"Warm, endearing and full of magic!"
Reviewed by Sharon Galligar Chance
Posted January 5, 2010
Mystery Woman Sleuth
Annette Blair's "Vintage Magic" series is one of the most
adorable, fascinating cozy mystery series I have run
across. And in her 2nd book of the series, "LACE AND
LARCENY", her heroine Maddie has decided to move back home
to fulfil her dream of opening her store, "Vintage Magic." With all the stress of renovating the old Underhill Funeral
Chapel, and stocking her new vintage clothing store, Maddie
Cutler is exhausted. But she's determined to find the
secret room that former owner Dolly Sweet has told her
about. However, a surprise awaits her as while
investigating a break-in at her new store, Maddie and her
best friend Eve discover a quilt-wrapped collection of
human bones in an old body drawer. And the bones are as
vintage as Maddie's stock, or so says resident ghost, Dante
Underhill. Maddie wonders if the break-in at her store could have
something to do with the argument she had witnessed earlier
between the local playhouse owner and a mysterious
stranger. And when the theatre is later burned, and the
cranky old owner Broderick Sampson is found dead, Maddie
wonders if her intruder and the stranger could be one in
the same. Soon Maddie finds herself juggling getting her
store ready to open in time for Halloween and crime
solving. Add to the brew the local witch's costume ball,
being held at her store, and Maddie will be wishing she
knew how to ride a broom right out of there. Again, "LACE AND LARCENY" is another fast-paced novel that
keeps the reader entertained from the word go! Annette
Blair's characters are warm and endearing, and you feel as
if you're visiting old friends among the pages. I love the
side love story between old Mrs. Sweet and her ghostly
boyfriend, Dante. And I love that Blair includes Maddie's
familiar, a cute little cat named Chakra, in the story. I
look forward to more stories of the Cutler family and
Mystic, Connecticut from this wonderful author.
SUMMARY
Madeira Cutler is busy opening her new vintage clothing
store in what was once the town’s morgue when she
discovers an intruder snooping around a bunch of bones in
a body drawer. Now, she’ll have to dig up more than the
past to solve a crime.
Excerpt“I find that it is vital to have at least one handbag for
each of the ten types of social occasion: Very Formal, Not
So Formal, Just a Teensy Bit Formal, Informal but Not That
Informal, Every Day, Every Other Day, Day Travel, Night
Travel, Theater, and Fling.” —Miss PiggyChapter One If I hadn’t asked my New York cronies to mention my grand
opening in their national fashion magazines, I might be able
to breathe as if I weren’t wearing Scarlett O’Hara’s
corset. Thirteen days before Halloween. Thirteen days to open
Vintage Magic, my dress shop for timeless classics and
designer originals. What was I doing to make it happen? Driving home to Mystic,
Connecticut, from New York after working out my contractual
two weeks’ notice, rather than forfeiting the bonus I needed
to turn my building into Vintage Magic. As I drove, grinning witches and twinkling pumpkin lights
mocked me. I needed a tucking miracle. My name is Maddie Cutler, well, Madeira, a former New York
fashion designer, and I can fix anything, with the possible
exception of cloning myself. So you can imagine my
frustration two weeks ago at having to hand my shop’s
renovation reins over to my father. Harry Cutler, staid academic, planned ahead. His oldest
daughter, creative free spirit—that would be me—did not,
which is how I got myself into this. The silver lining? I passed my departing construction crew
near Mystic Seaport. Finished. Finally. And only three weeks
late. The flaw in the fabric? A faxed report from the construction
crew’s night watchman. A rash of bumps in the night and
running feet into the early hours of the morning. Note from
said watchman: The Mystick Falls police are getting
ticked at being called every night “with no perp to show for
it.” I did not need anymore grief from my old nemesis, Detective
Sergeant Lytton Werner, also known as “the Wiener,” thanks
to a certain third-grade brat—that would also be me. My complicated relationship with the local police aside, did
the bumps in the night worry me? You bet your French
knickers, they did. Why this sudden interest in a building
that had been boarded up and left undisturbed for more than
half a century? I hoped never to find out. Tomorrow I’d start moving in my stock and setting up my
displays. How long could it take? I’d only been collecting
vintage my whole life. Oy. As I turned onto Bank Street, I heard raised voices in the
distance, which anyone who’d passed the playhouse across
from my shop heard at one time or another. Broderick
Sampson, the curmudgeon of an owner argued with everyone.
Just another sign I was home. I pulled into the crowded lot behind Mystic Pizza to view my
building from across the street. I had always admired the
original copper weathervane, a ship in full sail time-coated
a soft green, but I loved the new Victorian streetlamps
brightening my parking lot, and the spotlit old-fashioned
tavern sign hanging above the door: Vintage Magic in bold
white on a dark eggplant-colored shield. Behind the shop
name stood a pale lavender side silhouette of a woman who
could be Jackie O., the sixties being such a popular
vintage I finally uncrated my crying kitten, who would rather have
been riding shotgun from the armrest, and she came to make
her own assessment. I refused to stress over the parking-lot debris marring the
scene: empty wire reels and a mountain of boxes at my front
door. You’d think the crew would have cleaned up. The yellow fur ball purred and curled against my solar
plexus chakra, an intuitive move on her part. She had the
uncanny ability to calm me. Because of it, I’d named her
appropriately. “What do you think, Chakra? Beautiful?” She approved with a soft meow. Genuine delight washed over me. No more weather-ravaged, raw wood shack, though we hadn’t
replaced a splinter that didn’t need it. No windows existed
on the building’s main floor, but I didn’t want sunshine
fading my vintage treasures, anyway. We’d replaced the people door, but the huge, tall,
front-facing double doors beside it, built for horse-drawn
hearses, were now sealed . . . though the
same could not be said for a similar door at the side of the
building. In front, however, their sheer size in lavender with
eggplant crossbeams, made the sage building pop. Magical
colors, according to Aunt Fiona, lawyer, godmother, and
witch. Sage: the herb to clear negative energy and the color
for prosperity; lavender for harmony; purple for wisdom. In this incarnation, Vintage Magic oozed character and
charm, leaving its days as a morgue, then a funereal
carriage house, to the history books. I moved Chakra from my lap, drove across Bank Street, and
pulled straight into my smooth new tarmac parking lot. I had yet to see the transformation inside. Between the New York job and condo to sublet, I hadn’t been
back in the last two weeks. But the minute both were done,
I’d packed seven years of my life into a funky rental and
beat my ETA by an hour. As a result, Dad, Aunt Fiona, Eve, my best friend, and Nick,
my hunky Italian boy toy, weren’t here, yet. They were due
soon to crack open the secret room with me
; secret being relative. Dolly Sweet, friend and centenarian, who’d deeded me the
place for the price of taxes, forgot to tell me about the
second-floor storage room, its doors cut so seamlessly into
a wall, I’d missed it on my pre-ownership tour. Like the
rest of us, Dolly couldn’t wait to find out what she forgot
she sold me. Sure, reports of bumps in the night made me think twice
about viewing even the bottom floor alone. But
this was my building and I was the only one who
hadn’t seen its transformation. Besides, I had four things on my side. A key. A can of mace.
Spiked heels. And a watch cat. Who could ask for more? I was going in. The key my father sent me slipped into the lock like a knife
through flan, or cheesecake, or tiramisu. Hmm. I forgot to
eat today. Forgot to sleep last night, too, I was so busy
packing. My stomach growled as I stepped inside, the scent of fresh
paint filling me with a giddy Christmas-morning rush. Chakra
jumped from my arms and hit the floor with a whomp to scope
out the place. The panel of switches and dimmers behind the enclosed
stairway, near the door to my horse-stall dressing rooms,
allowed me to flood the room with a soft wash of indirect
pale pink light. I’d asked for a hint of art deco in the
mahogany trim and it looked sensational, better than my
sketches. Crazy-quilt ideas for finishing touches, decorating,
displays, and shop layout filled my mind. I grinned as I perused my linen-paneled,
three-thousand-square-foot dream-come-true. Vintage Magic. The mahogany, waist-high hearse stalls against the back wall
remained intact and set the style, while a cart of matching
movable lower walls awaited placement along the front and
sides. I’d be able to see my customers in whatever fashion
type or designer nook they perused. Unexpectedly, the wind grabbed the front door and slammed it. I jumped and Chakra howled. A metallic clank hit the floor above us. My heart skipped a beat. Chakra flew into my arms, her fear
becoming mine as I shivered in my Jimmy Choos. Scrap! A bump in the night and no watchman in sight.
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