A Wrinkle in Thyme Read online

  A Wrinkle in Thyme

  Books by Sarah Fox

  The Literary Pub Mystery Series

  Wine and Punishment

  An Ale of Two Cities

  The Malt in Our Stars

  Claret and Present Danger

  The Pancake House Mystery Series

  The Crêpes of Wrath

  For Whom the Bread Rolls

  Of Spice and Men

  Yeast of Eden

  Crêpe Expectations

  Much Ado About Nutmeg

  A Room with a Roux

  A Wrinkle in Thyme

  The Music Lover’s Mystery Series

  Dead Ringer

  Death in A Major

  Deadly Overtures

  Table of Contents

  Books by Sarah Fox

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Recipes

  Acknowledgments

  Teaser Chapter

  Claret and Present Danger

  A Wrinkle in Thyme

  Sarah Fox

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: August 2021

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-1087-2 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-1087-0 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: August 2021

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-1089-6

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-1089-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  The new home of the Wildwood Cove Museum bustled with activity. As I entered through the back door, I heard voices murmuring off in the distance, muffled by the drone of the floor sander in use up on the second story. A hammer thudded out on the back porch, and something clattered to the floor down the hall. I took a quick step to the right when a teenaged volunteer ran past me, her blond ponytail swinging.

  Readjusting my grip on the heavy box in my arms, I entered a room to my left, nearly colliding with an empty dolly pushed by a man with dark hair. Like me, Frankie Zhou was volunteering his time to help move all of the museum’s artifacts, archives, and furniture from the small bungalow where it had been housed for years to its new location in this beautiful Victorian.

  Frankie mumbled his apologies as he scooted past me with the dolly. With the way ahead of me now clear, I crossed the room without further problems and set the box down next to several others lined up against the wall. I dusted off my hands and stretched my back as I surveyed the room. The dark color of the refinished wood floors contrasted nicely with the new coat of white paint on the walls. Deep shelving units had been installed the day before, waiting to hold the many boxes of archives currently sitting piled on the floor.

  A pleasant breeze drifted in through the open window, helping to dispel the smell of fresh paint that lingered in the house. A long-time resident of Wildwood Cove, Gwyneth McIvor, had bequeathed her home to the museum. Located in the heart of town, the house was a white, two-story Victorian with front and back porches and lots of character. A crew of volunteers, which included my husband, had spent many hours fixing up the place to ready it for its new life as a museum. Those volunteers were still adding some of the final touches, but the bulk of the work on the main floor had already been done. The second story, which would serve as meeting and storage space, was still a work in progress.

  This building was older than the bungalow that previously housed the museum, but the Victorian offered more space and more charm. The bungalow was cute, but the McIvor house practically oozed elegance and character from every nook and cranny. It had needed some TLC after Mrs. McIvor’s death, but the volunteers had restored its stately beauty.

  I paused for a moment by the window, drawing in a deep breath of fresh air. My stomach rumbled with hunger, reminding me that I shouldn’t dawdle if I wanted to get home and have dinner anytime soon. I headed for the door, stopping just in the nick of time as the dolly reappeared, its wheels missing my toes by mere inches. Frankie appeared next, pushing the dolly, which now had four file boxes stacked on it. Jane Fassbender followed right on his heels. She had a clipboard tucked under one arm, and her long, light brown hair was tied back in a loose braid. I didn’t know her exact age, but I guessed she was probably in her mid-thirties, like me.

  Jane was currently in charge of the Wildwood Cove Museum while its curator, Nancy Welch, was on an extended vacation, traveling for a year. It was a volunteer position for Jane, but she took it very seriously and had spent hours upon hours over the past weeks preparing for the move and coordinating the teams of volunteers.

  “Just stack those boxes next to the others,” she said to Frankie as he unloaded the dolly. “That’s the last of them.”

  My back and arms could have sighed with relief. I’d lost count of how many boxes I’d hauled from Frankie’s truck into the Victorian over the past couple of hours.

  Jane smiled at me. “Thanks so much for your help, Marley. You too, Frankie.”

  “My pleasure.” Frankie pushed his dark hair off his forehead and flashed a shy smile at Jane before heading out of the room with the dolly.

/>   “I’m glad I was able to help,” I said as Jane and I trailed after Frankie.

  He turned right, heading out the open back door, while we made our way toward the front of the old house, where two large rooms would soon display the museum’s artifacts. At the moment, everything was still boxed up.

  We paused in the foyer when a woman’s voice called out from behind us.

  “Hello? Jane?”

  We both turned at the sound.

  An elderly woman with perfectly coiffed silver hair stood framed in the back doorway. She wore a navy blue dress and held a silver-handled cane in one hand, though she didn’t appear to be leaning much weight on it.

  “Winnifred,” Jane greeted. “Come on in.”

  The woman entered the hallway and stopped to peek into the room where Frankie and I had stacked the last of the boxes.

  “I don’t want to get in the way,” Winnifred said after she’d turned her attention back to us, “but I couldn’t help myself. I had to come by to get a look at the transformation.”

  “You’re not in the way,” Jane assured her. “As you can see, it’s still a work in progress, but things are going well so far.”

  “I’ll say.” Winnifred came farther along the hall to join us in the spacious foyer. “The floors are beautiful.”

  “Dean’s done a good job.”

  Dean Vaccarino was the man Jane had hired to refinish the floors. He was working upstairs as we spoke. He wasn’t my favorite person, but he really had done a good job with the floors.

  “Marley,” Jane said to me, “have you met Mrs. Winnifred Woodcombe?”

  “I haven’t.” I offered my hand to the elderly woman. “Marley Collins. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Woodcombe.”

  Keeping a loose grip on her cane, Winnifred reached out with her free hand to clasp mine. “Likewise, my dear. Please, call me Winnifred. No need to stand on formality.” She eyed me more closely. “You’re the young woman who moved here from Seattle after you inherited the pancake house from Jimmy Coulson.”

  I smiled. “That’s right.”

  “Winnifred has lived here in Wildwood Cove her entire life,” Jane said. “She knows everyone and everything about this place.”

  Winnifred chuckled. “I’ve certainly had enough years to learn it all.”

  “I suppose sixty-five years is quite a long time,” Jane said with a smile.

  With another laugh, Winnifred patted Jane’s arm. “That’s so kind of you, dear. We both know my eightieth birthday isn’t all that far off.”

  “Still two years to go,” Jane said. She glanced around us. “Hopefully the museum will be in order long before then.”

  Winnifred patted her arm again. “I’m sure it will be. Do you mind if I wander around?”

  “Please, be my guest. Just watch your step. We’ve got boxes piled everywhere.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Winnifred assured her before venturing into the room to the left of the front entrance.

  Jane picked up a stack of files from the top of a pile of boxes. “I’d better put these in my office before I forget.”

  She started back down the hall, and I fell into step with her.

  “Winnifred donated money to cover the cost of the move,” Jane told me in a low voice.

  “That was good of her.”

  “She’s a good woman. Wild West Days was her idea. She’s a real champion of our local history, and she wants to find ways to get more people interested in it.”

  “I’m looking forward to the event, and I know lots of other people are too,” I said.

  Wild West Days would take place in four weeks. It was the first time Wildwood Cove was having the four-day festival, and it sounded like it would be a lot of fun. I’d heard there would be activities like gold panning, mechanical bull riding, and line dancing, as well as country music concerts and a stagecoach robbery re-enactment. The hope was that Wild West Days would kick off the summer season and draw in some early tourists. Judging by the buzz already around town, the event would have a good turnout.

  “Of course,” Jane said, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice, “not everyone involved in planning Wild West Days understands the importance of historical accuracy, but my hope is that Winnifred will have a good influence on the committee.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Fortunately, Jane didn’t seem to expect a response.

  As for Winnifred having an influence on the committee, I didn’t think that was far-fetched. Although I hadn’t met Winnifred before, I’d heard of her. The Woodcombe family had lived in Wildwood Cove since the town was founded. Winnifred was currently the oldest Woodcombe in the area, and I knew she was highly respected. She was involved in several local organizations and regularly donated to charities and other worthy causes.

  Jane dropped the files off in her office, and then we stepped out onto the back porch, where bright sunshine greeted us along with the scent of freshly cut grass and the hum of a motor. I smiled at the sight of my husband, Brett, guiding a lawnmower around the yard that was enclosed by a freshly painted white picket fence. When he spotted me, he sent a grin my way. After eight months of marriage, the sight of him could still take my breath away. I hoped that would never change.

  “Winnifred’s from one of the richest and oldest local families, but she never flaunts her wealth,” Jane continued, tugging my attention away from my husband. Her eyes narrowed. “Unlike some people.”

  I followed her unwelcoming gaze and spotted a man in an expensive suit climbing out of a red Ferrari convertible parked in the back lane. He hurried around the car and opened the back gate, holding it for a woman in a red dress and matching stilettos, with what looked like a designer handbag in the crook of her arm. As she headed our way, she pushed oversized sunglasses up to sit on top of her bleached blond hair. Sunlight glinted off her gold jewelry.

  I recognized the couple. I’d seen them around town once or twice, but I didn’t know much about them other than the fact that they owned Oldershaw Confections, a candy company that had made millions for the Oldershaw family. The company had started out locally over a hundred years ago and had since become a nation-wide success.

  “Jane, darling,” the woman trilled as she approached the back steps. “I’ve come to talk to you about the party.”

  “Heaven help me,” Jane said under her breath, the words barely loud enough for me to hear. Then she pasted on a smile that bore some resemblance to a pained grimace. “Evangeline, you don’t need to worry about the party. I’ve got everything under control.”

  Evangeline carefully navigated the steps and joined us on the porch. Her husband stayed down on the concrete walkway, his hands in his pockets as he casually surveyed the yard.

  “Nonsense.” Evangeline’s red painted lips stretched into a smile no more sincere than Jane’s. “Of course I’m going to worry about the party. It’s my money that’s paying for it, after all.” She crossed the porch to a wrought-iron patio set, running a finger along the arm of one chair to check for cleanliness. “Come,” she said, pulling the chair out from beneath the table. “Let’s get down to business.”

  With her face angled away from Evangeline, Jane rolled her eyes, but she obeyed the command and joined her at the table. Evangeline hadn’t even acknowledged my existence, and I didn’t expect that to change, so I gave Jane a discreet wave and descended the porch steps.

  Brett shut off the lawnmower, the grass all trimmed now. With the motor no longer rumbling, the yard would have been peaceful if not for Evangeline’s constant stream of chatter up on the porch.

  Her husband gave me a half-hearted smile when I reached the bottom of the steps.

  “Marley Collins.” I offered him my hand, determined to be more polite than his wife. “Are you Mr. Oldershaw?”

  He gave my hand a weak shake. “Hobbs, actually. Richard Hobbs. My wif
e is an Oldershaw. Well, Oldershaw-Hobbs now.”

  We both glanced up at the porch where his wife sat with Jane. While Evangeline talked nonstop, Jane sat stiffly, her mouth in a firm line as she nodded every so often.

  “You should see the dress I got for the party,” Evangeline was saying. “I bought it last week in New York. A Valentino, of course. My sister was with me at the fitting. She said I looked just like Grace Kelly.”

  “I thought you were here to organize the party, Ev,” Richard called, interrupting her chatter.

  “Yes, Richard,” his wife said with more than a hint of annoyance. “That’s exactly what we’re doing.”

  She resumed her chatter.

  Richard gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. “We’ll be here all day,” he muttered.

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” I told him. I hadn’t particularly warmed to him, but I figured he was probably right—he was going to be waiting a long time for his wife. “Just inside to the right.”

  Richard made a sound of acknowledgment and took the porch steps two at a time.

  Brett had already loaded the lawnmower into the back of the cube van he used for his lawn and garden business. Now he came along the path toward me, removing his work gloves and running a hand through his curly blond hair.

  “I’m all done here for the day,” he said. “Are you ready to get going?”

  I kissed him and tucked my arm through his, leading him toward the back gate. “Very, very much so.” I gave a subtle nod over my shoulder. “Do you know Evangeline and Richard?”

  “I know of them, but I’ve never officially met them.” Brett held the gate open for me. “They don’t spend a lot of their time here in Wildwood Cove, and they don’t much like rubbing elbows with anyone with a net worth of fewer than seven digits.”

  “But they grew up here?” I asked as we squeezed past the red Ferrari to get to Brett’s van.

  “Not exactly.” He unlocked the passenger door. “Evangeline’s family is from here originally, but my understanding is that she was raised mostly in New York and just came here for holidays.”