Wall-To-Wall Dead
Page 1
PRAISE FOR THE DO-IT-YOURSELF MYSTERIES
Flipped Out
“Bentley’s well-developed characters are what makes this cozy so endearing, entertaining, and enthralling.”
—Blogcritics
“The reader will be drawn in like a moth to the flame. This is probably the best book in the series to date.”
—Debbie’s Book Bag
Mortar and Murder
“With plot twists that curve and loop…this story offers handy renovation tips, historical data, and a colorful painting of the Maine landscape.”
—Examiner.com
“Mystery author Jennie Bentley has nailed together another great mystery with Mortar and Murder.”
—Fresh Fiction
Plaster and Poison
“A delightful small-town Maine sleuth…Solid and entertaining.”
—Midwest Book Review
“[A] thrilling story that keeps the readers guessing and turning pages.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A believable and beguiling mystery. Each novel in the series delights, and the third installment only raises the stakes.”
—Examiner.com
“A pull-no-punches mystery.”
—The Mystery Gazette
“This is one solidly built mystery…Attractive characters and a beautiful setting round out this wonderful read.”
—RT Book Reviews
Spackled and Spooked
“Smooth, clever, and witty. This series is a winner!”
—Once Upon a Romance
“Bound to be another winner for this talented author. Home-renovation buffs will appreciate the wealth of detail.”
—Examiner.com
“I hope the series continues.”
—Gumshoe Reviews
Fatal Fixer-Upper
“An ingeniously plotted murder mystery with several prime suspects and a nail-biting conclusion.”
—The Tennessean
“A great whodunit…Fans will enjoy this fine cozy.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Smartly blends investigative drama, sexual tension, and romantic comedy elements, and marks the start of what looks like an outstanding series of Avery Baker cases.”
—The Nashville City Paper
“Polished writing and well-paced story. I was hooked…from page one.”
—Cozy Library
“There’s a new contender in the do-it-yourself home-renovation mystery field…An enjoyable beginning to a series.”
—Bangor Daily News
“A strong debut mystery…Do-it-yourselfers will find much to enjoy in the first of this new series.”
—The Mystery Reader
“A cozy whodunit with many elements familiar to fans of Agatha Christie or Murder, She Wrote.”
—Nashville Scene
“A fun and sassy journey that teaches readers about home renovation as they follow the twists and turns of a great mystery.”
—Examiner.com
“The mystery is unusually strong. Home-renovation and design tips are skillfully worked into the story, the characters are developed and sympathetic, and the setting is charming. The climax leads to a bang-up ending…A first-rate mystery and a frightening surprise ending.”
—RT Book Review
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Jennie Bentley
FATAL FIXER-UPPER
SPACKLED AND SPOOKED
PLASTER AND POISON
MORTAR AND MURDER
FLIPPED OUT
WALL-TO-WALL DEAD
WALL-TO-WALL
DEAD
JENNIE BENTLEY
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
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.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: Neither the publisher nor the author is engaged in rendering professional advice or services to the individual reader. The ideas, projects, and suggestions contained in this book are not intended as a substitute for consulting with a professional. Neither the author nor the publisher shall be liable or responsible for any loss or damage allegedly arising from any information or suggestion in this book.
WALL-TO-WALL DEAD
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover illustration by Jennifer Taylor / Paperdog Studio.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
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,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58958-8
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.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
—Prologue—
Derek pulled the boat up to the rickety pier in the cove just below the house on Rowanberry Island. Looking at the ol
d center chimney Colonial, I was reminded, forcibly, of how it had looked the first day we’d come out here to start work on it, some four or five months ago now: run-down, decrepit, and listing to one side, with broken windows, a weather-beaten plank exterior, and a hole in the roof big enough to land a helicopter through.
Now it looked like a different house. Straight and sturdy, gleaming with white paint and a brilliant red door under a fan-shaped window.
“It’s gorgeous.”
Derek glanced at it over his shoulder, in the process of tying up the boat. “Yup.”
“We did a good job.”
“Yes,” Derek said, “we did. C’mon, Tink.”
He extended a hand and hauled me up onto the pier, with special care for my bandaged hands.
It was just a few days since I’d narrowly escaped immolation when my garden shed went up in flames. I’d been locked inside it at the time, and had to fight my way out, to the detriment of my manicure. My hands were blistered and sore, the skin extra sensitive, and I was currently using salves and strategically placed bandages to get through the days. Derek was gentle as he lifted me from the boat, one arm snaking around my waist to take most of my weight as he pulled me up to stand behind him. “I’ll get the basket.”
He jumped back into the small craft and then crawled back onto the pier a few seconds later, picnic basket in hand.
It was late July, the weather was beautiful, and we were both alive and—as the saying goes—young and in love. The television crew we’d been saddled with for the past week had left town just a few hours ago, headed for their next assignment, and it had seemed a good idea to take the rest of the day off to relax and regenerate. We’d spent the past week working practically around the clock to renovate a little house in the historic part of Waterfield, the Village, for a television show called Flipped Out, and while that had been stressful enough in and of itself, things had gone from bad to worse when the owner of the house had turned up dead, followed by a whole lot of other complications, including that burning garden shed. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and when Derek suggested we take a trip out to Rowanberry Island and spend the day there while the weather was still warm enough to enjoy the water, I’d jumped at the chance. We’d packed a lunch, borrowed a boat from a friend, and here we were.
“I like it here,” I said, gazing around at the pine and birch forest framing the house, and the blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds, bleeding into the equally blue water.
Derek glanced around, too. “Nice place. Although after what happened to you back in April…”
During a particularly nasty spring fog, I’d been stuck on this island with a killer. The ferries had stopped running, and I’d been responsible for the lives of a handful of other people as well as my own. I’d made it out alive—just like I did from the burning shed—but if there’d been a fog creeping in right at this moment, I think I might have been less happy about being here.
“It turned out all right,” I said, turning back to him. “Just like this time.”
“Sure,” Derek said, but he didn’t sound like he meant it. “Where do you want to sit? On the porch, as usual?”
During the months we’d spent out here working, we’d often eaten lunch on the porch. If the weather was bad, we’d stayed inside the house, but we rarely brought a blanket to spread on the grass. The porch was easier.
“That’s fine.”
“C’mon.” He hefted the picnic basket in one hand and put the other against my back as he guided me across the meadow toward the house.
Once we reached the porch, he put the basket down and dug into his pocket. “Since we’re here, we should probably make sure everything’s all right inside.”
I nodded as I watched him pull his keychain out of his pocket and sort through the keys before he found the one that fit the lock. “Any reason to think it won’t be?”
He glanced at me as he twisted the key. “None at all. But people have been coming and going for a few weeks, looking at the place. Melissa told me we’ve had a handful of showings since she put the place on the market.”
Melissa James was our Realtor—who also happened to be Derek’s ex-wife. I wasn’t thrilled about having to work with her—indeed, I’d spent the past year doing my best not to have to work with her—but after our regular Realtor got married and left Maine for Miami, we didn’t have much choice.
“At least they’ve made sure to keep the door locked,” I remarked as Derek struggled with the key.
He nodded, and finally got the door unlocked and the key extracted. “Sticky lock. I’ll have to bring some oil next time I come out here.” He pocketed the key and pushed the door open. It swung smoothly, without the squeal of hinges it had on our first day here.
“Looks the same,” I said, glancing around at the tight run-around staircase and the edge of the old-fashioned sailcloth rug—painted by yours truly—I could see through the door into the living room on the right.
Derek nodded. “Let’s walk through, just in case.”
“Sure.” I went in one direction, he went in the other. When we ended up in the kitchen at the back of the house, I said, “Nothing wrong that I could see.”
Derek shook his head. “Let’s go eat.”
Sure. We headed back out onto the porch, where Derek unpacked the picnic basket.
He’d packed it as well, without help from me—or to be more accurate, he had thrown himself on the mercy of Kate McGillicutty-Rasmussen, our friend who ran the Waterfield Inn B&B, and begged for help. Kate’s hand in the basket was obvious. For one thing, I’m pretty sure it would never have occurred to Derek to bring genuine cloth napkins or real crystal glasses. Or a tiny bud vase, into which he shoved a couple of stems of tiny blue flowers that grew along the side of the house.
“What’s the occasion?” I wanted to know.
He glanced up from the basket, a flash of blue eyes the same color as the flowers—and the sky. “Do we need an occasion?”
“I guess not. It’s just…” I trailed off when the bottle of champagne appeared. “Derek?”
“Fine. I’m celebrating the fact that the TV crew has left and we survived the week.” He pulled out two wrapped sandwiches and put one on my plate and one on his. Lobster rolls, from the deli in downtown Waterfield. In Derek’s opinion, the best lobster rolls in Maine.
“Lobster rolls and champagne?” I said.
He grinned. “Why not? And whoopie pies for dessert.” He brandished them. “Do I know how to plan a date, or not?”
Definitely. I watched as he popped the champagne cork and filled my glass and then his own. “Cheers.”
I raised my glass. “Cheers. To a better week than the last one.” I’d had my fill of dead bodies and complications for a while; I was ready for life to settle back down.
“I’ll drink to that,” Derek said, and did.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Derek likes food—he has one of those metabolisms that’s always cranking, so he’s pretty much always hungry—and the fresh sea air and trip across the waves had given me an appetite, too. And to tell the truth, I was preoccupied, mulling things over in my mind. Something was going on; I could feel it. I just didn’t know what. But something was up. He was restless. Maybe even nervous. Or worried. Eating too fast, even for Derek.
“Ready for dessert?”
He polished off his lobster roll while I still had almost half of mine left, and then he handed me my whoopie pie and started unwrapping his own. I followed suit, since I figured I probably couldn’t finish the rest of the lobster roll as well as the whoopie pie anyway, and I certainly wasn’t about to turn down dessert.
The whoopie pie is the official state treat of Maine, not to be confused with the official state dessert, which is blueberry pie. It consists of two rounds of chocolate cake—or in some cases pumpkin or spice cake—with frosting between them, and commonly, it’s the size of an average hamburger. That said, the biggest whoopie pie ever created was
made in South Portland in 2011, and weighed in at 1,062 pounds. But I digress.
I love whoopie pies, and Kate had made these, which made them even better. I had unwrapped the treat and was about to sink my teeth into it when something about it caught my eye.
“Something wrong?” Derek said innocently.
I ignored him. I had stopped with my mouth still open, the pie an inch from my lips, and now I squinted down my nose at the top of the chocolate cake, where something sparkled. Whoopie pie isn’t supposed to sparkle, FYI.
I moved my hands back a few inches and waited for my eyesight to adjust, heart beating faster. My mouth, however, stayed open, but for a different reason now.
Derek had stopped eating, and was watching me. I glanced at him, and back to the whoopie pie in my hands again.
“Derek?” My voice shook.
“Yes,” Derek said, and he sounded like he was farther away than just on the other side of the tablecloth.
“Is that…”
My heart was beating so hard it was difficult to get the words out.
“It isn’t a cherry,” Derek said.
No, it wasn’t. Wrong color.
Very carefully, I lowered the whoopie pie to the porch floor and stared at it, much the same way I might stare at a spider, or something else I was worried might jump up and bite me.
“Derek? What…is that?”
“Pick it up and see,” Derek said.
I reached out, with a hand that shook. And pulled out a ring.
“Derek?”
“I thought I’d lost you,” Derek said. “You went home alone and you almost died. I don’t want you to go home alone anymore. I don’t want anything to happen to you because I’m not there. I want to marry you, so your home will be my home and no one can come into it and hurt you again.”