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
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
A Tip for the Vintage Handbag Lover
Make Your Own Clutch
Teaser chapter
A Ghost of a Chance
A spicy whiff of aftershave reached me. Probably a male, as I assumed. An intruder with class? Well, one who bathed and shaved, anyway.
I put down the pepper spray to pick up Chakra, who licked my arm as I nuzzled her. “You scared off that big bad intruder with your howl, didn’t you, sweetie?”
Between my fear for her and the potential, albeit aborted, attack on my person, the episode left me trembling.
It took a minute for me to unlock my elbow and loosen my white-knuckled grip on the crowbar before I could lower it to my side, though I wasn’t ready to let it go.
My heart, echoing in my head, slowed by the beat, thanks to our safety and Chakra’s soothing presence.
As an aftermath to the adrenaline rush, I began to relax and shiver.
A husky, “Bravo,” was whispered in my ear.
Chakra howled, jumped ship, and ran for cover.
With a honed fight or flight instinct, I screamed and wielded the crowbar, intending to beat the speaker to a bloody pulp . . .
PRAISE FOR
A Veiled Deception
“Whimsical, witty, and wonderful . . . Sure to enchant readers everywhere.”
—Madelyn Alt, national bestselling
author of Where There’s a Witch
“A wonderful book. A great setting, an intriguing mystery, and characters so well developed that even the villain has elaborate layers make this a winner.” —Romantic Times
“[A] stunning start to a new and magical mystery series . . . Phenomenal.” —Fresh Fiction
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Annette Blair
A VEILED DECEPTION
LARCENY AND LACE
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 BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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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.
LARCENY AND LACE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Annette Blair.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-10891-8
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
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Dedicated with love to:
Tunney Lague:
Your friendly meat cutter. A recipe for every cut.
A kind word and a handsome smile for every customer.
A joke for every occasion.
Awesome cook.
Proud war veteran.
Giver of great pony rides.
Miss you, Dad.
Author’s Note
Mystick Falls and its role as Mystic’s governing body, the Phantom Coach Road, and the carriage house on Bank Street, home of Vintage Magic, are figments of my imagination. I took the liberty of eliminating River Road and located Mystick Falls in a nature sanctuary across the Mystic River from the seaport. The river, the seaport, and its ships, historic downtown Mystic, and Mystic Pizza—of movie fame—are real and well worth a visit. Though I throw in a real Mystic shop name, on occasion, characters come with fictional shops.
One
I find that it is vital to have at least one handbag for each of
the ten types of social occasion: Very Formal, Not So For mal, Just a Teensy Bit Formal, Informal but Not That Infor mal, Every Day, Every Other Day, Day Travel, Night Travel,
Theater, and Fling.
—MISS PIGGY
If I hadn’t asked my New York cronies to mention my grand opening in their national fashion magazines, I might be able to breathe as if I weren’t wearing Scarlett O’Hara’s corset.
Thirteen days before Halloween. Thirteen days to open Vintage Magic, my dress shop for timeless classics and designer originals.
What was I doing to make it happen? I was driving home to Mystic, Connecticut, from New York after working out my contractual two weeks’ notice, rather than forfeiting the bonus I needed to turn my building into Vintage Magic.
As I drove, grinning witches and twinkling pum
pkin lights mocked me. I needed a tucking miracle.
My name is Maddie Cutler, well, Madeira, a former New York fashion designer, and I can fix anything, with the possible exception of cloning myself. So you can imagine my frustration two weeks ago at having to hand my shop’s renovation reins over to my father.
Harry Cutler, staid academic, planned ahead. His oldest daughter, creative free spirit—that would be me—did not, which is how I got myself into this.
The silver lining? I passed my departing construction crew near Mystic Seaport. Finished. Finally. And only three weeks late.
The flaw in the fabric? A faxed report from the construction crew’s night watchman. A rash of bumps in the night and running feet into the early hours of the morning. Note from said watchman: The Mystick Falls police are getting ticked at being called every night “with no perp to show for it.”
I did not need any more grief from my old nemesis, Detective Sergeant Lytton Werner, also known as “the Wiener,” thanks to a certain third-grade brat—that would also be me.
My complicated relationship with the local police aside, did the bumps in the night worry me? You bet your French knickers, they did. Why this sudden interest in a building that had been boarded up and left undisturbed for more than half a century?
I hoped never to find out.
Tomorrow I’d start moving in my stock and setting up my displays. How long could it take? I’d only been collecting vintage my whole life. Oy.
As I turned onto Bank Street, I heard raised voices in the distance, which anyone who passed the playhouse across from my shop heard at one time or another. Broderick Sampson, the curmudgeon of an owner argued with everyone. Just another sign I was home.
I pulled into the crowded lot behind Mystic Pizza to view my building from across the street. I had always admired the original copper weathervane, a ship in full sail time-coated a soft green, but I loved the new Victorian streetlamps brightening my parking lot and the spotlit old-fashioned tavern sign hanging above the door: Vintage Magic in bold white on a dark eggplant-colored shield. Behind the shop name stood a pale lavender side silhouette of a woman who could be Jackie O., the sixties being such a popular vintage.
I finally uncrated my squalling kitten, who would rather have been riding shotgun from the armrest, and she came to make her own assessment.
I refused to stress over the parking-lot debris marring the scene: empty wire reels and a mountain of boxes at my front door. You’d think the crew would have cleaned up.
The yellow fur ball purred and curled against my solar plexus chakra, an intuitive move on her part. She had the uncanny ability to calm me. Because of it, I’d named her appropriately. “What do you think, Chakra? Beautiful?”
She approved with a soft meow.
Genuine delight washed over me.
No more weather-ravaged, raw wood shack, though we hadn’t replaced a splinter that didn’t need it. No windows existed on the building’s main floor, but I didn’t want sunshine fading my vintage treasures, anyway.
We’d replaced the people door, but the huge, tall, front-facing double doors beside it, built for horse-drawn hearses, were now sealed . . . though the same could not be said for a similar door at the side of the building.
In front, however, their sheer size in lavender with eggplant crossbeams, made the sage building pop. Magical colors, according to Aunt Fiona, lawyer, godmother, and witch. Sage: the herb to clear negative energy and the color for prosperity; lavender for harmony; purple for wisdom.
In this incarnation, Vintage Magic oozed character and charm, leaving its days as a morgue, then a funereal carriage house, to the history books.
I moved Chakra from my lap, drove across Bank Street, and pulled straight into my smooth new tarmac parking lot.
I had yet to see the transformation inside.
Between the New York job and condo to sublet, I hadn’t been back in the last two weeks. But the minute both were done, I’d packed seven years of my life into a funky rental and beat my ETA by an hour.
As a result, Dad, Aunt Fiona, Eve, my best friend, and Nick, my hunky Italian boy toy, weren’t here, yet. They were due soon to crack open the secret room with me; secret being relative.
Dolly Sweet, friend and centenarian, who’d deeded me the place for the price of taxes, forgot to tell me about the second-floor storage room, its doors cut so seamlessly into a wall I’d missed it on my pre-ownership tour. Like the rest of us, Dolly couldn’t wait to find out what she forgot she sold me.
Sure, reports of bumps in the night made me think twice about viewing even the bottom floor alone. But this was my building and I was the only one who hadn’t seen its transformation.
Besides, I had four things on my side. A key. A can of mace. Spiked heels. And a watch cat. Who could ask for more?
I was going in.
The key my father sent me slipped into the lock like a knife through flan, or cheesecake, or tiramisu. Hmm. I forgot to eat today. Forgot to sleep last night, too, I was so busy packing.
My stomach growled as I stepped inside, the scent of fresh paint filling me with a giddy Christmas-morning rush. Chakra jumped from my arms and hit the floor with a whomp to scope out the place.
The panel of switches and dimmers behind the enclosed stairway, near the door to my horse-stall dressing rooms, allowed me to flood the room with a soft wash of indirect pale pink light. I’d asked for a hint of art deco in the mahogany trim and it looked sensational, better than my sketches.
Crazy-quilt ideas for finishing touches, decorating, displays, and shop layout filled my mind.
I grinned as I perused my linen-paneled, three-thousand-square-foot dream-come-true. Vintage Magic.
The mahogany, waist-high hearse stalls against the back wall remained intact and set the style, while a cart of matching movable lower walls awaited placement along the front and sides. I’d be able to see my customers in whatever fashion type or designer nook they perused.
Unexpectedly, the wind grabbed the front door and slammed it.
I jumped and Chakra howled.
A metallic clank hit the floor above us.
My heart skipped a beat. Chakra flew into my arms, her fear becoming mine as I shivered in my Jimmy Choos.
Scrap! A bump in the night and no watchman in sight.
Two
Balanced emotions are crucial to intuitive decision making.
-DONNA KARAN
I stood glued to the spot, adrenaline rushing through me while hair-raising pinpricks ran up and down my arms and legs.
An unnatural silence followed, thick and heavy with jeopardy.
It couldn’t be a lagging construction worker. I’d told them not to touch the upstairs.
I could call 911, wait for the police, who were so sick of coming here they might take their time. In which case, I’d chance losing the intruder. Or I could try getting a visual and a description, which would give the police something to go on.
Since the perp was a documented runner, I decided to investigate. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt, propped open the front door, and hung my Lucite box bag on the outside knob, in the event a quick getaway became necessary.
Slipping from my Jimmy Choos, I put Chakra on the floor and picked up a shoe. “Follow my lead,” I whispered.
With a spiked heel in my right hand and a vial of pepper spray in my trigger-happy left, I went boldly forward.
I flipped the switch for the enclosed stairs, expecting to light the upper level, as had happened on my tour. Instead, a single token ten-watt lightbulb went on at the bottom of the stairs, and the second floor remained black.
Scrap. I’d had the circuit split. It seemed a waste to light so many square feet with one switch . . . except when you were about to confront a bump in the night.
I caught movement above, stealth slithering across the ceiling, just enough to make me tremble and hesitate, but not enough to make me stop.
This was my building, dammit. I felt violated. Angry.
Furious. I was a woman of action.
Impetuous had its perks. If a member of my family found themselves in this situation, they’d call me.
Acting first and thinking later worked for me. Mostly.
I looked up, beyond ceilings and roof and wind-scuttling autumn clouds. Please let this be one of those times.
Chakra kept a step ahead of me, lying low as if sneaking up on a mouse.
The first stair squeaked, sending a trickling stream of icy perspiration down my back.
I raised my can of pepper spray and took the stairs more carefully, more quickly, silently repeating my mantra: I can fix anything.
I can fix anything. I can fix anything.
Each ancient stair voiced a whispered protest. Squeal, creak, groan, squeak. Holy Harrods, I should’ve had them replaced!
I can fix this. I can. I can.
I believed that.
The Little Engine That Could had nothing on me. So why was sweat ruining my Prada blouse? Talk about the last straw. The blouse hadn’t been a fashion-week freebie. It cost a fortune!
I charged up the rest of the stairs, slapping the wall at the top for a nonexistent switch plate.
Full stop. Except for my heart.
Double scrap! “Split the circuit,” I’d said, and, “Don’t touch the upstairs.” Wooly knobby knits, why did two and two only make four when you couldn’t see your Jimmy Choos in front of you?
Light behind me. A black hole before me.
Chakra sitting on my foot, scared meowless.
My knees turned to jelly, it was so tucking dark. I wiggled my toes to prod Chakra to her feet and, chin high, I stepped from the stairwell into a still-as-death room.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness, which was useless as I scanned the back of the room before I rounded the stairs and faced front where the sound had originated.
Larcency and Lace Page 1
