Bake Sale Murder Read online

  “That’s great,” said Lucy, hoping that assuming a mortgage together might be the spur the couple needed to get married. “Where are you looking?”

  “Anywhere and everywhere,” said Toby. “Trouble is, prices are rising faster than we can save.”

  “It’s true,” nodded Molly. “Even with what we’ve got we’re worried we won’t qualify for a mortgage. It’s the monthly payments—plus Toby’s income falls in the winter.”

  “I ought to do a story on this for the paper,” said Lucy. “How rising prices are locking young people out of the housing market.”

  “It isn’t just prices,” said Sid. “It’s all these regulations. Young folks can’t just buy an old fixer-upper like we did and take their time renovating it. Now you can’t even get a mortgage on a house unless its septic system is up to code—that adds a good five or ten thousand to the cost.”

  Lucy thought of the years she’d struggled with a failing cesspool, carefully timing baths and flushes and pumping the washing machine water out a hose running through a window into the back yard. She’d never get away with that now, especially with a nosy neighbor like Mimi. Then she remembered that Mimi was gone, murdered, and finished off her drink.

  “Let me get you another,” said Sid, hopping to his feet as Sue appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  “Be sure to try the mini spanikopita,” said Sue. “They’re yummy.”

  The little spinach pies were delicious, and so were the cheese and olive swirls and the bruschetta and the crab and artichoke dip. Lucy was feeling full, and a little bit woozy from the second apple martini, which went down a lot quicker than the first, when Sue announced dinner. They all gathered around the big round table under a market umbrella that Sue had set with Provence-style linens and pottery and Sue started passing the mustard-seed crusted burgers on home-made rolls. Then came the horse-radish slaw, warm mushroom and stilton salad, pea tendrils with lemon dressing, cauliflower-leek kugel, and Southern-fried chicken. “That’s for anyone who doesn’t like fancy burgers,” said Sue, with a nod to the girls.

  Lucy knew she shouldn’t, in fact, she kept saying so, but she was unable to pass on any of it, declaring she’d have “just a taste.”

  “That’s what French women do,” said Sue. “That’s why they never get fat.”

  “And what’s your secret?” asked Lucy, wondering how Sue could cook the way she did and still stay rail thin.

  “She doesn’t eat during the week,” said Sid, earning a sharp glance from his wife.

  “That’s not exactly true, I just try to balance it out. If I have a big dinner, I just have coffee for breakfast.”

  So when the lemon curd mousse cake and strawberries with mint sugar and lavender syrup came, Lucy tried to pass. “I couldn’t eat another bite,” she said, rubbing her taut tummy.

  “Oh, Lucy, you have to try it. I worked for hours,” coaxed Sue.

  “It’s true,” said Sid. “It’s what she does now. She cooks all day long.”

  “I wish Lucy would cook like this,” said Bill, diving into his cake. “Lately all she’s been cooking is dog biscuits.”

  Lucy gave him a dirty look and shook her head. “No, no. None for me. Everything is delicious but I’m too stuffed.”

  “Oh, just a bite…”

  “Okay,” said Lucy, “a bite.”

  Sue handed her a plate with an enormous slice of cake topped with heaps of glistening berries. It was too much for Lucy who could hardly bear to look at it; she was beginning to feel sick to her stomach from all the rich food.

  “Well, aren’t you going to taste it?” demanded Sue.

  “I really don’t think I can,” protested Lucy. “Could you wrap it up for me so I can take it home?”

  “I can’t believe this, Lucy Stone,” snapped Sue, her dark eyes flashing angrily. “You know perfectly well you eat everything you’re served when you’re the guest.”

  “Be reasonable, Sue. This was an awful lot of food. Absolutely delicious…”

  There were nods all around.

  “…but a body can only manage so much.”

  “I don’t think you like my cooking. You didn’t eat my Better-Than-Sex Brownies, either.”

  “I would have but Ted ate them all before I got a chance,” joked Lucy, feeling rather green about the gills.

  “You’ve been listening to that Chris Cashman, that’s what it is. All that nonsense about cholesterol and calories and nuts are the new broccoli.”

  “Sue, this is ridiculous,” said Lucy, standing up. She knew if she continued to sit there she’d throw up on the table. “I’m just not feeling well. It has nothing to do with Chris or you or your cooking. It’s probably the flu. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go home.”

  “Well, I do mind,” said Sue. “You’re ruining my barbecue.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lucy. Hoping to convince her that her distress was real, she added, “Maybe it’s a delayed reaction from finding Mimi yesterday.”

  “Well, if you’re going to investigate, I know where you can start. You should have heard what your good buddy Chris had to say about Mimi yesterday at the bake sale. She was really ticked that Mimi reported her home business to the planning board.”

  “I know,” chuckled Lucy, immediately realizing she’d made a mistake. Sue’s radar would zero in on this little blip.

  “You’ve already talked to her?” snapped Sue.

  “She called to tell me how much the sale made,” said Lucy, rising to the bait.

  “And how much was that?”

  “Twelve hundred dollars.”

  “Well, we could have made more if she’d only let me bring my brownies.” Sue’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Chris was the murderer.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Lucy, heartily sick of Sue. She wanted to get home and out of her tight pedal pushers. She turned to Sid. “Thanks for having us. Everything was wonderful.”

  Sue pointedly ignored her, busying herself cutting another piece of cake for Toby.

  In the car, with the windows open and a cool breeze blowing on her face, Lucy felt better. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Sue,” said Bill. “She was really on your case.”

  “She’s jealous of Chris Cashman,” said Lucy.

  “I didn’t know you were good friends with her,” said Bill.

  “I’m not. It’s completely irrational,” replied Lucy. She shrugged. “Maybe she’s worried about Sid’s job. He works for Fred Stanton, doesn’t he?”

  “I asked him about that,” said Bill. “He says the work schedule hasn’t changed. Fred’s going full-speed ahead.”

  Lucy sat quietly, digesting this bit of information along with her huge meal as they followed the winding road that ran along the shore, high above the rocks and seething water below.

  “Mom, look, there’s Tommy,” said Zoe.

  He was walking along the side of the road with his head down, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets. He didn’t seem to have any sense of purpose but was just shuffling along, giving the occasional pebble a half-hearted kick.

  “Can we give you a ride?” asked Bill, yelling out the window as he slowed the car.

  Startled, Tommy looked up, then shook his head. His face was red and puffy, as if he’d been crying.

  “Are you sure?”

  Tommy nodded and there was nothing they could do but drive on. “I feel awful for him,” said Lucy, turning to watch his sad little figure straggling aimlessly along the empty road.

  “Me, too,” said Bill.

  Chapter 9

  Weeks with Monday holidays were always hell at the Pennysaver and this week was worse than usual because of Mimi’s murder. Ted was already working the phone trying to track down Lieutenant Horowitz when Lucy got to work on Tuesday morning.

  “You won’t get anything from him, anyway,” said Lucy, when he slammed down the receiver in frustration.

  “Then I can write ‘no comme
nt’ which is a lot better than ‘was unavailable for comment.’”

  “What exactly is the difference?” inquired Phyllis, who was entering some last-minute classified ads into the computer.

  “‘No comment’ means you at least got to talk to the guy; ‘unavailable for comment’ means he won’t even bother to speak to you. It’s a bigger put down,” said Lucy, who was flipping through her mail. There were lots of press releases but no anonymous letter; maybe the writer was busy over the holiday weekend. Or maybe, she realized with a start, Mimi was the writer. And if Fred had discovered the letters, it might have precipitated a fight that ended with her death.

  “Thanks for that insight, Lucy,” said Ted, interrupting her train of thought. “Just for that you get to write Mimi Stanton’s obit.”

  “That’s not fair,” protested Lucy, but Ted was already out the door.

  “I guess he showed you,” said Phyllis. “He’s unavailable for comment.”

  “Maybe Fred will be, too,” said Lucy, punching in the Stantons’s number. She hated interviewing bereaved family members; it was the hardest part of a reporter’s job and it was always worse when the deceased died suddenly, like in a car crash. The absolute worst, of course, was when the deceased was a victim of violence, like Mimi, and you suspected her husband of being the murderer.

  “Hello.” The voice was male, but Lucy wasn’t sure if it was Fred or Preston or some other family member.

  “This is Lucy Stone, at the Pennysaver. Could I speak to Fred Stanton, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice,” began Lucy. “Let me begin by telling you how sorry I am for your loss. We’ll all miss Mimi.”

  “Right.” Fred’s tone was curt. Maybe he was limiting himself to one-word answers because he was afraid of breaking down or maybe he wasn’t going to be missing Mimi much at all. Lucy couldn’t tell.

  “I mostly need basic facts for the obituary,” said Lucy, keeping her voice gentle and soothing. “Let’s begin with her maiden name.”

  “Mary Catherine O’Toole.”

  After she went over the spelling, apologizing profusely for being such a stickler, she asked for information about Mimi’s parents and place of birth.

  “Boston.”

  “She was born in Boston,” repeated Lucy, giving him a chance to correct her if necessary, “and her parents?”

  “Don’t know,” he said, cutting her off.

  “You don’t know who your wife’s parents were?” persisted Lucy.

  “Never met ’em.” Fred sounded defensive.

  “Sisters? Brothers?”

  “No,” he answered, raising his voice.

  “So you and the two boys are the only survivors?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Fred’s tone was becoming hostile.

  “It’s just a formality. It’s always included in an obituary.”

  “How long is this going to take?” he asked abruptly.

  “I have quite a list of questions. It’s a summation of her whole life, you know.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “But don’t you want people to know about her life? What she did, what was important to her?”

  “No.” He paused. “And don’t go bothering my boys either.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t…” began Lucy, but the line had gone dead.

  The usual trick in that case was to call back immediately and say the line must have been disconnected but Lucy didn’t think it would work. Fred wasn’t going to talk to her. Luckily, there were plenty of other people who knew Mimi, like her colleagues at town hall, but it would take forever to track them down.

  Lucy had to finish up the obituary on Wednesday which, in addition to being deadline day, was the first day of school. The school year wasn’t getting off to a great start, at least not in the Stone household. Sara and Zoe were running late, and the fact that the school bus now stopped over at Prudence Path instead of at the end of their driveway meant they couldn’t count on the driver honking and waiting for them as she had in the past.

  “Girls! You’ve got to get over to the bus stop NOW!” yelled Lucy, who was nervously keeping an eye on the Regulator clock in the kitchen.

  A desultory series of thumps announced Zoe’s arrival at the foot of the back stairs. She was wearing her brand new back-to-school outfit, a pink track suit just like the ones Britney and Jessica wore.

  “Do you have a T-shirt on underneath?” asked Lucy, who knew it was going to be another hot day. “You’ll roast if you can’t take off that hoodie.”

  “I’m not going to take it off.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy, who had learned to pick her battles. “Whatever. Have you got your lunch? And where’s your sister?”

  “She’s in the bathroom.”

  Lucy pounded up the stairs and found Sara leaning over the bathroom sink, applying mascara with leisurely strokes punctuated with long pauses to examine the effect she was creating.

  “You’re going to miss the bus—you’ll have to finish that at school.”

  “The school bathrooms smell.”

  “I don’t care. You have got to go. Now.”

  “You could drive us,” said Sara, slowly screwing the top of the mascara tube.

  “In your dreams. GO!”

  She gave Sara a shove towards the stairs but she detoured into her bedroom.

  “What now?”

  “I need my book bag.”

  Peering into the bedroom the girls shared, Lucy saw no sign of a book bag.

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember where I put it.”

  “When exactly was this?” inquired Lucy.

  “Last June.”

  “There’s no time. We’ll look for it later. You have to go.”

  “I’ll get in trouble.”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that yesterday,” said Lucy, reaching for her final card. “I will not drive you. If you miss the bus you will be late or absent. Is that how you want to start your high school career?”

  “Okay, I’m going, Mom.”

  Sara managed the stairs with the speed of a death row prisoner taking the last mile, but eventually she made it down to the kitchen and out the door with her sister. Lucy stood for a moment, savoring the view of the two departing girls, then turned back to the counter to pour herself a celebratory cup of coffee. That’s when she noticed Sara’s lunch still sitting on the counter. Grabbing it, she ran after them, catching up just as they joined the group of parents and children waiting for the bus. All the Prudence Path moms were there, except for Chris, whose kids were still too young for school.

  Sara wasn’t all that pleased to see her. “Mom, I don’t want it,” she hissed, reluctantly taking the bright red insulated bag Lucy had bought for her. “The cheerleaders all buy lunch.”

  “We didn’t discuss this…” began Lucy, but thought better of continuing in front of the entire neighborhood. She suspected the cheerleaders didn’t eat lunch at all, probably subsisting on diet soda from the controversial machine that some parents were trying to have removed from the cafeteria, but this wasn’t the time to go into that. She pulled a couple of crumpled dollar bills from her pocket and gave them to Sara just as the big yellow bus came into view. There was a flurry of hugs and kisses and waves and then the kids were all aboard, the door closed, and they were on their way.

  The women stood about awkwardly, occasionally casting glances towards the Stanton house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Mimi’s murder was on everybody’s mind but nobody wanted to be the first to bring it up.

  “It’s been a long summer,” said Willie, speaking to nobody in particular.

  “You can say that again,” agreed Frankie, determined to be friendly.

  Willie pointedly ignored her, practically turning her back on her in a way that excluded her from the circle. “Summer vacation is too long. The kids get bored after the first few weeks.”

&nb
sp; “I can’t believe my girls are in kindergarten,” said Bonnie, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “They’re still babies.”

  “School is the best thing that ever happened to mothers,” said Frankie. “Trust me.”

  “She’s right,” added Lucy. “Lydia Volpe, the kindergarten teacher, is an old friend of mine. Your girls will love her.”

  “I’m going to miss them,” wailed Bonnie.

  “You’ll be surprised how fast the time goes. They’ll be home before you know it,” said Lucy.

  “Anyone for coffee?” asked Frankie. “I just made a fresh pot. I thought Bonnie might need a little coffee and sympathy.”

  Willie recoiled, as if Frankie had suggested something improper, but Bonnie accepted the invitation eagerly. Lucy reluctantly declined. She’d love to hear what the women thought of Mimi’s murder but she didn’t have time. It was deadline day and she had to finish that darned obituary.

  “That was a nice tribute you wrote about Mimi,” said Officer Barney Culpepper, easing his big frame next to Lucy in the pew. They, and a couple hundred other people, were attending Mimi’s funeral mass on Thursday morning in Our Lady of Hope church.

  “Thanks, Barney. I did my best. You were a big help,” said Lucy, looking around the packed church. “Funny, I didn’t think she knew that many people.”

  “It’s ’cause o’ the way she died,” said Barney. “They all come out of the woodwork for a murder.” He sighed. “She was a nice lady. Everybody at the station liked her. Felt sorry for her, you know, ’cause of her husband. Now I’m not sayin’ he hit her or anything but some men don’t have to, if you know what I mean. They get their wives scared and keep ’em scared, always afraid he’ll lose his temper.” Barney shifted in the pew, which groaned under his weight. “But lately, things seemed to be looking up for her. She seemed happier, more relaxed. The boys were older and more independent, they had that nice new house and, well, Fred’s business was doin’ better. I don’t care what people say, ’bout money not mattering, believe me, it matters. I’ve seen a lot of tragic situations that coulda been avoided if people coulda got a night out, gone on a vacation, fixed the car. You know?”