Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Teaser chapter
“Likable, colorful characters, a picturesque New England town, and a murder as sticky as an intricate decoupage plaque will keep readers turning pages in [Lucy Lawrence’s] charming and entertaining new mystery.”
—Sally Goldenbaum, author of Death by Cashmere
X marks the corpse
She chose a flat-headed screwdriver first. It fit into the trunk lock, and she jiggled and wiggled it, but nothing happened. Next she chose the smallest of her metal files. It fit into the lock and she pushed it up and to the right until she heard a faint click. The round face of the lock flopped forward and Brenna dropped the file into her toolbox.
The sky was a smoky shade of purple now and she fished in her toolbox for her small flashlight. She turned it on and held the unlit end with her teeth while she grasped each corner of the trunk’s lid and slowly lifted it open.
At first, it did look like a bundle of old blankets. No treasure then, she thought. Darn it. But then she noticed the blankets seemed to be wearing an expensive leather belt. She gasped and the flashlight fell out of her mouth and rolled across the grass to plop into the lake.
In seconds its little beam was extinguished, and Brenna was left in the encroaching dark with a trunk that she suspected had a body in it …
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STUCK ON MURDER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2009
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In loving memory of my grandmothers,
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Acknowledgments
When I first started writing, I was too insecure to show anyone my work, but as years went by, and I do mean years, I became more confident and began to reach out to the readers in my life for their input and insights. And so I would like to thank the readers I have come to depend upon for their honesty and kindness. Big “I owe you ones” to Susan McKinlay, Jan Buckwalter, Susie Matazzoni, and Tom Gemberling. There are others, but you four have suffered the most and I thank you for it.
A tip of the brim to agent Jacky Sach for her unflagging belief in my abilities; without you, I’d be floundering in a slush pile somewhere. Another tip of the brim to editor Allison Brandau and to copyeditor Joan Matthews for their brilliance with the details.
Hugs to the divine Ladies of the Loop, my dear writing friends, especially Carolyn Greene, for her unwavering encouragement, support, and lengthy telephone time.
Double hugs for my family, the McKinlays and the Orfs—your absolute faith in me over the years kept me going when there really wasn’t any reason to do so.
And lastly, for my dudes: Chris, Beckett, and Wyatt; you three make me laugh every day. You never let me quit and I love you for that.
Chapter 1
The word decoupage is derived from the French decouper, which means “to cut out.”
“Whatever is she doing?” Ella Porter whispered to her twin sister, Marie.
“Darned if I know,” she said.
The elderly women were standing on the sidewalk in front of Vintage Papers, watching Brenna Miller unload a large box from the back of her Jeep.
She was a pretty girl with long, curly auburn hair, which she wore tied at the nape of her neck. Tall and fair, with a dusting of freckles across her nose that made her look younger than she was, Brenna was known for being generous with her smiles. The Porter sisters liked her well enough, but she was not a local. That said it all, in their opinions.
The sisters observed, with their identical eyebrows raised in bewilderment, as Brenna shut the back hatch of her car and pressed her key chain fob until the Jeep gave a rude honk.
Ella started and Marie tsked.
“Is that really necessary?” Marie asked Ella.
“Truly, what does she think will happen here in Morse Point?” Ella agreed. “Why, we’ve lived here all of our sixty-eight years and we’ve never locked our car or our house.”
“Well, I heard Tenley Morse telling Matt Collins that Brenna’s never lived in a small town before,” Marie said. “She used to live in Boston. I imagine it’s very different there.”
Ella shuddered. She didn’t even like to leave her own zip code, never mind venture all the way to Boston.
As Brenna walked by, carting the box in her arms, both ladies gave her a big smile as if they hadn’t just been talking about her.
Brenna grinned. She knew full well that the Porter twins were gossiping about her. They were known around Morse
Point as the keepers of the bodies, as in they knew where they were all buried.
She also knew that the two ladies, as well as the rest of the townspeople, were befuddled by her need to keep her doors locked, both car and house. After all, Morse Point was a small New England town as pretty as a postcard and just as safe.
She adjusted the box on her hip, and her gaze swept over the center of town. The large tree-lined square sported a picturesque white gazebo, which perched in the center of the green like a wedding cake on a reception table. During the summer, the brass band from the Elks Lodge used the pavilion to host free concerts every Saturday night. Residents spread out on blankets under the canopy of maples that dotted the park and listened to butchered renditions of John Philip Sousa’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” played with more heart than you’d find in any city orchestra.
It was like going back in time, Brenna thought, as she glanced down Main Street and saw several shop owners chatting with their customers. There hadn’t been a crime worth mentioning in the Morse Point Courier in over fifty years, much to the dismay of its editor, Ed Johnson. Brenna knew she should feel completely safe here. But what could she say? You could take the paranoid girl out of the crime-infested city but you couldn’t take the paranoia out of the girl. A lifetime of looking over her shoulder was a hard habit to break.
She pulled open the door to Vintage Papers and crab-walked into the shop, trying to manage the door and the big box in her arms without breaking anything.
Sure enough, Tenley already had the worktable set up. It was covered with a bright blue vinyl cloth, and baskets of paper scraps and cutouts had been set out, as well as white glue, paintbrushes, brayers, and damp rags, all ready and waiting for Brenna’s decoupage class.
“Hi, Tenley,” Brenna said. She set the box down on the floor and arched the kinks out of her back.
“Brenna, you’re just in time.” Tenley turned from the refreshment table and consulted her watch. “I think we can get a couple of belts of wine in us before the group gets here.”
Brenna laughed. “Thank you but no. I don’t think my reputation could withstand it. One whiff of wine on me and the Porter twins will cast me as the town drunk.”
“Don’t worry. They can’t. That role is reserved for Bart Thompson,” Tenley said. “Every Fourth of July he overindulges and the town police have to tackle him before he tries to relive his youth and streak across the green like it’s 1972.”
Brenna chuckled in surprise. “Doesn’t he work at the hardware store? Tie-dyed Tshirts and long gray ponytail, right?”
“That’s him,” Tenley confirmed.
“It must have been so much fun growing up in a town like this,” Brenna said. “Everyone knows everyone.”
Tenley narrowed her eyes at her, and Brenna knew her voice had sounded too wistful. She turned away. She knew Tenley was thinking about why Brenna had come here, but she didn’t want to talk about what had happened in Boston. She was getting on with her life and putting her fears behind her. Mostly.
Brenna and Tenley Morse had remained good friends since their years together at Boston University. When Tenley heard her former roommate was looking to leave the city, she had offered her a clerking position at Vintage Papers.
Brenna had accepted the offer and never looked back. She had transitioned easily from working at an art gallery in Boston to selling specialty papers in Morse Point.
Knowing how much Brenna loved to decoupage, Tenley let her sell some of her creations in the shop and had her teaching decoupage classes in the evening. They had developed quite a devoted little group over the past few months, although Brenna suspected it was gossip the ladies came for more than the art of decoupage. No matter. She was getting paid to do something she loved. Life didn’t get much better than that.
She opened her box and began placing plain white birdhouses at each seat. They had eight ladies signed up for the ongoing class, and every week they tried to tackle a new project.
“Birdhouses?”
Brenna turned to see Cynthia Ripley, the mayor’s wife, and her best friend, Phyllis Portsmyth, enter the store. Given Cynthia’s condescending tone, she wondered if she should have accepted Tenley’s offer of a glass of wine.
“Why, hello, Cynthia, Phyllis,” Brenna greeted the two ladies.
They were the picture of middle-aged chic: rail thin with bobbed blond hair that was stacked in the back, and wearing a diamond at every pulse point. Phyllis was known for the five-carat yellow Portsmyth sparkler she wore on her right ring finger, while Cynthia favored a four-carat pink diamond pendant.
In color-coordinated Ann Taylor outfits, the only difference Brenna could spot between them was that Phyllis had an air of entitlement—she came from old money and had married old money—which Cynthia lacked.
According to the Porter sisters, Cynthia had clawed her way out of a hard life in Dorchester and up the social ladder by marrying Jim Ripley, whom she then pushed into politics. Once Jim was elected, Cynthia had attached herself to Phyllis and slowly metamorphosed into an imitation of her new friend, with the same clothes, hairdo, and patronizing tone. But no matter how much Joy perfume Cynthia spritzed on, she would never be able to cover up the smell of desperation that surrounded her. It was their one true difference, to Brenna’s eye. Well, that and Phyllis had bigger boobs. More money will do that for a girl.
“Honestly, birdhouses?” Cynthia said again.
“Yes, don’t you think that’s a bit pedestrian?” Phyllis asked. The two women looked at Brenna with matching expressions of disdain.
Looking past them, she could see the rest of the ladies, including the Porter twins, file into the shop, watching the exchange with avid interest.
“Perhaps,” Brenna said.
Tenley was making gagging motions behind Phyllis’s back, and Brenna quickly looked away so she wouldn’t laugh. There was no love lost between Tenley Morse and Phyllis Portsmyth, as their families had vied for the position of most powerful family in Morse Point for generations.
Brenna had one more birdhouse in the box that was her own creation. She had made it to give the class an idea of what theirs could look like when they were finished. She lifted it out of the box and released it from its bubble wrap cocoon. She heard someone gasp and felt herself flush with pleasure. It had come out extraordinarily well, if she did say so herself.
She placed the birdhouse in the center of the large worktable and stood back to watch the ladies crowd around it. She had used many of Tenley’s collectible papers as well as a few from her own personal reserve. Around the house fluttered colorful cutout butterflies in various sizes while the roof had been decorated with layers of old seed packets that featured pen and ink drawings of flowers.
“That is just charming,” Ella Porter declared.
“More than charming,” Marie corrected her. “It is outstanding.”
Ella gave her a dark look. The elderly twins were known to be a tad competitive, even when it came to doling out praise.
“It is said,” Brenna stated, loudly enough so that the entire room could hear her, “that Marie Antoinette and her Court favored flowers and butterflies for their birdhouses, but if you think that’s too pedestrian, I’m sure we can come up with something else.”
Phyllis let out a sniff and said, “Obviously, you misunderstood me.”
Cynthia Ripley gave a similar sniff and followed her friend to the refreshment table for a glass of wine.
“That’s telling ’em,” Tenley whispered in her ear as she moved to stand beside her. “So, did Marie Antoinette really decorate birdhouses?”
“I don’t know if she did birdhouses exactly, but she was a known decouper,” Brenna whispered back. “She and her friends were quite passionate about it.”
Tenley leaned back and grinned at her. “You are just a perfect fit here, aren’t you?”
Brenna glanced around Tenley’s shop. It was a full sensory experience. Racks of handmade papers lined one wall in an explo
sion of color, books of paper samples were stacked on another table, and the rest of the room was stocked with shelves of glue, paint, markers, and scissors. She loved the woodsy smell of the handmade papers as well as the feel of them, from the satiny finishes to the chunky matte sheets with flowers embedded in them. Her fingers positively itched to create something clever. Vintage Papers was one of her favorite places to be.
“I belong in the shop,” she agreed. “It’s the rest of Morse Point I’m not so sure about.”
“Don’t worry.” Tenley patted her arm. “A few more months here and we’ll rinse that city stink off of you.”
Brenna gave her an alarmed look and Tenley laughed at her as she made her way back to the refreshment table.
Tenley had been born and raised in Morse Point. In fact, the town was named for Tenley’s family. With her long blond hair and friendly, wide smile, Tenley was liked by everyone in town. Well, everyone except Phyllis Portsmyth and her two girls. They resented the ease with which Tenley was embraced as the town’s favorite daughter.
But truly, why wouldn’t she be? Tenley had been the homecoming queen, class president, and a varsity tennis player. She spent weekends bringing meals and her sunny disposition to the homebound elderly, and she volunteered at the local home for troubled youth. She really was an amazing person, and Brenna was grateful to be her friend. Tenley had given her a place to run to when she needed to get away, and Brenna was glad that she could contribute something to Tenley’s store to help make it a success.
She waited while her class fortified themselves with crackers, Brie, and bubbling glasses of Riesling. Once all of her students were settled in their seats, she circled the table to watch as they selected their materials from the papers and cuttings that Tenley had laid out.
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