Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

Praise for the Deadly Notions Mysteries

A Dollhouse to Die For

“Nicely written . . . The book pays off with intriguing characters with plenty of small-town charm.”

—
RT Book Reviews

Going Through the Notions

“A quaint little village, quirky characters, and a crafty killer—I loved it!”

—Laura Childs,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Gossamer Ghost

“Cate Price’s
Going Through the Notions
has everything I read cozy mysteries for—a terrific setting, a smart plot, and well-rounded, clever characters. Lucky us—it’s the first in an all-new series (Deadly Notions)—and I can’t wait for the next one!”

—Mariah Stewart,
New York Times
bestselling author of
On Sunset Beach

“A fun fast-paced debut filled with eccentric characters, quirky humor, and small-town drama.”

—Ali Brandon, national bestselling author of
Literally Murder

“This is a promising start for a fun new series. Cate Price writes with a natural tone, describing the characters and the settings with just enough detail to make this reader feel as though I was already visiting old friends and places. The story is unique and funny, with enough small-town antics and drama to make it a true cozy. The town of Millbury, Pennsylvania, will welcome you, too.”

—Myshelf.com

“Cozy fans, there’s a new author in print and you are going to love her stories. Small-town charm, quirky characters, a dose of humor, a bit of romance, and murder. Just the way we love them!”

—
Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Cate Price

GOING THROUGH THE NOTIONS

A DOLLHOUSE TO DIE FOR

LIE OF THE NEEDLE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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LIE OF THE NEEDLE

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

Copyright © 2015 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14463-7

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2015

Cover illustration by Ben Perinil.

Cover art:
Logo pin
© Roman Sotola;
Floral pattern
© LDesign.

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 my mum

For help with zoning information, I am grateful to Lee Milligan, building code official of Upper Providence Township, Pennsylvania. Also, many thanks to Leslie Lighton-Humphries, fellow author and local reporter who was so generous with her input and time to critique relevant pages. If there are any mistakes, please blame me, not them.

I appreciate Nannygoat Antiques, my favorite store in the world, for hosting me at their very first author showcase. Also, thanks to Kathleen Rogers at Set to a Tea for assembling such a fun group for our talk, and who remained calm and collected even when the power went out on that dark and stormy night!

For friendship, writing support and nourishment of my soul, I am beholden to Eileen Emerson, Maria Entenman, Jackie Himmel, Stephanie Julian, and Jeannine Standen.

To Lynn Wilson, whose heartfelt and wonderful notes of encouragement always seem to come at exactly the right time—thank you, with deep appreciation.

Thanks to everyone at Berkley Prime Crime for all you do for me, in particular Amanda Ng, Kayleigh Clark, and Danielle Dill. Thank you to vice president Natalee Rosenstein, not only for the opportunity to write this series, but for knowing how to throw the best parties evah.

As usual, gratitude to my wonderful editor, Jackie Cantor, and my terrific agent, Jessica Alvarez. I’m so lucky.

And finally, to all the teachers in the world, underpaid and underappreciated, doing one of the most important jobs I can think of, keep doing what you do. You never know how your words can inspire a young mind, and how they will be remembered for years to come. I still treasure an inscription my English teacher Beryl Shorthouse wrote in a book I won at school when I was eleven. She urged me to reach for the stars. It gave me chills at the time, and it still does.

I
t’s not every day you have the opportunity to see the best-looking men of your acquaintance naked. Almost never, in fact. And after tonight, I doubted I ever would again.

The shoot for the Men of Millbury calendar had been going on all week in the carriage house of a local estate. It was a fund-raiser for the Millbury Historical Society and we were desperately trying to save an old farmstead once inhabited by one of the founders of our nineteenth-century village. However we were up against a builder who was intent on knocking the house down and putting up a slew of cookie-cutter condos on the accompanying thirty acres unless we could stop him.

We’d done the bake sale route. Now we needed some serious cash.

“Having fun, Daisy?” Mr. February, who also happened to be my very handsome husband, Joe Daly, came over and wrapped his arm around me.

I grinned and leaned into his embrace.

Not only did we want to save the character of our quaint neighborhood situated in bucolic Bucks County, Pennsylvania, but if we prevailed, the rambling farmhouse would be turned into a community center, providing badly needed recreation space for the local children.

Somehow my best friend, Martha, secretary of the society and a fiery redhead, had convinced these twelve brave souls to take it all off for the sake of historical preservation. Perhaps the fact that it would benefit the children had been the motivating factor, and not so much Martha’s salesmanship or, should I say, relentless arm-twisting.

“It’s crazy out there tonight,” Joe said to me. “Think you might need a couple of bouncers for the next guy.”

There was high excitement in the air. Tonight we would see the crème de la crème.

Dark and dangerous Detective Serrano, in the flesh.

Literally.

Although these guys weren’t completely baring it all. Depending on the way they made a living, the photographer had used a discreetly placed object to cover the family jewels, like a fire helmet, a barbershop chair, or a farming implement.

We were working in the garage of the carriage house, a beautiful space with heavy wooden timbers overhead and whitewashed walls. It was even heated, which was a definite plus on a wintry night. It would certainly have been easier to produce this calendar in the summer, when we could have used outdoor locations, but seeing as it was early November, the clock was ticking to get it printed and into stores in time for Christmas.

By the way, I’m Daisy Buchanan, the fiftysomething-year-old proprietress of Millbury’s antiques and sewing notions store called Sometimes a Great Notion. Actually I’m fifty-eight, but fifty-something sounds better. I’d kept my maiden name of Buchanan when we married. Joe was secure enough in his masculinity that he didn’t have a problem with that, or with sitting bare-bottomed on his lovingly restored vintage bicycle.

All in all, this project had been a lot of fun. Our models had been pretty good-natured about the whole thing. Privately, I think they’d quite enjoyed the fuss.

Tonight Joe had helped us by hauling in bales of hay and stacks of gourds into the garage, because first up under the lights was Mr. October, a former mailman whose hobby was growing giant pumpkins. He was in his early sixties now, but still in good shape thanks to years of extreme gardening. The plan called for him to hold a pumpkin in front of the essential bits, and there’d been lots of cheerful ribbing going on.

“Hey, that’s a mini pumpkin!” he’d yelled, still fully clothed, when Martha handed him his prop. “I’m gonna need a bigger one than that!” Martha had finally given Mr. October a large enough pumpkin to satisfy his manly ego, and she swept over to us, carrying a clipboard and trailing Cyril Mackey in her wake. I wasn’t sure what the clipboard was for, seeing as we only had two models to keep track of, but I didn’t dare ask.

She was wearing a gold wrap shirt, harem-style pants in a black-and-gold Japanese design, and high heels. The shirt gapped dangerously over her impressive curves, and I hoped the little snap fastener at her cleavage was up to the challenge, ready to give its all for God and country. Her bright red hair was twisted up into a thick knot, showing long shimmering earrings.

If need be, the photographer could always use her as another light reflector.

Eleanor Reid, president of the society and my other best friend in the world next to Martha, also sidled up to us, her gray eyes sparkling with anticipation. She wore her usual all-black attire—a long-sleeved baseball shirt and yoga pants—which actually seemed to fit tonight with her role as photographer’s assistant. Her white hair was cropped mannishly short.

“There’s a huge crowd outside those garage doors,” she said in her husky voice. “All kinds of women from the village, not just from the Historical Society. Like a rock concert or something. Far out, man. I feel like I’m back at Woodstock.”

“How did you ever talk these guys into this, anyway?” Joe asked Martha. “I mean, I know
I
was a pushover, but it can’t have been that easy with everyone.”

“Well, some were easier than others,” she said with an arch look at Cyril, the cantankerous owner of the local salvage business.

He glared at her. “I still don’t know how I feel about taking my kit off in front of a bunch o’ gawping women.”

Cyril was originally from Yorkshire, England, and until recently, a bit of an outcast whose wardrobe left a lot to be desired. The village was still intrigued as to how he and Martha, a wealthy widow, had embarked on their strange and precarious new romance.

I grinned at them. As a former cheerleader, prom queen, and trophy wife, Martha had spent a lifetime perfecting her stage presence. Even in her early sixties, she was still a knockout. Cyril, despite his tough demeanor, had swiftly gone down for the count.

“Come on, man, be a sport,” Joe said. “We’ve all sacrificed our pride for a good cause.”

Cyril took his tweed cap off and ran a hand through his thick gray hair before jamming the cap back on his head. “I know, and that old bugger what owns the place has already scarpered to the bloody Outer Banks. So I hope a lot of people buy this damn calendar, and right quick.”

He was correct that the current owner of the historic property had no real emotional attachment to Millbury anymore. The only thing he cared about was getting a nice fat check to fund his retirement. He’d simply sell to the highest bidder.

I gave Martha a hug. “You did such an amazing job putting this together. And Cyril, don’t worry. We’ll keep our eyes closed, I promise.”

No women were allowed to stay for the actual shooting, well, except for the designated photographer’s assistants—Martha, Eleanor, and me.

“There have to be
some
perks of sitting through the insufferably dull Historical Society meetings,” Martha had declared when she’d made the arrangements.

Far from my words providing comfort, Cyril’s expression turned even more dour, if that was possible. But I knew there was no question he would come through. Cyril was nothing if not dependable.

At the rear of the garage, there was a wooden screen behind which the model could change. To protect his modesty as much as possible, we kept our backs turned until he was posed with his strategically placed item, and only came forward when requested to reposition something on the set or to hand Roos a new roll of film. The photographer was going old-school instead of using digital because he said he preferred the result.

Joe clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, Cyril, after tonight, you’ll be the last one, and then the ladies can get this calendar into production.” He cleared his throat. “So, Daisy, where’s Serrano?”

“Mr. July should be here any minute,” I said, not even bothering to check my watch. Serrano always showed up on time for his rendezvous.

“Excuse me while I kiss the sky.” Eleanor inhaled as if already catching a hint of his intoxicating aftershave in the air. “Ah. The hot detective. Every woman’s fantasy.”

Martha shook her head. “No. Trust me, dear. At our age, it’s a fantasy to have someone
cook
for you every night. Like Joe does for Daisy.”

My husband had blossomed into quite the gourmet cook, seeing as Millbury didn’t have a restaurant, only a diner that closed at 3 p.m. He’d convinced me to take early retirement two years ago from teaching high school, and we’d moved into our former vacation home, a Greek Revival on Main Street. Joe had settled comfortably into country life, but it had been harder for me, and when I bid on a steamer trunk full of sewing notions at the local auction, it had been the inspiration to open my store. And my salvation.

So not only was I a resident, but as a store owner, I was doubly interested in what happened to our little village.

At that moment, the photographer, Alex Roos, strolled past our group, performing the habitual stretching moves that signified he was finished shooting in his crouching pose. “People, people, how’s it going?” He flashed a wicked grin at Eleanor, showing capped teeth that were startlingly bright against his tanned skin. She blew him back a kiss. Martha just shook her head.

Roos wore black jeans, pointed emerald-green snakeskin boots, and a black leather vest that showed off his wiry surfer’s body covered in myriad tattoos. His hair was cut in a Mohawk style, about an inch long, like the bristles on a silver-backed antique brush, and so blond it was almost white, the way some fair-skinned children get after a summer spent playing outside.

And like a soft brush, it seemed to invite the touch of your fingers.

“Today’s cock, tomorrow’s feather duster,” Cyril muttered. He would have probably spit on the ground if he was back in his junkyard and not in this garage that was nicer than a lot of people’s living rooms.

The lanky photographer had caused quite a stir himself around these parts during the week he’d been shooting. Even without knowing he was from California, it was clear to see he was an exotic bird among a flock of country fowl. It was rumored he’d had almost as many liaisons as there were months in the calendar, including a dalliance with one of the married women. There was more than one jealous significant other who would be glad to see the back of him when he left town.

I narrowed my gaze at him. Was he really wearing eyeliner? In spite of his affectations, I had to acknowledge that he did have some strange sort of charm. But give me Joe’s wholesome good looks or Serrano’s dark and debonair sex appeal any day.

Roos clapped his hands together. “Okay, peeps. Time to rock ’n’ roll. Next set, please.” While I swept the garage, and the others removed the pumpkins, Joe loaded the bales of hay back into Cyril’s truck.

“I’m going to catch a ride back to Millbury with Cyril, so I can let the puppy out,” he said as he kissed me good-bye and handed me the keys to our old Subaru station wagon. “See you later, babe.”

As I watched Joe and Cyril pull away in the truck, I blew out a breath against the guilty flutter in my chest for the imminent arrival of our next model.

Eleanor had borrowed a fake brick wall from the local theater, and the plan was to back the detective’s Dodge Challenger on an angle into the garage and create the illusion of a grimy alleyway with a couple of garbage cans and some moody lighting. Serrano would stand partway behind the open driver’s door, pointing his gun at an imaginary assailant.

“Now, aren’t you glad we talked you into joining the society?” Eleanor said as we maneuvered the wall into place.

“Yes,” I answered dutifully, grunting as I pushed.

“Well, it was about time you joined, seeing as you were a history teacher, after all,” Martha said, peering at us over her clipboard.

Okay, Tom Sawyer.

While Eleanor and I worked, and Martha supervised, I could feel the tension building, like the pressure in the air before a summer thunderstorm. The mailman was nice enough to look at, but he was nothing compared to the main attraction.

At the sound of a powerful muscle car rumbling up the driveway, we scrambled to open the garage doors. We stepped out of the way as Serrano executed a swift three-point turn and slid the gleaming black vehicle into position. He got out and, with a respectful nod in our direction, headed over to talk to Roos, exuding authority with every movement. I could see there would be none of the usual banter that we enjoyed when he stopped by my store in the mornings for coffee and baked goodies.

Tonight was a necessary evil he obviously wanted to get over and done with as efficiently as possible.

He was wearing a dark gray suit that complemented his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Serrano had the perfect physique—muscular, yet lean—to wear a suit, and wear it well.

Eleanor narrowed her gaze in his direction. “God, I can’t wait to see that man with his shirt off.”

Neither, apparently, could the crowd of women waiting outside, who had rushed into the garage now and were leaning against the car, trailing their fingers over the warm hood and giggling in feverish anticipation.

Detective Serrano was a transplanted New Yorker, like Joe and me. He was the hottest, most exciting import into Millbury in years, and he spent as much time fending off the local females as he did catching criminals.