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
“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
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