Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138) Read online

  Praise for Claudia Bishop’s

  Hemlock Falls Mysteries

  “A well-developed, long-lived series that remains as welcoming and entertaining as it was in the beginning, this story will keep readers returning to Hemlock Falls time after time.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “Always a great reading experience…Claudia Bishop writes an enthralling amateur-sleuth mystery.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “A great cozy series.”

  —Books ’n’ Bytes

  “An entertaining, quirky, and offbeat mystery…A special treat for amateur-sleuth lovers.”

  —Midwest Book Reviews

  “The reader can settle in Hemlock Falls comfortably.”

  —The Armchair Detective

  “Fine local color and interesting characters.”

  —Murder Ad Lib

  “Chock full of quirky characters and offbeat situations.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “Delightful, unique characters.”

  —TwoLips Reviews

  “Engaging…Keep[s] the reader enthralled.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Praise for the Beaufort & Company Mysteries

  by Claudia Bishop writing as Mary Stanton

  “I was hooked from page one…This book should give Mary Stanton the same kind of cult following usually reserved for Charlaine Harris.”

  —Rhys Bowen, author of The Twelve Clues of Christmas

  “Engaging and charismatic…Will be a breath of fresh air for fans of paranormal cozy mysteries.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Spooky Southern charm and a wonderfully inventive approach to the afterlife.”

  —Madelyn Alt, national bestselling author of In Charm’s Way

  “An elegant enchantment with a delightful heroine and a historic setting.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Death Comes Silently

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Mary Stanton

  DEFENDING ANGELS

  ANGEL’S ADVOCATE

  AVENGING ANGELS

  ANGEL’S VERDICT

  ANGEL CONDEMNED

  Titles by Mary Stanton writing as Claudia Bishop

  Hemlock Falls Mysteries

  A TASTE FOR MURDER

  A DASH OF DEATH

  A PINCH OF POISON

  MURDER WELL-DONE

  DEATH DINES OUT

  A TOUCH OF THE GRAPE

  A STEAK IN MURDER

  MARINADE FOR MURDER

  JUST DESSERTS

  FRIED BY JURY

  A PUREE OF POISON

  BURIED BY BREAKFAST

  A DINNER TO DIE FOR

  GROUND TO A HALT

  A CAROL FOR A CORPSE

  TOAST MORTEM

  DREAD ON ARRIVAL

  A FETE WORSE THAN DEATH

  Casebooks of Dr. McKenzie Mysteries

  THE CASE OF THE ROASTED ONION

  THE CASE OF THE TOUGH-TALKING TURKEY

  THE CASE OF THE ILL-GOTTEN GOAT

  Anthologies

  A PLATEFUL OF MURDER

  DEATH IN TWO COURSES

  A Fete Worse

  Than Death

  Claudia Bishop

  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

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  A FETE WORSE THAN DEATH

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

  Copyright © 2013 by Mary Stanton.

  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.

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

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-59513-8

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2013

  Cover illustration by Karen Strelecki.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  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.

  ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON

  Once again, for Whit and Cee

  Acknowledgments

  Most country fairs feature competitions for the best in local food preparation. When I put out the call for prizewinning recipes for the (fictional) Finger Lakes Autumn Fete, my friends and family responded with wonderful things. My special thanks to Rebecca Monroe, Julie Schwartz, and Whit Hairston.

  I’d also like to thank the skilled professionals at the New York State Wine and Culinary Institute in Canandaigua, New York, for inspiring the creation of La Bonne Goute Academy of the Culinary Arts.

  Cast of Characters

  The Inn at Hemlock Falls

  Sarah “Quill” Quilliam-McHale innkeeper

  Margaret “Meg” Quilliam the Inn’s master chef

  Jackson “Jack” Quilliam-McHale Quill’s five-year-old son

  Myles McHale Quill’s husband, a government agent

  Doreen Muxworthy-Stoker Jack’s nanny, formerly the Inn’s head housekeeper

  Dina Muir the Inn’s receptionist, a graduate student

  Kathleen Kiddermeister head waitress

  Bjarne Bjarneson head chef

  Elizabeth Chou under chef

  Mike Santini the groundskeeper

  Nate the bartender

  Linda Connelly a guest and an event planner who owns Presentations

  George McIntyre a guest, and Linda’s general factotum

  Mickey Greer a guest, Linda’s assistant, and a former football player

  Nolan and Althea Quince guests, retired from a food brokerage business in nearby Rochester

  Jeeter Swenson a guest

  Porter Swenson an attorney, and Jeeter’s son

  Melbourne Swenson Porter’s wife

  Max a dog

  And others

  Citizens of Hemlock Falls

  Elmer Henry mayor

  Adela Henry Elmer’s wife

  Davy Kiddermeister the sheriff

  Howie Murchison town attorney and justice of the peace

  Justin Alvarez an attorney, and Howie’s junior partner

  Miriam Doncaster the librarian

  Marge Schmidt-Peterson a businesswoman, and the wealthiest person in Tompkins County

  Harland Pe
terson a dairy farmer, and Marge’s husband

  Betty Hall Marge’s partner in the restaurant business

  Harvey Bozzel Hemlock Falls premier (and only) advertising executive

  Dolly Jean Attenborough president, the Crafty Ladies

  Nadine Peterson owner of Hemlock Hall of Beauty

  Esther West president, the Craft Guild

  “Shady” Brady Beale owner, operator, Peterson Automotive

  The Rev. Dookie Shuttleworth pastor, the Hemlock Falls Church of the Word of God

  Andy Bishop, MD physician-in-chief, Hemlock Falls Clinic

  Lt. Anson Harker New York state trooper

  Austin McKenzie, DVM a veterinarian

  And others

  Employees of La Bonne Goute Culinary Academy

  Clarissa “Clare” Sparrow a chef, pastry, and Director

  Sophie Kilcannon a chef, fruits and vegetables

  Pietro Giancava sommelier and chef, sauces

  Raleigh Brewster chef, meats and stews

  Jim Chen chef, fish and seafood

  Madame LeVasque owner

  Bismarck a Maine coon cat

  And others

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  And the Winners Are…

  Touring the Finger Lakes

  Believe It or Not, There Is an Underwater Weapons Naval Testing Facility

  Prologue

  Jeeter Swenson sat in a rocker between his son and his daughter-in-law on the porch of his cottage overlooking Cayuga Lake. He was ninety-eight years old today, and there was a lot to like about that. For one thing, he was looking at the prettiest view in upstate New York. It was an afternoon in late August and the sun was that rich antique yellow that meant autumn was closing in. The placid surface of the lake shrugged a little under a mild breeze. The shoreline was thick with trees. A little sailboat—Jeeter pushed his spectacles up his nose and squinted—looked like a Hobie Cat, or maybe a Sunfish—tacked merrily back and forth on the aluminum-colored water. She tacked leeward and Jeeter squinted once more. A Hobie Cat. He knew it. Nothing wrong with his eyesight that a good pair of glasses couldn’t fix.

  Nothing wrong with the rest of him, either. He’d outlived his enemies, buried a nagging wife, and his digestion worked just fine. The little aide that came to see him three days a week was a pip. His relatives didn’t bother him much, except to plague him on his birthday. And that was more about wondering if he was ready to give up the lake house than a bid for his attention.

  Which was why they’d showed up today, wasn’t it?

  He turned his head and glared at his son, Porter. The kid was what—sixty-three now? Maybe even sixty-five? He’d never been good with crap like birthdays. And look at the flab on him. They should have named him Portly.

  Jeeter giggled, smacked his own flat belly, then thumped his cane on the porch floor, narrowly missing Porter’s tasseled loafers. “Buzzards,” he said with sudden ferocity.

  Porter’s wife Melbourne leaned forward in her chair and peered up at the sky. “Buzzards, Dad? Where?”

  Truth to tell, Melbourne scared Jeeter a little. She was more bullheaded than a decent woman ought to be, and although he knew for a fact she was drawing her Social Security check, she didn’t look much more than forty-five. Unnatural. Unnatural and bullheaded. Porter sure’d gotten himself a prize.

  “You see any buzzards up there?” Jeeter demanded. “Me, neither. But there’s a couple of them buzzarding around me, you bet your life.”

  Porter Swenson rolled his eyes at his wife. Melbourne acknowledged the look with a slight nod, then leaned forward and placed a solicitous hand on Jeeter’s knee. “You okay, there, Dad?”

  Jeeter looked at his watch. It was a thirty-one-year-old Rolex and it ran like he did; a little hitch in its git-along now and then, but mostly worked just fine. “They gave me this watch the day I retired.”

  Melbourne Swenson added an extra layer of warm sincerity to her voice. “So they did, Dad.”

  “‘To Alfred Swenson: In recognition of forty years dedicated service.’ Says so right on the back.”

  Melbourne couldn’t resist an overly patient sigh. She’d heard it all before. Over and over again. She adjusted the tasteful little sapphire stud in her right ear. “Yes, indeedy.”

  “Forty years chasing buzzards in the fraud unit of the New York state controller. Which means I know a buzzard when I see one.” He hefted the cane and narrowed his eyes at his son. “And that’s what I’m looking at now. Buzzards.”

  Porter moved his feet out of the way. “We’re just very concerned for your welfare, Dad. The lake house is too isolated. It’s miles from anywhere…”

  “Red Tail Winery’s just down the road. Got busloads of tourists running up and down Route 14 all hours of the day and night. Seneca’s a popular spot. And that Red Tail wine’s damn delicious.”

  “…That offers any kind of emergency services. And there’s no denying the fact that you’re getting on a bit…”

  “…Which makes this place worth roughly twenty-two times what your mother and I paid for it in 1986…”

  “…And we want you to make that century mark!”

  “A hundred, hell.” Jeeter grinned at Melbourne. “Article in the Wall Street Journal this morning said the oldest living American’s a hundred and seventeen. Figure I can break that record if I put my mind to it.”

  Melbourne’s answering smile was stiff. She removed her hand from his knee. “We’re just very, very worried that something will happen in the middle of the night…”

  “Now I’ll tell you something about the middle of the night. Best part of being old is getting up at two in the morning.” Jeeter waved at the lake. “Seneca Lake by moonlight is something to see.”

  “…A fall, for example.” Melbourne blinked her heavily mascara’d eyelashes in an effort to summon a few tears. “And there you’d be…all alone. In pain. Perhaps dying. I just can’t stand to think of it, Dad. I lie awake nights worrying about it.”

  “If you’re up at night, you ought to get up and do something useful,” Jeeter said. “Surveillance, that’d be useful. Hike on out to that big backyard of yours in Rochester. You’d be pretty amazed at what you can see along of two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Surveillance,” Melbourne repeated. “Right.”

  For a long moment, all three of them were silent. The lake sparkled in the mellow August sunshine. The remains of Jeeter’s ninety-eighth birthday cake sat on the teak picnic table. Melbourne was dressed for the country in white linen trousers and a blue linen camp shirt that hid that frustrating roll of flesh at her waist. Porter had on worn chinos (Melbourne forbade shorts) and an Izod golf shirt. Jeeter himself wore shorts, a Cornell University sweatshirt so old it was transparent in places, and a John Deere tractor billed hat.

  Anyone boating by would figure them for a nice happy family celebrating the summer afternoon at their lake stone estate.

  Estate.

  Jeeter huffed to himself. Well, maybe estate was too pretentious a word for the comfortable old house. But the price that pushy little Realtor had given him just last week would have bought an estate in his day. And that’s what the greedy buzzards sitting on his porch, in his rocking chairs, after stuffing themselves with his cake, were after. His estate. His retirement fund. His savings. Dammit.

  Porter broke the silence. “Surveillance? What do you mean exactly?” He and his wife exchanged more meaningful looks. Jeeter was getting pretty sick of the conversation they weren’t having, as opposed to the one they were. “If Melly did venture out into
the backyard on a summer’s night, what do you think she’d see, Dad?”

  Jeeter shrugged. He never should have sent the kid to law school. Once Porter had graduated, he’d starting talking like he was running for office and he hadn’t shut up since. “You never know,” he said mysteriously. “You just never know. You know Seneca’s the deepest lake in the state. Close to nine hundred feet. That’d bury a sixty-story skyscraper so you’d never know it’s there. Fact is, along of a summer’s night, you just might run across something like the Loch Ness Monster.”

  Melbourne and Porter digested this for a moment. “Is that so,” Porter said.

  “Damn straight.” Jeeter clamped his lips shut tight. They weren’t getting another word out of him, not if they fell flat on the porch deck and begged like a dog.

  ~

  It took another twenty minutes to get the story out of him. And after they did, the younger Swensons couldn’t suppress the faintest glow of satisfaction as they made their farewells.

  ~

  “Oh dear Lord.” Melbourne sank into the Lexus’s passenger seat with a sigh and tossed her straw tote in the back. “I knew it. I just knew it. He’s losing it, Porter. We’ve just got to get him out of there and into somewhere safe.” The look of concern on her face wouldn’t have fooled Jeeter for a minute.

  “‘Not so much like a reptile as a seal,’” Porter quoted his father. “Swimming along the shoreline, crawling up the rocks. The Seneca Lake Monster. And he’s thinking about calling the papers.” He put the Lexus into gear and drove slowly down the cobbled drive. The lake house was a good half mile off Route 14, a road that ran for eighteen miles up Seneca Lake’s west side. Porter signaled to pull onto 14. They drove without speaking until they passed the Seneca Shores winery.

  Porter cleared his throat. “We’ve been fortunate so far. Very, very fortunate. Dad’s physical health is splendid. Splendid. But that can’t last forever. And as you know, a decent nursing home’s going to run six thousand, seven thousand dollars a month. His estate’s not going to handle that kind of expense, not without us kicking in. He’s got Medicare, which doesn’t cover long-term care, and so he’s going to have to pay for it himself.”