Peg Cochran's Blog
November 17, 2020
Birth of a Cozy Mystery - Murder in the Margins
I’m also a bit obsessed with England and all things British although it’s been quite awhile since I’ve been. We had to cancel our trip this year, natch.
And then I read about a bookstore advertising for a “writer in residence.”
So naturally I began to think England + royal family + writer in residence = a potential cozy series?
And that’s how the Open Book Series was born. Murder in the Margins revolves around Penelope “Pen” Parish, an American, who takes a position as the writer in residence at the Open Book in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, England. She’s a Gothic novel writer who is suffering from writer’s block and needs a change of scenery.
Now to work in the royal family…or at least some nobility. So I created Arthur Worthington, the duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke who just happens to be the red-haired favorite of the queen. (get it?) And the town is in an uproar because he’s engaged to an American romance writer (sound familiar?)
I’ve had a blast researching the different words and expressions the Brits use like toff, knackered, chuffed to bits, the high street and so on. And the food has been equally fascinating—baked goods like Jammie Dodgers, Chelsea buns, Victoria Sponge, etc. I’ve even tried my hand at baking a Madeira Cake.
Even though we can’t travel at the moment, sit back, put your feet up, pick up a copy of Murder in the Margins and follow along as Penelope Parish heads for adventure in Chumley-on-Stoke, England.
October 28, 2020
Murder in the Margins Review
October 27, 2020
Murder in the Margins is Here!
Amazon Reviewer: I really liked this book. I felt the story was well-written and plotted. I thought the characters were all well-developed, believable, and engaging. I’m looking forward to learning more about the bookstore and its customers. I found a couple of the Open Book’s lady customers to be immensely entertaining. I’m also interested in seeing if anything will start to develop between Pen and Detective Maguire.
October 20, 2020
Excerpt Murder in the Margins
Here a short excerpt...okay, it's a bit of a teaser!
“I’ve never been to tea before,” Penelope said, brushing a Styrofoam peanut from her sweater where it had stuck. “Will this be what you English call high tea?”
Mabel laughed and shook her head vehemently. “A common misconception that people across the pond have. No, high tea is what workers and laborers call what I suppose you would term supper. It’s a heartier meal eaten after the workday. Beans on toast, bangers and mash, steak and kidney pie and things like that. What you’re going to have is afternoon tea.”
“I have to admit to being a little nervous,” Penelope said. “What if I make some huge faux pas? You English have a way of making us Americans feel terribly gauche.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Besides, Charlotte is American. This is all probably new to her, too.” Mabel bent and slit open another carton. “Put your napkin in your lap, keep your feet off the table and you should do fine. Just remember—don’t drink your tea with your pinkie in the air. That’s considered pretentious.”
Penelope laughed. “Got it.”
“My mother used to take us to tea at Brown’s Hotel in London. It’s where Alexander Graham Bell made the first telephone call from Europe and Agatha Christie supposedly used it as inspiration for At Bertram’s Hotel although there’s some dispute about that.” Mabel pulled open the carton. “Mother would dress us up in our best clothes and all the way there on the train she would lecture us on proper manners. We weren’t to eat as if we were starving no matter how enticing the cakes and sandwiches looked. No clattering of spoons or tea cups either.” Mabel straightened up and blew back a lock of hair. “Did you know that in the eighteen-hundreds women believed they could tell a lot about a potential mate by the way he handled his teacup? If he placed his spoon on his saucer incorrectly, he’d be written off.”
“Now you’re really scaring me,” Penelope said.
“Times have changed. You’ll be fine.” She turned to Penelope and looked her up and down. “What are you going to wear?”
“Wear?” Penelope looked down at her sweater, leggings and ankle boots. “Do I need to change?”
“You might consider it,” Mabel said dryly.
Penelope mentally went through her closet. She hadn’t brought that many clothes and the ones she had were all similar—worn, comfy and familiar. She did bring the pantsuit she’d bought to wear to book signings. She supposed it would have to do.
October 2, 2020
Sneak Peek at Murder in the Margins
Is everyone getting ready for the weekend? Or do you have to work? So many things are closed or off limits right now but there are plenty of ways to find enjoyment and reading is one of them! Murder in the Margins debuts on October 27 (I'm writing as Margaret Loudon) but I thought you might enjoy a sneak peek and a chance to meet Penelope "Pen" Parish!
Penelope negotiated the roundabout at the top of the High Street and was admiring a red sweater in the window of the Knit Wit Shop when a horn blaring close by made her jump.
She returned her attention to the road and was horrified to see another car coming straight at her. She jerked the steering wheel, overcorrected, bumped up over the curb, slammed on her brakes and came to a stop within an inch of a cement planter filled with bright orange and yellow mums.
Her heart was beating hard, her palms were sweaty and there was a haze in front of her eyes.
The other car, a Ford Cortina, had stopped in the middle of the road and the driver was standing next to it.
Penelope took a deep breath, opened her door and got out.
“What do you mean driving down the wrong side of the street,” she said, still slightly breathless, as she approached the other driver.
The driver looked amused. He wasn’t handsome but had a kind, open face that was very appealing. He was an inch or two shorter than Penelope’s six feet. Penelope had sprouted up early and there had been hopes that she would follow in her mother’s and sister’s footsteps and model, but although she was attractive enough, the camera didn’t love her the way it did them. Besides, Penelope had no interest in parading around having her picture taken.
The fellow still looked amused. She knew she needed to rein in her indignation but it was her default setting and not easy.
“You scared me half to death,” she said, pushing her glasses back up her nose with her finger.
“You’re American,” the fellow said. He had a slight Irish lilt to his voice.
Penelope raised her chin slightly. “Yes.” She was about to say what of it when a horn honking made her jump.
A line of cars had formed behind the driver’s Ford Cortina and a red VW Golf was attempting to pull around it.
Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth as the realization hit her. “I was on the wrong side of the road,” she said in a horrified voice.
“Exactly.”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot…I thought…” Penelope stuttered to a halt. “I’m so terribly sorry. You’re not hurt…or anything…are you?” She swayed slightly.
“I’m fine,” the fellow said, his face creasing in concern. “But I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be okay.” Penelope took a deep breath. “It’s only that I think I forgot to eat lunch.”
It used to drive Penelope’s sister crazy that she had to constantly watch her diet to maintain a slim figure while Penelope could go a whole day without even thinking about food then devour a meal worthy of a linebacker and still never gain an ounce.
“As long as you’re sure….”
Penelope waved at him. “I’ll be fine.” She gestured toward the cars lined up down the road. “You’d better get going. That mob looks ready to attack you.”
He smiled. “I guess I’d better.”
Mabel Morris, whose Miss Marple-like appearance and demeanor belied her former career as an MI6 analyst, was behind the counter when Penelope pushed open the door to the bookstore.
She was all rounded curves and had fluffy white hair that tended to want to go every-which-way and pale powdery skin. Her blue eyes however had depths that suggested she wasn’t unacquainted with tragedy and the seamier side of life.
“My sainted aunt,” she said when she saw Penelope, “you look like you could use a good strong cup of tea.”
“A shot of whiskey is more like it,” Penelope said as she slumped against the counter. “Not that I’m in the habit of drinking in the middle of the day.”
“This is strictly medicinal.” Mabel pulled a bottle of Jameson and a glass from under the counter. She poured out a generous splash of whiskey and handed it to Penelope. “Drink up and then tell me what’s having you look like Hamlet’s father’s ghost.”
Murder in the Margins
September 14, 2020
Murder, She Reported
From Peg Cochran’s Murder, She Reported Series
I still remember the morning I woke up with a slight headache. Mother took my temperature, which had gone up as well. She said it was probably a mild case of flu but I’ll never forget the worried look on her face.
My muscles began to ache and my back and neck felt stiff. That’s when mother decided to call Dr. Krause. By the time he arrived, I had gotten worse. Dr. Krause looked grave as he asked my parents if he could speak to them in private. I heard my mother crying and then Dr. Krause’s voice on the telephone in the hall. A few minutes later two men with a stretcher arrived to take me to the hospital.
I had polio.
It was a disease we all feared—we’d all seen pictures of children in iron lungs or with braces on their legs. Still, we didn’t think it could happen to us and we complained bitterly when the movie theaters were closed and we weren’t allowed to go to the beach or to the local swimming pool. Even the circus was cancelled! We thought it was so incredibly unfair.
“Polio was a plague,” wrote author Richard Rhodes in A Hole in the World. “One day you had a headache, and an hour later you were paralyzed. How far the virus crept up your spine determined whether you could walk afterward or even breathe.”
Of course as children, we didn’t understand that. All we knew was that our summer fun had been snatched away from us. I spent what felt like an eternity in the hospital. That’s where I met my friend Irene Nowak. I escaped with only a slight limp that bothers me when I get tired, but she was left with those iron braces on her legs and crutches.
In 1938 President Roosevelt started the March of Dimes to raise money for research. Prominent scientists worked to produce a vaccine and Jonas Salk finally discovered one that worked. When asked if he planned to patent the vaccine, Salk replied “There is no patent. Could you patent the sun?”
September 2, 2020
The English Way of Life
Hi! We haven’t met yet. I’m Penelope Parish. I’ve written a Gothic novel, and much to my surprise, it hit the bestseller list! Which is all fine and dandy, but now my publisher wants me to follow it up with another hit and I’m totally (and I mean totally) blocked.
So…I’ve taken a writer in residence position at the Open Book bookstore in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, England. Everyone thinks that the English are just like us--which they are, sort of. But they have their own ways of doing things and saying things I've learned. Instead of a Main Street, they have the High Street; they prefer tea to coffee and have charming names for their favorite dishes like "bubble and squeak" and "bangers and mash."
But I'm managing to get along even though being American seems to be something of a curiosity in this small town where most of the residents have been born and raised.
The town is currently all agog because the red-headed Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke has become engaged to an American romance novelist. Horrors!
So when murder ensues, poor Charlotte Davenport becomes the first suspect. And she begs me, a fellow American, to help her prove her innocence. I’m going to do my best to be of service always assuming I don’t get myself killed first by driving down the wrong side of the street!
July 21, 2015
A Sneak Peek at Berried Secrets, #1 in my Cranberry Cove Series
Ellery Adams, NY Times bestselling cozy mystery writer said, "Cozy fans and foodies rejoice--there's a place just for you and it's called Cranberry Cove."
I'd like you to get to know Cranberry Cove firsthand so I am including a sneak peek at the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it and that you'll come back to Cranberry Cove in August when Berried Secrets hits the shelves. Berry the Hatchet, second in the series, will appear in May 2016.
Chapter 1
Monica Albertson coaxed her ancient Ford Focus up the last hill, past the boarded‐up vegetable stand, the abandoned barn and the Shell station. As usual, she paused at the crest. Cranberry Cove was spread out before her--a view that still thrilled her, even though it had been five weeks since she’d fled Chicago for this idyllic retreat on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan.
From her vantage point, Monica could see the sparkling blue waters of the lake and the horseshoe‐shaped harbor, where several white sails bobbed in the wind. The Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, where wealthy summer visitors sat on the deck sipping cold drinks, was a speck on the horizon, and the pastel‐ colored shops that lined Beach Hollow Road were bathed in a soft light by the early morning sun.
Monica took her foot off the brake and rolled down the hill toward town, relishing the cool breeze from her open window and the warmth of the sun on her arms.
She drove down Beach Hollow Road, where all the shop fronts were painted in sherbet hues of pink, lemon yellow and melon. The streets were quiet and the sidewalks nearly empty—it was late September, so the summer crowd had gone back home to their everyday lives and the carloads of tourists on autumn foliage color tours hadn’t arrived yet. Cranberry Cove wasn’t Chicago, but Monica found it very charming with its old‐fashioned gaslights, planters overflowing with the remains of the summer’s flowers and the white gingerbread gazebo that graced the middle of the small vest‐pocket park.
Monica pulled the Focus into a space in front of Gumdrops, a candy shop that was housed in a narrow building painted the palest pink. Fancy lace curtains hung in the window, and a ceramic Dutch couple kissing sat out on the doorstep, which had been swept clean of any sand borne by the winds of the most recent storm.
Miss Gerda VanVelsen came rushing forward almost before the bell over the door finished sounding Monica’s arrival. Or was she Miss Hennie VanVelsen? Monica could never be sure—the VanVelsens were identical twins, spinsters sharing the home that had belonged to their parents. Their grandparents had been part of the wave of immigration from Holland to western Michigan in the 1800s, and the sisters had retained many of the traits of their ancestors—thriftiness, cleanliness and efficiency.
Monica stole a glance at the name tag pinned to the woman’s top—this was Hennie, dressed in a pastel pink sweater and skirt that almost matched the color of the front of the candy shop. Her gray hair was set in elaborate curls and waves, and her pink lipstick matched her sweater.
“Hello, dear,” Hennie said warmly. “How are you settling in? It’s been a couple of weeks, hasn’t it? Have you got your little cottage fixed up yet?”
Monica nodded. “Yes, I’m almost done. It’s turned out very well.” Actually Monica adored her cottage, but from the time she was little, her parents had discouraged hyperbole.
“Terrible shame about your brother. We were all horrified when we heard,” Hennie said, leaning her elbows on the counter. “So many young men lost over there. I suppose he can count himself lucky he came home at all.”
Monica’s half brother, Jeff, had been deployed to Afghanistan for a year, where he had been injured in a surprise raid. The nerves in his left arm had been damaged, leaving it paralyzed. She had been nearly beside herself with worry the entire year he was gone for fear of losing him.
“So good of you to come and help him with the farm.” Hennie smiled at Monica. “And just in time, too, with the cranberry harvest coming up any day now.”
Guilt washed over Monica like a wave. If she’d been able to make a go of it in Chicago, would she have been so keen to rush to Jeff’s rescue? The small sliver of a café she’d rather unimaginatively named Monica’s—three tiny round tables and a glass case full of her homemade goodies—had been put out of business when a national chain coffee bar opened directly across the street. Monica might have tried again in a different location but the death of her fiancé in a swimming accident shortly afterwards took all the steam out of her, and she was glad to escape to Cranberry Cove.
The curtain to the stockroom was pushed aside and Gerda VanVelsen entered the shop. She was wearing an identical pink skirt and sweater, had her hair set the very same way and sported the exact same shade of pink lipstick as her twin.
Monica was tempted to rub her eyes. It was like seeing double.
“You haven’t seen Midnight, have you?” Gerda asked with a slight tremor in her voice.
Midnight was the sisters’ much beloved cat. She was black from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail, and a lot of people in town considered her bad luck, which Monica found silly. She herself was neither superstitious nor given to flights of fancy.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. Is she missing?”
Gerda fiddled with the strand of pearls at her neck. “Not missing exactly, but we let her out an hour ago, and she would normally be back by now for her breakfast. I always worry you know.” She knitted her gnarled hands together. “There are people who would wish her harm because of her coloring. But she’s a sweet, gentle old thing and wouldn’t hurt a soul.”
“I’m sure she’ll be back any minute now,” Hennie said consolingly, putting an arm around her sister and giving her a squeeze. “Now, dear.” She turned her attention to Monica. “What can we get for you?”
“I’ve developed a real taste for your Wilhelmina peppermints,” Monica said, pointing to the white box with the red and blue ribbon and the silhouette of Queen Wilhelmna’s profile.
While Gerda fussed about selecting the appropriately sized white bag with Gumdrops printed on it in varicolored letters, Monica looked around the shop. It was as tidy and spic‐and‐span as the VanVelsen sisters themselves. A large case held a dazzling assortment of sweets—from root beer barrels to Mary Janes. The sisters also carried an array of uniquely Dutch treats, and while Monica had developed a taste for the peppermints, she had yet to succumb to the appeal of the sweet and salty black licorice so beloved by the Dutch.
Gerda rang up the purchase, and Monica handed her the money.
Gerda gave Monica the bag. “You have a good day, dear.” She paused. “And would you mind keeping an eye out for Midnight?”
“I’d be glad to,” Monica reassured her as she left the shop.
Monica strolled down Beach Hollow Road, checking in alleys and doorways for the missing Midnight. She passed Danielle’s Boutique, a pricey store that catered to the summer tourists with its stock of bathing suits, cover‐ups, gauzy caftans and expensive costume jewelry. Next to it was Twilight, a New Age shop where you could have your palm read or your fortune told with Tarot cards.
The door to the Cranberry Cove Diner was propped open, and the seductive smell of bacon frying drifted out to the sidewalk. It was a gathering spot for the locals, who gave the evil eye to any tourists who dared to darken its interior—which Monica suspected hadn’t changed in the last forty years.
Book ‘Em, a bookstore specializing in mysteries, was tucked in next door. Monica was in need of a new book, having finished the one she’d brought with her from Chicago. She hadn’t liked it very much, which had made for rather rough sledding, but she never allowed herself to put a book down without finishing it. To her, that smacked of being a quitter.
This was Monica’s first visit to the small, untidy and rather dark, shop, She stood on the threshold and took a deep sniff. She loved the scent of books. The store itself was quite a mess, with volumes spilling off the shelves and piled haphazardly in every nook and cranny, and a narrow spiral staircase leading to an upper balcony. Monica’s fingers itched to bring some order to the place.
She noticed a man with his back to her—he had dark hair, was slightly taller than Monica and was humming softly under his breath. He had a stack of books in his arms that he appeared to be shelving, although there was hardly any room on the already overcrowded stands.
Monica strolled over to the paperback section and began browsing. Books were six deep in the racks, and the book in front was not necessarily the same as the one behind it or the ones in the middle. It was like a treasure hunt—Monica had no idea what she would find tucked away in the chaos.
She found a classic Agatha Christie and picked it up. It was one of the mysteries she remembered reading in high school--The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. She scanned the back blurb, trying to remember the plot. Perhaps she’d buy it and read it again.
“Ah, the famous, or should I say infamous, unreliable narrator.” The fellow who was stocking books came up behind Monica and pointed at the paperback in her hand.
The lines around his eyes suggested he might be a few years older than her, but his rather shaggy hair and worn corduroys and crewneck sweater made him look appealingly boyish.
Monica smiled. “I was trying to remember this particular book—it’s been ages since I read it, but now it’s coming back to me.”
“One of Dame Agatha’s best, don’t you think?” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled. “Everyone knows Murder on the Orient Express or And Then There Were None—at least that’s what it was titled here in America—but Roger Ackroyd is far more clever if you ask me.” He looked at Monica, his head tilted to one side. “Are you a Hercule Poirot fan or a Miss Marple fan?”
Monica thought for a moment. “Both, actually. And a Miss Silver fan as well,” she threw out to see if he was really as up as all that on his English mysteries.
“Ah, Patricia Wentworth’s redoubtable heroine.”
Monica smiled, feeling absurdly pleased that he’d understood the reference.
He extended his hand. “I’m Greg Harper, Book ’Em’s owner, manager and general dogsbody “
He had a firm handshake, which Monica returned. “Monica Albertson.” She hated to admit it, but she was almost disappointed when he let go of her hand.
“How are you liking Cranberry Cove? I heard you’ve come to help your brother with his farm.”
Monica was startled, and seeing the expression on her face made Greg laugh. “This is a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
Monica wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She was used to the anonymity of the big city.
She ended up buying the Christie book—she wanted to see if she agreed with Greg about its being one of Dame Agatha’s best works. She’d also picked up the newest Peter Robinson—a current favorite author—but then put it back down. It would give her an excuse to come back again later in the month to purchase it.
Monica rather reluctantly left Book ’Em and headed next door to Bart’s Butcher—the type of old‐fashioned place where they had sawdust on the floor and tied your package in paper fastened with string.
She planned to pick up a steak. She’d invited Jeff to have dinner with her—he was looking entirely too thin for Monica’s tastes. She suspected he subsisted on takeout and microwave dinners, neither of which was particularly high in nutritional value. That, combined with his worry about the farm, had turned him from lean and muscular to almost scrawny.
Monica selected a prime looking T‐bone, and Bart Dykema, a round barrel of a man, pulled a sheet of paper from the roll on the counter and placed the steak on it. He gestured toward Monica’s package with his chin.
“See you bought something in that shop next door.” Monica nodded. “Nice guy, Greg Harper.” He measured out a piece of string from the roller attached to the counter and cut it. “Ran for mayor last year but was defeated by Sam Culbert, who’s holding the office now. Harper’s widowed, you know.” He wrapped the string around the neat bundle he’d created. “Not seeing anyone so far as I can tell.”
Monica felt her face getting red. Was Bart insinuating that she and Greg . . .
“How’s your brother doing?” Bart said, suddenly changing the subject. “Got a good crop of cranberries going? I imagine he’ll be harvesting any day now.”
“He’s managing,” Monica said, although in reality, the farm was bleeding money, and Monica hoped she’d be able to help Jeff staunch the flow. Sam Culbert, who was the farm’s former owner in addition to being the mayor, had managed the farm for Jeff while he was overseas, and Jeff had returned to find the place in near financial ruin.
Monica took her package, bid Bart a good day and headed toward the farmer’s market at the end of Beach Hollow Road. She picked up salad fixings—tender lettuce, a cucumber and tomatoes still warm from the sun. Her shopping completed, Monica headed back toward the farm.
On her return trip to Sassamanash Farm—so named because it was the word for cranberry in the Algonquin Indian language—Monica stopped at the crest of the hill again. This time she could see the farm in the distance. It looked like a carpet of green dotted with the brilliant fire engine red of the ripe cranberries. The berries had been pale pink when Monica had arrived at Sassamanash Farm, but as the weather had become cooler, they had turned their characteristic ruby color.
If she squinted, she could see the dollhouse sized cottage she was in the process of renovating, the stretch of black macadam where tourists parked when they came to watch the harvest, and the dot of white that was the clapboard building that housed the small store where they sold baked goods made with cranberries, and kitchen items decorated with the fruit, such as tea towels, napkins and pot holders.
Monica continued down the hill toward the farm. She parked in front of the little cottage she now called home. She had seen its inherent potential the minute she arrived from Chicago. It had dormer windows, a gabled roof and a trellis with the remains of summer’s climbing roses. It had taken a month of painting, scrubbing and sheer elbow grease to make it habitable, but Monica was pleased with how it had turned out.
She stowed the steak she’d purchased at Bart’s in the refrigerator along with the salad fixings. The cottage still smelled of sugar and spice from the goodies she’d baked early that morning—cranberry muffins, cranberry scones dusted with sugar and a cranberry salsa she was still experimenting with to get the right balance of flavors—both sweet and hot—with accents of lime, cilantro and jalapeno. Monica packed everything in a basket and headed back out the door.
Darlene Polk was behind the counter of the Sassamanash Farm store when Monica arrived. She was taller than Monica’s five foot eight—almost six feet—with a lot more meat on her bones. Her nondescript light brown hair was gathered into a ponytail, and her bangs were curling in the humidity.
She glanced up when she heard Monica enter. Her face bore its usual resentful expression, her lower lip stuck out as if she was continually pouting. Monica had tried to become friends with her, but Darlene preferred to keep to herself.
Monica put down her basket and turned to Darlene, who was leaning against the counter reading one of those magazines that grocery stores sell by the checkout lane.
“Can you help me put these out?”
Darlene stared at her blankly for a moment before shuffling over, the sulky expression on her face intensifying with each step.
“I don’t see what was wrong with the stuff we carried before,” Darlene whined. “It sold, didn’t it?” She glared at Monica challengingly.
When Monica had arrived at Sassamanash Farm, she’d discovered that the shop was selling mass produced cranberry products—muffins preserved in plastic wrap, scones filled with trans fats to keep them fresh, and preserves that Darlene had slapped a Sassamanash Farm label on. Having made all the baked goods for her own little café, Monica got to work creating fresh products for the store.
“I’m sure it was all very fine,” Monica said soothingly. “But customers today want fresh, homemade tasting goodies. They can get mass produced products anywhere. We need to sell something that’s special.”
Monica carried the containers of salsa over to the cooler where they kept bottled water and pop for the tourists. “What happened to the salsa I brought over yesterday?”
“Sold it.” Darlene cracked her gum and stared at Monica from under her bangs, the ends of which were caught under her smudged glasses.
“You sold all of it?” Monica couldn’t believe it. Although locals occasionally frequented the shop, most of their sales were from tourists stopping by the farm to get a firsthand look at the cranberry bogs. The store didn’t exactly do a brisk business, except during the harvest.
Darlene was already back at the counter, flipping through the pages of her magazine. “Some guy came in and bought them all. Said he was from the Cranberry Cove Inn. Said it was the best salsa he’d ever tasted, and he wanted to put it on the menu.”
Monica’s heart skipped a beat. Perhaps she’d found the perfect balance for the salsa after all. And if the Cranberry Cove Inn wanted to buy it, there might be others as well. She chewed on a ragged cuticle. Goodness knows, they needed as much cash as they could get to keep the farm running. Jeff had sunk his life’s savings into it, and she wasn’t going to let him lose it if she could help it.
Monica arranged the fresh muffins in a basket lined with a red‐and‐white gingham napkin and placed the scones in an orderly row on an antique silver platter she had found at an estate sale.
She felt Darlene’s beady eyes on her as she went about tidying the shop—dusting the jars of preserves she’d made herself and creating a display with the cranberry decorated tea towels and napkins a local woman sewed for them.
There was a noise outside, and Darlene looked up. She made her ponderous way to the window and peered out. She turned around, her scowl deepening.
“It’s that Sam Culbert. I thought we’d seen the last of him around here. He sold the farm to your brother, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but I imagine there may still be some things they need to discuss.”
Monica watched as Jeff and Culbert said good‐bye.
Culbert was broad shouldered with thick gray hair and slightly bowed legs. Monica was surprised to see him get into a dark, late model Lexus.
“That’s quite the car,” she said to Darlene. “I didn’t realize there was so much money in cranberries.”
Darlene snorted. “About a penny a berry—and only the unblemished ones. The rest are worthless. The Culberts own a lot more than Sassamanash Farm. They have real estate all over the county, own half the buildings in town and have a huge house with a view of the lake. You should see the place. I clean it for Mrs. Culbert once a week.” Darlene scowled again. “Must be nice. I grew up in a double wide with secondhand furniture and hand‐me‐down clothes. Of course my mother, bless her soul, did the best she could seeing as how I didn’t have no daddy.”
Monica made comforting noises to the best of her ability. Darlene would complain about the deprivation of her upbringing out of one side of her mouth while out the other side she would insist that despite their lack of means, her childhood had been nearly idyllic.
Monica brushed some dust off her sweatshirt. “I guess I’ll be going now.”
Darlene gave her a sour look.
Jeff only kept Darlene on because it was hard to get anyone to work in the store when they could make more money waitressing or clerking at one of the shops in town.
Monica walked back to her cottage, where she planned to spend the afternoon reviewing the farm’s accounts. Jeff had just borrowed a considerable sum from the bank to keep things afloat. Monica had learned a little something about business while running her café, and she hoped that she would be able to straighten things out for Jeff. She set up her laptop on the kitchen table and plugged in the flash drive that held the data from Jeff’s computer.
Going over the accounts for Sassamanash Farm was a long and tedious process, but Monica had plenty of patience. By the time she finished examining the pages and pages of Excel spreadsheets, and all the statements from the bank, she had the answer to why Sassamanash Farm was failing to produce a profit.
But how was she going to break the news to Jeff?
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April 10, 2013
Steamed to Death Excerpt
Chapter 1
Giovanna “Gigi” Fitzgerald was relishing the bite of hernewly
sharpened chef’s knife in the plump, ripe neck of the zucchini
lying on her cutting board when she noticed anominous
sign. A very ominous sign.
Water was puddling on the floor by her feet, and theminiature
lake was spreading by the second. Within moments
it was lapping at the toes of Gigi’s sneakers.
The water was coming from the cupboard under the sink. She
opened the door cautiously and bolted backward aswater
sprayed out, soaking the legs of her jeans and enlarging the
creeping flood on her floor.
Her cottage was old but in decent shape. Gigi had spent several
hundred dollars on an inspection before signing the papers
that put the charming, hundred- year- old house in her name.
Not that the inspection really made any difference. She’d
been determined to have the cottage no matter what—it
was the first place she’d felt at home in many years.
She knelt down and, shielding her eyes from the spritzing water,
examined the pipe. It was caked with rust and looked to
be original to the house. Maybe if she’d paid the inspector more
he would have taken the trouble to bend down and examine
the plumbing under the sink?
Gigi sighed. The timing couldn’t be worse. She was inthe
midst of preparing some test recipes for Branston Foods. They
were interested in producing a line of Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite
Dinners, and she had to create a number of dishes that
would translate well to being flash frozen and stuffed into
a cardboard container.
And she had all the hors d’oeuvres to create for Felicity Davenport’s
upcoming party to celebrate the fact that her soap
opera, For Better or For Worse, had won the newly created
Merrill Award. Felicity had originally hired Gigi to help
her lose weight. Felicity had joined the cast of the soap in
her twenties and had quickly become the star, but now, in
her forties, she’d found that creeping middle- aged weight gain
was not making her any more attractive to the camera. Felicity
had also hired Gigi’s best friend, Sienna Paisley, to
organize her comeback campaign, which would launch when
Felicity was ready to emerge, like a butterfly from its chrysalis,
having lost twenty pounds and been made over from
head to toe.
Sienna had given up a six- figure income as
a publicist to move to Woodstone, Connecticut, to run the
Book Nook and hopefully, start a family. Her husband Oliver’s
new law practice had been slow to take off, and they
needed the income.
Gigi supposed she ought to turn the water off at thesource.
She remembered that there was a valve of some sort in
the basement. She dried her hands on her jeans and headed
down the dark, winding staircase.
Gigi found the control after several false starts. The knob was
covered with cobwebs, and she shuddered as the thin strands
tickled the backs of her hands. There.
The water was off. That would at least stop the lake
that was slowly forming on her kitchen floor.
Gigi climbed the stairs back to the kitchen, swiping at the insistent cobwebs still clinging to her hair. She retrieved the phone book from her desk drawer and ran her fingerdown
the listing marked “Plumbers.”
There were two. No one answered at the first location. Gigi
listened to the brief message before clicking off. She glanced
at the phone book again. It looked like it would have to
be Hector’s Plumbing and Heating.
“Pipe’s sprung a leak,” Jackson, or at least that was the name embroidered
above the pocket on his shirt, said, rising from his
knees.
Gigi bit back a sharp retort. “Really?” she said with only a
hint of sarcasm.
Jackson nodded his head. “Yup. Big leak. The pipe’s all rusted
out.” He knelt down again, his knees giving a creak that
sounded like a gunshot. He opened the cupboard door and
stuck his index finger through a hole in the pipe. “You need
a new pipe,” he concluded.
“Can you replace it for me?”
“Gotta order it first.”
“How long will that take?” Gigi twirled a strand of auburn
hair around her finger— something she always did when
she was stressed.
“Dunno. A couple of days maybe.”
Gigi groaned. “But I can’t wait that long. Isn’t there something you
could do temporarily?”
“Like what?”
I don’t know, you’re the plumber, Gigi wanted to say, but she
bit her tongue again. “Like maybe a patch or something?”
“Wouldn’t hold.”
Gigi felt like stamping her foot. There had to be something that
could be done!
Jackson took a dog- eared pad from his back pocket. “Do you
want me to order the pipe for you?”
“Yes,” Gigi all but screamed. “Obviously there’s no alternative.”
Jackson looked confused.
Gigi gestured toward the paper in his hand. “Yes,” she repeated.
“Please order the pipe for me.”
Jackson licked the end of his pencil and laboriously penned
a note.
“Want me to call you when it comes in?
“Of course.”
“It’s just a leak. Nothing to get all worked up about,” Jackson
said, replacing the notepad and pencil in his pocket. “We’ll
have it fixed for you in no time,” he called over his shoulder
as he left.
No time! Gigi thought. She wondered what sort of eternity no time amounted to. She paced the kitchen, furiously darting
evil glances at the offending pipe. She had to have her
kitchen back. There was only so much she could do without
water. Correction. She couldn’t do anything without water.
She felt panic rising in her throat like a tidal wave. She
stared at the vegetables spread out across her worktable. They
all needed to be washed before she could do anything with
them. Fortunately, Felicity was her only client at the moment.
She’d offered a sum handsome enough for Gigi to take
a break from providing meals for upward of a dozen people
at a time. And she’d asked Gigi to prepare light and tasty
hors d’oeuvres for the huge bash she was planning. The entire local “A” list had been invited along with a smattering of New York people plus Felicity’s manager, leading man,
and costar. Woodstone had been buzzing about the event
for weeks. Gigi had enlisted Alice, who worked parttime at
the police department, to help.
The phone rang, and for one delusional minute Gigi thought
it might be Jackson calling to say the new piece of pipe
had arrived, and he’d be right over to install it. Of course,
in reality, Jackson was probably still in her driveway trying
to fit his key into the lock of his truck door.
Gigi grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Gigi? It’s Felicity.” Gigi recognized the actress’s fruity tones and well- practiced modulation even without the introduction.
Gigi groaned. What was she going to say if Felicity asked her
how things were going? She’d always been taught that honesty
was the best policy, but more than once that had landed
her in hot water.
“Actually, Felicity, I’m in a bit of a bind. My kitchen pipe sprang
a leak, and the plumber won’t be able to fix it for several
days.”
Felicity made a sound that Gigi took to mean she was sorry
to hear that, but then Felicity quickly plowed ahead with
what she had planned to say herself. “Listen, some of our
guests for the party are arriving early, and a few may be
spending a day or two with us afterward. It’s turning into something
of a house party since we’re all currently on hiatus from
the show. Our housekeeper normally does the cooking
for me and Jack, and it’s perfectly fine, but I’d like to
offer my friends something a notch above. Is there any chance
you’ll consider acting as chef for a few days?”
“Ah. . . ah . . . sure,” Gigi stuttered.
“It would probably be easiest if you just moved in temporarily. My
kitchen is state-of- the- art, and I have a verycomfortable
spare bedroom you should find suitable.”
“I don’t know . . . I can’t leave Reg— he’s my dog—alone—”
“Bring him,” Felicity said in a voice that clearly brooked no
opposition. “We’ve a golden, and she’s pining for some canine
companionship.”
October 3, 2012
Which Truth or Dare Girl Are You?
Truth or Dare: Four girls. One summer. And a game of truth or dare gone horribly wrong. Which Truth or Dare girl are you–Pamela, Deirdre, Rivka or Mary? Take the following quiz and find out!
What dress are you going to wear to the dance?
1)
A designer dress, of course.
2)
Something I’ve borrowed from a friend.
3)
Something to get me noticed.
4)
My parents won’t let me go to the dance.
Before an exam I:
1)
Get my nails done.
2)
Stay up all night studying.
3)
Watch television.
4)
Review my notes. I’ve been studying all along.
If something embarrassing happened to a friend I would:
1)
Laugh.
2)
Pretend I hadn’t seen it.
3)
Cry with them.
4)
Worry that the same thing might happen to me.
I date boys who:
1)
Have expensive cars.
2)
I have no time for boys.
3)
Anyone who will ask me out.
4)
I’ve never been on a date.
When I’m upset my parents:
1)
Increase my allowance.
2)
I never let them know when I’m upset.
3)
Ignore me.
4)
Try to help.
When I grow up I want to:
1)
Be famous.
2)
Have a good job and make lots of money.
3)
Fall in love.
4)
Make my parents proud.
Answer:
If you answered mostly 1s, you’re Pamela. Mostly 2s, you’re Mary. Mostly 3s, you’re Deirdre. Mostly 4s, you’re Rivka. Which one do you want to be? To read Truth or Dare go to Amazon:
and see excerpt below!
