Bodice of Evidence

PRAISE FOR

Engaged in Murder

“Romance, great characters, and humor . . . [A] captivating read you can't put down.”

—Duffy Brown, national bestselling author of the Consignment Shop Mysteries

“Pepper Pomeroy is a hoot . . . I can't wait until the next book.”

—J. J. Cook, national bestselling author of the Sweet Pepper Fire Brigade Mysteries

“[Parra's] protagonist is a bit like Lucille Ball—a screwball—making Parra's mystery light and comedic.”

—
Library Journal

“[A] unique concept . . . Pepper Pomeroy [is] an absolute hoot . . . With a mystery that kept me guessing, Nancy J. Parra has proven that . . . she really is the master of writing the perfect first-in-a-new-series.
Engaged in Murder
pulled me right from the first chapter and I practically read this one in one sitting.”

—
Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

“Parra's latest is a delight . . . [A] quick read filled with relatable, fun characters and a light, breezy writing style . . . Enjoyable and worth reading.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Definitely a cozy mystery, but with some Hitchcockian overtones . . . with a few thrills and chills thrown in . . . Very satisfying.”

—
Fresh Fiction

PRAISE FOR THE BAKER'S TREAT MYSTERIES

Gluten for Punishment

“A mouthwatering debut with a plucky protagonist. Clever, original, and appealing, with gluten-free recipes to die for.”

—Carolyn Hart,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Death on Demand Mysteries

“Nancy J. Parra has whipped up a sweet treat that's sure to delight!”

—Peg Cochran, national bestselling author of the Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries

“A delightful heroine, cherry-filled plot twists, and cream-filled pastries. Could murder be any sweeter?”

—Connie Archer, national bestselling author of the Soup Lover's Mysteries

“A lively, sassy heroine and a perceptive and humorous look at small-town Kansas (the Wheat State)!”

—JoAnna Carl, national bestselling author of the Chocoholic Mysteries

“This baker's treat rises to the occasion. Whether you need to eat allergy-free or not, you'll devour every morsel.”

—Avery Aames, Agatha Award–winning author of the Cheese Shop Mysteries

“Lively characters enhance Parra's story, and the explosive ending . . . packs a real punch for this cozy. This series promises to be a real treat for readers.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“[A] winning recipe for success! As a delicious cozy mystery, it is filled with quirky characters, handsome romantic interests, and at least a baker's dozen of unusual happenings, capped with a twist at the end . . . [A] witty and wily read!”

—
Fresh Fiction

“An absolute delight . . .
Gluten for Punishment
is a dynamite mystery.”

—
Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Nancy J. Parra

Baker's Treat Mysteries

GLUTEN FOR PUNISHMENT

M
URDER GONE A-RYE

FLO
URLESS TO STOP HIM

Perfect Proposals Mysteries

ENGAGED IN MURDER

BO
DICE OF EVIDENCE

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

BODICE OF EVIDENCE

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

Copyright © 2015 by Julie Hyzy.

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.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13502-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2015

Cover illustration by Ben Perini.

Cover design by George Long.

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.

This book is dedicated to my popcorn sisters, Terry and Marilyn, fellow sisters in writing who have been with me from the very early days. Your love and support have been invaluable. Thank you for being a part of my life and my writer's journey.

Each book is a team effort and this one is no exception. I'd like to acknowledge a few people who have made this series possible. One of the best parts of this series is working in conjunction with Julie Hyzy, author of the
New York Times
bestselling White House Chef Mysteries. I enjoy bringing her plots to life. Special thanks to my Chicagoland friends who help me keep the details accurate. The book wouldn't be half as good without the support of my family and friends. I don't want to ever forget my wonderful editor, Michelle Vega; my agent, Paige Wheeler; and all the great people at Berkley Prime Crime. You all ROCK.

Isn't there some kind of unwritten rule that redheads and plaids go hand in hand? I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The green, blue, and yellow plaid, one-shouldered taffeta bridesmaid dress hung on my tall, beanpole-straight body. The picture of the model wearing the gown looked spectacular in comparison to the mirror image of me wearing the giant plaid bow on the single shoulder of the gown. My curly red hair stuck out at odd angles from the static caused by the taffeta.

So much for the understated elegance I imagined a proposal planner was supposed to have. Ever since I'd seen the movie
The Wedding Planner
, I'd imagined that I was a calm, cool, and elegant Jennifer Lopez. The image in the bridal salon mirror told me differently. Sigh.

“I don't understand.” My sister, Felicity, the bride-to-be, slumped into the chair next to me in the bridal shop. The pale cream puff of a dress she wore flew up and she batted at the skirt so that she could breathe. “This always looks so easy on those wedding dress reality shows. Oh, Pepper, when am I going to look in the mirror and feel like a bride?” My sister's pretty blue eyes welled with tears. Her golden hair settled about her in perfect disarray.

“This is the fourth bridal shop we've been to,” my mother, Abigail Pomeroy, said as she stood in front of us, tapping her toes and crossing her arms. “Didn't you go to that Pinterest thingy online and at least get some idea of what kind of dress you wanted?”

Mom could be a force to be reckoned with. She had created her own small business in our family home. Through grit and determination, she had built her music tutoring venture into a success. It was a tough thing to do in a neighborhood full of cops and firemen. In our Chicago suburb it was a point of pride to be a blue-collar man, like my dad. His plumbing business allowed him to come home for lunch most days. It never ceased to amaze me that my five-foot-two-inch-tall mother could send my father into the bathroom to wash his hands with a single look.

“I did.” Felicity's tone was close to a wail. “I've got fifty pins on my perfect wedding gown board.” She batted at the café au lait tulle in frustration. “How come when
I
try on the dresses, they don't look a thing like they do on Pinterest?”

“Well, you have to take into account your tiny frame,”
Mom said, and waved her hand as if sweeping from Felicity's head to her toes. “Those models are all around six feet tall. You, my dear, are five foot two. You should listen to the sales consultant. You need less tulle and more drape.”

“But I always have to go for less,” Felicity complained. “I can't wear bows or ruffles, and now, tulle and crinolines.”

“Your great-grandma has a lovely 1920s satin gown you could wear.” Mom's eyes narrowed as she started in on the same argument she'd been making for three weeks.

As Felicity's sister and maid of honor, I knew I had to jump in before my mother got any further and Felicity gave up in frustration. Luckily, I had a knack for calming tension in any room.

“Mom.” I glanced at my cell phone. “We've been here over an hour. You'd better go check on the parking meter. Remember you asked me to let you know when time got close.”

“Oh, right,” Mom said, and glanced at her watch. “Your father would kill me if I got another parking fine.” She looked at Felicity and held out her hands in a
stop
motion. “Don't move. We'll continue this discussion when I get back.” She picked her pocketbook off the tiny couch that sat in the small space of the bridal salon set up for family and friends.

“See you in a couple minutes,” Mom said. She scooted out the door as best she could in the three-inch heels she swore she had to wear in case she found the perfect mother-of-the-bride dress. Mom was a little heavy and had a thick waist. She told us to have on shapewear under our
clothes so that we would be ready to try on anything that caught our eye. Which was exactly nothing so far during the five-hour marathon of Felicity's dress day appointments.

I bit my lower lip and craned my neck to make sure Mom had left the building. Then I turned to my sister and held out my hand. “Come on. Let's get you out of that disaster.”

Felicity took my hand and let me pull her to her feet. The ugly cloud of tulle and lace made me glad I had long arms. The dress took up a good two feet of space in front of my sister. “Thanks,” Felicity said as she brushed the wayward material. “If I had to hear her talk about satin and slip dresses one more time, I was going to strangle her with tulle. Trust me, with this much fabric that would have been very easy.”

“Turn around,” I said. “I'll undo you.”

“So sorry I had to take that phone call,” the sales girl came rushing into the room. “It was a dress emergency. It seems the bride had spilled pink nail polish all down the front of her dress. Oh, Pepper, you look darling in plaid,” she lied smoothly. “Now, how are you doing, Felicity? Is this your dress?”

“No,” Felicity said, her shoulders sagging. “The design overwhelms me.”

The saleswoman, who was five foot seven and stood only a few inches shorter than me, put her hands on her hips. “I'm sorry, that's the last of our samples and your appointment time is nearly up. Let's get you out of that. Once you're dressed, I'll let you look through my custom lookbooks. Okay?” The saleswoman gathered up the
long, beige train and expertly handed it to me. “Hold this and don't let it touch the ground,” she stressed. “That's hand-dyed from the house of Asher. We wouldn't want anything to happen to it.”

The woman turned on the pointy four-inch heels of her black pumps. She wore a black pencil skirt and a tailored white top. Her brown hair was pulled back into a chic low ponytail. Her makeup was minimal and her fingernails perfectly groomed.

My nails, on the other hand, were a little rough. I tried not to snag them on the hand-dyed train as I followed awkwardly behind my sister. “This was supposed to be fun,” Felicity said.

“It is fun.” I tried to put on a brave face. “You looked very pretty in all of the gowns.”

The saleswoman turned and scowled at me. “Up, up, up!” She gestured with her hands and I lifted the tulle up over my shoulders. She marched us into the large dressing room that was filled with the remains of all the gowns Felicity had gone through.

The woman efficiently unbuttoned the two hundred cream-colored pearl buttons that ran down the back of the designer dress. After what felt like hours, she had all thirty yards of material carefully collected in her arms. “I'll wait for you outside.” She bared her teeth in a fake smile and hurried out the door as the sound of the phone ringing in the back room spurred her on.

“Oh, Pepper.” Felicity tugged her pale green sheath dress over her head and wiggled it into place. “I am sick
to death of people telling me how to dress for my size. I want a dramatic dress. I want to feel like a princess. I don't want to end up with some satin slip because Mom likes minimalism.”

“Well, at least she agreed you didn't have to wear Mom's prairie-style dress from the 70's. Although vintage is sort of in. . . .”

“Yes, thank goodness her cousin Herbert spilled wine down the front of it or I'd be hearing nothing but how 70's style is popular again.”

Felicity sighed long and hard and I could tell her enthusiasm and mood were failing fast, even with Mom momentarily out of the picture. “You know what? We should take a break and go get some coffee. Let me get out of this dress.” I reached under my arm to unzip the side zipper, which was designed to follow a woman's curves. That is if she had any.

“But we have an appointment at Bridal Dreams.” She dug inside her navy and burgundy purse for her cell phone. Pulling out the phone and tapping the screen to make it pop up, Felicity finished, “In twenty minutes.” She sighed and her shoulders slumped. I swear there was a sheen in her gorgeous blue eyes as she rubbed her forehead.

“Bridal Dreams will wait. You need a break. We would waste the entire appointment if you showed up this tired and defeated.” I hung the hideous bridesmaid dress on the padded hanger and pulled on my green sweater and jeans. My mother had been silently disapproving of my shopping outfit. She thought it was far too pedestrian for
bridal shopping. I had to admit wearing shapewear under jeans was not my favorite thing to do. Still I only had two types of dresses in my closet—both had been picked out by Bobby, so neither was appropriate for spending a day shopping with my mother.

Dodging any other of mom's comments about my choice of outfits, I had put the emphasis back on Felicity. “After all,” I had told my mom this morning. “It's Felicity's day and all eyes will be on her and the gowns she tries on.” Mom had frowned but had known I was right. No one even thought about bridesmaids and their dresses until the bridal gown was found.

I slipped on my brown shooties, put my arm through Facility's, and dragged her toward the door. “Let's go get Mom and then grab some coffee and one of those little gourmet pastries with the dark chocolate frosting that you like.”

“Oh, no.” Felicity shook her head. “I'm a bride. I need to watch what I eat.”

“Did you want to look at our custom lookbook?” the saleswoman asked as I dragged my sister to the door.

“Not today,” I said breezily. “We're a little worn out.”

“Okay,” the woman said, with disappointment at the loss of an hour's work in her voice. “Good luck finding what you're looking for.”

“Thanks for your help.” I waved a short good-bye. We were out the door into the weak sunlight of fall. My sister Felicity had been engaged to her fiancé, Warren, for roughly three months. Unlike me, Felicity had not been
planning her wedding day since she had gotten her first princess dress. In a classic twist of fate, my little sister had never spent a thought on her wedding day growing up. Whereas I had started planning the moment my mom had let me tear pictures out of magazines.

Now Felicity was engaged and I had nearly given up on men until Gage asked me to give him a chance. “There's Mom.” I steered my sister forward. Two blocks down, Mom was arguing with a meter patrol man. “Oh, boy, let's go rescue her before she drives up the fine or gets arrested.”

We hurried down the sidewalk, arm in arm. As we approached, I winced when my mother asked the patrolman what his mother's name was so she could call her out on the rude way her son acted.

“You saw me come out of Top Brides,” Mom argued, her face red with exertion. She flung her arm toward the store. “I was heading straight toward the meter when it ran out of money. I even waved and said, ‘Yoo-hoo!' There is no way you didn't hear me. I can be quite loud when necessary.”

“Hi, Mom, what's going on?” I asked, and smiled innocently at the young guy in the patrolman's uniform. “I'm sure this nice young man didn't purposely set out to give you a ticket. Isn't that right, Officer?”

His dark brown eyes glittered at me. There was a tight tic in his jaw. “The law clearly says that when a meter is empty and there is a car parked in the slot, then I need to give out a ticket. It doesn't matter if you were sleeping inside the car or coming down the sidewalk, as you
suggested. The ticket is in lieu of proper payment.” He looked down and scribbled on his pad.

“You are absolutely right, Officer,” I said, and put Felicity's arm through Mom's and waved for her to take Mom on down the street. “How much is the ticket?” I asked, and pulled my tan wallet out of my own black leather crossbody bag. “I'll pay it right now.”

“You'll have to go down to the county courthouse to make a payment,” he said, and barely looked up. “I'm not authorized to take payments.”

“Oh, come on, what is it? A twenty-dollar fine?” I riffled through my bills.

“It's a one-hundred-dollar fine.” He ripped the ticket off his pad and placed it under the passenger-side wiper blade. “Keep your money,” he said as I dug out the bills needed. “I don't take bribes.”

“I'm not trying to bribe you,” I said, and drew my eyebrows together in confusion. “I want to pay the meter and the ticket.”

“Go down to the courthouse,” he said as he walked over to his motorcycle. “There's a cashier there.” He got on and rode off without a look back.

I took the ticket off the car and stuffed it in my purse along with my wallet. Mom didn't need to see the ticket or know how much it was going to cost.

“I can't believe he gave me a ticket. He saw me coming. The meter had just flipped and he completely ignored my attempts to pay it.” Mom's full face was a little pink around the edges and she was hopping mad.

“I'll take care of it,” I said, and put my arms through Felicity's and Mom's. “Come on. Let's take a break. There's a sweet little coffee and pie shop three blocks from here.” I pulled them in the right direction.