Cloche and Dagger Read online

  Praise for

  Cloche and Dagger

  “A delicious romp through my favorite part of London with a delightful new heroine.”

  —Deborah Crombie, New York Times bestselling author

  “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 Mysteries

  “Fancy hats and British aristocrats make this my sort of delicious cozy read.”

  —Rhys Bowen, national bestselling author of

  the Royal Spyness Mysteries

  Praise for Jenn McKinlay’s Library Lover’s Mysteries

  Due or Die

  “[A] terrific addition to an intelligent, fun, and lively series.”

  —Miranda James, New York Times bestselling author of

  the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries

  “What a great read! I can’t wait to go back to the first title in this cozy, library-centered series. McKinlay has been a librarian, and her snappy story line, fun characters, and young library director with backbone make for a winning formula. Add a dog named Heathcliff and library programming suggestions—well, it’s quite a value-added package!”

  —Library Journal

  “McKinlay’s writing is well paced, her dialogue feels very authentic, and I found Due or Die almost impossible to put down.”

  —CrimeSpree

  Books Can Be Deceiving

  “When murder disturbs the quiet community of Briar Creek on the ocean’s edge, librarian Lindsey Norris springs into action to keep her best friend from being charged with the crime. A sparkling setting, lovely characters, books, knitting, and chowder! What more could any reader ask?”

  —Lorna Barrett, New York Times bestselling author of

  the Booktown Mysteries

  “With a remote coastal setting as memorable as Manderley and a kindhearted, loyal librarian as the novel’s heroine, Books Can Be Deceiving is sure to charm cozy readers everywhere.”

  —Ellery Adams, author of the Books by the Bay Mysteries

  “Fast-paced and fun, Books Can Be Deceiving is the first in Jenn McKinlay’s appealing new mystery series featuring an endearing protagonist, delightful characters, a lovely New England setting, and a fascinating murder. Don’t miss this charming new addition to the world of traditional mysteries.”

  —Kate Carlisle, New York Times bestselling author of

  the Bibliophile Mysteries

  Praise for Jenn McKinlay’s Cupcake Bakery Mysteries

  Red Velvet Revenge

  “With a rodeo, a road trip, and the delectable title Red Velvet Revenge, the Fairy Tale Cupcake bakers are back, lassoed into big trouble this time. You’re in for a real treat with Jenn McKinlay’s Cupcake Bakery Mystery. I gobbled it right up.”

  —Julie Hyzy, New York Times bestselling author of

  the White House Chef Mysteries

  “Sure as shootin’, Red Velvet Revenge popswith fun and great twists. Wrangle up some time to enjoy the atmosphere of a real rodeo as well as family drama. It’s better than icing on the tastiest cupcake.”

  —Avery Aames, author of Clobbered by Camembert

  Death by the Dozen

  “It’s the best yet, with great characters, and a terrific, tightly written plot.”

  —Lesa’s Book Critiques

  “Like a great fairy tale, McKinlay transports readers into the world of cupcakes and all things sweet and frosted, minus the calories. Although . . . there are some pretty yummy recipes at the end.”

  —AnnArbor.com

  Buttercream Bump Off

  “A charmingly entertaining story paired with a luscious assortment of cupcake recipes that, when combined, make for a deliciously thrilling mystery.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Another tasty entry, complete with cupcake recipes, into what is sure to grow into a perennial favorite series.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  Sprinkle with Murder

  “A tender cozy full of warm and likable characters and a refreshingly sympathetic murder victim.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “McKinlay’s debut mystery flows as smoothly as Melanie Cooper’s buttercream frosting. Her characters are delicious, and the dash of romance is just the icing on the cake.”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of

  Buried in a Bog

  “Jenn McKinlay delivers all the ingredients for a winning read. Frost me another!”

  —Cleo Coyle, New York Times bestselling author of

  the Coffeehouse Mysteries

  “A delicious new series featuring a spirited heroine, luscious cupcakes, and a clever murder.”

  —Krista Davis, author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries

  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

  Library Lover’s Mysteries

  BOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING

  DUE OR DIE

  BOOK, LINE, AND SINKER

  Hat Shop Mysteries

  CLOCHE AND DAGGER

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  CLOCHE AND DAGGER

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf.

  Excerpt from Death of a Mad Hatter by Jenn McKinlay copyright © 2013 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf.

  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.

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-62469-2

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2013

  Cover illustration by Robert Steele.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  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.

  For my brilliant editor, Kate Seaver.

  You make my work sparkle and shine and I can’t thank you enough for all that you do.

  You are wonderful!

  Acknowledgments

  Attempting to write about a foreign setting was a daring leap for me. Luckily, I had my agent, Jessica Faust; my editor, Kate Seaver; assistant editor, Katherine Pelz; and my family and friends to hold
the net for me when I jumped. This is invaluable when you are taking a neck-breaking risk and so I thank each and every one of you.

  I’d also like to express my eternal gratitude to my fellow authors Hannah Dennison, Rhys Bowen and Deborah Crombie for being willing to slog through the unedited galleys of Cloche and Dagger. As always, the generosity of the writing community leaves me humbled to be a part of it. Also, I’d like to thank my author friend Dorien Kelly, who introduced me to Andrea Blohm, a hat designer, who patiently answered my e-mails about the hat business and kept me from botching the details. And because it is all in the details, I’d like to acknowledge my cover artist Robert Steele for this truly brilliant cover. It’s perfect.

  Lastly, I’d like to tip my hat to the three men in my life who make every day a wonderful new adventure. Chris, Beckett and Wyatt, I love you!

  Contents

  Praise for Cloche and Dagger

  Also 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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Special Excerpt of Death of a Mad Hatter

  Chapter 1

  “Scarlett Elizabeth Parker, put down the MoonPie and listen to me,” Vivian Tremont ordered.

  I held my cell phone away from my ear and frowned at it. How could my cousin who was almost five thousand miles away and in another country know I was eating a MoonPie? I put it down on my coffee table and swallowed the bite of cookie, marshmallow and chocolate I’d just taken.

  “I’m not eating a MoonPie,” I said. Technically, it was not a lie since I had just put it down.

  “Oh, please, I know you, pet,” Vivian said in her crisp British way. “You always eat MoonPies when you’re upset.”

  “How’s business?” I asked. I had learned in my twenty-seven years of knowing her that a change of subject was the only way to throw Viv off track.

  “Not good because I’m too busy worrying about you,” she returned. Obviously, she was not to be thwarted today. “Now, here’s what I think you should do.”

  Viv paused to take a deep breath and I thought about how much I disliked any sentence that had “you should” in it. Still, she was winding up for what sounded like it would be a lengthy monologue, so I decided to make use of the time by finishing my MoonPie.

  “Now you know Mim left the hat shop to both of us,” she said. “I know you had other career aspirations but since those have imploded, I think it’s time for you to come to London and take up your half of the business.”

  I choked on a bit of cookie. I had to give it to her. I hadn’t seen that one coming.

  “I thought you said you weren’t eating a MoonPie,” she said.

  “Well, actually, I’m choking on one,” I said through my hacking cough.

  “How can you eat that rot?” she asked.

  “Aw, come on,” I said. “I know you ate the box that I sent you for Christmas.”

  “I tried a nibble, to be polite,” she said.

  “Ha, you ate them and liked them. I know you did,” I said.

  “If I did, it was the child in me acting out, so it doesn’t count because I can’t be held accountable for what childish me does. Now moving on,” she said. “What do you think of my idea?”

  I paused before I answered. Mim was our grandmother, and when she had passed away five years before, she had left Mim’s Whims, her millinery business, half to Vivian, who was already working for her, and half to me. Viv had been a natural fit. She had grown up down the street from the Notting Hill shop and had spent her teen and university years working with Mim.

  As for me, I was born and bred in Florida, and although I had spent my school breaks with Mim and Viv, I didn’t know squat about the hat business, which was why I had gone into the hospitality business after college, working at the posh Santiago Hotel chain headquartered in Tampa.

  “Oh, come on, it’s your legacy,” Viv cajoled. “Besides, your life is in the loo, love. It’s best you put some miles between you and that blighter who broke your heart—at least try it for a little while.”

  “Uff.” I huffed out a breath as a sharp pain stabbed me somewhere in the vicinity of my chest, although it could have been angina from my steady diet of MoonPies, Pringles and French onion dip. I picked up the big box of MoonPies I’d scored at the Publix grocery store a few nights before. It was light, too light. I shook it. Empty. Damn.

  “He isn’t a—” I began, but Viv cut me off.

  “No! Do not defend that pile of rubbish to me. The man led you to believe he was available and then you find out that he hasn’t left his wife at all by walking in on a lavish anniversary party that he threw for her,” she fumed. “I’m delighted that you lobbed chunks of five-thousand-dollar cake at him. It’s a shame your escapade got recorded and went viral on the Internet, but it was no more than he deserved.”

  I felt my insides wither as they were clutched in the unforgiving fist of humiliation. I had watched the clip of the video, repeatedly, hoping my shame would become less horrific with each viewing. It never did.

  On the grainy video, I looked like a deranged redheaded banshee, grabbing fistfuls of the gorgeous three-tier cake and flinging them at a man in an impeccable tuxedo, while he held up his arms and tried to protect his handsome face from a frosting pelting. The nicest comment posted about the video was that I had an arm like Nolan Ryan in his prime.

  “I don’t know, Viv,” I said.

  “How long has it been since you’ve showered?” she asked. “Or left your flat?”

  “Three days,” I said.

  “That’s it then, either you come here under your own power or I’m coming to get you,” she said. Being two years older than me, Viv could be the teensiest bit bossy. “I’m booking you a ticket now for the first flight out of Tampa International tomorrow. Are you in?”

  I thought about staying holed up in my apartment until I died. It had a certain appeal. Then I thought about fleeing the country to be with my cousin. It had slightly more appeal.

  “All right,” I agreed. “Book it.”

  Chapter 2

  The platform of the underground was mobbed as the smokers hustled to get up onto the surface street to light up because the fumes in the tunnel weren’t enough of a rush for their lungs. I was pushed aside as I dragged my rolling suitcase behind me and couldn’t push back as I was weighed down with two carry-on bags as well. My Florida wardrobe was not going to cut it for April in London, so I had packed heavier than I usually did when I crossed the pond.

  It had been three years since I’d come for a visit, which seemed an inexcusably long time now that I thought about it. Flying away from Tampa, I had to admit I hadn’t been sad to see the city growing ever smaller in my window. Like the fading taste of something bitter, I hoped the memory of my humiliation would diminish just as quickly as the city.

  The climb up the stairs was dicey but I made it, feeling like a mole popping its head out of its hole
when I reached the street. I parked my bags and glanced around the Notting Hill Gate entrance to the underground, looking for Vivian.

  She was always easy to spot because she used any opportunity in public to promote the shop by wearing one of her hats. Mim had been an extraordinary milliner and Viv had inherited her gift but also had her own flare of irreverence that had garnered her loads of press and quite a lot of clients among the titled elite.

  I looked for an orange plume of feathers or a bright blue burst of glittery fronds in the shape of lilies, but no, there was nothing. Viv was typically late, I supposed. She had said she would meet me at the Gate and I had given her the time of my estimated arrival on the underground from Heathrow Airport, which had been less than an hour after I claimed my bags. There was no sign of her. I tried not to feel disappointed.

  Vivian was an eccentric who not only marched to her own drummer but was usually the drum major of the crazy parade, so it really was expecting a bit too much to think she’d be waiting for me when I arrived. I hefted one of my carry-ons over my shoulder and began to pull my big bag with the other carry-on perched on top of it toward the street that would lead me to Portobello Road, where the narrow three-story building that was home to Mim’s Whims was located.

  I stepped off the curb when a tall man stopped in front of me and peered at a photograph and then at me and said, “Excuse me, are you Scarlett Parker?”

  I looked at the man with all of my internal sensors on high alert. There had been quite a flurry of media attention after the cake debacle went viral. Even Good Morning America had wanted an interview. Honestly, did they really think I wanted to be a participant in my own humiliation? The morning after the video reached a million hits, I’d even found one lunatic with a camera on the balcony of my apartment trying to peer in my windows. Needless to say, I was just the teensiest bit paranoid about strangers who knew my name.

  The man in question, however, was dressed in a sharply creased pair of khaki pants with a blue dress shirt and brown loafers. He was not hoisting a camera or a microphone and he seemed to be alone. He was also very handsome in an academic sort of way.