Christmas Cookie Murder #6

by Meier, Leslie

  She opened the door to the family room, and spotted her sixteen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, stretched out on the couch with her ear to the telephone.

  “Elizabeth!” she yelled. “Say good-bye and get in here.”

  Then she pulled a big stockpot out of the cupboard and filled it with water. She was setting it on the stove when Elizabeth floated in.

  “I wish you wouldn’t yell when I’m talking to my friends,” she complained. “It sounds so low-class.”

  Lucy gave her a sideways glance. This was something new, she thought. In the past, Elizabeth had concentrated on outraging her parents, insisting on cutting her dark hair into short spikes and threatening to get her nose pierced. Now, Lucy noticed, the black oversize sweater and Doc Martens were gone, replaced by a shiny spandex top with a racing stripe down the side and a pair of sneakers with blue stripes. Her hair was combed into a smooth bob.

  “What’s with the new look?” asked Lucy.

  “Styles change,” said Elizabeth, with a shrug. “So what did you want me for?”

  “Would you please do something with those dirty dishes? That’s supposed to be your responsibility. It’s not fair for me to work all day and come home to a messy kitchen.”

  “It’s not my fault,” said Elizabeth, demurely folding her hands in front of her. “Toby didn’t clean out the dishwasher. It’s full, so I had no place to put the dirty dishes.”

  “Elizabeth, I don’t have time for this.” Lucy bent down and pulled a can of dusting spray and a rag out from under the sink. “The cookie exchange is tonight; I have a dozen friends coming at seven. So do whatever you have to do, but get this mess cleaned up.”

  “Okay,” said Elizabeth, in a resigned voice. “But it’s not fair.”

  Lucy sighed and charged into the dining room, intending to give the table a quick wipe with the dustcloth. Unfortunately, it was covered with Toby’s college applications.

  “Toby!” she hollered, aiming her voice in the direction of the hall staircase. “Get down here!”

  “He can’t hear you. He’s got his earphones on,” advised eleven-year-old Sara, who was doing homework in the adjacent living room. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Spaghetti,” said Lucy, gathering up the applications and stuffing them in the sideboard. “Be a sweetie and make the salad?”

  “Do I have to?” groaned Sara. “I don’t feel very good. I think I might be getting my period.”

  “Really?” asked Lucy, with a surge of interest. “Do you have cramps?”

  “No,” admitted Sara, who was anxiously awaiting the day when she would join her friends who had already begun menstruating. “I just feel bloated.”

  “Well, that’s probably the stuff you’ve been eating all afternoon. There’s enough dirty dishes in the kitchen to have fed an army. Now scoot and get started on that salad. I’ve got company coming tonight.”

  “All I had was yogurt,” sniffed Sara, pushing open the door to the kitchen.

  “And cereal, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and about a gallon of milk,” added Elizabeth, whose head was stuck in the dishwasher. “You’re going to get fat if you don’t watch it.”

  “Well, that’s better than…” began Sara, but the door shut before Lucy could hear the end of the sentence.

  Finishing up in the dining room, Lucy flicked her dust cloth around the living room, plumped the couch cushions, and headed for the family room. There she found her youngest child, Zoe, deeply absorbed in a coloring book.

  “What’cha doing?” asked Lucy, giving her a little pat on the head.

  “Homework.”

  “I didn’t know they had homework in kindergarten, even all-day kindergarten.”

  Lucy sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the all-day kindergarten program, which had just begun that year. It made it possible for her to work because Zoe now came home on the school bus with her older brother and sisters.

  “Let me see that,” said Lucy, taking the book. She was amused to see that Zoe had neatly written her name in the upper left-hand corner of the picture, just as she had been taught in school. “Very nice letters.”

  “The z is hard,” said Zoe, very seriously.

  “You got it perfect,” said Lucy. “Now, would you do me a big favor and set the table for supper?”

  “Sure, Mommy.”

  Lucy sighed. If only they would stay this sweet and agreeable throughout adolescence.

  “Thank you, honey,” she said, watching fondly as Zoe trotted into the kitchen.

  She quickly straightened up the untidy newspapers and magazines, and scooped up a few stray glasses and dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

  “How’s the salad coming?”

  “All done.”

  “Great. You can help Zoe set the table, okay? Elizabeth, here’s some more stuff for the dishwasher and…” Lucy stopped in the middle of the room and slapped her hand to her head. “What am I doing?”

  “Dinner,” reminded Elizabeth.

  “Right. Dinner. Did I defrost the hamburger?” She peered in the refrigerator. “No. Of course not.” She pulled a package out of the freezer, unwrapped it, and dropped it in the frying pan with a clunk.

  “What? No meatballs?” It was Bill, home from work.

  “Not tonight.” She tilted her cheek up for a kiss and smiled at the tickly feeling from his beard. “I’m kind of frantic, actually,” she explained, pushing the meat around with a spatula. “I had to work all day, and the cookie exchange is tonight.”

  “I thought Sue did that,” said Bill, hanging up his coat on the hook by the door.

  “I got drafted this year.”

  “Well, it’s a worthy cause—Christmas cookies!” Bill was settling down at the half-set kitchen table, with a cold beer in his hand.

  “Since you feel that way, do you mind finishing up this sauce?” Lucy glanced nervously at the clock on the wall above the stove. “I’d like to set out the party refreshments in the dining room.”

  “Sure thing.” Bill took the spatula from her, and Lucy scurried into the pantry, pulling out the ladder and climbing up to take the cake box off the top shelf. She carried it into the dining room and lifted off the top, expecting to see the festively decorated Dee-Liteful Wine Cake she had stored there.

  Instead, she saw that only three-quarters of the cake was left.

  Clenching her fists, she marched up the kitchen stairs and threw open the door to Toby’s room.

  “How could you?” she demanded, pulling off his earphones.

  Startled, Toby looked up.

  “How could I what?”

  “You know what! Eat my cake!”

  “What cake?” muttered Toby, grabbing for the earphones.

  “The one with sprigs of holly and red candied cherries that was on the top shelf of the pantry.” Lucy’s arms were akimbo, and she was drumming her fingers against her hips.

  “Oh, that one,” said Toby, biting his lower lip. Then his face brightened as he turned on the charm. “It’s pretty good, Mom.”

  “Flattery isn’t going to get you out of this, buddy,” said Lucy, implacably. “What were you thinking? I made a cake and decorated it for you to enjoy all by yourself?”

  He lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have done it. But I was so hungry. It’s all this pressure with the college applications and everything.”

  “Give me a break,” muttered Lucy, disgusted. “I’m gonna get you for this—I don’t know exactly how, but you’ll pay.”

  She thumped down the front stairs to the dining room and got a knife out of a drawer, cutting the cake into neat slices and arranging them on a plate. She opened a package of holiday napkins, unfolding one and laying it over the sliced cake and arranging the rest on the sideboard, along with her sterling-silver dessert forks and teaspoons, her best china plates and cups and saucers.

  Stepping back, she glanced around the room. It wasn’t as lavishly decorated as Sue’s house, but it was festive. A
bowl of holly sat on the sideboard, little electric candles stood on the windowsills, and there was a crystal bowl filled with silver and gold Christmas balls in the middle of the now gleaming mahogany table. She took a deep breath and went from window to window flicking on the candles. She dimmed the overhead chandelier and went into the kitchen to see how dinner was coming.

  Bill was just setting a big pot filled with noodles and sauce on the table when Lucy pushed open the kitchen door and slipped into her seat next to Zoe. With impeccable timing, Toby thundered down the back stairs and thumped into his chair.

  “Hey, did you hear?” he began, in an effort to deflect her attention from himself. “Richie got into Harvard.”

  “He did?” Lucy stopped, serving spoon in midair. “How does he know already?”

  “Early decision,” said Toby, passing the salad bowl.

  “Bob and Rachel must be so pleased,” said Lucy, wishing that she felt a little more pleased with her own son.

  “I bet it costs a pretty penny to go there,” said Bill, taking a piece of Italian bread and passing the basket to Lucy.

  “I think they’re all about the same,” said Lucy, busy buttering her bread. “Thirty thousand.”

  “I just don’t get it,” complained Bill. “When I went to college it was fifteen hundred a year, and that was everything. Tuition, room and board, the whole shebang. I had a five-hundred-dollar scholarship, and Mom got a part-time job to pay the rest.”

  “Well, I’ve got a part-time job,” said Lucy. “But I sure don’t make thirty thousand dollars. Most people around here don’t even make that with a full-time job.”

  “What’s the matter with the state college? That’s what I want to know,” demanded Bill, turning toward Toby.

  “I’m applying there, too,” said Toby, shoveling a big forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. “But my guidance counselor says I should try some of these other schools, too.”

  “I think we’ll qualify for financial aid,” said Lucy, hoping to ease the tension that was building up between father and son.

  “Well, frankly, before I break my butt trying to pay for a fancy education for the young prince here, I’d like to see a little more initiative, if you know what I mean.” Bill gestured angrily with his fork. “His room’s a mess, if you let him he’ll sleep until two or three in the afternoon, and when he borrows my truck he always brings it back with an empty gas tank.”

  Toby didn’t respond, but kept his head down, steadily scooping up his spaghetti.

  “You know what I did today?” said Lucy brightly, changing the subject. “I interviewed Santa Claus!”

  “The real Santa Claus?” Zoe was skeptical.

  “I think so. It was the Santa at the Ropewalk. It didn’t seem polite to ask for his credentials.”

  “I don’t suppose you need a driver’s license for a sleigh and reindeer, anyway,” observed Elizabeth, who was the proud possessor of a learner’s permit.

  “What did he say?” asked Zoe.

  “Well, he said it’s very warm here, compared with the North Pole.”

  Bill chuckled. “The North Pole is probably the only place colder than here.”

  “That’s exactly why I don’t want to go to the state college! I want to get out of this freezing cold place where there’s nothing to do,” exploded Toby, who had been on a slow simmer. He threw down his napkin and marched out of the room.

  “I wish you wouldn’t be quite so hard on him,” said Lucy.

  “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t spoil him, now would I?” said Bill.

  “So, Sara, how was your day?” asked Lucy, determined to get through the meal with some semblance of civility.

  “We had an assembly. A man came who used to be a drug addict. He told us how he ate food from garbage cans and…”

  “Drugs are terrible,” said Lucy. “What made him decide to give them up?”

  “Well, he had really hit bottom. He was lying with his face in a pool of vomit…”

  “Do you mind? We’re having dinner,” complained Elizabeth.

  “Well, Mom asked. I’m only telling what he said.”

  “I think we get the idea,” said Lucy, glancing at the old Regulator clock that hung on the wall. It was almost six-thirty, she had to get a move on. “You girls can clean up and have some frozen yogurt for dessert. I’ve got to change my clothes.”

  Hauling herself up the steep back stairway took every bit of energy that Lucy had. She had to concentrate to lift her feet from one step to the next. It had been a long day, she thought, but she wasn’t usually this tired. No, it wasn’t tiredness, she realized; it was depression.

  She pushed open the door to the room she shared with Bill and flicked on a lamp. It was peaceful up here; she could just barely hear the girls’ voices in the kitchen downstairs as they squabbled their way through the dishes.

  The dormered room was spacious and uncluttered. The dresser tops were neatly organized, a rocking chair in the corner held only a needlepoint cushion and the wood grain of the blanket chest gleamed in the lamplight. The bed was neatly made, covered with a white woven bedspread.

  It looked so inviting, thought Lucy. It wouldn’t hurt to stretch out for a minute or two, just to put her feet up and rest her eyes.

  Falling back on the pillows, Lucy stretched her arms and legs and made a conscious effort to relax. She tried to push the dark clouds from her mind and to think of the enjoyable evening ahead. But instead, she kept replaying Bill’s voice. His tone had been so antagonistic, calling Toby “the young prince.” What was that all about?

  Sure, Toby was lazy and liked to sleep late on weekends. And he was messy, but no more so than his friends. But, to give him credit, he was a pretty good kid. He got all As and Bs in school, he had been captain of the soccer team this fall and he’d scored an impressive 1450 on his SATs.

  With that package and any luck at all, thought Lucy, feeling her spirits brightening a little, he would get into a really good college. Oh, probably not Ivy League like Richie, but he could certainly get into one of the top twenty liberal arts colleges. Which would it be? He had shown interest in Amherst and Williams, and of course there were Bates and Bowdoin and Colby right here in Maine.

  Wasn’t it lucky, she thought, that she had a new car. A fire had totaled her old Subaru wagon, and she had a spiffy new model. It would look great with a classy college decal on the back window. Of course, she thought, with a little pang of jealousy, her sticker wouldn’t be quite as prestigious as Rachel’s Harvard sticker. But then, Rachel had to put her sticker on a very elderly, rusty Volvo.

  She suddenly felt much better, she realized, hopping off the bed. She’d talk to Bill and find out what was bothering him. But down deep, she knew, he wanted the best for Toby just as much as she did.

  Lucy opened a drawer and took out a bright red sweatshirt with a huge Santa printed on the front. Just looking at the ridiculous thing made her smile; it had been a gift from Zoe last Christmas. There weren’t too many occasions that it was suitable for, but it would be perfect for the cookie exchange. She took off the plain blue sweater she’d been wearing and pulled on the sweatshirt, added a pair of Christmas ball earrings and gave her hair a quick brush. She was ready.

  She bounced down the front stairs, sending up a quick plea to the Spirit of Christmas Present: Please let my cookie exchange be a success.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Still 16 days ’til Xmas

  Of course it would be a success, she thought, smoothing her sweatshirt nervously as she checked the living room and dining room one last time. The holiday decorations were festive, and Bill had even laid a fire for her in the living room fireplace. She took one of the long fireplace matches out of its box and lit it, bending down to set the fire alight. Then she lit the candles on the mantelpiece and on the sideboard, and switched off the brightest lamps. Studying the effect, she nodded in satisfaction. In candlelight, the odd stains and worn spots disappeared, and the rooms looked quite lovely.r />
  She only saw two storm clouds on the horizon: Lee Cummings’s separation and Richie’s acceptance at Harvard. But thanks to Sue, she knew all about Lee’s tendency to monopolize the conversation with her separation. If that happened, resolved Lucy, she would just have to change the subject, firmly. The cookie exchange wasn’t a group-therapy session, no matter what Lee might think. And Sue would help out, too. In fact, she’d promised to come early.

  As for the matter of Richie, well, Lucy suspected that his early acceptance at Harvard might have put quite a few maternal noses out of joint. Andrea Rogers was particularly competitive; she had been ever since Toby and Richie and the other boys had all been on the same Little League team. Thank goodness Marge had said she was coming, having completed her first round of chemotherapy. She was so down-to-earth and unpretentious, and could be counted on to express her genuine happiness for Richie’s success to his mother, Rachel. With Marge on hand the natural competitiveness of the group would be kept in check.

  Pushing open the kitchen door, Lucy saw that Sara was almost finished wiping the counters.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” she said. “You did a really good job.”

  “No problem, Mom. Oh, Elizabeth said to tell you that the upstairs toilet is clogged up again.”

  “Oh, no. That’s all I need tonight.”

  “Want me to tell Dad to fix it?”

  “No. Not now.” Lucy knew that Bill’s plumbing projects tended to get very messy indeed. “He’ll have to take it apart, and that means turning off the water. Listen, just do me a favor and ask everybody to use the downstairs toilet, okay?”

  “Do we have to? I hate having to be polite and talking to your friends. Mrs. Orenstein always wants to know what books I’ve been reading and Ms. Small pinches my cheeks.”

  “Use the back stairs. You won’t have to talk to them then.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  The doorbell rang just as Sara disappeared up the stairs and Lucy looked at her watch. Only six-fifty. It was probably Sue, keeping her promise to come early to help out. But when Lucy opened the door she recognized Stephanie Scott, one of the young mothers from the day-care center Sue had suggested inviting.