Christmas Cookie Murder

Book 6: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

For Lucy Stone, the best thing about Christmas in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, has always been the annual Cookie Exchange. But the usual generosity and goodwill are missing from this year’s event, which turns out to be a complete disaster. Petty rivalries and feuds that have long been simmering finally come to a boil, leaving a bad taste in the mouths of many guests, including Lee Cummings—who accuses Tucker Whitney of stealing her recipe for low-fat, sugar-free cookies. But the icing on the cake is when Tucker is found strangled in her apartment the following morning. Who could’ve wanted Tucker dead badly enough to kill her? Despite all of the ingredients for danger, Lucy sets out on the trail of a murderer and soon uncovers a Christmas secret best left wrapped.

Release date: October 1, 2008

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

28 days ’til Xmas

“I’d rather die.”

Judging by her determined expression and her firm tone of voice, Lucy Stone was pretty sure that her best friend, Sue Finch, had made up her mind. Still, ever the optimist, she couldn’t resist trying one last time.

“Oh, come on,” pleaded Lucy. “It won’t seem like Christmas without it.”

“Nope.” Sue shook her head and shoved a piece of overpriced lettuce around her plate with a fork. “No cookie exchange this year.”

The two friends were having lunch at the Chandlery, the toney bistro in the Ropewalk, the newest mall in Tinker’s Cove. The Ropewalk had once been exactly that, a nineteenth-century workshop complete with a long, narrow alley used for twisting hemp fibers into rope for the clipper ships that once sailed all over the globe from their home port in Tinker’s Cove, Maine.

Long a ramshackle eyesore on the waterfront, it had recently been restored, and local craftsmen had moved in, creating what the developer called “an exciting retail adventure with a seafaring ambiance.”

Today, the day after Thanksgiving, the Ropewalk was packed with Christmas shoppers and Lucy and Sue had had to wait thirty minutes for a table. When their salads finally came they were definitely on the skimpy side—the kitchen was obviously running low on supplies. The two friends hadn’t minded; the demands of juggling homes and careers made it difficult for them to spend time together, and they were enjoying each other’s company.

“It’s not like it was, well, even a few years ago,” said Sue. “Then we were all in the same boat. We all had little kids and plenty of time on our hands. People snapped up the invitations and brought wonderful cookies.” A dreamy expression came over her face. “Remember Helen’s baklava?”

“Do I ever,” said Lucy, who had a round face and a shining cap of hair cut in a practical style. She was casually dressed, wearing a plaid shirt-jacket and a pair of well-worn jeans. “It was like biting into a little piece of heaven.” She paused and sipped her coffee. “Whatever happened to her?”

“She moved away, to North Carolina, I think,” said Sue, who provided an elegant contrast to her friend in her hand-knit designer sweater and tailored flannel slacks. “And that’s exactly my point. A lot of the old regulars have moved away. And things have changed. Getting together to compare recipes and swap cookies isn’t as appealing as it used to be.”

“It is to me,” said Lucy. “I’ve still got a family to feed, and they don’t think it’s Christmas without cookies. Lots of different kinds. I don’t have time to bake five or six batches. And to be honest, I don’t want to have that many cookies around the house.” She bit her lip. “Too much temptation. Too many calories.”

“I know,” Sue said with a sigh. “With the exchange you just had to bake one double batch.”

“But you ended up with twelve different kinds, a half dozen of each.” Lucy started counting them off on her fingers. “Your pecan meltaways, my Santa’s thumbprints, spritz, gingerbread men, Franny’s Chinese-noodle cookies, shortbread, and Marge’s little pink-and-white candy canes….”

“Marge probably can’t come this year,” said Sue, with a sad shake of her head. “The lumpectomy wasn’t enough, and they’ve started her on chemotherapy. She feels lousy.”

“I hadn’t heard,” said Lucy, furrowing her brow. “That’s too bad.”

“I thought you newspaper reporters thrived on local gossip,” teased Sue, referring to Lucy’s part-time job writing for the weekly Pennysaver.

“Actually, I’m so busy covering historic commission hearings and stuff like that, I never have time to call my friends.” She smiled at Sue and glanced around at the restaurant, which was festively decorated with artificial pine garlands, ribbons, and gold balls. “This is fun—we don’t get together enough. So what else is new? Fill me in.”

“Have you heard about Lee?”

“Lee Cummings? No. What?”

“Well,” began Sue, leaning across the table toward Lucy, “she and Steve have separated.”

“You’re kidding.” Lucy was astonished. Lee and her husband, dentist Steve Cummings, had seemed a rock-solid couple. They went to church together every Sunday, and Steve had coached his daughter’s T-ball team.

“No.” Sue’s eyebrows shot up. “Apparently Steve is finding marriage too confining. At least that’s what Lee says.”

“She tells you all this?”

“Oh, yes. And more. Every morning when she drops Hillary off at the center.” Sue directed the town’s day-care center, located in the basement of the recreation building. “It’s all she can talk about. Steve did this. Steve did that. His lawyer says this. My lawyer says that. The latest is who’s going to get the stove.”

“They’re arguing over the stove?”

“I think it’s a Viking,” explained Sue, with a knowing nod. “But that’s just the beginning. They’re also fighting over the books and the CDs and the china and the stupid jelly glasses with cartoon characters.”

“So you think they’re going to get a divorce?”

“It sure looks that way.”

“And that’s all she talks about?”

“Yeah. And if I have the cookie exchange, I’ll have to invite her, and if she comes, she’ll turn the whole evening into a group-therapy session. Trust me on this.”

“I can see that’s a problem,” admitted Lucy, picking up the check. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”

 

Leaving the restaurant and entering the shopping area, the two friends joined the throng that was flowing past the gaily decorated craftsmen’s booths. It was crowded, but people were in good humor, aided by the Christmas carols playing on the sound system.

“Tra la la la la, la la la la!” warbled Lucy, unable to resist singing along. “Isn’t it nice to hear the carols? They always take me back to my childhood.”

“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?” sputtered 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—I 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.”

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 Dee-Liteful 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 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 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 co. . .