw in a cake and smuggle it in to the jail, it would be Flora, she thought, as a little smile flitted across her lips.
Thinking about that tight family of women, who all lived and worked together, she wondered if perhaps Dora was protecting somebody else. Not Fern, she was too old to manage such elaborate murders. She could probably bash somebody on the head or shoot them, but staging the bodies the way the murderer had was a big job and Lucy doubted she had the strength. Flora, however, was a big woman with a lot of determination. And she’d been handling heavy sacks of sugar and other ingredients her entire life. Flora was also judgmental, and used to getting her way, according to Miss Tilley, and had forced Max to marry Dora when she got pregnant. Perhaps Flora didn’t approve of the divorce and would rather see Dora as a widow than a divorcée with an ex who kept hanging around. Lucy was wondering if Flora wasn’t a likelier suspect for the murders than her daughter when Dot elbowed her in the ribs.
Lucy was recalling her strange encounter with Lily and wondering if she wasn’t an even likelier suspect—after all, Flora had bragged about Lily’s skill at hunting and dressing deer—when Lydia poked her in the ribs.
“Lucy! They called your name!”
Lucy blinked. “What?”
“Once again,” Sue was saying into the microphone, “our first-prize winner is Lucy Stone for her Maple-Blueberry Cheesecake!”
Stunned, Lucy made her way through the crowd toward the judges. When she was in place behind the table, Sue continued, reading from a card.
“The judges all agreed that this cheesecake showed an imaginative and original use of local ingredients. It was refreshing and light and surprisingly low in calories, the perfect end to a coastal dinner.”
“And I might add, absolutely delicious,” said Fred Farnsworth, leaning in to the microphone.
Everybody laughed and applauded, except for Sue, who looked rather annoyed as she handed Lucy an envelope. “The grand prize is a dinner for two at Chantarelle. Congratulations and bon appétit, Lucy.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, still not quite comprehending her triumph. “This is a real surprise.”
“I’ll say,” muttered Sue, under her breath, as there was another round of applause. She held up her hand for silence. “And now, I encourage everyone to sample the delicious entries—the five dollar per plate cost goes to support the Hat and Mitten Fund, which provides winter clothing for local children. Tea and coffee are also available.”
Putting the mike down, Sue thanked the judges while Lucy tucked the envelope into her handbag. Then she asked Sue if she could help with the serving as people started to mob the tables where the desserts were displayed.
“It looks like they could use some help with the pies,” said Sue, scanning the crowd, which was thickest around the table displaying that category of entries. Cupcakes were also popular, as were the cookies, but Lucy noticed that few people had gathered at the table with brownies and chocolate cakes.
“Chocolate’s gotten some bad press lately,” said Lucy.
“Absolutely,” declared Sue. “If that poor woman hadn’t been coated with chocolate, I’m sure my Better-Than-Sex Brownies would have won. The entries were blind, you know, so they could have picked mine. But right now it’s hard to think about chocolate without picturing Tamzin’s body and it takes your appetite away.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” said Lucy, before heading over to the pie table.
“People are sick of chocolate,” added Sue, in a parting shot.
When Lucy picked up Zoe at the Friends of Animals shelter, she discovered the news about Eddie was finally out.
“Mom! Did you hear? Eddie Culpepper overdosed at the Quik-Stop. He’s in the hospital.”
“I know.” Lucy scowled, waiting for Zoe to fasten her seat belt. “How did you hear about it?”
“I got a text from Sara.”
Hearing the click, Lucy shifted into drive. “How did she know?”
Zoe gave her a patroniz
ing look. “From Lily, of course. At the shop. She and Eddie have been dating.”
Lucy braked at the road. “You know about that?”
“Yeah.” Zoe’s tone implied that everybody knew this, everybody except her stupid mother.
“Does Lily use drugs?” Lucy kept her tone offhand, as she turned onto Oak Street.
“No way. She’s anti-drug, anti-alcohol.”
Lucy was beginning to think this was a bit of protective camouflage. Now that she thought about it, it seemed that drugs might explain Lily’s odd behavior at the hospital. “How do you know all this stuff?”
Zoe shrugged. “I dunno. I hear stuff. Sara and her friends talk.” She paused. “I guess they think I’m deaf or something.” She laughed. “I’m the little sister. It’s like I don’t exist.”
Lucy thought she had a point. “What else have you heard?”
Zoe’s tone was serious. “Plenty, but you’ll have to pay.”
In spite of everything that had happened, in spite of Dora’s arrest and Eddie’s overdose, Lucy found herself chuckling as she turned into the driveway. But her emotions were ragged and she was on the verge of tears when she entered the warm and homey kitchen. Determined to distract herself, she got busy making supper for the girls.
Lucy saved the news of her prize until they were dressing, hoping to present it to Bill as a sweetener before she dragged him off to the Hearts on Fire Ball. She knew he was less than enthusiastic about wearing a tie, much less an entire suit, and he hadn’t danced in years. Probably not since their own wedding reception, come to think of it.
“Guess what?” she said, leaning into the mirror and brushing mascara onto the back of her upper lashes, the way she’d read about in a magazine at the dentist’s office. It seemed impossibly difficult and required a great deal of concentration, but whoever wrote the beauty column insisted it was important to first coat the lashes, then to use the tiny brush to lift them.
“What?’ growled Bill, straining to button the collar on his starched shirt.
“I won the dessert contest and the prize is dinner for two at Chantarelle.”
Bill wasn’t impressed. “What’s Chantarelle?”
“It’s fabulous, everybody raves about it.”
“It’s not here in town,” he said, warily. “Is it in Portland?”
“Actually, it’s in Portsmouth.”
The collar was flipped up and Bill was looping a tie around his neck. “New Hampshire?” he demanded, his tone verging on outrage.
Lucy sensed her plan was not working. “That’s where Portsmouth is, last time I checked,” she said.
“No need to get all sarcastic,” he said, scowling at his reflection in the full-length mirror behind the bedroom door and undoing the knot.
“Let me do that,” said Lucy, screwing the cap on the mascara and setting it on her dresser.
“That’s a heck of a drive for dinner,” he said, surrendering the tie to her.
“The food is supposed to be well worth the trip,” said Lucy, sliding the knot up to his chin. “There. You look very nice.”
She was only wearing her bra and a half-slip and Bill slipped his hands around her waist. “You should go like this,” he said, pulling her close.
“Whoa, boy,” she cautioned, stepping away from him. “We’re running late.”
He sighed and reached for the hanger with his pants. “The portions in those fancy places are always so small,” he said.
“That’s so you can savor the flavors,” said Lucy, applying lipstick. “After a few bites you don’t really notice the taste anymore.” She pressed her lips together and examined the effect, then added a slick coat of gloss. “At least that’s the theory.”
Bill was fastening his belt. “And you can’t relax, there’s always some waiter fussing around, trying to grab your plate.”
“Well, for your information, Sue was very put out when I won the prize. I think she wanted it.” Lucy was fastening the waistband of her good black skirt, pleased to discover it fit easily. The diet was working.
“Maybe you should give the certificate to her, then,” said Bill, adjusting his jacket on his shoulders.
Lucy was pulling her lace blouse over her head, so Bill didn’t hear her reaction, which was just as well. When she emerged, her hair was tousled and her eyes were blazing.
“You look amazing,” said Bill. His expression was a combination of surprise and awe, as if he were seeing her anew and liked what he saw.
Lucy was about to ask if she didn’t look too fat but bit her tongue. Moments like this didn’t happen very often, especially when you’d been married for more than twenty-five years and had four kids. “So do you,” she said, smiling and smoothing his lapels.
She wasn’t just saying it, she realized, he really did look great. He still had plenty of hair, mostly still brown but gray at the temples, and he wore it a bit long, so a lock fell over his brow. His beard also had a touch of gray, but it made him look distinguished. He was slim and stood tall and straight in the suit, which still fit even though he’d had it for years.
“Thanks for doing this,” she said. “I know you’re not really keen on dress-up occasions.”
“It’s good to break out of a rut, once in a while,” he said, offering her his arm. “Shall we go?”
Chapter Sixteen
The VFW was decorated to the hilt for the ball, but it was still, unmistakably, the VFW. All the red crepe paper streamers and heart-shaped balloons in the world couldn’t disguise the scuffed wood floors and the walls that needed a fresh coat of paint, scarred as they were by all the notices that had been taped up and removed through the years. There was also that VFW smell, a combination of stale cigarette smoke, booze, and pine-scented cleaning fluid.
The organizers had done the best they could—the round tables were covered with floor-length white cloths, topped with smaller red ones, and a single red rose in a chunky milk glass vase served as a centerpiece on each table. The colored cloths set off the VFW’s basic white china to advantage, and a red cloth napkin was tucked in each industrial-strength wine goblet.
When Lucy and Bill entered, the DJ was playing classic Beatles tunes and a disco ball was throwing spots of light around in the darkened room. Lucy had the déjà vu that she’d been in the same place before and realized she was thinking of her high school prom.
Smiling at the recollection of her awkward self, dressed in four-inch heels and the ridiculous slinky black dress she’d insisted on wearing despite her mother’s objections, she was pleased when Bill took her hand and led her to the table where their friends were sitting.
There was a flurry of greetings as air kisses and handshakes were exchanged, and soon Lucy was seated at the table while Bill went to get drinks from the bar. It was odd to see everyone dressed to the nines, since dress in Tinker’s Cove tended to be extremely casual, especially in winter when everyone clomped around in duck boots and bulky down coats and jackets.
Sue was especially gorgeous, dressed in the lace camisole she’d bought last spring in London and a pair of skin-tight black satin pants. Her bare arms were golden, evidence she’d spent some time at the tanning salon. Lucy was tempted to warn her about the dangers of tanning, but bit her tongue. Sue would just laugh at her. It was definitely annoying that Sue managed to look fabulous, always had tons of energy, and was never sick despite a diet that consisted of little but black coffee and alcohol, with the occasional indulgent gourmet dinner.
“You look great,” said Lucy, remembering the day they’d gone shopping together in London. “That camisole was a terrific buy.”
“I barely had time to get dressed,” said Sue. “The dessert contest didn’t wrap up until almost six and the clean-up committee didn’t show. Poor Sid got pressed into duty when he came to pick me up.”
Sid ran his finger around his neck, trying to loosen his collar. It was too small and his ruddy cheeks made him look as if he were about to burst and pop a button. “It was a big succes
s, though,” he said, beaming proudly at Sue. “Tell them how much it made for the Hat and Mitten Fund.”
Sue leaned forward. “Believe it or not, over a thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot of cookies,” said Pam, who’d recently given up Nice ’n Easy and her ponytail for a neat, silvery cut that hugged her head. Her day at the spa had refreshed and rejuvenated her; her complexion was glowing, and she looked gorgeous in an electric blue sari she’d probably picked up in a vintage clothing shop. It was the sort of thing I would feel ridiculous wearing, thought Lucy, but it looked great on Pam.
“It’s a lot of hats and mittens,” said her husband, Lucy’s boss, Ted. He was seated beside Pam, nervously stroking his tie, as if he needed to check that it was still in place and hadn’t slithered off somewhere.
“That fund does so much good—you should be really proud of yourself, Sue,” said Rachel. “You made the contest a big success.”
Rachel had gone to the beauty salon where they’d clipped and curled her long black hair, which she usually wore pinned up in a loose knot. Sensible as always, she was wearing a burgundy cashmere sweater dotted with sparkly beads that was warm as well as flattering, and a long black skirt.
Her husband, Bob, was the only one of the men who seemed comfortable in his suit. He was a lawyer and often wore a jacket and tie. “I’ve got a scoop for the Pennysaver,” he said, with a nod to Ted. “I’ve been hired to defend Dora Fraser.”
“I knew they were looking for a lawyer. Flora said she wanted the best and I guess she got it,” said Lucy. “What do you think her chances are?”
“I really haven’t had time to look at the case,” he said, as Bill returned with a beer for himself and a glass of white wine for Lucy. “They called me this morning. I’ll know more next week, after I talk to her.”
Ted fingered his napkin and Lucy figured he was adding up column inches in his head, working out whether the story was worth the expense of adding a page. “Lucy, you can follow up on that, right?”