Bake Sale Murder (2 page)

“It’s a good thing,” said Rachel, who was a health nut. “We’d be big as houses and our arteries would be clogged with trans fat.”

“If I’m going to die from eating I want it to be from Cathy Crowley’s rocky road fudge,” declared Lucy. “I’d die happy.”

“Oh, yeah,” sighed Pam. “That’s the way to go.”

“I think it is,” said Sue. “A bake sale is definitely the way to go. I mean, if we’re this excited about fudge and cake I bet a lot of other people will be, too. And we can charge a lot because everything will be top-quality and homemade.”

“Affordable luxuries,” agreed Rachel. “Very hot right now.”

“So we’re agreed?”

“Agreed. All we have to do is call for donations.”

“I can’t,” said Pam. “I’ve got to help my mother move into assisted living next week.”

“And I’m visiting Sidra in New York,” said Sue.

“I’m filling in for Bob’s secretary, she’s on vacation,” said Rachel.

“I guess that leaves me,” said Lucy. “No problem. I’ve done it a million times, I’m pretty sure I’ve still got a list of volunteers from our last bake sale in the back of my cookbook.” She picked up the check and put on her reading glasses. “Okay. How much is fourteen dollars and thirty-eight cents divided by four?”

Chapter 2

L
ucy loved everything about the
Pennysaver
office from the jangle of the little bell on the door to the dusty wood venetian blinds that covered the plate glass windows to the tiny morgue where the scent of ink and hot lead from the linotype machine still lingered. Originally known as the
Courier & Advertiser
, the paper had been covering all the happenings in Tinker’s Cove for more than one hundred and fifty years.

Phyllis, who served as receptionist and listings editor, also seemed to harken back to an earlier era, the sixties, with her dyed bouffant hairdo and bright blue eyeshadow. She was given to wearing bright colors, generally accessorized with oversized pieces of costume jewelry. Today she’d encased her ample frame in aqua pedal pushers and a bold floral print shirt topped with a string of beads that could have inspired a mother hen to sit a while.

“What’s new with the gang?” asked Phyllis, by way of greeting.

A stack of the latest edition of the
Pennysaver
stood on the counter in front of her desk, practically hot off the press. Lucy picked one up and flipped through, making sure her byline was in all the right places. She grimaced, spotting a misspelled headline:
APPEALS BORED DEBATES NEW ZONING REGS
.

“They want to have a bake sale so the Hat and Mitten Fund can help families buy school supplies.”

“That’s a good idea. My cousin Elfrida was complaining about how much it costs to get the kids ready for school. Of course,” sniffed Phyllis, “she didn’t have to go and have five kids.”

“Then I guess I can count on you to bake something for the sale. How about those whoopie pies everybody loves so much?”

“No way, José,” said Phyllis, touching up her Frosted Apricot manicure. “I’m on the Atkins diet and if I so much as look at a carbohydrate I gain five pounds.”

“It isn’t the looking…” began Lucy.

Phyllis rolled her eyes. “Listen, do you know what it’s like to give up bread and pasta and cookies and eat nothing but steak, steak, steak? Do you realize I can’t even eat a baby carrot?”

“It must be tough.”

“It’s agony. And if I make whoopie pies I won’t be able to stand the temptation. I’ll eat at least half of them.”

“I understand,” said Lucy. “You have lost a lot of weight.”

“And I plan to keep it off, no matter how much bacon and whipped cream I have to eat.”

“Why does there seem to be something wrong with this picture?” mused Lucy, pulling her mail out of the box and flipping through it.

“I know. It’s crazy, but it works. It really does.” She sighed. “Pizza is the worst. You can’t eat the crust.”

“Good lord.”

“I know. And hamburgers. No bun.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” said Lucy, as the bell on the door jangled announcing Ted’s arrival. “It’s this letter.”

“What about it?” asked Ted. His hair was still wet from his morning shower and, in contrast to his usual preoccupied scowl, he was grinning, relaxed, and practically exuding geniality. He was always like this on Thursdays, before the irate readers’ phone calls began.

“It says the varsity football players have been hazing the JV boys at their training camp.”

“Who sent it?” Ted was studying the editorial page; he hadn’t found the typo yet.

Lucy studied the sheet of typewritten paper and the envelope it came in. There was no signature, no return address. “It’s anonymous.”

“Throw it in the trash,” advised Ted, picking up one of the papers and admiring the front page.

“But maybe there’s something to it.”

“You know our policy, Lucy,” he said, turning to page two. “We don’t print anonymous letters, we don’t follow up anonymous tips. We’ve got to know who our sources are…DAMN!”

“I don’t know how we could have missed it,” said Lucy, carefully choosing a plural pronoun.

“
APPEALS B-O-R-E-D
!” Ted’s eyes were blazing. “I’ll never live this down.”

“Probably one of them Freudian slips,” said Phyllis. “Those Appeals Board meetings are deadly dull.” She shrugged. “It’s not like anybody reads those stories.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better,” said Ted, who was slumped in his chair, staring at the scarred surface of the oak rolltop desk he’d inherited from his grandfather, a legendary small town newspaper editor. His sepia-toned portrait hung on the wall above Ted’s desk and today his expression seemed somewhat reproachful.

“Listen, Ted,” said Lucy. “I’m doing that story on the new staff members at the school for next week’s paper. Maybe I could ask around a little bit.” She bit her lip. “That new coach, Buck Burkhart, is actually my neighbor. He lives over there on Prudence Path.”

“It’s probably just some overprotective mother,” said Phyllis. “You know the type. Rushes to the doctor the minute the kid sneezes.”

Lucy reread the letter. “Anyone who values the traditions of sportsmanship and fair play can’t help but be dismayed by these degrading activities…” It was written by someone trying to set out a rational, convincing argument. But then the tone abruptly changed: “It breaks my heart to see the harm done to a sensitive, idealistic young man.” The writer, whoever he or she was, clearly believed something destructive and dangerous had happened to a loved one. Lucy couldn’t ignore it.

“Sara might have heard something,” she speculated, thinking out loud. “She knows some of the kids on the team.”

“Okay, Lucy,” agreed Ted. “Go ahead and ask around. But be careful. This is the sort of thing that can damage people’s reputations, even ruin their lives. We can’t print even a whisper of this unless we’re absolutely certain of our facts.”

“I’ll be careful,” promised Lucy, glancing at the portrait. She thought the old man’s expression had changed. He seemed interested.

But when she drove over to the high school to pick Sara up after cheerleading practice, Lucy couldn’t think of a way to broach the subject. She was parked by the field, watching the girls go through their routines. They looked so cute and young and thoroughly wholesome with their bouncy pony tails and pink cheeks and white teeth that she didn’t want to spoil the mood by bringing up an uncomfortable topic like hazing. She was so totally absorbed by their acrobatics, holding her breath as one of the girls was tossed high into the air, that she didn’t notice when a woman approached her car and stuck her face through the open window.

“Hi! I’m Willie Westwood and you’re Lucy Stone, right? You live in that adorable farmhouse up the road.”

“That’s me,” said Lucy. Willie’s smiling, freckled face was inches from hers. “You must live in one of the new houses on Prudence Path.”

“That’s right,” said Willie, straightening up to her nearly six-foot height. She was dressed in skin-tight beige riding pants, knee-high black boots and a grubby T-shirt that proclaimed she’d rather be riding. “My daughter Sassie, she’s the redhead. She mentioned that your daughter is on the squad, too.”

“Really?” Lucy couldn’t imagine what this was leading to.

“Well, what I was hoping was that we could work out some sort of carpool thing. I don’t know about you but I’m always coming and going with a million things to do and it would be a big help if I didn’t have to get over here every afternoon. Especially since you never know how long the practice is going to take. I mean, yesterday I was supposed to help out at my husband’s office, he’s a vet, you know, but I got stuck sitting here for almost an hour, waiting for them to finish.” She lowered her voice. “That’s Frankie LaChance, over there.” She cocked her head towards a cute little Volkswagen convertible. “She lives next door and her daughter Renee is on the squad, too, but just between you and me you can’t count on Frankie to be dependable.”

“Oh,” was all Lucy could think to say.

“So it’s a deal? We’ll take turns picking them up. I’ll do tomorrow, but I can’t do Monday.”

“Deal,” said Lucy, giving Willie’s hand a shake. “Monday. You can count on me.”

Then the girls broke formation and began picking up their things. Lucy watched as Sara walked across the field, accompanied by Sassie and another girl whose curvy figure and assured walk made her seem much older.

“That’s Renee LaChance,” hissed Willie, raising her eyebrows.

“How old is she?” asked Lucy.

“A freshman. Can you believe it?”

“Well, girls nowadays…”

“Believe me, that girl is trouble,” warned Willie.

That evening, after the supper dishes had been cleared, Lucy took her cordless phone and her battered Fannie Farmer cookbook out onto the porch and sat down in her favorite wicker chair, the one with the comfortably worn cushions. The book bristled with sticky notes and recipes torn from magazines and newspapers and she took her time leafing through it. There was that orange loaf cake she used to make, and the low-cal Caesar salad she’d never gotten around to making. And shish kebab, that would be good on the grill. Finally, in the very back, she found the list she was looking for, now yellow and brittle with age.

The women’s names were all familiar, but she hadn’t spoken to many of them in years. Once they had all been connected by a network of shared interests: school, scouts, youth soccer, and Little League. They were constantly calling upon each other for rides for the kids, for refreshments, for a volunteer to chaperone a school field trip. What had happened? wondered Lucy. Why hadn’t she spoken to Marge Culpepper or Franny Small in such a long time? Once they’d been among her dearest friends but now she hardly ever saw them, and then only in passing, when they exchanged jaunty waves as they drove off in opposite directions.

“Marge? It’s Lucy Stone.”

“Land sakes, if you aren’t a blast from the past, Lucy Stone.”

It was a bit awkward. Lucy didn’t feel as if she could impose after such a long silence. “So how have you been?”

“Fine, just fine.”

“Great. How’s Eddie?” inquired Lucy, asking about Marge’s only child, who was Toby’s age.

“He’s in Iraq, you know. In the Marines.”

Lucy was stunned. “I didn’t know. I’m glad you told me, I’ll keep him in my thoughts.”

“And your family?”

“Elizabeth spent the summer backpacking in Europe and now she’s back at Chamberlain. Sara’s got her first job, she’s at the Queen Vic. Toby’s engaged….”

“Engaged. My word. Time sure flies.”

“It sure does. That’s one reason I’m calling. We’re having an old-fashioned bake sale for the Hat and Mitten Fund, next weekend at the IGA, and I was hoping you’d make that famous coconut cake of yours.”

“Oh, my word. I haven’t made that in years.”

“That’s the idea. We thought we’d bring back some of those goodies everybody loved so much.”

“I wish I could help out, but I don’t have time. I’m training for the Think Pink Triathlon, for breast cancer, you know.”

Marge, who had always seemed slightly older than her years thanks to twenty extra pounds and a tight perm, had never struck Lucy as the athletic type. “Triathlon?”

“Yeah. I’ve been doing it for years now, ever since I was declared cancer free. It’s great, this year it’s in California. I can’t wait to go. Last year I made the top half of finishers and I’m hoping to make the top ten percent this year. I’ve really been working on my swimming, that’s where I’m weakest. The cycling’s a breeze and my running’s okay. It’s the swimming that slows me down.”

“Well, good for you,” said Lucy, absolutely floored.

“By the way, Lucy, I don’t think I ever asked you for a pledge. How about it?”

“Oh, sure, put me down for twenty-five dollars.”

“Do you think you could make it fifty? Or a hundred? I’m supposed to raise five thousand.”

“Okay. Fifty. And good luck with the triathlon,” said Lucy, clicking off the phone. At this rate, she’d be broke before she got any donations for the bake sale. She decided to call Franny Small next. She wouldn’t be asking for money, she had plenty of her own since she founded a madly successful jewelry business. Originally made from bits and pieces of hardware, the line had evolved into a perennial favorite with fashion editors and department store buyers.

“Franny? Hi! It’s Lucy Stone.”

“Lucy! I was thinking about you just the other day, wondering what you’re up to these days.”

“Not much, just the same old work for the newspaper.”

“And the kids?”

“Everybody’s great. Listen, Franny, I’m calling because the Hat and Mitten Fund is having a bake sale next Saturday and I was hoping you could make some of those fabulous Congo bars you used to make.”

“I’d love to,” she answered, and Lucy’s hopes rose, only to be dashed when she added, “but I’m leaving for China in the morning.”

“China?”

“Right. That’s where I get a lot of my jewelry made.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s a nuisance in a way, because it’s so far away and I have to go over at least four times a year.”

Lucy was astonished; the only foreign country she’d ever visited was Canada. “Four times a year? How many times have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve lost count. Too many. These days it seems I’m always flying somewhere. Milan for ribbons, Paris to see the couture shows, Africa for beads. I really couldn’t manage except now I travel first class and it does make a difference.”

Enough, already, thought Lucy. This was getting annoying. “In that case, do you think you could make a cash donation?”

“Sure. I’ll tell my assistant to take care of it first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy. “And have a nice trip.”

She’d struck out twice, but she still wasn’t out. Lucy had high hopes from the next name on the list, Cathy Crowley. She was a devoted homebody who made sure her husband, Police Chief Oswald Crowley, came home to a hot supper after a hard day spent maintaining the peace in Tinker’s Cove.

“Rocky Road Fudge? I haven’t made that in years. In fact, I’d be surprised if I still had the recipe.”

“The recipe’s probably on the Internet,” suggested Lucy.

“Oh, I’m sure it is. Everything else is,” chuckled Cathy. “But I don’t have time. I’m busy getting the RV ready. Ozzie’s retiring, you know. The banquet is Saturday night and we’re leaving Sunday morning for a cross-country trip to the Grand Canyon.”