Part 6 (1/2)

”I work hard,” he snapped. ”The least you can do is be supportive.”

Lucy couldn't believe what she was hearing. ”Like I don't work hard, too?”

”Yeah!” he exclaimed, as a ball made it through the hoop. ”You have a part-time job, Luce. It's not the same thing as being the breadwinner.”

Lucy threw down the magazine. ”Men are so self-centered!” she declared, grabbing another.

”Hey, I'm a good guy,” he protested. ”I said I'd take you to that ball, didn't I?”

Lucy stared at the black-and-white photo of a nearly naked man and woman entwined in a steamy embrace on a beach; they appeared to be coated in baby oil.

”A funny thing happened when I was doing an interview at Chanticleer Chocolate. The woman who works there, Tamzin, asked about you.”

”Did she?” Bill was staring at the TV, where two commentators in blue blazers were recapping a play. ”I helped Max put in the shelves in the storeroom.”

”You never mentioned it,” said Lucy.

A commercial for an erectile dysfunction drug was playing on the TV; a man and woman were sitting in separate bathtubs, outdoors. ”Who does that?” asked Bill, incredulous.

”Dora said Max was nothing but trouble... .”

Bill was flipping channels, pausing at a golf match. ”You can say that again,” said Bill. ”He never paid me for that job.” He was staring at the parched Arizona landscape that filled the screen. ”Look at that, must be eighty degrees at least.”

”How much did he owe you?” asked Lucy.

”We agreed on five hundred dollars, but I haven't seen a cent-and I'm not the only one he stiffed.”

”Who else?” asked Lucy.

”Just about everybody,” said Bill, watching as Phil Mickelson made a putt. ”Nice.”

”If he owed a lot of people money, a lot of people had a motive to kill him, didn't they?”

Bill looked at her. ”I don't follow you. What would killing him accomplish? You still wouldn't get your money back.”

”You'd get revenge,” said Lucy.

”Pretty cold comfort, if you ask me,” said Bill, draining the bottle of beer and switching off the TV. ”What do you say to a 'matinee,' before the girls come home?”

Lucy was caught by surprise; she was wondering who else Max might have stiffed. ”Now?”

He grinned wickedly. ”Yeah, now. Like in that commercial. We can be spontaneous, right? And I don't need any pills, either.”

Spontaneity didn't appeal to Lucy, who was newly self-conscious about her body, thinking of the tummy bulge she'd noticed the other day. ”I feel fat,” she said.

”Don't be silly,” said Bill, taking her hand and drawing her into an embrace. ”I love you just the way you are. You're perfect.”

Lucy felt her resistance crumbling as he wrapped his arms around her.

”A little bit of extra flesh is s.e.xy,” he murmured, whispering into her ear.

Lucy felt as if she'd been slapped and pulled away. ”I've got to start supper,” she snapped, marching into the kitchen.

”What? What did I say?” demanded Bill.

Lucy grabbed a couple of onions and began chopping, furiously smacking the knife against the cutting board. How on earth did the Faircloths do it, she wondered, as her eyes filled with tears. It was the onions, she told herself. Onions always made her cry.

Chapter Six.

Sunday morning, when the breakfast dishes were all cleared away and the dishwasher was humming, Lucy sat down at the round golden-oak table with the newspapers. Bill was outside splitting wood, and the girls had gone over to Prudence Path to babysit little Patrick while Toby and Molly went to a christening.

Lucy always read the Boston Sunday Globe first, starting with the colorful magazine. She was turning the pages slowly, savoring this bit of quiet time, pausing to admire a mouth-watering photo of a red velvet layer cake. Perfect, she thought. Just the thing to make for the dessert contest.

Flipping the page over, she eagerly read the recipe but didn't find it all that appealing. It called for too much sugar-two cups-and two whole sticks of b.u.t.ter, as well as an awful lot of red food coloring. It also called for the addition of vinegar, which made the whole thing sound more like a science experiment than a cake.

No, red velvet wasn't the way to go. Maybe cupcakes, she thought. They were all the rage. Maybe she could work up a cupcake with a gooey chocolate surprise filling and a ganache topping. That sounded yummy, but she'd never had much luck getting ganache to set and she couldn't enter cupcakes with runny icing. And she had no idea how to get that chocolate filling inside the cupcake. Did you bake it in? Was there some sort of magic process involved like the Denver Chocolate Pudding in her f.a.n.n.y Farmer cookbook that she sometimes made as a special treat?

Another specialty was the clafouti she often made in summer, when cherries and blueberries were in season. She'd found the recipe in her Julia Child cookbook and it was surprisingly simple. It was the only recipe in that book that she actually made. She was wondering if she could figure out a way to make a chocolate clafouti, perhaps with frozen raspberries. That would be really good, and original. She suspected all she'd have to do would be to add some cocoa powder to the recipe, but how much? Chances of getting it right the first time seemed slim-and would it also need a chocolate sauce? She rather thought it might, which made the project seem awfully ambitious.

She was leafing through her Paula Deen cookbook when she heard someone tapping at the kitchen door. Libby, never a very good guard dog, was giving mixed messages, simultaneously growling and wagging her tail, when Lucy opened the door. Discovering it was Frankie, the dog erupted into a joyful dance of greeting.

”Down,” said Lucy firmly, pointing to the dog's bed.

The Lab settled down with a big sigh and Lucy took Frankie's coat. ”Want some coffee? It's nice and hot.”

”Sure,” said Frankie, slipping into a chair. ”I can't stay long, I've got another appointment with the Faircloths. I've been showing them everything from here to Portland and back.”

”I meant to thank you for telling me about them,” said Lucy, pouring two mugs and bringing them over to the table. ”They are every bit as cute as you said and I got a great interview.”

Frankie sipped at her coffee. ”I'm getting a bit sick of them, to tell the truth. Talk about picky!” She shrugged philosophically. ”Of course, when you're spending the kind of money they are, I guess you can be picky. They have a lot of art and antiques and they want a house that will showcase their collections.”

Lucy was puzzled. ”I thought they lost everything in a house fire.”

”You're right,” said Frankie, knitting her brows. ”I guess some of their stuff was saved-they must have it in storage.” She wrapped her hands around the mug. ”Actually, I was wondering about the couple at Chanticleer Chocolate. Do you think they're looking for a house?”

”You mean Trey and Tamzin? I don't think they're a couple,” said Lucy. ”Where did you get that idea?”

Frankie took a sip of coffee. ”I saw them outside the store. They were arguing; I guess that's why I thought they were a couple.” She giggled. ”Maybe it's just their names. Trey and Tamzin. They sound like a couple, no?”

Lucy smiled. ”I don't know much about Trey, but I do know that Tamzin is very flirtatious. She flaunts her a.s.sets, if you know what I mean.”

Frankie's eyebrows went up. ”Really?”

”Tight dresses, very low necklines, thigh-high boots. Stilettos.”

”Not chic,” said Frankie, who favored tailored pantsuits enlivened with colorful scarves.