Chocolate Covered Murder (19 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Chocolate Covered Murder
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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 patronizing 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
T
he 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 success, 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?”
“Sure.” Lucy didn't want to think about work or murder or Eddie's drug overdose; she wanted to enjoy herself. She took a sip of her wine and reached for Bill's hand.
“I went to the hospital today to visit Joyce Rennie—her husband is in the play and they just had a baby girl—and I ran into Barney and Marge,” said Rachel. “They said Eddie was in the ER, but then they hurried off. I hope it's nothing serious.”
Darn it, thought Lucy. Here we go. “It was drugs,” she said. “He OD'd... .”
Everyone fell silent for a moment.
“Poor Marge and Barney,” said Rachel.
“Is he going to be okay?” asked Pam.
“Doc Ryder said he'd make it, but he almost died,” said Lucy.
“PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder,” murmured Rachel. “It's not unusual after what these kids go through over there.”
“That's true, as far as it goes,” said Lucy. “But Doc Ryder told me there's been a recent epidemic of overdoses. He wants us to do a story about it.”
“We already ran that interview with the governor's wife,” said Ted, in a defensive tone. “I'd like to give it a rest, maybe revisit the issue in a month or so.”
Lucy struggled to hold her temper. “Sooner would be better than later,” she argued. “We could save lives.” She felt a nudge on her ankle and realized Bill was signaling her that she'd said enough on this particular topic.
“Drugs are a fact of life these days,” said Ted. “They're everywhere. It's hardly news.”
“Sadly, that's true,” offered Rachel, with a sad smile.
Recognizing defeat, Lucy glanced around the room. Chris and Brad Cashman were seated at a nearby table, along with Frankie and the Faircloths, as well as some people she didn't recognize. It seemed a lively group, however, and there were frequent bursts of laughter. She looked around for Corney but didn't see her; maybe she was busy with some last-minute details.
Lucy had only had a sip or two of wine before the high school–student waiters began serving the fruit cup appetizers that preceded the VFW's famous rib roast dinner.
“Canned fruit!” exclaimed Sue, picking out the tiny bit of maraschino cherry and popping it in her mouth. “I haven't had fruit salad since I was a kid.” She cautiously speared a bit of pear and tasted it. “Now I know why I haven't had it—it's gruesome.”
“I kinda like it,” said Sid.
“Me, too,” said Lucy, digging in as the DJ started playing a Four Tops tune. “It takes me back—in fact, this whole thing is like a trip down memory lane.”
“I wonder if that's what Corney had in mind,” said Rachel. “Somehow I think she was going for something more glamorous.”
Lucy glanced around the room, but once again didn't see any sign of Corney. “There was a committee, wasn't there?”
“The activities committee is pretty square,” admitted Pam, who was an active Chamber member and served on the publicity committee.
“Old guard,” agreed Ted, cocking his head at a table of older men and their tightly permed wives. “Insurance, insurance, real estate, and banking.”
They were laughing at his joke when the waiters took away the chunky glass compotes that had held the fruit salad and brought plates loaded with huge slabs of beef, mountains of mashed potatoes topped with craters of gravy, and haystacks of grayish French-cut green beans amandine.
Sue's eyes widened in horror as her plate was set in front of her. “This explains a lot,” she said, pushing it away and reaching for her wine.
“What do you mean?” asked Pam, who was busy cutting her meat.
“The fat epidemic!” explained Sue. “Huge portions, tons of salt, it's no wonder Americans look the way they do if this is how they eat.”
“Oh, you're right,” said Rachel. “You know I prefer organic food and Bob and I mostly eat grains and veggies, but once in a while,” she said, taking a bite of beef and savoring it, “I just love a big piece of juicy red meat.”
“Amen,” said Bob.
By the time the dessert plates—cherry pie à la mode—and coffee cups were removed, Lucy was feeling guilty about slipping off her diet and was uncomfortably aware of her control-top panty hose. The DJ was playing a slow dance so she begged Bill to take a turn on the dance floor. “I've absolutely got to move or I'll burst,” she said, grabbing his hand.
He got up reluctantly, earning sympathetic looks from the other guys, and followed Lucy onto the dance floor where a handful of couples were moving to the music, mostly swaying back and forth. Lucy had endured cotillion dance classes when she was in seventh grade, letting repulsive pimply boys in button-down shirts and sports jackets that smelled of cleaning fluid put their arms around her so they could learn the waltz and fox-trot, and she found it frustrating that nobody, including Bill, seemed to know how to dance anymore.
Still, it was nice to slip her right hand into his and feel his other arm around her waist, and Bobby Darrin sure knew how to melt a girl's heart. She tried to keep her toes out of his way as they moved around the patch of parquet that served as a dance floor, trusting him to keep her from colliding with the other dancers.
The Faircloths, she noticed, danced beautifully together and made a lovely picture as they glided smoothly, perfectly in step with each other. Frankie and her partner, fellow real estate agent Bud Olsen, were having a good time, laughing as they struggled to keep time to the music and each other. When the inevitable happened, and they crashed into Lucy and Bill, there were giggles and apologies all round. Frankie just had time to tell Lucy the Faircloths had finally made an offer on a Shore Road house before Bud swept her away in a dramatic twirl.
“Did you hear?” she asked Bill. “Frankie sold a house to the Faircloths.”
Bill was interested; real estate had been at a virtual standstill for months. “Where?” he asked.
“I think she said Shore Road.'
“The only place for sale out there is the old McIntyre mansion,” said Bill. “It's listed for a million and a quarter.”
“I wonder what they offered,” said Lucy.
“Check with Frankie,” urged Bill, as the song ended. “Maybe they'll be looking for a contractor.”
Lucy noticed that Frankie was making her way across the room in the direction of the ladies' room, so she followed and eventually joined her in front of the mirrored counter, and began to refresh her lipstick.
“So the Faircloths finally found a house they liked,” said Lucy.
“Finally is the word,” said Frankie, with a huge sigh. “I must have showed them fifty or more houses. I swear we covered the coast from Kittery to Camden several times over. Then they decided to make an offer on the very first place I showed them.”
“The McIntyre mansion?”
Frankie nodded, leaning forward and running her finger along her eyebrow. “It needs work, but they said they're excited about remodeling.”
“How much did they offer?” asked Lucy.
“Just under a million,” said Frankie, screwing up her lips. “It's a low offer, but the place definitely needs updating. The wiring and plumbing are last century, the kitchen is a nightmare. I don't know if the McIntyre kids—well, they're all in their forties, not really kids—it's a question of how much they want the cash. If they don't need the money, they could decide to wait for the market to improve.”
“It must be hard for them to let it go,” said Lucy. “They've spent every summer there since they were kids.”
“They told me they don't get to use it much, now that their folks are gone. One is in Turkey, works for some bank; a couple of others are out on the West Coast. It's a big responsibility and they can't keep it up. It needs a roof; just keeping the lawn mowed is a big expense.”
Lucy nodded. It was a familiar story. “Well, I hope the sale goes through. It would be a nice commission for you—and maybe a job for Bill.”
“And I could use it,” said Frankie, dropping her lipstick into her purse and clicking it shut.

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