Free Chocolate Covered Murder by Leslie Meier Page A

“I’m on a diet.”
    You had to hand it to Bill, he could be amazingly prescient. “So what do you have in mind, sweetheart ?”
    Lucy handed him the invitation.
    â€œA ball?”
    â€œWouldn’t it be fun to get dressed up and dance? We could dance the night away.”
    Bill shrugged. “The VFW does a pretty decent prime rib.”
    â€œI could wear something with a low neck,” she murmured in his ear. “And I haven’t seen you in a tux since our wedding.”
    A shudder seemed to run through Bill’s body. “A tux?” Lucy knew the value of a strategic retreat. “It’s optional.” She sighed. “Of course, I’d look pretty silly all dolled up in lace and black satin if you’re not dressed up, too.”
    â€œWe’ll see,” he said.
    â€œYou mean we can go?”
    â€œYeah,” said Bill, as she bounced in his lap and gave him a big hug.
    â€œYou can pick up the tickets at the Seamen’s Bank,” said Lucy, hopping off his lap. “Do you want popcorn or pizza?”
    â€œJust a beer,” he said, turning the volume up with the remote. “Whaddya mean, I can buy the tickets?”
    â€œWell, it’s ten dollars cheaper for men.”
    â€œIsn’t that discrimination?” he asked, grinning. “I’m surprised your feminist ire isn’t aroused.”
    â€œSometimes even a feminist has to be practical,” said Lucy, heading for the kitchen. “I think they want to encourage men to attend.”
    When she returned, Bill was frowning. “The Celts are behind,” he muttered, taking the bottle of Sam Adams. “It’s barely a minute into the second quarter and they’re trailing by five points.”
    â€œSixty million dollars isn’t what it used to be,” she said.
    â€œYou’re telling me. The guy’s a bum.”
    Lucy wanted to wrap things up before she started cooking dinner. “So you’ll get the tickets?”
    â€œI’ll go, I’ll think about the tux, but I’m not buying the tickets.”
    Lucy plunked herself down on the sectional and grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. “You’re being ridiculous, you know,” she said, flipping through the ads for beauty products and designer handbags.
    â€œI hate writing checks,” he said, groaning as a ball bounced off the rim.
    â€œThey take cash, even credit cards,” said Lucy.
    â€œBanks have weird hours.” Bill leaned forward in his chair. “Damn.”
    Lucy knew it was counterproductive but she couldn’t stop herself from arguing. “So it’s okay for me to rearrange my schedule, but not for you?”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œYeah!” 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.
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œA funny thing happened when I was doing an interview at Chanticleer Chocolate. The woman who works there, Tamzin, asked about you.”
    â€œDid 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.”
    â€œYou 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,