Grave in the Garage (A Reverend Annabelle Dixon Cozy Mystery Book 4) Read online

  GRAVE IN THE GARAGE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  REVERENTIAL RECIPES

  MIRACULOUS ENGLISH MADELINES

  VENERABLE VICTORIA SANDWICH

  MARVELOUS MERINGUES

  FLAMING FLORENTINE SLICES

  SPECIAL OFFER

  REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON WILL RETURN…

  HORROR IN THE HIGHLANDS

  THANK YOU

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON SERIES

  ALSO BY ALISON GOLDEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  GRAVE IN THE GARAGE

  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 the Cozy Mysteries Insider mailing list at:

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  PRAISE FOR THE REVEREND ANNABELLE DIXON COZY MYSTERY SERIES

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

  “I couldn't put it down!”

  “4 thumbs up!!!”

  “It kept me up until 3am. I love it.”

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

  “This series keeps getting better and better.”

  “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.”

  “I LOVE ANNABELLE!”

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

  “This cozy series is a riot!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE USUAL SENSE of peace and tranquility that beset Annabelle whenever she walked around St. Mary’s centuries-old graveyard was not present today. She stepped slowly between the decrepit and leaning stones, her feet heavier than normal as they crunched against the dry leaves and patches of sodden, forlorn grass that even a cow would turn its nose up at. She shivered and pulled her black cassock tighter around her, not yet accustomed to the winter’s particularly sharp and sudden chilliness.

  Her time as Vicar at St. Mary’s Church had been a consistent, daily process of rejuvenation; spiritually, socially, and not least, architecturally. She had taken every care to ensure that the church was a wonderful and pleasing tribute to the Lord, from the luxurious velvet of the kneeling cushions to the inch-perfect preservation of its roof tiles. The leafy shrubs and flowering plants that ran all around the church had been carefully maintained and groomed into a flourishing yet orderly arrangement, a delightful array of colored blossoms in summer and a thick display of sculpted, earthy tones in winter. She had even varnished the mahogany pews and tenderly polished the stained glass windows herself.

  The graveyard, however, had remained an untouched thorn in her side. All its residents were a few generations dead, their descendants having long since moved away or been neglectful in the upkeep of their deceased relatives’ crumbling memories. Annabelle had ignored the cemetery during her persistent improvements and renovations to the church, partly because she was loathe to disrupt the timeworn dignity of the area, partly because she had always favored life and vitality over the solemnity of death. But now that the graveyard had taken on a wild, unrestrained, and almost ghoulish appearance, she could no longer delay addressing its deterioration.

  The gravestones were mostly covered in moss and trailing plants. Some of them so much so that even the names and dates carefully engraved on them once upon a time had become obscured. What must have formerly been a flat, manicured plot of land was now a bumpy mass of mud and weeds. Even the solid, sturdy, iron railings that fenced half the graveyard perimeter were rusted and weather-beaten all out of shape.

  The dark, brooding place had long since become a fearful place for children and a source of their horror stories. Now many grieving families preferred to lay the remains of their loved ones in the more attractive and well-maintained plots of a neighboring new town cemetery. There had not been a burial in the church grounds for over a year.

  Such a state of affairs was unacceptable to Annabelle. After both a church and town meeting, which nobody seemed to care a fraction about as much as Annabelle, the Reverend put her plan for revitalizing the graveyard to a vote. With a new sense of purpose and the villagers’ somewhat tepid approval, Annabelle was filled with enthusiasm and optimism as she prepared for yet another refreshing and invigorating project of improvement.

  Until she saw the costs.

  Fixing a graveyard was a task far too detailed and delicate for mere elbow grease, some hearty volunteers, and a few shovels. Annabelle would need the deftest green thumb to bring its wretched soil back to a state of well-nourished uniformity and the experience of a true craftsman to restore stones in such a bad state.

  She pulled a notepad and pencil out from beneath her cassock and intensely studied the figures once more, the wind tossing her hair against her brow as vigorously as her thoughts rushed about her mind.

  “If staring at the price made things cheaper,” came the warm, lively voice from behind her, “then I’d have a house on the south coast of Spain already. Tea, Vicar?”

  Annabelle spun around to see the always comforting sight of her friend and church bookkeeper, Philippa, carefully treading between the stones, a mug of steaming tea in her hand.

  “Oh yes, that’s just what I need.” Annabelle put her notepad away and took the mug.

  “You’ll catch your death of cold if you keep coming out here, Vicar. Why, you’re not even wearing your coat!”

  Annabelle sipped slowly from the mug and gazed out into the cemetery before musing, almost to herself, “We shall need another fundraiser.”

  “Reverend!” Philippa gasped as she hugged herself tightly against the wind. “We’ve already had three in the past month! The bake sale, the children’s talent show, and the raffle. That raffle prize was one of the best I’ve ever seen! A custom-made coat from Mrs. Shoreditch?! I’ve never seen such immaculate tailoring. I bought a dozen tickets myself!”

  “Then why are we still so short?” Annabelle replied with a tone of exasperation that Philippa knew not to take personally. “We raised more money when we held a flower sale for the path to be re-graveled! I just don’t understand it.”

  Philippa sighed and placed a hand on the tall Vicar’s shoulder. Annabelle turned, her face a mixture of confusion and desperation.

  “Are people tired of the church, Philippa?” Annabelle asked her friend, as if pleading for an answer. “Have they run out of sympathy for its causes? Maybe it’s the graveyard. Perhaps it’s too macabre for most of them to care about. Do they believe the childish tales of ghosts and goblins?”

  As the Vicar gazed at her, Philippa opened her mouth as if
to say something, before quickly closing it and putting a finger over her lips.

  “What?” Annabelle said, picking up on Philippa’s hesitation. “What is it?”

  With an unconvincing sigh of reluctance, Philippa spoke quietly, as if someone nearby might hear.

  “Now Vicar, you know I hate nothing more than gossip and rumor-mongering. If I have one sin, it’s that I’m harshly judgmental of those who engage in it…”

  “Go on,” Annabelle urged, stemming the impulse to roll her eyes. Philippa’s skills in ferreting out village tittle-tattle were legendary.

  Philippa sighed once again. She looked around her carefully, her gesture adding weight to her words.

  “This is probably just idle speculation, of the kind dull types use to sound more intriguing, and bored types use to fill the time—”

  “Come on, Philippa! At this rate, by the time you tell me, I really will catch a cold!”

  “Well,” Philippa said, unaffected by Annabelle’s impatience, “I’ve heard it muttered in certain circles that a number of families are having financial difficulties.”

  Annabelle sipped her tea and frowned.

  “Doesn’t every family have financial difficulties at this time of year? So soon after taking expensive summer holidays, when the heating bills start coming in, and Christmas is just around the corner?”

  “Perhaps, Reverend,” Philippa said, her tone still conspiratorial and low, “but there’s an added element here. You see, a lot of the women are complaining that their husbands are being stingy with money, hiding it. And they’re saying the men are spending more and more time away from home.”

  Annabelle took another sip and frowned once more.

  “But is that really anything new, Philippa? The soccer season is in full swing, and it’s too cold to do anything but go to the pub in the evening.”

  This time it was Philippa who frowned, annoyed that her privileged, secretive insights had been dismissed.

  “Perhaps, Reverend,” she said, in a tightly-controlled tone, “but I just thought you’d like to know what your parishioners were saying.”

  “I’m sorry, Philippa. You’re right. Maybe there is something to it. But financial difficulties or not, the result is the same.” Annabelle turned back to face the gravestones. “Without help, this cemetery will remain a sorry state of affairs. If it snows again this year, I daren’t think how much worse it could get.”

  “I’m sorry, Reverend. I’m sure we’ll get it fixed,” Philippa said, placing her hand once more on the Vicar’s arm.

  “Thank you for being so positive,” Annabelle said, placing a hand over her friend’s. “You know, I’ve taken to coming out here and praying. Even though it’s cold and rather ugly, I’ve always felt like saying my prayers in places that needed them most.” Annabelle smiled self-deprecatingly. “I know it’s terribly superstitious and silly for a Reverend, but I even find myself looking for a sign. Some sort of signal from the Lord that’ll help guide me.”

  Just then, the air was filled with a low, powerful, rumbling sound. It rolled through the air like a wave before dissipating.

  Philippa and Annabelle clutched at each other in shock.

  “What was that?!” Philippa squealed.

  “I don’t know!”

  “Did you hear it?”

  “Of course, I heard it! I wouldn’t be grabbing you if I hadn’t!”

  Once again, the low hum sounded out again, louder and more melodic this time. The two women turned to face each other, their eyes wide and mouths open with awe.

  Then Annabelle sighed and chuckled, as more notes were added, and the throbbing sound turned into a moving, atmospheric melody; the distinctive sound of the church organ.

  “It’s only Jeremy!” Annabelle said, as Philippa let go of her arm and slowly returned to a state of calm.

  “So it is,” Philippa said, smiling. “He scared me half to death! It’s rather early for him, though, isn’t it? He doesn’t usually start practicing until ten, and it’s only eight.”

  Annabelle handed her empty cup back to Philippa before straightening her clerical robe.

  “I’ll see what he’s up to. You’d better go feed those pups before they start digging up this graveyard for bones.”

  “Of course, Vicar,” Philippa said, turning away and leading Annabelle out of the graveyard.

  “Did Janet give you any word on whether the shelter will be able to house them soon?”

  “Not yet, Vicar,” Philippa replied, “I shall have a word with her today though, I imagine.”

  “No rush,” Annabelle smiled, “I rather like having them around. Dogs are such happy creatures. I rather think of them as a blessing, turning up out of the blue like that.”

  “Considering the state of them when they were found, huddled around their mother in the freezing cold, whining like human babies, I rather think they’re the ones who feel blessed right now.”

  They smiled at each other as they went their separate ways; Philippa to the cottage and its two wet-nosed house guests, and Annabelle to the church and its diligent, early-rising organ master.

  “Jeremy!” Annabelle called, over the cascade of notes. “Jeremy! Yoo-hoo!”

  It was only when Annabelle was close enough to Jeremy to wave energetically in his field of vision that he stopped playing, so deeply was he engrossed in his music. He noticed her with a start and pulled his hands away from the keyboard abruptly.

  “Oh! Sorry, Vicar. I didn’t see you there,” he said, in his soft voice.

  Jeremy Cunningham was an extremely tall, slim man, his rather pasty face topped with neatly-thatched blond hair. Despite his pale complexion, his blue eyes, and his thin, pink lips that all betrayed his youthfulness, his penchant for thickly-knitted sweaters and sharply-creased trousers indicated a taste that was much older than his twenty-eight years.

  “Don’t apologize,” Annabelle said, “it’s rather lovely, if a little macabre at this time of the morning.”

  “It was Brahm’s Requiem. One of my favorites. I tend to play slower pieces in the morning, to warm up my hands,” he said, holding his fingers up and wiggling them with a polite smile.

  “Indeed,” Annabelle replied, marveling at what she saw in front of her. “I must say, I continue to be amazed by the size of your hands, Jeremy. I’ve never seen such long and elegant fingers! They are quite extraordinary.”

  Jeremy nodded gracefully. “My old pastor in Bristol said that ‘the Lord provides the very gifts we require in order to worship Him.’”

  Annabelle smiled. Jeremy was one of the most devout members of her flock as well as one of the most recent additions. He had moved to Upton St. Mary six months ago and made Annabelle’s acquaintance very quickly, presenting himself at the first opportunity in order to offer his services. She quickly found a use for him as the church organist. Jeremy immediately set to work cleaning and repairing the vintage organ. It was a complex contraption, with pipes that reached up one side of the stained glass window on the church’s north wall, but Jeremy was up to the job.

  Until the dexterous young man arrived in the village, the organ had stood dormant since the death of the previous church organist in 1989. Few of the members of Annabelle’s parish even knew the pipes were there until they blasted into life one Sunday morning on Jeremy’s command. It caused quite a stir. Postmistress Mrs. Turner nearly fainted, and Mr. Briggs, the local baker, thought he was having another heart attack. They both had to be attended to by paramedic Joe Cox while Annabelle worriedly hovered close by, mentally making note to raise the idea of a defibrillator at the next parish council meeting.

  Since then, Jeremy had taken it upon himself to keep the pipes sparkling clean. They often shimmered in the early morning glow that poured forth through the church’s colorful windows. Ever the assiduous and attentive caretaker, Jeremy also kept the keys dusted, the pedals oiled, and the wood that encased it all, well-polished.

  His accompaniments to the hymns and other musical ar
rangements were an instant success, adding yet another quality to Annabelle’s already popular services. The villagers quickly found themselves drawn to the shy, quiet, young man with nimble fingers who blossomed when conversation turned to the Bible. Some of the more excitable ladies of the village had even taken it upon themselves to find the bachelor a nice young woman to meet.

  For now, though, Jeremy was staying with his grandmother, a pleasant woman in her nineties who lived alone in the village. Her health had recently taken a turn for the worse, and the support of her neighbors was no longer enough to ensure her well-being. Jeremy had left his position as a music teacher in Bristol to care for her during what many felt would be her last stretch on this earth.

  “It’s rather early even for you, isn’t it?” Annabelle inquired.

  “I do apologize, Vicar. I would have looked for you, but I saw the door to the church was open and thought it best not to disturb you if I could – though I obviously did!”

  “Oh no, not at all!” Annabelle chuckled. “You just startled us. We were standing in the cemetery when you began. Not the sort of place you suddenly want to hear a requiem! I thought the dead were about to rise up!”

  Jeremy’s face remained solidly blank.

  “Nobody but the Lord is capable of such a thing, Vicar, as you well know,” he said, in a clipped monotone.

  Annabelle’s chuckle was quickly replaced with a solemn, serious look. If there had been one deficit in their otherwise easy relationship, it was Jeremy’s distinct lack of humor – particularly regarding matters of faith.

  “Of course,” Annabelle said, in her most sanctimonious of voices. “Well… Carry on.”

  Jeremy nodded and turned back to the church organ as Annabelle spun on her heel and walked briskly away, her cheeks flushed with red.

  Annabelle’s discomfiture was quickly dispelled, however, when she stepped out of the church doors and caught sight of Philippa coming from the cottage with two bounding puppies at her heels. Their faces with their large black noses and big brown eyes were framed by pairs of floppy ears that flapped constantly in the bouncy manner of pups. Both tan in color, the female of the two was distinguished by a white streak that ran from the tip of her long snout to the top of her head. The moment they heard Annabelle’s feet on the gravel, they quickly ran to greet her.