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  PRAISE FOR

  A Dark and Stormy Murder

  “What’s not to love? Writing that flows beautifully, suspense that builds slowly and almost unbearably, and a setting that is perfectly beautiful and mysterious, yet also menacing.”

  —Miranda James, New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries

  “A traditional mystery reader’s dream. A Dark and Stormy Murder has it all: plenty of action, a dash of romance, and lots of heart.”

  — Julie Hyzy, New York Times bestselling author of the White House Chef Mysteries

  “An engaging cozy with a touch of Gothic, A Dark and Stormy Murder is a not-to-be-missed page turner. Bring on book two in this charming series!”

  —Terrie Farley Moran, Agatha award winning author of the Read ‘Em and Eat Mysteries

  PRAISE FOR THE UNDERCOVER DISH MYSTERIES

  “A delectable concoction of appealing characters and smart sleuthing—and tasty food!”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the County Cork Mysteries

  “Sweet and highly entertaining, with a cast of fun, quirky characters . . . Readers are sure to devour this yummy mystery.”

  —Sue Ann Jaffarian, national bestselling author of the Ghost of Granny Apples Mysteries and the Odelia Grey Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Julia Buckley

  Writer’s Apprentice Mysteries

  A DARK AND STORMY MURDER

  DEATH IN DARK BLUE

  Undercover Dish Mysteries

  THE BIG CHILI

  CHEDDAR OFF DEAD

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Julia Buckley

  Excerpt from The Big Chili copyright © 2015 by Julia Buckley

  Penguin Random House 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 Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698406100

  First Edition: May 2017

  Cover design by Alana Colucci

  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 have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The Publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the Publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.

  Version_1

  For Phyllis A. Whitney

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you very much to all those who read and reviewed A Dark and Stormy Murder. It’s good to know how many readers admire the great Gothic writers of the 19th Century, and who appreciated my efforts to pay homage to their wonderful books.

  Thank you to all the folks at Murder By The Book in Houston, and to Dean James, for their help in promoting the first novel. Thanks as well to the reviewers and bloggers who gave the book special attention and helped to find it a readership.

  Thanks especially to all the readers who wrote letters to me after reading about Lena London and Camilla Graham, telling me that they wanted to travel to Blue Lake and meet my characters in person. This is only possible in a fictional world, but here is a second book in the same setting so that, for a few hours, you can visit them again.

  Contents

  Praise for A Dark And Stormy Murder

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Julia Buckley

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Bestselling books by Camilla Graham

  An Excerpt from Death on the Danube

  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

  Excerpt from The Big Chili

  Bestselling books by Camilla Graham

  The Lost Child (1972)

  Castle of Disquiet (1973)

  Snow in Eden (1974)

  Winds of Treachery (1975)

  They Came from Calais (1976)

  In Spite of Thunder (1978)

  Whispers of The Wicked (1979)

  Twilight in Daventry (1980)

  Stars, Hide Your Fires (1981)

  The Torches Burn Bright (1982)

  For the Love of Jane (1983)

  River of Silence (1985)

  A Fine Deceit (1987)

  Fall of a Sparrow (1988)

  Absent Thee From Felicity (1989)

  The Thorny Path (1990)

  Betraying Eve (1991)

  On London Bridge (1992)

  The Silver Birch (1994)

  The Tide Rises (1995)

  What Dreams May Come (1996)

  The Villainous Smile (1998)

  Gone by Midnight (1999)

  Sapphire Sea (2000)

  Beautiful Mankind (2001)

  Frost and Fire (2002)

  Savage Storm (2003)

  The Pen and the Sword (2005)

  The Tenth Muse (2006)

  Death at Seaside (2008)

  Mist of Time (2009)

  He Kindly Stopped for Me (2010)

  (a four year hiatus)

  Bereft (2015)

  The Salzburg Train (2016)

  An Excerpt from Death on the Danube

  “Margot knew the boat was there, floating just beneath the Széchenyi Lánchíd, the bridge which separated Buda from Pest. She made her way down a hillside fragrant with windflower, certain that she’d heard the signal from the man who waited. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she told herself she only had to find a path through the dark and climb into the vessel before morning, when they would certainly learn that she was gone. The chilly night air had a hint of mist, and she pulled her cloak more tightly around her. She never saw the man until he loomed up before her and blocked her path, and she screamed before she realized that she needed to remain silent . . .”

  1

  Perhaps it would never have happened if the weather had not been so cold.

  —From Death on the Danube

  I OPENED MY eyes to see that ice had formed on my bedroom window, as though a delicate, artistic finger had traced complicated swirls and spires on a glass canvas. So lovel
y—but so cold. Blue Lake in winter was not for the weak, and certainly not for someone who had never experienced the occasional extremes of Midwestern weather. I pulled my quilt more securely around me, wanting to steal a few more moments of warmth before I darted to the bathroom, with its cold floor and colder countertop.

  Beside me lay a warm ball of fur called Lestrade, who had taken to Blue Lake from the start. I had always heard that cats resented relocation, but Lestrade had proved to be quite flexible, not only about his new abode, but also about the two large German shepherds who wandered its halls and stairways. The three of them had become unlikely friends, and this camaraderie usually took the form of them sleeping in one big pile in some sunny spot or other, competing to see who could snore the loudest. I had taken video to prove it and posted it on my father’s Facebook page. He had given me Lestrade as a present when he was just a tiny ball of fluff with curious eyes and a deceptively meek meow; now my dad enjoyed receiving updates about the fully grown and eternally confident feline.

  “Okay,” I told my cat. “Time to get up.”

  He did not agree. He remained curled into a ball, his eyes closed, his whiskers twitching slightly in some dream mouse pursuit.

  I slid out of bed, darted across the cold wood floor, and into the bathroom. I raced through my morning routine, although I did linger a bit in the hot shower; then I bundled into brown corduroys and a wheat-colored sweater. I tucked my socked feet into high boots and marched out of the room feeling prepared for the weather and the day ahead.

  It was early; I had set my alarm for eight but had woken before then, perhaps with a sense of anticipation. I crept down the stairs to find Camilla Graham already at her breakfast table, having tea. I never tired of the sight of her, as graceful and lovely as she looked on every book jacket, sitting at her own table in her own house—which was, for the time being, my house, too.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” she said, smiling at me. “Would you like some tea and toast?”

  “Maybe something to go. I have—some errands to run.”

  “Of course you do,” she said, smiling serenely into her teacup. She took a sip, then set it down in her saucer and said, “While you’re out, I wonder if you’d pick up some mail that I have waiting at the post office?” I noticed then that her dogs lay under the table at her feet, motionless as inanimate objects.

  I nodded. “I have to go to Bick’s anyway. Will Marge give it to me, or is there some law that she can only give your mail to you?”

  “I’ll call ahead and ask her to release it. I can’t imagine there will be a problem.”

  “Sure. Well, I’d better get going.”

  “Your cheeks are flushed. Do you have a fever?” she asked, her eyes twinkling slightly.

  “Haha. I’ll be back by noon, I’m sure. I have the notes you asked for upstairs. We can look at them today, if you’d like.”

  “Perfect. Perhaps right after lunch.”

  “See you later, then.” I waved, grabbed my coat from a hook, took precious moments to button it on and tie a scarf around my neck, and moved quickly out the door. The front porch was coated with a thin sheet of ice. I grabbed the bag of eco-friendly de-icing pellets that sat near the door and sprinkled them on the stairs and landing. The last thing we needed was Camilla with a broken leg.

  Down the steps then, and to my car. I climbed in, enduring its wintry depths and waiting for the heater to kick in with the warming engine. Finally, I pulled toward the end of the long drive. To my right was a short road that led to a scenic overlook and a path that curved all the way around the bluff. Camilla’s place was at the top of the bluff, so her view was the best of all. To my left was the same road leading down; I turned and descended the graduated path, lined today with bare and solemn trees that bent over the road like protective grandfathers with worry lines scratched into their bark. At the foot of the bluff I turned left onto Wentworth Street, which curved around and intersected with Green Glass Highway. For fifteen minutes I admired the scenery, bare and white, yet beautiful in its elemental reality, and then I turned into a well-appointed subdivision with charming stone and brick homes. I pulled up in front of a corner lot where a stone sign on the lawn read “Branch House.” I got out and, digging in my coat pocket, retrieved the key that had been entrusted to me. My friend Allison lived here with her husband John; they were both at work now.

  I moved across the grass, crunchy with ice, casually looking around to be sure no one found my presence unusual, if they noticed it at all. The wood entry door opened easily, and once I stepped into the warm, pine-scented house, I locked the knob behind me. The room I stood in was empty. I admired its beauty: hardwood floor, brown patterned rug in front of the hearth, striking and colorful seaside painting above the fireplace, and Allison’s knitting bag tucked against the brick jamb. Slowly, I pulled off my coat and scarf and set them on the couch. The kitchen was just around the corner; my footsteps seemed loud in the silence. I could hear the nervous sound of my own breathing.

  The kitchen, too, was empty. I stood, my mouth open slightly with surprise, and then jumped when someone grabbed me from behind, curling his arms around my waist. I turned, staying inside his embrace. “Where were you hiding?”

  His eyes, blue and familiar, locked onto mine. “Not far. Did anyone see you?”

  “No. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t followed, either.”

  “Good.” He smiled at me, and his arms tightened ever so slightly.

  “You were in New York forever,” I complained.

  “I missed you.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “No,” he said. “We’ll talk later.” He bent his head and pressed his mouth against mine; I went pleasantly blank for a time, kissing Sam West in the secret hideout we’d arranged for our reunion, but a part of my mind wandered into a reflection of the ironies that had brought us together.

  Not two months ago he had been suspected of killing his own wife, and then he was arrested on that suspicion. Now he was free because we had determined that his wife was still alive, but we didn’t know where she was.

  Since then we had all worked on finding her—the police and the FBI with whatever resources they were allotting, Camilla and I through online searches, Sam and his private detective, Jim Harrigan, through more specific means. Sam had been in New York for more than a month, talking with investigators, neighbors, anyone who might have had some sort of information about the missing Victoria. He had gone to New York at the end of November and had still been there at Christmas. It had been a lonely time, sitting in a snowbound Blue Lake and wondering what Sam was doing on the East Coast. Any future the two of us might have, we knew, was in limbo until we knew more about Victoria. We needed to know she was safe; we needed to know why she had left and allowed Sam to take the fall for her “murder,” and we needed to know that Sam was fully divorced and able to start his life anew.

  But all that was forgotten for a brief time as I nestled myself against Sam’s chest and remembered the feel and scent of him. “Your hair is longer,” he said, pulling far enough away to study my face. “I like it.”

  “I saw you on television last night,” I said. “That reporter cornered you at the airport.”

  He nodded. “They wanted a response to Taylor Brand’s blog post. Thanks to her, I’m news again, and so is Blue Lake.”

  I lifted a hand to smooth the frown line between his brows. “At least she apologized to you.” Taylor Brand was a New York blogger who happened to be one of Victoria West’s best friends. For a year Taylor had darkly hinted that Sam West had done something to his wife. Now that she had seen the evidence—that recent photograph of Victoria on a yacht, alive and well—she had no choice but to apologize to Sam, which she had done in an open letter on her blog. This had been picked up by the news media, and Sam’s name was back in the headlines. At the end of her post, Taylor had written, “I hope th
at you’ll accept my apology, Sam, and I plan to make it in person soon. I’ve always wanted to see Indiana.”

  “Ironically, she could have just looked me up in New York,” Sam said now.

  “Except you didn’t want people to know you were there.”

  “No. I’m a bit gun-shy about being in the public eye.”

  I pulled him down for another kiss, then sighed. “If they’re going to be following you anyway, then let’s just get it over with. We’ll be seen together in person, announce ourselves as a couple, and then it will be over.”

  “No. It would never be over. Lena, you know my feelings about this. They’re horrible, and I won’t let them anywhere near you. It’s bad enough the way they stalked and tormented me.”

  “But—”

  “Please,” Sam said, touching my lips with a gentle finger. “You’re the one sweet thing in my life, and you’ve kept me sane for two months of craziness. I want you to be separate from all of that. My haven in the storm.”

  I must not have looked convinced, because he said, “The headlines alone would hurt your feelings. I can tell you what they would say: “Dark-Haired Siren Lures Sam West Away from Hunt for Missing Wife.” Or “West’s Indiana Lover Lives in Home of Camilla Graham.”

  “Oh. They would drag Camilla into it, wouldn’t they?”

  “They’ll do whatever they can think of. They’ll follow you around. They’ll watch you buy coffee and turn it into some weird story. They’ll look at what you choose in the grocery store; they’ll spy on the clothes you wash at the Laundromat. They’ll try to get pictures of you doing anything that could catch a reader’s eye—walking those big dogs of Camilla’s or trying to meditate down on the beach. You’d be a hunted woman.”

  I sighed again. “There’s no way we can know if they’d even show up here.”

  “They’re already here. I stopped at Bick’s Hardware to pick up my mail, and Marge told me that two reporters are staying in town—for an indefinite period. If there are two now, there will be more soon. They’re like the scouts before the army. They’ll be coming back.”