Leslie Meier - Bake Sale Murder

I d like to kill that kid.

Something in her husbands tone of voice caught Lucy Stones attention. He sounded like he really meant it, and in more than twenty years of marriage Bill had never, until now, expressed homicidal tendencies. It was true, however, that the roar of Preston Stantons Harley could drive even the most mild-mannered soul over the edge.

Whats the matter with his parents? yelled Bill. We never let our kids drive around like that, making a racket.

Lucy waited before answering, easily following Prestons noisy progress down Red Top Road, where he paused to rev the motor several times at the stop sign before roaring on off towards town. Only then could she make herself heard without raising her voice. We could complain to the police. There are noise limits for motorcycles, you know. I checked.

Thats not likely to get very far. His mother works at town hall and you know how those town employees stick together.

At least wed get it on record. She paused, reaching up to pat her husbands beard, lightly touched with gray. It might come in handy as a defense when they put you on trial for murder.

Bill wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. Very funny. He was bending to kiss her when they were interrupted by their youngest daughter, Zoe.

Mom! Im going to be late!

Lucy checked the clock and sighed, pushing Bill away. It was almost eight, time to get Zoe to Friends of Animals day camp. Zoe, almost nine, was the caboose on the family choo-choo, five years younger than her next oldest sibling, her sister Sara. Sara, 14, would be a freshman in high school when school reopened in just a few weeks. This summer, Sara had her first job; she was working as a chambermaid at the Queen Victoria Inn where she was following in her older sister Elizabeths footsteps. Elizabeth had spent her summer abroad, backpacking around Italy and France with a couple of girlfriends. Home for barely a week, shed returned early to Chamberlain College in Boston, where she was going into her junior year, to help with freshman orientation. Lucy often wondered where the years had gone; her oldest, Toby, was engaged to his long-time girlfriend Molly and they were saving for a house.

Zoe broke into her reverie. Mom! Weve got to get going!

Right. Lucy grabbed her purse, automatically fishing for her car keys as she checked to make sure the coffee pot was off and the dogs water dish was full. Lets go.

Stepping off the porch, Lucys eyes were drawn to the new houses Fred Stanton, Prestons father, had built on the old Pratt property. He didnt actually build those houses, scoffed Bill, a restoration carpenter known for his meticulous work, he assembled them.

It was true, in a way. The houses were modular homes; theyd been built in a factory and delivered in sections. Fred and his crew had bolted them together and done the finish work, a process that had gone remarkably quickly. It seemed to Lucy that the houses had sprouted, like mushrooms on a rainy night. One day the old Pratt house was standing there, looming over them, and the next it was gone. Before they knew what had happened, their country road had turned into suburbia.

Designed to have high curb appeal to the potential buyer, each little house had an oversized Palladian window front and center, and a double-door entry overlooking a landscaped front yard boasting two small yew bushes and a couple hundred square feet of sod. It had been a particularly dry summer but now, in August, the sod was still the same bright emerald green it had been in April when it was installed, thanks to the sprinklers the new neighbors ran day and night. The sprinklers clicked and sputtered, lawnmowers roared, barbecue smoke filled the evening air. It was enough to make you miss the Pratts, thought Lucy, starting the car.

She didnt actually miss the Pratts, she admitted to herself as she carefully backed the car around, but she did miss seeing their house at the very top of Red Top Hill where it once seemed to symbolize the simple, rugged way of life that was becoming increasingly rare, even in Maine. It was the kind of house a child might draw, a too-narrow rectangle topped with a triangular roof. The windows were rectangles, too, without shutters. The siding was weatherbeaten gray clapboard, and the white paint on the trim boards had peeled off long ago. There was no landscaping to speak of, no bushes softening the stark lines of the house, and no lawn at all. Just a dirt yard with a chicken pen and a rotting old car or two, kept for spare parts. It wasnt a friendly house; it might as well have had a big Keep Out sign nailed to it. Which was just about right because the Pratts hadnt been friendly people. Theyd been horrible neighbors, mean and quarrelsome. They were gone now. Prudence had died, been murdered, actually, and her husband Calvin and son Wesley were in the county jail for stealing lobsters out of other peoples traps. All that remained of the Pratt family was the name of the street that now bisected their land. The developer, Fred Stanton, had named it Prudence Path.

She was starting down the driveway when she saw Freds wife, Mimi, marching along the road, headed their way. Only Zoes presence in the seat beside her kept her from saying a very bad word.

Lucy, could I just have a quick word with you? asked Mimi, bending to look into the car window. She was talking in that false, bright tone a lot of women use when theyre broaching an uncomfortable topic.

Sure, Mimi. Whats up?

Well, Lucy, its really the same old thing, sighed Mimi, adding a fleeting, tight little smile. Im afraid those bushes of yours are really a safety hazard. They block the sight lines on Prudence Path, you know. Why, just yesterday I was almost hit by a speeding truck when I was pulling out, on my way to work.

I dont see how you can blame my lilacs for somebody going too fast on Red Top Road, said Lucy.

Well, of course, you are right. The truck was going way too fast. But the fact is that I couldnt see the truck because of your bushes. She smiled again and Lucy wondered if shed had her teeth whitened or something. Maybe it was just a reflex, a nervous twitch. A tic. Ive spoken to you about this before, numerous times in fact, and Im afraid Im going to have to file a formal complaint.