Invitation Only Murder

Book 26: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Part-time reporter Lucy Stone doesn’t know what to expect as she arrives on a private Maine island owned by eccentric billionaire Scott Newman, only that the exclusive experience should make for a very intriguing feature story. An avid environmentalist, Scott has stripped the isolated property of modern conveniences in favor of an extreme eco-friendly lifestyle. A trip to Holiday Island is like traveling back to the 19th century, and it turns out other residents aren’t exactly enthusiastic about living without cell service and electricity.

Before Lucy can get the full scoop on Scott, she is horrified to find one of his daughters dead at the bottom of a seaside cliff. The young woman’s tragic end gets pinned as an accident, but a sinister plot unfolds when there’s a sudden disappearance....

Stuck on a clammy island with murder suspects aplenty, the simple life isn’t so idyllic after all. Now, Lucy must tap into the limited resources around her to outwit a cold blooded killer before it’s lights out for her next!

Release date: July 28, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

The little bell on the door to the Pennysaver newspaper office in the quaint coastal town of Tinker’s Cove, Maine, jangled and Lucy Stone looked up from the story she was writing about the new recycling regulations—paper, glass, and plastic would not be accepted unless clean and separate, no more single stream—to see who had come in, and smiled broadly. It was her oldest and best friend, Sue Finch, looking every bit as stylish and put-together as usual with her dark hair cut in a neat bob and dressed in her usual summer uniform: striped French fisherman’s jersey, black Bermudas, espadrilles, and straw sun hat. Skipping a greeting, Sue pulled an envelope from her straw carryall with a perfectly manicured hand and declared, “Guess what came in today’s mail? It’s an invitation to die for!”

Lucy, who was used to playing second fiddle to Sue, raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She was also dressed in her usual summer uniform: a freebie T-shirt from the lumberyard, a pair of cutoff jeans, and neon orange running shoes. She hadn’t bothered to style her hair this sunny June morning, thinking that it looked fine, and had missed a stubborn lock in back that curled up like a drake’s tail feather. “Do tell,” she said, leaning back in her desk chair.

“Just look at the paper,” cooed Sue, pulling a square of sturdy card out of the velvet-smooth lined envelope. “Handmade. And the lettering is hand-pressed. And, oh, the address on the envelope was done by a calligrapher,” she continued, handing the envelope to Lucy. “Trust me, something like this doesn’t come cheap.”

“Is it a wedding invitation?” asked Lucy, admiring the elaborate, swirling script on the front of the envelope. Turning the envelope over and studying the back, she recognized the formally identified senders: Mr. and Mrs. Scott Newman. Everybody in town had heard of the Newmans, who had recently bought an island off the coast and proceeded to hire every contractor in the county to restore the property’s long-abandoned buildings, including spending a fortune to save the magnificent barn that was considered an architectural masterpiece.

“No, it’s for a ‘night to remember,’ that’s what they’re calling it,” replied Sue, handing Lucy the invitation. “It’s to celebrate the Newman family’s donation of the island to the Coastal Maine Land Trust and to thank all the people who worked on the restoration.”

“I bet we’re invited, too, then,” said Lucy, whose husband, Bill, a restoration carpenter, had been the lead contractor for the project. “The invitation’s probably in the mailbox at home.”

“It’s going to be fabulous, if this invitation is any indication,” said Sue. “No expense spared and believe me, the Newmans have plenty of expense to spare.”

Lucy knew all about Scott Newman; she’d written a profile of the billionaire venture capitalist when rumors started floating that he was interested in acquiring Fletcher’s Island for his family’s summer vacations. When she interviewed him, she’d been somewhat surprised to learn that he was a keen preservationist who was interested in keeping the island completely off the grid and was refusing to install modern innovations, allowing only the original nineteenth-century technology. He planned to collect rainwater in a cistern, use a primitive electric generation system, and cook on an enormous woodstove, all of which were considered wonderfully advanced when the island was developed by lumber tycoon Edward T. Fletcher. When Lucy asked if this wasn’t rather impractical, Newman had replied that it was modern life that was impractical, citing scientific studies linking climate change to human activity. “The old ways were much kinder to the environment, and face it, we’ve only got one planet, there’s no planet B,” he declared. “We’ve got to take care of Earth, or we’re all doomed.”

Some of the locals hired to work on the restoration project had a good laugh over Newman’s proclaimed environmental stewardship, as restoring the nineteenth-century structures required using thousands of kilowatts of electricity, provided by gas-greedy portable generators. His insistence on using authentic materials such as lath and horsehair plaster rather than Sheetrock, and searching out recycled flooring, windows, and doors, not to mention hardware, had required lots of workers who had to be ferried to and from the island on power boats that burned gallons of fossil fuel. “It’s like the cloth versus disposable diapers thing,” Bill had told her. “Sure, the disposables fill up the landfill, but washing the cloth diapers uses water and energy. It’s kind of six of one and half a dozen of the other when it comes to the environment.”

Most controversial was the restoration of the immense barn, which alone was estimated to cost at least two million dollars. The huge number of cedar shingles required for the roof and siding had created an industry shortage that sent the price skyrocketing and shook the commodities market. The Pennysaver had received numerous letters to the editor protesting the shingle shortage and arguing that there were better ways to spend so much money. One writer proposed restoring the sprawling local elementary school, for example, which he claimed was a prime example of 1960s architecture.

Locals had also refused to be bamboozled by Newman’s supposed generosity in donating the island to the land trust, while reserving his right to retain it for his own use during his lifetime. It was true that he’d also preserved the rights of the Hopkins family, long-term residents of the island, to remain there, but again, only during his lifetime. And while the agreement set limits on how the island could be used, and was intended to preserve the island’s environment in perpetuity, the gift had come with plenty of strings attached and had garnered a large tax deduction for the Newmans, a fact that many writers of letters to the editor had also pointed out.

Despite the controversy, however, the party was eagerly anticipated by everyone who received an invitation, and that included land trust board members, contractors, local officials, and media, which was pretty much a who’s who of the entire town. The question that was on everyone’s lips as the big day drew closer was, how were the Newmans going to pull off such a big party while preserving their nineteenth-century lifestyle? Sue Finch wasn’t the only one to wonder, “Are we going to have to swim there? And are we all going to be sitting in the dark, huddled around a campfire, toasting wienies on sticks?”

Lucy was pondering that very question when she drove home from work a week or so later and found a rusting and dented old Subaru parked in her driveway. The car was missing a couple of hubcaps, had a crumpled front fender, and the glass on a rear window had been replaced with duct tape and a plastic grocery bag. Continuing her examination with the keen eye of an investigative reporter, she noticed the registration tag was out of date, and so was the required state inspection sticker.

Climbing the porch steps of the antique farmhouse that she and Bill had renovated and entering the kitchen, she was greeted by her aging black Lab, Libby. Arthritis didn’t stop Libby from rising stiffly from her comfy dog bed and wagging her tail in welcome, earning her a treat and a pat on the head from Lucy.

Voices could be heard in the adjacent family room and Lucy stuck her head in, curious to learn who owned the Subaru. “Oh, hi, Mom,” said her daughter Zoe, quickly disentangling herself from the arms of a shabby-looking fellow with a stubbly, three-day beard. “Mom, this is Mike Snider.”

Mike didn’t bother to get up from the comfy sectional where he was reclining, or even to lift his head from the throw pillow it was resting on. “Hiya,” he said, raising one hand and giving a little flap.

Lucy glared at him, taking in his shaved head, tattooed neck, and torn jeans that clearly needed a wash. Worst of all was the T-shirt with a message that was clearly unprintable for a family newspaper like the Pennysaver. “Hiya, yourself,” said Lucy, turning on her heel and marching out of the room, leaving no doubt that this was a situation that did not meet with her approval.

Back in the kitchen, Lucy got busy on dinner, noisily pulling pots out of cabinets and slamming them down on the stove. She was filling a pasta pot with water when the couple appeared, holding hands, and were met with a low growl from Libby, who watched Mike through narrowed eyes and flattened ears from her doggy bed. She was clearly considering getting to her feet, painful though it would be, when Mike reached for the knob and pulled the door open. “Catch ya later,” he said, before stepping through the doorway. Moments later, Lucy heard the roar of the Subaru’s unmuffled engine, which sputtered out a few times before catching and carrying Mike away.

“Who is he? And where did you meet him?” Lucy demanded, turning to face Zoe. Zoe was her youngest, and every bit as pretty as her older sisters, Elizabeth and Sara. She shared Elizabeth’s dark hair and petite build, but had Sara’s peachy skin and pouty lips. Today she was glowing, no doubt the result of her aborted activities on the sectional.

“At school, Mom,” she answered, referring to Winchester College, a local liberal arts university where she was a junior, currently majoring in French after trying political science, psychology, and art history. She had hopes of joining Elizabeth in Paris, where her older sister was working as an assistant concierge at the toney Cavendish Hotel. “Mike’s a TA in the computer science department. He’s really smart. Even Sara says so,” she added, bolstering her case with a reference to the family’s doubting Thomas, who was a grad student at Winchester.

“He might be smart,” admitted Lucy, “but he’s certainly not socialized. Libby has better manners, and she’s a dog.”

“He’s a little rough around the edges,” said Zoe, beaming, “but Libby only gets up to greet you because she knows you’ll give her a treat.”

“That was unkind,” retorted Lucy, bending over the dog and scratching her behind her ears. “You love me, you really, really love me, don’t you?”

The dog yawned and settled her chin on her front paws.

“And that car,” said Lucy, reverting to the subject at hand. “The registration’s lapsed and so has the inspection, which is understandable since I doubt it would pass. It definitely needs a new muffler.”

“Mike’s got better things to think about than bother with stuff like that. He’s working on a computer game that’s going to be revolutionary, that’s going to change everything.”

“Well, if you ask me, he’d be better off taking a shower and changing into clean clothes.”

“Oh, you don’t understand anything!” declared Zoe, storming up the stairs to her room, where she slammed the door.

“What was that all about?” asked Bill, stepping into the kitchen and kissing his wife on the cheek, before depositing his empty lunch cooler on the counter. Lucy smiled, noticing that Libby didn’t get up for him, but did manage to thump her tail a few times.

“Zoe’s got a new boyfriend,” explained Lucy. “A real loser.”

“She’ll learn,” said Bill, opening the refrigerator door and extracting a can of beer. “She’s got to figure these things out for herself.”

“Just you wait until you meet him,” said Lucy, tearing up lettuce for salad. “I bet you’ll change your tune then.”

Bill sat down at the round, golden oak table and popped the tab on his beer. “Whaddya think about this island shindig?” he asked, with a nod at the invitation that was stuck to the refrigerator door with a retro magnet advertising Moxie soda pop. “I’m not gonna have to wear a jacket and tie, am I?”

“No jackets, no ties,” said Lucy, repeating the verdict Sue had handed down when Lucy called for advice. “It’s resort casual.”

So Bill was togged out in a navy polo, Nantucket red shorts, and boat shoes, and Lucy was wearing de rigueur white jeans, embroidered tunic, and sandals when they joined the assembled guests at the appointed day and hour at the harbor in Tinker’s Cove. It was a balmy evening, but these Mainers weren’t fooled by the thermometer and were carrying windbreakers for the breezy boat ride.

“How are they getting us out there?” wondered Ted Stillings, Lucy’s boss at the Pennysaver. “Newman is a big fan of sail.”

“Yeah, he’s got a beautiful restored yacht, a cutter,” added Sid Finch, Sue’s husband, with a hint of envy in his voice. “But it’s not gonna hold all these people.”

The dock was indeed crowded. It seemed as if most of the town had been invited, and spirits were high with anticipation. They were all expecting the promised night to remember, but weren’t sure exactly what that might be. When two of the puffin watch boats that carried sightseers out to view the colorful birds that were the Maine version of penguins hove into view and chugged up to the dock, there was a heightened sense of excitement.

“Well, we’re off!” sang Sue, as they settled themselves on wooden benches for the ten-mile crossing to the island.

Ninety minutes later, the boats had crossed the ten miles between town and the Fletcher’s Island dock, where Scott Newman and his wife awaited them. Lily Starr was Scott’s second, much younger wife, and before her marriage had a rising career as a country-western singer. Even in flats she was slightly taller than Scott, who was a slight man with very short, very dark hair who seemed barely able to contain his intense energy. “I trust you had a pleasant crossing,” he said, as the gangplank was lowered and the guests began to debark from the boat. “Welcome to Fletcher’s Island.”

The couple stood together by the gangplank, taking each guest by the hand and helping them negotiate the steep incline, welcoming them, and instructing them to follow the illuminated path that led from the landing up to the barn. Dusk was falling and Lucy was grateful for the lighted luminarias, most probably constructed of biodegradable paper bags and soy candles, that lit the way along the gravel road that gradually ascended to the island’s summit. As they rounded a bend, the massive, newly restored barn came into view, causing people to catch their breath at the amazing sight. Light glowed in the many windows of the huge structure, which had a unique sloping roof topped by five illuminated cupolas and two soaring silos at either end topped with conical roofs. The barn was surrounded by a cluster of outbuildings, including an icehouse, creamery, henhouse, as well as the modest stone house occupied by the Hopkins family. The Fletcher mansion, which had also been restored and was now the Newmans’ summer home, was on the south end of the island, some distance from the barn, and the party.

Continuing along the road that circled the barn and outbuildings, Lucy entered the barnyard, where she joined the other guests, who were oohing and aahing over the spectacular view and the gorgeous sunset.

“Not too shabby,” said Sue in an approving tone of voice, taking in the expanse of rosy sky and silvery ocean dotted with small, pine-covered islands.

“And the barn, just look at it,” said Lucy, sighing. The roof alone was sixty feet at its highest point, and the thought of the slippery slope the roofers had to negotiate gave her the shivers. The huge doors stood open invitingly, so they went into the large space that was illuminated by old-fashioned lanterns. Enormous arrangements of daisies, grasses, and meadow flowers decorated tables covered with blue-and-white checked cloths, and bales of hay topped with matching checked pillows offered plenty of seating. “Is that a bar?” asked Bill, interrupting her thoughts.

“I believe so,” said Sid, and the two men strode off purposefully, followed by their wives.

The bartender was a remarkably good-looking young man with blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a black T-shirt printed with a map of the island and the words QUAHOG REPUBLIC. A name badge announced his name was Wolfgang, and a slight German accent indicated he wasn’t a local.

“Are you working here for the summer?” inquired Lucy, aware that the plentiful summer jobs in Maine attracted college students from all over the world.

“I’m from Berlin,” he said. “I was hoping to work in one of the craft breweries. I heard there are a lot of them in Maine, but this came up and I like it here.” He nodded, looking around at the island in approval. “What can I get you?”

The two couples had no sooner been supplied with drinks, beer for the men and white wine for the women, when they were approached by two attractive young women offering trays of hors d’oeuvres: tiny crab cakes, chicken wings, and deviled eggs. “I’m Parker, and I just want to let you know there’s cheese and crackers and crudités on the table over there,” said the first, who appeared to be in her late twenties and was dressed in a bright pink Lily Pulitzer–style shift and bare feet.

“And I’m Taylor,” said the second server, who appeared to be an identical twin of the first, dressed in a blue and green Lily Pulitzer and bare feet, adding, “and there’s a raw bar next to it.”

“Thank you,” said Lucy, taking one of the crab cakes. “Are you girls going to be here all summer?”

“We sure are,” said Taylor. “Dad’s really keen on having the whole family together for this first summer on the island. He’s put us to work monitoring a puffin colony on the back side of the island.”

“That must be really interesting,” said Lucy, who had realized the girls must be Scott Newman’s daughters, probably from his first marriage.

“And important work,” added Sue, surprising Lucy by taking one of the proffered crab cakes. Sue rarely ate anything that could be classified as actual food, and seemed to exist on a diet of black coffee and white wine.

“You should try the deviled eggs, they’re from our own chickens,” said Parker.

“And the wings?” asked Lucy, with a mischievous smile.

“I’m not sure about those,” said Taylor, with a little smile. “But Dad does want the island to become self-sufficient. We’re starting with the chickens and goats, and there’s a big vegetable garden, too.”

“Don’t miss . . .