Heaven Preserve Us: A Home Crafting Mystery (A Home Crafting Mystery) Read online

   

   

  PRAISE FOR LYE IN WAIT,

  THE FIRST HOME CRAFTING MYSTERY:

  *A finalist for the 2007 ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Award*

  "Say good-bye to whatever stereotypes of home crafters you may have, and welcome boutique soap-maker Sophie Mae Reynolds, the amateur sleuth-heroine in McRae's debuting Home Crafting Mystery series. The author, herself a soap maker, gives readers a new tweak on the cozy, complete with credibly written characters possessing enough appealing eccentricities to keep readers happy... many readers will cheer McRae's addition to the growing category of woman-centered mystery series."

  -Booklist

  "Lye in Wait is a wonderful start to a mystery series by a first-time author whose writing demonstrates a fluidity and polish more often seen in veteran authors. The pacing is perfect, so the story never gets bogged down. The characters are well developed; the plot stays focused on the investigation; the story threads are resolved nicely at the end. There's lots to like in Lye in Wait."

  -Cozy Library

  "McRae crafts strong characters [and] spins a credible, enjoyable plot."

  -Library journal

   

  "Lye in Wait is a fun addition to a popular genre... This enjoyable mystery contains plenty of twists and turns.. .The main characters are likeable, funny, and have believable lives."

  -Jaimie Bell, Curled up with a Good Book.com

  "Sophie is a breath of fresh air as a lovable amateur sleuth. She is so much fun as she works her way through her investigation. I look forward to reading many more adventures with Sophie ...I highly recommend this book."

  -Dawn Dowdle, Mysteryloverscorner.com

  "Ms. McRae has a unique talent for turning phrases in her wording, and Lye in Wait is a promising start to a new series."

  -Romance Reviews Today

  "From the moment Sophie Mae Reynolds discovers the body to the moment Detective Ambrose discovers hers, McRae's soapmaking sleuth kept me flipping pages and marveling at her tart tongue and gumption."

  -Jane Isenberg, author of the Bel Barrett Mystery Series

  "A fresh new voice, wry and cheeky, speaks in Cricket McRae's Lye in Wait, a clever mystery with a romantic twist and an ingenious resolution. Key characters... are drawn with impressive depth and humanity."

  -Larry Karp, author of First Do No Harm and the Thomas Purdue Mystery Series

   

  Heaven

  Preserve

  Us

   

  OTHER BOOKS BY CRICKET MCRAE

  Lye in Wait

  Midnight Ink, 2007

  FORTHCOMING BY CRICKET MCRAE

  Spin a Wicked Web

  Midnight Ink, 2009

   

  A'Woke (hafti zy'%steii

  Heaven

  Preserve

  Us

  Cricket McRae

  MIDNIGHT INK

  WOODBURY, MINNESOTA

   

  Heaven Preserve Us: A Home Crafting Mystery (c) 2008 by Cricket McRae. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition First Printing, 2008 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover photograph (c) 2007 Lisa Novak Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Publications Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data McRae, Cricket. Heaven preserve us : a home crafting mystery / Cricket McRae. - I st ed. P. cm. ISBN 978-0-7387-1122-5 1. Women artisans-Fiction. 2. Soap trade-Fiction. 3. Washington (State)Fiction. I. Title. PS3613.C58755H43 2008 813'.6-dc22 2008005188

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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. Midnight Ink Llewellyn Publications 2143 Wooddale Drive, Dept. 978-0-7387-1122-5 Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 USA www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

   

  For Kevin

   

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I'm grateful to so many people for their aid and support as I wrote this book: Jacky Sach, agent extraordinaire; all the fabulously helpful and efficient folks at Midnight Ink, including Barbara Moore, Connie Hill, Courtney Kish, Lisa Novak, and Donna Burch; my writing buddies Bob and Mark; Kevin for encouraging me even when I got snarky; my parents; and Mindy and Jody and everyone else, too many to name, who wanted to know what happens next.

   

  ONE

  "You DON'T HAVE TO fix any of the callers' problems; you just pass them on to someone else who can."

  I nodded. "Got it."

  "Okay, babe. I'll leave you to it. I'm going out back to have a smoke."

  Smiling through gritted teeth, I tried to ignore the acrid stench of cigarettes that permeated his clothes. Philip Heaven could spend the whole evening toasting his lungs in the alley if it meant I wouldn't have to listen to him call me "babe" one more time in that gravelly, know-it-all voice. I'd handle every incoming call to the Heaven House Helpline if I had to. I mean, how hard could it be?

  "Take your time," I said, aligning my list of referral numbers with the edge of the blotter and lacing my fingers together on top of the cheap laminate desktop. I glanced hopefully at the multiline phone.

   

  "Thanks, babe." He pointed his finger at me and made a guncocking sound with his tongue.

  Yuck. Thank God, the phone rang. I reached to answer it.

  After I referred a nice-but-scared-sounding lady to the next AA meeting in the basement of the Cadyville Catholic Church, the phone was silent for several minutes. The whooshing of tires across wet pavement on the street outside filtered into the spacious old building where I sat, a comfortable, lulling sound. I'd worked my way to forty-two across on the Seattle Times Tuesday crossword only to puzzle over a six-letter word for an exclamation of annoyance when the phone rang again. This time I gave a runaway boy an 800 number he could use to find a safe place to stay down in Seattle. I was pretty satisfied with the whole volunteer gig after that one and picked up the next call, feeling helpful as all getout.

  "I have the knife against my wrist. It shines in the light. And it's cold. I bet this thing is so sharp I won't even feel it slice through my skin."

  Uh oh.

  I struggled to remember what I was supposed to say, but Philip's meager training hadn't prepared me for anything like this. Where was he? He couldn't still be working on that cigarette, could he? After all, I hadn't really meant that about him hanging out in the alley all night. It was my first night manning the Helpline at Heaven House, and Philip Heaven was supposed to be mentoring me. Sheesh.

   

  So I said the only thing I could think of. "Wait!"

  "Why should I wait? I've been waiting my whole life to die."

  Oh, brother. A philosopher. And a melodramatic one at that. "So have I," I said.

  "What?"

  I looked at the caller ID, so I could jot it down on the call sheet. It read Private Call. Great.

  "I've been waiting my whole life to die, too," I said.

  "You have?"

  Yeah. Right along with all us other mortals.

  Hush, Sophie Mae. He may be a moron, but he sounds pretty serious.

  "But I'm not going to die today. And not tomorrow, either,
at least not if I get a vote in the matter," I said.

  Silence.

  "And neither should you. What's your name?"

  "It's ... just call me Allen."

  "Okay, Allen, listen, I'm going to-"

  "What's yours?"

  "What's my what?"

  "Your name."

  "Allen, I need you to write down a number. This is someone who knows how to help you." "

  I don't want another number. I want to talk to you. Tell me your name.

  "Sorry, it's against-"

  "I told you mine."

   

  No, you didn't, I thought, but stopped myself before I said it out loud. Just call me Allen? That's not how you tell someone your name, for Pete's sake.

  "Call me Jane."

  "No! I want your real name. Tell me."

  An icky feeling crawled up my spine. I put some steel in my voice. "Allen, take down this number: 555-2962. There's someone there who's trained in how to help you deal with your suicidal thoughts."

  "You're trying to foist me off on someone else? All I want to know is who I'm dealing with."

  My resolve wavered. It was against the rules of Heaven House to give out our names to the people who called the Helpline. For that matter, I shouldn't still be talking to this guy. Volunteers were armed with a long list of experts who dealt with all sorts of different problems, from teenaged runaways to unplanned pregnancy, depression to spousal abuse, alcoholism to ... suicide. If Philip had been honest enough to list Heaven House as a Help Referral Line in the phone book maybe this guy wouldn't be so angry about having to call someone else.

  Still. There was something about him that gave me the creeps.

  "I'm not going to tell you my real name. That's against the rules here. I'm here to help you find someone to talk to. Are you going to let me do that?"

  "No! All I want to know is who-"

  A finger came down on the disconnect button. I went from staring stupidly at the phone to staring stupidly up at Philip. His cousin, Jude Carmichael, stood slightly behind him. I hadn't heard either of them come in.

   

  "Should you have done that?" I finally managed.

  "I could hear him yelling. He's a crank," Philip said.

  I licked my lips, ambivalent about the intense relief I felt at the timely rescue. "But what if he really needed help?"

  Jude, his coat collar still turned up around his ears, shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. In the brief time I'd known him, I'd noticed that he did that a lot. When he spoke, I leaned closer so I could hear his soft voice.

  "Then he should have taken it. You don't have to put up with abuse, Sophie Mae. Philip should have told you. Sometimes people call in just to call in. They're lonely." He shuffled his feet again. I had the feeling he knew about lonely. "Or they're weirdos. Like this guy. His next call will probably be heavy breathing and obscene language. He's just bored."

  "Well, he better not call back here, then."

  Philip bent toward me. "Tell you what, babe. It's your first night. Your shift's almost over. Go ahead home."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah. It's fine. My boy here can start his overnight shift early."

  "That okay with you?" I asked Jude, since Philip hadn't bothered.

  Jude shrugged and tried a smile. "Sure. I forward the calls to my cell and keep it on my night stand. It hardly ever rings." He pulled a phone out of his pocket and started pushing buttons on the one on the desk.

  "I hope that guy didn't scare you off," Philip said.

  "No, I'll be back," I said. "Friday, right?"

   

  "That'll be great. We'll need your help. Friday night'll be hoppin'!" He made it sound like great fun, taking all those desperate phone calls from people in horrible situations.

  Woo hoo!

  So that was volunteer work, I thought as I drove home a little after nine. Not that Heaven House was likely to be the best example. Philip Heaven, grandson of the famous, or more accurately, infamous, Nathaniel Heaven, had started Heaven House in Cadyville over a year ago. Funded with money granted to the project by the foundation created after the old man's death, it was a nonprofit organization devoted to the community of Cadyville. What that meant in practical terms was yet to be seen.

  So far there was the helpline and a bunch of empty rooms. Philip had programs planned for teens and the elderly, for job training, for low-cost childcare and helping the housebound, and even for the environment. It was a vague hodgepodge of good intentions. I'd heard several months before that he'd brought in his cousin to help, but from what I could tell they needed more help than Jude could provide.

  The name was misleading, too, as most people assumed it was a religious organization. But Nathaniel had been a died-in-thewool agnostic, and while the foundation didn't actually ban religious activities altogether, it was clear in the informational packet provided to volunteers that the board would not grant funding to any activity that wasn't open to people of any and all denominations or belief systems.

   

  I pulled to the curb in front of the house I shared with Meghan Bly and her eleven-year-old daughter, Erin. Jumping out of my little Toyota pickup, I ran up the sidewalk. Rain spattered down for the twentieth day in a row, and the temperature hovered around fortytwo degrees-typical weather in the Pacific Northwest in February. The damp air smelled of rotting leaves and wood smoke.

  In the foyer I shook like a dog, scattering the stray drops I hadn't managed to avoid in my mad dash from the street. I waved at Meghan as I passed the doorway to the kitchen on my way to the stairs, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread.

  "Back in a sec," I called over my shoulder and climbed to the second floor.

  I poked my head into Erin's room. "How's it going?"

  Meghan's daughter sat in bed, wedged in on one side by a stuffed platypus and on the other by a big purple hippo. Brodie, Erin's aging Pembroke Welsh Corgi, lay on his back, legs splayed open as he slept by her feet. His right eye cracked open so he could peer at me upside down, then squeezed shut again. A textbook lay open on Erin's lap, and she looked up from scribbling on loose-leaf notepaper when I spoke. Her elfin features held pure disgust.

  "I hate math. I hate algebra, I hate geometry, and I plan on hating trigonometry and calculus as well." She squinted blue-gray eyes at me and shook her head of dark curls for emphasis.

  "Trig? When do you start that?" Could be next week for all I knew. She was in an advanced class and last year had blown by everything I'd retained from my English major's admittedly pitiful math education. But trig? In the fifth grade?

  "And proofs. I hate proofs, too."

   

  I had no idea what proofs were. I went in and looked at what she was working on. Drawn on the wide-ruled paper was a y-axis. And an x-axis. Lines connected some of the points in the grid. I still had no idea what proofs were.

  "Looks like a graph," I said. "What are you supposed to be proving?"

  The look she gave me was full of pity.

  "Okay. Well, I'm going to change my clothes and go talk to your mom. So, er, g'night."

  She sighed. "Goodnight, Sophie Mae."

  I smiled to myself as I went down the hallway to my room and changed into my flannel pjs. Erin was a drama queen. It would only get worse as she morphed from tween to teen, but at heart she was such a great kid I knew she'd make it through okay.

  I just hoped Meghan and I made it through okay, too.

   

  Two

  DOWNSTAIRS, I SLICED A hunk off the loaf cooling on the counter and grabbed a jar of peanut butter and some homemade raspberry freezer jam out of the fridge. Meghan raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow at me as I settled in at our butcher-block kitchen table and began slathering a thick layer of peanut butter on the warm bread.

  "What? I didn't eat dinner."

  "Okay," she said, and turned back to the lunch she was packing Erin for school. Meghan and Erin looked even more
alike than you'd expect from a mother and daughter, with identical glossy dark hair, delicate bone structure and short, slight frames. Meghan's eyes were a little brighter blue. I, on the other hand, had little in common with the Bly girls. My hair was straight and blonde and hung in a practical braid down my back; I'd been told my green eyes were pretty, and sometimes I believed it; I was a little taller, and a little heavier. But who wasn't? Meghan couldn't have weighed much more than a hundred pounds.

   

  I sighed at that thought, then noted with triumph there was already a peanut butter and jam sandwich on the counter beside Erin's lunch bag. Ha! If it was good enough for her kid, it was good enough for me.

  "Is Erin doing her math?" Meghan asked, completely unaware of my covetous feelings about her waistline.

  "Yep. And loudly hating every minute of it." "

  I don't care, as long as she's doing it. She's been so obsessed with studying for that spelling bee coming up that she's been neglecting it."

  "There are worse problems than your child avoiding her math homework because she's studying spelling words."

  Meghan threw me a glance over her shoulder and turned back to the big fat brownie she was encasing in cling wrap. "I know." She shrugged. "I think I'd feel better about the bee if she weren't doing it just because she's got a crush on Jonathan Bell."

  I eyed the brownie. "Who's he?"

  She turned around and rolled her eyes. "You are so clueless sometimes. He's been over here studying almost every day after school. They're spending too much time together."

  "Meghan, they're eleven."

  "Eleven is the new fifteen," she said.

  "I don't get that. Then how can twenty-six be the new twentyone, with kids living with their parents until they're practically middle-aged?"

  She cocked her head. "Good point. We should talk to someone about that."