Mother's Day Murder. Leslie Meier

He half rose from his chair but, receiving a sharp glance from Tina, sat back down. Heather was smirking, evidently finding the entire episode just another example of parental foolishness.

      Jasper assumed a pained expression. “That will not be necessary,” he said. “Now, since it is impossible—”

      “Nothing’s impossible,” declared Bar, eyes blazing. “Since you’ve gone to the trouble of importing all these Ukrainians, temporary workers, I presume, who will be returning to their native villages at the end of the summer?”

      “Absolutely,” said Jasper, with a nod. “They all have temporary work visas.”

      “You’d better see they do. The country’s already got twelve million illegal aliens, you know, and we don’t need any more. Especially since most of them don’t even bother to learn English.”

      “We screen our temporary workers very carefully, and I can assure you they all speak English.”

      “Well, that’s something. Now, why don’t you put them to work and have them reseat those people”—she pointed at the Nowaks—“so we can have our table.”

      Jasper’s professional veneer of patience was wearing thin. “We cannot disturb the other diners,” he said. “I’ll be happy to seat you at another table.”

      “Come along, Bar,” said Bart, taking his wife by the elbow. “How about that table over there? It’s by a window, too.”

      “But it’s not the corner,” replied Bar. “It’s not our table.”

      Bart was firm. “It’s a window, and I’m hungry.”

      “Oh, all right,” Bar said, with a sigh, dramatically rolling her eyes. “I don’t want to make a fuss.”

      “Right, Mom,” muttered Ashley, sarcastically, as the group was ushered past the desired corner table.

      Tina waited until Bar was behind her chair, and then she spoke to her husband. “Don’t you think it was rude of Bar to make such a fuss?” she asked in a loud whisper. “Especially for someone who thinks she’s the next Emily Post.”

      Bar pretended not to hear the comment but seemed to flinch slightly as she followed Jasper to the small window table adjacent to the Stones’ large round one. Jasper made an elaborate show of pulling out chairs for Bar and Ashley and even placed napkins on their laps with a graceful flourish and snapped his fingers to attract the water boy’s attention. He was filling their glasses when Bar took her revenge.

      “You know,” she began, placing her hand on her husband’s arm and leaning toward him, speaking in a low tone that nevertheless carried across the room, “sometimes when I’m target shooting, I imagine Tina Nowak’s face on the target.” She giggled and smoothed her napkin. “It’s a surefire way to get a bull’s-eye.”

      Chapter Two

      “What’s with that woman?” asked Elizabeth on the ride home. “Did you hear what she said?”

      “I think the whole room heard it,” said Lucy, who was feeling rather uncomfortable. She’d eaten too much and couldn’t wait to get out of those control-top panty hose. And her thoughts had returned to Corinne Appleton’s mother, a woman whose problems were real, in contrast to Bar Hume, who made them up. “I think she meant them to. She wanted to create a scene and shock people.”

      “But why?” persisted Elizabeth. “Why would she say a thing like that? It’s like saying she wanted to shoot Mrs. Nowak. Why would she even think it? It’s sick.”

      “It’s the clash of the supermoms,” explained Lucy. “Somebody ought to make a movie. They’re always trying to outdo each other. It’s a continuing drama, kind of like a soap opera. Everybody gets a kick out of it. Some people have even taken up sides, depending on their politics. Bar’s a Republican, she’s head of the town Republican committee, and Tina’s a Democrat. She’s head of the town Democratic committee. They actually do quite a bit of good for everybody as they try to outshine each other.”

      “It still sounds sick to me,” said Elizabeth. “Especially when one starts talking about shooting the other.”

      “Nobody’s going to shoot anybody,” said Bill. “You’ve been living in Boston, after all. They’re always shooting each other there. But it’s different here in Tinker’s Cove. Right, Lucy?”

      Lucy didn’t answer immediately. She was looking out the window at the round little harbor, where white boats bobbed on the still blue water. She was thinking about Corinne and what her parents must be going through, wondering if she was still alive. “Sometimes I think this thing between Bar and Tina goes too far, especially the way they push their daughters into competing with each other.”

      “What do you mean?” asked Elizabeth.

      “They’re tied for valedictorian,” said Sara. “They have the same grade point averages, but Heather does take easier courses, because she has to spend so much time practicing her ice skating. She’s a figure skater, she’s won a lot of prizes, and she wants to go to Harvard.”

      “She’s going to the regionals,” said Lucy, who had written a story for the Pennysaver. “She has a good chance of placing high enough to go on to the nationals.”

      “Does the other one—what’s her name?—skate, too?” asked Elizabeth.

      “Ashley? No, she doesn’t skate,” said Sara. “Ashley’s captain of the tennis team and the field hockey team, too. She takes the hardest courses she can. She even takes classes at the college. She wants to go to Harvard, too.”

      “Does she want to go, or does her mother want her to go?” asked Bill, making the turn onto Red Top Road.

      “I think Mr. Berg wants her to go,” said Sara, naming the high school principal.

      “Getting a student into Harvard would be a feather in his cap,” said Lucy. “Nobody’s been accepted there since Richie Goodman, have they?”

      “Not that it did him much good,” said Bill. “What’s he doing? Still in school, isn’t he?”

      “He’s pursuing a doctorate in ancient Greek ceramics or something like that,” said Lucy, who was friends with his mother, Rachel. “But he’s taking a break this semester to build houses in New Orleans for people who lost their homes in Hurricane Katrina.”

      “You sure don’t need a Harvard degree to do that,” said Bill.

      “So how do these girls act at school?” asked Elizabeth. “Are they friends?”

      “Yeah, pretty much,” said Sara. “They both belong to the same clique, you know, the popular kids. They all sit together at lunch, and they’re mean to everyone else.”

      “Oh, I’m so glad I’m out of high school,” sighed Elizabeth.

      “My friends don’t like them very much,” said Sara, with a shrug. “Even though they’re the most popular, they’re mean to each other, too. They’re always saying nasty things about each other, even when they’re ganging up on somebody else.”

      “I noticed they couldn’t keep their eyes off of each other,” said Elizabeth.

      “Probably checking out their outfits,” guessed Lucy.

      “Maybe it’s like Machiavelli said,” mused Elizabeth.

      “Who is Macaroni?” asked Zoe, joining the conversation.

      “Machiavelli. He’s a fifteenth-century Italian philosopher. He said you should keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

      Lucy nudged Bill. “And you were saying Chamberlain’s too expensive. Look at the stuff she’s learning.”

      “Well,” muttered Bill, turning into the driveway, “let’s see