Scoop! Read online

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR A Vicky Hill Exclusive!

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

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  PRAISE FOR A Vicky Hill Exclusive!

  “A dizzy romp with an endearingly gullible investigator and a plot twist on every page.”

  —Ann Purser, author of the Lois Meade Mysteries

  “A Vicky Hill Exclusive! is a smashing debut! Yes, Vicky is more Lucy Ricardo than Christiane Amanpour, but CNN’s loss is Gipping-on-Plym’s gain—and ours. Hannah Dennison writes a delightfully clever mystery with wit and warmth to spare. May the dead bodies abound.”

  —Harley Jane Kozak, award-winning author of Dead Ex, Dating Dead Men, and Dating Is Murder

  “Hannah Dennison rings up a laugh a page in A Vicky Hill Exclusive!, a racy romp and hilarious debut.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of the Henrie O Mysteries

  “Vicky Hill is a delightful heroine who would be right at home in a Jane Austen novel. When author Hannah Dennison plunges her into an Agatha Christie-like plot, she gives readers the best of both worlds.”

  —Linda Palmer, author of the Daytime Mysteries

  Dedication

  For my husband, Jason

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to extend my heartfelt gratitude to:

  Claire Carmichael: instructor-extraordinaire and treasured friend. Vicky Hill would not be who she is without your brilliant recommendations.

  Mark Davis: chairman of Davis Elen advertising and my incredible boss of ten years. Your support is incalculable.

  Linda Palmer: fellow author and kindred spirit who continues to be a wonderful friend and selfless mentor.

  Camela Galano: your generosity is beyond measure.

  The Dennison and Elen clans: there aren’t enough words in the Oxford Dictionary to say how much I appreciate and value your continued enthusiasm for my endeavors. And of course, my daughter, Sarah: for her glorious sense of humor and her undying support from day one.

  Jeff Storey: thank you for building my amazing website, www.hannahdennison.com.

  Steve and Vicki Berman of West Coast Family Services: thank you for being a brilliant resource on the intricacies and intrigues of funeral care.

  John Vickery: secretary of the Blackdown Hills Hedge Association in the West Country.

  Betsy Amster: my remarkable agent, whose candor and no-nonsense approach provide me with valuable counsel.

  Natalee Rosenstein: senior executive editor of Berkley Prime Crime. It is truly a delight and a privilege to be under your wing. And to Michelle Vega: assistant editor. Thank you for everything you do.

  And lastly, my most wonderful husband, Jason, who continues to amaze me with his endless patience, sweetness and infinite support—you will always be my hero.

  Copyright

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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.

  SCOOP!

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

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Hannah Dennison.

  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.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-01696-1

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  1

  It’s funny how much I used to resent writing obits for the Gipping Gazette. After all, it was a funeral that led to my first Vicky Hill exclusive. Now, with more than three hundred bodies under my belt—so to speak—I believed I had developed a nose for a fishy death.

  Take last Thursday’s freak accident. Sixty-five-year-old Gordon Berry had been tragically electrocuted while cutting a roadside hedgebank at Ponsford Cross. Apparently, his tractor-mounted articulated flail struck an overhead power line.

  The coroner had returned a verdict of accidental death, and usually, I saw no reason to doubt it had there not been a brand-new warning sign saying LOOK OUT! LOOK Up! Furthermore, Gordon Berry was one of Gipping’s champion hedge cutters and not the kind of man to make such an elementary mistake.

  Armed with these potentially incriminating facts, I set off for the service with a spring in my step. There were bound to be tons of prospective suspects attending and I couldn’t think of a better place to start my investigation.

  The chosen venue was Gipping Methodist Church just off Water Rise and close to the River Plym. Formerly a Quaker meetinghouse, it was a dark brick, rectangular building with a pitched roof. The front entrance was set back only a few yards from the street pavement with a narrow path leading to the cemetery behind, giving excellent views of the river and distant moors.

  Twelve mourners were already there, huddl
ing outside the church door, stamping their feet to keep out the March cold. I thought back to my first few funerals and how I would panic if I weren’t at my post at least fifteen minutes before the church organist. Now, I knew absolutely everybody on the funeral circuit and only had to ask the identities of out of towners.

  I jotted down the names; they were the usual suspects. Since Gordon Berry had been such a well-known figure in the farming community, a splashy “do” was to follow at Plym Valley Farmers Social Club in Bridge Street.

  “Good morning,” said a familiar voice.

  I did a double take at the plump, dowdy young woman standing in front of me. She was dressed in a black suit, thick black stockings, and a black cloche hat and veil pulled firmly down over her face. I’d wondered why The Copper Kettle had been closed this morning, and now I knew.

  “Topaz Potter!” I cried. “I hardly recognized you. Have you put on weight since yesterday?”

  “Ethel Turberville-Spat. One t,” she said coldly. Then, glancing over her shoulder to make sure we wouldn’t be overheard, she added, “I’m in disguise, silly. It’s padding.”

  It was the first time I’d ever seen Topaz at a funeral. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the café?”

  “Berry lived in one of the estate cottages,” she said. “I’m paying my respects.”

  “He died on your land?”

  “Apparently, yes.” Topaz lowered her voice and looked over her shoulder, again. “I need to talk to you,” she whispered. “It’s frightfully important. But not here.”

  “It’s about Berry, isn’t it?” I said with growing excitement. I knew it! I knew there was something fishy about his death.

  “Come to The Kettle at four.” She gave a little nod, said, “Excuse me,” and strode into the church. Farmers doffed their caps. One lady curtsied. I marveled that no one recognized the mop-capped young woman from the local café. The deference these country folk showed her made me wonder if I really knew Topaz at all. I was so used to seeing her as a waitress, I tended to forget she’d inherited The Grange from her aunt and was now lady of the manor.

  As a steady flow of mourners filed past me into the church, I caught snatches of conversation: “Mary’s strong … he knew how to dig up a bank … sheep’s got worms …” and, “I bet the bloody jumpers did him in.”

  My stomach flipped over at that last remark. I spun round to see the large form of Jack B. Webster from Brooke Farm, disappear into the church. Jack Webster was not only Gordon Berry’s neighbor, but also an avid cutter himself and was bound to have some theories to share. I hadn’t considered the ongoing feud between the Gipping hedge-cutters and hedge-jumpers, but I certainly would now.

  Although the little-known sport of hedge-jumping had been around for years, it was only now growing in popularity. This was partly due to the promotional efforts of celebrity hedge-jumper Dave Randall—one of my ex-beaus—and the exciting news that Great Britain was to host the Olympics in 2012. Dave Randall had been campaigning tirelessly to get hedge-jumping accepted as an Olympic sport.

  I often thought back to that night with Dave when I’d seriously contemplated a night of hot sex, which luckily came to nothing. We hadn’t seen each other since I’d saved his life and frankly, I wasn’t bothered. Dad said it often happens on the job—moments of intimate bonding in times of terror then, when it’s all over, you find you have nothing in common.

  A chorus of laughter interrupted my visit down memory lane. It seemed inappropriate given the circumstances. I took a few steps back and peered down the narrow path leading to the cemetery.

  Dressed in a black wool coat, tall, silver-haired, Dr. Frost appeared to be holding court with four female mourners who were whispering and giggling. I wondered if my colleague, and rival, Annabel Lake—“I don’t do funerals”—knew her boyfriend was such a lothario.

  One buxom woman, sixty-five-year-old Mrs. Florence J. Tossell, was literally pawing at his jacket. Another pensioner, the rotund Mrs. Ruth M. Reeves, slipped something into her handbag—a telephone number, perhaps—and then scurried past me with mischief written all over her face. I watched her rejoin her husband, John L. Reeves, who sported a spectacular walrus mustache, at the front gate. I couldn’t hear what he said but he grinned and she actually looked over and winked at me!

  Coming from the industrial north, I just didn’t understand these country ways. Women, openly flirting in front of their husbands—and at a funeral!

  Hawk-nosed Reverend Whittler swept to my side to await the funeral cortege. Seeing my look of surprise, he said, “I’m stepping in for Pastor Green. He’s snowmobiling in Utah. I’m thinking of a trip myself. Are you joining us for the service today?”

  I was about to say no—I preferred my own method of communicating with the Lord—when my heart plunged into my boots.

  Steve Burrows was turning into the church gate and I had absolutely no escape.

  Steve was Gipping Hospital’s paramedic, and we first met at the scene of a fatal motorbike accident and, ever since then, he’d become infatuated and oblivious to my lack of interest. I’d been bombarded with flowers, cards, and e-mails, just begging for “one chance.”

  Even though I tried to hide behind Whittler’s cassock, Steve saw me.

  His face lit up. “Vicky!” he cried, waving frantically, “Save me a seat!”

  Even though it seemed everyone heard, I pretended I hadn’t and, with a hurried “See you in there, Vicar,” darted inside.

  The church was filling up quickly. I saw a packed pew with an empty seat behind a pillar. Ignoring the cries of pain as I trampled on toes, and “you won’t see anything behind there, dear,” I scrambled over laps to the far end and dropped to my knees in fervent prayer.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Steve stop at the end of my pew, trying to attract my attention—“Psst! Psst!”—before being swept along by a tidal wave of ladies from the Women’s Institute.

  I felt a pang of guilt. With his pink cherubic face, sparkling blue eyes, and closely cropped blond crew cut, Steve wasn’t unattractive. Even the fact that he weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds didn’t really bother me—Dad was often described as a “big man.” Steve wasn’t my type and I resented the way he refused to take no for an answer.

  I sat back in my seat. It was true. I couldn’t see anything in front of me, but I could certainly smell something: boiled cabbages.

  Looking over my shoulder, I was surprised to see Barry Fir, owner of the organic pick-your-own shop, and his four children holding scarves over their noses. Behind them, alone in the last row, sat Ronnie Binns.

  Another person to avoid, I thought wearily. Recently promoted to Chief Garbologist under Gipping County Council’s restructuring program, Ronnie had taken the new EU recycling rules to heart. In fact, he’d become positively tyrannical and was slapping fines and threatening court orders to all and sundry.

  Over the past few weeks, Ronnie had been begging the Gazette to run a recycling competition and naturally, the task of organizing it fell to yours truly. Catching my eye, Ronnie went through an intricate mime that, to my relief, seemed to imply he had more dustbins to empty and that he’d call me later.

  As the organist played the opening chords of a farming favorite, “We Plow the Fields and Scatter,” hymn number two hundred and ninety from Hymns Ancient and Modern, New Standard, we all got to our feet and sang our hearts out.

  Slowly, the pallbearers and coffin drifted by, followed by the immediate family.

  I recognized rail-thin Mary F. Berry, the grieving widow, but was surprised to see her accompanied by Mrs. Eunice W. Pratt. Of course! She was Gordon Berry’s sister! Apart from Eunice Pratt sporting her trademark lavender-colored perm, the two women wore identical matching navy wool coats and wide-brimmed hats.

  Eunice Pratt was a born troublemaker. Even our sixty-something man-mad receptionist, Barbara Meadows, who usually liked everyone, made herself scarce whenever Eunice Pratt came to the office
brandishing one of the many petitions she insisted were destined for front-page publication. Eunice Pratt’s latest campaign was to ban floodlighting of buildings to reduce “energy use, carbon dioxide emissions, and light pollution.” She’d even written to the prime minister in number ten Downing Street.

  Unfortunately, Eunice Pratt’s eye caught mine as she passed by. Instead of the usual sneer I’d come to expect, she seemed worried and mouthed the words “I must speak with you.”

  It was at times like this I realized the importance of the country funeral. Here, among the living and the dead, pulsed the heart of the local community. These readers were my people. They looked to me to share their troubles as well as their joys.

  After a handful of eulogies it was time to go to the cemetery and from there on to the social club. Originally, I’d hoped to accompany Topaz, but she got all snooty about being seen talking to the press, claiming “her kind never fraternized with the papers,” which I thought was a bit rich, coming from Miss I-want-to-be-a-reporter. In fact, her la-di-dah attitude really bothered me. It was as if she was a different person. Dad was right when he said, “There’s them, and then there’s us.” Here, in Devon, the class system was very much alive.

  As everyone trooped out of the church chattering, “lovely service … nice hymns … hideous hat …” I fell to my knees once more, and hoped Steve wouldn’t loiter. No such luck. He waited patiently for me to finish. With a loud “Amen” I got to my feet and said, “Please don’t talk to me, I’m too upset.”

  Taking my arm, Steve led me to join the mourners at the graveside. A north wind whipped around the gravestones and sent hats skittering along the brick path. I couldn’t see Topaz. Having paid her respects, she must have slunk back to the café.