Isabel Puddles Abroad Read online

  Outstanding praise for M.V. Byrne and

  Meet Isabel Puddles!

  “I was very happy to meet Isabel Puddles and I’m sure readers will enjoy making her acquaintance, too. M.V. Byrne’s small-town sleuth with a big heart sees the possible in impossible, whether she’s cooking up a delicious pot roast or solving a devious crime.”

  —Leslie Meier, author of Easter Bonnet Murder

  “A charming debut, captivating cast, and

  many spells of laugh-out-loud humor.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “When you meet the delightfully witty and no-nonsense

  Isabel Puddles, you’ll never want her to leave.”

  —Lee Hollis, author of Poppy Harmon

  and the Backstabbing Bachelor

  “Fans of Garrison Keillor’s tales of

  Lake Wobegon will be enchanted.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “I’ve met Isabel Puddles and I love her. She’s a smart, funny AARPster who can whip up a mean pot roast while solving a diabolical murder. I eagerly turned the pages of this charming, action-packed whodunit. What a fun read!”

  —Laura Levine, author of Murder Gets a Makeover

  Books by M.V. Byrne

  MEET ISABEL PUDDLES

  ISABEL PUDDLES INVESTIGATES

  ISABEL PUDDLES ABROAD

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISABEL PUDDLES ABROAD

  M.V. BYRNE

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Tuppence’s Orange-Rhubarb Scones with Cardamom (aka “Duchess of Cornwall Scones”)

  Acknowledgments

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2022 by M.V. Byrne

  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.

  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.

  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.

  The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2836-4 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2835-7

  For Uncle R.J. with love and admiration for a life well

  lived . . . And to Roberta, Jennifer, Christopher, Rachel, and

  Ryan, who continue to teach me the importance of family,

  unconditional love, and the value (and necessity) of laughter.

  Chapter 1

  The first day of spring arrived in Isabel Puddles’s hometown of Gull Harbor, Michigan, with about a foot of snow on the ground and more on the way. But that wasn’t unusual. The weather along Lake Michigan didn’t pay much attention to the calendar, so Isabel never bothered putting her warm clothes away until she got her first mosquito bite. Only then could she be sure summer had arrived.

  Easter Sunday was approaching, so she was meeting her best friend, Frances, for breakfast at their usual breakfast haunt, the Land’s End, to discuss the menu for Easter dinner, although Isabel didn’t see that there was much to discuss. It’s Easter. You bake a ham, scallop some potatoes, devil some eggs, and call it a day, as far as she was concerned. But Frances had called the night before to say she wanted to “shake things up a little this year,” which made Isabel more than a little nervous. Frances had a true talent for baking, but cooking was, to be kind, a challenge. Unfortunately, her limited abilities on that front didn’t stop her from experimenting with dishes and techniques some trained chefs might shy away from. And when she did, things could go very Lucy Ricardo, very quickly. Her husband, Hank, was about as meat-and-potatoes as a man could be, so his wife’s forays into gourmet cooking were completely lost on him. In fact, he once accused her of deliberately sabotaging her overly ambitious culinary endeavors just so he would have to take her out to dinner after yet another of her epic fails. Knowing Frances as she did, Isabel thought Hank might be on to something with that theory.

  When it came to holiday menus, Isabel Puddles was a traditionalist. Forgoing ham at Easter was tantamount to skipping turkey on Thanksgiving. Frances’s pending Easter dinner “shake-up” brought back memories of the Thanksgiving her cousin Freddie decided he was going to “shake things up a little,” too, and deep-fry the turkey. Carol, his wife, begged him not to do it, but Freddie was on a mission. He had seen it on some cooking show and was sure it was going to revolutionize turkey preparation forever. Because it was a cold and rainy afternoon, he set up the operation in the garage, and in less than an hour he had nearly set the garage and the house on fire and turned a perfectly good turkey into something resembling a large charcoal briquette with legs. Luckily Carol had anticipated some such catastrophe and secretly put another bird in the oven, so Thanksgiving dinner proceeded as planned, although Freddie had to eat a little crow with his turkey that year.

  All Frances would say about the reasoning behind her plan for a shake-up was that she felt ham was overdone and that it was time to try something “new and different.” Again, not words you want to hear coming out of Frances Spitler’s mouth when the topic is meal planning. Isabel didn’t want to rain on her Easter parade, but she planned to lobby pretty hard to keep things simple and keep ham on the menu.

  When she was a girl, Isabel and her father drove out to Billy Bartles’s farm every year on Good Friday to pick up one of his succulent, maple-smoked hams for Easter dinner. She continued that tradition with her own kids until one year she went out to the Bartles farm to pick up her ham and made eye contact with one of his hogs on her way out to the smokehouse. Ham was off the menu that year, and she convinced her late husband, Carl, and the kids—Carly and Charlie—that going to Pizza Hut for Easter dinner would be a nice change of pace.

  A months-long pork moratorium in the Puddles household followed, involving a lot of turkey bacon for breakfast and fish for dinner. Charlie, a member of his high school debate team and a serious bacon enthusiast, finally called his mother out on what he referred to as selective reasoning. “We’re still killing and eating what were once living creatures. Fish, turkey, a pig . . . Can you please explain the difference?” he said sadly while holding up a limp piece of turkey bacon.

  “Fish and turkeys don’t have eyelashes. Once you’ve had Wilbur the pig bat his eyes at you on your way to
pick up his cousin’s maple-smoked rump, it changes things,” Charlie’s mother responded in her defense.

  By the following Easter her disturbing encounter at the farm had faded from memory, at least somewhat, but she did start having Mr. Bartles deliver his Easter hams to the Puddles household on Good Fridays to avoid any future guilt-provoking barnyard run-ins.

  Mr. Bartles was long dead, and those maple-smoked hams were a thing of the past, but Isabel was adamant that a baked ham should still be the cornerstone of any Easter dinner, this year and every year, so she walked into the Land’s End that morning determined to steer Frances away from a potential culinary calamity. But it turned out her Easter menu was not top of mind for Frances, who remained hidden behind her newspaper until Isabel sat down, and she collapsed the paper into her lap. “Harold Stover’s dead.”

  Whenever she picked up the morning newspaper, Frances turned to the obituaries the way some people might turn to the comics, and with about the same level of enthusiasm. She had somehow managed to turn longevity into a competition, and she liked to know where she stood at all times.

  “What do you mean, he’s dead?” a shocked Isabel asked.

  “I mean he’s no longer living,” Frances clarified.

  “But I just saw him at the bank a few days ago,” Isabel said, still stunned by the news. “We said hello and had a nice chat. He looked the picture of health!”

  “Well that picture faded,” Frances said casually.

  “But how?”

  “Doesn’t say.”

  “Had to be something very sudden. We would have heard if he’d been ill.” Isabel shook her head sadly. Harold Stover owned a local flooring company and was a well-known businessman in Kentwater County. He and Isabel had been in tenth-grade algebra together.

  Kayla arrived with coffee, flipped Isabel’s cup over onto its saucer and began to pour. “Morning, Izzy . . . So do you think Harold’s wife did him in?”

  Isabel’s jaw dropped open. “Where in the world did you come up with that?” She then followed Kayla’s eyes across the table to Frances. “Are you spreading that ridiculous rumor around, Frances Spitler?”

  “Have you met that woman? She’s as cold as they come. And, according to my sources, she’s having an affair with one of Harold’s employees,” Frances offered, as though cold-blooded premeditated murder were a foregone conclusion.

  “She’s not my favorite person,” Isabel admitted. “I did see her reduce a bag boy at the Kroger to tears recently because he gave her paper when she asked for plastic. But that doesn’t make her a murderer. You really shouldn’t be making such wild accusations with no basis in fact.”

  “Can’t let facts get in the way of a good story,” Frances replied with a chuckle.

  “You shouldn’t be making light of his death either. Poor Harold,” Isabel scolded.

  “He used to come in here from time to time. Such a nice man,” Kayla said sadly.

  Isabel was ready to lighten the mood. “Can we please talk about something more pleasant, like maybe the menu for Easter dinner? Wasn’t that the plan? Now, I assume I’m bringing my usual deviled eggs and banana pudding for dessert?”

  Frances reached into her purse and pulled out a paper clipping. “Yes, please. And here’s what I want to do for our main course.”

  Isabel took out her reading glasses and reached for the clipping. “Pheasant à l’orange? Seriously, Frances?”

  “Hank shot six of them last season and they’ve been out in my garage deep freezer ever since. I think out of respect for the birds the least we can do is eat them, don’t you?”

  “I agree with the sentiment. If you’re somebody who gets their kicks out of shooting such beautiful birds you should either eat them or give them to somebody who will. But not for Easter dinner.”

  “Why not? Too fancy? Maybe it’s time those hayseed in-laws of mine stepped outside the box.”

  “Depends what they’re stepping into, Frances. How many are coming for dinner?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Ten? Maybe twelve this year? They keep reproducing.”

  Isabel took a breath and shrugged. “I’ve never cooked pheasant. Or eaten it, for that matter. But they aren’t very big. With only six birds, that’s going to make for a very light supper.”

  “Perfect! Then maybe they won’t want to come back next year!”

  “I’m not going to tell you what to make for dinner, Frances. You’re the hostess. I’m just a guest. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to bring along a ham for backup.”

  “Not exactly a vote of confidence, but suit yourself, Iz,” Frances replied as she snatched back the clipping.

  After the breakfast rush was over, Kayla sat down with her two favorite customers and a freshly baked cinnamon roll, a Land’s End specialty. They all immediately began to pick at it, and after a bit of local news and gossip in between bites, Isabel decided it was time to make an important announcement. “So, girls . . . you remember my English friend, Teddy?” They both smiled and nodded. “And you remember he invited me to come and visit him in England?”

  Frances was all ears. “And?”

  “And I’ve decided to take him up on it. I’m going to jolly old England!” She let her big news settle while she tore off another piece of cinnamon roll, dunked it in her coffee, and popped it into her mouth.

  “By yourself ?” Frances asked with alarm.

  “Yes, by myself. Teddy said he’ll pick me up at the airport and give me the grand tour of London, then we’ll drive to his country house in Cornwall.”

  “Where’s Cornwall?” Kayla asked.

  “It’s in the southwest part of England. It’s supposed to be absolutely gorgeous, especially in the spring.”

  Frances looked concerned, which Isabel found puzzling. “What’s wrong? You’re the one who’s been promoting this relationship with Teddy. Which by the way is nothing more than a lovely friendship and I have every expectation will remain so. And if you’ll remember, you’re the one who introduced us in the first place, Frances! I thought you’d be happy to hear I was going.”

  Kayla was quick to chime in. “Well, I’m happy you’re going, Isabel. I think it’s very exciting! I’d love to see where Harry Potter’s from!” Isabel was pretty sure Kayla knew Harry Potter was a fictional character, but not a hundred percent.

  True to form, Frances had already formulated a strong opinion about Isabel’s trip abroad. “I do approve of you getting better acquainted with Teddy, but here in Gull Harbor, not off in some foreign country you know nothing about!”

  “I do speak the language, Frances.” Isabel found her concern touching, but also slightly annoying.

  “And what do we really know about this Teddy character anyway?” Frances said as she began building her case against the trip.

  “Oh, here we go . . . You mean other than him being a well-known mystery writer who is so devoted to the memory of his late wife that he wears her wedding band on a chain around his neck, has two corgis named Fred and Ginger, and loves to garden? I think we can safely assume he is not the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper.”

  “Ha! How do we know how his wife died? And who knows what he might have in store for you after he gets you alone in his country house.”

  “I don’t think country house requires air quotes, Frances. It’s a house he owns in the country and has for many years. I’ve seen pictures. It’s like something out of a storybook. I’ll be staying in the guest cottage, just FYI, and I’ll be staying in a hotel, alone, while we’re in London. I can assure you there is nothing untoward afoot. And I’m disappointed in you for suggesting that there would be. Teddy is a perfect gentleman.”

  Kayla was still eager to show her support for Isabel’s trip. “I only met Teddy the one time. Same day as you did, Isabel, but I thought he was absolutely charming.”

  Frances shook her head. “The best ones are always charming.”

  Isabel was almost afraid to ask. “The best what?”

  “Serial
killers . . . Let’s just hope tulip bulbs aren’t the only things he has buried in that garden of his.”

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  “And Ted Bundy was quite the gentleman. And a real charmer too, by the way. The man wrote poetry!” Frances was on a roll.

  Isabel rolled her eyes and took a sip of coffee. “You are too much.”

  “I’m worried about you, Iz, that’s all! You’re my dearest friend in the world and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go gallivanting off to Europe all by yourself.” Frances stopped to take a breath. “I think I should probably go with you.”

  Isabel laughed. “I’m too old to gallivant, Frances. I don’t think my knees could handle it. And you’re sweet to be concerned, but you needn’t be. I’m a big girl. And, not to be rude, but you weren’t invited.”

  “Have you told Carly and Charlie their mother is off to a country she’s never been to, to meet a man she barely knows, to stay in his country house?” Again with the air quotes.

  “Yes. And they are fully supportive. Charlie’s handling my travel arrangements, and Carly’s helping me pick out a new travel wardrobe online.”

  Frances let out a heavy sigh of defeat. “It just feels so far away.”

  “It is far away, Frances. But it’s not like I’m being dropped into the middle of the Amazon rain forest. It’s England. It’s where my great-grandfather Peabody came from!”

  “Well, I can see you’ve made up your mind, so I guess I’ll just drop it.” Isabel knew that was highly unlikely. “I still think I should chaperone, but I’m certainly not one to pry into your business.”