Mother's Day Murder. Leslie Meier

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Mother’s Day MURDER

      Books by Leslie Meier

      MISTLETOE MURDER

      TIPPY TOE MURDER

      TRICK OR TREAT MURDER

      BACK TO SCHOOL MURDER

      VALENTINE MURDER

      CHRISTMAS COOKIE MURDER

      TURKEY DAY MURDER

      WEDDING DAY MURDER

      BIRTHDAY PARTY MURDER

      FATHER’S DAY MURDER

      STAR SPANGLED MURDER

      NEW YEAR’S EVE MURDER

      BAKE SALE MURDER

      CANDY CANE MURDER

      ST. PATRICK’S DAY MURDER

      MOTHER’S DAY MURDER

      Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

      A Lucy Stone Mystery

      Mother’s Day MURDER

      LESLIE MEIER

      

KENSINGTON BOOKS www.kensingtonbooks.com

Mother’s Day MURDER

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter One

      The photo on the front page of the Sunday paper was familiar. NO MOTHER’S DAY FOR CORINNE’S MOM read the headline above the plump, sad-eyed woman holding a photo of her pretty teenage daughter. Lucy Stone didn’t have to read the story; as a reporter for the weekly Pennysaver newspaper, she knew all about it. Corinne Appleton, who had a summer job working as a counselor for the town recreation program in nearby Shiloh, had disappeared minutes after her mother dropped her off at the park. The story had been front-page news for weeks, then had gradually slipped to page three and, finally, to the second section as other stories demanded attention. But now, ten months later, Corinne was still missing.

      “How come you’re looking so glum?” demanded her husband, Bill, as he entered the room. “Aren’t you enjoying Mother’s Day?”

      Lucy quickly flipped over the paper, hiding Joanne Appleton’s reproachful face.

      “My mother always said Mother’s Day was invented by the greeting card companies to boost sales,” she said, beginning the struggle to get into a pair of control-top panty hose.

      “I always heard it was a creation of the necktie manufacturers,” complained Bill, who often declared he never regretted giving up suits and ties and Wall Street for the T-shirts and jeans he wore as a restoration carpenter in the little Maine town of Tinker’s Cove. “I finally found this in the coat closet downstairs,” he said, holding up a rather rumpled tie, the only one he possessed.

      “If you think a tie is torture, you ought to try panty hose,” said Lucy, who usually wore jeans and running shoes, practical attire for her job. Today she was squeezing into heels and a suit for a Mother’s Day brunch at the fancy Queen Victoria Inn. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I liked it better when the kids gave me homemade cards and plants for the garden.”

      “And I’d cook breakfast, and you’d get to eat it in bed.”

      “Eventually,” laughed Lucy. “I’d be starving by the time it actually arrived.”

      “That’s because they had to pick the pansies and make the place mat and decorate the napkin,” said Bill. “It was quite a production. And then they’d fight over who got to carry the tray.” He looked across the bed at his wife, who was standing in front of her dresser, putting on a pair of earrings. “Those were the days,” he said, crossing the room and slipping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck.

      His beard, now speckled with gray, tickled, and Lucy smiled. “Those days are over,” she said. “Our little nest is almost empty.”

      It was true. Only Sara, a high school freshman, and Zoe, in fifth grade, remained at home. Toby, their oldest, lived with his wife, Molly, and their son, eight-week-old Patrick, on neighboring Prudence Path. Elizabeth, their oldest daughter, was a student at Chamberlain College in Boston.

      “Can you believe we’re grandparents?” continued Lucy, tickling Bill’s ear.

      “You’re still pretty hot,” said Bill, appreciatively eyeing her trim figure and cap of glossy dark hair.

      “It’s a battle,” sighed Lucy, leaning forward to smooth on her age-defying makeup.

      Bill grabbed her hips and pressed against her, but Lucy wiggled free. “We’ll be late,” she said, reaching for her lipstick. “Besides, now that I’m actually in these panty hose, there’s no chance they’re coming off.”

      Bill sighed and headed for the door.

      “But I appreciate the gesture,” she added.

      Out in the hallway Bill was knocking on the girls’ bedroom doors. “Bus leaves in five minutes,” he said. She heard him go downstairs, followed by the clatter of the girls in their dressy shoes.

      Lucy was the last to join the group in the kitchen. Bill was handsome in his all-purpose navy blazer, the girls adorable in flowery dresses that bared their arms and shoulders. They’d freeze but there was no point telling them; they’d been planning what to wear for weeks, ever since Toby came up with the idea of treating his wife and mother to the Mother’s Day brunch. “It’s Molly’s first Mother’s Day,” he’d said. “We should do something special.”

      Unspoken, Lucy suspected, was his concern for Molly, who was making a slow recovery from a difficult pregnancy that ended abruptly on St. Patrick’s Day, several weeks earlier than expected. Little Patrick hadn’t appreciated his sudden entry into the world and was a cranky and fussy baby, demanding all his exhausted mother’s attention. Lucy helped as much as she could with household chores and meals, but only Molly could breast-feed the hungry little fellow, who demanded a meal every couple of hours, day and night. Toby did his best to help, too, but he was putting in long hours on the boat, getting ready for lobster season.

      The new parents were already seated when they arrived at the inn’s sunny dining room. Patrick was propped in a baby seat between them, sound asleep.

      “What an angel,” cooed Lucy, stroking his downy cheek. Even in his sleep, his lips made little nursing motions.

      “More like a barracuda,” complained Molly. She was still pudgy from her pregnancy, her face was splotchy, and she needed a haircut. Nevertheless, she’d made an effort, and although she was still wearing maternity pants, she’d topped them with a pretty pastel sweater. Seeing her, Lucy was reminded of the terrifying days after Toby’s birth, when she was afraid of dropping him on his head or sticking