Christmas Cookie Murder. Leslie Meier

Bill. “When I went to college it was fifteen hundred a year, and that was everything. Tuition, room and board, the whole shebang. I had a five-hundred-dollar scholarship, and Mom got a part-time job to pay the rest.”

      “Well, I’ve got a part-time job,” said Lucy. “But I sure don’t make thirty thousand dollars. Most people around here don’t even make that with a full-time job.”

      “What’s the matter with the state college? That’s what I want to know,” demanded Bill, turning toward Toby.

      “I’m applying there, too,” said Toby, shoveling a big forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. “But my guidance counselor says I should try some of these other schools, too.”

      “I think we’ll qualify for financial aid,” said Lucy, hoping to ease the tension that was building up between father and son.

      “Well, frankly, before I break my butt trying to pay for a fancy education for the young prince here, I’d like to see a little more initiative, if you know what I mean.” Bill gestured angrily with his fork. “His room’s a mess, if you let him he’ll sleep until two or three in the afternoon, and when he borrows my truck he always brings it back with an empty gas tank.”

      Toby didn’t respond, but kept his head down, steadily scooping up his spaghetti.

      “You know what I did today?” said Lucy brightly, changing the subject. “I interviewed Santa Claus!”

      “The real Santa Claus?” Zoe was skeptical.

      “I think so. It was the Santa at the Ropewalk. It didn’t seem polite to ask for his credentials.”

      “I don’t suppose you need a driver’s license for a sleigh and reindeer, anyway,” observed Elizabeth, who was the proud possessor of a learner’s permit.

      “What did he say?” asked Zoe.

      “Well, he said it’s very warm here, compared with the North Pole.”

      Bill chuckled. “The North Pole is probably the only place colder than here.”

      “That’s exactly why I don’t want to go to the state college! I want to get out of this freezing cold place where there’s nothing to do,” exploded Toby, who had been on a slow simmer. He threw down his napkin and marched out of the room.

      “I wish you wouldn’t be quite so hard on him,” said Lucy.

      “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t spoil him, now would I?” said Bill.

      “So, Sara, how was your day?” asked Lucy, determined to get through the meal with some semblance of civility.

      “We had an assembly. A man came who used to be a drug addict. He told us how he ate food from garbage cans and…”

      “Drugs are terrible,” said Lucy. “What made him decide to give them up?”

      “Well, he had really hit bottom. He was lying with his face in a pool of vomit…”

      “Do you mind? We’re having dinner,” complained Elizabeth.

      “Well, Mom asked. I’m only telling what he said.”

      “I think we get the idea,” said Lucy, glancing at the old Regulator clock that hung on the wall. It was almost six-thirty, she had to get a move on. “You girls can clean up and have some frozen yogurt for dessert. I’ve got to change my clothes.”

      Hauling herself up the steep back stairway took every bit of energy that Lucy had. She had to concentrate to lift her feet from one step to the next. It had been a long day, she thought, but she wasn’t usually this tired. No, it wasn’t tiredness, she realized; it was depression.

      She pushed open the door to the room she shared with Bill and flicked on a lamp. It was peaceful up here; she could just barely hear the girls’ voices in the kitchen downstairs as they squabbled their way through the dishes.

      The dormered room was spacious and uncluttered. The dresser tops were neatly organized, a rocking chair in the corner held only a needlepoint cushion and the wood grain of the blanket chest gleamed in the lamplight. The bed was neatly made, covered with a white woven bedspread.

      It looked so inviting, thought Lucy. It wouldn’t hurt to stretch out for a minute or two, just to put her feet up and rest her eyes.

      Falling back on the pillows, Lucy stretched her arms and legs and made a conscious effort to relax. She tried to push the dark clouds from her mind and to think of the enjoyable evening ahead. But instead, she kept replaying Bill’s voice. His tone had been so antagonistic, calling Toby “the young prince.” What was that all about?

      Sure, Toby was lazy and liked to sleep late on weekends. And he was messy, but no more so than his friends. But, to give him credit, he was a pretty good kid. He got all As and Bs in school, he had been captain of the soccer team this fall and he’d scored an impressive 1450 on his SATs.

      With that package and any luck at all, thought Lucy, feeling her spirits brightening a little, he would get into a really good college. Oh, probably not Ivy League like Richie, but he could certainly get into one of the top twenty liberal arts colleges. Which would it be? He had shown interest in Amherst and Williams, and of course there were Bates and Bowdoin and Colby right here in Maine.

      Wasn’t it lucky, she thought, that she had a new car. A fire had totaled her old Subaru wagon, and she had a spiffy new model. It would look great with a classy college decal on the back window. Of course, she thought, with a little pang of jealousy, her sticker wouldn’t be quite as prestigious as Rachel’s Harvard sticker. But then, Rachel had to put her sticker on a very elderly, rusty Volvo.

      She suddenly felt much better, she realized, hopping off the bed. She’d talk to Bill and find out what was bothering him. But down deep, she knew, he wanted the best for Toby just as much as she did.

      Lucy opened a drawer and took out a bright red sweatshirt with a huge Santa printed on the front. Just looking at the ridiculous thing made her smile; it had been a gift from Zoe last Christmas. There weren’t too many occasions that it was suitable for, but it would be perfect for the cookie exchange. She took off the plain blue sweater she’d been wearing and pulled on the sweatshirt, added a pair of Christmas ball earrings and gave her hair a quick brush. She was ready.

      She bounced down the front stairs, sending up a quick plea to the Spirit of Christmas Present: Please let my cookie exchange be a success.

      

CHAPTER THREE

      Still 16 days ’til Xmas

      Of course it would be a success, she thought, smoothing her sweatshirt nervously as she checked the living room and dining room one last time. The holiday decorations were festive, and Bill had even laid a fire for her in the living room fireplace. She took one of the long fireplace matches out of its box and lit it, bending down to set the fire alight. Then she lit the candles on the mantelpiece and on the sideboard, and switched off the brightest lamps. Studying the effect, she nodded in satisfaction. In candlelight, the odd stains and worn spots disappeared, and the rooms looked quite lovely.

      She only saw two storm clouds on the horizon: Lee Cummings’s separation and Richie’s acceptance at Harvard. But thanks to Sue, she knew all about Lee’s tendency to monopolize the conversation with her separation. If that happened, resolved Lucy, she would just have to change the subject, firmly. The cookie exchange wasn’t a group-therapy session, no matter what Lee might think. And Sue would help out, too. In fact, she’d promised to come early.

      As for the matter of Richie, well, Lucy suspected that his early acceptance at Harvard might have put quite a few maternal noses out of joint. Andrea Rogers was particularly competitive; she had been ever since Toby and Richie and the other boys had all been on the same Little League team. Thank goodness Marge had said she was coming,