Bridal Shower Murder

Book 31: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

When her daughter gets engaged in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, reporter Lucy Stone finds herself feeling like a steamed lobster while dealing with her future son-in-law’s family—and a summer bridal shower that leads to murder . . .

Lucy Stone is thrilled about her youngest daughter Zoe's engagement to Chad, a rising minor league baseball player with dreamy eyes and plenty of Southern charm. Yet there’s no denying the whirlwind romance has turned Lucy’s life upside down in more ways than one—especially when she learns about Chad’s complicated background and close ties to Tinker’s Cove. The secrets and rumors are enough to send her investigative reporting instincts into overdrive . . .
 
Trouble really crashes in the moment Lucy meets her in-laws-to-be, Penny and Nate Nettleton. Persuasive Penny proves to be intent on taking over wedding preparations, even arranging a Tuscan-themed bridal shower before Zoe publicly announces her engagement. It’s a shock when the event goes off without a hitch. But the real shock comes when prominent guest Hetty Furness, the head of the Tinker’s Cove Historical Society, goes missing—only to be found dead, the victim of a brutal murder . . .
 
Lucy is determined to reveal who committed the vicious crime as she navigates her new reality with the Nettletons. Racing to determine if Hetty’s extensive knowledge of local history—and hidden scandals—led to her demise, Lucy soon realizes she’ll need to put her sleuthing talents to work like never before to guarantee wedding bells to ring for Zoe and Chad . . . and that she survives to see her daughter walk down the aisle!

Release date: March 25, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Lucy Stone, intrepid part-time reporter for the Courier newspaper in the quaint coastal town of Tinker’s Cove, Maine, recoiled and took a deep breath to steady herself. “What are those things? Medieval weapons?” she asked. Those things were several long poles with very nasty-looking hooks on the end, and they were on display in the hallway of the 1789 Jacob Pratt House, headquarters of the Tinker’s Cove Historical Society.

“Oh, no,” said Hetty Furness, shaking her head. “They’re peaveys, and they were invented right here in Maine.”

“Uh, how do you spell that?” asked Lucy, opening her reporter’s notebook. Lucy had interviewed Hetty, who was chairperson of the historical society’s board of directors, plenty of times before and knew that if she didn’t get every detail absolutely right, Hetty wouldn’t hesitate to demand a correction. She was well into her sixties, with a head of curly, permed, white hair, bright blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. Today, in honor of the display that Lucy was previewing, an exhibit documenting the logging industry in Maine, Hetty was wearing a plaid flannel shirt tucked into a roomy pair of pull-up corduroy pants.

Hetty spelled peavey for her, and went on to explain that the peaveys were used by lumberjacks in two ways. “They helped them balance on floating logs, and they also used them to break up logjams when they were moving the logs down rivers. Come on into the parlor, as the spider said to the fly,” giggled Hetty, leading the way. “Here we have old photos from the days when the river, our river here, was packed with logs from shore to shore every spring.”

“Oh, my, that looks like dangerous work,” said Lucy, leaning in to study the old sepia-toned photos showing the lumbermen precariously balanced on floating logs, peaveys in hand. She shivered despite the fact that she was dressed for the weather in her work uniform of jeans and boatneck tee, topped with a warm flannel-lined windbreaker. Ocean breezes kept things chilly in Tinker’s Cove well into May, but today’s brisk weather was nothing compared to the primitive conditions the loggers had to endure.

“Oh, it was dangerous,” admitted Hetty. “Every part of logging was dangerous. Cutting down the trees, dragging them to the river, then moving them down to the sawmills. That’s why exhibits like this are so important, so people understand our history and the struggle it took to get us to where we are today.”

“There’s a lot of romance about lumberjacks,” said Lucy. “Pancakes, plaid shirts, and Paul Bunyan with his blue ox, Babe.”

“As you can see,” said Hetty, nodding at several photos pinned to a movable display board, “they did wear a lot of plaid shirts and I imagine they ate plenty of pancakes and lots of other food, too.” Hetty pointed to another photo depicting a lumber camp kitchen, where several cooks were manning a couple of cast-iron stoves set up in a three-sided makeshift shelter with their stovepipe chimneys poking through the roof and puffing away. “If you didn’t feed the workers, they weren’t likely to stay.”

“Who were the workers?” asked Lucy, as she moved along from photo to photo. They were mostly posed, due to the long exposure time the earliest cameras required, typically showing a group of lumbermen gathered in front of a tent or cookhouse. There were a few of loggers cutting down massive trees with long two-man saws, and others of the felled logs ready to be moved by teams of oxen using chains. Views of the frozen river in winter showed it packed with logs waiting for the thaw, and then after it melted in spring there were photos of the men on top of those slippery logs, floating along with their peaveys in hand.

“Mostly young men, I imagine. It was seasonal work; they’d cut the trees in winter, when the ground was frozen and they could get the logs to the river. Probably local farmers, and migrants who came down from Canada. It was hard work, and very risky, but gave them much-needed income.”

“And all the pancakes you could eat,” said Lucy.

“Right,” agreed Hetty, with a laugh. “In fact, we’re going to kick off the exhibit with a pancake breakfast.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Lucy, jotting down all the details. Then tucking her notebook in her tote, Lucy said good-bye and headed back to the office. Her walk took her a few blocks along Main Street, where the white clapboard Community Church with its tall steeple stood at one end, and the white clapboard Baptist Church with its tall steeple stood at the other, right by the town’s only traffic light. Country Cousins, the famous e-commerce giant, with its folksy old-time country store, was also at the far end, next to the Community Church. In between were the town hall, the police and fire stations, post office, hardware store, several shops mostly catering to tourists, and the Courier office. If you continued on through the traffic light, which marked the intersection with Sea Street that led downhill to the harbor, you’d pass Jake’s Donut Shack. A bit farther along you’d find the luxurious and expensive Queen Victoria Inn, the town’s finest hotel. On the very outskirts, approaching Route 1, was St. Brigid’s Catholic Church, which was brick, and instead of a steeple had a skinny metal superstructure topped with a cross and was surrounded by a huge parking lot.

Pausing at the office door, Lucy took a moment to survey the town she’d been covering for a couple of decades. It was calendar and picture-postcard ready, she decided, noting that the trees had just leafed out and the Chamber of Commerce had filled the barrels that dotted the sidewalk with red and white geraniums accompanied by American flags. Tinker’s Cove was all gussied up, ready for the summer tourist season. She shook her head and smiled ruefully to herself: Picture perfect could cover up a lot of, well, a lot that wasn’t photo ready. She yanked the door open, setting the little bell to jangling, and went in.

Phyllis, the receptionist, was at her desk behind the counter where she’d placed a vase of purple and white lilacs that filled the office with fragrance. Lucy immediately buried her nose in a feathery plume and breathed in. “I love lilacs,” she sighed.

“Me too,” said Phyllis, who had dyed her hair lilac-purple and was wearing a lavender track suit. “This is the last of them, I’m sorry to say.”

“My lily of the valley is coming along,” said Lucy. “And soon we’ll have roses. It’s almost too much, all my favorites all at once.”

“That’s spring for you,” said Phyllis.

“Yeah,” agreed Lucy, noticing that their boss, Ted’s, rolltop desk was empty. “Where’s his nibs?” she asked.

“Over in Gilead,” said Phyllis, with a disdainful snort. Ted had taken to spending most of his time in the modern Gilead office, which he’d acquired when he bought the Gilead Gabber and combined it with his Pennysaver to create the county-wide Courier.

“Can’t blame him,” said Lucy, casting her eyes around the office, which boasted crooked, scuffed wood floors, dingy paint, ancient Venetian blinds, and a Simon Willard clock that had been ticking off the minutes to deadline since 1840.

She settled herself at her desk, a heavily shellacked wood model with drawers that stuck, and powered up her computer. As she expected, Ted had sent her an email with the week’s story budget, which was heavy on local government committee meetings. She could cover those with her eyes closed; sometimes she actually did, dozing off as the selectmen or the Fin Com members endlessly debated increasing the school budget, raising the price of dog licenses, and cutting back trees along the power lines. With nothing breaking at the moment, she decided to expand her preview of the logging exhibit into a feature story. Hetty would be so happy!

But after she went over her notes, she decided she had more questions than answers and decided to do a bit of research. She knew the lumber industry had once been a major part of the Maine economy but now played a much smaller role. There were still plenty of trees—what happened? She flitted from file to file, learning that in its beginning, back in the 1820s, the industry had operated statewide, carried on by small, independent outfits owned by individuals or partners. That eventually became financially unsustainable and the independents formed cooperatives, which by the 1880s were themselves unable to compete with the large paper companies. Nowadays, those once dominant companies were faced with rising fuel and equipment costs and supply chain delays, as well as an aging workforce. Timber stands were being replaced with solar farms, and most of the lumber jobs had drifted to foreign competitors.

Times change, thought Lucy, as her cell phone announced a call with a jaunty little ditty. “Hi, there,” she said, with a smile in her voice. The caller was her daughter Zoe, who rarely called, and Lucy was eager to catch up on her news. “What’s up?”

“Something big!” crowed Zoe. “Frank’s retiring and I’ve been named communications director for the Sea Dogs.” Zoe had moved to Portland a few years earlier when she was hired as assistant communications director for the AA minor league team.

“Wow, that’s great!” enthused Lucy. “Does it come with a big raise?”

Zoe sighed. “Well, eventually. It’s kind of conditional, like I’m on probation for three months. Joe, you know he’s the team’s CEO, he said he wanted to give me a chance, said Frank had strongly recommended me to succeed him, but I definitely got the feeling that he’s doubtful I can do the job.”

“Because you’re a woman?” asked Lucy.

“Well, yeah. Baseball is pretty much a man’s world.”

So what’s new? thought Lucy, who sometimes felt as if she’d been fighting an uphill battle to gain journalistic credibility for her entire career. Ted was nice enough, but she knew he took advantage of the fact that she loved her job to offer ridiculously low pay and no benefits at all. His thinking was that if she didn’t like it, she could go home and bake pies or do whatever women did; he wasn’t convinced he actually needed the Tinker’s Cove office and was only keeping it going for Lucy and Phyllis out of the kindness of his heart.

“But you’ve done such a good job,” said Lucy. “You’re the one who set up the Home Base Fun Zone for kids on the concourse, you brought in entertainment for the seventh-inning stretch, not to mention the healthier meal options. You’ve sent the players out for community events. It’s a whole new ball game!”

Zoe laughed. “I think there’s a feeling that I kind of pushed Frank out with all my new ideas.”

“Did anybody say that?”

“Well, the word ambitious was mentioned, and not in a good way.”

“That’s so unfair. As a woman you have to work twice as hard to gain any recognition at all and then they say you’re pushy and ambitious.”

“I thought I was making Frank look good. I mean, I really did try to be supportive and a team player and all that. And he seemed to like my ideas—I mean, he went along.”

“Probably thought you’d fail and fall flat on your face,” guessed Lucy. “Gave you enough rope to hang yourself.”

“Well, that didn’t happen and now Frank is retiring. Honestly, from the way Joe was talking you’d think the guy was dying or something instead of taking off with his wife on a cross-country RV trip.”

“Do you think he has somebody in mind, a son-in-law or somebody like that, that he wants for the job?”

“Could be, I don’t know.” Zoe sighed. “All I do know is that I love working for the team, and I’m going to do a fabulous job for them.”

“You need to think about corporate politics, though,” advised Lucy. “Doing a good job isn’t enough. You need to build up a base of support with the other execs, and especially the board of directors. Is there a board?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m going to be introduced to them in a week or so.”

“Well, do some research ahead of the meeting. Find out who they are and what they’re involved in. You can build on that, especially if there are a couple of women. Get to know them, meet with them, and get them on your side.”

“That’s great advice, Mom.”

“Well, it’s easy to give advice. I can’t say my career has taken off. I’m still here in Tinker’s Cove plugging away on selectboard meetings.”

Zoe laughed. “You’re underestimating yourself. You’ve won lots of awards and broke stories that went national. You’re the voice of Tinker’s Cove!”

“A big frog in a small pond . . .”

“I’m going to tell you what you always told us kids: Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You can find sympathy in the dictionary.”

“Nothing worse than your own words coming back at you,” said Lucy, laughing.

“Well, I’m coming back myself this weekend.” Zoe paused. “And I’m bringing someone I want you to meet.”

“Who?”

“His name’s Chad.”

Lucy had a million questions. Like was this a serious relationship? What did he do? Where did he come from? What was his family like? What did he look like? And what was his last name? But before she could utter another word, Zoe said, “See ya soon,” and ended the call.

Typical. “See ya soon.” Like when? she wondered. It would certainly be nice to know, so she could plan meals. Should she expect them Friday afternoon? Evening? Or maybe Saturday morning? Lucy shrugged her shoulders, resigned. Better plan for Friday, just in case.

“What was that all about?” asked Phyllis, peering over the polka-dot cheaters perched on her nose.

“Zoe’s bringing a boy home for us to meet,” said Lucy, still in shock.

“Wow, that’s big,” said Phyllis. “They must be serious.”

“Maybe, maybe not. She’s brought boyfriends home before, but last I knew she was having a ball dating every player on the team. Kind of a revolving door; they came and they went.”

“Well, it sounds like somebody struck a home run,” said Phyllis, terribly pleased with herself. “What did she tell you about him?”

“Practically nothing. The call was all about her promotion. She’s been named communications director for the team.”

“That’s terrific,” said Phyllis, brushing aside this news. “Did she mention his name by any chance?”

“Yeah. Chad.”

“That’s it?”

“I told you. She actually seemed more excited about the promotion.”

“You’re a reporter, Lucy. Use your reporting skills and see what you can find out about this mystery man. He’s probably on the team.”

Phyllis was right. The Sea Dogs website listed bios of all the players, including Chad, written in Zoe’s unmistakable style. “Okay,” began Lucy, peering at her screen, “Charles ‘Chad’ Nettleton . . .”

“Nettleton?”

“Yeah, Nettleton. He’s a Virginia native, a Union College honors graduate. . . .”

“No dummy then,” observed Phyllis.

“It doesn’t mention his major, but I think Union has a lot of phys ed majors.”

“We can’t all be physicists, Lucy. What else does it say?”

“Um. He played on the college team and for the Cape Cod League, summers.”

“Cut to the chase, Lucy. Is there a photo?”

“Oh, yes.”

Phyllis popped up and crossed the office in a flash to peer over Lucy’s shoulder. “Oooh,” she cooed. “That is one very good-looking young fellow.”

“Photos can be doctored,” said Lucy, staring at wide-set brown eyes that looked right back at her, a straight nose, dimpled chin, and wide smile featuring a perfect bite. We don’t know how tall he is, after all.”

“It’s right there, Lucy, in his stats. He’s six-two.”

“He could have premature baldness under that cap.”

“Give it up, Lucy. He’s tall, handsome, intelligent, and athletic. I’d say he’s quite a catch, ticks all the boxes. What’s not to like?”

“Bill will find something, he’s pretty protective of his girls,” confessed Lucy. “He’s never really gotten over Elizabeth going off to France, where he can’t keep an eye on her,” she said, naming her oldest daughter. “And he worries about Sara, living in the sinful city. . . .”

“Boston?” asked Phyllis, eyebrows raised.

“In Bill’s eyes, the Museum of Science is staffed with a bunch of sex maniacs, all panting after Sara. And Zoe’s his baby. He never approved of her going to work for the team. The way Bill sees it, this guy is only going to confirm his worst suspicions about baseball players. Poor Chad won’t be able to do anything right.” She sighed. “It’s going to be tense.”

Phyllis patted her shoulder. “Good luck to him. If they’re really in love, nothing’s going to keep them apart. Not even Bill.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” said Lucy. “I’m worried about him creating a rift and alienating Zoe. I don’t want to lose my daughter.”

“I’m pretty sure Zoe knows the score. And you can act as a buffer and make the lad feel welcome.”

“Right,” said Lucy, checking her calendar. It was already Thursday afternoon, and if they were coming Friday evening, she didn’t have much time to get the house ready for company. “I’m going to have to take tomorrow off. . . .”

“Ted won’t like it,” said Phyllis.

“There’s no way around it. I’ve got to clean and shop, put fresh sheets on the beds.”

“Beds? I think you only need to do one, Lucy.”

“Oh, no. Bill will insist on separate rooms.” She smiled. “Of course, what happens after the lights go out is up to them.” Lucy closed out Chad’s bio and took another look at her story budget for the coming week. The selectboard wasn’t meeting until Monday, Fin Com was on Tuesday, she’d already written up the highway superintendent’s retirement, which left only the story about Hetty’s exhibit at the historical society. She opened a new file, flipped open her notebook, and got to work.

That evening, after giving Bill his favorite meat loaf dinner, she casually mentioned in an offhand way that Zoe was coming home for the weekend, with a friend. She didn’t want to give him time to fret, which he would certainly do, so she didn’t mention that the friend was male. Intent on watching the Bruins get one game closer to the Stanley Cup, Bill merely said, “Oh, that’s nice,” before heading into the family room.

Lucy immediately swung into action and loaded the dishwasher, then scrubbed the countertops and the cabinet fronts. She cleaned the insides of the toaster oven and microwave, polished the round golden oak table where she and Bill had just eaten dinner, and wiped down the stovetop. She peered inside the oven, discovered it needed a cleaning, but settled instead on polishing up the door. What are the chances he’d look in the oven? She swept and Swiffered the floor, then she slipped into the guest bath and gave the sink and toilet a scrub, emptied the wastebasket, and put out fresh soap and towels.

By then the game was going into overtime and she hurried upstairs, where she quickly stripped off her clothes and ran herself a bath, confident that Bill would be none the wiser when he came to bed. He’d assume she’d spent the evening as she usually did, watching a movie on the small TV in the bedroom or reading one of her favorite mystery authors. He’d never dream she’d spent it deep-cleaning the kitchen, much less wonder why.

Next morning, after Bill left to work on his latest antique home restoration, which happened to be one of the multimillion-dollar “cottages” overlooking the Atlantic on Ocean Drive, she poured herself a second cup of coffee and planned her menu for the weekend, and her shopping list. It was a daunting task, since she didn’t know Chad’s food preferences, or even if he had food allergies. What if he was vegan, or on a gluten-free diet? A lot of people had shellfish allergies, so she better avoid that. In the end, she figured it was unlikely an athlete would be vegetarian and went with pork chops and rice pilaf for Friday and steak and potatoes on Saturday. Then she was off to the IGA where she grabbed bouquets of carnations and mums, loaded her cart with dinner fixings plus plenty of snacks and cases of flavored seltzer. Back home, she unloaded the groceries, arranged the flowers, and vacuumed and dusted the living room, dining room, and family room. Fueled by a quick peanut butter sandwich lunch, she then lugged the vacuum upstairs to change the sheets in son Toby’s and Zoe’s old rooms, where she noticed the windows needed a clean. When she took the curtains down she decided they could use a wash, so she dashed down to the cellar and tossed them in the washer, along with the sheets. While they sloshed around in the washer she zipped upstairs and washed the bare windows, and started dusting. Then it was back down to the cellar to switch the wash into the dryer, up again to finish the dusting, vacuum the bedrooms and scrub and polish the bathroom. Then it was back down the two flights to retrieve the clean curtains, permanent press thank Heaven, and hang them back up. She folded and put the clean sheets away in the closet, vacuumed the hall, and, checking her watch, realized they could arrive at any minute and what was she going to wear?

Too tired to give the matter any serious thought, she grabbed a fresh shirt and was pulling it over her head when she heard a car beep, announcing Chad and Zoe’s arrival. No time to change her pants, so she quickly ran a comb through her hair and slapped on some lipstick before rushing downstairs to greet them. They were still in the car, a massive four-wheel-drive pickup truck, when she opened the door to welcome them.

The truck looked brand new and Lucy wondered if minor league baseball players made much money. She rather doubted it; in fact, she’d heard that even if they went to the majors, rookies didn’t begin to command the million-dollar deals offered to star players. She knew oversized trucks like Chad’s went for at least fifty thousand dollars, which made her suspect that Chad probably had some family money to subsidize to his earnings. Maybe even a trust fund?

What was she thinking and why was her mind going down this particular path? she wondered. Was she a modern-day Mrs. Bennet, panting to marry her daughter to a man with a healthy income and a stately home? She vowed to banish such mercenary thoughts from her mind and waited with a smile on her face as Chad jumped down from the cab and went around to the passenger side to help Zoe exit the truck. Polite and gorgeous, oh my. It was almost too much to bear, she thought, as the couple made their way up the path and climbed the steps onto the porch. “Hi!” Chad declared, sticking out his hand and preparing to grab Lucy’s. “Nice to meet you.”

She was reaching for his hand when he suddenly exclaimed, “Oops! I forgot!” and ran back to the truck, returning with an enormous bouquet of lilies and roses, wrapped in paper from Portland’s most expensive florist. “Zoe said you like flowers,” he said, presenting them to her. Zoe’s eyes met her mother’s, and she burst into amused laughter.

Lucy took the flowers and inhaled their gorgeous scent. “It’s great to meet you, Chad, and thank you so much for the flowers. Come on inside.” She stepped aside, and as the couple passed she noticed the air was filled with a fresh and lovely fragrance. The flowers? Or was it something Chad was wearing?

There was an awkward moment as they stood in the kitchen. “How was traffic?” asked Lucy, to break the ice. “Any tie-up in Wiscasset?”

“Smooth sailing the whole way,” said Chad.

“It’s still early in the season,” commented Zoe, going on to explain her mother’s question to Chad. “Wiscasset’s a real trouble spot when the tourists start coming.”

“I can see why folks want to come,” said Chad. “This is a beautiful area.”

“Well, I want to get these flowers in water. Why don’t you bring in your stuff and get settled. Zoe, your room is ready for you, and, Chad, I’ve put you in Zoe’s brother’s old room. I think you’ll be comfortable there.”

“That’s fine,” said Chad, heading out to get their bags.

“Toby’s room?” demanded Zoe, when the door closed behind him.

“It’s because of your father,” explained Lucy. “I don’t care what you two do, as long as you don’t frighten the horses, as my Aunt Fredi used to say.”

“You mean frighten Dad,” laughed Zoe.

Lucy nodded. “Just keep it cool, okay?”

“Got it,” said Zoe, as Chad returned with a duffel in each hand. “We’re upstairs,” she said, leading the way up the back staircase.

Lucy had just finished arranging the flowers in her best vase when Bill arrived, hanging up his jacket and putting his lunch bag on the counter. “Nice flowers,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Who are they from?”

The moment of truth had arrived. “From Zoe’s friend, Chad. He brought them.”

“Chad?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yeah, he’s one of the Sea Dogs. Seems like a nice boy.”

“Do you think they’re serious?” he asked, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

“Well, she brought him home to meet us.”

Bill popped the tab on the can. “Hmph.” He took a long swallow from the can, then looked up, hearing them clatter down t. . .