Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery)
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
Every Trick in the Book
“Fulfills the promise of the series opener . . . [A] smart whodunit filled with well-drawn and interesting characters.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Such a clever series . . . I’m on pins and needles waiting for the next installment.”
—Book of Secrets
“There is so much to love about this story! . . . The characters are superb.”
—Escape with Dollycas Into A Good Book
“Every Trick in the Book is, if it’s possible, better than Buried in a Book . . . Another fantastic cozy mystery.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
“A wonderfully crafted tome that kicked up the suspense a notch as the pages progressed towards a finale worthy of this terrific novel . . . [A] fabulous series.”
—Dru’s Book Musings
Buried in a Book
“Cheer up—there’s no middle-aged malaise for Lila. This cozy debut, written by a pseudonymous duo, excels at describing bucolic North Carolina. Think Kate Carlisle for her intergenerational ensemble style or Mark de Castrique’s series for regional Tar Heel flavor.”
—Library Journal
“Buried in a Book provides a charming new protagonist and cast of characters, and promises rewarding exploits in future series novels. Keep your eyes peeled for the next Novel Idea Mystery.”
—Mystery Scene
“Snappy, funny, and charming, with delightful characters and a cozy plot.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A witty, captivating read that mystery fans will enjoy. I’m looking forward to my next visit to Inspiration Valley.”
—Novel Reflections
“This is the start of a new series by Lucy Arlington and it has great potential. As a fan of cozy mysteries, I enjoyed this book about the crazy cast of characters at a literary agency.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Buried in a Book will appeal to anyone who loves reading, especially anyone who loves discovering a new author . . . A satisfying first mystery.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Lucy Arlington has a winner with this debut . . . A first-rate whodunit all cozy fans will enjoy!”
—Escape with Dollycas Into A Good Book
“This is a terrific Novel Idea Mystery with its contemporary literary crowd mingling with residents of a small North Carolina town . . . Lucy Arlington provides an entertaining thriller.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Lucy Arlington
BURIED IN A BOOK
EVERY TRICK IN THE BOOK
BOOKS, COOKS, AND CROOKS
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
BOOKS, COOKS, AND CROOKS
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2014 by Lucy Arlington.
Excerpt from Murder in the Mystery Suite by Ellery Adams copyright © 2014 by Ellery Adams.
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:978-1-101-63376-2
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2014
Cover art by Julia Green.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
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.
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Contents
Praise for books by Lucy Arlington
Titles by Lucy Arlington
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Letter from the author
Special Excerpt from Murder in the Mystery Suite
This series never would have existed without the friendship of two women. Both of us, Jennifer and Sylvia, are honored to call many of our readers friends. Books continue to unite people. Like friendship, they will stand the test of time. Thank you, readers and friends everywhere.
Chapter 1
AFTER A LONG DAY OF CONTRACT NEGOTIATIONS, PHONE CALLS to authors and editors, and a meeting with my fellow literary agents, the last thing I expected was to come home to find my kitchen on fire.
I knew something was wrong the moment I opened the front door. The acrid smell of burning meat assaulted my nostrils, and clouds of gray smoke plumed from the kitchen into the hall. I heard a man bark out a string of colorful expletives seconds before the downstairs smoke alarm blared.
Dropping my purse and briefcase on the floor, I rushed into the kitchen and took in the chaotic scene.
High flames were rising from a frying pan on the stovetop, police officer Sean Griffiths was holding a burning dishtowel, and a shower of sparks was spreading over the apron he wore. I quickly grabbed the fire extinguisher from the pantry, and though I’d never used one of the devices before, I let my instincts guide my hands. Yanking out the metal pin, I aimed the funnel-shaped nozzle and covered my boyfriend, countertops, and stove with a layer of white foam.
“Are you okay?” I shouted to Sean over the shriek of the alarm.
He looked down at the smoldering towel in his hands and nodded. “I think so!”
Now that the flames had been doused I had a chance to really look around my kitchen.
The table had been set for a romantic dinner for two. I glanced from the lit candles, folded linen napkins, and the vase stuffed with bright pink roses to the handsome man wearing my apron. It was embroidered with the text All Great Chefs Drink While They Cook. Apparently, he had taken the motto to heart. Not only was there was an open bottle of red wine on the table, but a cognac bottle had capsized on the counter next to the stove and had emptied its contents onto the cabinets and floor.
I set the extinguisher gently on the table and picked up the bottle of wine positioned next to the roses. Eschewing a glass, I raised the bottle to my lips and took several long swallows. In light of the mayhem in my kitchen, I figured that my less than impeccable table manners could be excused just this once.
“I’m so sorry, Lila!” Sean yelled over the alarm and moved to th
e sink. He dropped the dishtowel in the basin, turned the water on, and began to scrub his hands.
I took another swallow, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, and opened the back door. Smoke immediately rushed outside. I darted around the first floor of my little cottage, cracking windows and turning on ceiling fans.
Mercifully, the alarm ceased its deafening ringing as I made my way back into the kitchen.
Sean had dumped the dishtowel into the garbage can and was now stuffing my ruined apron in there as well.
I got a bucket and mop from the pantry and then paused for a moment, leaning on the mop handle and surveying the mess. “What happened?”
With a remorseful expression, Sean gestured at the table. “Today’s our nine-month anniversary, so I thought I’d surprise you with a delicious meal. I even bought a new cookbook from the Constant Reader. It’s supposed to help beginner cooks make gourmet meals that come out looking and tasting like they were made by a professional chef.” He shot a rueful glance at the book propped open near the stove. Its pages were charred and unreadable.
I couldn’t help but smile. “What was on tonight’s menu?”
“Chicken flambé,” Sean said. “But I was behind schedule and so I didn’t bother to measure the cognac. As it turned out, pouring liquor directly into the pan was a serious mistake. Cognac dribbled everywhere.” He pointed at the offending bottle. “I had the gas flame set too high and once the alcohol hit . . .” He trailed off and gave me a sheepish shrug.
He looked so forlorn that I couldn’t possibly be angry. After all, the only real damage was to the dishtowel, apron, and cookbook. The rest of the room could be returned to order in no time. Slipping on a pair of yellow latex cleaning gloves, I joined Sean by the sink.
“Why don’t you order us takeout from Wild Ginger? Maybe some sesame chicken or beef and broccoli?” I moved closer, doing my best to avoid the fire extinguisher foam still clinging to his pants, and kissed him on the cheek. “After all, we still have a lovely bottle of wine and I don’t want to waste the candlelight.”
Sean’s smile of relief was blinding. He cupped my chin in his damp hand and turned my face so that my lips would meet his. “I am a lucky, lucky man,” he murmured and kissed me tenderly.
A moment later, I wriggled out of his arms to fill the mop bucket with soapy water. “And take your pants off, Officer Griffiths,” I scolded lightly. “I don’t want fire extinguisher foam to get on the hall rug.”
“You want me to take off my clothes? Now that’s an order I could get used to.” He grinned and reached for the take-out menus I kept in the drawer below the phone.
By the time the Wild Ginger deliveryman rang the doorbell, the kitchen was clean, the windows were closed, and Sean was clad in the sweatpants and sneakers he kept in his gym bag. He insisted on plating the Chinese food at the counter while I enjoyed some wine. After placing our supper on the table, he dimmed the lights and raised his glass in a toast.
“To not setting the house on fire when we celebrate our first year together.”
“Here, here!” I cried happily, clinking the rim of his glass with my own.
We dug into our meals, quite hungry by now. Both of us preferred to eat around six-thirty and it was nearly eight o’clock by the time I speared my first piece of beef with the point of my wooden chopstick.
“Learning to cook is harder than I thought it would be,” Sean said after his initial hunger had been sated. “I’ve been getting by with frozen dinners and fast food. Maybe I should watch that TV show you love so much.”
“The one with Chef Klara?” I attempted to shovel rice into my mouth using the chopsticks, but I couldn’t grasp more than a grain at a time. Surrendering, I grabbed a fork from the cutlery drawer and polished off the rest of my meal. “Tales From the Table is the best cooking show on television. It’s not just about food, but about the memories certain foods invoke.”
Sean refilled my wineglass and pushed his empty plate away. “Well, I was smart enough to buy ice cream for our dessert, so if you’d like to curl up on the sofa and find an episode on the DVR, I’ll bring you a big bowl of chocolate mocha chip, and we can watch Chef Klara together.”
“I am lucky, lucky woman,” I said, echoing his earlier sentiment. I tried to carry my dishes to the sink, but he refused to let me do the washing up. Instead, he uncorked a bottle of sweet and airy dessert wine, poured me a generous glass, and shooed me into the living room. By the time he joined me, I was feeling more than a little lightheaded.
Snuggled against each other, we ate ice cream and listened to Chef Klara talk about how invigorating it was to plant the first herbs of spring.
“To me, springtime represents the celebration of fresh colors and flavors. After a long winter, we finally get to crush some of the season’s first herbs—chives and oregano—between our fingertips. How I used to love to pick these for my grandmother and then watch her sprinkle them over a lamb roast.” Klara, a curvy, middle-aged brunette with sky blue eyes smiled at the camera. “Tonight, I’m going to walk you through one of my family’s favorite dishes: grilled tuna and spring herb salad with marinated tomatoes. And for dessert? Ripe, juicy apricots tossed with brown sugar and honey.” She grabbed a pot holder, opened an oven, and pulled out the middle rack, revealing a perfectly browned apricot tart. Karla described the heavenly smell in her kitchen and then added a conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t have to be Charlene Jacques to create wonderful pies and tarts. Let me show you some of her secrets.”
“Who’s Charlene Jacques?” Sean asked.
“She’s a famous pastry chef. Her show comes on before Klara’s.” I took another sip of the sweet dessert wine. “Klara is one of the agency’s authors, remember? I can’t believe both Klara and Charlene Jacques will be in Inspiration Valley in a few days. Our Taste of the Town is going to be amazing!”
Setting his empty ice cream bowl aside, Sean began to stroke my hair, starting at the crown of my head and pulling gently until he reached the ends. My entire body relaxed against him and I sighed in contentment.
“And how is Novel Idea involved in this festival of gluttony?” he teased.
I couldn’t keep the excitement from my voice. “We’ve arranged for some of the country’s top chefs to cook in Inspiration Valley restaurants, sign their cookbooks at the Constant Reader, and conduct classes at the new Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts. You should sign up for the ‘A Chef in Your Home’ class. It’s all about the fundamentals of shopping, preparing, and plating simple but delicious dishes.”
“If someone could teach me to scramble an egg, that would be a start,” Sean said, his hands traveling down my neck and across my shoulders, massaging out the kinks. I felt like a pat of melting butter.
On television, Klara illustrated the art of rolling out a pine nut tart crust. I was too focused on Sean’s touch to pay much attention, but I did hear her mention how she had seen Leslie Sterling, another celebrity chef, scorch a cream of asparagus soup once.
“This Klara woman must have a grocery list of enemies.” Sean stopped rubbing my shoulders for a moment. “She’s not very subtle, belittling her competition while boasting about her own skills.”
I grabbed the remote control and turned the television off. Turning to face Sean, I slipped my hands under his shirt and pressed my body against his. “I think I’d rather focus on your skills, Officer Griffiths. After all, we’re supposed to be celebrating.”
Sean responded immediately by kissing me until I felt breathless. Then he stood up and lifted me off the sofa in a swift, powerful movement. “Speaking of skill sets,” he whispered. “I’m pretty good at starting fires.”
And with that, he pulled me toward the bedroom and shut the door.
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING, my short ride to work was magical. A flurry of white petals from the pear trees lining Walden Woods Circle had swirled around my yellow scooter and everywhere I looked, daffodils and tulips were bursting through the soil of my n
eighbors’ tidy gardens. Hyacinths and forsythia perfumed the air and the pink dogwoods at the entrance to my neighborhood looked like tufts of cotton candy.
I was humming as I stepped into Espresso Yourself, my favorite coffee shop.
“Girl, I do believe you’re floating on a rainbow this morning.” Makayla, the coffee shop’s gorgeous barista and my best friend, called out.
“I am, but I also need a serious jolt of caffeine. Sean and I celebrated our first nine months together last night and I stayed up way too late.” Hearing how silly this statement sounded, I rolled my eyes. “Listen to me! I’m talking like I’m in junior high school. My son’s a freshman in college and I’m going on about my nine-month anniversary.”
Makayla’s mouth curved into a wide smile. “I think it’s right sweet. Why shouldn’t a woman in her late forties have a boyfriend? Or two? Or three?” Her musical laughter was drowned out by the gurgle of the espresso machine.
I studied my friend, Makayla, who was in her mid-twenties, but had the poise and self-assurance of a much older woman. She was tall and thin with radiant skin the color of warm chocolate and the most dazzling green eyes I’d ever seen. Makayla worked long hours to keep her shop afloat and in her spare time, devoured every novel she could get her hands on. She was also tireless in her support of the local art scene. Every few weeks, she hung up a new set of photographs, paintings, drawings, etchings, or textiles created by an Inspiration Valley artist.
Now, as I took in a collection of black-and-white ink drawings of birds and butterflies, I felt a pang of sadness that my beautiful, intelligent, and generous friend had yet to find a man worthy enough of a second date.
“Hey, why’d you put on a long face?” Makayla asked, handing me a large caramel latte.
The bell above the door rang and an elderly man in a business suit walked into the coffee shop. Lowering my voice, I said, “I was just thinking that you deserve to be as happy as I am. I wish some dashing, bookish, coffee-drinking stranger would waltz in here and capture your heart.”