Christmas Cookie Murder #6 (4 page)

“Congratulations! That's great news,” said Lydia, appearing in the doorway with the pot of coffee. “My little kindergarten grads are doing well. Did you hear about Richie?”

“What about Richie?” asked Andrea, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

Here we go, thought Lucy.

“He's going to Harvard. Early decision,” announced Lydia.

“No! That's great,” said Pam, hurrying off to congratulate Rachel. “Good news for a change! Local boy does good!”

Andrea, of course, hadn't taken the news quite as well. To her way of thinking, Tim was tops. She didn't mind other kids being successful, she just didn't like them to outdo Tim. And while Maine Christian University was undoubtedly a fine school, it couldn't compare with Harvard.

“My that coffee smells good,” said Andrea, with a little sniff. “I'd love a cup.”

“You must be so proud of Tim,” said Lucy, steering the conversation back to Andrea's favorite subject. “He was on the All-State team last year, wasn't he?”

“And he won the batting title last year and was voted MVP by his teammates,” recited Andrea, looking a little happier.

“He was always a little firecracker,” said Lydia, who had long ago trained herself to remember only her students' positive attributes.

Confident she was leaving Andrea in good hands, Lucy left the group in the dining room and went into the living room to invite the women gathered there to take some refreshments.

“There's cake and coffee in the dining room—and I wouldn't dilly-dally,” she said. “There's a pretty hungry crowd in there.”

“I'm so glad you did this, Lucy. It's such a nice Christmas tradition,” said Rachel, who was leaning back in a wing chair with her feet propped on a footstool. “But I can sure understand why Sue thought it was time to take a break. Is she coming?”

“I've been wondering the same thing,” said Lucy. “She's supposed to, and she's bringing her new assistant at the center, Tucker.”

“Tucker's wonderful,” said Steffie, rising to her feet and joining the general drift toward the dining room. “Will just adores her.”

As they passed through the hallway the doorbell rang and Lucy stopped to open it, expecting to see an apologetic Sue standing on the other side. Instead, she saw Lee Cummings.

“Just what I need,” she muttered to herself. “The woman scorned, the soon-to-be divorcée from hell.” She pasted a bright smile on her face. “Hi, Lee. I'm so glad you could make it.”

“Me too, Lucy. For a while I didn't think I was going to be able to come. I was waiting for Steve, that weasel. I mean, to hear him talk he absolutely adores the girls, and I'm the evil witch who keeps him from them. But when it comes to taking care of them for one single evening, where is he? He forgot all about it. I had to call all over town, and I finally tracked him down at the donut shop.” She paused for breath and shook her head. “I hope he chokes on them. I hope the cholesterol clogs up his blood vessels and he has a stroke and lies there paralyzed for days and nobody finds him until he rots. And when they find him the rats will have been chewing on him…”

“These cookies look really good,” said Lucy, taking a platter covered with plastic wrap from her.

“It's the most wonderful recipe,” said Lee, hanging up her jacket on the hall coat tree. “They taste great and believe it or not, they're low fat and have hardly any sugar. They're actually good for you.”

Lucy raised a skeptical eyebrow. Lee took her role as the wife of a dentist very seriously, and was known for using recipes that were good for you but didn't necessarily taste very good.

“Sounds like a miracle.”

“It really is—oh, Lucy, do you mind if I just run upstairs to use the loo?”

“Of course not,” said Lucy, mentally crossing her fingers. So far, the plumbing seemed to be holding up but she didn't want to risk any disasters. “Please use the downstairs powder room instead. Do you know where it is?”

“Sure thing.”

Lee dashed off through the kitchen, while Lucy added her platter of cookies to the others on the table. It was filling up, Lucy saw with satisfaction, surveying the array of homemade baked goods. The women had packed the cookies in sandwich bags, each holding six cookies, and a few had decorated them with bright holiday ribbons and stickers. The table was so crowded, in fact, that Steffie's little brochures had disappeared from sight.

“So, what's it like to be the proud mother of a genius?” asked Lydia, striking up a conversation with Rachel. “You must be so proud of Richie.”

“I am,” admitted Rachel. “But I was proud of him before we got the letter, too.”

“You don't have to be modest,” said Lydia. “Harvard is the top American college, after all.”

“There are plenty of other good schools, too,” said Pam, who was growing tired of hearing about other people's kids. “Adam wants to go to Boston University, or maybe Northeastern.”

“MCU's awfully good, too,” said Andrea. “Especially if you have a full scholarship like Tim does.”

“And a lot of kids can't take the pressure at a place like Harvard,” continued Pam. “They crash and burn.”

“That's right,” added Steffie. “There's a lot of alcohol abuse at those fraternities. Was it Harvard? Maybe it was MIT. I'm not sure which, but I remember reading that a freshman died from alcohol poisoning.”

“That was MIT,” said Lee, joining the group. “But I don't think Harvard's much better. It certainly didn't do much for Steve, I can tell you that.”

There was a sudden commotion as Rachel dropped her coffee cup, shattering the cup and saucer and spilling the coffee on the rug. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Lucy,” she said, dropping to her knees and attempting to clean up the mess with a holiday napkin.

“Here, let me take care of that,” said Lucy. As she knelt beside Rachel, she saw that tears were filling her eyes. “It's nothing…” began Lucy, reaching for more napkins. “We spill stuff all the time—why do you think I'm having this little do by candlelight?”

Rachel giggled, and Lucy gave her a quick hug. She didn't think for a minute that Rachel was crying over spilt coffee; she had been upset by her friends' meanness.

“Don't pay any mind,” whispered Lucy, taking the sponge Franny was offering her. “They're just jealous.”

“Oh, I know. But I've really had to bite my tongue tonight, let me tell you. Especially with Andrea,” hissed Rachel, picking up the broken pieces of china and handing them to Franny. “To listen to her, you'd never know Tim isn't quite the paragon she wants everyone to think he is.”

“He isn't?” Lucy was definitely interested.

“No. He was arrested last week for driving under the influence. He's in big trouble.”

“My goodness,” said Franny.

“How do you know?” asked Lucy.

“They hired Bob to defend him.” Bob, Rachel's husband, was a lawyer.

Rachel's hand flew to her mouth as she rose to her feet. “Don't tell anybody, okay? I'm not supposed to know about this—client confidentiality and all that.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” said Lucy, now standing and scanning the table for the brochures. She finally found them under Franny's Chinese noodle cookies. Making sure no one was watching, she lifted the plate and scooped up the brochures, wadding them into a ball along with the sodden napkins. Then she turned, intending to throw the whole mess into the kitchen garbage.

“Oh my goodness, Lucy,” said Lee, suddenly appearing at her elbow. “Who brought those awful Chinese noodle cookies? Can you imagine making something as unhealthy as that in this day and age? What could she have been thinking? Those things are full of saturated fat and all sorts of preservatives. Talk about empty calories!”

Lucy looked across the table toward the sideboard, where Franny was refilling the teapot, and saw her hurt expression.

“Oh, I don't know,” said Lucy, catching Franny's eye. “I can't resist them myself—and it's only once a year.”

That's right, she told herself. Christmas only comes once a year, thank goodness. And with any luck, she'd never have to have this blasted cookie exchange again. How could she have forgotten? It was the same thing every year. Somebody always went home with hurt feelings. Of course, this year looked to be something of a record in the hurt-feelings department. It was all Sue's fault, she decided. If she'd gotten to the party on time, she could have helped keep the combatants apart. As it was, if she didn't arrive soon, thought Lucy, blood would probably be shed.

In the kitchen, Lucy tossed the pamphlets into the bin under the kitchen sink. The last thing she wanted was for Andrea to see them; remembering her swollen eyes when she arrived, Lucy was sure she was enormously upset about Tim's arrest. All that bragging about the MCU scholarship was her way of putting on a brave front.

Of course, nobody was more competitive than Andrea when it came to kids. As much as Lucy sympathized with her, and dreaded finding herself in the same situation, she couldn't help feeling just the teeniest bit that Andrea was getting her just desserts.

Lucy was far too superstitious ever to brag about her children; the most she would do was modestly accept a compliment on their behalf. That wasn't Andrea's way. Ever since Tim caught his first Wiffle ball, gently lobbed by his father, she had hailed him as a superb athlete. Her friends had listened patiently through the years as she had provided a play-by-play narration of his achievements. In his mother's eyes, Tim could do no wrong. He was perfect. He was, thought Lucy, too good to be true.

Returning to the dining room, Lucy poured herself a cup of coffee and propped a slice of cake on the saucer. Then she followed the group into the living room, where they had settled to enjoy their refreshments. Lee was making the most of this opportunity to reap her friends' sympathy by making sure they all knew the details of Steve's latest transgressions.

“He told his lawyer that there's no reason for me to get the stove because I never lifted a hand to cook a home-cooked meal in the entire seven years we've been married—can you believe it?”

Receiving clucks and murmurs of sympathy from the group, she continued. “I mean, we entertained at least once a week and I thought nothing of whipping up beef Stroganoff or coq au vin for his dental-society colleagues and their incredibly boring wives, not to mention chicken wings and homemade pizza—with sundried tomatoes, I might add—for his annual Super Bowl bash. This stuff didn't all just appear, you know. I spent hours cutting and chopping and stirring and sweating over a hot stove—the very stove he says I never touched. Can you believe it?”

“It's funny. If people don't do something themselves, they don't understand how much work it is,” said Pam. “Ted doesn't have a clue about housework. I'm sure he thinks the rugs vacuum themselves while I lie on the couch all day watching soap operas.”

The women chuckled and nodded in agreement.

“Don't even mention rugs,” moaned Lee. “You know my beautiful Kirman, the one my parents gave us for a wedding present?”

“He wants that?” asked Lydia.

Lee nodded, and the women sighed and shook their heads in dismay.

“That's terrible,” said Juanita.

“I'd tell him exactly what he could do with it,” said Pam.

“Well, he's not going to get it,” said Lee. “I'm going to make sure of that. That's why I went with the Boston lawyer. He says he always goes right for the jugular!”

“And I bet he charges Boston prices, too,” said Rachel, who was standing next to Lucy.

“Like the hair-dye commercial says, ‘I'm worth it,'” said Lee, defending her choice. “Besides, I have my girls' futures to think of, too.”

This was received with another murmur of approval, and Lee paused to take a bite of cake.

Rachel turned to Lucy. “She's making a big mistake,” she whispered. “A local lawyer like Bob would try to get them to reconcile, or at least work out an amicable agreement. That would be a lot better for the kids, believe me.”

Lucy nodded in agreement. She tended to think people were often too quick to opt for divorce and didn't consider the consequences, especially for the children. “I don't know—even if she gets everything she wants, she isn't going to be able to keep the same lifestyle. Whatever he makes, now it's got to support two households instead of one.”

“That's right,” said Rachel. “Except for a handful of very wealthy people, divorce is a one-way road to poverty.”

“Yoo-hoo,” halloed Sue, sailing through the front door. “Sorry I'm late…”

“It's about time you got here,” complained Lucy, who had been wondering if Sue had abandoned her.

“Nice shirt—and so subtle, too,” joked Sue, blinking at Lucy's bright Santa sweatshirt. “I would have been here hours ago except my battery died. So, how's it going?”

“Touch and go,” said Lucy, with a little shrug. “No fatalities—yet.”

“I'd say you're doing great,” said Sue. Then, raising her voice, she announced, “Now, listen everybody. I know you can't wait to start grabbing cookies but I want you to meet someone. This is Tucker Whitney, my new assistant at the center.”

Tucker, Lucy saw, could be trouble. She was a strikingly attractive twentysomething. Tall and slender, she had long, naturally blond hair.

“Hi, Tucker,” chorused the group, without much enthusiasm. Realizing she was no longer the center of attention, Lee decided to pour herself a second cup of coffee.

“Hi, everybody,” said Tucker, smiling broadly. Although she was the youngest person there and didn't know most of the others, she was one of those rare people who are comfortable wherever they go.

She turned to Lucy and indicated the stack of platters and tins in her arms. “What should I do with these? I hope I made enough. Sue didn't tell me how many to bring so I have these twelve dozen but if you need more, I've got another six dozen in the car.”