“Hi, Steffie. You’re the first. Come on in.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I came a little early,” said Steffie, carefully maneuvering her tray of cookies through the door. “Tom—that’s my husband—he asked me to bring some MADD pamphlets. But I wanted to make sure it was OK with you, so I thought I’d better get here before everybody else.”
“Mad pamphlets?” asked a puzzled Lucy, taking the cookies and leading the way to the dining room. She lifted the foil and peeked, nodding with satisfaction at what looked like old-fashioned mincemeat cookies.
“Right,” said Steffie, with a nod that made her perky short blond hair bounce. “Mothers Against Drunk Driving. They have a campaign this time every year to cut down on holiday accidents.”
“These look yummy,” said Lucy, setting the cookies down on the table.
“Just an old family recipe, they’re quick and easy,” said Steffie, slipping out of her coat and handing it to Lucy. She began digging in her enormous leather shoulder bag. “Now, about the pamphlets—I thought we could just put them out next to the cookies.”
Lucy regarded the handful of brochures doubtfully. “I don’t think…”
“Oh, but nobody could object, could they?” asked Steffie earnestly. “After all, we’re all mothers, and this is from Mothers Against Drunk Driving. And Tom, that’s my husband, tells me they are doing an absolutely fabulous job. He’s a police lieutenant, and he has the utmost respect for MADD. He says they’re one organization that is really making a difference.”
Steffie’s blue eyes were blazing and she was speaking with all the zeal of a true convert. Lucy felt a little prickle of resentment. This was her party, after all. Steffie had no business promoting her agenda in Lucy’s house.
“It’s certainly a worthy cause…” began Lucy, intending to firmly reject Steffie’s offer, but realizing in mid-sentence that there was no way she could decently refuse. She could hardly argue in favor of drunk driving. What was she going to say that wouldn’t sound irresponsible? She realized she was trapped, and began to think she really didn’t like Steffie all that much.
The phone rang just then, and Lucy seized on the opportunity to avoid the issue. “Fine,” she said, with a dismissive wave of the hand, reaching for the receiver.
“Lucy, this is Marge.”
Oh, no, thought Lucy, watching as Steffie began arranging her pamphlets on the table. She can’t come.
“Hi. How are you doing?”
“Not so good—that’s why I’m calling.” Marge spoke slowly, as if even talking on the phone was an effort. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t make it tonight.”
Lucy had known this might happen, but she was still disappointed.
“That’s too bad…” she began, passing the coat back to Steffie and pointing her to the coat closet.
“I know. I was really hoping I could come. I got the candy-cane cookies all made, and Sue’s going to pick ’em up and bring ’em. But I guess making the cookies used up all my energy. I’m beat now.”
Lucy hoped it was the effects of the chemotherapy that was making Marge feel bad, and not the cancer, but she didn’t know how to ask.
“I heard you’re having a rough time with the chemo.”
“You can say that again. If I can just survive the treatment, I’ll have this thing licked,” she said, with a weak chuckle. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”
“You hang in there,” said Lucy. She thought of Marge’s husband, Police Officer Barney Culpepper, and her son, Eddie, who was Toby’s age. “Barney and Eddie need you.”
“I know they do,” replied Marge, with a little catch in her voice. “They’ve been terrific, you know. Hardly let me do a thing in the house. They keep saying I’ve got to save my energy to fight the cancer.”
“They’re right. You concentrate on getting well. I’ll make sure you get your cookies. I’ll bring them over one day this week.”
“That’ll be great. Thanks, Lucy.”
What rotten luck, thought Lucy, slowly replacing the receiver. Marge was barely forty and the rumors around town were that her prognosis wasn’t good, but she was fighting with every ounce of strength she had.
That’s all you can do, thought Lucy, who feared every month when she examined her breasts that she’d find a lump.
“That was Marge Culpepper,” Lucy told Steffie by way of explanation. “Her husband is on the police force, too.”
“I think I’ve heard Tom mention his name.”
“Well, Marge can’t come tonight. She’s been having chemotherapy and doesn’t feel very well.”
“Cancer?”
Lucy nodded. “I have a few things to do in the kitchen, so why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I’ll be right back.”
She hurried into the kitchen, where she set up the coffeepot and filled the kettle with water for tea. Then she filled the sugar bowl and creamer and carried them out to the dining room, setting them on the sideboard along with the cake. Turning toward the living room, where Steffie was perched on the couch and leafing through a coffee-table book, Lucy thought it was about time for Sue to show up. After all, Steffie was her friend.
As if by magic, the doorbell rang just then.
“Come on in,” cried Lucy, welcoming reinforcements in the form of Juanita Orenstein and Rachel Goodman. Juanita’s little girl, Sadie, was Zoe’s best friend.
“Before I forget—congratulations, Rachel. Toby told me all about Richie.”
“Thanks, Lucy,” said Rachel, glowing with maternal pride. “I can still hardly believe it myself, and I was the one who encouraged him to give Harvard a try.”
“You never know unless you try,” added Juanita, sagely.
“What? What’s happened?” asked Steffie, joining the group in the hallway.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “Let me introduce Steffie Scott. This is Rachel Goodman—her son was just accepted at Harvard—and…”
“Harvard!” shrieked Steffie, sounding like one of the hysterical winners in a Publishers Clearinghouse commercial. “That’s fantastic!”
Lucy and Juanita’s eyes met. Lucy raised her eyebrows, and Juanita gave a little smirk.
“Actually,” said Rachel, whose glow of pride had been replaced with a blush of embarrassment, “the best part is having the whole application process over with. I’m so glad he decided to try for early decision—now he doesn’t have to worry and can enjoy his senior year.”
“Well, I’ve been reading up on this,” said Steffie. “My son, Will, is only three, but it’s never too early to start planning. And the experts say that early decision definitely increases your chances at the top schools.”
“Does it really? I didn’t know that,” said Rachel. “Actually, Richie’s grandfather went to Harvard, and I think that had more to do with his admission than anything else.”
“Really?” asked Steffie, her eyes round in surprise. “I didn’t know they took Jews way back then.”
For a moment the women stood in shocked silence. Then Rachel spoke. “You’re probably right, though I’m sure it’s nothing they’re proud of today. And anyway, it was my dad who went, and he’s not Jewish. My maiden name is Webster. For the record, Bob’s folks are Jewish, but I have to confess we don’t really practice any religion at all.” She chuckled. “On Sunday mornings we walk the dog and read the paper.”
“I didn’t mean to give the wrong impression,” said Steffie, realizing she’d made a blunder. “It doesn’t matter to me what religion you are. Can I help you with those cookies?”
Hearing a knock, Lucy opened the door. As she suspected, it was Franny, who preferred a quiet rap to the gong of the doorbell.
“It’s just me and Lydia,” she said, with a nod toward her friend, kindergarten teacher Lydia Volpe. “I hope I parked OK. I didn’t want to block anybody in.” She was looking anxiously over her shoulder.
“She’s parked fine,” said Lydia, with a shrug. “I kept telling her.�
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“I’m sure it’s fine. Let me take that,” said Lucy, reaching for the cookie tin Franny was clutching to her bosom.
“Just the same old Chinese noodle cookies—I’m not much of a cook and you don’t have to bake them. You just melt the chocolate and add the noodles and peanuts and drop them on waxed paper. I could never make pizzelles like Lydia—I don’t know how she does it. They seem so difficult.”
“Not really,” said Lydia. “Trust me. I’m not really a good cook—not like my mother.”
“Well, I’m sure they’re both delicious. As always. My kids love them. It wouldn’t be Christmas without them.”
“You’re sweet to say so, Lucy,” said Franny, idly picking up one of the pamphlets.
“If we brought mudpies, Lucy would find something nice to say,” joked Lydia.
“Don’t the cookies look good this year? Don’t tell me you made this cake, Lucy. It looks delicious,” said Franny.
“Mmm, it does,” agreed Lydia. “Now what can we do to help?”
Lucy looked up as the door flew open and Pam Stillings and Andrea Rogers sailed in.
“Would you be dears and bring in the coffee? The pot’s in the kitchen. And the tea water ought to be ready, too.”
“Be glad to,” said Lydia, as she and Franny headed for the kitchen.
Lucy went to greet the new arrivals.
“We didn’t ring the bell—we figured you’d have your hands full,” announced Pam, who was married to Lucy’s boss at The Pennysaver, Ted Stillings.
“Well, come on in and make yourselves at home. You know where everything is.”
“I made my usual decorated sugar cookies,” said Andrea, handing a basket to Lucy. Her eyes were bright, and her color was high. Lucy wondered if she had a fever.
“Are you feeling OK?” she asked in a concerned voice.
“Who me? I’m fine,” said Andrea, avoiding Lucy’s eyes and looking around the hallway to the rooms beyond. “Doesn’t everything look wonderful? I’m so glad you decided to continue the cookie exchange. It’s such a wonderful tradition.”
“How many years, Lucy?” inquired Pam.
“It must be sixteen, anyway,” guessed Lucy.
“That’s right. I think Adam was still in diapers when I came for the first time.”
“And Tim hadn’t even begun playing baseball, yet,” said Andrea, who always thought of her son’s growth in terms of his progress in the sport. “Remember Little League? Wasn’t that fun?”
“It sure was,” said Lucy, winking at Pam. Their sons hadn’t shown much talent for baseball, and they mostly remembered the games as opportunities for the boys to make humiliating mistakes. Andrea, however, had afforded everyone a great deal of amusement as a one-woman cheering section for Tim.
“I always knew baseball would pay off for Tim,” continued Andrea. “And it has. You know quite a few scouts were interested in him last season, and we got a call from the athletic director at Maine Christian University this afternoon.” Andrea’s voice was rising and had become quite loud. “He got a full scholarship—tuition, room and board, even a little spending money. Isn’t that fantastic?”
“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 p
lenty 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.
Christmas Cookie Murder #6 Page 3
