Tragedy strikes in Thread and Dead, the second book in Elizabeth Penney's cozy mystery series—and now everyone in Blueberry Cove, Maine, is on pins and needles . . .
Iris Buckley is busier than ever this July, with the town's annual Lobster Festival fast approaching. In just a matter of days her apron shop Ruffles & Bows, will be jam-packed with tourists eager to lay eyes on its world-class collection of aprons and linens—and Iris's inventory is running low. Then, just when all hope seems lost, Iris gets a call from Eleanor Brady, a wealthy, reclusive spinster who just happens to have trunks full of vintage fabrics. Would Iris like to come down to Eleanor's cottage estate Shorehaven and have a look?
Before long Iris is on the scene—and on the case. Turns out that Eleanor has rented Shorehaven to the handsome, charismatic environmentalist Dr. Lukas de Wilde and his flock of students. What begins as an apron-scouting endeavor soon morphs into a full-blown murder investigation when Dr. de Wilde's beautiful young teaching assistant turns up dead. Now it's up to Iris—along with her partner-in-love-and-crime Ian Stewart—to unravel the mystery before the Blueberry Cove killer strikes again.
Release date:
August 25, 2020
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
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“Quincy, please.” I picked up my orange tabby “helper” for the third time and set him gently on the floor, then opened the box flaps. Inside was a collection of aprons I’d nabbed at an auction, colorful prints featuring vegetables and fruits—perfect for our new “garden bounty” window display. The Fourth of July theme had come down, and these new pieces were going up today, to celebrate our glorious, all-too-short Maine summer.
“Ooh, I love those,” Grammie said, handing me a cup of freshly brewed coffee from our favorite place, the Belgian Bean. My grandmother, Anne Buckley, is my business partner in Ruffles & Bows, a vintage apron and linens shop in Blueberry Cove, Maine. Like me, she wore the signature store outfit, a white ruffled pinafore over a mid-century-inspired dress.
Our old-fashioned garb was not only comfortable, it suited the shop’s décor as well. Located in what was once an ancestor’s dry goods store, the space featured original tin ceilings, hanging light fixtures, and carved mahogany service counters and woodwork. We displayed stacks of crisp linens in antique cabinets and armoires and hung vintage aprons on rotating clotheslines. Ladder racks held tea towels, and potholders in every color dangled from cup hooks.
I took a sip of rich, dark coffee, then set the paper cup a safe distance away. “Look at this one.” The half apron was pure confection, white organza embroidered with cherries and trimmed with red rickrack and bobbles.
“Gorgeous.” Grammie rubbed the silky fabric between finger and thumb. “The variety of apron styles and themes never ceases to amaze me.”
“Same here,” I said. After being laid off as a designer for a home-goods catalog company in Portland, Maine, I started dabbling in online sales, driven by my interest in vintage fabrics. Now, several years later, I was still learning about aprons and household linens and their connection to women’s history. The 1920s through the 1960s had seen a veritable explosion in personal expression when it came to aprons and kitchen linens. Most were handmade, often repurposing flour sacks and clothing fabric, and embellishments were common.
The shop phone rang and I grabbed it while Grammie continued to admire the new purchases. “Good morning. Ruffles and Bows, Iris speaking. How may I help you?” After almost two months in business, the greeting rolled off my tongue.
“Good morning to you as well,” a sprightly yet scratchy voice said. “I’m calling to inquire about selling some antique linens. I understand you purchase inventory privately.” By the formal phrasing, I guessed the caller was from an earlier generation.
“We often do,” I said, reaching for a pad and pen. “Depending on our needs.” This was my all-purpose disclaimer, in case the goods were ripped, stained, or otherwise undesirable. You wouldn’t believe the rags some people thought were valuable antiques. “Who am I speaking with, please?”
“This is Eleanor Brady. I live at Shorehaven Cottage, six Cliff Road. Out on Cobscot Head. Do you know it?”
Did I know it? I hadn’t been by there for years, but a vision of towers, gables, and gargoyles danced in my head. Shorehaven was the eclectic queen of so-called summer cottages built by wealthy tycoons during the late 1800s. The old Brady money came from railroads and shipping, as I recalled.
My palms began to sweat. Anything Eleanor wanted to sell was probably top-drawer. Despite the fact that wealthy families used the cottages only part of the year, the furnishings were usually high quality. Only the finest for the Bradys and their peers.
“Shorehaven is one of my favorite houses in Blueberry Cove,” I said, almost breathless with excitement. “It’s gorgeous.”
A rapping on the front-door glass startled me, since we didn’t open for a few more minutes. I looked up to see my best friend, Madison Morris, peering inside. With her was another good friend, Bella Ricci, owner of Mimosa Boutique. Both wore faded jeans and gauzy tops, held cups of Belgian Bean coffee, and carried leather totes. I gave them a wave and smile while Grammie went to let them in, Quincy at her heels. Maybe she would be the one to actually unlock the door, but he was the official greeter.
Back to Eleanor, who was chuckling at my previous remark. “We see eye to eye on the house, at least. My nephew calls it a hideous overgrown old ark, but I love the place. It’s my home.”
I disliked the nephew already. “Can you tell me a little bit about the linens?” I liked to be prepared for meetings with customers, so I could make an offer on the spot.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice slid into vagueness. “I’ve got a closet full of bed sheets. And last week I found some old linens from Europe in a trunk. Embroidered and monogrammed. Never been used, far as I could tell.”
My pulse jumped. Antique European sheets of good quality often sold for thousands, believe it or not. “I’m definitely interested,” I said, trying to sound casual. But my fingernails bit into my palm. Hopefully another dealer wouldn’t scoop me. “When can I come by?”
“Well, whenever you want. Another gentleman from Camden is coming out this afternoon. Oh, and there are aprons too. I think from the thirties. Do you want those?”
Did I ever! I held back a squeal. Patting my chest to calm down, I said, “How about this morning?” I had to grab that inventory before the other dealer even saw it.
We settled on a time, and after I hung up, I did a little dance in place, fists pumping. “Woo-hoo. We’ve got a hot one in the pipeline.” To Grammie, I said, “Eleanor Brady, later this morning. European linens and antique aprons.”
She gave me thumbs-up. “I haven’t seen Eleanor for ages. I wonder how the old gal is doing. You’ll have to say hello for me.”
My friends were exchanging amused looks at my excitement. “I’m happy for you,” Bella said. “I feel that way when I come across a great new designer.” Bella had impeccable taste, which was why the Lobster Festival committee had put her in charge of the fashion show.
Since the 1940s, the five-day festival celebrating Maine’s famous crustacean had included a parade, lobster dinners, and a carnival. In recent years, the organizers had added new events to expand the festivities—and further benefit the charities they supported. The official kickoff was the day after tomorrow, starting with the parade down Main Street.
“What’s up?” I asked. “Are you here about the festival?” Grammie and I were in charge of keeping other retailers informed about the event. “Everyone has the festival poster and handouts for their in-store displays. And we collected all the raffle items and took them to the chamber office.”
Madison consulted the clipboard she pulled out of her tote. “Great work. Another two items checked off the list.” Madison, who had her own marketing business, was in charge of promoting the festival and coordinating the various teams and committees.
Bella smiled. “But that’s not why we’re here. Do you have time to talk for a minute, Iris?”
I glanced at Grammie, who nodded. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll take care of any customers.” Since the clock had now struck nine, she went to the front window and turned the sign to “Open.”
Picking up my coffee, I said, “Let’s meet in the classroom.” I led the way, flicking on the light in the adjacent space, once a smaller storefront. This fall, I planned to start offering sewing classes here, including stitching aprons from vintage patterns and up-cycling antique and used linens into projects. We took seats at the long table, Quincy jumping up onto a chair too. He liked to be in on the action.
“He’s so cute,” Bella said, rubbing his chin the way he liked it. He purred loudly. “How’s your kitten, Madison?”
Madison had adopted Pixie, a tiger kitten, back in May. “She’s adorable. Getting big.” She pulled out her phone and showed us a couple of action shots.
Then Bella gave us a short update on her two children, Connor, eleven, and Alice, twelve, who were attending various summer programs. She was fairly recently divorced, so we deftly avoided mention of her obnoxious ex-husband. “The kids will be helping me during the festival,” she said. “They look forward to it every year.” She smiled at me. “And that brings me around to why we’re here.”
Madison passed around sheets of paper. “This is just a mock-up I threw together. It can change.”
I picked up the page and studied it. At the top was a cartoon picture of a lobster wearing an apron, cooking utensils in his claws. “Put on Your Best Bib and Tucker. Enter the First Annual Lobster Bib and Apron Contest. Points for Creativity and Unique Designs! Big Prizes!” Like many of the festival events, this one benefited the children’s playground.
“The contest will be part of the fashion show,” Bella said. “The highlight, actually. We would love for you to be the only judge of that portion.”
“I got Sunrise Resort to spring for a weekend for two as the grand prize,” Madison said. The resort was one of her biggest clients.
“That’s fantastic.” I was already a judge for the rest of the show, so what was one more thing, right? But the weight of all I had going on this week pressed down onto my shoulders. The busy summer season at the store, which meant stocking fresh inventory was even more important. Helping with the festival. Dating Ian Stewart … well, that was in the extracurricular category.
I got a warm and tingly feeling whenever I thought about Ian, who I was seeing tonight. We were going to the Taste O’ the Sea reception, a thank-you and dining preview for festival organizers and volunteers, then to dinner with Sophie Jacobs, owner of the Bean, and her almost-fiancé, lobsterman Jake.
But how could I say no to my friends? Plus judging an apron contest would help promote the store, since Ruffles & Bows was named as the sponsor. “All right, I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, Iris,” Bella said with a grateful smile. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”
I sincerely hoped not. With a sigh, I got down to business. “Okay. Tell me how it will work.”
* * *
An hour later found me at the wheel of Beverly, my ’63 Ford Falcon, headed to Shorehaven Cottage and, fingers crossed, some gorgeous aprons and linens. Beverly had been a twenty-first birthday gift from my late grandfather, who had restored the old gal to perfection—and given her a name.
I drove through town, past the circa 1820 farmhouse where I lived with Grammie, and turned onto Cliff Road. Cobscot State Park was out here and I slowed as I went past the gate, noting the number of vehicles in the lot. The park was a popular place for hiking, picnicking, and investigating tidal pools.
Madison and Ian had talked me into going rock climbing here tomorrow, on the cliffs bordering the water. My stomach knotted in anxiety just thinking about scrambling up a rock face. I hated heights, even avoided climbing ladders, but they were convinced I would love it, especially at sunrise. An experience not to be missed, they claimed.
We would see.
Past the park, the road narrowed and trees pressed close, hiding any view of the shore. Not many people lived on this dead-end road and turnoffs were few. I slowed down, watching for the stone gateposts marking Shorehaven’s entrance.
There it was, a sprawling brown-shingled heap sitting in a field overlooking the water. I eased Beverly down the drive, which was striped with weeds that brushed the undercarriage.
My heart sank as I drew closer. The once-grand ivy-covered house with its tall windows now presented an unfortunate aura of neglect. Shingles were missing here and there on the roof, and one gargoyle leaned forward on his perch, ready to do a header into the tangled garden below. A sawhorse blocked the crumbling stone portico, so I continued straight ahead, to a small graveled parking area ending in an iron fence smothered by holly bushes.
Eleanor had said to come to the side door, and to my right, I glimpsed a row of second-story windows beyond the fence. The entrance must be through that gate.
I climbed out of Beverly and shut the door gently. It was so quiet here, with only the muffled beat of the surf and the twitter of birds in the ivy disturbing the deep silence. If I squinted, I could imagine the house as it had been in its heyday. A terrible thought struck me. Maybe Eleanor had to sell things in order to do some repairs. The place was well on its way to falling down.
The buzz of an engine sounded from the road and I turned to see a red sports car zipping along. To my surprise, the driver braked sharply and turned down Shorehaven’s drive.
As I stood frozen in place, my mind spun with conjectures while I watched the red car race toward me. Was the Camden dealer here already, hours ahead of schedule? Haggling was not my strong suit, and competing with another dealer even less so. I’d barely learned how to act during an auction.
The car ground to a halt beside Beverly, and a moment later a man climbed out. A tall, well-built man with tousled blond hair and chiseled features, wearing a white linen short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts. Where had I been? I’d never seen an antiques dealer who looked like a male model. And he was far too young to be Eleanor’s nephew, I thought.
He turned to face me, lifting his sunglasses. “Good morning,” he said. He had a European accent.
I loved Ian but I was seriously swooning here. Wait, what? Had I just said—even in my thoughts—that I loved Ian? Although I’d crushed on him back in high school, we had only been dating a couple of months. Clearly this European-sounding, sports-car driving man was throwing me off more than I’d thought.
And no, I wasn’t going there, not yet. We’d agreed, after horrible breakups with former partners, to take it slow this time.
The newcomer was saying something, and I finally tuned in. “No, I’m not Miss Brady,” I said. Only about fifty or so years younger. “I was just on my way in to see her. Are you here about the sheets?” I held my breath waiting for the answer.
He sent me a quizzical look. “Not exactly. My group is staying here. Miss Brady is our five-star host, the website said.”
Oh, I got it now. Eleanor was renting rooms through one of those online services. Go, Eleanor. And phew, this man was probably not an antiques dealer.
“Follow me, then,” I said, walking toward the gate. “She said to come in this way.” I pulled on the handle, and the gate opened with a squeal that made me wince. Leaving it open, I stepped into the enclosure, my gaze falling on a large swimming pool with a tiled surround. Chaise longues and tables were placed here and there, and the blue-tinted water glittered invitingly.
Then I noticed an older woman stretched out on a lounge chair, dressed in a long white gown and lying with her arms at her sides. A net on a pole lay beside the chair, the type of thing used to clean pools. She wore an odd bonnet-type hat and her eyes were closed.
I stepped closer. “Eleanor?” I called. “Iris Buckley here. And—” I glanced over my shoulder.
He was right behind me. “Dr. Lukas de Wilde.”
I wavered on my feet. Talk about the perfect name. I had to somehow get this man and Bella, who was now ready to date, in the same room. “And Dr. Lukas de Wilde, your guest.”
“The other three are arriving soon,” he said. My romantic plot popped like a bubble. Until he added, “My colleagues.” Not his “wife” or his “significant other.” Plot still on, unless he was involved with someone, of course.
Eleanor hadn’t budged. A fly circled her head and landed on her nose, then walked up the bridge. It left that prominent feature and crawled about her forehead. She still didn’t move.
I found myself gripping Dr. de Wilde’s muscular forearm. Had we arrived too late? Was Eleanor Brady gone?
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