A Deadly Dedication (The Open Book Mysteries, Band 4) - Softcover

Buch 4 von 4: The Open Book Mysteries

Loudon, Margaret

 
9780593547175: A Deadly Dedication (The Open Book Mysteries, Band 4)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593547179 ISBN 13: 9780593547175
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

When murder taints writer-in-residence Penelope Parish’s charming British bookshop, she must follow the clues to catch a killer before tempers boil over.
 
Penelope Parish thought she’d turned the page on her amateur sleuthing days but when the owner of Upper Chumley-on-Stokes’ proposed first high-end gourmet shop is poisoned, the American novelist starts to wonder if she and her quaint British town are in for another rewrite. It turns out that not everyone was a fan of Simeon Foster’s farm-sourced charcuterie and imported pastries—many of the locals were outraged by the potential new competition.
 
With a full menu of suspects on her hands, this just might be Penelope’s toughest case yet. Luckily, her friends at the Open Book are there to help with every twist of the poisoned pen.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Margaret Loudon is the national bestselling author of the Farmer's Daughter Mysteries, the Cranberry Cove Mysteries, and the Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries, written under the name Peg Cochran. She also wrote the Sweet Nothings Lingerie Mysteries under the name Meg London.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

One

Penelope "Pen" Parish never thought she'd write one bestseller, let alone two, but unless her editor was lying (and that wouldn't be like Bettina at all-she was usually brutally honest), her latest Gothic novel, The Woman in the Fog, had indeed landed on the bestseller list.

After her first hit, Lady of the Moors, Pen had come smack up against that wall known as writer's block and had chased her illusive muse all the way to Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, England, where she'd taken a writer-in-residence position at the Open Book bookstore. The grass is always greener on the other side (of the Atlantic, in this case), right?

And, much to her amazement, the change of scenery had worked its magic. Her writer's block had dissolved into thin air, and she'd managed to produce another bestseller by the skin of her teeth. The Woman in the Fog was doing quite nicely, and Penelope was settling down in Chum, as it was known to the residents, equally well.

It was late afternoon and dusk was quickly descending. Penelope saw the streetlights winking on along the high street through the diamond-paned windows of the Open Book. She was shelving some books for Mabel Morris, the owner, when the door opened and Gladys Watkins rushed in.

Gladys owned the Pig in a Poke, Chumley's butcher shop, and had dashed across the high street with her coat thrown over her apron. Her blue eyes were even wider than normal and her hair, which was never particularly well-coifed, looked even more disheveled than usual.

"I'm not late, am I?" she called out to no one in particular.

Mabel looked up from the invoices she was thumbing through and glanced at her watch.

"We still have twenty minutes."

Gladys's shoulders sagged in relief.

Pen put down the stack of books she was holding and wandered over to the front counter.

"Not late for what?" she said.

"The nerve of the man." Gladys's chin quivered.

"Indeed!" India Culpepper joined them at the counter.

Thin to the point of being gaunt, India had elbows and knees that stuck out at sharp angles and was to the manor born-a distant cousin of Arthur Worthington, the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke. Unfortunately, she was also one of any number of England's impoverished nobility who clung to the family silver with its engraved crests even as they darned the holes in their socks and put pots under the leaks in the roof.

"Late for what?" Penelope repeated. "What man?"

Gladys fixed her with a stare. "You've had your nose stuck in that book you're writing or you would have heard by now. Simeon Foster-what kind of name is that anyway?-plans to open a new shop in town. Some fancy gourmet place. With pastries flown in from France and chocolates from Belgium. Well, la-di-da. And even worse, farm-sourced meats. The nerve of him. Blimey! Don't all meats come from a farm? It's going to put all of us out of business! My shop, the Icing on the Cake, the Sweet Tooth, the Jolly Good Grub." Gladys sputtered to a halt.

"I wouldn't worry too much if I were you," Mabel said, brushing some fuzz off the front of her Shetland sweater.

"That's a fine thing for you to say. He's not going to be selling books, is he now?"

"The people who will patronize Simeon Foster's proposed gourmet shop aren't our customers anyway. They'll be the new money who live in developments like Birnam Wood, where all the houses are fake Tudor or newly built Georgians. They do most of their shopping in London. They only pop into the local Tesco when they suddenly find themselves without milk or something equally mundane."

Gladys didn't look convinced. "I don't know." She shook her head and her chin wobbled.

India fingered the strand of yellowing pearls around her thin neck and said in her reedy voice, "And that's not the worst of it. This Mr. Foster, whoever he is, wants to renovate that vacant building next to the one where those law offices are. He plans to put in a large plate-glass window to display his wares and make it more modern. It will look so dreadfully common." She sniffed.

Upper Chumley-on-Stoke was a medieval village approximately an hour's train ride outside of London. It was proud of its history and the residents had fought long and hard against paving the cobblestoned streets or erecting a stoplight at the lone intersection where more than one accident had occurred in the wee hours as the pubs were closing. The residents had successfully lobbied against the former but had lost the battle when it came to the stoplight, the town council having been more concerned for the lives of its citizens than the aesthetics of the high street.

"I still don't know what you're worried about being late for." Penelope pushed her glasses up her nose with her finger.

Mabel leaned her elbows on the counter. As a former MI6 analyst, she kept her calm in even the most trying circumstances, and this was no exception.

"Mr. Foster has requested a permit for the renovations he plans to undertake. The town council is meeting to hear objections to the proposal and will be voting on it tonight. It should make for a lively discussion," she said wryly.

"I'm certainly going to give them a piece of my mind." Gladys shook her fist in the air, color rising up her neck and turning her cheeks red.

India glanced at Gladys in alarm, a look of disapproval crossing her face. Penelope could imagine what India was thinking. One doesn't make a scene in public. It's simply not done.

Just then Figgy wheeled over a cart with a steaming teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of freshly made shortbread biscuits.

Figgy, who was more formally known as Lady Fiona Innes-Goldthorpe, ran the tea shop inside the Open Book. She reminded Penelope of a sprite, with her short, spiky hair, heart-shaped face, and delicate figure. She was wearing one of her vintage clothing finds-a boho-looking tasseled maxi dress in diaphanous blue fabric. She and Penelope had become instant friends upon Penelope's arrival at the store. Two peas in a pod, Mabel had declared them.

"Does anyone fancy a cuppa?" she said, holding the teapot over one of the cups.

A chorus of yesses greeted her, and she began to pour.

Penelope reached for a shortbread biscuit. Lunch, which had been sketchy at best, was a distant memory nibbled at as she worked on her next book. There was no rest for the wicked as her grandmother Parish used to say, and that was certainly true in publishing. You'd barely turned around after handing in one manuscript before it was time to start another.

Penelope mentally reminded herself of her good fortune in being able to earn her living writing and not at some straitlaced job that required her to dress up every day and spend eight or more hours staring at the three walls of a cubicle.

Mabel glanced at her watch again. "We'll have to make it quick if we want to get to the meeting on time."

Just then the door to the Open Book flew open and a man rushed in.

"Rupert," Mabel said with a frown. "I'm sorry, but we're about to close. The town council meeting will be starting shortly."

Rupert Yardley was short and what might be termed stocky but was, in his case, mostly muscle and very little fat. He played right wing on the Upper Chumley-on-Stoke football team, the Chums. He was a solicitor by trade but was better known as the local historian. He'd been working on a book detailing the history of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke for more years than anyone could remember.

"Are you going to the meeting?" Gladys said, her face and neck still blotched red from her recent outburst.

"Meeting? What meeting?" Rupert looked around him as if the answer could be found written on the walls. "Oh, you mean the town council meeting," he said as the answer dawned on him. "I bloody well am." His face had become...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2023
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593547179
ISBN 13 
9780593547175
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
320
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

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Hamburg
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