Praise for
Town in a Strawberry Swirl
“Haywood’s knack for writing small town hi-jinx is one of the charms of this series and her engaging characters will soon seem like old friends to new readers, and neighbors to the rest of us. A great addition to a wonderful series!”
—Debbie’s Book Bag
“Good pacing, clever plotting, and a surprise ending will leave readers thoroughly satisfied.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 Stars) “B. B. Haywood has managed to keep the series fresh . . . Enjoy Maine with less cold and far fewer black flies and a dash of intrigue and danger.”
—Gumshoe Review
Town in a Pumpkin Bash
“With a concept that succeeds with individual volumes and tantalizes with all of them, Haywood has again created a cliff-hanger that will have readers hanging on while waiting for the next installment.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Haywood’s prose is artful and fun, her narrative style is engaging, and the two central mysteries . . . are clever, complex, and connect quite seamlessly. The story is perfectly paced, with twists, clues, confrontations, and red herrings dropped in all the right places, and Haywood manages to keep the reader guessing until the very end.”
—The Maine Suspect
Town in a Wild Moose Chase
“[A] terrific tale . . . With a great stunning final twist to complete a strong regional whodunit, fans will enjoy Town in a Wild Moose Chase.”
—The Mystery Gazette
“The third book in a well-written series, the appearance of a white moose and the big hints about a conspiracy will keep the reader enthralled. While Town in a Wild Moose Chase was complete, the ending leaves the reader waiting for the next in the series.”
—Fresh Fiction
Town in a Lobster Stew
“[A] fun and likeable amateur sleuth . . . With a little bit of romance thrown in, this one has a recipe for success.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“A fun, atmospheric mystery, perfect for lounging bayside waiting for the boats to bring in their latest catch.”
—The Mystery Reader
“This is a charming cozy . . . With seafood and recipes adding to the flavor of a Town in a Lobster Stew, subgenre fans will enjoy spending early summer in Maine.”
—The Mystery Gazette
Town in a Blueberry Jam
“In this debut mystery, Haywood has picked a winning combination of good food and endearing characters.”
—Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of An Early Wake
“A delicious mix of yummy food and a good, small-town mystery.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“A winning combination of great characters, warm setting, and mischievous locals will appeal to cozy lovers everywhere.”
—RT Book Reviews
“An interesting cast of characters in a quaint Maine town. It’s not Cabot Cove, and thank God for that. Candy Holliday is an intriguing new sleuth in the lighthearted mystery genre.”
—Bangor (ME) Daily News
Berkley Prime Crime titles by B. B. Haywood
TOWN IN A BLUEBERRY JAM
TOWN IN A LOBSTER STEW
TOWN IN A WILD MOOSE CHASE
TOWN IN A PUMPKIN BASH
TOWN IN A STRAWBERRY SWIRL
TOWN IN A SWEET PICKLE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
TOWN IN A SWEET PICKLE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author Copyright © 2015 by Robert R. Feeman and Beth Ann Feeman.
Excerpt from Town in a Cinnamon Toast by B. B. Haywood copyright © 2015 by Robert R. Feeman and Beth Ann Feeman.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-69818706-1
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2015
Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Version_1
For Emily
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Many of the places, businesses, and events that occur in Cape Willington, Maine, are based on real-world New England counterparts. Zeke’s General Store in Cape Willington, for instance, is loosely based on Zeb’s General Store in North Conway, New Hampshire, a favorite summer vacation stop. The Monterey General Store in Monterey, Massachusetts, also provided inspiration for sections of this novel. A heartfelt thanks to those who have helped out in various ways over the past year, including Ellie, Frank and Lenora, and Bob and Irene. Mary A. Cook read and commented on an early draft of the manuscript, and once again proofed the completed version in record time. Thanks to Joel and Terry for the music, and to Russ, Debi, and Jeff for the good company. If anyone should happen to see Brian Drost (Brian Jr., that is) driving a baby blue pickup truck around Montana, be sure to say hello. As always, a big thank-you to the fans, as well as to friends and family, including James, Noah, and Mat. For more information about the Candy Holliday Murder Mysteries and Cape Willington, Maine, visit hollidaysblueberryacres.com.
CONTENTS
Praise for Titles by B. B. Haywood
Berkley Prime Crime Titles by B. B. Haywood
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
<
br /> CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
Recipes
Pickling Tips
Preview of Town in a Cinnamon Toast
PROLOGUE
The attack came from behind, without warning.
Later, she would grudgingly admit it was partially her own fault, since she’d likely antagonized the nanny goat by appearing out of nowhere, rushing into the place like a madwoman, and then beeping the horn incessantly as the animal meandered across the driveway right in front of her, obviously holding her up on purpose. Critters could be territorial—just like her, in some ways. And ornery, like their owners. This one was both.
She’d completely ignored the goat as she climbed out of her Suburban, hurried up the concrete steps, and rapped at Sally Ann’s side door. No one home, an annoying detail. But at least the woman had left out the pickle jar. It sat near Wanda’s feet, on the top corner of the steps.
Something was wrong, though. From where she stood, looking down, Wanda knew right away that Sally Ann had left out the wrong jar. The label was much too professional, and a different color entirely. Sally Ann’s labels were cream-colored and handmade, somewhat crudely, with few embellishments and black spidery letters, a sort of angled cursive scrawl that looked like it might have been written by someone living in the 1800s. Often the labels were stained or creased because they’d been mishandled or applied too hastily. But they were easily recognizable, and everyone around town could identify a jar of pickles made by Sally Ann Longfellow.
The label on this jar, however, was better designed, and the writing on it much more legible. It had a light green background, with dark green lettering in an attractive, folksy font outlined in black. And it had unique entwined copper-colored embellishments at the four corners. It didn’t look like Sally Ann’s work, or her taste in design.
At first Wanda was confused. Why would Sally Ann leave out the wrong jar? They’d discussed this. Judging was about to begin. Wanda was in a hurry, and she was doing the other woman a favor, stopping by on her way to the event.
Was Sally Ann using someone else’s pickles? A mystery entry?
She squinted in the bright light, focusing on the name written across the top of the label. She could just make out the words:
Sweet Pickle Deli.
Wanda’s head jerked back in surprise as her eyes widened.
“It can’t be,” she muttered to herself.
She blinked several times. This couldn’t be true. It must be a fake, an imposter.
But if it was genuine—an actual jar of pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli—then it was indeed a rare find.
But what was Sally Ann doing with it? Where had the jar come from? Had she been hoarding it all this time? And why put it out on the stoop, instead of a jar of her own pickles?
A flash of irritation swept though Wanda.
She’s throwing in a ringer, Wanda thought. What is she up to?
I should just disqualify her right now.
But maybe she’d just read the label wrong. Perhaps she’d been mistaken.
She had to get a better look at it.
She bent over slightly, and stopped. She didn’t want to lean over too far, she realized. She had on a new outfit today, an orange, beige, and rust-toned ensemble designed to herald the imminent arrival of autumn. The beige pants were more form-fitting than she preferred, but they’d been too nice to pass up when she’d found them at that new boutique on Ocean Avenue. She didn’t want to stretch them to their limit, which wasn’t very far, so instead of bending over further, she climbed back down the steps and came around the side of the stoop, where she could view the jar at something closer to eye level.
Once back on solid ground, she was foolish enough to turn her back on the goat as she leaned in to get a better look at the label.
Unfortunately, that exposed her to the attack.
Seeing an opportunity for retribution, or perhaps just because she was in a cranky mood, the irascible animal lowered her head, darted forward, and butted Wanda squarely in the rear end.
It was a clean shot but not a vicious one, meant to be a statement, more an act of irritation than aggression. But Wanda was so engrossed in studying the label that the unexpected bump caught her completely unawares. It had just enough force to send her teetering forward, throwing her off balance.
With a startled squawk of surprise, Wanda Boyle went down face-first onto the dry, tightly cropped grass, her arms splattering out to her sides, red hair flying.
An oomph of air escaped from her lungs as she landed hard on her chest and stomach. Her eyes, heavily outlined in mascara, squeezed tightly shut, and her mouth, adorned with a deep shade of orange lipstick called Autumn Sunset, drew into a tight line, pursed against the grass and dirt into which she’d fallen.
Her whole body rocked and settled. For a moment all was silent, until she blew out another breath on purpose, sputtering her lips to clear them of debris as her eyes flew open and her expression darkened.
She lifted her head and twisted about, focusing in on the four-legged critter standing behind her. She eyed the animal defiantly.
“Cleopatra,” Wanda said in an accusatory, barely controlled tone, “I thought we talked about this. No head-butting. How’d you get loose anyway? You’re in a lot of trouble, young lady!”
Wanda lifted an arm and brushed several strands of red hair out of her face as she took a moment to mentally assess her condition. No shooting pains. No broken bones. Nothing appeared to be severely damaged.
Other than her pride.
Her gaze shifted, head turning in both directions, back and forth, to determine if anyone had spotted her in such a compromising position—lying in the dirt, flat on her stomach, at the hands of a grumpy nanny goat, no less. If someone saw her like this, it would be around town in hours, if not minutes. She’d be a laughingstock for weeks. She might never live it down.
But today she lucked out. The street and surrounding yards were thankfully vacant. No cars whizzing by. No one walking past with a dog. No one staring out a window, catching sight of her by surprise.
Convinced she hadn’t been seen and confident she wasn’t hurt, Wanda pushed herself up on her side, got an arm under her, and managed to sit up. She took a moment to collect herself before she struggled shakily to her feet.
Looking down, she saw dirt down her front and grass stains on her knees. Her new outfit was ruined.
She eyed the goat again with a venomous gaze. “Just great,” she growled. “What’d you do that for? I was just trying to get a good look at that pickle jar.”
And, of course, that explained it right there.
The goat was after the pickles.
Cleopatra let out an obstinate bleat, laid back her ears, and swung her bony head toward the house. Then, in a burst of activity, she clattered up the steps to the top of the stoop, gave the jar a vicious knock with her nose, and sent it tumbling. It landed with a heavy thunk! on each step, moving faster and faster, arcing higher and higher, until it smacked onto the concrete walkway at an awkward angle and cracked open like an eggshell.
Wanda let out a howl of disbelief as a second goat named Guinevere, attracted by
the noise, poked her head around the side of the building, spotted the fresh pickles suddenly available for consumption, and trotted forward. At the same time, Cleopatra triumphantly descended the steps to claim her prize.
Both goats reached the broken jar at the same time as Wanda watched in dismay. If these really were pickles from the Sweet Pickle Deli, there was no way she was going to let a couple of goats steal them from her grasp. Her brow fell in determination as she started forward as well, swinging her big arms and zeroing in on the broken pickle jar.
The goats saw her coming and moved quickly, lowering their heads and sniffing at the contents. After a few moments Guinevere drew back her head, snorted, and turned, angling away. She obviously wasn’t interested in pickles. But Cleopatra wasn’t as choosy. She slurped up first one into her mouth, and then another.
Wanda was horrified. “Leave those alone! Do you know what those are?”
She crossed the distance quickly and reached out with one hand, pushing the goat back. At the same time, she swung down her other hand and managed to carefully pluck a single whole pickle off the ground. But the goat would not be deterred, and as Wanda watched, the animal shifted around and quickly gobbled up all that remained.
Wanda was beside herself with regret. “Do you know what you’ve done? You just destroyed the best pickles ever made!”
The goat raised her head, gave Wanda a satisfied look, and started moving away, still chewing on her gourmet meal.
Wanda let out a huff. “Well, that’s just great. Wait ’til Sally Ann hears about this. You’ll be in the doghouse for weeks. Or goathouse. Or whatever.” She wagged a finger at Cleopatra’s retreating backside. “You’re in a lot of trouble, you . . . you old goat!”
But Cleopatra paid her no nevermind. She had managed to snag what she was after.
With a sigh of disappointment, Wanda looked down at the pickle she held in her hand. At least she’d been able to salvage one of them.
She studied it for a moment, almost romantically. It looked relatively free of dirt and glass shards. And it smelled so delicious. She ran a finger across it, cleaning off a few small bits of debris, and hesitated. Should I? she thought.
Town in a Sweet Pickle Page 1
