Christmas Cookie Murder. Leslie Meier

wing nuts. The wings are copper screening.”

      “Look at that, Sue. Aren’t they great?”

      “They’re wonderful,” exclaimed Sue, “and only ten dollars. I’m going to buy a pair to put in Sidra’s stocking.”

      Sidra was Sue’s daughter, recently graduated from college and now working as an assistant producer at a TV station in New York.

      “That’s a good idea,” said Lucy, thinking of her own teenage daughter. “I’ll get a pair for Elizabeth. She’ll love them.”

      “Do you want them gift-wrapped? I use the old brown paper and string from the store—it kind of completes the look.”

      “Sure,” said Lucy. “Thanks.”

      “So, Sue, when is the cookie exchange?” asked Franny, as she tore a sheet of paper from the antique roller salvaged from the hardware store. “I want to be sure to mark my calendar.”

      Sue groaned and Lucy explained. “She says she isn’t having it this year.”

      “That’s too bad,” said Franny, neatly folding the paper so she didn’t have to use tape, and tying the whole thing together with a length of red-and-white string. “Why not?”

      “It just didn’t seem like such a good idea—I didn’t really know who to invite. So many of the old regulars have moved away, and Marge is sick, and…”

      “Can’t you invite some new people?” asked Franny brightly.

      “Yeah, Sue,” said Lucy, pulling out her wallet. “How about inviting some new people? You must know a lot of nice young moms from the day-care center.”

      “I’d love to make some new friends,” said Franny, giving them their change and receipts. “I don’t have much time for myself, what with making the jewelry and running the shop here. I’ve really been too busy to socialize. I’ve been looking forward to the cookie exchange for months.”

      “I knew this was coming,” protested Sue. “New people! You don’t understand. These young moms aren’t like we were. They don’t cook! They buy takeout and frozen stuff. Remember when I invited Krissy, the girl who owns that gym? She brought rice cakes! Somehow she didn’t get the idea of a cookie exchange at all.”

      “They were chocolate-chip rice cakes,” said Lucy, grinning at the memory.

      “Put yourself in their shoes,” said Franny, earnestly. “It must be very hard to raise a family and keep a job—I don’t know how these young girls do it all.”

      “With a lot of help from me,” muttered Sue. “It isn’t just day care, you know. It’s advice, and giving them a shoulder to cry on, and collecting toys and clothes and passing them on to the ones who need them.”

      “You do a fantastic job,” said Lucy.

      “You do,” agreed Franny, turning to help another customer. “But I hope you won’t give up the cookie exchange. I’d really miss it.”

      Lucy gave her a little wave, and they turned to investigate the pottery in the next booth. Lucy picked up a mug, running her fingers over the smooth shape. Then she looked at Sue, who was examining an apple-baker.

      “There’s no way around it. You have to have the cookie exchange. People are counting on you. It wouldn’t be Christmas without it.”

      Sue’s dark hair fell across her face at an angle, and Lucy couldn’t see her expression. She hoped she hadn’t been too persistent, that she hadn’t pushed Sue too hard. She really valued their friendship and didn’t want to jeopardize it. When Sue flicked the hair out of her eyes, Lucy was relieved to see that she was smiling.

      “You’re right, Lucy. It wouldn’t be Christmas without the cookie exchange. But it doesn’t have to be at my house. Why don’t you be the hostess for a change?”

      “Me?” Lucy’s eyebrows shot up.

      “Yup.” Sue pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Lucy. “You.”

      

CHAPTER TWO

      16 days ’til Xmas

      Sue had been right, thought Lucy, pushing open the kitchen door and surveying the mess. Agreeing to host the cookie exchange had been a big mistake. It was almost five o’clock, the guests were due at seven, and she hadn’t had a chance to do a thing with the house.

      She’d been tied up at The Pennysaver all day; she’d spent the morning writing up an interview with Santa, instead of eating lunch she’d dashed out to the Coast Guard station to photograph the guardsmen hanging a huge wreath on the lighthouse and then had gone to the weekly meeting of the Tinker’s Cove board of selectmen. The selectmen had been unusually argumentative, which made for good copy, but she wouldn’t have a chance to write it up until tomorrow morning, just before the Wednesday noon deadline.

      Congratulating herself on her foresight for baking the Dee-Liteful Wine Cake ahead of time, she shrugged off her coat and dropped her notebook on the pile of papers covering the round, golden oak kitchen table. It consisted mostly of financial-aid applications for her oldest child, Toby. He was a high school senior and was applying to several high-priced liberal arts colleges.

      He wouldn’t be able to go unless he got financial aid, and she had to fill out the complicated forms before January 1, the date recommended by the school guidance office. The thought of the forms was enough to make her feel overwhelmed—how was she supposed to know what their household income would be next year? Bill was a self-employed restoration carpenter, and his earnings varied drastically from year to year. So did hers, for that matter. Ted, the publisher of The Pennysaver, only called her when he needed her. She usually worked quite a lot in December, and in the summer months, but things were pretty quiet in coastal Maine in January and February.

      First things first, thought Lucy, scooping all the papers into a shopping bag and stuffing it in the pantry. She had to come up with something for dinner, and the sink and counter were covered with dirty dishes.

      She opened the door to the family room, and spotted her sixteen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, stretched out on the couch with her ear to the telephone.

      “Elizabeth!” she yelled. “Say good-bye and get in here.”

      Then she pulled a big stockpot out of the cupboard and filled it with water. She was setting it on the stove when Elizabeth floated in.

      “I wish you wouldn’t yell when I’m talking to my friends,” she complained. “It sounds so low-class.”

      Lucy gave her a sideways glance. This was something new, she thought. In the past, Elizabeth had concentrated on outraging her parents, insisting on cutting her dark hair into short spikes and threatening to get her nose pierced. Now, Lucy noticed, the black oversize sweater and Doc Martens were gone, replaced by a shiny spandex top with a racing stripe down the side and a pair of sneakers with blue stripes. Her hair was combed into a smooth bob.

      “What’s with the new look?” asked Lucy.

      “Styles change,” said Elizabeth, with a shrug. “So what did you want me for?”

      “Would you please do something with those dirty dishes? That’s supposed to be your responsibility. It’s not fair for me to work all day and come home to a messy kitchen.”

      “It’s not my fault,” said Elizabeth, demurely folding her hands in front of her. “Toby didn’t clean out the dishwasher. It’s full, so I had no place to put the dirty dishes.”

      “Elizabeth, I don’t have time for this.” Lucy bent down and pulled a can of dusting spray and a rag out from under the sink. “The cookie exchange is tonight; I have a dozen friends coming at seven. So do