by Linda Reilly
Praise for
FILLET OF MURDER
“Quirky characters, a darling small-town New England setting, and a plucky heroine. I thoroughly enjoyed this puzzler of a mystery. Reilly cooks up a perfect recipe of murder and mayhem in this charming cozy.”
—Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author of Copy Cap Murder
“You had me at deep-fried haddock and malt vinegar. This is a terrific book—smart, sassy, and a little bit scary. Everything a good cozy should be!”
—Laura Childs, New York Times bestselling author of Devonshire Scream
More praise for Linda Reilly
“Reilly’s debut uses her expertise in title searches to create a pleasing mystery with some interesting twists.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Sure to attract cozy fans.”
—Library Journal
“I had the pages turning so fast that I was almost afraid of setting the book on fire. I loved the characters and can’t wait to see them again very soon.”
—Myshelf.com
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Linda Reilly
FILLET OF MURDER
OUT OF THE DYING PAN
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
OUT OF THE DYING PAN
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by Linda Reilly.
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 and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information, visit penguin.com.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15488-9
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2016
Cover illustration by Dan Craig.
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.
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Mom and Dad,
this one is for you
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A gigantic thank-you goes to Jessica Faust, my extraordinary agent, for always being there with the right answers. Jessica, you are a gem.
Michelle Vega, you are the editor every writer dreams of having. Thank you, once again, for making all my wishes come true and for embracing the personalities of my characters.
I am deeply grateful to the folks at Berkley Prime Crime for all their contributions, and for the gorgeous cover design.
To all those readers who expressed their enjoyment of Fillet of Murder, I can’t thank you enough. You’ve made the journey both inspiring and rewarding, and that’s really what it’s all about.
To Angela Sanders, a tip of the hat for your expert advice on choosing a scent for Talia.
I owe my friend and fellow animal lover Kelsey Dakoulas a big hug for lending me her name. Kelsey, I hope you’ll enjoy your role in this story!
A huge tribute goes to Martha Hoelscher, who left this earthly realm far too soon. Her spirit lives on in the hearts and the minds of those lucky enough to have known her. Peace, Martha.
And to the anonymous young man in the doughnut shop across from Pittsfield High School—thanks for the great tip about the skateboard wheels! You helped make the story better.
Lastly, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank my husband, Bernie, for his infinite patience and for cheerfully whipping up his own meals while I pounded away at the keyboard.
CONTENTS
Praise for Linda Reilly
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Linda Reilly
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Recipes
1
Talia Marby watched with a lump in her throat as the sign that read LAMBERT’S FISH & CHIPS was lowered carefully to the ground. The technician stepped down from his ladder, one large hand steadying the sign. “You want us to take this back to the shop, ma’am, or do you want to keep it?”
Keep it? Talia had been so excited when she ordered her new sign that she hadn’t given a thought to disposing of the old one. She bit her lip and with her gloved hand reached out to caress the toothy blue fish engraved below the eatery’s former name. A larger lump filled her throat, this time accompanied by tears pricking at her eyelids. She swallowed. “Do I have to decide now? I … I’d like to keep it, but I don’t really have room for it.”
The technician’s long-lashed hazel eyes flashed with understanding. “Hard to part with things, isn’t it? Lots of folks get real nostalgic about this stuff.”
Nodding, Talia looked away, instead sweeping her gaze over the Wrensdale Arcade, the cozy shopping plaza in her hometown of Wrensdale. Nestled in the heart of the Berkshires, the arcade had been designed to resemble a sixteenth-century English village. Boasting Tudor storefronts and a cobblestone plaza, the shopping arcade had seven shops that formed a U-pattern around the plaza.
Talia rubbed the early December chill from her arms, recalling the day she’d first walked into the eatery looking for a part-time job. She was a teenager then, with a home life that had grown somewhat chaotic. The Lamberts, Bea and Howie, had taken to her immediately and hired her on the spot.
That was half a lifetime ago. It seemed almost surreal to Talia that she was now the proprietor of this quaint eatery. At Bea Lambert’s urging, she’d expanded the original fish and chips theme to include other deep-fried delights. She renamed it Fry Me a Sliver—hence the need for the new sign.
“Ma’am?” The sign technician cleared his throat. “You wanna keep the old sign?”
“Sorry, I was daydreaming.” She heaved a quiet sigh. “I’d love to keep it, but I don’t have a place to store it. I guess you can take it back to your shop and recycle what you can from it. Do you know when my new sign will be ready?”
“Uh, yeah, we had a little glitch with that. We ordered the color paint you wanted, but when it came in, it was the wrong shade. Gonna be at another week or so. Sorry,” he said.
Talia nodded her understanding, but a wave of disappointment washed through her. Without a sign, would people think she was closed?
The tech was striding off toward his truck when a crash from behind Talia rattled her ears. Oh, no. Not again.
“Sorry about that.” The voice rose from the cobblestone, where Lucas Bartolini, Talia’s nineteen-year-old employee, ha
d fallen from his skateboard for the umpteenth time.
“Lucas, one of these days you’re going to crack your head open,” she scolded, feeling more like his mom than his employer.
In one smooth move, Lucas hoisted himself up and scooped his skateboard into his hands. He brushed off the knees of his jeans, a tuft of blond hair drooping over one twinkling blue eye. He grinned as if to say, No worries. I’m cool. He patted his jacket with his large hand. “Yup. iPad’s okay, too. And my mom made zippers for my shirt pockets so my cell won’t fall out.”
Lucas lived with his folks only three blocks from the bustling downtown where the Wrensdale Arcade jutted off from the main drag. He was determined to conquer the cobblestone surface with his skateboard, even if he broke both knees and his neck in the process.
“When’s our new sign getting here?” Lucas asked. He glanced across the plaza at the new shop that had opened a week earlier.
Our new sign. Talia loved his enthusiasm. “It won’t be ready for at least another week,” she said. “But I can’t wait to see it hanging there. The designer did a great job creating a whimsical blue haddock juggling a handful of deep-fried goodies.”
“Cool,” Lucas said.
Talia glanced at her watch, pleased to note that Lucas was always punctual. He was also smart and personable, and had taken on the task of creating a Facebook page for the eatery—something she’d been meaning to do but could never squeeze into her busy days. The only flaw she could see in her new employee was his propensity for clumsiness, even when he wasn’t trying to skim the cobblestones on his skateboard.
“Why don’t you go ahead inside and get started on the potatoes,” she told Lucas. “The new shop across the way opened at ten, and I’m anxious to take a peek and welcome my fellow proprietor. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Marby. Okay if I grab a cup of java?”
“Of course,” Talia said and squelched a smile. He asked the same question every day, and every day she gave him the same response.
Talia hurried across the plaza to the new boutique. Vintage clothing, she’d heard. She couldn’t help admiring the fancy new sign, the words ONCE OR TWICE engraved on it in copper-colored script. Beside the shop’s name was the painted image of a 1920s flapper, beautifully drawn in shades of blood red and coal black.
She peeked inside first, through the pane of the leaded-glass door. Vintage dresses and jackets hung on painted, cast-iron racks placed strategically throughout the store. In one corner rested an antique hat stand graced with old-style hats and scarves. Behind a glass display counter, a young woman with long, dark hair and a slender form frowned as she removed from a cardboard box what appeared to be antique brooches. Eager to investigate and to meet the new owner, Talia swung open the door. “Hello there,” she said brightly.
The sales clerk jerked her head up and planted a quick smile on her face. “Hi,” she said shyly, shoving the box aside. “We only opened last week, so let me know if you’re looking for anything in particular. Everything’s a little jumbled right now.”
“That’s fine,” Talia said. “I’m Talia Marby. I own the fish and chips shop across the way. I wanted to stop in to welcome you to the arcade.”
The clerk sidled around from behind the glass counter. “I’m Kelsey Dakoulas,” she said, offering a slender hand. “Like I said, we’ve only been here a—”
A brocade curtain behind the counter suddenly whooshed aside. From a back room appeared a stunning, thirty-something woman, her lush, ginger-colored curls pulled loosely over the front of one shoulder and fastened with a feathered barrette. A smattering of pale freckles dusted her prominent cheekbones. Unsmiling, the woman crossed her arms and glared at Talia.
“This is Ria, my boss,” Kelsey said, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Ria, this is Talia from the fish and chips place.”
“Happy to meet you, Ria,” Talia said, offering her hand.
Ria’s azure eyes hardened into twin glaciers. She turned to Kelsey and snapped, “Haven’t you put those things away yet? This is the holiday season, remember? People are going to want to buy, and they can’t buy if we don’t display the goods.”
Yikes, Talia thought. Someone’s having a bad day.
Kelsey blinked. “Sorry,” she murmured, sliding her gaze sideways. “I’ll have it done in a jif.”
Feeling about as welcome as a hailstorm, Talia moved toward the door. “I can see I’m interrupting. I’ll stop back another time. Your shop looks beautiful, by the way.”
Talia rushed back to her eatery, the sting of Ria’s rebuff sharp in her mind. What was that about anyway? Before today she’d never even met the woman!
The moment she’d entered Fry Me a Sliver, the annoying scent of lingering tobacco had irritated her senses. Martha Hoelscher, Talia’s other new employee, was tying a cerulean blue apron around her sturdy form, while Lucas was busy scooping up the Idaho potato he’d dropped on the tile floor. Talia pulled in a calming breath. “Good morning, Martha.”
“Morning. I’ll get started on the Parmesan batter, if that’s okay with you. I love making that stuff. It smells so good.”
The Parmesan batter was used to prepare the deep-fried meatballs, a new side that was already a hit with customers. The meatballs were a variation on one of the recipes Talia remembered her grandmother making. Nana had died that past spring, leaving a hole in Talia’s heart, and Talia now lived in her charming bungalow.
Talia couldn’t resist shooting a glance at Martha’s scarf. Brown and ratty-looking, it was draped over Martha’s wool peacoat, which hung on a hook on the kitchen’s back door. It wasn’t the scarf itself that bothered Talia—it was the stale, smoky odor that emanated from it. She’d been trying to come up with a solution, short of ordering Martha not to wear it, but so far she hadn’t thought of anything that wouldn’t send Martha into a snit.
“You need to get started on the dining room first, Martha. The chairs need to be wiped down, and the tables scrubbed.”
Martha glowered, her helmet of straight gray hair swinging sideways as she bent to retrieve a spray bottle from beneath the counter. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” she huffed. “It’s not like I don’t do it every day. Freakin’ kids make such a mess in there. You’d think their parents could teach them to eat without splattering tartar sauce and ketchup all over the place.”
“Children are messy, Martha. You might as well get used to it.” Talia grinned. “Don’t they have kids where you come from?” She wedged herself past Martha and removed a large bag of sliced cabbage from the commercial fridge.
“Yeah, they have kids where I come from,” Martha grumbled, “but I always stayed as far away from them as possible.”
A transplant from New Hampshire, Martha had settled in Wrensdale several months earlier. Her past was a bit hazy. According to her résumé, she’d worked for more than a decade for a national insurance company, but was abruptly let go for reasons Martha couldn’t adequately explain. When she applied for the job at the eatery, Talia saw right away that she was wildly overqualified. But the woman’s obvious intelligence, along with a sense of mild desperation, persuaded Talia to give her a chance.
Talia busied herself preparing the eatery’s piquant coleslaw. A healthy dose of chipotle sauce gave it the zing customers loved. Bea Lambert had created the recipe herself, and the side dish was a longtime favorite.
Lucas dropped only three more potatoes in the peeling process—a new record for him—and was now stocking the napkin holders and refilling salt and pepper shakers.
By eleven thirty the phone orders began streaming in. With the holidays only a few weeks away, Talia predicted a busy Saturday. She hoped that her lack of a sign didn’t deter diners. The regulars, for sure, knew she was open for business.
“Um, Ms. Marby?” Lucas, phone in hand, put a caller on hold. “The guys at the firehouse want to know if we do delivery now.”
Talia slid two slabs of flour-coated haddock through a tray of batter. “Tell the
m no, sorry.” It was the second time that week someone had asked about delivery.
Lucas conveyed the message and then scribbled out a huge takeout order. He hung up and said, “Um, they wanted me to tell you that if you delivered their order instead of forcing them to send someone to pick it up, it would make it easier for them to keep the town safe from raging fires.”
Talia lowered the haddock slices into the deep fryer. “I hope they were kidding.”
Lucas grinned. “I think so, but they really did want delivery.”
Business remained brisk, and by seven o’clock Talia was beat. Lucas’s shift had ended at four, so she and Martha handled the dinner orders on their own.
Talia slid her arms into the sleeves of her flared jacket. “We’re still on for tomorrow, right?” she asked Martha.
Martha sighed and tucked her ugly scarf around her neck. “Yeah, I guess so.”
On the first Sunday of every December, the Wrensdale Community Center held its annual Santa fund-raiser. It was a fun-packed event at which local merchants filled the gymnasium and peddled their goods. The proceeds went to local families who had fallen on tough times. Santa would be there, too. Perched in an elaborate velveteen chair, he’d be entertaining kids and handing out small gifts.
“You don’t sound thrilled,” Talia said. “Is it because of all the kids?”
Martha waved a stout hand. “Nah. I just like my days off. On Sundays I can read all day and tell the rest of the world to take a flying—”
“Martha.”
“I was going to say a flying flapjack,” she said testily.
“I wouldn’t have imposed on you, except that Mom has to work, Ryan spends Sunday afternoons with his dad, and Rachel has some family affair she can’t get out of. Besides, as a fairly new resident, I thought you might enjoy meeting some of the locals.”
