“I think the name is adorable,” said Pam. “Can you make little labels?”
“You can do anything with a computer, right?” said Sue.
“These are amazing,” agreed Frankie. “I love how the butter taste is there but it’s not overpowering, and the sweetness of the sugar is balanced by the slight bitterness of the chocolate. I would love the recipe. I also give them a five.”
“I’m sorry, I like the brownies but I find the name objectionable. I don’t think the labels are a good idea at all,” said Bonnie.
“Neither do I,” said Mimi, eager to form an alliance after the chilly reception she’d received so far. “There’s plenty of sex on TV and movies, I don’t think we need to bring it into our bake sale.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Bonnie, quickly distancing herself from Mimi. “I just think that if we’re going to have labels they ought to be informative and list the ingredients.”
“For Pete’s sake,” said Sue, “it’s just a name. It’s not like they’ve got obscene decorations or anything.”
“I love the humorous name, and the taste,” said Lucy, staunchly defending her friend. “I give them a five.” She passed her scorecard to Chris, who was busy adding up the numbers.
“The brownies come up short,” said Chris. “It’s just as well, I think. They must be loaded with trans fat.”
“Maybe you should have called them ‘Cardiac Arrest Brownies,’” said Mimi. If it was meant to be a joke it flopped, earning disapproving stares from everyone.
Sue was about to utter a rejoinder when Rachel covered her hand with her own and said quickly, “Let’s not forget we’re all working for the same goal here.”
“Right,” added Bonnie. “We’re all on the same team.”
“If we’re going to meet our goal we need to talk about quantities,” said Chris, flourishing her calculator. “And pricing.”
“I’m going to get some more coffee,” said Sue, getting to her feet. “Anyone else want some before we get down to facts and figures?”
Lucy doubted Sue really wanted more coffee; she figured she was simply trying to provoke Chris. It seemed a worthy goal, so she got up, too. “I’ll just make sure the pot’s still hot,” she said.
Once they were in the kitchen, with the door closed, Sue exploded. “Do you believe it? Too much trans fat! Too sexy! ‘Maybe we should call them Cardiac Arrest Brownies!’ Who are these people? Where’d they come from?”
“They’re my neighbors,” moaned Lucy, pouring the coffee.
“How’d the meeting go?” asked Phyllis, when Lucy arrived at work the next morning. She was taking apart an Egg McMuffin, saving the egg and sausage and discarding the muffin, and the air was redolent with the scent of fast food.
“They rejected Sue’s brownies,” said Lucy.
Phyllis widened her eyes, which were already highlighted with bright blue eye shadow. “How’d she take it?”
“Not well. She’s supposed to make nutty meringue bars—Chris says nuts are the new broccoli—but I’m afraid she may fill them with explosives or something.”
“You could call them Atomic Bomb Bars. Catchy, no?”
“Just remember,” said Lucy, pulling her mail out of the box, “you heard it from me first. World War III begins on Labor Day weekend, at the outlet mall.” She was flipping through the envelopes. “All it will take is for somebody to say something negative about her baking.”
“I just hope the meringue gets done in the middle.”
“Me, too,” said Lucy, flipping one envelope back and forth, looking for a return address. “I think I’ve got another anonymous letter.”
“Open it,” demanded Phyllis. “Maybe there’s more about Naked Twister.”
“Not Twister,” said Lucy, scanning the letter. “Something called ‘Butts Up.’ The coach makes the freshmen all line up holding their ankles and the upper classmen pelt their bums with soccer balls.”
“Bare bums?”
“I don’t think so. The letter doesn’t say and I think it would if they had to strip.” She paused. “I don’t get it. When I interviewed Coach Buck he insisted he doesn’t tolerate hazing.”
“Naked Twister sounds like more fun.” Phyllis downed the last bit of sausage. “Do you think they really do this stuff?”
“I don’t know what to believe. Whoever’s writing these letters sure thinks something’s going on.”
“It could be somebody with a grudge,” suggested Phyllis. “Somebody who wants to make trouble for the new coach.”
“Or the school,” said Lucy. “This could be a really big story if the hazing is actually taking place.”
“Uh-oh,” said Phyllis. “Here we go. Lucy Stone, investigative reporter, tackles another challenging case.” She held up a stack of papers. “But before you do, would you mind sorting these press releases for me?”
“I bet Woodward and Bernstein didn’t have to sort press releases,” grumbled Lucy, taking them to her desk.
That night, after supper, Lucy managed to get Sara and Zoe to agree to make doggie biscuits, so long as no raw liver was involved. She’d been assigned to produce thirty dozen of them and she needed all the help she could get.
“It’s a different recipe,” promised Lucy, “with cooked chicken livers.”
“Eeeuw,” chorused the girls.
“How about I cook the livers and you take it from there? Please?” Lucy was tired and didn’t want to spend the entire evening on her feet, rolling out dog biscuits. “I’ll double your allowances this week.”
The girls agreed and set to work sifting flour and measuring wheat germ while Lucy browned the chicken livers. Libby was standing by her side, in hopes that a tasty tidbit would come her way.
“This is a better recipe,” said Sara.
“Libby likes them,” said Zoe.
“She’s going to miss you girls once school starts again,” said Lucy, turning the livers over.
“It’s too bad dogs can’t read,” said Zoe. “Then she’d have something to do while we’re gone.”
“Are you sad summer’s ending?”
Zoe nodded, stirring the dry ingredients together. Sara, breaking eggs into a bowl, shook her head. “I’ll be glad when school starts. I’ll see more of my friends and I won’t have to work at the inn anymore.”
“What about school? Are you excited about starting high school? Choosing electives? Writing term papers? Doing science experiments in a real lab?”
“Nah. School’s boring. But I am excited about cheerleading. I can’t wait for the first game.”
“Yeah. That’ll be fun,” agreed Lucy, whizzing the livers in the food processor and adding the resulting goo to the dough. “Do you know any of the boys on the team?”
“Sure, Mom. I’ve been in school with them since kindergarten.”
“Right,” admitted Lucy, taking a wooden spoon to the thick dough. “Not everybody. Take Tommy Stanton, for instance. He just moved into town. What’s he like?”
Lucy was hoping to pick up some information, either about her new neighbors or maybe even the hazing situation, but Sara wasn’t talking.