Fillet of Murder

A cold reception for a cold fish . . .

“Look, Mr. Turnbull—
Phil
,” Talia said, mimicking the familiar manner in which he'd addressed her, “Bea and Howie opened this restaurant in 1992. They're fully aware of the original concept, as you call it, but times have changed. This is the twenty-first century. We all have to grow—evolve, you might say.”

Turnbull's smile faded. For a man who'd been blessed with stunning good looks—wide-set blue eyes, perfectly sculpted nose, full lips—he had all the natural charm of a scorpion. “Are you implying, Ms. Marby, that I'm some sort of Neanderthal?”

“No, not at all.” Although, now that she thought about it—Talia blew out an exasperated breath. “Honestly, Mr. Turnbull, I don't understand your objection to the comic book store. They're all the rage these days. Think of it this way—it could bring a lot of new business to the arcade.”

“Business for
this
place, maybe.” His lips twisted in contempt. “But do you really think the kinds of people who shop at a comic book store are going to be interested in vintage lighting?”

Talia's patience had reached the end of its tether. “I don't know the answer to that, but right now Bea has a business to run, and it's my job to help her. So unless you're going to order some fish and chips, I'll have to ask you to leave.”

Turnbull shook his clipboard at her. “This is not over, Ms. Marby, not by a long shot.”

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

FILLET OF MURDER

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

Copyright © 2015 by Linda Reilly.

Penguin 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 to continue to publish books for every reader.

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) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15485-8

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2015

Cover illustration by Dan Craig.

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 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.

To my husband, Bernie, whose faith in my success has been my guiding light. I can't count the times you performed culinary magic in the kitchen while I was busy trying to create it on the page. I am truly blessed.

I want to express my deepest gratitude to my agent, Jessica Faust, who cheered me on from the beginning of this quest and never let me doubt myself. A big thank-you goes to Ellery Adams for taking a chance on me and introducing me to Jessica. Without the two of you, this book would not have been written.

A huge thank-you to my editor, Michelle Vega. Michelle, you are such a joy to work with, and I'm thrilled that you “get” my characters!

A shout-out to all the talented people at Berkley Prime Crime for their various contributions, and for such a fabulous cover.

A tip of the hat to Sophia Annas and Kelsey Dakoulas for willingly slogging through my first draft. Your insightful comments inspired me to make this a better mystery. And to Diane Rene, who supplied me with helpful tips on cooking when I needed them most!

I can't imagine having written this book without the support of the Guppies—an extraordinary online community of writers.

Last of all, hugs to Mom and Dad. You bestowed me with a lifetime of unconditional love and encouragement, and from that flowed my passion for books. A girl couldn't ask for two better parents.

“Don't do it, Bea. He's not worth it.” Talia Marby clamped her hand firmly around her employer's wrist, preventing Bea from pitching a chunk of fresh haddock at the man on the opposite side of the counter.

“But that wanker won't leave us alone, Talia!” Bea spoke as if the man weren't standing six feet away, glowering at them. “He comes in here nearly every day to harangue me, and he's gone to the hospital twice to bother Howie. I won't have it!”

“I know, and I agree,” Talia soothed, her fingers still locked around Bea's slender wrist. Bea was in such a state that she was afraid to let go. Afraid that the man with the reddish-gold hair and ice-cool glare brandishing a clipboard at them would end up with a fish in the face. “But you know we can't solve anything this way, right?”

Cheeks flushed, raven-tinted curls springing out from her petite head, Bea Lambert let out a noisy sigh. “Right,” she
grumbled. She lowered her hand and yielded to Talia's grasp, letting the haddock dangle from her fingers.

Talia rescued the fish with one hand and squeezed Bea's shoulder with the other. “Let me handle this,” she said, propelling Bea toward the opening next to the counter that separated the dining area from the kitchen of Lambert's Fish & Chips. “Whitnee should be here any minute. She can help you get the mushy peas ready. It's after eleven, so the lunch orders are going to start coming in.”

Bea turned and cast one last look at the man, her leaf green eyes shooting darts at him. “Bother Howie again and you'll be sorry, Turnbull.” She paused for effect and then tromped into the kitchen, vanishing into the small alcove that was hidden from view from the dining area.

Phil Turnbull, the man with the clipboard, pointed a finger at Talia. “You tell her I'm not finished with her. I just got in some new information about that comic book store and she needs to hear it whether she likes it or not!”

Standing as tall as her five-foot-two frame would allow, Talia speared Turnbull with the most threatening look she could muster. With her blond, pixie-style hair and small-boned physique—and wearing a blue apron with a grinning fish emblazoned across the front—she probably looked about as intimidating as her mom's cairn terrier. She was fed up, however, with Turnbull popping in almost daily to harass Bea, and would do whatever was necessary to defend her.

“You have nothing more to say, Mr. Turnbull. Bea and Howie have no objection to the comic book store coming to the arcade. Either you stop hounding them or they'll have to get a restraining order against you.” Talia was fairly sure Bea would never go for such a thing, but it was all she could think of at the moment to get rid of the pest.

Turnbull's demeanor did an abrupt one-eighty. He flashed a toothy grin that put Talia in mind of a hammerhead shark, and then spoke his next words in a lilting tone, as if trying to pacify a crazy person. “Ms. Marby—Talia—legal action will surely not be necessary. I'm simply trying to remind Bea and Howie of the original concept of the Wrensdale Arcade, and why a comic book store would be totally out of place in this charming, old-world environment. If we all apply pressure by signing this petition, the landlord will be forced to give in. He can't fight us all, can he?” The smile stayed pasted on, but his gaze took on a predatory gleam.

Talia stopped short of rolling her eyes at his sudden change in attitude. The man was such a phony!

Turnbull was the proprietor of Classic Radiance, the vintage lighting store that sat at the far end of the shopping plaza known as the Wrensdale Arcade, in the Berkshires. Designed to resemble an old English village, the arcade boasted six other shops, three on each side, with Lambert's Fish & Chips located on the southern side, between Sage & Seaweed and Jepson's Pottery.

The aroma of hot oil wafting from the kitchen reminded Talia that the eatery would soon be bustling with customers. Standing here, having this argument with Turnbull, was a nuisance she didn't have time for.

“Look, Mr. Turnbull—
Phil
,” Talia said, mimicking the familiar manner in which he'd addressed her, “Bea and Howie opened this restaurant in 1992. They're fully aware of the original concept, as you call it, but times have changed. This is the twenty-first century. We all have to grow—evolve, you might say.” She tilted her chin slightly to one side, a habit she'd adopted as a stubborn toddler.

Turnbull's smile faded. For a man who'd been blessed with
stunning good looks—wide-set blue eyes, perfectly sculpted nose, full lips—he had all the natural charm of a scorpion. “Are you implying, Ms. Marby, that I'm some sort of Neanderthal?”

“No, not at all.” Although, now that she thought about it—Talia blew out an exasperated breath. “Honestly, Mr. Turnbull, I don't understand your objection to the comic book store. They're all the rage these days. Think of it this way—it could bring a lot of new business to the arcade.”

“Business for
this
place, maybe.” His lips twisted in contempt. “But do you really think the kinds of people who shop at a comic book store are going to be interested in vintage lighting?”

Talia's patience had reached the end of its tether. “I don't know the answer to that, but right now Bea has a business to run, and it's my job to help her. So unless you're going to order some fish and chips, I'll have to ask you to leave.”

Turnbull shook his clipboard at her. “This is not over, Ms. Marby, not by a long shot. I'm not going to abandon this fight, not when I'm so close. A comic book store will ruin the arcade, and I don't intend to let that happen. That hippie at the pottery shop is the only other holdout, and he's about to cave. Your precious Lamberts will, too. Mark my words.” He pointed a manicured finger at her nose.

“Is that a threat, Mr. Turnbull?” Talia felt her temper rising, even as she kept her tone mild.

Turnbull's face reddened. “No, I didn't mean it that way. I just—”

“You'd best leave now,” Talia told him. Feeling a bit like the Ghost of Christmas Future, she raised her arm and pointed ominously at the door. “Today is Wednesday, and on Wednesdays, at approximately ten to twelve, the chief of police picks up his order of fish and chips. I'm sure he'll be
quite interested to hear about your campaign of harassment against Bea and Howie.”

“Fine,” he said, in a low growl, “but you tell your
boss
she hasn't heard the last of me.” Turning on his heel, he stomped toward the door and whipped it open. Before he could step out onto the cobblestone plaza, Bea's young employee, Whitnee Parker, rushed past him at only slightly under the speed of sound. The force sent Turnbull tottering backward. He managed to keep his balance, but his clipboard clattered to the blue-and-white tile floor.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! Are you all right?” Whitnee bent down to retrieve the clipboard. As she did so, two of the textbooks jammed into her shoulder tote slipped out and tumbled to the floor. Turnbull kicked one of the books aside and snatched up his clipboard before she could get to it.

“What's the matter with you?” His upper lip curled into a snarl. “Don't you ever look where you're going?”

“I . . . I'm so sorry. I was running late and I didn't—”

“Why are you always such a ditz, anyway?”

Whitnee's face crumpled. Her pale brown eyes grew watery as she stood there, frozen, unable to respond.

Talia plunked down the haddock she'd been holding and moved quickly around the side of the counter into the dining area. She snagged Whitnee's books off the floor and said to Turnbull, “Get out.”

Red-faced, Turnbull turned and stormed out onto the plaza, slamming the door behind him.

“Are you okay, Whitnee?” Talia slid a comforting arm around the young woman's shoulders.

Squashing away a tear with the heel of her hand, Whitnee gave a jerky nod. “Yeah, it's just . . . why did he have to be so mean? It wasn't like I was trying to knock him over!”

“I know. Of course you weren't.” Talia tucked the two textbooks back into Whitnee's tote. “He's not a nice man, so don't let him get to you, okay? He's not even a customer. I don't think he's ever bought so much as a cup of coffee here.” Talia knew that every person should be treated as a potential customer, but in Turnbull's case she made an exception.

Whitnee snuffled, and another tear fell onto her cheek. “Yeah, you're right. Jerks like that don't deserve the time of day, do they?” She forced her thin lips into a tepid smile. “I guess I better get into the kitchen, or Bea'll tan my hide. I'm already ten minutes late!”

Talia knew that Whitnee had recently turned twenty, but she found her to be a bit immature at times. Still, she couldn't help chuckling at the “tan my hide” comment. The tender-hearted Bea could barely bring herself to swat the occasional fly that found its way inside the eatery during the warmer months. She once spent the better part of an hour trying to persuade a persistent housefly to vacate the premises, a campaign that ended in a stalemate. Bea had just thrown up her arms in resignation when a customer strode in and out went the fly.

Talia stepped back around to the other side of the speckled aquamarine counter. With a groan, she stared at the poor haddock Bea had nearly lobbed at Turnbull. In retrospect, she almost wished she hadn't stopped her.

•   •   •

Talia swiped a napkin over the last traces of grease on her fingers, savoring the final mouthful of batter-coated, deep-fried haddock. Bea made her batter with a hint of lemon juice and a splash of malt vinegar, using a special recipe
she'd brought with her from the UK. The result was—to use a tired cliché—to die for.

“You know, of course, luvvy,” Bea said helpfully, “that the chief of police picks up his fish and chips on Fridays, not on Wednesdays.” The kindly twinkle was back in her eyes, and her voice had regained that darling lilt she'd carried across the Atlantic from Edenbridge, in the county of Kent in England.

“Okay, it was a tiny fib.” Talia grinned. “I couldn't think of any other way to get rid of that nuisance.” She tossed the napkin, along with her empty plate, into the waste can.

It was after two, and the midday lull had taken hold. As much as Talia enjoyed the frenzy and bustle of the lunch rush, she relished this time of the day, when she and Bea and Whitnee could take a much-needed break. More than anything, Talia loved reconnecting with Bea, who'd been like a second mother to her since she was a teenager.

Talia still had to give herself an occasional pinch to remember where she was. A mere two months ago, she was occupying a plush cube in the offices of Scobey & Haight, one of Boston's up-and-coming commercial real estate firms. She'd endured the job for the better part of a year when she finally gave her notice to the manager. Adam Scobey, a thin-lipped man with a greasy comb-over, had found the swell of Talia's chest more gratifying than the commissions she'd been contributing to the company coffers. Shortly after Labor Day, she e-mailed him a polite resignation. She suffered through the two-week notice period, and on the last day skipped out of her cube and never looked back.

Chet Matthews, her almost-fiancé at the time, was furious when she left the job she'd worked so hard to snag. It was
at Chet's urging that Talia had studied for the exam to become licensed as a commercial real estate broker. Prior to that, she'd been perfectly content working as a property manager for one of Boston's premier commercial landlords. But after acing the exam and jumping through all the necessary hoops, she'd landed the job Chet had pushed her to apply for. She knew within two months that she hated it, but she stuck it out for almost a year. Chet's refusal to support her decision to resign led her to a second, life-altering one: she ended their relationship.

“You're someplace else,” Bea said, breaking into her thoughts. She waved a hand in front of Talia's face.

Talia laughed. “You're right. I
was
someplace else. Someplace I don't want to be ever again.”

Bea nodded. “Then don't think about it anymore, luv.” She reached over and squeezed Talia's hand. “Listen, Tal, I know this job is just a stopover for you until you find your niche again. But these last five weeks . . . well, I don't know what I'd have done without you. It's been such a joy, such a relief, having you here again. Howie's been out of commission for so long now . . .” Bea shook her head and reached for a napkin to dab at her leaky eyes.

Talia felt herself welling up, too. Bea was so special, such a treasure. Howie Lambert, Bea's husband of thirty-seven years, was recovering from a knee operation that hadn't gone well. He was still in the hospital, fighting an infection, and Bea's stomach was in a constant knot from worry.

“I'm just glad I could help, Bea.”

Talia didn't want to tell her that she'd been posting her résumé online, hoping desperately to land a position as a property manager. Prior to working as a commercial real estate broker, she'd loved managing the rentals for one of
the gorgeously restored office buildings on Summer Street in Boston. Negotiating with tenants and fulfilling their rental needs was so much more rewarding than the sales grind. For Bea, the timing of Talia leaving her job in Boston had been a godsend.