Chocolate Covered Murder Read online

  “Oh, Corney, she goes after all the single men, but she never catches one,” said Frankie, looking at her watch and getting up. “I can’t be late for the Faircloths. Roger gets very annoyed.”

  “He seems so formal, old-fashioned even,” said Lucy, getting up and taking Frankie’s coat off the hook where she’d hung it.

  “He’s very easygoing—as long as he’s getting his way,” said Frankie, pulling the coat over her shoulders and buttoning it. “But I told him, I can only give them the morning. I must go to the funeral this afternoon.”

  “I’ll see you there, then,” said Lucy, opening the door.

  Funerals were always a big draw in Tinker’s Cove, especially if there was reason to believe the sad observance would be followed by a generous spread. It was no surprise that Max’s funeral, actually a memorial service since Max had been cremated, attracted a large crowd. Lucy figured most of the mourners were looking forward to the buffet lunch from Fern’s Famous, which had a highly popular catering service run by Flora, as well as the candy business.

  Lucy, who was sitting beside Bill in the crowded Community Church, was finding it difficult to concentrate on the eulogy as her thoughts kept straying to Flora’s curried chicken puffs and beef satay. They also did a really tasty Greek spinach pie and truly amazing Swedish meatballs that Bill couldn’t resist, and neither could she. Faced with all that delicious food, she knew she had to have a plan, so she intended to follow the suggestion in an article she’d read recently that advised limiting yourself to a single bite of high-calorie foods. “The second bite will taste just like the first,” the author claimed.

  Lucy was soon checking out the congregation, trying to judge the size of their appetites. The fishing crowd were undoubtedly big eaters and she hoped Flora had taken that into account. She was mulling over the best strategy for attacking the buffet, vowing to load her plate with cru-dités rather than cheese cubes, when the minister intoned the final benediction. Everyone stood as the chief mourners exited the front pew and began walking down the aisle. First went Lily, accompanied by her mother; she was holding tightly to Dora’s hand. Flora walked behind them, beside Fern, who refused her daughter’s offer of a supportive arm despite her advanced age.

  Lucy was struck by the image this family of women presented: four generations, obviously sharing the same gene pool, all dressed similarly in black. Lily, the youngest with her fresh complexion and long blond hair and her mother, Dora, with her frosted bob. Flora, in her sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair, bore the same lines on her face as her mother, only less deeply etched. Fern was the smallest of the four, and the oldest, but was clearly the respected head of the family. Watching them, it occurred to Lucy that they made a complete unit in themselves and she wondered if there had ever really been a place for Max. How did he fit in with this tightly knit group?

  The four women were followed by a scattering of Gooches from Gilead; at least Lucy supposed that’s who they were. Max’s parents had died years before and he was an only child, so she assumed these mourners were a loosely related collection of cousins, aunts, and uncles. They didn’t have the same sense of unity about them that the four women had; they didn’t resemble each other but came in a variety of shapes and sizes. A gawky, red-haired kid slouched along beside a very short, very fat woman who might or might not be his mother, a stocky man with a gray beard accompanied an attractive woman with streaked blond hair, a young man with a studious air and wire-rimmed glasses followed behind them.

  The center aisle soon filled with people moving slowly toward the exit and Lucy was about to join them when Bill caught her arm. “Let’s go out the side door,” he said, whispering in her ear. “We don’t want to be at the end of the procession.”

  Apparently Bill had also been thinking hard about the best strategy for getting first dibs on the buffet and was planning an end run around the crowd. The reception would take place at the Macdougal family homestead, a huge old Victorian that had been completely renovated and now sported an authentically gaudy paint job of brown, cream and red. Lucy remembered how the house had looked when she first moved to Tinker’s Cove; it had been practically bare of paint then and the sagging porch roof was held up with a couple of two by fours propped against cement blocks. That was before Fern’s Famous had become the successful business it was today, of course.

  Lucy and Bill weren’t the only ones who’d avoided the crush at the church door. They found quite a number of people were already helping themselves to the buffet when they arrived, which Lucy thought was pretty rude. They should have waited for the reception line to form and murmured the usual platitudes to the grieving family before stuffing their faces, which would have been the proper thing to do. She noticed with alarm that the curried chicken puffs were disappearing fast, however, so Lucy decided there was nothing to do but abandon her principles. She did it reluctantly, fully aware that her extremely proper mother was probably spinning in her grave as she loaded her plate, careful to take only one of everything. Even so, the plate was filling up fast.

  “Great food, but you can always count on Fern’s Famous,” said Corney, joining Lucy and Bill on the padded window seat in the bay window. Like Lucy and Bill, she was holding a plate piled high with finger food. “I don’t know what it is about buffets, but I always eat too much.”

  “I think we’ll have a light supper,” said Lucy, talking with her mouth full. “Is that okay with you, Bill?”

  “Mmph,” said Bill, apparently in agreement.

  “I’m feeling full and we haven’t even gotten to the dessert table yet,” confessed Lucy.

  “Don’t skip the desserts,” advised Corney. “They’ve got something new—a Black Forest cake with brandy-cherry filling. It’s absolutely delicious.”

  Lucy was surprised since she knew Corney was perpetually on a diet and avoided desserts. Come to think of it, she realized with a guilty pang, she was on a diet herself and had no business eating any dessert. “Maybe Bill can give me a bite of his,” she said. “I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”

  “I normally don’t eat sweets but that cake is worth the calories,” said Corney. “Besides, when a guy takes you to dinner he doesn’t want to hear you complaining about the calories. He wants to see you enjoy yourself.”

  “So you had the cake on a date?” said Lucy, picking up Corney’s hint.

  As she guessed, Corney couldn’t wait to tell her all about it. “Trey took me out last night. We had a lovely meal at the Queen Vic—they get their desserts from Fern’s Famous, you know.”

  “That does sound nice,” said Lucy, noticing that Bill was wandering toward a group of men clustered in a corner. “Did you have a good time?”

  “I did. Trey is everything a girl could want. Tall, handsome, wealthy. And he’s fun, he’s got a great sense of humor.”

  “Sounds like you’re smitten. Has he asked you out again?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Corney, scowling. “I’m not sure whether it was a real date or a business dinner. He spent an awful lot of time talking about his plans to expand the business and how the Chamber could help.”

  “That’s tricky,” said Lucy.

  “You said it. I don’t quite know how to play it. I called to thank him. I didn’t want him to think I was chasing him, but I wanted to let him know I’m available and I really like him.” Corney’s face fell and she looked down at her empty plate. “He didn’t suggest a second date. In fact, all he wanted to talk about was some kind of special chocolate that’s going to revolutionize the confectionary business.” She sighed. “I now know a lot more than I ever wanted to about chocolate.”

  “Bummer,” said Lucy, chewing a meatball. “What’s his relationship with Tamzin? Are they a couple?”

  “I’m not sure.” Corney lowered her voice. “It would explain why he doesn’t fire her. Have you seen the way she dresses? That woman is sooo unprofessional.”

  “Men like that sort of thing,” said Lucy, as a sudden silence fe
ll in the room. All heads had turned toward the door where Dora and her family were entering; each woman was carrying a flower arrangement they’d brought from the church. A few friends rushed over to take the flowers and help them with their coats, and the noise level rose again.

  The reception line formed and Lucy and Bill took their places along with everyone else, shuffling slowly along. Lucy wasn’t sure what to say under the circumstances. “I’m sorry for your loss,” was okay for Lily, but not quite the thing for Dora. “Terrific party, great food,” came to mind and Lucy giggled, which made people look at her. When her turn finally came, she murmured something about a terrible loss, we’ll all miss him, and was promptly passed along from Dora to Lily and then to Fern and Flora.

  Duty done, Lucy and Bill made their way through the crowded rooms to the little study off the hall where they’d left their coats. Lucy’s good black pants were feeling uncomfortably tight as she made her way to the door, and her conscience wasn’t about to let her forget she’d overindulged. That Black Forest cake was every bit as good as Corney said, even though she’d only had a few bites, but she’d been unable to resist the mini-cupcakes with lemon filling and buttercream icing topped with coconut. All that delicious food made her sleepy and she was yawning and buttoning her good black coat when Fern herself approached her with a foil-covered plate.

  “Lucy, I wonder if you’d do me a favor?” she said, placing a blue-veined hand on Lucy’s sleeve. Her voice, usually firm and authoritative, was a bit quavery today and she looked tired.

  “Whatever you want,” said Lucy.

  “You know my friend, Julia... .”

  Lucy knew Fern was one of the few people in town who dared to call Miss Tilley by her first name. Of course, they had probably been schoolmates well before World War II. “I’m sure she would have come if she were able,” said Lucy.

  “Yes, she’s getting over the flu. I absolutely forbade her to come,” said Fern, with a flash of her usual bossiness. “But I put together a little plate for her and I wonder if you could deliver it for me.”

  “Sure,” said Lucy, taking the foil-covered dish. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

  “I happen to know she loves my Boston cream pie, so I gave her a big piece, and some other things, too.”

  “I’ll take it right over,” promised Lucy, making eye contact with Bill who gave an approving nod.

  “It will be your good deed for the day,” said Fern, patting her hand.

  It was only a short drive to Miss Tilley’s old Cape-style house and the car didn’t have time to warm up. Bill stayed outside, keeping the engine running, while Lucy dashed up the path. She was chilled clear through when she knocked on the door, which was opened by Rachel.

  “What are you doing here on Sunday?” Lucy asked, stepping inside.

  “I was on my way home from the play rehearsal and thought I’d stop by and check on Miss T,” said Rachel. “She’s had a touch of the flu.”

  The house was wonderfully warm and cozy. Miss Tilley kept a fire going all winter in the ancient keeping-room hearth that had once served for both heating and cooking. Nowadays, of course, the fireplace was supplemented with heat from a modern furnace and cooking took place in the kitchen ell that was added on sometime in the 1920s.

  The house was generously furnished with antiques and Lucy always felt as if she were stepping back in time when she visited her old friend. Miss Tilley was sitting in her usual Boston rocker today, with a colorful crocheted afghan covering her knees. Cleopatra, her Siamese cat, was seated on her lap, a softly purring sphinx.

  “How are you?” asked Lucy. “I hear you had the flu.”

  “Nonsense. It was nothing more than a head cold, but everyone made such a fuss I didn’t dare show my face at the funeral.”

  “Your friend Fern sent along some Boston cream pie,” said Lucy, handing her the dish.

  Miss Tilley promptly lifted the foil and examined the cake, smacking her lips. “I’ll have that for my supper,” she said.

  “You’ll have chicken soup for supper,” said Rachel, taking the plate and carrying it into the kitchen. “There’s a pot all ready for you on the stove. You just have to heat it up.”

  “I’d rather have pie,” said Miss Tilley.

  “If you finish all your soup, you can have some for dessert.” Rachel raised an eyebrow. “And don’t think you can put the soup down the drain. I’ll know.”

  Miss Tilley shifted in her chair, a guilty expression on her face. “I’m not a child, you know.”

  “Then stop acting like one,” snapped Rachel.

  “My goodness,” said Lucy. “It seems you two need a break.”

  “You said it,” said Rachel, laughing as she seated herself on the sofa. “We are turning into a pair of bickering biddies.”

  Miss Tilley smiled and stroked the cat. “I don’t know what I’d do without Rachel. I’d be in a pretty pickle, I’m sure.”

  “It’s not easy keeping you on the straight and narrow,” said Rachel, smiling fondly at her old friend. She’d started visiting regularly after Miss Tilley had an automobile accident years ago and now she was officially certified by the town council on aging as a home helper and even received a small stipend for her efforts.

  “I would have liked to have gone to the funeral,” said Miss Tilley. “For Fern. There aren’t many of us old-timers left, you know, and she was so fond of Max.”

  “Was she upset about the divorce?” asked Lucy, perching on the sofa.

  “She certainly didn’t approve, divorce isn’t something one approves of. But having said that, I don’t think she was terribly surprised when the marriage didn’t work out. She was never in favor of Max and Dora getting married; that was Flora’s idea.”

  Lucy was puzzled. “How was it Flora’s idea? Wasn’t it up to Max and Dora?”

  Miss Tilley pursed her lips. “Max had gone away, he wasn’t the sort you could tie down. I remember him when he was a little boy, he’d come into the library and take out all sorts of adventure books. He read about all the explorers and astronauts and deep-sea divers. He wanted to see the world, he told me, and when he got out of high school he started traveling. I used to get postcards from him now and then. He went all over and somewhere he learned how to surf and he started competing and winning, too. There was quite a fuss about him when he came home for a visit, articles in the newspaper and all that. He was quite the hero, and Dora was his girl.”

  “And they decided to get married?” asked Lucy.

  “Oh, no. He was only here for a short while before he had to leave for some surfing contest in Mexico or somewhere.”

  Lucy was puzzled. “So Dora followed him?”

  “No. It was Flora.”

  “But she’s old enough to be his mother.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t interested in him for herself,” said Miss Tilley, with a flap of her age-spotted hand. “It turned out he’d gotten Dora in the family way and Flora went down to wherever he was and made him understand his responsibility. She dragged him back and got them married before either of them knew what had happened. Fern told me she didn’t think it was a good idea to force a marriage like that and it turned out she was right because the marriage didn’t last.” Miss Tilley’s voice was fading and Lucy suspected she was growing tired. “And now poor Max is gone and he was much too young.”

  “Perhaps it was better that way,” said Rachel, in a thoughtful voice. “I don’t think he would have wanted to grow old.”

  “It’s certainly not for everyone,” said Miss Tilley, slapping her lap and causing the cat to leap onto the rug, where she began grooming herself.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Lucy, getting to her feet. “Bill’s waiting for me outside. He’s probably having a fit.”

  “I’d like to see that!” said Miss Tilley, giving her a little wave.

  “Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said Lucy, bending to give her a peck on the cheek. “Mind Rachel and eat your soup.”

  “I�
��ll consider it,” said Miss Tilley.

  Chapter Seven

  A few weeks later, the Tuesday before Valentine’s Day, it was only ten o’clock and Lucy was starving. She’d had a piece of toast (whole wheat with a tiny sliver of butter) and a sixty-calorie pot of light yogurt for breakfast. Along with a glass of orange juice and black coffee, she figured it totaled about three hundred calories, which was apparently not enough to sustain life in Maine in February.

  Her strict diet had resulted in the loss of six pounds, and her jeans were fitting better, but all she could think of as she made her way down Main Street was a big bowl of hot oatmeal, studded with raisins, sprinkled with sugar, and covered with cream. It hung before her eyes like a mirage in the desert, but she was about as far from any desert as a human being could be. Tinker’s Cove in February was cold and wet and anybody with any sense was staying indoors, where it was warm and dry. Which was not possible for her because she was working on a man-in-the-street feature about Valentine’s Day.

  “What are your plans for Valentine’s Day?” was the question she was supposed to ask five people. The replies would run in this week’s paper along with head shots of the people she interviewed. It was a cute idea and the sort of thing she normally liked to do. The only problem was she couldn’t find one person, much less five, and she was cold and wet and hungry.

  Deciding to try the post office, she trudged down the empty street, sloshing through slush and telling herself the cold, damp mist that hung in the air was good for her complexion. She was just passing Chanticleer Chocolate when a huge SUV pulled up to the curb and Brad Cashman jumped out.

  Brad was her neighbor. He lived on Prudence Path with his wife, Chris, who was Sue’s partner in Little Prodigies Child Care Center.

  “Hi!” she said, greeting him with a big smile. “Got a minute?”