Easter Bunny Murder by Leslie Meier

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.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œI recently won a prize for my blueberry cheesecake,” said Lucy, who had been the unexpected winner at a Valentine’s Day dessert contest.
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œWe’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.”
    â€œLucy 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.
    â€œShe’s just kidding,” said Lucy, glaring at her friend.
    â€œCan’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.
    â€œFollow 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.
    â€œWhere is that damned woman?” muttered Willis. “Never here when you want her.”
    â€œLooking 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.
    â€œThese 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.
    â€œOh, I