A delicious mystery for Valentine
Between a cutthroat dessert contest and her daughter’s new
job at the fanciest chocolate shop Tinker’s Cove has ever
seen, Lucy Stone is on a steady diet of tempting treats! But
with a killer on the loose, and Valentine’s Day around the
corner, there may be nothing sweeter than revenge… It’s frigid in snow-covered Tinker’s Cove, and Lucy is
fighting the winter blues—and her widening waistline. No one
in their right mind would vacation in Maine this time of
year, but to boost the economy, the town is launching a
travel promotion for Valentine’s Day. As a reporter for the
Pennysaver, Lucy is assigned a puff piece on upscale
Chanticleer’s Chocolates, and its deliciously handsome
owner, Trey Meacham. But when a local fisherman drowns
suspiciously, Lucy’s certain her investigative skills could
be put to better use… Everyone is shocked when Fern’s Famous Fudge loses its
status as “Best Candy on the Coast” to Chanticleer’s pricey
newfangled confections. And Lucy soon discovers there’s
another tantalizing tart behind the counter. Sultry store
manager Tamzin Graves is only too eager to serve her male
clientele—who find her as mouthwatering as her
beef-jerky-spiked truffles. Leaving a throng of jealous
women in her wake, it’s almost no surprise when Tamzin is
the next to turn up dead, her body covered in chocolate… Could a bitter ex-wife be behind the crimes? Or a candy shop
competitor? There’s no sugar-coating the truth, and as Lucy
closes in on the culprit, she may find herself locked in the
clutches of a half-baked killer…
Excerpt Chapter One
If the cold didn't kill her, the slippery ice on the
sidewalk surely would, thought Lucy Stone as she stepped out
of the overheated town hall basement meeting room into a
frigid Monday afternoon. January was always cold in the
little coastal town of Tinker's Cove, Maine, and this year
was a record-breaker. The electronic sign on the bank across
the street informed her it was five forty-five and nine, no,
eight degrees. The temperature was falling fast and was
predicted to sink below zero during the night. Lucy hurried across the frozen parking lot as fast as she
dared, mindful that a patch of ice could send her flying.
Reaching the car, she made sure the heater was on high, and
waited a few minutes for the engine to warm up. While she
waited, she thought about the meeting she had just attended
and how she would write it up for the local paper, the
Tinker's Cove Pennysaver. The topic under discussion was improving toilet facilities
at the town beach and quite a crowd had turned out for the
meeting. In her experience as a reporter, only dog hearings
excited more interest than wastewater issues and this
meeting had been no exception. Of course, people had been complaining about the inadequate
facilities for some time; a group of concerned citizens had
even entered a float in the Fourth of July parade as a
protest. The parade theme had been "From Sea to Shining Sea"
and the float depicted the town beach strewn with sewage.
The ensuing controversy had prompted the selectmen to
address the issue, but there was little agreement on the
solution. The budget-minded had favored continuing the
present Porta-Potties, the cheapest option. Installing earth
closets, the eco-friendly option, had brought out the
tree-huggers; the business community, which depended on
tourist dollars, had lobbied for conventional toilets, which
would require digging a well and putting in an expensive
septic system. This was going to be fun to write up, she thought, as she
shifted into drive and proceeded cautiously across the icy
parking lot and onto the road. In addition to the cold, they
had recently had a big snowfall, so the road was lined with
high banks of plowed snow. It was hard to see around the
piles of snow, so Lucy inched out into the road, hoping
nothing was coming. As she drove along Main Street, past the police station and
clustered stores, past the Community Church with its tall
steeple, she thought of possible opening sentences. She'd
driven this route so often that her mind was wandering and
she was halfway through her story when she cleared town and
the landscape opened with harvested cornfields on both sides
of the road. The winter sunset was fabulous, the sky a
blazing red that took her breath away. She couldn't take her
eyes off the gorgeous color that filled the sky and was
barely paying attention to the road when a large buck leaped
over a snowdrift, landing right in front of her. She slammed
on the brakes and skidded, hanging onto the steering wheel
for dear life and praying she wouldn't hit the animal, when
the car fishtailed and slammed into the snowbank on the
opposite side of the road. Heart pounding, she caught a glimpse of brown rump and white
tail bounding unhurt across the field, and sent up a little
prayer of thanks. Then she shifted into reverse, intending
to back out onto the road. Pressing the accelerator, she
heard the dismaying hum of spinning tires. Climbing out of
the car, she found the front end deeply imbedded in the snow
and the rear tires sunk up to the hubcaps in soft slush and
realized she wasn't going to get out without help. The sun was now falling below the horizon, the sky was a
deep purple, and the road was deserted. She got back in the
car and reached for her cell phone, remembering she hadn't
charged it lately. Indeed, when she flipped it open, the
screen blinked BATTERY LOW and immediately went dark. She
was only a bit more than a mile from home, but in this
frigid weather she didn't dare risk walking. Her best option
was to stay with the car and keep the engine running.
Unfortunately, she'd been running close to empty for a day
or two, too busy to stop and fill the tank. It was just a matter of time, she told herself, before her
husband, Bill, would wonder why she wasn't home and would
come out looking for her. Or not. He might figure she was
working late, covering an evening meeting, in which case
they'd probably find her frozen body the next morning. Perhaps she should write a note, letting her family know how
much she loved them. Then again, she thought, perhaps not.
What sort of family didn't come out and look for a missing
member, especially on a night when the temperature was
predicted to go below zero? She thought of Bill, who
habitually watched the six o'clock news, and her teenage
daughters, Sara and Zoe, probably texting their friends, all
in the comfort of their cozy home on Red Top Road. Didn't
they miss her? Weren't they worried? They'd be sorry,
wouldn't they, when she was on the news tomorrow night.
Local woman freezes to death. Family in shock. "I should
have known something was wrong," says grieving husband. A tap at the window startled her and she turned to see a
smiling, bearded face she recognized as belonging to Max
Fraser. She lowered the window. "Looks like you could use a tow," he said. "It was a deer," she said. "He jumped in the road and I
swerved to avoid him." "Doesn't look like the car's damaged," he said. "You were
lucky." "I'm lucky you came along," said Lucy. "I don't have much
gas and my cell phone is dead." "I'll have you out of here in no time," he said, signaling
that she should close the window. Max was as good as his word. In a matter of minutes, he had
fastened a tow line from his huge silver pickup to her car.
She felt a bump and heard a sudden groaning noise and all of
a sudden her car popped out of the snowdrift. Max looked it
over for damage and listened to make sure the engine was
running okay, and when she offered to pay him for his
trouble, he looked offended. "Folks gotta help folks," he said. "Someday maybe you can
help me, or pass it on. Help somebody else." "I will," promised Lucy. "I certainly will." Next morning, Lucy was writing her account of the meeting
when Corney Clarke popped into the Pennysaver office, like a
glowing ember leaping out of a crackling fire and onto the
hearth. Her cheeks were red with the cold, her ski parka was
bright orange, and her stamping feet sprayed bits of snow in
all directions. "This is big, really big," she exclaimed,
pulling off her shearling gloves. Phyllis, the receptionist, peered over her harlequin reading
glasses and cast a baleful glance at the melting puddle of
snow. She drew her purple sweater across her ample bust and
shivered. "Mind shutting the door? There's an awful draft." "Oh, sorry," said Corney, pushing the door shut with
difficulty and setting the old-fashioned wooden blinds
rattling. "It's just I'm so excited about my big news." She
paused, making sure she had the attention of Ted Stillings,
the weekly paper's publisher, editor, and chief reporter. "I'm listening," said Ted, leaning back in his swivel chair
and propping his feet on the half-open file drawer of the
sturdy oak roll-top desk he inherited from his grandfather,
a legendary New England journalist. Like practically every
man in town, he was dressed in a plaid shirt topped with a
thick sweater, flannel-lined khaki pants, and duck boots. Lucy typed the final period and turned around to face
Corney. "This better be good," she said. Corney, an interior
designer who wrote a monthly lifestyle column for Maine
House and Cottage magazine, was always pitching stories,
looking for free publicity. "Oh, it is," said Corney. She took a deep breath and paused
dramatically, then spoke. "Chanticleer Chocolate was voted
‘Best Candy on the Coast.' " It landed like a bombshell, and for a moment there was
stunned silence in the newspaper office. "You mean . . . ?" began Phyllis. "What about . . . ?" murmured Ted. "Talk about an upset!" exclaimed Lucy. "That's right." Corney gave a self-satisfied nod. "It's the
first time since the magazine began the Best of Maine poll
that Fern's Famous Fudge hasn't won." "Fern's Famous is an institution," said Phyllis. Lucy nodded, thinking of the quaint little shop with the
red-and-white striped awning that had stood on Main Street
in Tinker's Cove since, well, forever. The business was
started by Fern Macdougal, who needed a source of income
after her husband was killed in the Korean War. She started
selling her homemade fudge through local shops, eventually
buying her own place as the little business took off in the
nineteen fifties when tourists began flocking to the Maine
coast. Fern's Famous, with its big copper kettle and marble
counters, was a must-see and nobody passed through town
without picking up one of the red-and-white-striped boxes of
fudge or salt water taffy. Nowadays, Fern was in her
nineties, but she still kept a sharp eye on the business,
which was run by her daughter Flora Riggs, who had added a
catering service to the company, and her granddaughter Dora
Fraser, Max's ex-wife. "Now, Ted," said Corney, turning to the reason for her
visit. "You have to admit this is a big story. And it just
happens to tie in very nicely with the Chamber of Commerce's
Love Is Best on the Coast February travel promotion."
Corney, as they all knew only too well, was chair of the
Chamber's publicity committee. "Whoa," said Ted, raising his hand. "February travel
promotion? Are you crazy? This is Maine. I don't know if
you've noticed, but there's two feet of snow on the ground,
the temperature is fifteen degrees, and the forecast is for,
surprise, more snow." "Sleet," said Lucy. "We're supposed to have a warm spell.
Global warming." "Either way, snow or sleet," said Ted, "it's not exactly
picnic weather." "Maine is beautiful every time of year," said Corney, "but
winter is my favorite time. The snow is so beautiful . . ." "It's treacherous," said Lucy. "I barely made it home alive
last night. If Max Fraser hadn't come along, I'd be headline
news this morning. I got stuck in a snowdrift when a buck
jumped in front of my car, out by those cornfields." "There's a lot of deer out there," said Phyllis. "They eat
the corn the harvester missed." "You've got to be careful in the snow," said Corney, "but
the town does an excellent job with the plowing. And you
have to admit, on a day like today, when the sun makes the
snow sparkle and the air is crisp, it's just a little bit of
heaven here in Tinker's Cove." Corney had a point, thought Lucy, thinking of her antique
farmhouse on Red Top Road and how pretty it looked covered
with snow, especially at night when the windows glowed with
lamplight. Of course, the snow made it impossible to keep
the house clean inside. Her daughters, Sara and Zoe, were
constantly tracking in snow and mud, as did her husband,
Bill. Even the dog added to the mess, rolling in the snow
and shaking it off as soon as she came through the door. The
kitchen floor was littered with boots and shoes; the coat
rack was loaded with jackets and scarves and ski pants. Hats
and mittens and gloves were spread on the old-fashioned
radiators to dry. It wasn't just the constant sweeping and tidying that got
her down in winter, it was the way the house seemed to
shrink in the bleak months after Christmas. The walls seemed
to move in and the furniture grew larger. Every surface
became cluttered with projects and busywork: the fishing
reel Bill was repairing, the scarf Sara was knitting for the
high school Good Neighbor Club, Zoe's rock display for
eighth-grade science. Going out for a meal or a movie, even a shopping trip, was
the obvious cure for cabin fever, but it wasn't easy. It
took a lot of determination to get anywhere. First you had
to layer on all those clothes, then you had to shovel your
way to the car, which might or might not start. Once you
were on the road, you had to be constantly vigilant,
watching for slick spots and creeping slowly through
intersections made blind by enormous piles of snow, and you
had to remember to start braking well in advance of every
stop sign. Once you reached your destination, you had to
hunt for a plowed parking spot and then you had to watch
your step when you got out of the car because the sidewalks,
even when shoveled, soon became slick with ice. None of that seemed to bother Corney, who was listing the
advantages of winter. "Sleigh rides in the snowy woods," she
said, prompting a snort from Phyllis. "Endless shoveling," complained Ted. "Heart attacks—
did you see the obits last week? Three old guys, in one week." Corney ignored him. "We have all these romantic B&Bs
with canopy beds and fireplaces. . . ." "Fireplaces are awful messy. Wood chips, twigs, even leaves,
and then there's the ashes. Filthy," said Phyllis. "And that
stuff jams up the vacuum." "Hot toddies and cocoa with tiny marshmallows," said Corney,
as if she were raising the stakes in a poker game. "The stink of wet wool," countered Lucy. "Tree branches coated in ice, sparkling in the sun," said
Corney, laying down a few more chips. "Broken bones from falls on the icy sidewalks," said Ted.
"The waiting time at the emergency room last week was three
hours." "We need to let the world know that Maine doesn't shut down
in winter," declared Corney, ready to show her hand. "It
doesn't?" Lucy was skeptical. "We have so much to offer," insisted Corney. "Cabin fever. She's been cooped up too long and now she's
hallucinating," said Ted. "I'm sure that's it," said Lucy, laughing. "Have your fun," said Corney, slipping off her fur- trimmed
hood and giving her short, frosted blond hair a shake.
"Let's face it: the economy sucks. Businesses are going
bankrupt, people are losing their jobs, even their houses.
Things are bad." It was true, thought Lucy. Bill, a restoration carpenter,
hadn't had a big job in over a year. He was making do,
barely, with window replacements and repairs. Her oldest,
her son, Toby, who was married and the father of little
Patrick, now almost three, had become disillusioned with his
prospects as a lobsterman and had taken out student loans to
finish up the business degree he had abandoned. Even her
oldest daughter, Elizabeth, who had landed a dream job with
the Cavendish Hotel chain after graduating from college, was
worried about looming layoffs. "We have to do whatever we can to attract customers and get
things rolling again," said Corney, "and that's what the
Love Is Best on the Coast Valentine's Day promotion is
designed to do." She smiled, as if explaining basic
arithmetic to first graders. "Who cares if it's cold
outside? That's better for business. The tourists will have
nothing to do except shop and eat and drink. They'll have to
spend money." Ted was scratching his chin. "So what do you want? I can't
write about Fern's Famous losing, they're one of my biggest
advertisers." "They didn't lose," said Corney, who always saw the glass as
half full. "They came in second, just a hair behind
Chanticleer. We have the two best candy shops in Maine right
here in Tinker's Cove!" "I suppose Lucy could do something with that," speculated
Ted. "She can be pretty tactful, when she tries." Lucy gave Ted a look. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." "I know Lucy will do a great job." Corney turned her big
blue eyes on Lucy. "You're going to love Trey Mea- cham.
He's a fascinating guy, and a real visionary. Chanticleer
Chocolate typifies the kind of success an enterprising
entrepreneur can have in Maine. We're becoming a lot more
sophisticated, it's not about whirligigs and fudge anymore.
We have top-notch craftsmen and artists making beautiful
things—oil paintings and handwoven shawls and burl
bowls. And the local food movement is the next big thing:
fudge and lobster rolls are great, but there are small
breweries, artisanal bakeries, and farmers' markets with
hydroponically grown vegetables, free-range chickens,
grass-fed beef, all raised locally. That's the market that
Trey has captured. His chocolates are very sophisticated,
very unusual." Phyllis raised one of the thin penciled lines
that served as eyebrows. "I like fudge myself. With walnuts." "I have absolutely nothing against fudge, especially Fern's
Famous Fudge. This is a win-win situation. Two terrific
candy shops. The old and the new. Something for everyone."
Corney paused. "And believe me, Lucy, you're going to love
Trey." "I'm married," said Lucy. "I have four kids. I'm a grandma."
She paused. "A young grandma." "You're not blind, are you?" Lucy laughed. "Not yet."
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Lucy Stone
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