Murder Hooks a Mermaid Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  Murder Buys a T-shirt

  “A cantankerous parrot, a charming heroine, and a determined ghost vanquish a villain in Christy Fifield’s appealing debut mystery.”

  —Carolyn Hart, national bestselling author of Death Comes Silently

  “A businesswoman, a parrot, and a ghost inhabit a souvenir store. That’s not the set up for a joke, but for Christy Fifield’s debut, Murder Buys a T-shirt, which packs a paranormal punch. Fifield expertly shifts the focus among the possible culprits and establishes Glory as a charming protagonist, sometimes impulsive, sometimes wary. And she invests the small-town setting with Southern spirit (and at least one spirit), as well as numerous recipes for traditional Southern food. A traditional mystery with an offbeat angle, Murder Buys a T-shirt will have readers, like Bluebeard, greedy for more.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “An entertaining and clever Florida whodunit.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Fifield offers a nice blend of the cozy and contemporary with a hint of the paranormal. I look forward to getting to know Glory and her friends better. Good writing, an appealing ensemble cast, and a tightly woven mystery; definitely a series that’s a promising addition to the ‘cozy’ genre.”

  —Once Upon a Romance

  “A fun book that will make the dreariest of days a little brighter! Socrates’ Great Book Alert.”

  —Socrates’ Cozy Café

  “Very enjoyable…[A] delightful cozy mystery, and I will definitely be reading more of the series. Yummy recipes of traditional Southern dishes are also included.”

  —Novel Reflections

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Christy Fifield

  MURDER BUYS A T-SHIRT

  MURDER HOOKS A MERMAID

  Murder Hooks

  a Mermaid

  Christy Fifield

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa), Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa • Penguin China, B7 Jiaming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China

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

  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.

  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.

  MURDER HOOKS A MERMAID

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

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2013

  Copyright © 2012 by Chris York.

  Cover illustration by Ben Perini.

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

  Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

  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.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-61868-4

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON

  With sincere appreciation to two marvelous

  Southern women:

  The “real” Linda Miller,

  who willingly became a part of Glory’s world, and

  Martha York,

  my incredible mother-in-law, for everything—

  including her wonderful help with researching

  authentic Southern recipes.

  Acknowledgments

  A book starts with one person sitting alone in a room, making things up. However, if you’re sitting there writing and life throws you a curveball—heck, life throws you a beanball—you appreciate the people around you that help you keep going.

  I’ve had more than a few beanballs lately, and I want to thank the friends and family who stood beside me and behind me, and occasionally pushed.

  My special thanks to:

  Michelle Vega, editor, for your patience;

  Susannah Taylor, agent, for your support and advice;

  Colleen, first reader, and gym buddy, for the motivation;

  Kris and Dean, for shoulders and a swift kick, and knowing which one was needed;

  Jeanne, Jan, Jeri, Louis, Shane, and Lynette, for being a family not only of blood, but of the heart;

  And most of all to Steve, who makes it all worthwhile.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Karen’s Down-Home Dinner Menus and Recipes

  Chapter 1

  “COFFEE?”

  The question greeted me when I came downstairs from my apartment over Southern Treasu
res, the eclectic gift shop I own in Keyhole Bay, Florida.

  Maybe own is a slight exaggeration. I own 55 percent and my cousin Peter Beaumont owns 45 percent, but I was determined to change that in the near future.

  The one thing I didn’t share ownership of was Bluebeard, the foulmouthed parrot I had inherited with my share of the shop. Bluebeard begged for coffee every day, and every day I had to tell him no. Parrots can’t have coffee.

  Maybe saying Bluebeard begged wasn’t quite truthful, either. He was just the spokesman—spokesbird?—for my great-uncle, Louis Georges, who had left me the shop and the parrot. Or at least for Uncle Louis’s ghost.

  Lately I had been forced to admit that Uncle Louis had never completely left the shop. He was still hanging around, disrupting my life and talking to me through Bluebeard.

  But since he was the closest thing I had to blood relations—if you didn’t count the annoyance of Peter and his parents—I was growing rather fond of having him with me.

  Except when he begged for coffee.

  “No coffee, Bluebeard. I know you want it, but it’s really bad for you.”

  I unlocked the front door and turned over the sign from “Closed” to “Open.”

  Across the street I spotted Jake Robinson doing the same at Beach Books. A newcomer to Keyhole Bay, he’d moved to town from the West Coast and bought the bookstore less than a year ago. In that time he’d turned the store into one of the best in the Panhandle, a spot that attracted tourists and locals alike.

  Jake was a bit of an attraction himself—tall, with dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes—though I tried not to notice. He was helping me with my struggle to set up a website for Southern Treasures, and I was trading home-cooked meals for advice.

  I stepped outside, waved to Jake, and called “Good morning” across the Monday-morning emptiness of the main drag.

  “Coffee later?” he asked, waving back.

  I nodded. Lately we had fallen into the habit of a mid-morning coffee break on slow days, though that would soon be a thing of the past. Spring break would start in a couple weeks, and we hoped not to see a slow day again until fall.

  I went back inside, where Bluebeard greeted me with a wolf whistle. “Pretty boy,” he said. I was reasonably sure he wasn’t referring to himself.

  “I didn’t ask your opinion,” I answered as I got the shop, and Bluebeard, ready for the day. I changed the papers in the large cage where he slept and gave him fresh water and a shredded-wheat biscuit. It wasn’t coffee, but it was one of his favorite treats.

  With the radio tuned to WBBY, the local station, I settled down behind the counter to review my inventory. Southern Treasures’ usual mix of vintage housewares, magazines and newspapers from the middle of the last century, and handmade quilts didn’t attract the spring break crowd much.

  I worked through orders for garish T-shirts, postcards, seashell jewelry, and inexpensive snow globes. The snow globes still amazed me. I didn’t understand the appeal, when Keyhole Bay only had snow a few times a decade, but they were popular with tourists of all kinds, so I kept them on the shelves.

  With my notes ready, I pulled the computer keyboard toward me. I might not be able to program a web page yet, but online ordering had made my life much easier.

  The bell over the front door jingled, and I looked up just as Bluebeard wolf-whistled.

  “Bluebeard!” I admonished. He loved pretty girls—a trait from Uncle Louis, perhaps?—but not everyone considered his behavior a compliment.

  Fortunately, it was Julie Nelson, my part-time clerk, and not a potentially offended customer.

  Julie laughed at Bluebeard’s whistle. It was good to hear her laugh, something she hadn’t done much over the past few months. Not since her young husband had been arrested for murder, leaving her pregnant and alone.

  Tougher than the pretty, blue-eyed, blonde cheerleader she had been only a couple years ago, Julie filed for divorce and took back her maiden name. Jimmy Parmenter would likely spend the rest of his life in a Florida penitentiary, but Julie wasn’t going to wait for him.

  “Bluebeard likes you, you know,” I said as Julie walked across the store. Her eight-months-pregnant belly forced her into an ungainly waddle, and she slid cautiously into the narrow space behind the counter.

  “I like him, too,” Julie answered.

  I wondered if she would like him quite as much if she knew about Uncle Louis. I had only shared that news with a few people, and Julie wasn’t one of them. Not yet.

  She settled into a tall director’s chair with a sigh. It allowed her to watch the shop without having to stand all day, an advantage over her regular job as a checker at Frank’s Foods.

  “Man, I’ll be glad to see my feet again,” she said.

  “How much longer?”

  “Three weeks, give or take. I’ll know more when I see the doctor on Wednesday.”

  I instinctively glanced at the calendar, checking her schedule. Off Tuesday and Wednesday, working Thursday and Saturday.

  I was getting spoiled having Julie around three days a week, even if only for a few hours, and I hated to think I would lose her when her baby arrived. We had talked about her coming back in a general way, although I knew how completely things could change.

  I went back to my ordering and was just finishing when the bell rang again, and Bluebeard whistled again.

  “Bluebeard!”

  In answer, Bluebeard chattered angrily, with an occasional clear profanity.

  “Language,” I cautioned, and his chatter quieted to a soft mutter. I could still catch an occasional curse, but his voice was so low I was the only one familiar enough with his antics to discern what he said.

  “He’ll never change.” The new arrival, my best friend, Karen Freed, sounded upset. The “Voice of the Shores” for local radio station WBBY, Karen was usually calm and collected, but not this morning.

  “He’s just a parrot, and a spoiled one, but he isn’t that bad, is he?” I asked, truly puzzled. Her anger seemed out of proportion, especially since she usually laughed at Bluebeard’s flirting.

  “Oh no!” Karen said, crossing to Bluebeard’s perch and petting him on the head. “Not you, Bluebeard,” she cooed. “Although you are pretty incorrigible.”

  “Pretty girl,” he answered, rubbing against her hand.

  Forgiven, Karen came back toward the counter. “Not Bluebeard,” she repeated. “Riley.” Annoyance made her ex-husband’s name sound like one of Bluebeard’s curses.

  “Riley? Are you kidding me?” I struggled not to laugh. Karen and her ex were good friends, in spite of their brief, disastrous attempt at marriage. “There must be a statute of limitations on being mad at your ex, Freed.”

  Realizing what I’d just said, I stole a furtive glance at Julie, afraid I might offend her with my flippancy. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have related my comments to her own situation.

  “It has nothing to do with being my ex,” she said, a faint whine of defensiveness creeping into her tone. “It has to do with not living up to his commitments.”

  “And what would those be?” I asked.

  “Fish! He promised me fish for Thursday.”

  Now it made sense. Housecleaning-induced stress, not anger.

  And maybe a touch of panic. This week was Karen’s turn to host our weekly dinner with Felipe and Ernie. Karen claimed her only domestic quality was that she lived in a house, and only by hosting dinner every four weeks could she make herself cook or clean. It was an exaggeration. I think.

  “Did they open the fishing season early? I thought the commercial boats weren’t going out until next week?” I asked. Riley made his living as a commercial fisherman, and owned his own boat, Ocean Breeze.

  “No, they aren’t. But he and Bobby planned to do a little sport fishing, and he promised he’d bring me something. Now he calls and says he’s lending the boat to Bobby and he can’t get me anything for dinner on Thursday. He always bails his little brother out, no matter what
he promised anybody else.”

  Bobby, the little brother in question, worked for Riley as a deckhand. He attracted trouble like black trousers attract lint. Bobby always had some big deal that would make him rich and famous, if he could just borrow some money, drive your car, crash on your couch, or use your boat. And Riley helped him out every time.

  I groaned. “I get it. No fish. But if I remember right, you always thought Riley looking out for his little brother was sweet.”

  Karen shook her head. “Sure, when he was sixteen and Bobby was twelve. But not when Bobby’s thirty-three. He’s old enough to take care of himself. Or at least he should be.”

  “Whatever. But the real problem is you need a main dish for Thursday.” I held up one finger, signaling her to give me a moment. I quickly finalized my order and logged off the computer.

  Pushing the keyboard away, I stood up and came around the counter. “I have an idea,” I said.

  I led the grumbling Karen to a shelf of old cookbooks against the back wall and pulled down several yellowing, spiral-bound volumes.

  “Extension groups, women’s clubs, lodge auxiliaries, they all made these cookbooks as fund-raisers,” I explained. “I know we can find something in one of them. But I want the rest of the story about Bobby while we look.”

  We carried the books back, spread them across the counter, and started leafing through the pages. Julie slid her chair closer and took one of the books.

  “The story?” I nudged Karen. “I deserve that much.”

  Karen shook her head. “The usual. Bobby’s mouth wrote a check his body couldn’t cash, and his brother came to the rescue. He met some guys in the Mermaid’s Grotto.” She named a tourist-trap restaurant and bar on the waterfront. “They wanted to go diving, said they had gear and wanted to charter a boat, but nobody was available. You know Bobby. He can’t resist a quick buck, or acting like a big shot. Told them he could get them a boat, for the right price.”

  “Eeeewww!” Julie’s exclamation made us both turn and look. She pointed at a page of the book open in front of her. “There are a bunch of recipes for minced meat, and this one starts with ‘meat of two hogs’ heads.’ Yuck!”