Stuck on Murder

Table of Contents

 

 

“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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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.

 

STUCK ON MURDER

 

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

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-13616-4

 

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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

“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 T-shirts 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.