Easter Egg Murder

by Leslie Meier, Lee Hollis, Peggy Ehrhart

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Light pink, robin’s egg blue, daffodil yellow, mint green—Easter eggs hiding sweet treats come in every pastel color. But in a few small towns this year, cracking them could be more fatal than fun…

EASTER EGG MURDER by LESLIE MEIER

In Provence to visit her daughter, part-time reporter Lucy Stone is soaking up the atmosphere, even if it includes one Carole Capobianco, the empty-nester she encountered on the flight over. Not exactly two peas in a pod, they’re both amused by the tale of a neighbor’s chickens refusing to lay eggs. The decoy eggs he’s set out to encourage the egg-centric hens are not only gorgeously Faberge-style, they’re being stolen! That’s confusing enough, but what’s happened to the cook is deadly serious.

DEATH BY ANOTHER EASTER EGG by LEE HOLLIS

When an ambitious young reporter dies mid-meal at Hayley Powell’s Bar Harbor restaurant, Hayley is horrified. Determined to save her eatery’s reputation, Hayley scrambles to crack the case wide open like an egg, discovering that the victim was about to break a juicy story—one that a number of people (er, suspects) did not order off the menu. Which makes finding the killer more than devilishly hard . . .

AN EGGY WAY TO DIE by PEGGY EHRHART

Cleaning up after the Easter egg hunt in the Arborville park, friends Pamela and Bettina are startled to find something else hidden—the dead body of a local cookbook author, surrounded by broken shells and slippery yolks. The pair are far from hard-boiled detectives, but as they search for clues, they find that the whole case smells distinctly like rotten eggs . . .

Release date: February 24, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

“We’re way too early, Bill,” said Lucy Stone, speaking to her husband. The couple were standing in line at the Air France counter in Boston’s Logan Airport, and there was nobody else there. “The flight’s not until six forty-five tonight and it’s only two now.”

“It’s better to be on the early side, Lucy,” said Bill, repeating one of his late father’s favorite bits of advice. “We’ve got to get through security, and that can take forever.”

Lucy glanced down the long hallway to the TSA checkpoint, where she was surprised to see that only a handful of people were waiting in line. Even the dogs who sniffed for drugs or explosives were snoozing at their handlers’ feet. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

“All it takes is one idiot who’s packing a gun in their carry-on and everything stops.”

“Try to look on the bright side, Bill,” urged Lucy, with a smile. “This is going to be fun.

We’re going to Paris to see Elizabeth.” Lucy shook her head in amazement. “I never thought I’d see the day. She’s actually pregnant and we’re going to have another grandchild.”

“That’s all very well and good,” said Bill, “but I think Elizabeth and Chris ought to be married before they start a family.” He stepped forward to the counter and turned to Lucy. “Passports?”

“Oh, right,” said Lucy, producing the passports from the purse pocket where she’d tucked them.

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Stone,” cooed the agent, an attractive young Black woman with the slightest French accent. “You’ve been upgraded to first class.”

“Is that going to cost extra?” asked Bill suspiciously.

“No, no. We have a special relationship with Devonshire hotels and are pleased to provide this service to favored guests.”

“Our daughter works there, in Paris,” said Lucy, beaming at the agent. “We’re going to visit her because she’s expecting a baby.”

Lucy could hear a sort of low growling noise coming from Bill that indicated she was oversharing. She knew he considered all personal details to be top secret, only to be divulged under the most extreme circumstances.

“Well, congratulations,” said the agent, beaming. “Now if you’ll just put your bag on the scale …”

After completing the weigh-in, the agent handed them their boarding passes. “After you pass through security, turn right and go straight to the elevator marked Lounges, and it will take you up to our First Class lounge.”

“We don’t—” began Bill, but Lucy cut him off.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Have a pleasant journey,” added the agent, as they headed for the security checkpoint.

They were whisked through the security checkpoint with record speed and had seated themselves on a bench while Bill laced up his shoes. “I don’t like this, it’s not like we deserve special treatment. If you ask me, they shouldn’t even have first class. Everybody should be treated the same.”

“Are you crazy?” asked Lucy, who was eager to experience the First Class lounge. “Elizabeth did this for us, it’s a gift. You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Maybe it’s a Trojan gift horse,” grumbled Bill. “Honestly, Lucy, I don’t know why you’re okay with this.”

“About first class? What’s to be upset about?”

“Elizabeth is only fixing this first-class stuff for us because she knows how I feel about the fact that she and Chris Kennedy are not married and aren’t thinking about getting married, either. They’re doing that French thing, some solidarity pact. PBS or something.”

“It’s a Pacte Civil de Solidarite, PCS, and it’s just like being married but without the church and all the bells and whistles. Face it, Bill. Elizabeth’s not getting any younger, the clock is ticking and this is probably her last chance to have a baby. I’m pretty sure she’d feel ridiculous in a white gown with her baby bump showing.” She stood up. “Now, c’mon, let’s go check out that lounge. I bet there’s beer for you and chardonnay for me.”

“At a price,” grumbled Bill, as they headed for the elevator.

The elevator doors opened opposite the Air France lounge, where a receptionist checked their boarding passes and welcomed them, advising them that they would be informed when it was time to board and would use a special exit that would take them directly to the gate.

“Membership has its privileges,” whispered Lucy, giving Bill a nudge as they proceeded into the lounge. There they found a posh sort of cafeteria, where a variety of tempting foods and snacks were available, as well as a self-serve bar featuring drinks. A handful of people were already occupying the varied seating options, which included tables and chairs for eating or working, as well as sofas and recliners for relaxing. Quiet music was playing.

“So this is how the other ten percent live,” said Lucy with an approving nod.

“There are no prices anywhere,” said Bill. “Is this stuff all free?”

“I think the ticket fee covers it. C’mon. Let’s grab some seats and see what’s on offer, okay?”

“Okay.”

Once seated with a Sam Adams beer beneath a large-screen TV displaying a Red Sox game, Bill finally relaxed. Sort of. “You know, Lucy, Elizabeth has to become a French citizen in order to qualify for the civil pact.”

“That’s what she said.” Lucy was happily sipping a delicious chardonnay and nibbling on an assortment of cheeses and crackers.

“Doesn’t that bother you? She won’t be American anymore?”

Lucy shrugged. “She’s been living in France for years, Bill. She only comes home to Maine every couple of years, and then she’s gone practically before she’s arrived. I think she’s really found her home in France.” She spread some brie on a cracker. “Maybe she can have dual citizenship. I don’t know how that works.”

“Why can’t Chris switch his? Why does it have to be Elizabeth?”

“Because Chris’s security business requires him to keep his American citizenship. His customers are American businesses and high-net-worth individuals, it’s all very complicated and he travels a lot and needs his American passport or something. I don’t quite understand the complexities of visas and things, but Elizabeth was quite certain this is the way it has to be.” People were drifting into the lounge, and Lucy was curious about the other first-class passengers and was observing them while attempting to be discreet. “Bill,” she whispered. “Look.”

Bill was already looking at the gorgeous, tall blonde who was sauntering across the room in thigh-high boots with stiletto heels. Her skirt was short, her hair was long, and she was well aware that every eye was upon her. “Wow,” he whispered, agog as she plopped herself down in an easy chair, crossed her legs, and began staring at her phone.

“We’re not in Tinker’s Cove anymore,” said Lucy, referring to the Maine seaside town where she was a reporter for the local weekly paper and Bill was a highly regarded restoration carpenter. It was mud season when they left wearing their duck boots, and they knew the snow would still be melting when they returned, so those duck boots were in the parked car, ready for them. Elizabeth had absolutely forbidden them to wear duck boots in Paris, ordering them instead to wear conservatively styled walking shoes. “No sneakers, either!” she’d warned.

“Look at that couple,” said Bill. “Looks like they’ve brought the whole family.”

Lucy had already noticed the middle-aged couple with two grown children and wondered how much first-class tickets for four people cost. Probably quite a lot, but the mom and dad didn’t seem at all concerned. Neither did the kids—especially the boy, who looked to be college age and was loudly asking a server why they didn’t have any Dr. Pepper. There was every other soda, for goodness sake, but this kid had to have Dr. Pepper. Talk about entitled!

The family soon settled in at a table with a banquette, making themselves comfortable. Laptops were opened, phones were produced, all sorts of belongings were spread around them. Shoes were even taken off. The waiter delivered a Dr. Pepper—Lucy figured they must have sent out for it—and the kid was now wiggling around in his seat, apparently responding to the music from his earbuds. The daughter, older than the boy and dressed in a business suit, was sipping tea and studying her laptop. The mom, a heavily made-up bleached blonde, not fat but definitely curvy, was flipping through a magazine, and the dad was snoozing. Actually snoring.

Getting a jab in the ribs from Bill, Lucy realized she’d been staring. She took a sip of wine and opened her book, but she wasn’t really all that interested in the Thursday Murder Club. The human drama taking place around her was definitely first class.

Monsieur … Carole Capobianco was having doubts about the wisdom of this trip to France en famille. It was hard enough keeping Frank under control, just look at him now, snoring away. And Frank-O, who had artistic sensibilities, had to go and make a fuss about getting a Dr. Pepper. So embarrassing. Only Connie was remotely civilized, but as a junior member of the Dunne and Willoughby law firm, she was practically a slave working sixty- or seventy-hour weeks. Look at her now, pecking away on her computer, preparing some brief. Carole sighed. What was a brief, anyway? And why did they seem to take so long?

Carole sighed, glancing around the lounge, her attention caught by that dowdy couple sitting opposite. Obviously from some teeny hick town in New Hampshire or Maine, maybe Vermont, but they didn’t look quite wholegrain enough for Vermont. He had a backwoodsman’s beard and she, poor thing, had a terrible haircut. To their credit, she decided, they were wearing nice shoes. But what were they doing in the first-class lounge? Maybe they were old money, thrifty Yankees who wore their L.L.Bean and Brooks Brothers clothes until they disintegrated?

Carole’s thoughts turned to the reason for this trip, a call from her mother, Polly, who had recently relocated from Paris to Provence, where she’d bought a mas, or French farmhouse. “Come for Easter,” she’d said. “Plenty of room for the whole family, and I want you all to meet my fiancé, Benoit.” This was the first Carole had heard of Benoit, and she had to admit she was curious. What man would be brave enough to take on Polly?

Despite her curiosity about the fiancé, she’d actually been reluctant to make the trip. For one thing, she hated leaving her temperamental dog, Poopsie. Poopsie was a highly strung Brittany spaniel and Carole wasn’t confident that her in-laws, Mom and Big Frank, could successfully manage her. She and Poopsie were a team and Carole already missed her lively canine companion, but she was used to making compromises. That was the name of the game when you were in the sandwich generation, squeezed between the demands of a mother like Polly, the in-laws, the kids, and—who could forget—a husband like Frank.

It hadn’t been easy to convince Frank and the kids to agree to the trip, she remembered, thinking that she could have used Madeleine Albright to help with the lengthy negotiations. Frank didn’t need to work anymore—he’d made a boatload of money with his Bye-Bye Toilet, a highly efficient low-flow toilet that dominated the market—but he wasn’t about to give up running the family plumbing business, Capobianco and Sons, in Providence, Rhode Island. She suspected the reason wasn’t so much that he loved plumbing but that it gave him an excuse to avoid things he didn’t want to do. Top on that long list was spending time with Polly, and coming in a close second was anything to do with Frank-O. “Thinks he’s something special, an artist,” Frank would say with a dismissive eye roll. “That’s why we have to call him Frank-O instead of just plain Frankie.”

And, oddly enough, Frank-O hadn’t been enthused about the trip to France, which everybody knew was chock full of art. “Absolutely lousy with the stuff,” as Frank said, after touring the Louvre on a previous visit. Frank-O, who was a student at the Rhode Island School of Design, better known as RISD, claimed he was way too busy to go, as he was currently working on a piece of art that would be, in his words, “revolutionary, cataclysmic, and genuinely radical.” Frank had been somewhat doubtful, telling him that somebody already thought of taping a banana to a wall with duct tape, and Frank-O had been sulking ever since.

She glanced at her son, catching his eye and giving him a smile. He was impossible, but she was Italian and he was her bambino, so she absolutely loved him to bits. She made weekly deliveries of food to his squalid apartment, she kept him in socks and underwear, she’d even arranged for a weekly laundry service. And, most important, she tried to be a buffer between Frank-O and his father, although that was often mission impossible. She could only hope the two would get through this trip together without tearing each other apart.

Then there was Connie, bless her heart. Working, working, always working. It was unnatural, she feared, the way the girl was so focused on her job that she didn’t even seem to think about finding a husband. She didn’t date, which was a shame because Connie was absolutely gorgeous. She had a terrific figure that she hid under those horrible suits; Carole often gave her lovely, lacy lingerie as a way of reminding her that she was not a legal automaton but a young woman, but she had no idea whether Connie actually wore the stuff. And that hair, naturally lustrous and wavy, she didn’t have to do a thing to it except run a comb through it in the morning and it did its job, announcing to the world that despite her best efforts to the contrary, Connie was a beauty.

Carole’s attention was drawn by the hick woman, who was standing up and looking around, as if in search of something. “The ladies room is back there,” she said, smiling and pointing her in the right direction.

“Am I that obvious?” asked the woman, laughing. “Thanks.”

Definitely newbies, thought Carole, studying the bearded husband, who was watching the ball game on the overhead TV. Maybe they were airline employees of some sort, maybe travel agents, something like that. People who occasionally got upgraded to first class as a reward for a job well done. Or maybe they won a contest. That was probably it, a round-trip vacation in Paris, all expenses paid. Lucky them.

The woman came back just as boarding was announced, and the couple quickly gathered up their things, as if the plane might leave without them if they didn’t hurry. That was one of the nice things about first class, you didn’t have to hurry or jostle with the crowd of people eager to board. You could take your time, make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything, make sure your husband and your children had all their belongings as you proceeded down the exclusive escalator and continued past the red ropes to the boarding agent, who always greeted you by name and wished you a bon voyage.

The one disadvantage was that once you entered the gate, there were all those economy passengers, staring at you and giving you the evil eye. Well, too bad for them, thought Carole. Instead of being envious of first-class passengers and their preferential treatment, well they could have preferential treatment, too. All they had to do was cough up the price of a first-class ticket!

It has to be karma, thought Lucy, who had hoped she would be seated as far from the unruly family as possible, when she noticed the dyed blonde taking the seat directly across the aisle from her. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if she was crammed next to the woman in the dreaded five middle seats in economy, fighting for space on the armrest. Feeling a pang of guilt, she reminded herself she should be grateful for this roomy first-class seat, which was a sort of mini-cabin just for her. There were little cubbies galore, a nicely sized TV screen, all sorts of switches for lights and whatever. Not to mention a big, plump pillow and a luxurious blanket for sleeping, which would actually be possible because the chair converted into a bed, which allowed one to lie flat. And now, the flight attendant was offering her a flute of champagne. This is indeed living large, she thought, wishing she could catch Bill’s eye, but that was impossible, as he was sitting directly in front of her behind the privacy screen. Grateful, she told herself, time to be grateful.

She accepted the champagne and took a sip, cold and delicious. She leaned back in her seat and let out a big sigh, preparing to relax.

“Are you a nervous flyer?” It was the bleached-blond woman, sounding concerned.

Lucy met her gaze, noticing her sympathetic expression. “Oh, not really. I don’t fly very often, so I guess I’m not used to it. The whole idea seems fantastic, crossing the Atlantic Ocean at thirty thousand feet in an aluminum can.”

The woman laughed. “When you put it that way, it does seem pretty weird. I’m Carole Capobianco, by the way. From Providence, Rhode Island.”

“I’m Lucy Stone, from Tinker’s Cove, Maine.”

Economy passengers had begun filing down the aisle, struggling with their carry-on bags, but that didn’t deter Carole, who stuck her arm across the aisle, blocking a woman carrying a baby, to shake Lucy’s hand.

“Lovely to meet you, Lucy. Is this your first trip to Paris?”

Lucy gave a quick squeeze and withdrew her hand, smiling apologetically at the woman. “Oh, no. My daughter lives there and we’re visiting her. She’s expecting a baby, her first, so I’m really looking forward to seeing her.”

“First grandchild?” Carole had drained her champagne and seemed about to signal the flight attendant for a refill, but realized it was impossible because of the boarding passengers and gave a resigned shrug.

“No. I have a grandson, Patrick, who’s eleven. He lives in Alaska, though, so I don’t see him as often as I’d like. How about you?”

“None yet. In fact,” continued Carole, peering between two passengers who were waiting for the queue to move, “we’re visiting my mom, who lives in Provence and wants us to meet her fiancé.”

“Wow,” said Lucy. “Grandma’s getting married.” She thought for a minute. “Not her first marriage?”

The line was beginning to move. “No, this will be her third.”

“Busy lady.”

“You have no idea.”

Conversation paused while the boarding continued, and Lucy opened her book. She felt as if she were on display, and she wasn’t comfortable being seen as someone she wasn’t, which was a woman who could afford to fly first class. I’m just like you, she wanted to tell the economy passengers, I just happened to get upgraded. I thought I’d be in seat 33E, which is where I belong. That was impossible, of course, so she did the next best thing, which was to bury her nose in a book and ignore the passing stream of less fortunate fellow passengers. Fortunate or unfortunate, she realized, they were in one way all equal. If the plane crashed, it wouldn’t matter if you were in first class or economy, they were all doomed.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually everyone was seated, the flight attendants did their safety presentation, and they were told to fasten their seat belts and prepare for take-off.

“I’d kill for another glass of champagne,” commented Carole, who was twirling her empty flute.

“I’m sure they’ll come around again once we’re in the air and the seat belt lights go off.”

“Crazy, isn’t it? We can get to France in a matter of hours, which people simply couldn’t do for years and years, they had to take a boat that took days or weeks, even months, but somehow six hours in the air seems to take forever.”

Lucy was beginning to like Carole, who seemed to be very down-to-earth underneath the eyeliner and foundation and lip gloss and designer clothes and expensive hairdo. “I’ve never been to Provence,” she said. “Do you go often?”

“First time,” said Carole. “Mom lived in Paris until this fall, when she bought the place in Provence. It’s a mas, or French farmhouse.”

“That sounds lovely,” said Lucy, thinking she’d prefer Provence to Paris, which she wasn’t all that crazy about. It was gray and grimy and crowded with tourists from all over, huge tour groups from China, rugged Swedes in hiking shoes, Germans speaking that guttural language.

“Well, you know how it is with family.” Carole paused. “They bring their issues, wherever they go. Provence, Providence, Paris, you’re dealing with the same personalities.”

Lucy nodded in agreement. “Yeah, my husband and I aren’t entirely happy that Elizabeth, that’s our daughter, isn’t marrying the baby’s father. They’re doing a French thing called a PCS or Pacte Civil de Solidarite, which seems to be a complicated way of avoiding doing the proper thing.”

“It’s a bit funny, isn’t it? Your daughter and my mother are both engaged,” said Carole, laughing. “May and December.”

That struck Lucy as funny, too, and wouldn’t you know it? The flight attendant was coming down the aisle with more champagne! Carole held out her glass for a refill when her husband slid open the panel dividing their seats and tapped her on the shoulder. “Do you mind? I wanna get some shut-eye.”

Catching Lucy’s eye, Carole rolled her eyes and made a gesture zipping her lips. Settling back in her seat, she pulled out her phone and started scrolling through her photos while sipping her champagne. Lucy opened her book and began reading but was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

“Look at this photo,” whispered Carole, holding out her phone. “Isn’t this the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Lucy took the phone and studied the photo, which pictured a cute white dog with orange spots, giving a doggy smile. “Really cute,” said Lucy. “What’s the dog’s name?”

“Shady Brook’s Madame Pompadour, but we call her Poopsie.”

“I bet you already miss her,” said Lucy, passing the phone back to her.

Carole nodded, staring at the photo, and Lucy returned to her book. It wasn’t all that interesting, however, and she began wondering when they’d serve dinner, and what it would be.

As it happened, there was a choice: filet mignon or shrimp piccata, and Lucy was amused to notice that Carole’s husband had both! After the dinner service, the plane quieted down, the lights were dimmed, and for the first time ever, Lucy fell asleep watching the in-flight movie. She woke when the lights were turned on and they were informed they would be landing in an hour. Breakfast was served, crisply crusted croissants and delicious coffee, and then they were on the ground, invited to debark.

It was with a weird sensation of freedom that Lucy proceeded to the exit, where the smiling crew members wished her a bonne journée, and she stepped out of the plane only to be greeted by an elegantly dressed, very tall, very handsome young Frenchman. “Madame Stone?” he inquired.

“Oui,” chirped Lucy.

“And Monsieur Stone?”

Bill nodded.

“I am Charles Sangnier from the Devonshire Hotel, so please follow me and I will escort you through arrivals to the waiting limousine.”

Lucy and Bill shared a glance. “Great,” said Bill.

“Merci,” added Lucy.

“You’re very welcome,” said Charles, leading the way. “Elizabeth said her parents deserve VIP treatment.”

Hearing this, Bill gave Lucy an I told you so look.

Carole, who was debarking right behind Lucy and Bill, watched with amazement as a guy looking like a young Antony Blinken in a beautifully tailored suit and oozing tact greeted the Maine couple and escorted them down the jetway. How come this obviously ordinary middle-class couple from Hicksville rated what was obviously VIP treatment? Here she was, struggling with a carry-on as well as her oversized purse and Frank-O’s jacket, which he’d left behind in his seat, and Lucy and her husband just breezed off the plane ahead of everyone to be met by some sort of diplomat.

“Did you see that?” she asked Frank.

“What?” he asked, charging straight ahead, as if there were a prize for the first person off the jetway.

“That couple from Maine,” she explained, puffing to keep up with him. “They were met by a fancy-looking guy. A diplomat or something.”

“They must know somebody. That’s how things work the world over, not just in Providence. It’s connections, and you’d be surprised at the folks who’ve got them. Every high-flyer has a mom who wears gym shoes and elastic-waist pants.”

“Speak for yourself, Frank,” said Carole, amused by this description of his mother. Her mother, on the other hand, wouldn’t dream of stepping out of the house without doing her hair and makeup and dressing in a chic outfit.

“Dad’s right, Mom,” said Connie, as they reached the terminal and paused to wait for Frank-O. “These days you can’t tell the billionaires from everybody else. A lot of our high-net-worth clients make a point of dressing down. They don’t want to be identified as wealthy because it can open them up to all sorts of risks: theft, kidnapping, even host. . .