Murder on the Half Shelf

M
URDER ON THE
H
ALF
S
HELF

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Lorna Barrett

MURDER IS BINDING

BOOKMARKED FOR DEATH

BOOKPLATE SPECIAL

CHAPTER & HEARSE

SENTENCED TO DEATH

MURDER ON THE HALF SHELF

M
URDER ON THE
H
ALF
S
HELF

Lorna Barrett

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

ALWAYS LEARNING

PEARSON

For my wonderful aunts

Sonia and Michele

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing can be a lonely pursuit, but not when you have friends who are willing to share their expertise. Ellery Adams (also known as J.B. Stanley) acted as my first reader and gave me some terrific input. Not only is Hank Phillippi Ryan an award-winning author, she’s an award-winning TV reporter and she has once again graciously helped with my description of TV stations and reporting. My pal Pat Remick always makes time to give me pointers on New Hampshire local color. Michelle Sampson, another source of local color, also “lent” me her beautiful Victorian house as the setting for the Sheer Comfort Inn.

It helps to have author friends to commiserate with, too. My thanks to my Cozy Chick blog pals, who are a constant source of support: Leann Sweeney, Ellery Adams, Deb Baker, Heather Webber, Kate Collins, and Maggie Sefton. Catch us at
www.CozyChicksblog.com
.

As always, I cannot forget my wonderful editor, Tom Colgan; his assistant, Amanda Ng; and my agent extraordinaire, Jessica Faust.

And thanks to all of you, my readers, for traveling with me on this amazing ride.

If you haven’t already signed up for my periodic newsletter, I hope you’ll visit my website to join:
www.LornaBarrett.com
. You can also find me on Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter.

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Twenty-Nine

Angelica’s Recipes

ONE

The overloaded
luggage trolley bumped along the sidewalk, following Tricia Miles like an overgrown puppy. Ninety percent of the bags belonged to her sister, Angelica, whom Tricia trailed after. Head held high, marching along like a majorette, Angelica led the way to the Sheer Comfort Inn. When she stopped dead, Tricia nearly ran into her. “Tricia, you must keep up,” she admonished.

Tricia steadied herself and the weight of the luggage nearly toppled the little metal trolley, taking her with it. “Tell me again why you’ve dragged me along on this little outing.”

“My dear Tricia, for a little sister-to-sister bonding. It’ll be just like camping,” Angelica gushed, looking up at the lovely Victorian home before them and waving an arm to take it all in. The movement made her stumble on her three-inch heels, jostling the enormous suitcase, the corner of which dug into the back of Tricia’s leg.

“Camping?” she nearly wailed. She’d brought only a small duffel with a nightshirt and a change of clothes, whereas Angelica had her big shocking pink Pierre Cardin suitcase, plus she had saddled Tricia with her overnight bag, a cosmetic bag, and a small cooler filled with snacks, while Angelica carried only her enormous purse.

The occasion?

A free overnight stay at Stoneham’s newest (and to be honest, only) bed-and-breakfast inn. This was to be the B-and-B’s trial run before the business opened to the public in a week’s time. Angelica had won the prize at the last Chamber of Commerce meeting. She could have brought Bob Kelly, which might have been a much better idea than dragging Tricia along, but Angelica and Bob, head of the Chamber, had been on the outs more than the ins these last few months. Tricia wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Bob rigged the prize so that he and Angelica could spend a romantic evening in the cozy new inn. To say he’d been upset at Angelica’s choice of roommate was putting it mildly. He’d even tried to bribe Tricia with a year’s free Chamber membership to back out of the evening, but Tricia couldn’t be bought—at least, not for such small stakes. And it rather pleased her to see Bob grovel, although at this particular moment she wished she had given in.

“I don’t camp,” Tricia asserted. She waved a hand at the lovely three-story Victorian home before them. “And you can hardly call staying the night at a place named
Sheer Comfort
roughing it.”

“Well, I didn’t know if they had hair dryers. And I had to bring my laptop. And since Bob said they serve sherry in the evenings, I needed to be able to change my clothes if the situation warranted it. In fact”—she pulled on the front of her waitress uniform, which showed through the opened buttons on her camel’s-hair coat—“I can’t wait to get out of these clothes.”

“Why didn’t you change at home? And you didn’t have to bring four or five outfits. We’re only going to be here one night.”

“One never knows,” Angelica said.

They turned to look at the house in front of them. A freshly painted white picket gate contrasted nicely against the privet that circled the patch of grass in front of the stately Victorian. The gingerbread accents on the porch and gable gave the appearance of an overgrown doll house. White wicker chairs and a love seat were decked out in chintz pillows, while the matching wicker tables looked like the perfect places to set silver trays with a couple of glasses and sweating pitchers of lemonade on a hot afternoon.

Those hot days were several months away. The sun was already sinking, and brass lamps glowed on either side of the brightly painted red door as Angelica opened the gate, scurried into the yard, and held it for Tricia, who hauled the luggage up the walk. “Give me a hand to lift this, will you, Ange?”

Angelica pouted, waving a hand with freshly lacquered nails at her. “I just gave myself a manicure—I don’t want to ruin it.”

She bustled up the steps while Tricia struggled to haul the trolley behind her.

Angelica grasped the door’s brass knocker and tapped it as a winded Tricia tried to catch her breath. “Isn’t the door open?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to try it. After all, the inn isn’t officially open. I wouldn’t leave the door unlocked at dusk so just anyone could barge in.”

“We’re not just anyone. They’re expecting us,” Tricia pointed out.

“Hush!” Angelica warned as the thud of approaching footsteps sounded from within.

A moment later, the handle rattled and the door was thrown open. A middle-aged woman with shoulder-length blonde hair streaked with silver stood before them. She was
thin, and dressed in a bulky lavender sweater, with polished black boots protruding under the sharp creases of her jeans. “Hello, I’m Pippa Comfort. You must be the Miles sisters.”