Town in a Strawberry Swirl (Candy Holliday Mystery)

Praise for

Town in a Pumpkin Bash

“With a concept that succeeds with individual volumes and tantalizes with all of them, Haywood has again created a cliff-hanger that will have readers hanging on while waiting for the next installment.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Haywood’s prose is artful and fun, her narrative style is engaging, and the two central mysteries . . . are clever, complex, and connect quite seamlessly. The story is perfectly paced, with twists, clues, confrontations, and red herrings dropped in all the right places, and Haywood manages to keep the reader guessing until the very end.”

—
The Maine Suspect

“Candy is entertaining and her relationships with her father and friends add real warmth to the story.”

—
RT Book Reviews

Town in a Wild Moose Chase

“[A] terrific tale . . . With a great stunning final twist to complete a strong regional whodunit, fans will enjoy
Town in a Wild Moose Chase
.”

—
The Mystery Gazette

“The third book in a well-written series, the appearance of a white moose and the big hints about a conspiracy will keep the reader enthralled. While
Town in a Wild Moose Chase
was complete, the ending leaves the reader waiting for the next in the series.”

—
Fresh Fiction

Town in a Lobster Stew

“[A] fun and likeable amateur sleuth . . . With a little bit of romance thrown in, this one has a recipe for success.”

—
The Romance Readers Connection

“A fun, atmospheric mystery, perfect for lounging bayside waiting for the boats to bring in their latest catch.”

—
The Mystery Reader

“This is a charming cozy . . . With seafood and recipes adding to the flavor of a
Town in a Lobster Stew
, subgenre fans will enjoy spending early summer in Maine.”

—
The Mystery Gazette

Town in a Blueberry Jam

“In this debut mystery, Haywood has picked a winning combination of good food and endearing characters.”

—Sheila Connolly,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Scandal in Skibbereen

“A delicious mix of yummy food and a good, small-town mystery.”

—
The Romance Readers Connection

“A winning combination of great characters, warm setting, and mischievous locals will appeal to cozy lovers everywhere.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“An interesting cast of characters in a quaint Maine town. It’s not Cabot Cove, and thank God for that. Candy Holliday is an intriguing new sleuth in the lighthearted mystery genre.”

—
Bangor (ME) Daily News

Berkley Prime Crime titles by B. B. Haywood

TOWN IN A BLUEBERRY JAM

TOWN IN A LOBSTER STEW

TOWN IN A WILD MOOSE CHASE

TOWN IN A PUMPKIN BASH

TOWN IN A STRAWBERRY SWIRL

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

TOWN IN A STRAWBERRY SWIRL

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

Copyright © 2014 by Robert R. Feeman and Beth Ann Feeman.

Excerpt from
Town in a Sweet Pickle
by B. B. Haywood copyright © 2014 by Robert R. Feeman and Beth Ann Feeman.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13732-5

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2014

Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.

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.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For Freda

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Those of you who have read more than one book in the Candy Holliday Murder Mystery series will notice an interconnected storyline that runs through all the novels. It’s not necessary to have read any prior books in the series to enjoy the one you now hold in your hands. In fact, if you haven’t read any of the previous books, this is a good place to start. However, if you
have
read other books in the series, you’ll find within these pages a few additional clues to the wider story taking place in Cape Willington, Maine. Many thanks to Mary A. Cook for speed-proofreading and commenting on the manuscript at the last minute, to Teresa Fasolino for once again perfectly capturing the essence of Cape Willington in her cover art, and to family, friends, and fans for continued support. For more information about the Candy Holliday Mysteries and Holliday’s Blueberry Acres, visit hollidaysblueberryacres.com.

She felt like a fly suddenly caught in a spider’s web.

She backed away, putting some distance between herself and the body, and froze there. She had to take a moment to think, to consider her options—though with all the thoughts racing through her brain, it was difficult to make sense of any of them.

Her first instinct was to flee, to extricate herself from this situation as quickly as possible. She could leave the body where it was at and simply walk away. Drive back to her office, go about her business as usual, pretend none of this had happened. And try to forget what she’d just seen.

She hesitated, though. That was the most attractive choice, but was it the right one?

She could approach the body, put a finger to its wrist and neck, check for a pulse and breathing. But she knew there was no need. From where she stood, the damage looked fairly severe. She wasn’t a doctor but she didn’t have to be. She averted her eyes, not wanting to look too long, lest it give her nightmares for the rest of the week.

She shifted, maintaining tight control of her emotions. This wasn’t the time to panic.

Her eyes fell on the probable murder weapon lying not too far away on the dirt floor of the hoophouse. She dwelt on it for a long moment as her gaze narrowed. Something about it scratched at her senses, making her feel uneasy, but she couldn’t determine what it was. She was tempted to take a few steps closer for a better look, but she remained firmly planted to the spot upon which she stood. She was afraid to move a muscle.

The proper thing to do, of course, would be to call the police and report what she’d found. But she dismissed that idea almost instantly. Warning bells were going off inside her brain, almost physically ringing in her ears. Something about this whole scene was wrong. It looked set up—manipulated. How and in what way, she could not tell. But there were too many unknowns, too much to absorb right now.

She knew somehow, instinctively, that if she called the police right now, she’d wind up in jail before lunch.

She had no idea how she’d reached that conclusion but she felt the truth of it in her bones. If the police started asking questions, she’d have no answers for them—at least, none that she wanted to share right now. They’d ask why she’d come out to the berry farm this morning, and why she’d wandered specifically out to the hoophouse. She’d have to tell them about the e-mail, and how she’d been instructed to delete it to avoid leaving a paper trail. They’d grill her about the secret arrangement she’d had with the victim, and the rumors flying around town, which would pull her in even deeper.

It was all too messy to explain. It would make her an immediate suspect.

No, the best course of action, she decided, was to follow her first instinct. Leave this place as quickly as possible. Get in her car, drive out of the parking lot, hurry back to town, lock herself in her office, and wait for someone else to find the body.

She might even want to think about an alibi. Maybe she should take an early lunch, get a salad and a glass of iced tea someplace where she’d be noticed and could be seen reacting to the news in surprise like everyone else when the inevitable discovery happened.

But first she wanted to make sure she didn’t leave any traces of her presence behind. Forensics teams could find evidence in just about anything these days—a clump of dirt, a speck of fabric, a fingernail, the tiniest hair follicle. She had to make it appear as if she’d never been here.

She scoured the area visually, but she hadn’t touched anything that she could remember. And she couldn’t see any hairs or fibers that might have fallen off her. There wasn’t much she could do about that anyway. But there
was
something else she needed to address.

She looked down at her feet. Before she left the car, she’d had the good sense to switch out her new Manolo Blahnik silver sandals for the calf-high black rubber boots she kept in the trunk, in anticipation of situations just like this. Most of her listings were residential homes in nice neighborhoods with paved driveways and concrete walkways, but she handled plenty of farms and rural properties as well. Who knew where a typical day might take her? This little unexpected side trip out to Crawford’s Berry Farm was a perfect example. Every day was different. It paid to be prepared.

She’d bought the Manolo Blahniks at the Neiman Marcus store in Copley Square just a few weekends ago, on a two-day shopping spree in Boston to celebrate a big sale. They’d cost her seven hundred dollars. No sense ruining them tromping around a berry farm. It had been a wise decision to make the switch to the rubber boots, given the farm’s dirt pathways and occasional muddy patches, like the one she’d encountered just outside.

But the boots left distinctive footprints. She’d have to erase them. How to do that?

Turning, searching for an idea, she spotted an old broom that had somehow made its way out here, leaned up against one corner of the hoophouse. It looked like it had been used to clear out spiderwebs and brush dirt off walls and framework.

Just what she needed.

Forcing herself to move, she crossed to the broom and in short order swept away all her own footprints. She used the broom lightly, brushing loose dirt around, doing her best to disguise the fact that she was tampering with evidence at a crime scene. But it couldn’t be helped. It was pure self-preservation at this point.

Once she’d finished her task, she headed outside, down the gentle slope toward the barn, doing her best to keep a low profile as she retraced her steps across the strawberry fields, dashing the broom at the footprints behind her as she went.

Back at the car, she pulled off the rubber boots and tossed them onto the floor behind the driver’s seat. After erasing any trace of the final few footprints, she tossed the broom onto the back floor as well, making a mental note to dispose of it as quickly as possible. Still in her stocking feet, she plopped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and started the engine.

In a few moments she’d be free and clear, but these were the tensest ones of all, with a clean escape so close and yet so far. As she closed her fingers around the leather-wrapped steering wheel, she noticed her hands were shaking. She was breathing heavily. For the first time a wave of anxiety threatened to overwhelm her and she began to feel lightheaded, but she fought it down. She swept pale blonde hair back from her thin face and turned to look out the side and rearview windows as she backed up and started off.

So far, so good. The place still looked deserted. But as she gunned the engine and started out the dirt lane toward the main road, she noticed in the distance another vehicle turning in toward the berry farm—an old pickup truck, it looked like.

Doc Holliday’s truck
, she thought, her heartbeat spiking at the realization.

She cursed and slammed on the brakes, fighting down her panic. She looked to either side, seeking an escape route, and spotted a farm lane on her right. It led off along a line of low trees, cutting past the berry fields that ran down the slope toward the sea.

Without hesitation, she yanked the steering wheel to the right, gunned the engine, and tore across the fields.