Chapter One

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"Do you have any really sharp knives?" asked the tremulous voice. "Something that will cut through bone and gristle?"

Lucy Stone stifled a yawn, adjusted her headset, and typed the code for "knives" on the computer keyboard in front of her. Instantly the screen glowed with the eleven varieties of knives sold by Country Cousins, the giant mail-order country store.

"What kind of knives were you thinking of?" Lucy inquired politely. "Hunting knives, fishing knives, pocket knives, kitchen knives... ?"

"Kitchen knives, of course," snapped the voice. "Homer hasn't been out of the house for forty years."

Lucy hit the code for "kitchen knives," and the screen listed six sets of kitchen knives.

"I'm sure we have something that will do. How about a set of four carbon steel knives with rosewood handles for fifty-seven dollars?"

"What is carbon steel? Is it really sharp?" insisted the voice.

"Well, some cooks prefer it because it's easy to sharpen. However, it doesn't hold an edge as long as stainless steel. We also have the same set in stainless steel for fifty-seven dollars."

"I don't know which to get. Homer loves to cut and carve. He's really an artist at the dinner table." The voice became confidential. "I've always believed he would have been a gifted surgeon. That unfortunate incident in medical school simply unnerved him."

Lucy stifled the urge to encourage further confidences. "Then carbon steel is probably your best bet," she advised. She then mentioned a related product, a technique her sales manager insisted upon.

"You could also get him a sharpening steel. He would probably enjoy using it." "You mean one of those things you draw the blade against before carving? Seems to me Poppa had one of those. I think you're fight; I'm sure Homer would enjoy doing that. It would add a touch of drama. How much are those?"

"We have one with a rosewood handle for eighteen dollars."

"I'll take the knives and the steel."

"All right," said Lucy, smiling with satisfaction. "I need some information from you, and we'll ship them right away." She finished typing in the woman's name, address, and credit card number. "Thank you for your order. Call Country Cousins again, soon." She arched her back, stretched her arms, and checked the clock. Almost ten. Three hours until her shift ended at one A.M.

Lucy didn't mind working at Country Cousins. Like many of the tourists who came to Tinker's Cove in the summer, she was fascinated by the quaint old country store on Main Street. Inside, there were crockery, kitchen utensils, penny candy, and sturdy country clothes as well as fishing, hunting, and camping equipment. The porch with its ten-foot-long deacon's bench, the sloping floors of scuffed, bare wood, and the huge potbellied stove were all authentic, they just weren't the whole story. For the truth was, most of Country Cousins' business came from catalog sales and was conducted at a mammoth steel warehouse on the outskirts of Tinker's Cove. There, state- of-the-art telephone and computer systems enabled hundreds of employees like Lucy to sell, pack, and ship millions of dollars' worth of merchandise twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-four days a year. Country Cousins was closed on Christmas Day. All merchandise was sold with an unconditional guarantee: "We're not happy unless you are."

"It's quiet tonight, isn't it, Lucy?" said Beverly Thompson: the grandmotherly woman who had the computer station next to Lucy.

"It sure is. And only ten days until Christmas."

"Are you all ready for Christmas?"

"Not by a long shot," Lucy said. "I haven't finished the fisherman's sweater I'm making for Bill, I still have to make an angel costume for Elizabeth to wear in the church pageant, and I have to bake six dozen cookies for Sue Finch's cookie exchange. And," she continued, "I still have quite a bit of shopping to do. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm pretty well finished. Of course, now that the kids are scattered from Washington to San Francisco there isn't so much to do." Beverly's voice was wistful. "I just have something sent from the catalog."

"Don't knock it," advised Lucy. "I have my mother and Bill's folks coming. Christmas is an awful lot of work. I like Halloween, myself. All you need is a mask and a bag of candy."

"Why don't you all pack up and spend Christmas at Grandma's?" asked Beverly. "'I'd love to have my brood back for the holidays." Beverly sighed as she thought of the neat stack of presents waiting in her closet, which she would open all by herself on Christmas morning.

"Oh, we started having Christmas at our house back in the granola years when we had chickens and goats and woodstoves. We couldn't leave or the animals would starve and the pipes would freeze! Now everyone expects it." Lucy shrugged, pausing to take an order for a flannel nightgown.

"I don't know how you girls do it," said Beverly, picking up the conversation. "You work half the night, and then you take care of your families all day."

"It isn't so bad. I like it a lot better than cashiering at the IGA or working at the bank. When I did that my whole check went for day care."

"But when do you sleep?" asked Beverly, yawning.

"Oh, I usually nap when Sara does. She's only four," answered Lucy, stretching and yawning herself. "It isn't sleep I miss, it's sex. How about you, Ruthie?" Lucy asked the woman on her other side. "Are you getting any lately?"

Ruthie whooped. "Are you kidding? He works all day, I work all night, and the baby wakes up at five." She lowered her voice and spoke in a confidential tone to Lucy and Beverly. "I've asked Santa for a night in a motel."