“I love the humorous name, and the taste,” said Lucy, staunchly defending her friend. “I give them a five.” She passed her scorecard to Chris, who was busy adding up the numbers.

“The brownies come up short,” said Chris. “It’s just as well, I think. They must be loaded with trans fat.”

“Maybe you should have called them ‘Cardiac Arrest Brownies,’” said Mimi. If it was meant to be a joke it flopped, earning disapproving stares from everyone.

Sue was about to utter a rejoinder when Rachel covered her hand with her own and said quickly, “Let’s 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?”