Easter Bunny Murder (5 page)

“What's so interesting?” asked Phyllis. “The lunch menu from the Hot Pot?”

“It's Van's obituary,” said Lucy, giving her the sheet of paper. “It sure doesn't say much.”

“
Burial will be private
,” read Phyllis with a snort. “Figures. They wouldn't want a bunch of curious gawkers there.”

“Or the press,” said Lucy.

“I guess he never had a job,” observed Phyllis.

“He probably didn't need the money,” said Lucy. “He volunteered.”

“That's like working here,” said Phyllis. “Considering how little Ted pays us, we're practically volunteers.”

Lucy laughed. “Did you notice who isn't mentioned?”

Phyllis nodded. “Maxine.”

“Pretty interesting, if you ask me,” said Lucy, tapping her finger on her chin. “I wonder if she's on to something.”

Chapter Five

“
I
could have a chat with Elfrida,” offered Phyllis.

“Would you?” asked Lucy eagerly.

Phyllis shrugged. “Sure. I'll put her on speakerphone so you can hear, too.”

Lucy listened to the rings, which sounded very loud. Elfrida was in no hurry to answer, but finally they heard her breathy Marilyn Monroe voice. “Pine Point, this is the kitchen,” she whispered.

“It's your aunt Phyllis. I'm just calling to see how you're holding up, what with Van's death and all.”

“It's awfully sad. I liked Van. I mean, I didn't really know him very well, but he was nice. A real gentleman.” Lucy wasn't sure how to take this—Elfrida was a notoriously poor judge of men.

“I suppose VV is very upset,” said Phyllis.

“I'm sure she is, but those nurses, Lupe and Sylvia, don't exactly confide in me. They want this, they want that, they're constantly demanding rice pudding and chicken broth and when I tell them to help themselves, they get all huffy and nasty. Like I have to open the refrigerator and hand them the plastic package—like they can't find the packs of rice pudding themselves? Now they want me to order some fancy Belgian beer for VV, something about B vitamins, I don't know. What I do know is if I start buying expensive stuff like that, Mr. Weatherby will have a fit! He goes over all the bills with a fine tooth comb, believe me.”

Lucy was having a hard time keeping a straight face—she could just imagine Elfrida telling the nurses off—but Phyllis was clucking her tongue sympathetically. “I'm sure you've got a lot to do, getting ready for the funeral.”

“Tell me about it,” moaned Elfrida in her soft voice. “Willis was just in, giving me a list of foods to prepare. It all has to be done by Thursday and I don't know where to begin. What are tea sandwiches? You can't make sandwiches out of tea, can you? And he wants dozens and dozens. And tea cakes! I never heard of them. What are they?”

“Like pound cake, I think,” offered Phyllis. “The sort of thing people can pick up in their fingers. No messy icing.”

“I'm not very good at cakes. I've only used mixes. I usually buy the kids' birthday cakes at the IGA, all decorated,” said Elfrida. “I don't know what I'm going to do.” There was a small silence. “And, you know what? They're not using paper plates! VV has hundreds of dishes and cups and saucers and glasses and I'm supposed to wash them all by hand, because they're very fragile.”

“You're going to need extra help,” said Phyllis.

“Exactly. That's what I told Willis. I'm a cook, not a scullery maid!”

“What did he say?” asked Phyllis.

There was a little pause before Elfrida answered and Lucy wondered if Willis had made some disparaging remark about Elfrida's cooking—she had certainly left herself open to it. “He's going to check with Mr. Weatherby about hiring some temporary help.”

At this point, Lucy couldn't resist joining the conversation. “You know, my friend Sue and I would be happy to help. Nobody makes a better tea sandwich than Sue!”

For the first time in the conversation, Elfrida seemed to perk up. “Really? What about those pound cakes?”

“No one better than Sue. And I'm one heck of a dishwasher.”

“Well, thanks for offering. I have to get approval from Willis, he's the butler, but I'm pretty sure I can get him on board.”

Lucy knew that when Elfrida wanted to wind a man around her little finger, she usually succeeded. “Well, I'm here at the office. Let me know, okay?”

Phyllis switched off the speakerphone but continued her leisurely chat with her niece, inquiring about all of Elfrida's children and their various problems. Like many childless people, Phyllis never hesitated to offer advice on discipline, dealing with school administrators, and even how to get the little ones to bed. Lucy, meanwhile, called her best friend, Sue Finch.

“I need to ask a big favor,” she began when Sue answered.

“Uh-oh,” replied Sue with a chuckle.

“I've gotten a tip that Van's death was suspicious and I want to go undercover at Pine Point, and I need you to help.”

Sue was suspicious. “How exactly do you think I can help?”

“Well, we're going to be kitchen help. Elfrida needs help with the food for the funeral.”

“You want me to be a sous-chef?” Sue considered herself a bit of a gourmet.

“Nothing that fancy. Just tea sandwiches and cakes.”

“No way, not with my back,” said Sue, who had recently retired from the classroom at Little Prodigies, the child care center she owned with Chris Cashman. “I can't stand for hours on end, not anymore. All those years in the classroom did me in.”

“You can sit,” said Lucy. “You don't have to stand to mix up cakes and cut sandwiches.”

Sue was doubtful. “Maybe. But answer me this: How are you going to investigate this hot tip when you're stuck in the kitchen?”

“Details, details,” said Lucy, who hadn't quite worked that out herself. “We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.” She crossed her fingers and took a deep breath. “So, will you help?”

“Maybe,” said Sue, who enjoyed bargaining. “If the price is right.”

“I'll get back to you.”

 

The deadline for the
Pennysaver
was at noon Wednesday and at five minutes past, Lucy pulled up in front of Sue's house and honked. A minute or two later, Sue appeared at the door, carrying a roomy tote bag. “What have you got there?” asked Lucy, as Sue seated herself in the car.

“My knives, of course,” said Sue, holding the bag so Lucy could peek inside.

“We're making sandwiches, not butchering a pig,” said Lucy, eyeing the formidable
batterie de cuisine
.

“You never know,” said Sue placidly. “It's better to be prepared. So how much are we getting paid for this gig?”

This was the question Lucy had been dreading. “Mmmmm . . . ,” she began, braking suddenly as a large garbage truck pulled out in front of them. “Did you see that?”

“Hard to miss,” said Sue, “but don't change the subject. How much?”

“Minimum wage.”

“I haven't worked for minimum wage since I graduated from college!” exclaimed Sue. Indeed, even though she was going to spend the afternoon up to her elbows in egg salad and cake batter, she was impeccably dressed in a wool pants suit and a cashmere sweater and had applied her usual flawless makeup. Her glossy black hair was styled in a neat pageboy and her nails were freshly manicured.

“Look, you can take my pay, too,” offered Lucy, dressed as usual in jeans and running shoes, topped with a machine-washable acrylic sweater beneath a tired parka. Her short haircut was also of the wash-and-wear variety. “I'm doing this because it's the only way I can get into the house for the funeral.”

“That's not necessary,” mumbled Sue. “But, why do you think Van's death was suspicious, apart from your suspicious nature, that is?”

“I saw Van collapse,” admitted Lucy, “and I assumed it was a heart attack or a stroke or something like that. But his ex-girlfriend came to the
Pennysaver
office on Monday, and she insists his death was no accident. Furthermore, she says Van's sister Vicky and her husband and their lawyer are all in cahoots, trying to get control of VV's money.”

Sue knit her brows together. “Sounds to me like you've got us walking into a hornet's nest.”

Lucy grinned. “The trick is not to get stung.”

When they reached the mansion, Sue was all for marching right up to the front door but Lucy restrained her. “We're the help, remember? Back door.”

Sue gave her a withering glance. “You're kidding, right?”

Lucy shook her head and her curls bounced. “No. Elfrida warned me. Back door.”

It was really sort of interesting, thought Lucy, as they trudged along the oyster shell drive to the rear of the house. Up until now, she'd only seen the mansion from the point of view of a visitor and, as the architect clearly intended, had been impressed by the grandeur of the place. Now, as a worker, she was discovering the necessary service area that was cleverly concealed by a stone balustrade and leafy shrubs. Descending a rather shady, dank staircase, they found themselves in front of a locked door. A doorbell was marked with a neatly painted sign, PLEASE RING.

Lucy rang.

Nothing happened.

She rang again, and nothing happened.

Sue was just about to press the button one more time when the door opened and they were confronted with the imposing figure of Willis the butler. As always, he was dressed in a single-breasted black suit, with a white shirt and somber gray and black striped tie. His face had a well-tended look, clean shaven and pink cheeked, but his hawklike nose gave him a formidable aspect. “Yes?” he inquired, looking down at them.

“We're the temporary kitchen help,” said Lucy. “I'm Lucy Stone and this is Sue Finch.”

Willis looked them over. “I guess you'll do,” he said with a sniff.

“We'll more than
do
,” said Sue. “You're lucky to have us. I'm a top-notch cook—and Lucy is, too.”

Lucy blushed at this surprising praise from Sue.

“I recently won a prize for my blueberry cheesecake,” said Lucy, who had been the unexpected winner at a Valentine's Day dessert contest.

“No need to rub it in,” whispered Sue, who was still a bit miffed that her fabulous brownies didn't take the prize.

The two women followed Willis down a rather dim hallway, where every other light fixture was turned off. “Why the gloom?” she asked, raising her voice.

“We're saving energy,” said Willis, opening a door and standing aside for them to enter.

They found themselves in a businesslike office, where Willis had the necessary paperwork waiting, for their social security numbers and signatures. “As day workers, you are considered independent contractors so no payroll taxes will be deducted from your compensation. I believe we have already agreed on the hourly wage.”

“Lucy may have, but I don't believe I have,” said Sue, lifting her chin. “My rate is fifteen dollars an hour.”

Willis's eyes widened and he pressed his lips together. “Then I'm afraid we will not need your services,” he said, picking up Sue's paperwork and preparing to rip it up.

“She's just kidding,” said Lucy, glaring at her friend.

“Can't blame me for trying,” muttered Sue, taking the papers from Willis and scrawling her signature in the highlighted space. “This is how the rich get richer and . . .”

Lucy delivered a gentle kick to Sue's shin. “Where's the kitchen?” she asked brightly.

“Follow me,” said Willis, as if he were a docent leading a museum tour.

The kitchen was at the end of the hallway and looked to Lucy as if it had come straight out of a PBS period drama. Windows placed high on the walls allowed plenty of light, which revealed rather grimy, grease-stained walls and ceiling. An enormous black coal stove dominated the room, but a small electric stove stood next to it. A large wooden table in the center of the kitchen was the primary work space; an old-fashioned white porcelain sink with exposed plumbing beneath hung from a wall. Another wall was occupied by several refrigerators and wire racks that held provisions as well as pots and pans.

There was no sign of Elfrida.

“Where is that damned woman?” muttered Willis. “Never here when you want her.”

“Looking for me?” Elfrida appeared in one of the numerous doorways leading off the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “I was just washing up the lunch things.”

You had to hand it to the woman, thought Lucy. Even in a stained white apron and an ill-fitting pastel green uniform, she looked spectacular. It didn't hurt, of course, that the uniform was too tight across her bounteous breasts, and the requisite hairnet barely contained her wavy blond hair, which escaped in wisps that curled charmingly around her heart-shaped face. Even with her feet shod in rubber kitchen clogs, her amazing legs were, well, amazing.

“These ladies are here to help with preparations for tomorrow's reception,” said Willis. Something in his tone made Lucy feel as if she should curtsy.

“Oh, I know Lucy and Sue,” said Elfrida, giving them each a hug. “Now let me get you girls some aprons. Who's washing and who's baking?”

“Lucy will be washing,” said Sue in her teacher's voice.

“That's right,” said Lucy, resigned to her fate.

Elfrida took her hand and led her to a room off the kitchen—which Lucy supposed was the scullery—where a lonely, aged dishwasher stood among stacks of plates, cups, and saucers, and row upon row of crystal glassware. Lucy had never seen anything like it, except perhaps at the china shop at the outlet mall. “Do you have any rubber gloves?” she asked.

Several hours later, Lucy dried the last crystal sherry glass and placed it on a tray, among dozens of others neatly lined up like soldiers on parade. The gold-rimmed plates were neatly stacked, ready to be carried upstairs, as were the cups and saucers. Lucy shook out the dishtowel she'd been using and hung it with several others on a wooden rack to dry. Then she went into the kitchen to see if Sue needed help.

“How's it going?” she asked.

Sue turned off the electric mixer. “What did you say?”

“Do you need any help?”

“Sure do. The oven is full, but you could get started on those sandwiches. I've boiled up a couple dozen eggs—you could make egg salad. There's also tuna, a tiny bit of smoked salmon—oh, and there's radishes that need to be scrubbed.”