Skirting the Grave
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Vintage Bag Tips
Teaser chapter
PRAISE FOR
Death by Diamonds
“Annette Blair has the magic touch when it comes to entertaining joie de vivre paranormal amateur-sleuth whodunits. The mystery is cleverly constructed.”
—The Best Reviews
“A fast-paced, fascinating addition to this dynamic mystery series . . . A book by Annette Blair is a guaranteed roller-coaster ride, and Death by Diamonds in no exception!”
—Fresh Fiction
“It was fabulous—the best Vintage Magic Mystery yet. Full of magic, mystery, and classic Blair style. Maddie’s antics are always fun to read, and the hint of romance is a teasing heat that leaves you wondering and wanting more.”
—Fang-tastic Books
“To say Annette Blair has revved up the drama and intensity would be putting it too mildly . . . One of the most interesting mysteries I have read this year. A magnificent story!”
—Huntress Reviews
“An exciting, humorous roller-coaster ride . . . I cannot recommend Annette Blair’s books enough, and this one is no exception to that. It already has a place on my keeper shelf.”
—ParaNormal Romance
Larceny and Lace
“Another fast-paced novel that keeps the reader entertained from the word go! Annette Blair’s characters are warm and endearing, and you feel as if you’re visiting old friends among the pages . . . I look forward to more stories of the Cutler family and Mystic, Connecticut, from this wonderful author.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Annette Blair’s whimsical and witty writing style is true magic on the page. She never disappoints . . . I love Blair’s use of words and the way she blends magic and vintage clothing into the stories like they are characters themselves, especially the clothes.”
—Fang-tastic Books
“A wonderful investigative tale that will have armchair readers spellbound trying to solve the case before Maddie can . . . With whimsy, humor, and Dante to round out the magic, fans will enjoy this entertaining paranormal amateur sleuth.”
—The Best Reviews
“A joy to read.”
—Gumshoe Reviews
A Veiled Deception
“Whimsical, witty, and wonderful . . . Sure to enchant readers everywhere.”
—Madelyn Alt, national bestselling author of Home for a Spell
“Classic Annette Blair style with the quirky, fun twist of a paranormal and a heated romantic interest that we have all come to love.”
—Fallen Angels Reviews
“A wonderful book . . . A literary whisper adds to the charm.”
—Romantic Times
“Not only a good start to a new series but a great example of the supernatural mystery genre.”
—Curled Up With a Good Book
“Annette Blair brings her characters to vivid life . . . Fun, witty, and highly recommended.”
—Huntress Reviews
“A smart, funny start to a new series . . . Cleverly plotted.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Phenomenal. Ms. Blair beautifully captures New England’s ambiance and mystique as she weaves a well-crafted mystery into the threads of Maddie Cutler’s life.”
—Fresh Fiction
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Annette Blair
A VEILED DECEPTION
LARCENY AND LACE
DEATH BY DIAMONDS
SKIRTING THE GRAVE
Berkley Sensation titles by Annette Blair
THE KITCHEN WITCH
MY FAVORITE WITCH
THE SCOT, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE
SEX AND THE PSYCHIC WITCH
GONE WITH THE WITCH
NEVER BEEN WITCHED
THE NAKED DRAGON
BEDEVILED ANGEL
VAMPIRE DRAGON
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SKIRTING THE GRAVE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Annette Blair.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN : 978-1-101-53996-5
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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This book is dedicated,
with much love, to
Deb Jobert.
Forever friend, great writer.
For mutual support, shared laughter,
awesome
conferences.
And for making the early days so special.
Smiles linger.
Author’s Note
Historic Mystic, Connecticut, is a treat as is the Mystic River, both well worth a long visit. Mystick Falls, to the north, however, is a figment of my imagination, as are the locations of my characters’ homes and of the town’s governing body. I have too much respect for the real thing to portray them any other way.
One
She wore a short skirt and a tight sweater and her figure described a set of parabolas that could cause cardiac arrest in a yak.
—WOODY ALLEN, GETTING EVEN, 1973
Eve Meyers, my BFF, a gothic fashionista with a steampunk edge, tall in her black and brass Lindi Buckle Leather Booties, invaded my vintage dress shop with mischief aforethought. “Madeira? Did you ever tell Nick about that thermonuclear kiss you shared with Werner the night you and the detective slept together?”
Even though we were alone right now, I grew warm in my fifties Lilli Ann flared-sleeved, cinch-waisted, pencil-skirted suit. I’d purchased it at a miracle of a bargain, though a rabid collector would pay a grand for the set.
You had to love the goods you sold, which I aced, but right now, I wasn’t loving my BFF too darn much.
Eve knew she’d hit home when she turned to face my beverage buffet. “Caffeine. Gotta have more caffeine. My morning fix has left the building.” She chose a zinger of a caramel tea as black and powerful as her outfit.
From the back, her long, straight hennaed hair spilled over the stand-up collar of her cotton point textured faille jacket, same fabric as her skintight cropped pants. For contrast, I’d designed it to be worn with that boldprint girlie top—earth tones hidden among the black—a barely there ruffle flowing just below the cropped waist of her jacket.
Her necklace of assorted copper gears picked up the red sheen from her hair, which she flipped as she turned back to me. “If you didn’t tell Nick,” she said, “you’re about to have your chance. I hear he’s on his way home.” She sipped her tea and eyed me with calculation over the rim of a blue Wedgwood teacup.
“Werner and I did not sleep together!” I snapped. “We were out cold, both of us concussed . . . in the same bed. There’s a difference.”
Dropping the subject, I stacked the fifties outfits I’d sold earlier that morning, to be worn at my sister Brandy’s costume fund-raiser this coming Saturday night. “Be right back. Have to top my list of alterations with this lot.”
Eve leaned on the doorjamb at the base of my enclosed stairway sipping and watching as I climbed. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d think you’re ignoring me.”
What I chose to ignore, I acknowledged to myself, was the amusement in her voice. I hung the items to be altered in my work corner, boxed in by several antique sewing machines and a few of today’s finest technical wonders that did everything but wear the clothes.
Back downstairs in my sales area, I switched out winter purses for summer box bags in straws, metallics, Bakelite, and Lucite, and showcased their funky shapes: rectangle, trapezoid, beehive, hatbox, lunch box, not to mention the fifties icon: the sleek single-clasp, rectangular box clutch, a purse known to endow its owner with ladylike behavior.
“You and Werner can’t escape your scorching past,” Eve warned, arms crossed, eyes bright, smile at halfmast. “Neither can you escape me.”
Atop the purse pyramid, I placed a white oval Lucite Llewellyn bag, the bottom edged with a two-inch, molded, silver floral band. “Gorgeous,” I said.
“Face it,” Eve persisted, “the kiss did happen. You and Werner couldn’t both have dreamed it. Besides, he’s the one who called it ‘thermonuclear.’ ”
“Get out, Meyers!”
Eve’s grin grew. “You didn’t tell Nick, did you?”
I huffed. “First I said I didn’t want to talk about it. Then when I tried, Nick didn’t want to hear it. So first we avoided the subject and then we avoided each other. Fact is, Nick’s been on one secret assignment or another for nearly the entire four months since.”
Eve waved a hand. “Excuses, excuses.”
“No, seriously, the FBI takes advantage of their special agents that way. Plus we took an official time-out before he left.”
“Still, on or off, you and Nick have always stayed friends. What did you do, lose his cell phone number or something?”
I sighed inwardly. “For your amusement, Meyers, I’ll admit that Nick seems to have changed his cell phone number.”
Before my eyes, she turned into a member of gossip central. “So you did try to call him?”
“Of course, I did.” Once, after a lonely six-pack of Dos Equis. Bad idea: the call and the beer. Both had come back to haunt me.
“Hah!” Eve did smug well. Probably reading me like a book. “You procrastinated beyond what was reasonable, confession-wise.” she said. “Now he’s either pouting or plain old steaming.”
I turned on the air-conditioning. “Thanks, Sherlock Poppycock. I never would have figured that out.”
“Hey.” Eve tapped her lips with a finger. “Ever think that maybe Werner told Nick about the kiss?”
I raised a brow. “Your optimistic encouragement is underwhelming.”
Her watch alarm rang. “Gotta run. If Kyle’s metallic gold, stretch Lamborghini is already sitting in my driveway, it’s giving my frugal, old-world mother a heart attack.”
“I can’t believe you’re still dating Kyle DeLong. Multibillionaires are so not your style.”
Eve swallowed, hand on the doorknob. “You’re trying to scare me to pay me back. Sure, he’s practically a record for me, but he’s just a plaything.”
“A plaything who’s buying a mansion in the town where you live.”
“Because having him stay at my house would kill my mother, literally.”
“Let’s hear it for the odd couple,” I said.
Kyle’s mother, Broadway actress Dominique DeLong, died under suspicious circumstances this winter, and when we went to the city to help find her killer, cupid struck Eve and Kyle at first sight.
“Have fun mansion shopping,” I called, waving her off. “Hey,” I added before she closed the shop door and headed for her Mini Cooper parked right outside. “Have Kyle enter the Lamborghini in Brandy’s vintage car show Saturday, as part of the Carousel of Love fund-raiser. The Nurture Kids Foundation is his mother’s kind of charity.”
“Great idea. See you around.” Eve closed her door but powered down her window. “Please don’t tell Nick about kissing Werner until I get back, ’kay? I don’t wanna miss the fun.”
I gave her a dubious look. “Payback’s a stitch.” I watched her pout as she drove away.
My Out to Lunch sign and the click of the shop lock became an imperative to release my breath. I needed, at the very least, a thimbleful of control and a bit of downtime to sort some sticky issues, Nick being only one of several.
I’d barely sat when the shop phone rang. “Vintage Magic; how can I dress you?”
“Give me Isobel,” demanded a chipmunk with attitude before he/she/it demonstrated, not quite beneath its breath, an impressive and varied case of potty mouth. The obscenities ended with the same demand they’d started with: “Give me Isobel,” delivered like Darth Vader on helium, or a squirrel on steroids; take your pick.
Isobel York? I wondered. The intern I was taking under my Vintage Magic wing, despite my strong—and growing stronger—reservations?
As if sensing my angst, Dante Underhill, my shopbound ghost, appeared beside me. We couldn’t even touch, my friend the resident spirit and I, but I felt safer with him beside me.
The voice, no matter how silly, carried a threat I didn’t know how to answer. “I beg your pardon? Can you repeat that?” I stalled while my heart raced.
“What time is Isobel due?” the now rabid rodent asked. While less threatening than a full-out blackhearted villain, the critter hadn’t yet mastered its audio modulation device.
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Panicked humor aside, I gave in to a whole-body shiver. “Who is this?” I asked.
“Her brother,” came a deeper, more cavernous voice, followed by a charged pause. “Ya hear me?” Deep Throat asked. “I’m her brother!”
So . . . I was hiring an intern I didn’t want, whose brother best aped James Earl Jones and tiny striped rodents. Fact is, his emphasis on the word “brother” made me wonder if it might not be a woman. Voice changers could easily be set to mask gender. They were computers, after all, so Eve studied them in grad school when we lived together in New York. They could make inexperienced users sound like deep-voiced, slow-talking drones or fast-talking chipmunks. This caller was all over the map.
Dante placed his hand on his heart, like he’d protect me, and he meant it, but unless Wrath Vader stepped foot in my shop—which I so did not want—I was on my own.
Well. Not entirely on my own. I could call Detective Werner.
Yeah, that Werner. The one I slept with.
Not.
Two
Only the minute and the future are interesting in fashion—it it exists to be destroyed. If everybody did everything with respect, you’d go nowhere.