“As a favor for me?”
Lucy found herself looking at Miss Tilley: her faded blue eyes, her wrinkled cheeks, her wispy white hair.
“Please.”
The word hit Lucy like a bucketful of cold water. Over the years Miss Tilley had threatened and argued and cajoled her into doing many things she’d rather not have done, but she’d never before said that word, never said please.
Lucy blinked hard and smiled.
“Well, if you put it that way, how can I refuse?”
Besides, she told herself, she already had a suspect in mind.
* * *
Entering the hall, where she paused to hang up Miss Tilley’s coat, Lucy heard voices in the living room, where Bill was entertaining the Barths.
“Lucy,” said Bill, rising to greet them. “I’d like you to meet Clarice and St. John Barth.”
“I’m so glad you could come,” said Lucy.
The Barths were seated together on the couch, and they nodded amiably at her. Clarice was just as she had expected: tiny, trim, and toned, dressed entirely in black. Just looking at her made Lucy feel huge, out of shape, and hopelessly out of style.
In contrast, St. John was shorter and pudgier than she expected. He seemed ready to burst out of his stiffly starched shirt and tightly knotted tie. Seeing Miss Tilley appear behind Lucy, he jumped to his feet.
“I’d like you to meet a dear family friend, Julia Tilley,” said Lucy.
“Nice to meet you, Julia. St. John Barth, here, and this is my wife, Clarice.”
Lucy’s eyes widened in shock. No one, except a sadly diminished group of contemporaries, ever called Miss Tilley by her first name. Today, especially, Lucy didn’t think she’d tolerate such disrespect.
“I’m afraid I’m hopelessly out of date,” Miss Tilley purred. “I prefer to be called Miss Tilley.”
That seemed pretty mild, thought Lucy, relaxing.
“No problem, Miss Tilley,” said St. John with a smile.
“Thank you.”
A gleam appeared in Miss Tilley’s eye and she screwed up her mouth.
Oh, no, thought Lucy. Here it comes.
“Since we’re speaking of names, why do you pronounce yours Saint John? Don’t you know it’s properly pronounced Sinjin?”
Clarice bristled and came to the defense of her husband. “It’s a family name and that’s the way the Barths have been saying it for generations.”
Miss Tilley’s back stiffened and Lucy jumped in, hoping to avoid bloodshed.
“The Barths are clients of Bill’s,” she said. “They’ve bought the old Tupper place and are restoring it. It’s going to make a lovely home.”
From her place on the couch, Clarice gave a small, smug smile.
“Would anyone like a glass of wine?” asked Lucy.
Receiving nods all around, Bill disappeared into the kitchen.
Lucy helped Miss Tilley get settled in an armchair, then perched on a hassock. She tried desperately to think of something to say.
“Tinker’s Cove must be quite a contrast to New York,” she finally ventured to say.
“Oh, it is,” agreed St. John.
Clarice was examining her fingernails, which were polished bright red.
This was going to be tough, thought Lucy.
“I suppose you’ll be using the house for vacations and weekends?”
“Actually, we’re thinking of moving here year-round.”
“Really?” Lucy was surprised. “Don’t you have jobs in the city?”
“Clarice works in fashion—she designs displays for outfits like Guess and Banana Republic,” said St. John, a note of pride in his voice. When he continued, his voice had dropped and he was practically mumbling. “I used to work for a big construction outfit, Mulligan, but I’m between jobs at the moment.”
Lucy recognized the name immediately; she knew Mulligan Construction had designed the plans for the casino. Before she could ask about it, Clarice jumped in.
“St. John wants to write a book.”
“A writer!” exclaimed Miss Tilley. “What’s it going to be about?”
“He’s not sure yet,” said Clarice. “But it’s sure to be a bestseller, whatever he writes.”
Just then Bill appeared with a tray of wineglasses and passed them around. Lucy waited until he had pronounced a toast and then she fled.
“I have a few things to do in the kitchen,” she said.
* * *
When she got there, she discovered that Bill had started cooking the potatoes, and they were ready to mash. That was good, she thought, guessing he wouldn’t be able to keep the combatants in the living room apart for long. But when she started ro whip the potatoes, she discovered the centers weren’t quite cooked. No matter how high she turned the electric beater, stubborn lumps remained. She finally gave up and spooned the mess into a dish, plopping a big lump of butter on top. She tucked the potatoes in the oven, then went to peek in the family room, where the younger set, college kids included, were watching a video.
“Dinner in fifteen minutes,” she said, noting with surprise that the news was well received.
“I’m starving,” confessed Matt.
“Mom makes great stuffing,” said Toby. “And wait till you taste her gravy.”
Lucy beamed at him and smiled at the girls. She was pleased to notice that Amy and Jessica had changed out of their usual jeans and had dressed up for the occasion in attractive dresses complete with panty hose and heels.
Back at the stove she pulled the turkey pan out of the oven and set it on the counter, perched on a trivet so as not to burn the countertop. With one oven-mitted hand, she held the pan, and with her other hand she began loosening the turkey with a spatula. Plenty of greasy juice had cooked out of the turkey, which was great for the gravy but made the tricky task of getting the twenty-five-pound turkey onto the platter awfully difficult. Making matters worse was the fact that the bird had become firmly adhered to the pan. No sooner would she get one part loosened than she discover another stuck to the pan.
Finally, after poking away at the bird for what seemed an eternity, she thought she could risk lifting it onto the platter. She jabbed a fork into the breast and slid her biggest spatula under the bird and attempted to
