Holiday Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “You’ll be sick of them soon enough,” grumbled Sue. “You know which one I hate? That one about the little drummer boy. Talk about insipid!”

  “You’re really having an attack of Grinchitis, aren’t you?” asked Lucy, stepping into a booth filled with baskets of potpourri. “Look at these,” she said, picking up a package of three padded hangers. “And they smell so good. Do you think Bill’s mom would like them?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are they enough? It’s kind of skimpy for a Christmas present.”

  “Add some drawer paper, or sachets,” suggested Sue, as a smiling salesclerk approached.

  “They’re handmade, and filled with our unique blend of potpourri,” said the clerk, with an encouraging nod.

  Lucy examined the price tag, and her eyes grew large.

  “I don’t know,” she said, hesitating. “What if the scent clashes with her perfume?”

  “You wouldn’t want that,” agreed Sue, who loved to shop but rarely paid full price, preferring to keep an eye out for sales. She could spot a markdown a mile away.

  Lucy gave the clerk an apologetic little smile, and the two left the stall. In the walkway outside, Lucy grabbed Sue’s arm.

  “Did you see the price?” uttered Lucy. “Thirty-five dollars for three hangers. I can’t afford that.”

  “You’re not the only one,” said Sue glumly. “I don’t think this is going to be a very happy Christmas season. Money’s too tight.”

  “Isn’t it always this time of year?”

  “This year’s worse,” said Sue, pausing to examine some hand-crafted wooden picture frames. “I’ve never seen it so bad. I’ve already gotten a restraining order, and it’s only Thanksgiving.”

  “Restraining order?”

  “Yeah. The moms at the center get them when the dads and boyfriends start acting up. There’s always one or two during the holidays, but I’ve never had one quite so early.”

  “But the economy’s supposed to be booming.”

  “Not for some of the families using the day-care center. I keep hearing about the lobster quota.”

  “The state had to do that, or there won’t be any lobsters left,” said Lucy. “They have to protect the breeding population. I wrote a story about it for the paper.”

  “I know,” agreed Sue, replacing the frame and moving on to the next booth. “But a lot of people in this town depend on lobsters for a living. They’re really taking a hit.”

  “Hi, Franny!” exclaimed Lucy, waving to the woman in the next booth. “I didn’t know you’d gone into business.”

  Franny Small, a fiftyish woman with tightly permed hair, beamed at them proudly from behind a display of jewelry.

  “Well, you know, the hardware store finally closed—couldn’t compete with that new Home Depot. I was cleaning out the place, and I didn’t know what to do with all the bits and pieces—you know nuts and bolts and stuff like that—and then I had this idea to make jewelry. And well, here I am.”

  “This is hardware?” Lucy looked more closely at a pair of earrings.

  “See—that’s a hex nut. But these are my favorites—they’re dragonflies made from wing nuts. The wings are copper screening.”

  “Look at that, Sue. Aren’t they great?”

  “They’re wonderful,” exclaimed Sue, “and only ten dollars. I’m going to buy a pair to put in Sidra’s stocking.”

  Sidra was Sue’s daughter, recently graduated from college and now working as an assistant producer at a TV station in New York.

  “That’s a good idea,” said Lucy, thinking of her own teenage daughter. “I’ll get a pair for Elizabeth. She’ll love them.”

  “Do you want them gift-wrapped? I use the old brown paper and string from the store—it kind of completes the look.”

  “Sure,” said Lucy. “Thanks.”

  “So, Sue, when is the cookie exchange?” asked Franny, as she tore a sheet of paper from the antique roller salvaged from the hardware store. “I want to be sure to mark my calendar.”

  Sue groaned and Lucy explained. “She says she isn’t having it this year.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Franny, neatly folding the paper so she didn’t have to use tape, and tying the whole thing together with a length of red-and-white string. “Why not?”

  “It just didn’t seem like such a good idea—I didn’t really know who to invite. So many of the old regulars have moved away, and Marge is sick, and . . .”

  “Can’t you invite some new people?” asked Franny brightly.

  “Yeah, Sue,” said Lucy, pulling out her wallet. “How about inviting some new people? You must know a lot of nice young moms from the day-care center.”

  “I’d love to make some new friends,” said Franny, giving them their change and receipts. “I don’t have much time for myself, what with making the jewelry and running the shop here. I’ve really been too busy to socialize. I’ve been looking forward to the cookie exchange for months.”

  “I knew this was coming,” protested Sue. “New people! You don’t understand. These young moms aren’t like we were. They don’t cook! They buy takeout and frozen stuff. Remember when I invited Krissy, the girl who owns that gym? She brought rice cakes! Somehow she didn’t get the idea of a cookie exchange at all.”

  “They were chocolate chip rice cakes,” said Lucy, grinning at the memory.

  “Put yourself in their shoes,” said Franny, earnestly. “It must be very hard to raise a family and keep a job—don’t know how these young girls do it all.”

  “With a lot of help from me,” muttered Sue. “It isn’t just day care, you know. It’s advice, and giving them a shoulder to cry on, and collecting toys and clothes and passing them on to the ones who need them.”

  “You do a fantastic job,” said Lucy.

  “You do,” agreed Franny, turning to help another customer. “But I hope you won’t give up the cookie exchange. I’d really miss it.”

  Lucy gave her a little wave, and they turned to investigate the pottery in the next booth. Lucy picked up a mug, running her fingers over the smooth shape. Then she looked at Sue, who was examining an apple-baker.

  “There’s no way around it. You have to have the cookie exchange. People are counting on you. It wouldn’t be Christmas without it.”

  Sue’s dark hair fell across her face at an angle, and Lucy couldn’t see her expression. She hoped she hadn’t been too persistent, that she hadn’t pushed Sue too hard. She really valued their friendship and didn’t want to jeopardize it. When Sue flicked the hair out of her eyes, Lucy was relieved to see that she was smiling.

  “You’re right, Lucy. It wouldn’t be Christmas without the cookie exchange. But it doesn’t have to be at my house. Why don’t you be the hostess for a change?”

  “Me?” Lucy’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Yup.” Sue pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Lucy. “You.”

  Chapter Two

  16 days ’til Xmas

  Sue had been right, thought Lucy, pushing open the kitchen door and surveying the mess. Agreeing to host the cookie exchange had been a big mistake. It was almost five o’clock, the guests were due at seven, and she hadn’t had a chance to do a thing with the house.

  She’d been tied up at The Pennysaver all day; she’d spent the morning writing up an interview with Santa, instead of eating lunch she’d dashed out to the Coast Guard station to photograph the guardsmen hanging a huge wreath on the lighthouse and then had gone to the weekly meeting of the Tinker’s Cove board of selectmen. The selectmen had been unusually argumentative, which made for good copy, but she wouldn’t have a chance to write it up until tomorrow morning, just before the Wednesday noon deadline.

  Congratulating herself on her foresight for baking the DeeLite-ful Wine Cake ahead of time, she shrugged off her coat and dropped her notebook on the pile of papers covering the round, golden oak kitchen table. It consisted mostly of financial-aid applications for her oldest child, Toby. He was a high school senior
and was applying to several high-priced liberal arts colleges.

  He wouldn’t be able to go unless he got financial aid, and she had to fill out the complicated forms before January 1, the date recommended by the school guidance office. The thought of the forms was enough to make her feel overwhelmed—how was she supposed to know what their household income would be next year? Bill was a self-employed restoration carpenter, and his earnings varied drastically from year to year. So did hers, for that matter. Ted, the publisher of The Pennysaver, only called her when he needed her. She usually worked quite a lot in December, and in the summer months, but things were pretty quiet in coastal Maine in January and February.

  First things first, thought Lucy, scooping up all the papers into a shopping bag and stuffing it in the pantry. She had to come up with something for dinner, and the sink and counter were covered with dirty dishes.

  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 dust cloth. 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.”