Christmas Cookie Murder #6

Lucy felt a surge of anger as she replaced the receiver. It was bad enough the murderer had taken Tucker's life, but whoever it was had done more than that. So many people would be affected: the little children in the day-care center who had come to trust and love Tucker; Sue would not only have to cope with her own grief, but she would have to find a new assistant; the police officers would have to struggle with their own emotions as they investigated the case.

Everyone in town would be touched by this violent death in some way. Women who had walked alone at night would now look uneasily over their shoulders. At home, they would be extra careful to make sure the windows and doors were locked at night. Children would be warned not to talk to strangers. No one would be able to rest easy, Lucy realized, until the strangler was caught.

She refilled Tucker's emergency folder and snapped the cabinet shut, making a little vow to herself. Tucker's murderer would be found and punished.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PREVIEW

28 days 'til Xmas

“I
'd rather die.”

Judging by her determined expression and her firm tone of voice, Lucy Stone was pretty sure that her best friend, Sue Finch, had made up her mind. Still, ever the optimist, she couldn't resist trying one last time.

“Oh, come on,” pleaded Lucy. “It won't seem like Christmas without it.”

“Nope.” Sue shook her head and shoved a piece of overpriced lettuce around her plate with a fork. “No cookie exchange this year.”

The two friends were having lunch at the Chandlery, the toney bistro in the Ropewalk, the newest mall in Tinker's Cove. The Ropewalk had once been exactly that, a nineteenth-century workshop complete with a long, narrow alley used for twisting hemp fibers into rope for the clipper ships that once sailed all over the globe from their home port in Tinker's Cove, Maine.

Long a ramshackle eyesore on the waterfront, it had recently been restored, and local craftsmen had moved in, creating what the developer called “an exciting retail adventure with a seafaring ambiance.”

Today, the day after Thanksgiving, the Ropewalk was packed with Christmas shoppers and Lucy and Sue had had to wait thirty minutes for a table. When their salads finally came they were definitely on the skimpy side—the kitchen was obviously running low on supplies. The two friends hadn't minded; the demands of juggling homes and careers made it difficult for them to spend time together, and they were enjoying each other's company.

“It's not like it was, well, even a few years ago,” said Sue. “Then we were all in the same boat. We all had little kids and plenty of time on our hands. People snapped up the invitations and brought wonderful cookies.” A dreamy expression came over her face. “Remember Helen's baklava?”

“Do I ever,” said Lucy, who had a round face and a shining cap of hair cut in a practical style. She was casually dressed, wearing a plaid shirt-jacket and a pair of well-worn jeans. “It was like biting into a little piece of heaven.” She paused and sipped her coffee. “Whatever happened to her?”

“She moved away, to North Carolina, I think,” said Sue, who provided an elegant contrast to her friend in her hand-knit designer sweater and tailored flannel slacks. “And that's exactly my point. A lot of the old regulars have moved away. And things have changed. Getting together to compare recipes and swap cookies isn't as appealing as it used to be.”

“It is to me,” said Lucy. “I've still got a family to feed, and they don't think it's Christmas without cookies. Lots of different kinds. I don't have time to bake five or six batches. And to be honest, I don't want to have that many cookies around the house.” She bit her lip. “Too much temptation. Too many calories.”

“I know,” Sue said with a sigh. “With the exchange you just had to bake one double batch.”

“But you ended up with twelve different kinds, a half dozen of each.” Lucy started counting them off on her fingers. “Your pecan meltaways, my Santa's thumbprints, spritz, gingerbread men, Franny's Chinese-noodle cookies, shortbread, and Marge's little pink-and-white candy canes….”

“Marge probably can't come this year,” said Sue, with a sad shake of her head. “The lumpectomy wasn't enough, and they've started her on chemotherapy. She feels lousy.”

“I hadn't heard,” said Lucy, furrowing her brow. “That's too bad.”

“I thought you newspaper reporters thrived on local gossip,” teased Sue, referring to Lucy's part-time job writing for the weekly
Pennysaver
.

“Actually, I'm so busy covering historic commission hearings and stuff like that, I never have time to call my friends.” She smiled at Sue and glanced around at the restaurant, which was festively decorated with artificial pine garlands, ribbons, and gold balls. “This is fun—we don't get together enough. So what else is new? Fill me in.”

“Have you heard about Lee?”

“Lee Cummings? No. What?”

“Well,” began Sue, leaning across the table toward Lucy, “she and Steve have separated.”

“You're kidding.” Lucy was astonished. Lee and her husband, dentist Steve Cummings, had seemed a rock-solid couple. They went to church together every Sunday, and Steve had coached his daughter's T-ball team.

“No.” Sue's eyebrows shot up. “Apparently Steve is finding marriage too confining. At least that's what Lee says.”

“She tells you all this?”

“Oh, yes. And more. Every morning when she drops Hillary off at the center.” Sue directed the town's day-care center, located in the basement of the recreation building. “It's all she can talk about. Steve did this. Steve did that. His lawyer says this. My lawyer says that. The latest is who's going to get the stove.”

“They're arguing over the stove?”

“I think it's a Viking,” explained Sue, with a knowing nod. “But that's just the beginning. They're also fighting over the books and the CDs and the china and the stupid jelly glasses with cartoon characters.”

“So you think they're going to get a divorce?”

“It sure looks that way.”

“And that's all she talks about?”

“Yeah. And if I have the cookie exchange, I'll have to invite her, and if she comes, she'll turn the whole evening into a group-therapy session. Trust me on this.”

“I can see that's a problem,” admitted Lucy, picking up the check. “Come on. Let's get out of here. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”

 

Leaving the restaurant and entering the shopping area, the two friends joined the throng that was flowing past the gaily decorated craftsmen's booths. It was crowded, but people were in good humor, aided by the Christmas carols playing on the sound system.

“Tra la la la la, la la la la!” warbled Lucy, unable to resist singing along. “Isn't it nice to hear the carols? They always take me back to my childhood.”

“You'll be sick of them soon enough,” grumbled Sue. “You know which one I hate? That one about the little drummer boy. Talk about insipid!”

“You're really having an attack of Grinchitis, aren't you?” asked Lucy, stepping into a booth filled with baskets of potpourri. “Look at these,” she said, picking up a package of three padded hangers. “And they smell so good. Do you think Bill's mom would like them?”

“Sure.”

“Are they enough? It's kind of skimpy for a Christmas present.”

“Add some drawer paper, or sachets,” suggested Sue, as a smiling salesclerk approached.

“They're handmade, and filled with our unique blend of potpourri,” said the clerk, with an encouraging nod.

Lucy examined the price tag, and her eyes grew large.

“I don't know,” she said, hesitating. “What if the scent clashes with her perfume?”

“You wouldn't want that,” agreed Sue, who loved to shop but rarely paid full price, preferring to keep an eye out for sales. She could spot a markdown a mile away.

Lucy gave the clerk an apologetic little smile, and the two left the stall. In the walkway outside, Lucy grabbed Sue's arm.

“Did you see the price?” sputtered Lucy. “Thirty-five dollars for three hangers. I can't afford that.”

“You're not the only one,” said Sue glumly. “I don't think this is going to be a very happy Christmas season. Money's too tight.”

“Isn't it always this time of year?”

“This year's worse,” said Sue, pausing to examine some hand-crafted wooden picture frames. “I've never seen it so bad. I've already gotten a restraining order, and it's only Thanksgiving.”

“Restraining order?”

“Yeah. The moms at the center get them when the dads and boyfriends start acting up. There's always one or two during the holidays, but I've never had one quite so early.”

“But the economy's supposed to be booming.”

“Not for some of the families using the day-care center. I keep hearing about the lobster quota.”

“The state had to do that, or there won't be any lobsters left,” said Lucy. “They have to protect the breeding population. I wrote a story about it for the paper.”

“I know,” agreed Sue, replacing the frame and moving on to the next booth. “But a lot of people in this town depend on lobsters for a living. They're really taking a hit.”

“Hi, Franny!” exclaimed Lucy, waving to the woman in the next booth. “I didn't know you'd gone into business.”

Franny Small, a fiftyish woman with tightly permed hair, beamed at them proudly from behind a display of jewelry.

“Well, you know, the hardware store finally closed—couldn't compete with that new Home Depot. I was cleaning out the place, and I didn't know what to do with all the bits and pieces—you know nuts and bolts and stuff like that—and then I had this idea to make jewelry. And well, here I am.”

“This is hardware?” Lucy looked more closely at a pair of earrings.

“See—that's a hex nut. But these are my favorites—they're dragonflies made from wing nuts. The wings are copper screening.”

“Look at that, Sue. Aren't they great?”

“They're wonderful,” exclaimed Sue, “and only ten dollars. I'm going to buy a pair to put in Sidra's stocking.”

Sidra was Sue's daughter, recently graduated from college and now working as an assistant producer at a TV station in New York.

“That's a good idea,” said Lucy, thinking of her own teenage daughter. “I'll get a pair for Elizabeth. She'll love them.”

“Do you want them gift-wrapped? I use the old brown paper and string from the store—it kind of completes the look.”

“Sure,” said Lucy. “Thanks.”

“So, Sue, when is the cookie exchange?” asked Franny, as she tore a sheet of paper from the antique roller salvaged from the hardware store. “I want to be sure to mark my calendar.”

Sue groaned and Lucy explained. “She says she isn't having it this year.”

“That's too bad,” said Franny, neatly folding the paper so she didn't have to use tape, and tying the whole thing together with a length of red-and-white string. “Why not?”

“It just didn't seem like such a good idea—I didn't really know who to invite. So many of the old regulars have moved away, and Marge is sick, and…”

“Can't you invite some new people?” asked Franny brightly.

“Yeah, Sue,” said Lucy, pulling out her wallet. “How about inviting some new people? You must know a lot of nice young moms from the day-care center.”

“I'd love to make some new friends,” said Franny, giving them their change and receipts. “I don't have much time for myself, what with making the jewelry and running the shop here. I've really been too busy to socialize. I've been looking forward to the cookie exchange for months.”

“I knew this was coming,” protested Sue. “New people! You don't understand. These young moms aren't like we were. They don't cook! They buy takeout and frozen stuff. Remember when I invited Krissy, the girl who owns that gym? She brought rice cakes! Somehow she didn't get the idea of a cookie exchange at all.”

“They were chocolate-chip rice cakes,” said Lucy, grinning at the memory.

“Put yourself in their shoes,” said Franny, earnestly. “It must be very hard to raise a family and keep a job—I don't know how these young girls do it all.”

“With a lot of help from me,” muttered Sue. “It isn't just day care, you know. It's advice, and giving them a shoulder to cry on, and collecting toys and clothes and passing them on to the ones who need them.”

“You do a fantastic job,” said Lucy.

“You do,” agreed Franny, turning to help another customer. “But I hope you won't give up the cookie exchange. I'd really miss it.”

Lucy gave her a little wave, and they turned to investigate the pottery in the next booth. Lucy picked up a mug, running her fingers over the smooth shape. Then she looked at Sue, who was examining an apple-baker.

“There's no way around it. You have to have the cookie exchange. People are counting on you. It wouldn't be Christmas without it.”

Sue's dark hair fell across her face at an angle, and Lucy couldn't see her expression. She hoped she hadn't been too persistent, that she hadn't pushed Sue too hard. She really valued their friendship and didn't want to jeopardize it. When Sue flicked the hair out of her eyes, Lucy was relieved to see that she was smiling.

“You're right, Lucy. It wouldn't be Christmas without the cookie exchange. But it doesn't have to be at my house. Why don't you be the hostess for a change?”

“Me?” Lucy's eyebrows shot up.

“Yup.” Sue pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Lucy. “You.”