“Court took forever, then I had to grab something for lunch . . .” she said, noticing that Phyllis was holding up her hands in a cautionary sign, casting warning eyes in Ted’s direction. Taking the hint Lucy decided not to mention her stop at the Olde Irish Pub, which was a personal errand, even though it meant not reporting the encounter between Ed Franklin and the Rodriguezes.
“I heard there was quite a demonstration at the courthouse. Did you get photos?” demanded Ted.
“Photos and quotes,” said Lucy.
“Okay, write it up. And before you leave, I want to go over the week’s news budget.”
“Right, Chief,” said Lucy, giving a little salute before hanging up her coat.
“No need for sarcasm,” snapped Ted, who was hunched over his computer.
Lucy settled herself at her desk, eating her yogurt while she booted up her computer and scrolled through her e-mails. She was licking the last off her spoon when the phone rang and she answered it.
“Hi, Lucy,” said Pam. “Something’s come up and I need help.”
Interesting, thought Lucy. Maybe this was the reason for Ted’s bad mood. “What’s the trouble?”
“Debi Long has pneumonia. She’s in the hospital.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Bad? It’s worse than bad. It’s a disaster.”
“Pneumonia? They give you antibiotics, then you get better . . .”
“It’s the Harvest Festival at the church! Debi always makes dozens of apple cider donuts and people snap them up. Some people come just for the donuts.”
Lucy knew the Harvest Festival was a big fundraiser for the church, which in turn donated to numerous local causes, including the Hat and Mitten Fund that she and her friends had started to provide warm clothes and school supplies for the town’s less fortunate children. She also had an uneasy feeling where this was heading.
“I wish I could help.”
“Well, you can. You can make donuts, can’t you? All you need is a deep fryer. If you don’t have one I bet you can borrow Debi’s.”
“I have done it. I can do it, but that doesn’t mean I want to do it,” said Lucy, who used to turn out a steady stream of baked goods when the kids were little. Back then, she was always mixing up nutritious lunchbox treats like oatmeal cookies with raisins, peanut butter bars, and molasses hermits. To be honest though, she rarely bothered with donuts, considering them too much trouble, and unhealthy to boot. “I’ve always been more of a customer at the Harvest Festival.”
“Well, I bet you’d like making donuts if you tried. It would come back to you . . . like riding a bike.”
“It’s the question of time,” said Lucy, glancing at the rolltop desk where Ted was buried in a pile of papers. “Your husband here keeps me pretty busy.”
“Never mind him. I’ll take care of Ted. You take whatever time you need to make donuts. It doesn’t have to be twelve dozen. Six would be good. Angie Booth said she can make six, too.”
“What about Sue? Can’t she do it?” asked Lucy in a last ditch effort.
“Sue is making peanut brittle, which she tells me is absolutely wonderful, though I don’t know how she knows since I doubt she’s ever actually eaten any.” Pam paused. “Donuts aren’t very hard, you know, if you use an electric fryer. You just pop them in and wait for them to float to the top, then flip ’em over.” She paused. “Just be sure to let them drain well. They’re icky if they’re too oily.”
Lucy knew from the tone of her voice that Pam was truly desperate. “Okay,” she agreed reluctantly. “I’ll dig out the fryer. Six dozen apple cider donuts.”
“Thanks, Lucy. I knew I could count on you. You’re absolutely super.”
* * *
It was after four when Lucy finished writing her story about the arraignment and the related demonstration, and uploaded her photos. She jotted down some ideas for the news budget and checked her e-mails for last-minute announcements and changes to the official town calendar. Noticing something from the board of selectmen she saw a new item was added to the agenda for the upcoming meeting—a citizen’s complaint about racial bias by a member of the board of health.
“This is going to be interesting,” she told Ted, finally deciding to tell him about the discussion she’d heard at the Olde Irish Pub. “Ed Franklin was using derogatory words like amigo and no way José to Rey Rodriguez. And he was making up stuff about the septic system not being up to code, saying they might not be able to run a dishwasher.”
“I’m not surprised that Rey is filing a complaint,” said Phyllis.
“I’m not sure it’s Rey,” said Lucy, thinking that Matt had seemed awfully self-assured. “It might be his son, Matt.”
“The hunk I saw filling up his ’Vette at the Quik-Stop?” asked Phyllis with a mischievous smile.
“Could be,” said Lucy, laughing.
CHAPTER 5
When she got home that evening, Lucy was surprised to see Zoe using the old electric fryer to cook up a batch of Southern Fried Chicken. Each piece had a lovely brown crust and as they sat on a wire rack, they filled the air with a delicious chickeny aroma.
That aroma was clearly getting to Libby. Mouth watering, she was sitting expectantly at Zoe’s feet.
“Is that for supper?” asked Lucy as she dropped her bag on the bench and began unbuttoning her jacket.
“Yup. I just got a yen for fried chicken,” declared Zoe, carefully adding the last few pieces of crusty chicken to the wire rack to cool and switching off the fryer.
“Very impressive. I’m sure it’s going to taste every bit as good as it looks. But I’ve got to ask, whatever possessed you?” Lucy knew her youngest daughter’s forays into the kitchen rarely went beyond tossing a pack of popcorn into the microwave.
“I have a big American Lit midterm exam next week,” admitted Zoe. “I’m avoiding studying because every time I open my notebook I think of Alison. According to my psych book it’s called displacement activity.”
“Oh, dear,”
