Plum Pudding Murder Bundle with Candy Cane Murder & Sugar Cookie Murder

by Joanne Fluke

  So here it was, a bright and sunny Saturday morning, and Lucy was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and leafing through the Pennysaver newspaper, looking for something to do. Toby was by her side, in his high chair, supposedly eating scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. Maybe he would be the next Jackson Pollack, thought Lucy, watching as he smeared the eggs on the tray.

  “Ready to get down?” she asked, reaching for a washcloth to wipe his face and hands.

  “No.” He shook his head and began chewing on a toast triangle.

  “Okay,” she said, turning the page and studying the “Things to Do” column. That’s what it was called, but there was precious little that interested her. Goodness knows she didn’t need Weight Watchers, she wasn’t interested in seeing the new holiday line of Tupperware products, she didn’t have money to spend on Mary Kay cosmetics and, darn it all, they’d missed the pancake breakfast with Santa at the fire house. “Maybe next year,” she promised Toby. “We’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  Toby rewarded her with a big smile, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed chunks of toast. Not a pretty sight, even if he was her own child. She turned back to the paper, where an announcement for an open house at the historical society caught her eye. Maybe someone there would be able to give her some leads on her investigation, especially concerning her prime suspect, Emil Boott. “It says there will be refreshments,” she promised Toby, ignoring his protests and removing a soggy wad of toast from his little fist and cleaning him up. “Better save some room for punch and cookies.”

  It was almost eleven when Lucy parked Auntie Granada in front of the Josiah Hopkins House and wrestled Toby out of the car seat. As they walked along the uneven blocks of sidewalk to the open house she examined the antique house that housed the historical society. Built circa 1700, according to a sign next to the front door, the little Cape-style house was supposed to be the oldest house in town. It was named for its builder, Josiah Hopkins, who was reputed to be the first European to settle in Tinker’s Cove. The white clapboard house appeared to be quite small from the front, with a low roof set over two pairs of windows and a center door, but a series of ells had been tacked onto the back as the family grew and stretched in an uneven line that ended at a lopsided barn.

  Unsure whether she should knock on the wreathed door or just walk in, Lucy paused on the grindstone that served as a stoop. “I thought there’d be more people,” she told Toby, as she hoisted him up and perched him on her hip. She was just about to knock when the door flew open.

  “We saw you coming,” said a little old lady who bore an unnerving resemblance to an apple-head doll. Her hair, which was carefully curled and blued, was an odd contrast to her wrinkled and puckered face. Her eyes, however, were sharp as ever and didn’t miss a thing. “Ellie, Ellie,” she called. “Come and meet this adorable little tyke.”

  She was quickly joined by another little apple-head doll of a woman, right down to the matching hair. “Isn’t he the little man!” she proclaimed. “Come in, come in.”

  Lucy set Toby on his feet and unzipped his jacket, then grasping him firmly by the hand, introduced herself.

  “Oh, you’re the young folks who bought the old farmhouse on Red Top Road,” said Ellie. “Emily, they’re the folks who bought the place out by the Pratts.”

  “We’re the Miller sisters,” said Emily. “We’re twins. I’m Emily and this is Ellie.”

  “You can tell us apart because I’m the pretty one,” said Ellie, repeating what Lucy suspected was a well-worn joke. Lucy made a quick mental note, observing that Ellie was wearing the pink twin set and Emily was in blue.

  “Never mind her,” said Emily. “We’re so glad to welcome you to our open house. Do enjoy the house and we’ll be happy to answer any questions you have, and be sure to have some holiday punch and cookies in the dining room.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy, who was admiring the wide plank floors and the simple woodwork which had been painted a deep shade of red. A small fire blazed in the hearth, which was ringed with a simple wooden bench, a rocking chair and a tall settle. Cheery print curtains hung at the windows and a hutch displayed a collection of antique china.

  “All the furnishings have been donated by our members,” said Emily, noticing her interest.

  “Did your members do the restoration work, too?” asked Lucy, keeping a watchful eye on Toby, who was fascinated by the fire.

  “Most of it. We also hired some craftsmen. We got a lot of advice from the state historical commission.”

  “I see,” said Lucy, eager to see the rest of the house. She took Toby by the hand and together they explored the kitchen, with its enormous hearth, the buttery where food was stored, the pantry where dishes were kept, and climbed the cramped little staircase to the tiny bedrooms tucked under the eaves. Pulling Toby away from a display of antique toys she went back downstairs to the dining room, where black-and-gold Hitchcock chairs surrounded a cherry drop-leaf table that held a crystal punch bowl with a silver ladle and enough cookies for an army.

  “Would you care for some punch?” asked Emily, popping through the door. Or was it Ellie, wondered Lucy, afraid she’d mixed up pink and blue.

  “Be sure to taste the mincemeat cookies,” advised Ellie, or was it Emily?

  “Thank you,” said Lucy, holding the crystal cup so Toby could drink from it, then handing him a cookie. “It’s a beautiful house,” she said, taking a bite of a lemon bar. “It must have taken a lot of work.”

  “A labor of love,” said Emily.

  “That’s right,” said Ellie, nodding along.

  “I wonder,” said Lucy, excited by an idea that was taking shape in her mind, “does the society have information about the early residents of Tinker’s Cove? I’m thinking of census records, genealogies, wills, things like that.”

  The two Miller sisters exchanged a glance.

  “We used to,” said one.

  “Before the fire,” said the other.

  “It was all lost.”

  “We were lucky to save the house and the furniture.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Lucy, feeling extremely disappointed.

  The sisters exchanged another glance.

  “Would you like to sit down, dear?” asked one.

  “Is there something in particular that you want to know?” asked the other. “Because most people in town have deep roots. Their families have been here for a very long time.”

  “A long time, that’s right.”

  Lucy sat down and the sisters refilled her cup and passed her a plate of cookies. She sipped and nibbled and thought. She was reluctant to admit that she was investigating Mrs. Tilley’s death, which might or might not have been murder, but she didn’t want to pass up this opportunity, either. So far, the Miller sisters were her only lead.

  “Well,” she began, “I’m doing some research on a household. Sort of a social history, if you know what I mean. A well-off family and their helpers.”

  The sisters nodded. “Like that TV show.”

  “Upstairs, Downstairs.”

  “Right,” agreed Lucy. “I have all the information I need about the upstairs family, but it’s the downstairs folks I’m having trouble tracking down.”

  The sisters nodded.

  “I need information about a man named Emil Boott.”

  They shook their heads. “There’s a family named Boott out on Packet Road,” said Emily.

  “Oh I don’t think she wants to visit them,” said Ellie, with a sniff.

  “Oh, I’ve met them,” said Lucy. Seeing the sisters shocked expressions she quickly added, “At a yard sale.”

  “I’d steer clear of that lot, if I were you,” said Emily.

  “Oh, yes. Oh, dear yes,” chimed in Ellie. She lowered her voice. “Kyle’s a bit, um, unpredictable.”

  “So I gathered,” replied Lucy, with a nod. “Is there a violent streak in the family?”

  The ladies exchanged glances but didn’t reply. Lucy sens
ed she’d gotten all she was going to get from them concerning the Boott’s and pressed on. “Angela DeRosa?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Katherine Kaiser.”

  The sisters exchanged glances, again, and sighed in unison. Lucy had the distinct feeling they knew something but weren’t going to share it with her. She continued down her list. “Helen Sprout.”

  The two broke into smiles and giggles. “There are lots of Sprouts around,” said Emily.

  “Old Hannah Sprout, she must be going on eighty herself, lives over in Gilead.”

  “I bet she’d love to talk to you.”

  “I bet she would, too.”

  Lucy was about to ask how she could contact Hannah Sprout when she suddenly remembered Toby. He’d been right there, eating cookies, and now he was gone. She jumped to her feet. “Where’s Toby?”

  “He can’t have wandered far,” said Ellie.

  “No, no, no,” agreed Emily.

  But Lucy was imagining the worst as she searched frantically through the maze of little rooms. He might have fallen in the fire. He might have fallen down the stairs. He might have wandered out a back door. He might have been abducted.

  Then she heard one of the sisters sing out, “I found him.”

  Lucy hauled herself up the crooked little staircase as fast as she could, considering her condition. She was out of breath when she found Toby sitting on the floor in the room that was decorated as a child’s nursery, surrounded by that valuable collection of antique toys. The toys, and Toby, appeared to be unharmed.

  “Isn’t it sweet?” trilled a sister.

  “He found the toys!”

  “I hope nothing’s broken,” said Lucy, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the stairway. She took a deep breath. “We’ll pay if there’s any damage.”

  “Oh, no, no, no damage,” chorused the sisters. “No harm done.”

  As Lucy zipped up Toby and buttoned her coat and headed straight for the door, she had the feeling that a tragedy had been barely averted. “Thanks for everything,” she said, as the door closed behind her and she let out a big sigh of relief.

  Toby didn’t see it quite the same way, however. Once outside he yanked himself free and threw himself on the brown grass, shrieking and kicking his heels in a full-blown temper tantrum. “Horsey! Horsey!” he repeated, over and over, at the top of his lungs.

  Lucy had read about two-year-olds and their famous temper tantrums in the child care books, but so far she hadn’t experienced one. She stood there, in the middle of town, trying to remember the recommended course of action. Nothing came to her except an acute sense of embarrassment. Thank heavens nobody seemed to be on the street, at the moment, but if Toby continued screaming that was sure to change. The last thing Lucy wanted was to attract a crowd.

  “Toby, stop it!” she said, in her firmest, most authoritative voice.

  He kicked his heels harder.

  Maybe bribery? The experts discouraged it, but it had been remarkably successful on the few occasions she’d tried it. “Toby, stop fussing and be a good boy and I’ll buy you some ice cream.”

  The screams grew louder.

  It was time to bring out the big guns. “Toby, if you don’t stop that this minute I’m going to get in the car and leave you here all by yourself.”

  Not a good idea. The shrieks were now punctuated with hysterical sobs. Lucy felt her cheeks reddening, she felt angry and incompetent and frustrated and embarrassed, all at once. And now, she saw, a group of women were advancing down the sidewalk. Mature, matronly women who had mastered the art of motherhood. She had to get out of there. Adrenaline surged, she grabbed Toby by the hood of his jacket and the seat of his pants, and, tucking the screaming and kicking boy under her arm, she hauled him to the car and wrestled him into the car seat. Once he was securely strapped in, she slid behind the steering wheel and caught her breath.

  The group of women, she noticed, nodded approvingly. One even smiled sympathetically at her and she gave them a little wave. Then, resolutely closing her ears to the din coming from the backseat, she started the engine and pulled onto Main Street, right in the path of a battered blue pickup truck. The driver honked and swerved, missing a collision, but Lucy’s heart was racing when the truck braked and the driver turned to glare at her. To her horror it was Kyle Boott, and he looked as if he was spoiling for a fight. Stomach churning, she rolled down the window and stuck her head out, stretching her lips into a smile. “I’m soo sorry,” she yelled. “I didn’t see you. No harm done, I hope.”

  He didn’t answer and for a moment Lucy thought he was going to get out of the truck, but instead he slammed it into gear and took off, leaving rubber. Weak with relief she turned round to face Toby “It’s all your fault!” she declared. “How can I drive with you making this racket?”

  Confronted with his mother’s anger, Toby ratcheted up his screaming, which was now punctuated with sobs and hiccups. By now Lucy was sobbing, too, and all she could think of was to get home. So once again she gripped the steering wheel with trembling hands and turned on her blinker and checked her mirrors and very slowly and carefully pulled out of her parking spot.

  The drive home was nightmarish. Lucy drove slowly and extra carefully, concentrating on the road as if she were taking a driver’s test, and trying not to worry about Toby. How long could he keep this up? Could he stop? Maybe she should go to the emergency room? But then they’d probably call in social services, maybe they’d decide she couldn’t cope and would take Toby away from her. Maybe she was a bad mother, maybe she shouldn’t have children.

  She was following this train of thought when she turned onto Red Top Road and the house came into view and Toby fell asleep, all at once. By the time she’d turned into the driveway he’d sunk into a deep sleep, punctuated by hiccups. He didn’t even stir when she lifted him out of the car seat and carried him into the house.

  “Look at that sweet little guy,” cooed Bill, who was fixing himself a cup of tea in the kitchen.

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” muttered Lucy, lugging the baby upstairs and settling him in his crib.

  Bill had followed and watched as she slipped off Toby’s jacket and shoes and covered him with a blanket. “He’ll probably wet the bed,” she observed, with a sniffle.

  “So what’s the big deal?” asked Bill, leaning against the door jamb and sipping his tea. “He’s just a baby.”

  “This so-called baby of yours is a monster,” snapped Lucy. “You should have seen the tantrum he had, right in the middle of town.”

  “What do you expect?” asked Bill. “He’s almost two years old and they don’t call it the ‘terrible twos’ for nothing.”

  Lucy suddenly felt very alone. He didn’t understand and she didn’t have the energy to make him. “I’m tired. I’m going to lie down for a bit,” she said.

  “I was hoping you’d go to the lumber yard for me,” said Bill. “I don’t ask for much but I could use a little help now and then, you know. I’m beginning to think I’m a one-man show.”

  Lucy’s chin dropped and she turned to face him. “One-man show! Is that what you think?”

  “Well, yeah,” said Bill, rising to his full height. “I don’t see you pitching in.”

  Lucy stared at him, speechless. “Pitch in yourself,” she finally said and marched out of the nursery, across the hall and into the bedroom. She would have slammed the door but that would have wakened the baby.

  She lay there, staring at the stained and cracked ceiling, and listened to Bill’s footsteps as they retreated down the hall to the front stairs. By the time he’d reached the bottom, she was sound asleep.

  Two hours later she woke with a start, awakened by Toby’s cries. Just regular cries, she realized with relief, he wasn’t having another tantrum. She threw off the covers and shoved her swollen feet into her slippers and shuffled into his room. He stopped crying when he saw her and she picked him up, nuzzling his damp head with her nose and getting
a distinct whiff of ammonia. As she expected his overalls were soaked and all the bedding needed to be changed. She sighed and led him into the bathroom, where she set him on the potty.

  “Are you up?” Bill’s voice echoed up the stairwell.

  “Up and at ’em,” she yelled back.

  “Someone named Sue called,” he said.

  Lucy suddenly felt better.

  “I got her number and said you’d call back.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, pulling off Toby’s wet overalls, even his socks were soaked. She sighed. It would be a while before she could make that call.

  Chapter Six

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea, Lucy,” complained Bill. He was standing in front of the mirror in the bedroom and fiddling with a necktie. “I can’t believe I wore a tie every day back in the city. This thing is an instrument of torture.”

  “You look very nice,” said Lucy, adjusting the tie and giving him a little kiss.

  “I can’t really take the time,” he continued. “Why don’t you and Toby go and I’ll finish insulating the nursery?”

  Lucy held his jacket for him. “Don’t be silly. It’s the last Sunday before Christmas and we haven’t been to church even once. It will give you some Christmas spirit.”

  “I’ve got plenty of Christmas spirit,” said Bill, slipping his arms into the sleeves.

  Lucy set her jaw in a stubborn expression. “Well, I want to hear the carols,” she said, pulling the jacket up over his shoulders and smoothing it out. “Do it for me.”

  Bill rolled his eyes. “You are a stubborn woman, Lucy Stone.”

  Lucy’s temper flared. “I don’t think…”