Praise for New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay’s Hat Shop Mysteries
“Fancy hats and British aristocrats make this my sort of delicious cozy read.”
—Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of the Royal Spyness Mysteries
“A delicious romp through my favorite part of London with a delightful new heroine.”
—Deborah Crombie, New York Times bestselling author
“The sharp writing and smart plotting are outstanding, and the surprising reveal and even more suspenseful chase will have readers at the edge of their seats. This stellar mystery sets a high bar for mysteries.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“Brimming with McKinlay’s trademark wit and snappy one-liners, Anglophiles will love this thoroughly entertaining new murder mystery series. A hat trick of love, laughter, and suspense, and another feather in [Jenn McKinlay’s] cap.”
—Hannah Dennison, author of the Vicky Hill Exclusive! Mysteries
“Delightful.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The mystery itself was captivating, with plenty of red herrings to keep the reader guessing. The resolution was clever and made perfect sense in the end . . . I highly recommend this to those who enjoy all things English and appreciate a strong protagonist.”
—Open Book Society
“McKinlay has another winner on her hands.”
—Fresh Fiction
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Jenn McKinlay
Cupcake Bakery Mysteries
SPRINKLE WITH MURDER
BUTTERCREAM BUMP OFF
DEATH BY THE DOZEN
RED VELVET REVENGE
GOING, GOING, GANACHE
SUGAR AND ICED
DARK CHOCOLATE DEMISE
VANILLA BEANED
Library Lover’s Mysteries
BOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING
DUE OR DIE
BOOK, LINE, AND SINKER
READ IT AND WEEP
ON BORROWED TIME
A LIKELY STORY
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER
Hat Shop Mysteries
CLOCHE AND DAGGER
DEATH OF A MAD HATTER
AT THE DROP OF A HAT
COPY CAP MURDER
ASSAULT AND BERET
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf
Excerpt from Caramel Crush © 2017 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf
Penguin Random House 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 Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780698187818
First Edition: January 2017
Cover art by Robert Steele
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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This one is for you, the readers, who took Scarlett and Viv and the entire Hat Shop crew into your hearts. You let me know that you loved reading their stories as much as I loved writing them, and I am forever grateful for all of the wonderful e-mails and messages I received while creating this series. Thanks so much. You are the best readers ever!
Acknowledgments
Hats off to the entire team at Berkley Prime Crime for all of their hard work on this series. Special thanks to Kate Seaver, who loved it from the start; Katherine Pelz, for always taking care of the details; and a big tip of the brim to the art department and illustrator Robert Steele for such lovely book covers. I feel very fortunate to have such talent supporting my stories. Thank you all so much.
An extra thank-you is due to my author friend Dean James, aka Miranda James, for coming up with the clever title Assault and Beret. He offered it up a few years ago and while I didn’t use it at the time, when this story came along it fit perfectly. Thanks, Dean!
Contents
Praise for Jenn McKinlay’s Hat Shop Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Jenn McKinlay
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Excerpt from Caramel Crush
Chapter 1
“You know everyone says that French waiters are rude, but I don’t think our waiter is rude at all,” I said to my cousin, Vivian Tremont. “He seems very pleasant.”
“That’s because he’s trying to sleep with you, Scarlett,” Vivian said. “Why do you think our bottle of La Bodice Cheverny was on the house?”
“Seriously? Free wine for a tussle in the sheets, do I look that easy?” I asked. “Well, that is rude.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. Which was only slightly better than “I told you so,” but not much.
It was late evening in Paris, the City of Light, and we were enjoying a nosh as Viv, who is British, would say. We were seated inside the Bistro Renee on Rue Saint Charles.
The bitter wind that whipped down the smaller streets from the Seine River could not get us here. We had ducked inside to eat but also to get warm.
Thankfully, the food did not disappoint. I ordered quail with roasted spring onions while Viv indulged in suckling pig with salsify, which is a lot like a parsnip, and we shared a baguette seasoned with the mellow heat of the Espelette pepper from the Basque region, or so our waiter, David, informed us when asked.
He was very charming and quite good-looking with his wavy dark hair and golden eyes. He told us his father owned the bistro, which was named for his mother, Renee, who had passed away when David was just a boy. Honestly, he broke my heart a little with that story but not enough to have a sleepover with him.
The small restaurant was everything a late meal in Paris should be. Candlelight, soft music in the background, an exotic blossom of some sort in a blue bottle on our small square table swathed in a pristine white cloth with matching napkins.
The crumbs of the baguette and the near empty bottle of sauvignon blanc sat on the table between us. We had scraped our plates clean. We did share as only cousins who live together like sisters can with some squabbling over what exactly was equitable and over who had ordered the tastier dish. I had, but Viv refused to admit it bec
ause I am her younger American cousin and she refuses to acknowledge that I am just as cultured as she is.
I glanced out the window. It was beautiful but it was not exactly the Paris of my dreams. Instead of sitting on an outside patio enjoying the warm floral-scented breeze of spring, we were swathed in scarves and sweaters, sitting inside a small café watching a January snowfall.
Why were we here? Here’s the short version. Viv is an acclaimed London milliner hired to teach a one-week hat-making class at the local art school. I am Scarlett Parker, not just her cousin but also part owner in our millinery business housed on Portobello Road in Notting Hill, London, which we inherited six years ago from our grandmother Mim.
Now because I know you’re going to ask, since everyone does, the answer is no, positively, unequivocally no. I can’t make a hat to save my life. So what am I doing here with her?
I’m sorry, did you miss the part that we’re in Paris? Yes, even in January it’s still Paris. Besides, the fact is that while Viv is an amazing artist, she’s not the best with people. That’s where I come in.
Viv being a creative type is known to occasionally be impulsive. I am generally the voice of reason when this happens but unfortunately when she decided on a whim to elope, she neglected to mention it to me thus I couldn’t stop her. This was a couple of years ago while I was busy ruining my own life in a bad relationship.
In hindsight, we were both reeling from the loss of our grandmother Mim and neither of us were making good choices in our grief. Why is hindsight always so much clearer than foresight?
Anyway, after a few weeks of marriage, Viv ditched her husband without properly ending her marriage, and last she knew he was in Paris, so my mission, if I chose to accept it, which I did, was to find her husband and get him to agree to an annulment. Easy peasy, right?
Right. In the meantime, I needed to scrape off our waiter.
“Well, I’m not going to sleep with him,” I said. “But I will finish off the wine.”
“Naturally,” Viv said.
I poured the remainder into our two glasses. Viv raised her glass and I did the same. We gently tapped them together.
“To finding your husband,” I said. She blanched.
Okay, that was me being a buzzkill but also keeping her on task. Viv can be sly when she wants to be as evidenced by the fact that she got married and never told me. I mean, honestly, who does that?
“How about to returning home happier than when we arrived,” she offered instead.
“I like that,” I said. “It leaves it nice and open-ended for all possibilities.”
“Precisely,” she said.
We drained our glasses.
We declined coffee and a dessert, although I was tempted by the lemon cannoli, and a request for my phone number. In all honesty, I really felt that David must be vision impaired as I have the fiery hair and freckles of my dad’s ginger-infused DNA while Viv has the milky complexion and long blond curls of our grandmother. In a beauty competition, Viv beats me hands down every time, yes, even when I put in great effort. Good thing I learned to get by on my personality years ago.
When we stepped outside, the chill wind was relentless, pushing us down the street like we were wayward teenagers being forced home before curfew. I tightened the scarf about my neck and jammed the cuffs of my leather gloves up into the sleeves of my jacket. I really despise the cold.
It was a short walk to Madame Leclaire’s apartment building, where the Paris School of Art was housing us for the duration of Viv’s class. It was a charming place located on the edge of the fifteenth arrondissement within walking distance of the Eiffel Tower. Built of white stone with a blue mansard roof, it was four stories tall containing eight small apartments with the added bonus of a communal living room and dining room on the main floor, where Madame Leclaire served a continental breakfast every day and a nightcap in the evenings.
The furniture in our apartment was a mashup of antiques with modern accessories. We each had a twin bed and a large armoire in our rooms, which were connected by a sitting room with a kitchenette. We were on one of the upper floors and our apartment had large windows with narrow wrought iron balconies. Mostly, our view was of the similar building across the way and the street below, but if I pressed my body against the glass and angled my head just right, I could glimpse a sliver of the Eiffel Tower to the north of us.
The house was warm and safe and Madame Leclaire, who ran it, was lovely and charming and always seemed to have the best wine and cheese on hand. That is a wonderful quality in an apartment building owner.
With our scarves wrapped around our heads, conversation was impossible as we hurried down the street. The snow was getting sharper as it pelted my back, pushing me toward my fluffy soft bed. I really didn’t need the encouragement.
The lights were on in the front room of Madame Leclaire’s. Viv and I picked up our pace. We dashed up the steps and hurried into the vestibule. Viv pressed the intercom and called a cheery, “Hello, we’re home.”
We had a key, but if Madame Leclaire was about, we could use the intercom and she would buzz us in. The inside door opened with a click and we pushed through with the eagerness of schoolgirls looking for cookies after a long day. Warmth washed over us and Madame Leclaire popped her head out of the communal sitting room on the first floor.
“Girls, you look frozen, you should come and sit by the fire.” She gestured for us to follow her. Honestly, with her alluring French accent, I would have followed her anywhere, but the fire seemed like an excellent suggestion.
We did not need to be asked twice. Well, Viv might have, she’s British, and they do hem and haw a lot in a show of good manners, but I am American and I do not. I walked right into the cozy room without hesitation and plopped myself in a darling chair right in front of the fire.
“This is heaven,” I said. I peeled off my short wool coat and let the heat from the flames wash over me.
“Would you care for some hot chocolate?” Madame Leclaire offered. “Usually, I serve something stronger in the evening, but with the snow, I felt like chocolate was most appropriate.”
“Oh, we don’t want to trouble you,” Viv said at the same time I said, “Yes, please.”
Madame Leclaire glanced between us and smiled, amused no doubt by how different we were. She was much too polite to say so, however.
Madame was tall and lithe, with a cap of dark curls about her heart-shaped face that were just beginning to go gray. Her lips were wide and generous and her eyes a rich, trustworthy brown. I had liked her immediately when we arrived the day before, and she had been nothing but gracious and kind to us, which just reinforced my first impression.
This evening she wore tailored black slacks and a crisp raspberry blouse, which was mostly covered by the charcoal gray cashmere wrap she had draped about her shoulders, giving her a look that was both chic and comfy at the same time. You simply cannot outdress the French, and I would never be stupid enough to try.
Viv perched on the edge of the seat across from mine as if getting ready to bail the moment she felt her presence was an imposition. I burrowed deeper into my chair.
A silver pot with a random collection of mismatched china cups sat on the table in front of the couch, where Madame Leclaire resumed her seat. A cup of half-drunk chocolate sat on a coaster and beside it a French novel was facedown on the highly polished wooden table.
Now I wondered if we had intruded upon Madame Leclaire’s quiet time. But I thought not, because the other cups on the tray indicated that she was open to company.
As if she was reading my thoughts, she took a delicate china cup and poured the piping hot chocolate into it. She placed it on a mismatched saucer and handed it to me. The steam rising out of the cup smelled a little like I’ve always imagined heaven would smell, assuming of course that there is one and that I am invited.
Madam
e Leclaire looked at Viv as if trying to determine if she wanted chocolate or if she was about to flee the room.
“Yes?” she asked as she held up the pot.
“Thank you, Madame Leclaire,” Viv said. “You are most kind.”
“Please call me Suzette,” she said. “Most of my tenants do.”
“Most?” I asked. “Which ones don’t?”
“The ones I don’t like,” she said.
Viv and I both laughed at the wicked gleam in her eye.
“We are very honored that you like us,” I said. Then I added, “Suzette.”
Viv sipped her hot chocolate and I saw her spine relax as she melted into her chair. There really is nothing a good cup of cocoa can’t cure.
“You start your class tomorrow?” Suzette asked.
“Yes, bright and early,” Viv said. “Monsieur Martin said he would be by to escort me.”
“He is very attentive,” Suzette said. “Do you both teach millinery or do you teach something different, Ms. Parker?”
“Scarlett, please,” I said.
“And I’m Vivian, or Viv, if you prefer,” Viv chimed in.
“I don’t teach anything,” I said. “I have no artistic ability at all. The last hat I tried to make looked like a very bad brioche.”
Suzette covered her mouth with one delicate hand and laughed. “I am sure that is not true.”
“Oy, it’s true,” Viv said with the candor only a cousin could manage without it being a slam to the ego.
“What will you do with your time then, Scarlett, while Viv is teaching?”
“I am going to be looking for her husband,” I said.
Viv gasped and Suzette’s perfectly arched eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. Even surprise looked good on her.
“I am afraid I do not comprehend,” Suzette said. “You are looking for a husband for your cousin?”
“No, I’m actually looking for her husband,” I said. “She misplaced him.”
Viv glowered at me and I shrugged.
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