Yule Log Murder

by Leslie Meier, Lee Hollis, Barbara Ross

Genres: Holiday books; Mystery Anthologies & Collections; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Fresh-baked desserts can warm even the frostiest Christmas in coastal Maine. But there’s little room for holiday cheer when murder is the new seasonal tradition . . . YULE LOG MURDER by LESLIE MEIER Lucy Stone is thrilled to be cast as an extra in a festive period film—until the set becomes a murder scene. Returning to her role as sleuth, Lucy dashes to restore peace to Tinker’s Cove, unwrap a cold-hearted criminal’s MO—and reveal how one ornate Yule log cake could possibly cause so much drama. DEATH BY YULE LOG by LEE HOLLIS Hayley Powell’s holidays aren’t off to a very merry start. Not only has her daughter brought Conner—an infuriatingly perfect new beau—home to Bar Harbor, but a local troublemaker has been found dead with traces of Hayley’s signature Yule log cake on his body. . . . And Conner is the prime murder suspect. LOGGED ON by BARBARA ROSS Julia Snowden can’t make a decent Bûche de Noël to save her life, so she enlists the help of her eccentric neighbor, Mrs. St. Onge, in hopes of mastering the dessert for Christmas. But with everyone in the older woman’s circle missing or deceased, it’s up to Julia to stop the deadly tidings before she’s the next Busman’s Harbor resident to meet a not-so-jolly fate.

Release date: October 30, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 370

Sample

“Well, I’ll be,” declared Phyllis Lundquist, waving a small slip of paper. Phyllis was the flamboyantly dressed and coiffed receptionist at the Pennysaver newspaper office, and the slip of paper was one of the order forms for classified ads that ran in every issue of the weekly paper that chronicled “Life as it is lived” in the tiny coastal town of Tinker’s Cove, Maine. The form was usually used to advertise used furniture, used cars, and used baby gear, but this was clearly something out of the ordinary.

“What is it?” asked Lucy Stone, the paper’s part-time reporter and feature writer. “Not another stuffed moose head?”

“No. It’s a casting call for a feature movie to be shot at Pine Point. They want extras to play townsfolk. No experience necessary,” said Phyllis, pulling off her reading glasses, which hung on a chain, and letting them rest on her ample bosom. The cheaters matched her hair, which was dyed bright orange and coordinated with her sweater, which featured an appliqued Thanksgiving turkey trimmed with oversized sequins that trembled with every breath she took.

“They’re making a feature movie here in town?” asked Ted Stillings, the paper’s publisher, editor, and chief reporter, who had just entered the office. His arrival was announced by the jangling of the little bell fastened to the door.

“Apparently, if this ad isn’t a joke,” said Phyllis, frowning suspiciously. “The check is signed by someone named Ross Rocket.”

“That does sound suspicious,” said Lucy, remembering various adolescent attempts to run prank ads.

“Only one way to find out,” said Ted. “Lucy, drive over to Pine Point and check it out.”

“I’m right on it, boss,” she replied, “as soon as I finish writing up the new trash-recycling regulations.”

“Now that’s news we can use,” said Phyllis, nodding approvingly and setting the suspicious ad aside.

An hour or so later, Lucy was driving along Shore Road, enjoying the million-dollar views of the spectacular Maine coast. Reaching the dizzying hairpin curve that wound high above a rocky cove, she gripped the steering wheel tight and concentrated on the road, remembering several fatal accidents that had taken place there. Once safely past the dangerous “Lovers’ Leap,” she flicked on the directional signal and turned through the open gate to Pine Point.

Pine Point was once the home of fabulously wealthy Vivian Van Vorst, but following her death, it had been inherited by her great-granddaughter, Juliette Duff. Juliette was a top model in New York, and visited the estate only occasionally, usually bringing friends along to enjoy the oceanfront views, riding trails, tennis court, and indoor and outdoor pools. The mansion, originally built in the Gilded Age, was still considered an architectural marvel for the clever way antique elements imported from Europe had been included without sacrificing modern conveniences and comfort.

Today, however, as Lucy followed the winding drive that led through the estate, she noticed the garden was filled with numerous white trucks and trailers, and lots of people were hurrying about, seemingly intent on serious business. Finding an empty spot along the drive, which was lined with all sorts of vehicles, Lucy parked her car and got out. She stood there for a few minutes, looking for somebody to approach, and finally spotted a young man with a familiar face, who was strolling along, seemingly studying a script.

“Hi!” she said, giving him a wave.

“Hi, yourself,” he replied, pausing and waiting for her to catch up to him.

As she grew closer, Lucy realized the young man was Chris Waters, a leading Hollywood star she’d seen just a couple of nights ago on her TV, saving an entire platoon of soldiers from the Nazis. “Ohmigosh,” she said, suddenly flustered. “I had no idea . . .”

He smiled, revealing a dazzling set of teeth. His skin, she couldn’t help noticing, was a lovely tan shade, his square chin sported a stylish stubble, and his longish hair had blond highlights. He was tall, and she knew from the all-too-brief love scene in the film that he had an admirable six-pack under that puffy parka. His eyes were brown, and his expression was amused. “How can I help you?”

“I’m from the local newspaper,” she began, feeling her face grow warm, “and we got an order for a classified ad, calling for extras, and I’m here to find out what’s going on.”

“We’re making a movie. It’s called Guinevere and it’s a remake of Camelot from a feminist perspective.”

“Wow,” said Lucy.

“Wow, indeed,” said Chris. “I suppose you want to talk to Ross, he’s the director.”

“Ross Rocket?” asked Lucy, remembering her earlier doubts. “He’s for real?”

“Oh, he’s real all right. He’s the director, thanks to his wife, Juliette Duff. She’s financing the film.” He sighed. “And starring in it.”

“Juliette’s married?”

He nodded. “From what I hear, it was very sudden. One day they showed up at city hall, got married, and flew off to Italy for a honeymoon.”

This was a surprise to Lucy. “There wasn’t anything in the news.”

“I guess that was the point. They wanted to avoid the paparazzi.”

Lucy bit her lip. “I’m supposed to interview him. Do you think he’ll talk to me?”

“He’s over there,” said Chris, pointing to a slight man in jeans, parka, and baseball cap. Strangely enough, he was talking with someone Lucy knew, her friend Rachel Goodman, who was busy nodding along and taking notes.

“Thanks for your help,” said Lucy, giving Chris a wave and hurrying across the frosty grass to the pair.

Seeing her approach, Rachel gave her a big smile. “Hi, Lucy! What good timing! Ross, this is my friend Lucy Stone, who works for the local newspaper.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Ross, who was a small, wiry man with a patchy beard and eyes set rather too close together. “I suppose you want to know what this is all about.”

“Sure do,” said Lucy. “This looks like a big story.”

“Oh, it’s big. It’s hu-u-ge. It’s gonna be great, fantastic, magnificent.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, responding to his enthusiasm. “Mind if I snap a photo or two?” She produced her phone and snapped away, making sure to capture both Ross and Rachel in the photo.

“Super,” said Ross, stepping back. “I’ll let Rachel fill you in. . . .”

“Oh, but, it would be better . . .”

“Sorry. Gotta run.”

Lucy watched as he hurried off, then turned to Rachel. “So what’s up?”

“They’re making this movie, a new version of Camelot, and I got a phone call from Juliette Duff, asking me to help with the music. Ross is her husband and he’s the director.”

“You sly thing. You never told me. . . .”

Rachel smiled apologetically. “I wasn’t at all sure about it. You know I’ve got my job with Miss Tilley, and I help Bob at the office, I didn’t think I could manage it. But now that I’ve talked to Ross, it doesn’t seem like it will be too much after all. It’s not actually a musical, but the idea is to use local people for this one big scene where the townsfolk bring in a Yule log and sing carols for the nobles.”

“I heard that Juliette is financing the film?”

“I don’t know if that’s for publication,” said Rachel, looking serious. “She’s the star, playing Guinevere, and Chris Waters is Lancelot.”

“I already met him,” admitted Lucy, with a smile, as she wrote it all down. “Any other big stars?”

“Just Chris,” said Rachel. “He’s the only one I recognized.” She paused. “But they’re all pros. It’s not amateur hour.”

“They’re going to run an ad for extras in the paper this week,” said Lucy.

“That’s great. You’re going to try out, right? You and Sue and Pam,” she added, listing the group of friends who got together every Thursday morning for breakfast at Jake’s Donut Shack. “It’ll be fun.”

Lucy struck a pose, lifting her chin and staring off into the distance. “I always wanted to break into show business.. . .”

“Well, this is your big chance,” said Rachel, laughing.

The Thanksgiving turkey and the leftovers were only a memory, and preparations for Christmas were well under way, when the extras were finally called for filming some four weeks later. Lucy soon discovered that being a movie star, or even a lowly extra, involved a lot of waiting around. The stars waited in their cozy trailers, but Lucy and the other extras had to make themselves as comfortable as they could while remaining out of the way, but near enough to react quickly when they were called. Lucy and her friends, along with the others, had spent hours waiting to get their costumes and were waiting to rehearse in the mansion’s ballroom. The ballroom was actually once the great hall at Scrumble Thornhill, an English castle, but had been transported stone-by-stone in the 1880s and rebuilt at Pine Point. Now it was crowded with dozens of extras and countless crew members, lights and cables that seemed to run everywhere, and cameras. There were even a few canvas deck chairs labeled with Chris’s, Juliette’s, and Ross’s names, now unoccupied and awaiting their owners.

“This thing itches,” said Pam Stillings, who was married to Lucy’s boss, Ted. She poked a finger beneath her wimple and scratched her head. “I hope it’s not used and full of cooties.”

“That would certainly add to the authenticity of the scene,” said Lucy, smoothing her long skirt. “People in the Middle Ages never bathed, they thought it was unhealthy.”

“I wish they’d let us have a little makeup,” said Sue Finch, studying her face in a small hand mirror and grimacing. “I’m afraid I look a little too authentic.” She held out her hands, which had been stripped of polish, and grimaced. “That was a fresh manicure, you know.”

“I wish they’d get started,” complained Pam, with a big sigh. “I’ve got a million things to do. Christmas is almost here.”

“Tell me about it,” said Lucy, who had a big box of presents in her car destined for her son, Toby, and his family, who lived in Alaska. She knew she had to get them to the post office soon if they were going to arrive in time for Christmas. She was also uncomfortably aware that even though Ted had agreed to let her cover the movie shoot for the paper, this was Monday morning and she had lots of other stories to write before the Wednesday noon deadline.

She was looking about, hoping to spot Rachel, who was responsible for rehearsing the extras and might know the schedule, but instead caught sight of Ross Rocket. He was standing in front of a rough table that was laden with fake food meant to represent the feast provided for the townsfolk and was clearly furious about something. He had his hands crossed against his chest and was tapping his foot, rather like a school principal awaiting a wayward pupil. In this instance, the wayward pupil was Elfrida Dunphy, the cook at Pine Point. Everyone in town knew Elfrida, a former party girl who had five children by five different fathers, but had settled down after getting the plum job at Pine Point.

“What the hell is this doing here?” Ross demanded, pointing to a luscious Yule log cake that was set among the prop meats, breads, and fruit. The cake was frosted with fluffy pink icing, decorated with adorable meringue mushrooms and glistened with a dusting of sugary snow.

“It’s the Middle Ages,” he continued, “they didn’t have fancy cakes and stuff. Am I right or what?”

“I wondered where that got to,” said Elfrida, looking murderous as she picked up the offending cake. “Now I know and I’ve got a good idea how it got here. It sure didn’t pick itself up and walk out of the fridge.”

Elfrida marched off, carrying the cake, heading for the stairway that led to the subterranean kitchen area. She had just reached the doorway, when a bright feminine laugh rang out, and she turned her head, spotting her assistant, Bobbi Holden. Lucy knew Bobbi, who’d been in some of her daughter Zoe’s high school classes, where she’d often been the ringleader for various mischievous pranks. She was a big girl, tall and carrying an extra twenty pounds, but had an easy laugh and an attractive, dimpled smile.

Bobbi, dressed in a shocking-pink mohair tunic and dark blue jeggings, was engaged in a lively conversation with Chris Waters, but sensing Elfrida’s gaze, she quickly scurried off in the opposite direction. Elfrida watched her until she disappeared from sight, then ducked through the rather low, authentic medieval doorway to return to her kitchen in the great house’s basement.

Ross, who’d turned his attention to Rachel, blew on the whistle he wore on a lanyard around his neck and everyone turned to him, waiting for instructions.

“Well, you guys look great, and I want you to remember you’re simple folk in the Middle Ages. Put away those cell phones and eyeglasses, imagine you haven’t eaten anything except gruel. . . .” Here he turned to his assistant, a serious young woman with a clipboard who followed him everywhere. “Do you know . . . does anybody know what gruel actually is?”

Receiving only a shrug in reply, he continued. “Well, the point is, you guys are hungry and you’re bringing the Yule log into the castle, where it will be warm, and if you sing a nice song for the king and queen, you’ll be given some food, which you really want. So the trick is to look hungry and famished and pathetic at the same time doing your damnedest to amuse and entertain your betters. So I’m turning this over to Rachel, here, who’s going to teach you some old English carols, and don’t worry if you don’t know what the words mean, just sing along as if you mean it. Right? Right.”

Rachel stepped forward, clutching a thick stack of papers, which she asked a few townsfolk to pass around to the extras. When everyone had the sheet music, she instructed them to begin on the first page with “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming.” When everyone had the page, she blew on a pitch pipe, and they all began singing. They weren’t very good, thought Lucy, but they probably did sound a lot like a bunch of poor peasants, hungry for some decent food.

The rehearsal lasted well past Lucy’s usual lunchtime, and she was famished by the time the extras were finally released, but instructed to return Tuesday evening at six for filming. She grabbed a plastic-wrapped sandwich and a bag of chips at the Quik-Stop on her way to the office; by the time she parked the car, she’d eaten most of the chips and half the sandwich. She polished off the rest at her desk, followed with a warming cup of tea, which she made by heating a mug of water in the office microwave.

“Gosh, it was cold at that rehearsal,” she told Phyllis as she dunked her tea bag. “I don’t see why they couldn’t put on the heat. And it would’ve been nice if they’d given us extras some lunch. They put out piles of food but it’s only for the actors.” She tossed the sodden tea bag into the trash and picked up the mug, wrapping it with both hands to warm them.

“The director’s probably trying to keep it as authentic as possible,” said Phyllis, when her phone rang and she picked it up. It wasn’t the usual irate reader with a bone to chew; it was Elfrida and her voice came through the earpiece loud and clear, ringing through the office.

“You won’t believe this,” she began, sounding hissing mad, “that stupid Ross Rocket accused me of planting a fancy cake in with the fake food to sabotage his scene. Like I don’t have better things to do, that’s for sure. I’m cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner for tons of people, plus Juliette’s planning a big party this weekend and wants all sorts of fancy food like Yule logs and angels on horseback. I don’t have time to blow my nose, much less plan stupid tricks, and besides, everybody knows it’s Bobbi who’s the troublemaker. She’s the prankster. She’s supposed to be helping me, but she’s never around when I need her. She’s always hanging with the actors instead of peeling carrots or washing dishes.”

Elfrida paused for breath, and Phyllis clucked her tongue sympathetically. “What a shame, you used to love your job.”

“That was when it was part-time, and I was able to keep track of my kids. Honestly, Aunt Phyl, I’m terrified what I’m going to find when I finally get home. Those kids are wild, they’re turning into monsters.”

Lucy and Phyllis shared a look. They both knew that Elfrida’s five kids were a handful at the best of times.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Angie is supposed to be in charge, but she’s only fifteen, and Justin’s actually taller than she is, even though he’s younger, and he won’t listen to her because she’s a girl, and little Chrissie’s got a cough and I need to get her to the doctor. I’ve got an appointment at four-thirty, but I can’t get away from work. . . .”

“I’ll leave a bit early and look in,” offered Phyllis. “I’ll read them the riot act and take Chrissie to the doctor and pick up a pizza for supper.”

“Auntie Phyl, you’re an angel.... Gotta go.” They heard Elfrida scream Bobbi’s name; then the line went dead.

Back on set Tuesday evening, dressed once again in her wimple and long skirt, Lucy’s mind was on the work she’d left undone as she made her way from the dressing tent to the lawn outside the great hall. She was missing the planning-board meeting, and would have to call the chairman for a recap tomorrow, there was a feature story about the high school’s quarterback who’d been named to the All-State team, and there was already talk of a debt exclusion vote at the spring town meeting to fund a new patrol car for the police department. She was fretting, wondering how she was ever going to do it all, when Sue broke into her thoughts.

“Look, Lucy, it’s like magic.”

Lucy looked up and was amazed to see the lawn covered with sparkling snow.

“What? It didn’t snow today. . . .”

“No, silly,” said Pam, chiming in. “It’s movie magic, it’s fake snow.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Lucy, gazing at the newly created winter wonderland, where snow draped the tree branches, icicles hung from the mansion, and it all glittered and shone in fake moonlight provided by theatrical lights.

“Okay, folks,” said Ross, climbing on a step stool to address the crowd of villagers. “This is it, the real thing. We’re shooting and it’s going to go like this. You guys are going to proceed through the snow to the door of the great hall, following the men who are carrying the Yule log and singing that ‘Make We Mery’ song you rehearsed. They’re going to knock at the door with the log, the door will be thrown open, and you’ll enter the hall, singing your hearts out. Once you’re all in, you sing ‘Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming’ for Guinevere, the king thanks you for your song and for the log and invites you to join the feast, and you all cheer and smile and sing ‘Good King Wenceslas.’ Everybody got that? Cause we want to get it right the first time. Okay?”

There was a general murmur of agreement and lots of nods all round. The lusty lads who were carrying the Yule log picked it up, Rachel gave them a note, and they all began singing and tramping through the fake snow, accompanied by cameramen with handheld cameras. It was weird, thought Lucy, realizing that she was actually beginning to feel a bit like a goodwyf, eager to join the celebration. “ ‘Bryng us in good ale, good ale,’ ” she sang. “ ‘Listeneth, lor-dynges both grete and smalle. . . .’ ”

As the crowd reached the door, they stopped, as instructed, and the great log was tapped against the door; the door flew open and they gathered in the great hall, where King Arthur, Juliette as a gorgeous Queen Guinevere, and the other nobles were awaiting them. Once again, as Lucy took in the festively decorated hall and the beautifully robed nobles, she felt genuinely humbled and awestruck. It was phony, sure, but it was darn effective. Even the fake food, the piles of bread and glistening plastic chickens, looked awfully good, since she hadn’t had time to eat any dinner.

“Welcome, all,” said the gorgeously robed King Arthur, stretching out his arms in welcome. There was something familiar about him, and Lucy was trying to place him. Was he the gangster who got shot in the bank heist movie, or was he the wise old stable hand who saw a winner in the kid’s old nag? She was leaning toward the gangster just as Ross called, “Cut!” It was then that a shrill, piercing scream rang out. “What the hell?” said King Arthur.

“What don’t these people understand about keeping quiet when we’re working?” demanded Ross. “It’s not like we’re on a soundproof set or something.” He marched off in a huff, shoving people aside as he went through the hall and banging his head on the low doorway before charging down the stairs. A few humorous glances were exchanged by the extras and King Arthur rolled his eyes.

“The sound guys could’ve fixed that,” said Sir Kay, getting a disapproving stare from Juliette.

“He’d already called ‘Cut,’” insisted the knight. “What did it matter?”

“Amateur hour,” muttered King Arthur.

Juliette didn’t respond, but stood silent as a stone, waiting for Ross’s return.

Long minutes passed and people began to shift restlessly, eager to finish up the scene and get home to dinner. Someone behind Lucy wondered aloud, “What’s taking so long?”

“You’ve seen him in action,” said another. “He loves to chew people out.”

It was then that they all heard a female voice screaming, “Help! Help! Oh, my God! Somebody! Call nine-one-one!”

“I think that’s Elfrida,” said Lucy. She hesitated a moment, but catching Rachel’s eye, got confirmation for her own impulse to follow Ross downstairs and find out what was going on. Slipping through the crowd, she carefully ducked her head at the doorway and hurried down the stairs. Lucy had worked briefly at Pine Point some years earlier and knew her way around the mansion. She knew that the stairway was one of several that connected the ground-floor rooms to an old-fashioned service corridor lined with pantries, laundry, and kitchen. It was in this hallway, about halfway to the kitchen, that she found Ross and Elfrida standing over the prone body of Bobbi Holden, identifiable from that shocking-pink tunic.

Bobbi was lying facedown in the remains of the smashed pink Yule log cake. Ross and Elfrida were standing motionless, apparently in shock.

Lucy automatically reached for her cell phone, which she’d stowed in her jeans pocket, underneath the voluminous skirt. Finally extracting the device, she punched in 911, getting Jenny Kirwan, one of the town’s emergency dispatchers.

“There’s been an accident at Pine Point. Bobbi Holden has fallen and is unconscious. . . .”

“Help’s on the way. Can you perform CPR?”

“I’ll try,” said Lucy. “We’re in the basement corridor, outside the kitchen.”

“Roger,” replied Jenny.

Lucy listened anxiously for the siren signaling that help was coming as she crouched over Bobbi’s body, attempting to flip her onto her back so she could administer CPR. Bobbi was quite heavy and the smashed cake had made a gooey mess, so Lucy slipped as she struggled to lift the girl’s shoulder, falling on top of her prone body. Seeing Lucy fall, Elfrida shrieked, covering her eyes and shaking convulsively.

“I could use a hand,” said Lucy, but Ross remained frozen in place, his face ashen, nursing a bump on his forehead.

“Just leave her,” he said. “You’re not supposed to move an injured person.”

“But I don’t think she’s breathing!” yelled Lucy, panicking and once again struggling with Bobbi’s inert body.

“That’s the siren, they’re here,” said Elfrida, and Lucy stood up and stepped back, making room for the two medics, who were hurrying down the long corridor. They were followed by the hulking form of Officer Barney Culpepper.

“Well, now that things are well in hand, I’ve got a movie to make,” said Ross, letting out a long sigh as he started to leave.

“Hold on,” ordered Barney, watching as the medics deftly flipped Bobbi onto her back, revealing a large chef’s knife that protruded from her chest, soaking the fluffy mohair sweater with blood.

Elfrida covered her mouth with her hand and stepped back, meeting the wall and starting to slide down to the floor, her eyes rolling up into her head.

“You did this!” exclaimed Ross, pointing at Elfrida. “You hated her, and everybody knows it!”

Crumpled on the floor, Elfrida passed out.

Stunned and shocked, Lucy struggled with her emotions and tried to remain a detached observer. Bobbi was a dreadful sight, her face covered with Yule log cake and blood staining the shocking-pink tunic, which now seemed a pathetic attempt to dress attractively.

Ross was glancing furtively over his shoulder, like a trapped animal desperate to flee, but unable to find an exit, blocked by Barney.

The medics were too busy with Bobbi to attend to Elfrida, but she was already beginning to stir. Barne. . .