Valentine Candy Murder

Book 0: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Holiday books; Amateur Sleuth; Mystery Anthologies & Collections; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Two beloved mysteries from the New York Times -bestselling author! It’s Valentine’s Day in Tinker’s Cove, Maine—but when it comes to foul play, mother of four and Pennysaver reporter Lucy Stone can’t sugar-coat the truth… Valentine Murder Lucy has barely arrived at her first library board meeting when the new librarian is found dead in the basement. The agitated group assumes Bitsy Howell was killed by an outsider—until Detective Lt. Horowitz announces that the killer is among them. Lucy knew that Bitsy rubbed some people the wrong way. But she has a hunch the murderous motives run a lot deeper. And as she snoops into the curious lifestyles and shocking secrets of Tinker’s Cove’s most solid citizens, what she finds is far from hearts and flowers… “[A] nimble plot.”— Booklist Chocolate Covered Murder Despite the frigid temperatures, Tinker’s Cove, Maine, is launching a travel promotion for Valentine’s Day. Lucy is assigned a puff piece on upscale Chanticleer Chocolate—and its deliciously handsome owner. But there’s another tantalizing tart behind the counter—sultry store manager Tamzin Graves. Leaving a throng of jealous women in her wake, it’s almost no surprise when Tamzin turns up dead, her body covered in chocolate. And as Lucy closes in on the culprit, she may find herself locked in the clutches of a half-baked killer… “Fast-paced.”— Publishers Weekly

Release date: December 18, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

On the day she died, Bitsy Howell didn’t want to get out of bed. Her bedroom was cold, for one thing. It was always cold, thanks to her landlady, Mrs. Withers, who turned the heat down to fifty-five degrees every night to save money on heating oil. It didn’t matter one bit to Mrs. Withers that it was the coldest winter in twenty years.

And if the cold bedroom wasn’t reason enough to stay in bed, well, the fact that it was Thursday made getting up especially difficult. Bitsy hated Thursdays.

Thursday was story hour day at the Broadbrooks Free Library where she was the librarian. Just thinking about story hour depressed Bitsy. She found it practically impossible to keep ten or fifteen preschool children focused on a storybook. Thanks to TV and video games, they had no attention span whatsoever. They fidgeted and wriggled in their seats, they picked their noses, they did everything except what Bitsy wanted them to do, which was to sit quietly and listen to a nice story followed by a fingerplay or song, or maybe a simple craft project.

This Thursday, however, happened to be the last Thursday in January. That meant the library’s board of directors would meet, as they did on the third Thursday of every month. Bitsy would not only have to cope with story hour, but with the directors, too.

Bitsy had come to the tiny Broadbrooks Free Library in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, from a big city library. One factor in her decision to leave had been her poor relationship with her boss, the head librarian. Little had she known that she was swapping one rather difficult menopausal supervisor for seven meddlesome and inquisitive directors.

Bitsy sighed and heaved herself out of bed. She padded barefoot around her rather messy bedroom, looking for her slippers. She found one underneath a magazine and the other tangled in a pair of sweat pants. One of these days, she promised herself, she would get organized and pick up the clothes that were strewn on the floor. Not today, of course. She didn’t have time today.

On her way to the bathroom she raised the shade and peered out the window, blinking at the bright winter sunlight. Shit, she muttered. It had snowed again.

Arriving at the library, Bitsy studied the new addition which contained a children’s room, workroom, and conference room. It was undeniably handsome, and badly needed, but it had been a dreadful bone of contention.

When she had first come to Tinker’s Cove the library was a charming but antiquated old building that was far too small for the needs of the community. Getting the board to agree to build the addition, and then raising the money for it had been a struggle, one Bitsy wouldn’t want to repeat. Now, if she could only get them to take the next step and buy some computers so the library could go online.

“Tiny baby steps,” she muttered as she unlocked the door. Flicking on the lights as she went, Bitsy headed for her office. She had an hour or so before the library opened and she wanted to have her facts and figures straight before the board meeting.

Pushing aside a few of the papers that cluttered her desk, she set down a bag containing a Styrofoam cup of coffee, with cream and sugar, and a couple of sugary jelly doughnuts. She draped her coat over an extra chair and took her seat, flicking on the computer. Soon she was happily immersed in numbers and percentages, all the while slurping down her coffee and scattering powdered sugar all over her desk.

At ten minutes past ten she heard someone banging at the main entrance and realized she hadn’t unlocked the doors.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized as she pulled open the heavy oak door. “I lost track of the time.”

“No problem, my dear,” said Gerald Asquith, smiling down at her benignly. Tall and gray-haired, dressed in a beautifully tailored cashmere overcoat, he was the retired president of Winchester College and one of the members of the board of directors. “I know I’m a bit early, but I want to go over the final figures for the addition before the meeting.”

“Of course,” said Bitsy. “I’ll get the file for you.”

Bitsy had hoped Gerald would seat himself at the big table in the reference room, but instead he hung his coat up on the rack by the door and followed her into her office. When she gave him the file he sat down at her desk, displacing her, and began studying it.

Bitsy gave a little shrug and headed for the children’s section. She had to come up with something for story hour anyway; it was in less than an hour, at eleven.

She was leafing through a lavishly illustrated edition of Cinderella when she felt a presence behind her. Turning, she greeted Corney Clarke with a polite smile. Corney, an attractive blonde of indeterminate age, ran a busy catering service and called herself a “lifestyle consultant.” She was also a member of the board of directors.

“Can I help you?” asked Bitsy, mindful of her status as an employee.

“No. I came a little early to see the new addition. It’s a big improvement, isn’t it?” said Corney, walking around the sunny area, admiring the low bookshelves and child-sized seating.

“It sure is,” agreed Bitsy. “We must have been the only library in the state without a children’s room.”

“It must be fun doing story hour, now, in such nice surroundings,” surmised Corney.

“Oh, yes,” said Bitsy, attempting to sound enthusiastic. “Today we’re reading Cinderella.”

“Oh.” Corney wrinkled her forehead in concern. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but are you sure that’s a good choice?”

“The children like it . . .” began Bitsy.

“Well, of course they do. But does it send the right message?”

“It’s just a fairy tale.” Bitsy bit her lip. Personally, she didn’t think every story had to have a socially redeeming message, and she wasn’t sure Corney was the right person to decide what was suitable for young children, either. After all, she was childless and never married, though not from lack of effort.

“Well, we don’t want our little girls growing up and thinking life is a fairy tale, do we? We don’t want them to wait for Prince Charming to rescue them from the kitchen—we want them to become self-actualizing, don’t we?” Corney gave Bitsy an encouraging smile, and patted her hand. “I’m sure you can find something more suitable.” She paused for a moment and came up with a suggestion. “Like The Little Engine that Could,” she said, turning and striding off in the direction of the office.

Bitsy rolled her eyes and replaced Cinderella on the shelf. Pulling out one volume after another, she dismissed them. Children’s literature was so insipid these days. Everything had to have a positive, meaningful message. She wanted something with a little bite. Something exciting. She opened a battered copy of Hansel and Gretel and began turning the pages. This ought to keep the little demons’ attention, she thought, admiring a lurid illustration of the tiny Hansel and Gretel cringing in terror as the grinning witch opened the oven door.

“Say, Bitsy, do you know where those figures for the addition are?”

Bitsy closed the book and turned to face Hayden Northcross, another member of the board of directors. Hayden was a small, neat man who was a partner in a prestigious antiques business that was known far beyond Tinker’s Cove.

“Gerald’s got them, in my office,” said Bitsy.

“I’ll see if he’s through with them,” said Hayden, turning to go. “Say, what’s that?”

“Hansel and Gretel. For story hour.”

“Oh, my dear! Not Hansel and Gretel!” exclaimed Hayden, throwing up his hands in horror.

“No? Why not?” inquired Bitsy, tightening her grip on the storybook and starting a slow mental count to ten.

“Not unless you want to traumatize the poor things,” said Hayden. “I’ll never forget how frightened I was when Mumsy read it to me. I think it may have affected my entire attitude toward women.” He cocked an eyebrow and nodded meaningfully.

Bitsy wasn’t quite sure how serious he was. Hayden and his business partner, Ralph Love, had also been domestic partners for years. Hayden thought it great fun to shock the more conservative residents of Tinker’s Cove by flaunting his homosexuality.

“It’s just a story,” said Bitsy, defending her choice. “I’ll be sure to remind them it’s make-believe.”

“I’m warning you. You’re playing with fire,” said Hayden, waggling his finger at her. “That book contains dangerous themes of desertion and cannibalism—the mothers are sure to object.”

“You’re probably right,” said Bitsy, putting the book back on the shelf.

“You know I am,” said Hayden, flashing her a smile. “See you at the meeting.”

The meeting, thought Bitsy, biting her lip. That was another sore point. The fact that the board met at the same time Bitsy was occupied with story hour was not coincidental. She was convinced it was their way of letting her know she was not a decision maker. She was just the hired help, allowed to join the meeting only for the last half hour to give her monthly report.

It hadn’t always been like that. When she first took the job, the board had sought her advice, and had adopted her suggestion that the library be expanded. But as time passed they seemed to grow less receptive to her views, and began easing her out of their meetings. They’d also become increasingly intrusive, always poking their noses into her work.

Bitsy checked her watch and resumed her search. She had better find something fast; it was already a quarter to eleven and little Sadie Orenstein had arrived. She was slowly slipping a big stack of books through the return slot in the circulation desk, one by one, while her mother studied the new books. The Orensteins were ferocious readers.

Pulling out book after book, she shook her head and shoved them back on the shelf. It seemed as if she had read them all, over and over. Absolutely nothing appealed until she found an old favorite, Rumpelstiltskin.

She smiled at the picture of the irate dwarf on the cover. The kids would like it, too, she thought. She would have them act it out and they could stamp their feet just like Rumpelstiltskin. Tucking the book under her arm, and telling Sadie she’d be right back, she hurried to the office. She’d just remembered that she had left a file open on the computer and wanted to close it.

There she found Ed Bumpus, yet another member of the board of directors, busy disassembling the copy machine. Ed was a big man and when he bent over the machine his shirt and pants parted, revealing rather more of his hairy backside than she wanted to see. She stared out the window at a snow-covered pine tree.

“We want copies of the addition finances for the meeting, but the danged machine won’t work,” explained Ed. He was a contractor and never hesitated to reach for a screwdriver.

“That’s funny. It worked fine yesterday. Maybe it’s out of paper. Or needs toner. Did you check?”

“What kind of idiot do you take me for? Of course I checked!” snapped Ed, growing a bit red under his plaid flannel shirt collar.

“We’ll have to call for service, then,” said Bitsy, leaning over Gerald to ease open her desk drawer. “You can make copies at the coin machine by the front desk. Here’s the key.”

“Could you be a doll and do it for me?” Ed gave her his version of an ingratiating smile.

Still leaning awkwardly over Gerald, Bitsy reached for the mouse and clicked it, closing the file. Then she took the report from Ed. More children had gathered for story hour—she could hear their voices. They would just have to wait a few minutes. She was not going to risk being insubordinate to one of the directors, especially Ed.

When she returned she found him lounging in the spare chair, sitting on top of her coat, and joking with Gerald, who was still sitting at her desk. What a pair, she thought, annoyed at the way they made themselves at home in her office.

“Here you go,” she said, handing him the papers and turning to go. She really had to get story hour started.

“So you’re reading Rumpelstiltskin to them today?” inquired Gerald, who was still sitting at her desk. His tone was friendly—he was just making conversation. Now that he was retired he had all the time in the world.

“I think they’ll like it,” said Bitsy, eager to get out to the children. Unsupervised, there was no telling what they might get up to.

“Well, I don’t think it’s a very good idea. It’s a horrible story,” said Ed. “It used to make my little girls cry.”

“Really?” Bitsy kept her voice even. She was determined not to let him know how irritated she was.

“In fact, I don’t even think it belongs in the library. With all the money we spend on new books I don’t know why you’re keeping a nasty old book like that. Just look at it—it’s all worn out.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Bitsy, who knew the acquisitions budget was a sore spot with Ed, who favored bricks and mortar over books. His objection, however, reminded her of a box of new material that had arrived the day before but hadn’t been opened yet.

“I’m just going down to the workroom for a minute,” she said, more to herself than the directors. Grabbing the box of art supplies and taking a pile of red construction paper from the corner of her desk, she quickly left the office and hurried through the children’s room, giving the assembled mothers and children a cheerful wave.

“I’ll be right with you—we’re making valentines today,” she called, opening the door to the stairs that led to the lower level. She rushed down, hearing her footsteps echo in the poured concrete stairwell, but caught her foot on the rubber edging of the bottom step. She fell forward, twisting her ankle and bumping her head painfully on the doorknob. The sheets of red paper cascaded around her; the coffee can containing child-safe scissors clattered to the concrete floor and crayons rolled in every direction.

Groaning slightly, she pressed her hands to her forehead and sat down on the next to last step, waiting impatiently for the blinding agony to pass. Using a trick she’d picked up in a stress management workshop, she concentrated on her breathing, keeping her breaths even. Gradually, the pain receded. She unclenched her teeth and blinked her eyes. Grasping the handrail-ing, she pulled herself to her feet, only to feel a stabbing pain in her ankle. Conscious that she was already late for story hour, she tried putting her weight on it even though the pain made her wince. The ankle held and she limped through the dark and empty conference room and on into the brand-new workroom. The workroom, unlike the conference room, had windows and she squinted her eyes against the bright sun. She bent over the box, which was sitting on the floor, and yanked at the tape.

Hearing the outside door open, she raised her head.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognizing the figure outlined against the bright light streaming through the windows. Of all the nerve, she thought angrily. This was just too much; the morning was spinning out of control. She’d had enough. She took a deep breath, preparing to give vent to the emotions she had been suppressing for so long, but she never got the chance to say what was on her mind.

Bitsy Howell’s last words were rudely interrupted.

In the big kitchen of her restored farmhouse on Red Top Road, Lucy Stone sang a little song as she tucked the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. She couldn’t help feeling cheerful. Today, after what seemed like a solid month of cloudy skies and snowstorms, the sun was finally shining. The sky was a cloudless, bright blue. The pine trees in the woods bordering the yard were deep green, frosted with white. Mounds of snow covered her car, the shed, the garden fence; everything sparkled in the sunlight. It was so bright that she had to squint when she looked out the window.

Inside, it revealed crumbs and dust that had gone unnoticed in the dim, cloud-filtered daylight of recent weeks, along with a few dried-out pine needles from the Christmas tree. As the dishwasher hummed she wiped off the counters with a sponge and straightened the mess of papers that had collected on the round golden oak table.

Looking at the now neat but ever-growing pile, she gave a big sigh. It was her “to-do” list. Bills to pay, car insurance renewal forms to file, bank statements to balance, income tax forms to complete. A partially completed feature story she was writing for the local paper, The Pennysaver. The latest issue of Maine Library Journal.

She glanced at the clock—it was a few minutes past eight. A peek in the family room revealed that her four-year-old daughter, Zoe, was happily playing a game on the family computer. She was the only one home besides Lucy. Lucy’s husband, Bill, a restoration carpenter, was already at work. The older children were all in school: Toby, sixteen, and Elizabeth, fourteen, attended high school, and ten-year-old Sara was in third grade at the Tinker’s Cove Elementary School.

No time like the present, decided Lucy, sitting down and picking up the magazine. The board meeting wasn’t until eleven; she had plenty of time to read it and become familiar with library issues. It was her first meeting as a director and she wanted to make a good impression.

An hour later, her head was buzzing. What had she gotten herself into? Being a library director was a bigger responsibility than she thought. Budgets. Maintenance. Circulation. Employee relations. Acquisitions. Censorship. Information technology. Not to mention security.

She had no idea security was a big issue for libraries, but it was. Thanks to the journal she now knew that seven librarians in New England had been the victims of brutal attacks in the last year, and one had been raped. “Librarians, generally women, often work alone at night, so they are natural targets,” explained the state library commissioner. “Libraries often contain valuable artifacts and rare books, not to mention an increasing amount of computer equipment. We have to be more vigilant about security, something we have tended to take for granted.”

Poor Bitsy, thought Lucy, resolving to ask her fellow board members if the new addition had been equipped with an alarm system. If it hadn’t been, it should, and the older part of the building should be included, too.

The dishwasher clicked off and Lucy checked the clock. Already past nine and she wasn’t dressed yet. Neither was Zoe, she realized.

“Come on, sweetie,” called Lucy, standing in the doorway. “We have to get dressed. It’s story hour day.”

Zoe didn’t move from the computer. Lucy repeated her request.

“Zoe, time to get dressed.”

“I don’t want to.”

Surprised at this answer, Lucy crossed the room and peered over her daughter’s shoulder at the brightly colored screen, where lime green robots were chasing a little brown bunny. “Is it a good game?” she asked.

Zoe didn’t answer. Her attention was fixed on the screen; her chubby fingers were busy pushing buttons on the control pad.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Lucy, in a cheerful but firm voice. “You can play a little longer, while I get dressed. But then we’ll have to turn off the computer. Okay?”

She looked expectantly at Zoe, waiting for an answer, and thought she detected a little nod. Good enough. She hurried upstairs, wondering exactly what a library director should wear.

Returning to the family room a half hour later, Lucy was pleased with her choice. She was wearing her good wool slacks, a turtleneck jersey, and the extravagantly expensive designer sweater Bill had given her for Christmas. She had added a simple gold chain and a pair of pearl earrings.

Now for the next challenge, she thought, surveying the family room where Zoe was still absorbed in “Bunny Beware.” Another gift from Bill, but Lucy wasn’t sure she approved of this one.

“Zoe, honey. Remember our bargain? Mommy’s all dressed. Now it’s your turn.”

“I’m busy,” said Zoe. The computer game had apparently rendered her immobile. Powerful electronic forces, emanating from the screen, had seized control of the little girl’s mind and body. Something had to be done.

Lucy switched off the machine.

“Whaaaaaaa!” shrieked Zoe.

“It’s time to get dressed,” said Lucy. “You don’t want to miss story hour, do you?”

“Story hour’s dumb and Miss Howell’s mean!”

“Zoe, that’s enough,” said Lucy, firmly taking her daughter’s hand and leading her to the stairs. “What do you want to wear today? How about your turtleneck with the hearts? It’s only two weeks ’til Valentine’s Day, you know.”

It was well after ten when Lucy and Zoe, bundled against the single-digit weather in bulky down parkas and snow boots, left the house. Bill and Toby had shoveled a path to the driveway earlier that morning, but they hadn’t cleared the snow off the car. With a gloved hand Lucy scraped the snow away from the door handle and pulled. It didn’t budge. It was frozen shut by a layer of ice that had formed underneath the snow.

“This is going to take a while,” Lucy told Zoe. “Why don’t you make some snow angels for Mommy?”

It was a quarter to eleven when Lucy and Zoe finally got under way in the old Subaru station wagon. Thank goodness for four-wheel drive, thought Lucy, as they made steady but slow progress over the snow-covered roads. In Tinker’s Cove the DPW plowed, but set the blades high, leaving an inch or two of snow to protect the expensive asphalt.

If you didn’t like snow, thought Lucy, you shouldn’t live in Maine. At least not this winter with record low temperatures and unusually heavy snowfalls. Fortunately, she loved cold weather and always felt a sense of excitement when the flakes began to fall. As she drove along, she was enchanted by the way last night’s storm had turned the bare winter trees into a glistening fairyland.

Turning onto Main Street, she thought that Tinker’s Cove, with its red brick storefronts and tall-steepled white church, was truly a picture-perfect New England town. Today, however, Main Street seemed deserted; few people were out and about in the bitter cold. She spotted Mr. Ericson, the postman, bundled up in a red and black buffalo plaid jacket and a checked wool cap with black fur earflaps. She gave the horn a friendly toot as she passed him.

Turning into the library parking lot, she saw there were a number of cars. No wonder, she thought; she was late. It was already ten past eleven. Story hour was bound to attract a crowd of mothers and kids tired of being cooped up at home. The directors would also have gathered for their meeting. She parked the car and helped Zoe out of her seatbelt and booster seat and they hurried up the narrow path between the snowbanks.

“We’re late, we’re late,” she began.

“For an important date!” exclaimed Zoe, completing the rhyme and stamping her purple Barbie boots on the cocoa fiber mat.

“For my first meeting,” fretted Lucy, as she pulled open the door.

As they entered the library, Lucy’s eyes were drawn as always to the softly gleaming pewter tankard that sat in a locked display case in the entry. A neatly printed label identified it as “Josiah’s Tankard” and noted it had been presented to the library in 1887 by Henry Hopkins, the last surviving descendent of Josiah Hopkins, who was the first European to settle in Tinker’s Cove. The tankard, which had been handed down through the family, was said to have been brought from England by Josiah.

If one looked closely, and the light was right, an elaborate design featuring a flowering shrub with a bird perched on one of the branches could still be discerned in the tankard’s worn and battered surface. The initials “J” and “H” were somewhat easier to see, along with the date, 1698.

Lucy thought the library was a fitting place for the tankard, which represented the long history of the little town that was first incorporated in 1703. Whatever drew Josiah Hopkins to this rugged spot on the Maine coast was a puzzle, considering the brutally cold winters and the stony soil unfit for farming, but the homestead he built had stood until just a few years ago when it had burned to the ground in a spectacular fire that had claimed the life of Lucy’s friend, Monica Mayes.

The homestead was gone, but the tankard had survived, safe in the library. Lucy found that comforting, just as she believed it was a privilege to live in a house that had sheltered many generations before her family had moved in. Living in a place that had ties to the past gave her a sense of security; she liked knowing that she was yet another link in a long chain of mothers and fathers and children connecting the unknowable future to the past.

Today, however, Lucy and Zoe didn’t have time to admire the tankard. Instead, they pushed open the second set of doors and greeted Miss Tilley, who was seated at the circulation desk.

“I see they’ve put you back to work,” said Lucy.

Miss Tilley had been the librarian for years, until she retired and Bitsy took her place. With her white hair and china blue eyes, Miss Tilley looked like the very image of a sweet old lady. Lucy knew better, and enjoyed her old friend’s tart wit and sharp tongue.

“There should be a volunteer on duty, considering that Bitsy has story hour today, but nobody has shown up yet,” said Miss Tilley, who only allowed her very dearest friends to call her by her first name, Julia. She was holding the “Date Due” stamp as if she couldn’t wait to use it.

Lucy knelt to unfasten Zoe’s pink parka, and gave her a little pat in the direction of the children’s room. “See you later, sweetie,” she said, watching as Zoe went to join her friends.

“We never had these problems when I was in charge,” said Miss Tilley, leaning forward and whispering loudly to Lucy. “The volunteers knew that they were expected to come on their assigned days.”

“Well, Bitsy has had a lot on her mind with the new addition and all.” Lucy looked around, noting how well the new construction meshed with the older portions of the building. “It looks great, doesn’t it?”

“Hummph,” snorted Miss Tilley. “I just hope the heating bill doesn’t bankrupt us.”

“I doubt it will. Nowadays they use lots of insulation.” Lucy looked around. “So where does the board meet?” she asked.

“We’ve always used the reference room, but I expect that will change now that we have that conference room. Why they put it in the cellar is something I’ll never understand. Cellars are for storage—they’re not fit for human habitation.”

“Is that where everyone is?” asked Lucy, smiling at Miss Tilley’s stubborn resistance to change.

“Not yet. I think they’re still in Bitsy’s office,” said Miss Tilley, taking a pile of books that a young mother was returning. “That will be seventy-five cents,” she said, sounding awfully pleased to have caught the overdue books.

Lucy went around the desk and down the dark little hallway leading to Bitsy’s office. She smoothed her sweater nervously and took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.

“If it isn’t our newest member,” exclaimed Gerald Asquith, greeting her warmly. “Welcome! Everybody—this is Lucy Stone, who’s made quite a little reputation for herself as a writer for our local newspaper, The Pennysaver.”

“A very little reputation,” said Lucy, blushing. She enjoyed freelance writing for the paper, but was rarely able to manage more than one or two feature stories a month.

“I’m Ed Bumpus,” said Ed, leaning forward in his chair to shake her hand. “I know your husband, Bill. We’re in the same business.”

“I’ve heard him speak of you,” said Lucy, giving him a friendly smile. She looked around at the others, searching for familiar faces. “I know Corney, of course, but you probably don’t remember me. I’ve attended some of your workshops. I enjoyed them very much.”

Lucy extended her hand but Corney ignored it, merely nodding vacantly and murmuring, “Oh, yes.”

“Hayden Northcross, here,” said Hayden, promptly filling the void and taking Lucy’s hand with both of his. “I must say it’s nice to have some new blood on the board.”

“I guess we’re all here then, except for Chuck,” said Ed. Lucy couldn’t decide if he was grumbling, or if his voice always sounded that gruff.

“You know he tends to run late,” said Corney, leaping to the absent member’s defense. “After all, he’s a lawyer. He’ll be here.”

“It’s well after eleven—shall we go down?” suggested Gerald.

There was a murmur of assent, and the directors began moving toward the door.

“You know, Bitsy seems to have less and less control over those children every week,” said Corney, hearing the noise from the children’s room.

“She’s not there,” said Lucy, observing the group of lively preschoolers and a handful of chatting mothers. “Where could she be?”

“I think she said she was going down to the workroom,” offered Gerald.

“Maybe she’s lost track of the time. I’ll run ahead and remind her,” volunteered Lucy, eager to be helpful.

“Young legs,” said Gerald, nodding approvingly as Lucy headed in the direction of the stairway.

“I’ll see if Miss Tilley’s free,” said Corney, as if to remind everyone that she used to be the youngest person on the board and, even though she now had to share that distin