The house was generously furnished with antiques and Lucy always felt as if she were stepping back in time when she visited her old friend. Miss Tilley was sitting in her usual Boston rocker today, with a colorful crocheted afghan covering her knees. Cleopatra, her Siamese cat, was seated on her lap, a softly purring sphinx.

"How are you?" asked Lucy. "I hear you had the flu."

"Nonsense. It was nothing more than a head cold, but everyone made such a fuss I didn't dare show my face at the funeral."

"Your friend Fern sent along some Boston cream pie," said Lucy, handing her the dish.

Miss Tilley promptly lifted the foil and examined the cake, smacking her lips. "I'll have that for my supper," she said.

"You'll have chicken soup for supper," said Rachel, taking the plate and carrying it into the kitchen. "There's a pot all ready for you on the stove. You just have to heat it up."

"I'd rather have pie," said Miss Tilley.

"If you finish all your soup, you can have some for dessert." Rachel raised an eyebrow. "And don't think you can put the soup down the drain. I'll know."

Miss Tilley shifted in her chair, a guilty expression on her face. "I'm not a child, you know."

"Then stop acting like one," snapped Rachel.

"My goodness," said Lucy. "It seems you two need a break."

"You said it," said Rachel, laughing as she seated herself on the sofa. "We are turning into a pair of bickering biddies."

Miss Tilley smiled and stroked the cat. "I don't know what I'd do without Rachel. I'd be in a pretty pickle, I'm sure."

"It's not easy keeping you on the straight and narrow," said Rachel, smiling fondly at her old friend. She'd started visiting regularly after Miss Tilley had an automobile accident years ago and now she was officially certified by the town council on aging as a home helper and even received a small stipend for her efforts.

"I would have liked to have gone to the funeral," said Miss Tilley. "For Fern. There aren't many of us old-timers left, you know, and she was so fond of Max."

"Was she upset about the divorce?" asked Lucy, perching on the sofa.

"She certainly didn't approve, divorce isn't something one approves of. But having said that, I don't think she was terribly surprised when the marriage didn't work out. She was never in favor of Max and Dora getting married; that was Flora's idea."

Lucy was puzzled. "How was it Flora's idea? Wasn't it up to Max and Dora?"

Miss Tilley pursed her lips. "Max had gone away, he wasn't the sort you could tie down. I remember him when he was a little boy, he'd come into the library and take out all sorts of adventure books. He read about all the explorers and astronauts and deep-sea divers. He wanted to see the world, he told me, and when he got out of high school he started traveling. I used to get postcards from him now and then. He went all over and somewhere he learned how to surf and he started competing and winning, too. There was quite a fuss about him when he came home for a visit, articles in the newspaper and all that. He was quite the hero, and Dora was his girl."

"And they decided to get married?" asked Lucy.

"Oh, no. He was only here for a short while before he had to leave for some surfing contest in Mexico or somewhere."

Lucy was puzzled. "So Dora followed him?"

"No. It was Flora."

"But she's old enough to be his mother."

"Oh, she wasn't interested in him for herself," said Miss Tilley, with a flap of her age-spotted hand. "It turned out he'd gotten Dora in the family way and Flora went down to wherever he was and made him understand his responsibility. She dragged him back and got them married before either of them knew what had happened. Fern told me she didn't think it was a good idea to force a marriage like that and it turned out she was right because the marriage didn't last." Miss Tilley's voice was fading and Lucy suspected she was growing tired. "And now poor Max is gone and he was much too young."

"Perhaps it was better that way," said Rachel, in a thoughtful voice. "I don't think he would have wanted to grow old."

"It's certainly not for everyone," said Miss Tilley, slapping her lap and causing the cat to leap onto the rug, where she began grooming herself.

"I've got to go," said Lucy, getting to her feet. "Bill's waiting for me outside. He's probably having a fit."

"I'd like to see that!" said Miss Tilley, giving her a little wave.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't," said Lucy, bending to give her a peck on the cheek. "Mind Rachel and eat your soup."

"I'll consider it," said Miss Tilley.

Chapter Seven.

A few weeks later, the Tuesday before Valentine's Day, it was only ten o'clock and Lucy was starving. She'd had a piece of toast (whole wheat with a tiny sliver of b.u.t.ter) and a sixty-calorie pot of light yogurt for breakfast. Along with a gla.s.s of orange juice and black coffee, she figured it totaled about three hundred calories, which was apparently not enough to sustain life in Maine in February.

Her strict diet had resulted in the loss of six pounds, and her jeans were fitting better, but all she could think of as she made her way down Main Street was a big bowl of hot oatmeal, studded with raisins, sprinkled with sugar, and covered with cream. It hung before her eyes like a mirage in the desert, but she was about as far from any desert as a human being could be. Tinker's Cove in February was cold and wet and anybody with any sense was staying indoors, where it was warm and dry. Which was not possible for her because she was working on a man-in-the-street feature about Valentine's Day.

"What are your plans for Valentine's Day?" was the question she was supposed to ask five people. The replies would run in this week's paper along with head shots of the people she interviewed. It was a cute idea and the sort of thing she normally liked to do. The only problem was she couldn't find one person, much less five, and she was cold and wet and hungry.

Deciding to try the post office, she trudged down the empty street, sloshing through slush and telling herself the cold, damp mist that hung in the air was good for her complexion. She was just pa.s.sing Chanticleer Chocolate when a huge SUV pulled up to the curb and Brad Cashman jumped out.

Brad was her neighbor. He lived on Prudence Path with his wife, Chris, who was Sue's partner in Little Prodigies Child Care Center.

"Hi!" she said, greeting him with a big smile. "Got a minute?"

Chris smiled back and c.o.c.ked a wary eyebrow. "Maybe."

"I'm doing one of those man-in-the-street things, and I could really use some help. Just one quick question and a photo. Okay?"

Brad zipped his jacket, which had been open, and stuck his hands in his pocket. "Shoot."

"Say cheese." Lucy snapped the photo. "What are your plans for Valentine's Day?" she asked, pulling out her notebook and opening it to a fresh page.

"Funny you should ask," he said, nodding at the store. "I'm on my way right now to buy chocolates for my three beautiful ladies."

"That would be your wife, Chris, and the twins?"

"Pear and Apple," he said. "I can't leave them out."

"How old are they now?"

"Old enough to know about chocolate," said Brad, turning up his collar and moving toward the store. "See you around, Lucy."

"Thanks," she said, as he opened the door and vanished inside.

One down, four to go, thought Lucy, continuing down the street. She was just pa.s.sing the police station when she spotted her friend, Barney, about to get into his cruiser. She couldn't help envying his official winter gear, the insulated blue all-in-one that covered him from chin to ankles, plus his fur-lined hat and st.u.r.dy boots.

"Barney!" she called, running to catch him.

"Hey, Lucy," he replied, turning to greet her. "What's up?"

"Got a moment for a man-in-the-street question? I just want to know what your plans are for Valentine's Day. Are you getting something for Marge?"

"Sure am. I always get her a big bunch of pink roses."

"Not red?" asked Lucy, snapping his photo.

"She doesn't like red. She likes pink."

"Because of the breast cancer?" Lucy knew Barney's wife, Marge, was a breast cancer survivor and pink was the color a.s.sociated with efforts to raise money for a cure.

Barney's bulldog face crumpled, which Lucy knew was an indication of deep thought. "I don't think so. I think she just likes pink roses."

"Pink roses are lovely," said Lucy, writing it all down. "She's a lucky lady."

"No, Lucy." Barney was shaking his head. "I'm the lucky one. I don't deserve a wife like Marge."

"She must be thrilled to have Eddie home, safe and sound."

To her surprise, Barney's thoughtful expression deepened. "You know how it is with kids-you never stop worrying."

"I saw him at the Quik-Stop," continued Lucy. "He looks so handsome and fit."

"I'm just glad he's got all his arms and legs," said Barney. "A lot of these kids coming home are missing 'em."

"How's his mental outlook?" asked Lucy.

Barney shrugged. "It's hard to tell. He doesn't say much."

Barney looked so worried that Lucy didn't know what to say and resorted to the usual cliche. "It's a big adjustment, it's bound to take time." She noticed Barney's eyes following Max's old pickup, driven by Lily with Eddie in the pa.s.senger seat.

"Are they dating?" she asked.

Barney shrugged. "Don't ask me. He doesn't tell me anything."

Par for the course, thought Lucy, remembering how sullen and uncommunicative Toby had been before he met Molly.

"She's a nice girl," said Lucy. "He could do worse. Which reminds me, how's the investigation going?"

Barney looked confused. "What investigation?"

"Max Fraser, of course."

"Oh, that," he said, adjusting his gloves. "That's over and done. The guy drank too much and got himself in a pickle. The surprise is it didn't happen sooner."

Lucy shivered, which was her usual reaction whenever she thought of Max drowning in the freezing pond water. "There must have been some sort of follow-up. The ME's report said he had been knocked on the head."

Barney shifted from foot to foot. "Yeah, but he said there was no way of telling if it was intentional or accidental."

"Which left it open for an investigation," said Lucy.

Barney sighed. "We questioned a few people, didn't come up with anything suspicious. The last person who admits seeing him alive is Dora, his ex, but she says that was in the evening, well before he went through the ice."

"Where did she see him?" asked Lucy.

"At home. She says she was having trouble with her car and he stopped by to take a look and see if he could help."

Lucy nodded. "He was like that, he got me out of a fix when I got stuck in a s...o...b..nk."

"Problem is, he never did look at the car. She admitted they got in a fight; she wanted money for Lily's schooling. Last she saw him, he was driving off in a huff."

"Bill says Max was up against it lately and owed a lot of people money. That could be a motive for murder."

"If you're saying Max had a lot of enemies, I'd say that's a lot of hooey. Like I said, he drank too much and got careless. We found an empty bottle of Southern Comfort in his truck." He paused, making eye contact. "And if he did have a falling out with somebody, and I'm not saying he did, well that somebody isn't anybody you want to tangle with, Lucy. You'd better stick to asking folks how they're going to celebrate Valentine's Day."

"Point taken," said Lucy, her teeth chattering. The mist was beginning to solidify, turning to sleet. "Have a good day."

"You, too, Lucy." Barney opened the door of his cruiser and Lucy dashed across the street to the liquor store.

Stepping inside, she gave a little shake.

"Pretty nasty out there," said the clerk, a fellow in his forties with oversize eyegla.s.ses and a shock of graying hair that fell over his forehead. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Lucy Stone, with the Pennysaver. I'm interviewing people about their plans for Valentine's Day."

"You want to know how I'm going to celebrate?" he asked, with a grin.

"If you don't mind." Lucy produced her camera. "And I have to take your picture, too."

He shrugged. "Well, as you might expect, I'm going to bring home a nice bottle of champagne and drink it with my wife."

"Say bubbles," said Lucy, snapping his photo. "What's your name?"

"Cliff Sandstrom."

"Any particular brand?" asked Lucy, noticing a display of Southern Comfort bottles by the cash register.

Cliff grimaced. "I wish I could go for the Veuve Clicquot but I think it's going to be Freixenet this year," he said. "Business is down, due to the economy."

"You'd think people would drink more, to forget their troubles."

"Oh, they do, but they buy the cheap stuff. Not much profit in that."