A Mold For Murder Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  SOAPMAKING TIPS FOR THε HOME HOBBγIST

  Praise for Tim Myers’s Candlemaking Mysteries

  Death Waxed Over

  “Excellent storytelling that makes for a good reading experience . . . [Myers] is a talented writer who deserves to hit the bestseller lists.” —The Best Reviews

  Snuffed Out

  “A sure winner.”—Carolyn Hart, author of the Death on Demand Mysteries

  “An interesting mystery, a large cast of characters, and an engaging amateur sleuth make this series a winner.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection (four daggers)

  At Wick’s End

  “A smashing, successful debut.” —Midwest Book Review

  “I greatly enjoyed this terrific mystery. The main character . . . will make you laugh. Don’t miss this thrilling read.”—Rendezvous

  “A clever and well-done debut.”—MysteryLovers.com

  Praise for Tim Myers’s Lighthouse Mysteries

  “A thoroughly delightful and original series. Book me at Hatteras West any day!”—Tamar Myers, author of

  Thou Shalt Not Grill

  “Myers cultivates the North Carolina scenery with aplomb and shows a flair for character.”

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  “Entertaining . . . authentic . . . fun . . . a wonderful regional mystery that will have readers re-booking for future stays at the Hatteras West Inn and Lighthouse.”—BookBrowser

  “Tim Myers proves that he is no one-book wonder . . . A shrewdly crafted puzzle.”—Midwest Book Review

  “Colorful . . . picturesque . . . light and entertaining.”

  —The Best Reviews

  Lighthouse Inn Mysteries by Tim Myers

  INNKEEPING WITH MURDER

  RESERVATIONS FOR MURDER

  MURDER CHECKS INN

  ROOM FOR MURDER

  BOOKED FOR MURDER

  Candlemaking Mysteries by Tim Myers

  AT WICK’S END

  SNUFFED OUT

  DEATH WAXED OVER

  A FLICKER OF DOUBT

  Soapmaking Mysteries by Tim Myers

  DEAD MEN DON’T LYE

  A POUR WAY TO DYE

  A MOLD FOR MURDER

  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 Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, 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, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1311, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  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.

  A MOLD FOR MURDER

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

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by Tim Myers.

  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 Berkeley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21487-9

  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.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Patty and Emily, for all the reasons there are, and to every reader who has enjoyed visiting Elkton Falls, Micah’s Ridge, and Harper’s Landing.

  ONE

  IN a way, I suppose you could argue that the murder was my fault.

  After all, I’m the one who came up with the idea of hosting the Soap Celebration at my family’s soap boutique and custom soap manufacturing production business.

  Where There’s Soap is the adhesive that holds my family together. My three sisters work in the front boutique and teach most of our custom soapmaking classes, while my three brothers operate the production line in back. My mother oversees the entire business, and my grandfather takes a turn at advertising now and then, though he was in Europe at the moment of the homicide. I envied him the ability to come and go as he pleased, but with my responsibilities, there isn’t much time for travel.

  I am the family and business troubleshooter.

  My name’s Benjamin Perkins, and there are more times than not that I would have traded with any of my family members for a job with well-defined duties and responsibilities. Not that I don’t keep busy. I like to help out wherever I can—whether it is teaching a class of my own up front or helping my brothers in back—but usually there is something urgent that needs my attention.

  I’d come up with the idea for the Soap Celebration as a way of adding some normalcy to my professional life.

  And then it backfired on me, and I had a murder to deal with instead.

  SHE swept into the soap shop an hour before I’d been expecting her, wearing a regal shade of red, from her gloved hands to her dress to her shoes. At first, I didn’t recognize Contessa New Berne from the glamorous photograph her publisher used on the backs of her crafting books. The photos had to have been at least twenty years old, and even then, they had obviously been retouched by an expert. Also in my defense, some of her features were hidden by a floppy hat in the pictures, and I wondered if she thought it made her look fashionable, or mysterious, or maybe she was just inordinately fond of headwear. At least she wasn’t wearing one now, though the rest of her outfit was identical to the one in the photograph. It was like an odd po
rtrait of Dorian Gray, the woman changing but the outfit staying the same over the years.

  The contessa, as she liked to be called—so her personal assistant, Sharon Goldsmith, had informed me frostily—was the reigning queen of soapmaking how-to books, and it had been a real coup arranging for her visit to our festival. She’d even waived some of her usual speaking fees when I’d choked on the amount they’d asked for. For some reason, I had been under the mistaken impression she wanted to visit Harper’s Landing and our little shop, but that was before she actually arrived.

  She strolled up to me, scowling as she passed the stacks of her books for sale and the worktable prepared for her talk and demonstration later.

  “I was told you are Benjamin Perkins.”

  “I am indeed,” I admitted. “Are you here for the talk?”

  She looked quizzically at me. “How else on earth could you host it if I weren’t? I am Contessa New Berne.” She offered a gloved hand to me, and I took it after a moment’s hesitation. Upon closer examination, I could see that her glossy brown hair was a shade not found in nature, and not even an industrial-strength girdle could hide the extra pounds she was sporting. I wanted to ask for a photo ID, but after staring hard at her, I could finally make out the resemblance between the woman standing before me and the one on the publicity posters in the shop.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, trying to recover as graciously as I could. “I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

  She withdrew her hand and waved it in the air like a conductor’s baton. “The bed-and-breakfast where I’m staying is absolutely dreadful. Surely you could have done better than that hovel for my visit.”

  I knew for a fact that Jean Henshaw ran the second nicest place in Harper’s Landing, North Carolina, and the swankiest accommodations we could afford. I’d wanted to put the contessa up in one of the more moderately priced hotels on the outskirts of town, but her assistant, Sharon, had refused the request, demanding the ultimate elegance we had to offer for her employer. If the price was any indication, Jean’s place was indeed one of the best our area had to offer. I’d been coerced into providing two rooms for three nights, though the contessa would only be appearing at our store for one afternoon. Sharon had curtly informed me that the contessa never traveled without her, and that I needed to find proper accommodations for them both. As to the additional nights, since travel was so wearying for the writer, it was explained to me, she needed time to acclimate to her new surroundings, then to unwind after the event before jetting off to her next appearance.

  As things stood, we were going to have to sell a ton of soapmaking supplies to recoup our investment, and I was hoping the woman was worth it.

  “I’m sorry you’re unhappy,” I said. “I’d be glad to personally move you out to the Mountain Lake Motel if you’d like.” The Mountain Lake wasn’t exactly a dump, but it couldn’t touch Jean’s accommodations.

  “I don’t think so,” she said with one raised eyebrow. “I understand the Lakefront might be more to my liking, though.”

  There was no way on earth we could afford a place as elegant as the Lakefront Inn, but I couldn’t come out and say it so baldly. “We tried, but they were booked solid. Sorry.”

  “Very well,” she said with a sigh, as if her graciousness alone was all that was keeping her there. “Now, Ben, I need your help. I must have some time alone before I speak. Is there someplace I could get away from my fans in order to focus my energies on my presentation?”

  I looked around, and if anyone shopping in the store had noticed her, they were doing a fabulous job of disguising their delight. Still, she was the main draw for our event schedule, so it couldn’t hurt to make her happy, especially since it wasn’t costing me anything. “Of course. We have a break room that you’ll find comfortable, and it has the added bonus of being stocked with some of the best baked treats in this part of North Carolina.”

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  I pointed to the door toward the back, just off the selling floor where we were standing.

  She frowned at it in disdain, then asked, “Don’t you have anything more . . . private?”

  “I suppose you could use my office,” I said. “It’s upstairs, and it has a beautiful view of the shop down here.” I gestured to the darkened glass above us.

  “There’s an elevator, I presume,” she said.

  “No, ma’am, but the steps aren’t bad.”

  It was clear that I’d somehow managed to disappoint her yet again. If this woman put on her high-and-mighty act during her presentation, I was going to have people throwing bars of soap at her to get her off the stage.

  “Very well,” she finally agreed. “Lead the way.”

  I led her through the hallway door to the back, past the idle production equipment and up the stairs. My brothers had howled when I’d demanded they shut the line down for the two days of festivities, but Mom had backed me up. We needed their help out front, and whether they liked it or not, they were going to be working the cash registers later, hopefully until their fingers were bruised from ringing up all of the sales we were going to make.

  I led the contessa into my office, and she looked around with a critical eye. I could swear I saw her deliberately sniff the air before she turned to me and said, “As green rooms go, this is rather squalid.”

  “As an office though, I like it just fine.” I was half expecting her to ask for a basket of red M&M’s and a Swedish masseur, but she plopped down in my chair and immediately swung around to survey the sales floor below.

  “I’m concerned about something,” she said as she tapped the glass. “Are you certain you have enough books?”

  “I think we’ll be fine.” I’d pushed Mom to order the contessa’s books through Diana Long, my current girlfriend and the woman who also happened to own the only independent bookstore in town. Though Dying To Read carried mysteries exclusively, Diana had used her resources to order the books for our event. She’d be handling the autograph session after the contessa’s presentation since she was used to dealing with authors and we weren’t. While Diana had told me that most of the writers she hosted at her shop were delightful, she had shared enough horror stories to make me realize that she’d be our best choice for handling the contessa. I scanned the crowd of shoppers below and saw that she’d slipped in since I’d escorted our guest upstairs.

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  She waved that gloved hand at me again. “No, you may go. I trust you’ve set up my materials as requested?”

  Demanded would have been a better choice of words. The contessa’s assistant, Sharon, had dropped by the shop the night before with a diagram in her hand, every detail spelled out. It had taken me half the night to get it just right, and Sharon had stayed until past midnight to make sure of it.

  “Will your assistant be joining you soon?” I asked.

  “Sharon will introduce me, of course, but beyond that, I’m not quite sure what the girl is up to. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was sleeping in. Her door was closed when I left this morning. Now if you’ll leave me, I must focus on the presentation ahead.”

  “Glad to,” I said as I scooted out the door. I thought about putting a DO NOT DISTURB sign up on my door, but nobody had any reason to come up there. Mom had the only other active office upstairs since my grandfather had deserted his, and she was fluttering around the sales floor below like a butterfly searching for a place to land.

  I was at the bottom step when I found myself wrapped in the embrace of a solid, curvy brunette with deep brown eyes. After Diana kissed me, I said, “I’m happy to see you, too.”

  She laughed, a sound that never failed to delight me. I’d been recently dumped in a budding relationship with Kelly Sheer—a local attorney now trying to reconcile with her ex-husband—when Diana and I started dating. It had been tough going at first, but it hadn’t taken long for her to capture a very special place in my heart.

  “You m
ust be excited,” Diana said. “There’s quite a crowd out here already.”

  “I just hope our guest of honor doesn’t disappoint them,” I said.

  “What’s the matter, do you have a diva on your hands?”

  “Diana, she showed up wearing red satin gloves; this from a woman who makes soap. You’d think she produces gold in that kitchen of hers instead of cleansers.”

  “Her books are popular, Ben,” Diana said. “I’ve asked some other independent sellers I know, and they say she moves a lot of books for them. Besides, she probably wears the evening gloves to keep that ‘glamour’ image she tries to portray.” Diana lowered her voice as she added, “She’s not really a contessa, you know, or any kind of royalty at all. The entire getup is an elaborate pseudonym for her writing persona.”

  “So what’s her real name?” I asked. If the self-proclaimed contessa got too pretentious, I’d drop her real moniker casually into the conversation just to get her attention.

  Diana frowned. “I don’t know. I did some snooping around on the Internet after I ordered her books, but it’s a pretty closely guarded secret.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point of a pseudonym?” I asked.

  “You’re kidding, right? Mystery writers use them all the time. I even know one man who’s got another series that he writes under a woman’s name.”