“You must have bought them!” exclaimed Sue, still dubious about the provenance of Lucy’s donuts. “And if you did, where did you get them? They look fabulous.”
“I didn’t buy them,” said Lucy. “Zoe made them with help from Matt Rodriguez.”
“The cute kid with the ’Vette?” asked Sue.
“He’s no kid,” replied Lucy, “but he is a trained chef. His dad is Rey Rodriguez. You’ve probably seen his TV show.”
“Oh, right. I have one of his cookbooks. Really creative, delicious recipes.”
“Well, Rey has bought the Olde Irish Pub and plans to turn it into a fusion restaurant called Cali Kitchen, and Matt is going to manage it. Zoe interviewed for a job there and Matt took a shine to her and that’s how I have these beautiful apple cider donuts.”
“They sure are beautiful,” said Pam, stopping by for a quick chat before the sale opened. “You’ve put us all to shame.”
“I can’t take credit for them. Zoe made them with help from Matt Rodriguez,” confessed Lucy again.
“It looks like the Stone family will be enjoying world-class cuisine if Matt continues to court Zoe,” said Sue.
“Zoe has a new boyfriend?” asked Pam.
“I sincerely hope not,” said Lucy. “Matt Rodriguez is much too old and sophisticated for her. The very idea makes me uncomfortable.”
“You’re sure you’re not being prejudicial?” asked Pam.
“Oh, probably,” admitted Lucy. “But it’s not his Latino heritage that bothers me. It’s his age. He must be at least thirty, and Zoe’s only eighteen.”
The sound of a teaspoon tapping on a glass silenced Lucy and the other volunteers. Festival chairman Bessie Bone thanked everyone for their efforts and announced the sale was now open. There was a smattering of applause as the doors were opened and the eager customers rushed in.
The Harvest Festival had become well-known through the years for the quality of the crafts that were offered, especially the knits and baskets, and there was a good deal of rushing about as patrons searched out their favorites. Lucy and Sue’s table was at the rear of the hall and didn’t attract much attention at first, but word soon spread about the donuts, which people said were better than ever this year. They were all gone when Rachel arrived with Miss Tilley; all that remained on the baked goods table was a single blueberry pie with a rather burnt crust.
Julia Ward Howe Tilley—nobody but her closest and oldest friends dared to call her by her first name—was the retired librarian of the Broadbrooks Free Library and the town’s oldest resident by at least a decade. Rachel was her home health aide, a position that had evolved from her friendship with the old woman following an automobile accident.
“Well, where are the donuts?” demanded Miss Tilley. “I always buy a half-dozen.”
“Sorry,” said Sue, “we’re all sold out. All we have is this blueberry pie.”
“My mother always used to say a pie doesn’t have to look good to taste good,” said Lucy, attempting to close the deal. “I think we could offer a substantial discount.”
“Blueberry pie is a Maine tradition,” said Rachel.
“Are they Maine blueberries?” asked Miss Tilley, eyeing the pie suspiciously.
“I’m sure they are,” said Sue. “Franny Small made that pie and nobody is more Maine than Franny. She wouldn’t use berries from the supermarket.”
“You could ask her,” said Pam, waving to Franny, who was standing at a nearby table.
Franny spotted Pam’s frantic waving and came over, a big smile on her face. “The sale is a big success. My table is sold out.”
“Miss Tilley is thinking of buying this pie you brought, but she wants to know if it contains Maine berries,” said Sue.
“Of course it does. I wouldn’t use anything else. I picked them myself out by Blueberry Pond and froze them. Last summer was a good year for berries. I got tons.” Franny paused, and a shadow fell over her face. “But I don’t know if I’ve got the heart to pick next summer—not after that poor girl died at the pond. I know that’s all I’ll think about now, every time I see that pond.”
They all fell silent, thinking about Alison’s tragic death, and even though they all had something they wanted to say, nobody wanted to be the first to speak.
It fell to Miss Tilley to break the awkward silence. “So sad when a young person dies.”
“And a lot are dying from this opioid epidemic,” said Rachel. “They overdose or get tainted drugs.”
“I’m working on a story about drugs here in town,” said Lucy.
“Here in Tinker’s Cove. My goodness,” said Franny, her eyes wide.
“Drugs are everywhere,” said Sue. “It really is an epidemic.”
“I simply don’t understand why they do it,” said Pam. “I’m high on life. I wouldn’t risk my life for some synthetic version.”
“I doubt very much that Alison Franklin died of an overdose,” said Miss Tilley.
They all turned to look at her.
“Why do you say that?” asked Lucy.
“Because she was so healthy and athletic. I used to see her running by my house every morning when I opened the door to get my morning paper. She was always on time and she used to give me a big smile and wave at me.”
“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t using drugs,” said Rachel. “Or maybe it was her first time.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Miss Tilley. “I’ve been around for a long time and, well, you just get a feeling for people. She gave every impression of being a happy, healthy person. She radiated optimism.”
Lucy couldn’t help thinking that Miss Tilley was drawing a lot of conclusions from very little evidence, but didn’t want to contradict her.
Sue had no such compunctions. “That’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “You couldn’t tell all that from seeing her
