Killer Crab Cakes
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Recipes
Author’s Note
About the Author
Teaser chapter
He pitched forward face-first into the water… .
From what Phyllis could see of McKenna’s face, the man didn’t look good. He hadn’t been under the water all that long, probably less than a minute in all. A person couldn’t drown in that short a time, could they?
Phyllis got to the end of the pier and jumped down to the narrow, reedy beach. She dropped Sam’s sneakers and waded into the water, heedless of her own shoes and blue jeans, and leaned down to grab McKenna and help Sam haul him out of the water. A shudder went through her as she saw the man’s gray, lifeless face.
“My God, Sam!” she said as he climbed out. Water streamed from his clothes and body. “Mr. McKenna’s dead. He must have drowned right away.”
Sam pawed his soaked hair back and shook his head. “Nobody drowns that fast. Did you see the way he went in? He was just balanced there on the wall, waiting for somebody like me to come along and knock him in.”
“You mean … ?”
Sam nodded. “He was dead when he went into the water.”
MORE PRAISE FOR THE FRESH-BAKED MYSTERIES
“The whodunit is fun and the recipes [are] mouthwatering.”
—The Best Reviews
“Washburn has a refreshing way with words and knows how to tell an exciting story.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Delightful, [with a] realistic small town vibe [and a] vibrant narrative … A Peach of a Murder runs the full range of emotions, so be prepared to laugh and cry with this one!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“I really enjoyed Murder by the Slice… . It’s got a nice plot with lots of twists.”
—James Reasoner
Other Fresh-Baked Mysteries by Livia J. Washburn
The Christmas Cookie Killer
A Peach of a Murder
Murder by the Slice
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library,
a division of 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), 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, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,
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
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, November 2009
Copyright © Livia J. Reasoner, 2009
All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Washburn, L. J.
Killer crab cakes : a fresh-baked mystery / Livia J. Washburn.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-14046-8
1. Retired women—Fiction. 2. Bed-and-breakfast accommodations—Fiction.
3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Gulf Coast (Tex.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.A787K56 2009
813’54—dc22
2009018948
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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 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 adverce reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to all the people who helped us recover from a devastating wildfire. Family members that went above and beyond, Paul and Naomi Washburn, Bruce and Patricia Washburn, Harold and Jodie Reasoner, John and Norma Kinchen, Eric and Jennifer Washburn, Billy and Amanda Gann, Nina Henderson, Elmo and Billie Wright, Ricky Wright, Gayle Rotton, Sidney and Wanda Brantly, Mike and Sabra Torok, you will never know how much your help meant. We would have been lost without all of you. And to all the rest who offered prayers and words of encouragement, thank you so much. I would also like to thank all our friends and neighbors for being there for us. There are so many who helped that to list them all would take another whole book! To everyone who sent us books to replace our lost library, thank you! Kim Lionetti, you are the best agent out there. Thanks! Brent Howard, I’m lucky you are my editor and thank you for being so understanding. The fire was terrible, but it taught us how many good people there really are in the world. Thank you for all your love and support.
Chapter 1
An early-morning calm lay over the water, broken only by the plaintive cries of seagulls as they wheeled over the glassy surface. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but a half circle of pink and orange glow was visible at the horizon, far out over the Gulf of Mexico, as Phyllis Newsom stepped out onto the porch of the old three-story house that faced the sea. Only rarely had she ever seen anything more beautiful, Phyllis thought as she raised a cup to her lips and took a sip of coffee.
Nor was there anything more restful and peaceful than these moments just before sunrise. She would never wish ill on anyone, but right now she was almost glad that there had been complications with the birth of he
r cousin Dorothy’s first grandchild. If Dorothy and her husband hadn’t had to go up to Dallas to be with their daughter, they wouldn’t have asked Phyllis to come down here to Fulton, Texas, and look after their bed-and-breakfast for a while. Mother and baby were doing just fine now, but Phyllis suspected that Dorothy would want to stay up there and play proud grandma for as long as she possibly could.
The door behind Phyllis opened. She knew without looking around that Sam Fletcher had come out onto the porch. He liked these early mornings, too. Phyllis’s other two friends who had come down here with her from Weatherford, Carolyn Wilbarger and Eve Turner, were still inside the house. All four of them were retired schoolteachers, so they were used to getting up fairly early after decades of having to arrive at school before the students did. Since retirement, though, Eve had taken to sleeping in, and Carolyn had never been much of one for the glories of nature. She was probably in the kitchen by now, interfering with Consuela’s attempts to fix breakfast.
“We’ve been down here three days now,” Sam said as he moved up beside Phyllis, a cup of coffee in his hand, too, “and I’m not tired of that view yet. I wonder if the people who live here ever get tired of it.”
“I don’t know,” Phyllis said. “Can you imagine living here and going somewhere else for your vacation?”
“You mean like to Weatherford?” Sam shook his head. “That’s pretty hard to picture.”
“But I’m sure it happens. People would get tired of being anywhere, even paradise, and want a change of scenery.”
Paradise was a pretty good word to describe this area along the Texas Gulf Coast. There wasn’t nearly as much traffic and pollution as people in the Dallas/Fort Worth area had to put up with, and life moved at a slower, friendlier pace. At this time of year, early autumn, the weather was still summerlike along the coast, with warm days and comfortable nights. Every now and then, there would be a hint of the coolness to come in the breeze. You really couldn’t ask for better weather, though.
Tall, lean Sam rasped fingers along his jaw and laughed. “Things are so laid-back down here, it’s hard for a fella to even remember to shave. Reckon if I stay here very long I’ll look like an old beachcomber.”
Phyllis looked over at him. He wore sneakers with no socks, cut-off blue jeans, and a T-shirt with a picture of a pelican on it that had come from a nearby bar and grill. His salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, and he had white stubble on his cheeks and chin to go with the mustache on his upper lip. Phyllis laughed, too.
“Too late,” she told him. “You already look like a beachcomber. Or a fisherman. Although you’ll need a fishing hat for that. You can’t go fishing without the proper hat.”
“Is that a law in these parts?”
“Evidently, from what I’ve seen.”
“Actually, I thought I might try the fishin’ pretty soon.” Sam nodded toward the pier that jutted several hundred yards out into the water, starting just across the road from the big house. It was a private pier, belonging to the Oak Knoll Bed’n’-Breakfast. The little hill that gave the place its name was just inland from the house and was covered with the gnarled, bizarrely leaning oak trees that were common around here.
The house itself was painted a beautiful sky blue, with white trim. It was nearly a hundred years old and had been cared for with diligence and love so that it was still in excellent shape. Phyllis’s cousin Dorothy and Dorothy’s husband, Ben, had owned it for more than thirty years. It was originally just their residence, but when their kids had grown up and moved out, they had turned it into a bed-and-breakfast … much like Phyllis had taken in other retired schoolteachers as boarders after her husband, Kenny, passed away. The big house in Weatherford had been too much for her; she hadn’t wanted to rattle around in it by herself. The same feelings had caused Dorothy and Ben to make that change in their lives. A house needed plenty of people in it in order to give it personality and vitality. Otherwise it was just a heartless pile of lumber.
Phyllis had been a little unsure of what to do when Dorothy asked her to come down. She didn’t have any experience running a bed-and-breakfast. Dorothy had assured her that she had a highly competent staff who would continue doing all the actual work. She had also had a couple of cancellations, so there would be plenty of room for her and her friends. She just wanted someone she could trust, like Phyllis, to keep an eye on the place while she and Ben were gone.
When Dorothy had told Phyllis about the SeaFair and its Just Desserts competition, that had clinched the deal.
The beachfront town of Fulton was nestled side by side with a larger neighbor, the city of Rockport. Both had been in existence and served as Gulf Coast ports for well over a hundred years. Each fall, during the first weekend in October, Rockport had held its annual SeaFair, a huge celebration featuring dozens of vendors, artists, craftsmen, local bands and musicians, a gumbo cook-off, games and crab races and a carnival for the kids, and, for the past few years, the Just Desserts competition. Cooks from all over the area—and beyond—entered their best dessert recipes, and the judging and awarding of prizes was the highlight of the final day of the SeaFair.
As soon as Phyllis heard about that, she had known that she had to accept Dorothy’s invitation. And, of course, there was no way to keep Carolyn from finding out about it, and she had jumped at the chance to enter another baking contest. She and Phyllis had been friendly rivals at such competitions for years now. In fact, just a few months earlier they had gone head-to-head again at Weatherford’s annual Peach Festival.
Phyllis had been a little nervous when that time came around, because there had been a murder at the previous year’s Peach Festival, a murder that had involved Phyllis and her friends. Luckily, this year nobody had died. Carolyn had won the baking contest with her Sweet Peach Rolls, and Phyllis had placed third with her creation, Peachy Bread Pudding. The competition had been spirited, as usual.
Phyllis didn’t think the Just Desserts contest would be quite that intense. Folks in Rockport and Fulton were just too friendly and easygoing for that.
Sam perched a hip on the railing that ran around the porch and drank some more of his coffee. “Care to try your luck?” he asked Phyllis.
“You mean at fishing?” She hesitated. Ever since the previous Christmas, she and Sam had been involved in an informal, low-key romantic relationship. They had their passionate moments, but mostly it was dining out, going to movies, taking walks together, things like that. Fishing certainly fell into that same category, but …
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at fishing,” she said. “I don’t even have a license.”
“Well, you can’t fish, then. Game warden’d come along and get you, sure as anything.”
“I could walk out on the pier with you, though, if you don’t mind the company.”
A slow grin spread across Sam’s rugged face. “I don’t mind the company at all. Fact is, I sort of like it.”
Phyllis felt herself flush with pleasure at the tone of his voice. Some people thought certain feelings were over and done with once you got to a certain age … but some people just didn’t know.
The door opened again, and Phyllis glanced over her shoulder to see a thin, gray-haired man come out of the house. He wore a khaki shirt and trousers and an old-fashioned brown fedora. In one hand he carried an expensive rod and reel, in the other a tackle box and bait box. A net with a long aluminum handle was tucked under his arm. The sun had started to peek above the horizon now, and its rays glittered on the steel-rimmed glasses he wore.
“Good morning, Mr. McKenna,” Phyllis greeted him pleasantly. “Going to try your luck again this morning?”
Ed McKenna nodded, a somewhat sour expression on his face. “Yeah, even though I don’t know why. Haven’t caught anything worth keeping all week. Don’t feel too good, either. Maybe some sun will perk me up a little.”
McKenna had been staying at the bed-and-breakfast when Phyllis and her friends arrived, and he was booked for another week�
�s stay. Phyllis didn’t know anything about him except that he was from San Antonio. And that while he was polite enough, he wasn’t overly friendly. He had been out on the pier every morning with his fishing gear, but he wasn’t in the habit of striking up conversations with the other anglers. Of course, Phyllis had heard that a lot of talking sometimes scared off the fish, so she guessed that might be the reason McKenna seemed a little antisocial.
“I’ll be out there in a while,” Sam told McKenna. “What’s the best sort of bait? Live shrimp?”
“That’s as good as any,” McKenna answered. He went down the steps from the porch and headed across the road to the pier.
“Not the friendliest cuss in the world,” Sam commented when McKenna was out of earshot.
“Not everyone is as amiable as you, Sam,” Phyllis pointed out.
“I just try to be myself. I’m too old to be anybody else.”
They went back inside, and sure enough, Carolyn was trying to convince Consuela to do things differently in the kitchen. She wasn’t getting very far. Consuela Anselmo had been the cook and head housekeeper at Oak Knoll for more than five years and liked to do things her own way, which Phyllis understood. Her daughters, Bianca and Theresa, worked part-time in the mornings as the maids, and Consuela’s husband, Tom, worked part-time handling maintenance chores around the place, in addition to his regular job on one of the offshore oil rigs.
As soon as Phyllis came into the kitchen, Carolyn turned toward her and said, “Phyllis,” just as Consuela was saying, “Señora Newsom.”
Phyllis held up the hand that wasn’t holding her coffee cup to ward off both of them. “Whatever this is, you’ll have to settle it among yourselves,” she told them.
“But Señora Gadsden left you in charge, Señora Newsom,” Consuela protested. “It is up to you to decide how things are done.”