Killer at the Cult Read online

  KILLER AT THE CULT

  Alison Golden

  Jamie Vougeot

  Contents

  FREE PREQUELS

  PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  REVERENTIAL RECIPES

  LOVELY LEMON TART

  PIOUS PLUM & ALMOND CRUMBLE

  REFORMED RHUBARB FLAN

  SOULFUL SCONES

  SPECIAL OFFER

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON SERIES

  THANK YOU

  ALSO BY ALISON GOLDEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KILLER AT THE CULT

  To get your free copy of Death at the Café, the prequel to the Reverend Annabelle Dixon series, plus two more books, updates about new releases, exclusive promotions, and other insider information, sign up for Alison Golden’s Insiders mailing list at:

  http://alisongolden.com/annabelle

  PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES

  “Another winner. Loved it. Can’t wait for the next one.”

  “I couldn't put it down!”

  “Best book yet, Alison. I'm not kidding. You did a heck of a job.”

  “I read it that night, and it was GREAT!”

  “Grab it and read it, my friends.”

  “A real page turner and a perfect cozy mystery.”

  “As a former village vicar this ticks the box for me.”

  “I enjoyed this book from the first line to the last page.”

  “Annabelle, with her great intuition, caring personality, yet imperfect judgment, is a wonderful main character.”

  “It's fun to grab a cup of tea and pretend I'm sitting in the vicarage discussing the latest mysteries with Annabelle while she polishes off the last of the cupcakes.”

  “Great book - love Reverend Annabelle Dixon and can't wait to read more of her books.”

  “Annabelle reminds me of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple.”

  “A perfect weekend read.”

  “Terrific cozy mystery!”

  “A wonderful read, delightful characters and if that's not enough the sinfully delicious recipes will have you coming back for more.”

  “Love the characters, the locations and the plots get twistier with each book.”

  “My own pastoral career has been pretty exciting, but I confess Annabelle has me beat!”

  “This new book rocks.”

  “Writer has such an imagination!”

  “Believable and quirky characters make it fun.”

  “This cozy series is a riot!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Annabelle smelled the sticky, sugary scent as it wafted over her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  To her left, slices of chocolate caramel shortcake lay piled in a mound the shape of a pyramid. Cherry Bakewells, their soft, white icing topped by a single, red glacé dot, stared back at her. A light brown, coffee sponge, its ganache filling oozing at the edges, stood smartly at attention, powdered sugar and walnuts elegantly sprinkled across its surface. Round lemon tarts lay like replica suns on a vintage blue and white plate, accented by dotted orange slices and bright green leaves, while the moistness of the neighboring sunken apple cake in which she could see the sugar crystals was apparent as it glinted in the sun.

  Annabelle had snagged a table at Flynn’s tea shop next to the window display, a decision she now realized hadn’t been her best.

  The sweets were imprisoned beneath clear glass domes, but when her nostrils weren’t being assailed, her eyes watered with the temptation she was desperately trying to hold at bay.

  She looked outside as she waited for the sweet aroma to pass. It was Saturday, and the tearoom was busy. She pressed her lips together and fingered a teaspoon as she waited for her tea to brew.

  Annabelle lifted the Union Jack cozy covering her teapot and, placing a forefinger on the lid, poured tea delicately into her china cup. She blew across the surface of the hot, almost orange liquid, making ripples in the surface. The warm, damp, steamy response made her nose tickle. She sighed and looked out of the window again, propping her elbows on the table and ignoring her mother’s admonishments that were bouncing around her head. Her hands cradled the elegant, eggshell blue cup decorated with yellow and red flowers. She took a sip. The taste made her smile as she thought of her father, a London cabbie, who after taking his first drink of tea after a hard night’s work on the streets of the city, would smack his lips and say, “Good cup of tea, that. Put hairs on yer chest.”

  It was a beautiful day. The sun shone. The villagers wore shorts and t-shirts. They were out in force, making the most of the gorgeous mid-June weather. It was market day, and the stalls were set up in the village square. Ernie Plumber, the greengrocer, was barking out prices. Colorful fruit and vegetables were laid out on his produce stall as they had been for decades. Veg lay to the right, fruit to the left; apples and cauliflowers at the back, strawberries, peas, and broad beans at the front. Annabelle doubted Mr. Plumber had changed the configuration of his stall in the twenty-five years he’d been working the market. And good for him, she thought, his customers knew just what to expect. Routine and stability were what the locals liked about their village.

  The Upton St. Mary Chapter of the Women’s Institute was an exception to that rule. Right next to the greengrocer’s stall, the WI had set out their homemade cakes and jars of honey and jam. They lay on a linen-covered table with pamphlets about the chapter’s speakers’ schedule splayed out in a neat fan next to them. Annabelle made a mental note to talk about that to the ladies manning the table. Given the precise arrangement of the leaflets, she knew from experience that no one would dare pick any of them up. No one would learn that Mr. Nancarrow from the undertakers would give a talk next month on how burial ashes could be transformed into jewelry or of the repeat outing planned for August to a pole dancing class in Plymouth.

  The earlier trip to the Twisted Butterfly had caused quite a stir among some in the village. A few of the women, headed by Philippa, her church secretary and housekeeper, had come to Annabelle to urge her to do something. They were a small yet vocal bunch, but they had left Annabelle’s cottage dissatisfied, her advice to think of it as an “extreme yoga class” buzzing in their ears.

  Veteran WI members, Mrs. Gates and Mrs. Polwerrin sat on stools behind their table nattering, interrupting their conversation only when elderly Mrs. Freneweth paused to show interest in their cakes. The WI ladies welcomed her, beaming at their prospective customer. They were proud of their wares and loved to show them off. Annabelle was confident that pleasantries would be exchanged, compliments about the cakes would be paid, surprise would be expressed over their relative inexpensiveness, money would be
exchanged, and the customer would eventually shuffle off, marveling at the bargain they’d just scored, and happily anticipating a lovely sit-down later with a slice of newly purchased cake and their beverage of choice.

  As she watched the scene playing out just as she had anticipated, the cake in question being a pale yellow Victoria sandwich, Annabelle’s mind wandered to Inspector Nicholls. Mike. He liked a jam-and-buttercream filling too.

  Annabelle’s table jolted forcefully, sloshing the tea in her cup. She quickly lifted her elbows from the table to steady her hands as china on the table tinkled.

  “Billy, watch what you’re doing! You nearly spilled the Vicar’s tea!” Mrs. Breville let out an exasperated sigh. “Sorry, Reverend,” she said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes simultaneously.

  Annabelle straightened the linen tablecloth. “It’s perfectly fine, Mrs. Breville. No harm done.”

  Annabelle regarded the cause of Jeannette Breville’s frustration carefully. “But what have you been doing with yourself, Billy?” The ten-year-old boy had a purple and black shiner, and a graze above his eyebrow. Both arms were in slings.

  “Ah, it’s nothing, Annabelle.”

  His mother nudged him. “It’s “Reverend” to you, Billy.”

  “Ah, Reverend, sorry. Took a tumble. From Big Boy.”

  “Who?”

  “Big Boy, the new pony at Tinsley’s.” Tinsley’s was the local riding school.

  “Gracious me, looks like it was a little more than a tumble, Billy.”

  “Nah, was my own fault. Didn’t grip with my knees hard enough.” Billy lifted one arm to scratch his face and Annabelle saw the plaster cast wrapped around his hand and wrist. “Fair bounced, I did. Dad always did say horses were dangerous.”

  “Really?”

  “Have a mind of their own, see? He’d prefer I take up motorbikes, when I’m older of course,” he added, “but that always makes Mum cry.”

  Annabelle stared at him nonplussed. She had a tendency to agree with Billy’s dad up to the part about the motorcycle. “Well, please be careful, Billy. We need you in one piece for the show, don’t forget, and your mum and dad need you for a lot longer than that!”

  She gave the boy a quick rub on his head, the only part of him she could find uninjured. Billy was to play King Herod in the village’s performance of the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors. Annabelle was directing.

  When Billy and his mother moved off, she returned her attention to the scene outside her window. The villagers who were milling around the market stalls had been joined by some strangers, two women Annabelle hadn’t seen before. They were handing out flowers, or trying to, anyway. The locals seemed to be employing various tactics to avoid the women. Eyes were downcast, backs were turned, mothers put protective hands on their children’s shoulders to guide them away even as the youngster’s stopped to stare. One villager even spoke to the two women angrily when they tried to press a flower on him, lifting his hand as though he had a flea in his ear.

  Annabelle frowned. The women didn’t seem unpleasant. Their faces were open and friendly. One of them wore a long, print skirt almost to the floor, a crinkled loose cotton top and flat, strappy sandals. The other was dressed in working clothes, a pair of sturdy cotton trousers and a plaid flannel shirt, warm for such a midsummer day. She topped it with a canvas jacket and a gardening belt full of pouches and pockets lay around her waist.

  Katie Flynn, the teashop’s owner, walked up to Annabelle’s table.

  “Is there anything else I can get you, Reverend? Any cake today?”

  Annabelle could still smell the sugar emanating from the display of cakes in the window to her left, but she tamped down the urge to indulge.

  “No, thank you, Katie,” she said patting her stomach. “I’m trying to be good.”

  Katie laughed. “You’re a vicar, Reverend. You can’t not be good.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I can be tempted by a good slice of Devil’s Food Cake as easily as anyone, as you well know. Katie, do you know who those people are? The ones with the flowers?” She pointed to the two women who were now talking to the ladies from the Women’s Institute, who for their part, were engaged in the very English dance of trying extremely hard not to be rude while obviously wishing they were a thousand miles away.

  “Oh, they’re the people from the big house outside the village. The one at the end of Lolly Lane, past Oakcombe Cottage and the Hamiltons.’”

  “What’re they doing? They seem to be handing out flowers and talking to people.”

  “Yeah, they do that. Or try to. They ask for money. Sometimes they set up a table to sell stuff. They put one up outside the newsagents last week, until Frank Hammett shooed them off. And they have some kind of paper they try to sell, too. I’m not sure they’re very successful. People around here aren’t into what they’re into.”

  Annabelle swiveled in her chair, her eyes wide. “And what’s that?”

  Katie shrugged. “Not too sure, meself. They’ve never come in here. I’d send them away if they did. I’m not having them bothering my customers. I just know they come in on market days and hang around.”

  “Hmm. Interesting.” Annabelle looked again at the WI women. The two strangers were still engaging them, but Mrs. Gates was standing now, pointing across the street. Mrs. Polwerrin was hard at work rearranging pamphlets that didn’t need rearranging.

  “What do I owe you?” Annabelle smiled at Katie and fished about in her cassock folds for some money.

  “It’s on the house, Vicar. Don’t trouble yourself, it was just a cup of tea. Come back and see us later in the week. You’re always welcome.”

  Katie cleared Annabelle’s table and disappeared into the kitchen at the back of the teashop. By this time, Annabelle’s fishing had transformed into a deep dive. Finally she wrestled a few coins onto the table. She left them as a tip. She brushed aside the hair that had fallen into her eyes and stood to walk out, bidding her fellow tea drinkers goodbye as she weaved her way carefully through tables laden with porcelain and hot, brown liquid. In her flowing cassock skirts, a busy tearoom was a potential disaster zone.

  When she reached the street, mercifully without incident, Annabelle looked around. It was close to midday, and the market was quieting down after the mid-morning rush. She caught sight of the two women, now talking to two men who were easily distinguishable from the villagers by their embroidered smocked shirts, knickerbockers, and scraped-back, tiny braided ponytails. No self-respecting Upton St. Mary villager would be seen in garb like that unless they were Morris Men.

  Annabelle pondered the idea that they might, indeed, be local folk dancers in traditional costume, but she couldn’t see any wooden sticks or bells, or an accordion for that matter. Pity, she thought. She enjoyed a good jig as much as the next person, although when they cracked their wooden batons together, it made her wince. One slip and someone could get a nasty bruise. She momentarily thought back to Billy Breville.

  As she regarded the group, something about the woman with the working clothes caught Annabelle’s eye. She squinted to peer closer. The woman was carrying a gray, white, and brown rabbit in one of her pockets. Annabelle recognized the breed. It was a small, lop-eared rabbit. She had had one as a pet when she was a girl. Its small head with its big, black eyes poked out of its canvas home, its nose bobbing up and down, its oversized bunny ears splayed out. Shrewdly or not, Annabelle couldn’t decide which, the rabbit sat at eye level with the children that passed and they noticed it immediately. Annabelle watched as a villager and her young daughter walked past the group and over to the teashop.

  “Mummy!”

  “Hmm?”

  “There was a rabbit in that lady’s pocket.”

  “Of course there was, Summer.”

  “No, there was, Mummy. I want to go and look.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “But M-u-m-m-y!”

  Flustered, the woman took the girl’s hand and p
ulled her along as her daughter continued to glance back the way she had come, unable to take her eye off the sight of the cute, winsome bunny. Annabelle’s heart hurt a little as she watched. She felt for both mother and daughter, their relationship disrupted by their competing urges.

  The church bells rang out, and Annabelle gathered herself. Bell-ringing practice. She needed to get home. She’d ask Philippa about these newcomers who were inspiring so much gossip, and perhaps, trouble. She was quite certain her church secretary would know all about them, probably too much. And Philippa would be only too pleased to share her opinion on the subject.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Annabelle shut the door to her cottage with a bang.

  “Philippa! Philippa!” she called. “Are you here?” The heavenly smell of freshly baked cupcakes drifting toward her from the kitchen announced the fact that Philippa was indeed there.

  The older woman’s face popped out from behind the back door. “Cooee, Reverend. Just doing some sweeping. Gardener man has been here doing the grass, and there’s cuttings all over the steps.”

  “Oh, well, never mind that. Finish what you’re doing, and I’ll put the kettle on. I want to chat to you about something.” Annabelle bustled about, putting the kettle on to boil and warming the teapot. She set a tray with cups and saucers, milk but no sugar because neither she nor Philippa took it in their tea any longer. They were both being “good.” The smell of the cupcakes, though, was a distraction. She opened the cupboard to get out some plates but closed it again and resolved to sit outside where the temptation would be less. More tea would help.