Easter Basket Murder

by Leslie Meier, Lee Hollis, Barbara Ross

Genres: Holiday books; Mystery Anthologies & Collections

Synopsis

Put on your springtime best and grab a basket, because Easter egg hunting is to dye for in this delightful new collection of Easter-themed capers set in coastal Maine and featuring fan-favorite sleuths from the long-running, bestselling cozy mystery series by Leslie Meier, Lee Hollis, and Barbara Ross!

EASTER BASKET MURDER by LESLIE MEIER
Tinker’s Cove businesses are clashing over a new Easter Basket–themed promotion to boost in-store sales, with tensions boiling over the grand prize—a mysterious golden egg crafted by a reclusive Maine artist. When the one-of-a-kind art piece is stolen, it’s up to part-time reporter Lucy Stone to investigate three struggling entrepreneurs who stick out in the local scene. But a huge town scandal comes into focus when a harmless shopping spree turns deadly, leaving Lucy to stop a murderer from springing back into action . . .

DEATH BY EASTER EGG by LEE HOLLIS
As Bar Harbor’s annual egg hunt approaches, Island Food & Spirits columnist and restauranteur Hayley Powell is thrilled to introduce her grandson, Eli, to local springtime traditions. Turns out, keeping up with a rambunctious toddler isn’t always sunshine and rainbows—especially when a decadent peanut butter treat kills the Easter bunny himself during the festivities! Now, with a clear-as-cellophane case of murder on her hands, it’s up to Hayley to crack the clues and scramble deadly plans before it’s too late . . .

HOPPED ALONG by BARBARA ROSS
Julia Snowden’s Easter Sunday at Windsholme, a sprawling mansion tucked away on a remote Maine island, looks like it’s been borrowed from the pages of a lifestyle magazine. But when a dead body is discovered in the garden—then vanishes soon after without any explanation—an innocent hunt for eggs becomes a dangerous hunt for answers. With no clues beyond a copy of The Adventures of Peter Rabbit, Julia must find out if April Fool’s Day came early or if she’s caught in a killer’s twisted game . . .

Release date: January 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (1)

Sample

“It’s the death of a thousand cuts,” moaned Corney Clark, shaking her head sadly. “There’s free shipping, next-day delivery, even same-day delivery. E-commerce is killing us; Main Street is becoming a ghost town.” Corney, executive director of the Tinker’s Cove Chamber of Commerce, was sitting in the office of the coastal Maine town’s local newspaper, The Courier, where she was pitching a story to part-time reporter Lucy Stone. Corney, always professionally groomed, had her frosted hair clipped in a neat cut, and was wearing a pink plaid shirt with a matching quilted vest and trim gray slacks against the chilly spring weather. Lucy was dressed rather more casually in an oversized turtleneck sweater and jeans, but both were wearing the iconic Country Cousins duck boots that were a necessity in springtime Maine.

“It’s always slow this time of year,” observed Phyllis, the receptionist, philosophically. Phyllis chose her outfits according to the season and now that Easter was just around the corner was wearing a bright green sweatshirt that featured a bunny liberally bedecked with sequins. Pink leggings and polka dot reading glasses completed her outfit.

“Phyllis has a point,” observed Lucy. “It’s officially spring but winter doesn’t want to let go. People are still hibernating.”

Corney shook her head, disagreeing. “Nope. It’s the internet. We’ve done a study and foot traffic is definitely down, people can’t be bothered to go to brick-and-mortar stores when they can push a button on their computer and get delivery the next day.”

“Sounds like one way to run up a big credit card bill,” said Phyllis.

“You said it,” agreed Lucy. “And half the time what you get isn’t what you thought it would be and you’ve got to return it.”

“Or do like my niece Elfrida and forget all about it until the clutter gets to be too much and she donates a bunch of brand-new stuff to the thrift shop.”

Lucy’s eyebrows rose. “Really? With five kids at home I wouldn’t think Elfrida’s got money to waste.”

“She doesn’t,” snapped Phyllis.

“Well, to get back on track here,” began Corney, “the Chamber’s come up with a terrific idea that we believe will encourage locals to rediscover the wonderful merchants in our town.” Opening the slim leather portfolio she’d brought with her, Corney displayed an Easter card featuring a colorful image of an Easter basket, with a number of the eggs drawn only in outline. “We’re sending one of these Easter cards to everyone in town.”

“Well, it’s nice,” said Lucy, somewhat underwhelmed. “But maybe you should have finished the drawing. What’s with those empty egg shapes?”

“Stickers!” proclaimed Corney, producing a sheet of colorful Easter egg stickers. “Every Chamber member in town has a supply of these stickers, which they will award to customers who spend at least ten dollars.”

“Do you really think folks will want to collect stickers?” asked Phyllis, in a doubtful tone. “Stickers are for kids.”

“There’s more,” said Corney, with a sly smile. “Everyone who completes their card and fills all ten blanks can enter a drawing for this deluxe Easter basket.” She handed Lucy a photo depicting an oversized basket filled to the brim with assorted goodies. “And when I say deluxe, I mean absolutely fabulous. There’s candy, gift certificates, luxury products and . . .” She paused to pat Lucy’s desk in a drum roll. “A mini golden egg sculpture by Karl Klaus.”

“Karl Klaus, hey, his stuff goes for thousands,” said Phyllis.

“Is he still working?” asked Lucy. She knew the controversial sculptor, who was known for elevating simple household items into works of art, was a recluse who lived on a remote inland farm.

“I thought he died,” offered Phyllis.

“No. He’s alive and well.”

“Somehow I can’t see him donating one of his sculptures,” said Lucy, who knew Klaus was notoriously tight-fisted, to the point of neglecting his person and his property. He lived in a huge barn that also served as a studio, and had been engaged in disputes with local officials involving a failing septic system and an ever-growing mountain of junk in his yard.

“A generous benefactor has donated the egg,” said Corney, “on condition of anonymity.”

“I don’t suppose Klaus would be willing to be interviewed,” speculated Lucy, sensing an opportunity for a scoop. She was already thinking of questions she’d like to ask the artist whose latest attempt to break into the nation’s collective consciousness was a gilded toilet plunger exhibited a couple of years ago at a Soho art gallery.

“That toilet plunger was terribly derivative,” observed Phyllis. “A clear reference to that gold toilet that was stolen from Blenheim Palace.” She paused, adding, “That’s in England, you know.”

Lucy’s and Corney’s mouths both dropped in surprise, as Phyllis was not known for keeping up with the contemporary art scene, or any art scene for that matter.

“Since when . . .” began Lucy.

Phyllis smirked. “I was at the dentist yesterday, and you know he’s got those ancient magazines in the waiting room. He was running late due to Eddie Culpepper’s impacted wisdom tooth and I ended up reading an old Time magazine.”

“Well, that is a relief,” said Lucy, chuckling. “I was afraid you’d gone all artsy on me.”

“No chance.”

“How’s Eddie?” asked Corney.

“It was pretty awful,” recalled Phyllis. “Lots of groans and he looked pretty shaky when he left.”

“Poor kid,” murmured Corney. “But getting back to the matter at hand, I’ve already spoken to Ted about a center-spread ad and I know you’ll do a super story, Lucy . . .”

This was the sort of thing Lucy hated but knew only too well was part and parcel of small-town journalism. Letting advertising drive news coverage always made her feel like a shill instead of a journalist. Business news was still news, she reminded herself, especially in a town where most of the businesses were still small family affairs. Pushing her resentments to the back of her mind, she turned her attention to Corney, who was saying, “. . . and we’re launching the promo tomorrow at the Seamen’s Bank. I know you’ll want to be there because Karl Klaus himself has agreed to a photo op.”

Lucy doubted she’d heard correctly. “What did you say?” she asked.

“Karl Klaus will be at the Seamen’s Bank tomorrow, eleven o’clock, for the kick-off.”

“Talk about burying the lead,” complained Lucy. “Why didn’t you say that sooner?”

“Because I didn’t want you to get too excited and start thinking about all sorts of questions. He said absolutely no interview and you know his reputation. Frankly, I’m not entirely convinced he’s going to show up.”

“Well, you can count on me,” promised Lucy. “I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Lucy,” said Corney, sounding relieved. “There’s a lot riding on this, a lot of our businesses are on the edge. This promo’s got to work or we’ll have even more empty stores on Main Street.”

Next morning found Lucy at the Seamen’s Bank, where a small delegation of business folk had gathered, awaiting the sculptor’s arrival. Bert Cogswell, the bank president, was there, of course, along with Franny Small, representing the Board of Selectmen, and Tony Marzetti, who owned the IGA. These notables, as well as a handful of customers, were gathered around the coffee bar, a new addition to the bank, which had recently undergone a major renovation. For her part, Lucy missed the marble floor and the massive vault that had formerly held pride of place behind the barred teller’s cages. She always had the feeling that her money was safe whether she was sliding a five dollar birthday check from Aunt Helen beneath the teller’s cage or making a mortgage payment. Nowadays, the marble was covered with thick carpet, the vault was discreetly hidden behind a newly constructed wall, and the associates seemed to hang out rather casually behind an island.

Customers who needed to confer with a banker were invited to wait in a seating area with a curvaceous sofa and a coffee table on which to set their free cups of coffee. The clubby atmosphere didn’t inspire confidence, thought Lucy, who carefully balanced her checking account every month.

“Ah, Lucy, are you here to cover the big event?” asked Bert Cogswell. While the bank employees were now encouraged to dress in business casual, Bert clung to his lifetime habit of navy suit, tie, and starched white shirt. His thinning hair was combed over his bald spot.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Lucy as Corney arrived, toting the enormous Easter basket. She paused, looking around for somewhere to put it.

“Uh, I guess the coffee table,” suggested Bert, stepping forward to relieve her of her burden.

“Super, everyone can see it there,” agreed Corney. “Careful, it’s heavy.”

The Easter basket was set down on the table and everyone gathered around, admiring it.

“It was quite a job, fitting everything in,” said Corney. “I left a little spot for the Klaus egg.”

It was just then that a rather dishevelled older man entered, stumbling on the doorsill. Harold Fincham, the bank guard, stepped forward, catching him by the arm and preventing his fall, while giving him the once over. Apparently homeless, the fellow was unshaven, had thick eyeglasses held together with tape, and the sole on one shoe had come loose.

“Ah, Karl, you’re here!” trilled Corney, all smiles. “Welcome!”

“Uh,” offered the famous sculptor, by way of greeting. “Uh, let’s get on with it.”

“Right. Right,” stammered Corney. “Well, everyone, this is Karl Klaus, our noted sculptor, who is on his way to New Hampshire where he will be feted and receive the prestigious St. Gaudens Sculpture Prize.”

Everyone clapped and smiled, except for Karl and Lucy. Karl never smiled, at least not in recent memory, and Lucy was fuming over the fact that Corney had failed to share this important bit of information about the prize with her.

“I’ve got to get going,” muttered Karl, digging in the pocket of his tattered Army jacket. “Here it is.” He produced a gleaming golden egg, which he was in danger of dropping until Corney snatched it.

“It’s just beautiful,” she enthused, displaying it for all to see.

The gathered crowd oohed and aahed, watching as Corney placed the gleaming mini-sculpture in the center front of the basket.

“Can I get a photo?” asked Lucy, as Klaus was turning to go. Corney quickly grabbed him by his arm and led him to the sofa. “Let’s sit here,” she invited him. “Behind the basket.”

“I could take a load off,” admitted Karl, in agreement. He plunked himself down, Corney slid in beside him. “Bert, we need you, too,” insisted Corney, and the bank president took his place behind them. Lucy snapped the photo, making sure to get the basket front and center.

Then Corney made a little speech, congratulating the sculptor on his upcoming award, which was warmly received by the gathered notables.

“It’s just a medal, no money,” grumbled Klaus, in response to the group’s applause. He had been studying the Easter basket with great intensity and finally reached in and snagged a box of Fern’s Famous Fudge. “Something for the road,” he said, standing up.

“Is there anything you’re planning to say at the award ceremony?” asked Lucy, hoping for a juicy quote, or possibly even jump-starting an interview.

“Better left unsaid,” muttered the sculptor, heading directly for the door, the flapping sole of his shoe requiring a sort of kick-step. Harold leaped to open the door for him and they all watched as he departed, making his way to an aged pickup truck which was double-parked in front of the bank. Moments later a roar was heard as the truck took off, slowly but noisily.

“Needs a muffler,” observed Tony.

“Do you think he’ll make it to New Hampshire?” asked Corney.

“Quite a character,” observed Bert. “Quite a character.”

Lucy decided to snap a few more photos of the Easter basket, and paused to check them on her phone. The photos didn’t really do the fabulous egg sculpture justice, she decided. It looked an awful lot like the plastic eggs that used to contain a popular brand of pantyhose.

The Easter basket promotion was in full swing later that week when Lucy joined her friends at their usual Thursday morning breakfast. The group, which included Sue Finch, Rachel Goodman, and Pam Stillings, began the weekly gathering when their nests emptied and they could no longer count on casual encounters at their kids’ school and sports events. The group had grown closer through the years, offering advice and support as they faced life’s challenges.

Pam, who was married to Lucy’s boss at the paper, Ted, had been a cheerleader in high school and retained her pony tail and her rah-rah enthusiasm. She was quite excited about supporting the promo, but admitted she’d only earned one sticker, and that was at the pharmacy when she picked up a prescription. “It’s just so convenient to shop online,” she said, digging into her yogurt-granola parfait. “I’ve arranged regular shipments of earth-friendly cleaning products, Stitch-in-Time sends me clothes on approval every six weeks or so, I get a box of Nearly Perfect groceries every two weeks, cat food and litter, even toilet paper all come right to the house. I hardly ever have to go to the store.”

“But don’t you miss shopping?” asked Sue, the group’s fashionista, who frequented the discount mall on Route 1 looking for designer mark downs. “I love finding a good bargain; I got some beautiful Ralph Lauren towels last week on close-out. Sooo thick and soft, top quality and much cheaper than anything here in town.” She paused to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear with a beautifully manicured hand and took a sip of coffee. “Of course, I’ll do my part. I’m sure I can collect my ten stickers, too. Sid needs some new work boots and I’ve had my eye on a jacket at the Trading Company—I don’t exactly need another jacket but it’s so cute and it would be for a good cause.”

Rachel was shaking her head in disapproval. “As it is, we’re wallowing in stuff. We’ve all got too much stuff, things we don’t need. We’re constantly told that this new product will make us happy, it will satisfy our need for comfort and reassurance. Advertisers tear us down, telling us we have bad breath, or our hair isn’t shiny enough, or we’re too fat and the solution to all these problems is to buy their products. Even peace of mind is for sale, thanks to insurance companies.” She picked a chunk off her Sunshine muffin. “Material things can’t fill emotional needs.” She glanced at Sue. “New towels can’t provide human connection.”

“Well, actually,” began Sue, smiling wickedly, “Sid was quite interested in helping me try out the new towels after my bath last night.”

“My point exactly,” insisted Rachel. “You and Sid have a healthy relationship, with or without new towels.”

“Well, I’ve barely got time to shop online or in person,” complained Lucy, poking a toast triangle into an egg yolk. “Or the money. Gas gets more expensive every fill-up, groceries keep going up, I am struggling to stick with my budget and I don’t think I’m alone. I think a lot of folks in Tinker’s Cove are struggling to make ends meet.”

“Well said,” offered Norine, the waitress, approaching with a fresh pot of coffee. “More coffee, anyone?”

When Lucy went out that afternoon to conduct some man-on-the-street interviews about the Easter Basket promotion, she found that merchants and townsfolk alike were enthusiastic. “We all need stuff this time of year anyway,” said Dottie Halmstead, exiting the hardware store with a bag of seed-starter mix and several packets of tomato seeds.

“It’s nice to get a little reward,” said Lydia Volpe, a retired kindergarten teacher Lucy met coming out of the bookstore. “I don’t think we ever outgrow stickers.”

Stopping by at Country Cousins, the general store that had pioneered catalog shopping and had now morphed into an e-commerce giant, Lucy found shoppers were stocking up on Easter treats and eagerly collecting the stickers. “We’re in danger of running out,” confessed Barb Conners. “We’ve had to order more. Everybody wants the stickers.”

Stepping out of the store and onto the porch, where one bench was labeled “Republicans” and the other “Democrats,” Lucy paused to watch the town’s two police cars race down Main Street, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Probably an accident out on Route 1, she thought, but soon realized she was wrong. The two cruisers didn’t continue on out of town, but screeched to a halt at the bank. Hoisting her bag on her shoulder, she hurried down the street, eager to find out what was happening. A bank robbery? In Tinker’s Cove?

Lucy hadn’t expected to be allowed inside the bank, figuring it was a crime scene, but nobody, least of all the guard, Harold Fincham, was blocking the door. Harold, Police Chief Jim Kirwan, Officer Barney Culpepper, bank president Bert Cogswell, and a couple of tellers were all gathered around the coffee table where the Easter Basket was on display.

“So when exactly did you notice it was missing?” asked the chief.

It was then that Lucy noticed the empty place where Karl Klaus’s golden egg had been nestled, among the other prizes. Now, there was only a tell-tale hollow in the bright green plastic grass.

“It was one of the customers who asked what had happened to the egg,” reported Bert, glancing at the tellers.

“That’s right,” said Jen Holden, the bank’s newest hire. She was a senior at Winchester College, working part time; she was wearing a cozy velour tunic over a pair of black leggings and had long, wavy hair and a worried expression. “It was Mrs. Maloney and I noticed it was almost nine thirty, I was keeping an eye on the time because I have a poli sci test at noon.”

“But it could have gone missing earlier,” speculated Barney. “I mean, was anybody keeping an eye on it? It was right out here in the open, anybody could’ve grabbed it.”

“Would’ve been smarter to substitute one of those plastic eggs and put the real one in the vault,” said Jared Wood, the bank’s senior teller, exhibiting twenty-twenty hindsight.

“Now hold on,” declared Harold, in a defensive tone. “I’ve been here and keeping a sharp eye on that basket. That egg was here when I got in . . .”

“The bank opens at eight,” said the chief. “That leaves a ninety-minute window.”

“Not that long,” insisted Harold. “Like I said, I kept glancing over and I didn’t notice anything missing . . .”

“Until Mrs. Maloney sounded the alarm,” countered Jared.

“Well, I think it was taken just before then,” said Harold. “Nine thirty or so. Any sooner, I would’ve noticed.”

“You were talking with customers, you took a coffee break, a couple of bathroom breaks . . .” reported Jared, who seemed to have a bit of a chip on his shoulder. “Anybody could have grabbed that egg at pretty much anytime this morning.”

“Did you notice anything?” Lucy directed her question to Jen, thinking she was most likely the brightest bulb in this dim group.

“Not really,” admitted Jen. “There was the usual rush at opening, merchants making deposits, getting change, that sort of thing. And there’s always old folks checking on automatic deposits from Social Security.”

“So it was busier than usual?” asked Barney.

“The bank was crowded, we both had lines of customers,” remembered Jen.

The chief glanced around the space, making calculations. “So your view of the basket was blocked for much of the morning?”

Jen nodded. “That’s right.”

“Well,” he began, with a sigh, speaking to Bert. “I’ll write up a report and soon as it’s ready you can come by the station and sign it.”

“That’s it?” asked Bert. “No fingerprints? No CSI team?”

Chief Kirwan shrugged. “I suppose you’ve got CCTV? We could take a look at that.”

“Absolutely!” Bert jumped at the possibility. “The camera’s right up there.”

“So it is,” said Barney. “Covers the tellers.”

“But not the seating area,” added the chief, shaking his head.

“Well, the tellers would be the most likely to be involved in a robbery,” said Bert, rather defensively.

“Right, right,” admitted Kirwan. “We’ll take a look at the video, but I don’t expect it to be very helpful.”

“I suppose you had insurance,” suggested Barney, by way of consolation.

“Yes, yes. I’ll have to check on our coverage,” said Bert, not sounding terribly confident.

Lucy snapped a few photos of the basket, focusing on the void left by the purloined egg, then followed the officers out of the bank. “Any chance of recovering the egg?” she asked, catching up to them by their cruisers.

“Off the record, not a chance in hell,” said the chief.

“But the department will make this case a top priority,” asserted Barney, who was the department’s community outreach officer. “We are very confident we will identify this brazen and callous thief and return the sculpture to its rightful place.” He smoothed his brush cut and settled his cap on his head. “This perpetrator will soon discover that crime doesn’t pay in Tinker’s Cove.”

“Can I quote you on that?” teased Lucy.

Barney didn’t get the joke. “Absolutely,” he declared, with a nod that jiggled his jowls.

Ted wasn’t impressed when Lucy called to fill him in on the breaking story. “It’s probably just a prank, Lucy.” He paused for a moment, then offered some advice. “What you need to do is cover the story behind the story. It’s no secret there’s been a lot of friction at the Chamber. I wouldn’t put it past one of the discontented members to pull a stunt like this.”

Lucy wasn’t convinced, she thought there was a big difference between grumbling and committing grand larceny, but when she followed up by interviewing Corney she discovered that Ted was on to something. “This isn’t simple theft, it’s sabotage!” she declared. “It’s a blot on the Chamber. Whoever did this doesn’t want the Chamber to succeed.”

“Are you sure about that?” pressed Lucy, who had stopped by at Corney’s office in the little tourist info center on Main Street. “Why would anyone want the Chamber to fail?” She imagined the Chamber’s membership as a congenial group of local businesspeople with similar interests who gathered monthly over cocktails.

“There’s a lot of dissension in the ranks,” confessed Corney. “Not everyone was on board with the Easter Basket promo.”

“Why not?” asked Lucy, genuinely puzzled.

“It seems everybody is so fired up these days. The members are like everybody else, divided into two camps. Two warring camps.”

“But they all have small businesses here in town, doesn’t everyone benefit from the Chamber’s activities?” asked Lucy, becoming aware that Corney was actually deeply troubled. “You’ve been president forever, it’s like you are the Chamber,” she continued. “Everyone knows what a super job you do.”

“Not everyone,” admitted Corney, her mouth a grim line.

“Listen, Corney, anything you share with me is off the record. Think of me as a friend, not a reporter.” She paused, noticing Corney’s skeptical expression. . .