by Leslie Meier
“So, girls, what do the players think about Coach Burkhart?” she asked, once they were buckled in and on the road. “I just interviewed him for the paper.”
“He’s okay,” said Sassie.
“Is he tough on the boys?”
“What do you mean?” asked Sara.
“Well, he seems to put a lot of emphasis on conditioning. That means drills and stuff, doesn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“They haven’t complained?”
“Nah.”
This was going nowhere, thought Lucy, and she knew from experience that it wasn’t going to get better. When teenagers didn’t want to talk, they didn’t. You could ask questions until you were red in the face but it didn’t do any good. They’d only open up when they were ready. She snorted. Good luck to Coach Buck with his open forums. She’d be amazed if he got anywhere with them. And even if they did seem to open up, chances were they’d just be putting him on, telling him what he wanted to hear.
“So, what do you think of Brad and Angelina?” she asked. “Will their relationship last?”
“I bet he really misses Jen,” said Sara.
“Yeah. Angelina drags him all around Africa and makes him visit all those slums and refugee camps.” Sassie sighed. “That couldn’t be much fun.”
Now this was a subject they had opinions about, thought Lucy, listening to the girls hash over the latest Hollywood gossip. They were still at it when she turned onto Prudence Path and into the Westwoods’ driveway. Willie must have been keeping an eye out for her because she popped out of the house as soon as Lucy braked.
“Got a minute?” she asked.
“Sure,” said Lucy, wondering what was up.
“Girls, go on inside. There’s some Fuji water in the fridge.”
The girls looked at each other, shrugged, and disappeared inside.
“I didn’t want to talk about this in front of them,” said Willie, whispering.
“Right,” said Lucy.
“But I just wanted to let you know that Renee LaChance is spending an awful lot of unsupervised time with that kid with the motorcycle.”
“Preston.”
Willie nodded. “I see him coming out of her house all the time when Frankie isn’t home.”
“Have you told Frankie about this?”
“No, and I’m not going to. I mind my own business,” said Willie. “Besides, that’s not the point. The point is that once this sort of thing starts it spreads like wildfire. I’m worried about Sassie and Sara.”
Lucy was beginning to think Willie was out of her mind. “It’s hardly catching, like measles.”
“Trust me on this, it’s worse. Once one starts they all want to do it. Frankly, I’m worried about those bus rides with the football team. Things could get out of hand.”
“I really don’t think you have to worry,” said Lucy, patting her hand. “I just interviewed Coach Burkhart and he seems to have things well in hand. I’m sure he won’t let things get out of control.”
“I hope so. You have to watch them every minute, you know. They’re sly. I just saw a Doctor Phil show about it.”
Lucy was relieved to see Sara coming out of the house, water bottle in hand. “Well, thanks for the warning. I’ve got to get my meatloaf in the oven.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. How did the doggie biscuits come out?”
“Great,” said Lucy, lying through her teeth. “Fabulous. Thanks for the recipe.” Sara hopped in the car and Lucy backed out of the driveway. “Are Sassie and her mom close?” she asked as she accelerated down the street.
“I dunno.”
Why did she even try? wondered Lucy, braking and turning into her own driveway.
Chapter 5
With the beginning of the school year looming on the horizon, the last weeks of summer seemed to speed up. It was something Lucy noticed every year. July crawled by, filled with long, lazy days. Then you turned the calendar page to August, the back-to-school ads began to appear in the paper and before you knew where it went the summer was almost gone. This year, with the bake sale scheduled for Labor Day weekend, it seemed worse than usual and all too soon she found herself readying the house for the taste-testing meeting. She kept telling herself that nobody was going to examine her housekeeping, and since her assignment was dog treats it was unlikely anybody would actually taste them. She had a free pass, so to speak, so why was she practically trembling when she opened the door and saw Chris standing there?
“Everything ready, Lucy?” asked Chris, lugging in a case of bottled water.
“The coffee pot is ready to go,” said Lucy, annoyed to find herself practically standing at attention.
“No coffee, tonight, I think. We don’t want to confuse our taste buds. That’s why I brought water.”
“Oh, good idea,” said Lucy, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Sure, it was decaf, but she could sometimes fool herself into thinking it was real coffee with an actual caffeine boost.
“What, no coffee?” It was Sue, practically stepping on Chris’s heels and carrying an attractively arranged plate of Better-than-Sex Brownies as well as a pan of Rocky Road Fudge.
“We don’t want to confuse our taste buds,” said Lucy, echoing Chris. “We’re having water instead.”
“My taste buds never get confused,” said Sue, checking to make sure the coffee pot was ready to go and then switching it on. “Now where do you want these babies?”
Lucy resisted the urge to check with Chris and told Sue to put them on the coffee table. “The dog’s outside so it should be okay.”
“Lucy, if you don’t mind a teensy little suggestion,” said Chris. She didn’t wait for Lucy’s reply but continued, “let’s use your dining room. We’ll need to take notes and I think it would be more comfortable if everyone is sitting at a table.”
Lucy’s and Sue’s eyes met. “Sure,” said Lucy. “I’m not sure if I have enough pens and paper.”
“No problem,” said Chris, opening her briefcase and producing a pile of small notepads and a handful of new pencils. “I thought of everything.”
“Now if she could only cure cancer,” muttered Sue, under her breath.
“There’s the doorbell,” said Chris. “Lucy, why don’t you get the door and, Sue, you can help me carry these things into the dining room.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sue, adding a salute for emphasis but Chris didn’t seem to notice.
Mimi was at the door, full of apologies for missing the earlier meeting. “I had to work, you know, but I’m so glad I could make it tonight. I think the Hat and Mitten Fund is a wonderful idea. In fact, the town employees make a donation every year.”
“And we’re very grateful for it,” said Pam, who had followed her up the walk, carefully balancing a tray of oatmeal raisin and peanut butter cookies. “No yolks,” she whispered to Lucy, with a wink. “And I used applesauce and canola oil instead of butter.”
“Ooh, yummy,” cooed Sue, receiving a warning glance from Lucy. “Sorry, Pam. I’m just a little tired of Miss Bossy Pants.” She cocked her head towards Chris, who was setting out the pads, pencils, and water bottles on the dining room table.
“Oh, Lucy,” she called, “I think we need a few more chairs.”
“No problem,” replied Lucy, as the doorbell chimed again. “Will you girls grab a couple of chairs from the kitchen?”
“Sure, Lucy,” said Sue. “We’ll set out the cream and sugar, too.”
Lucy was beginning to get a headache, but she smiled brightly as she opened the door to admit Willie and Bonnie. “Thanks for coming, go right on in to the dining room,” she told them, keeping the door open for Rachel and Frankie. She pointed them in the right direction and then dashed into the kitchen for the doggie treats, which she added to the array of baked goods on the dining table. “All present and accounted for,” she announced, taking the last empty chair, next to Mimi.
“Then I’ll call the meeting to order,” said Chris, producing a gavel
and tapping the table.
“Hey, who made you chairperson?” demanded Sue. “Pam’s in charge of the Hat and Mitten Fund.”
Pam shrugged. “It’s fine with me. Chris can be President Pro Tempore.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Mimi. Her tone was a tad too aggressive and put off the other women, who seemed to avoid acknowledging her question.
“Temporarily,” said Rachel, always a champion of the underdog. “For this matter only. The bake sale.”
“Well why didn’t she say that?” grumbled Mimi, glancing resentfully around the table.
“Moving right along,” said Chris, briskly tapping the table again, “I propose we each introduce our products. Don’t forget to include a brief synopsis of the recipe including expense and level of difficulty. By way of example, I’ll begin.” Chris produced a square tin from her briefcase, which Lucy was beginning to think must have the same magic properties as Mary Poppins’s carpet bag, and pried it open. “These are my Kitchen Sink Cookies. They’re a version of a peanut butter cookie with the addition of raisins, a few chocolate chips and nuts.”
Across the table, Pam grimaced at Lucy as if she knew her healthy peanut butter cookies were doomed.
“The main virtue of this recipe,” continued Chris, “is that it’s easy to make and the recipe makes a lot of cookies. They do contain butter and white sugar, but those ingredients are offset by the peanut butter, raisins, and nuts, which make them a relatively healthy treat. As I mentioned, the amount of chocolate chips is really quite small but they have a big impact.”
She passed the plate and everyone took a cookie, bit into it, and chewed.
“Mmm,” said Lucy. “How do we score them?”
“One to five,” said Chris. “Rachel, would you collect the papers and add up the scores?” When Rachel agreed she pulled a calculator out of her briefcase and slid it across the table to her.
Time passed quickly as the women nibbled on cookies and sipped water and jotted down their scores. Willie was the only one who tried the dog biscuits, but she pronounced them quite good. Chris was willing to take her word for it, but suggested Lucy give the dog treats an egg wash to give them more eye appeal. Her second entry, lemon-poppy seed muffins which she’d whipped up from a mix at the last minute, didn’t score well, which was fine with her. Pam’s oatmeal cookies got the okay, but her peanut butter cookies were judged inferior to Chris’s Kitchen Sink Cookies. Though Frankie’s chocolate genoise was voted delicious but not practical for the bake sale, her madeleines passed muster. Bonnie’s homemade arrowroot cookies got an enthusiastic nod but Rachel’s carob oaties and granola goodies were deemed to have too much fiber. Mimi’s pumpkin-raisin cookies got a cool approval—they were awfully good but nobody wanted to admit it—and Willie’s angel food slices were judged too difficult and expensive to make.
“Difficult for whom?” demanded Willie. “Anybody can whip up egg whites.”
“Too wasteful,” said Frankie. “What are we supposed to do with all the yolks?”
“Feed them to the dogs, that’s what I do,” said Willie. “Especially if I’ve got a pregnant bitch.”
“Well, I don’t have a bitch,” snapped Frankie.
“That’s what you think,” countered Willie.
“Let’s taste Sue’s brownies,” said Lucy, interrupting Frankie before she could utter a rejoinder. “They really are better than sex.”
“Nothing’s better than sex,” chuckled Frankie.
“You ought to know,” said Willie.
“At least I haven’t forgotten, like some people,” said Frankie.
“Time out,” called Rachel. “We’re considering the brownies. I give them a five.”
Sue beamed at her.
“I think the name is adorable,” said Pam. “Can you make little labels?”
“You can do anything with a computer, right?” said Sue.
“These are amazing,” agreed Frankie. “I love how the butter taste is there but it’s not overpowering, and the sweetness of the sugar is balanced by the slight bitterness of the chocolate. I would love the recipe. I also give them a five.”
“I’m sorry, I like the brownies but I find the name objectionable. I don’t think the labels are a good idea at all,” said Bonnie.
“Neither do I,” said Mimi, eager to form an alliance after the chilly reception she’d received so far. “There’s plenty of sex on TV and movies, I don’t think we need to bring it into our bake sale.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Bonnie, quickly distancing herself from Mimi. “I just think that if we’re going to have labels they ought to be informative and list the ingredients.”
“For Pete’s sake,” said Sue, “it’s just a name. It’s not like they’ve got obscene decorations or anything.”
“I love the humorous name, and the taste,” said Lucy, staunchly defending her friend. “I give them a five.” She passed her scorecard to Chris, who was busy adding up the numbers.
“The brownies come up short,” said Chris. “It’s just as well, I think. They must be loaded with trans fat.”
“Maybe you should have called them ‘Cardiac Arrest Brownies,’” said Mimi. If it was meant to be a joke it flopped, earning disapproving stares from everyone.
Sue was about to utter a rejoinder when Rachel covered her hand with her own and said quickly, “Let’s not forget we’re all working for the same goal here.”
“Right,” added Bonnie. “We’re all on the same team.”
“If we’re going to meet our goal we need to talk about quantities,” said Chris, flourishing her calculator. “And pricing.”
“I’m going to get some more coffee,” said Sue, getting to her feet. “Anyone else want some before we get down to facts and figures?”
Lucy doubted Sue really wanted more coffee; she figured she was simply trying to provoke Chris. It seemed a worthy goal, so she got up, too. “I’ll just make sure the pot’s still hot,” she said.
Once they were in the kitchen, with the door closed, Sue exploded. “Do you believe it? Too much trans fat! Too sexy! ‘Maybe we should call them Cardiac Arrest Brownies!’ Who are these people? Where’d they come from?”
“They’re my neighbors,” moaned Lucy, pouring the coffee.
“How’d the meeting go?” asked Phyllis, when Lucy arrived at work the next morning. She was taking apart an Egg McMuffin, saving the egg and sausage and discarding the muffin, and the air was redolent with the scent of fast food.
“They rejected Sue’s brownies,” said Lucy.
Phyllis widened her eyes, which were already highlighted with bright blue eye shadow. “How’d she take it?”
“Not well. She’s supposed to make nutty meringue bars—Chris says nuts are the new broccoli—but I’m afraid she may fill them with explosives or something.”
“You could call them Atomic Bomb Bars. Catchy, no?”
“Just remember,” said Lucy, pulling her mail out of the box, “you heard it from me first. World War III begins on Labor Day weekend, at the outlet mall.” She was flipping through the envelopes. “All it will take is for somebody to say something negative about her baking.”
“I just hope the meringue gets done in the middle.”
“Me, too,” said Lucy, flipping one envelope back and forth, looking for a return address. “I think I’ve got another anonymous letter.”
“Open it,” demanded Phyllis. “Maybe there’s more about Naked Twister.”
“Not Twister,” said Lucy, scanning the letter. “Something called ‘Butts Up.’ The coach makes the freshmen all line up holding their ankles and the upper classmen pelt their bums with soccer balls.”
“Bare bums?”
“I don’t think so. The letter doesn’t say and I think it would if they had to strip.” She paused. “I don’t get it. When I interviewed Coach Buck he insisted he doesn’t tolerate hazing.”
“Naked Twister sounds like more fun.” Phyllis downed t
he last bit of sausage. “Do you think they really do this stuff?”
“I don’t know what to believe. Whoever’s writing these letters sure thinks something’s going on.”
“It could be somebody with a grudge,” suggested Phyllis. “Somebody who wants to make trouble for the new coach.”
“Or the school,” said Lucy. “This could be a really big story if the hazing is actually taking place.”
“Uh-oh,” said Phyllis. “Here we go. Lucy Stone, investigative reporter, tackles another challenging case.” She held up a stack of papers. “But before you do, would you mind sorting these press releases for me?”
“I bet Woodward and Bernstein didn’t have to sort press releases,” grumbled Lucy, taking them to her desk.
That night, after supper, Lucy managed to get Sara and Zoe to agree to make doggie biscuits, so long as no raw liver was involved. She’d been assigned to produce thirty dozen of them and she needed all the help she could get.
“It’s a different recipe,” promised Lucy, “with cooked chicken livers.”
“Eeeuw,” chorused the girls.
“How about I cook the livers and you take it from there? Please?” Lucy was tired and didn’t want to spend the entire evening on her feet, rolling out dog biscuits. “I’ll double your allowances this week.”
The girls agreed and set to work sifting flour and measuring wheat germ while Lucy browned the chicken livers. Libby was standing by her side, in hopes that a tasty tidbit would come her way.
“This is a better recipe,” said Sara.
“Libby likes them,” said Zoe.
“She’s going to miss you girls once school starts again,” said Lucy, turning the livers over.
“It’s too bad dogs can’t read,” said Zoe. “Then she’d have something to do while we’re gone.”
“Are you sad summer’s ending?”
Zoe nodded, stirring the dry ingredients together. Sara, breaking eggs into a bowl, shook her head. “I’ll be glad when school starts. I’ll see more of my friends and I won’t have to work at the inn anymore.”
