One If Penelope "Pen" Parish had known how useless a master's degree in Gothic literature would turn out to be, she would have opted for something more practical instead-like accounting or mortuary science. After keeping herself somewhat afloat for several years with a hodgepodge of temporary jobs like waitressing and data entry, she'd hit upon a solution. Instead of studying other authors' Gothic novels, she would write one of her own. She'd subsequently spent every bit of her spare time in her attic garret-okay, a fifth-floor walk-up with drafty windows-with her fingers on the keys of her used laptop, surrounded by empty takeout containers, channeling her favorite Gothic authors-Mary Shelley, the Bront's, and Ann Radcliffe. By adding a touch of horror ^ la Stephen King, she had managed to produce a book the critics called a "unique, fresh twist on the classic Gothic novel." You could have knocked her over with a feather when The Lady of the Moors became a bestseller. And therein lies the rub, as Hamlet opined. Publishers have a habit of expecting their authors to follow up one bestseller with another. And Penelope Parish was suffering from a terrible case of writer's block. She thought of that old saying, "Be careful what you wish for." The truth of that old saw had certainly hit home. She'd done her share of wishing as she'd slogged through her first manuscript-and there were entire days if not weeks when it was definitely a slog. She'd dreamed of all the things every writer does-book signings, coast-to-coast book tours, hitting the bestseller lists, royalties pouring in to swell her dwindling bank account. And while it hadn't been exactly like that-her publisher had nixed the idea of a coast-to-coast book tour-some of it had actually come true. And it had given Penelope a terrible case of nerves. She'd been raised with the strict New England ethic of hard work and was quite accustomed to it-holding down two jobs while getting her degree hadn't exactly been a picnic-but sometimes hard work wasn't enough. Ever since her success, she'd forced herself to sit in her chair at her desk with her fingers on her laptop keys for hours on end, but the words had refused to come. She'd hit a writer's block the size of Rhode Island. Salvation had come in the form of a writer-in-residence position at the Open Book bookstore in England. She'd seen the ad in the back of the Writer magazine and had impulsively applied. The application had been curious to say the least-filled with unusual and admittedly creative questions. If you could be any character in fiction, who would you be? That had taken some thought on Penelope's part, but finally she had put down Bridget Jones. Because Bridget's friends and family liked her just the way she was. Penelope's mother and sister were constantly trying to turn her into something she was not-a polished, put-together career woman balancing life and work as easily as a Cirque du Soleil performer juggled balls. Her friends were forever urging her to get it together and move on with her life. Yes, Bridget Jones it was. If you were a type of food, what type of food would you be? Penelope had thought long and hard about that one, too, and had finally come up with her answer-pizza. Everyone liked pizza. It was unpretentious. It was comfort food and always made you feel better. You could have it any way you wanted-with or without pepperoni; sausage; mushrooms; onion; green peppers; or even, if you insisted, pineapple. Penelope had sent off the application without any great expectations. And for the second time in her life, you could have knocked her over with a feather when the letter came-the e-mail actually if you want to split hairs-announcing that she'd won. It had seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity-the quiet of a charming English village where she could write in peace in exchange for running a book group and a writers group and anything else she could think up to enhance the bottom line of the Open Book. And the chance to get away from everyone's expectations-her mother's, her sister's, and even her publisher's. It had crossed Penelope's mind that her decision might have looked to some as if she was running away but she immediately dismissed the thought. She was having an adventure and wasn't that what life was meant to be? Penelope had thought of herself as well prepared for life in an English village. She was an avid reader of British authors-she knew her Miss Marple inside and out-and she never missed an episode of The Crown or Victoria. She didn't expect to be homesick. Homesick for what? An unsatisfactory romantic relationship? Her overpriced Manhattan walk-up? There'd been objections, of course. The road was never smooth sailing as far as Penelope was concerned. Her sister, Beryl, insisted that this "sabbatical," as she called it, wasn't going to get Penelope a career. Despite Penelope's publisher springing for a full-page ad in the New York Times, her sister didn't consider book writing a viable occupation. According to her, what Penelope ought to do was apply for an academic position at a prestigious university. Penelope's mother had objected, too, telling Penelope that she'd never meet anyone in Britain, and, even if she did, all the men there had bad teeth and if she thought she was going to meet Prince Harry or any prince at all, she was sadly mistaken. And as far as breaking into British society was concerned, she could forget all about that. Besides, what about her boyfriend, Miles? Miles had seemed mildly put out that she wouldn't be on hand to grace his arm at the annual Morgan Fund investor's dinner, but in the end he was the only one who didn't vigorously object to Penelope's upping stakes and moving overseas. Fortunately Penelope was used to doing things that others objected to-she'd been doing it all her life-so that didn't stop her from accepting the Open Book's offer. No, she was going to make a go of this opportunity, because really, she had no choice. And-she could hear her grandmother's voice in her head-the Parishes aren't quitters. And thus it was that Penelope had arrived on the shores of Merrie Olde England with her laptop and her battered suitcases and how she now found herself driving down the wrong (wrong in her opinion, anyway) side of the high street in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke two weeks later. Today Chum, as Upper Chumley-on-Stoke was affectionately known to its residents, was a beehive of activity. Tomorrow was the annual Worthington Fest. Banners, adorned with the Worthington crest and announcing the fest, hung from every streetlamp along the high street and fluttered in the mild breeze. It was a brisk October day, but the sky was cloudless and the sun warmed the air enough so she could get about nicely with just a light coat or a heavy sweater. Upper Chumley-on-Stoke was a charming village within commuting distance of London. It was the real deal-a well-preserved medieval town that even the bright, shiny new Tesco and the curry takeaway on the outskirts of the city couldn't spoil. The quaint cobblestoned streets were the delight of tourists even if they were a nuisance to the residents who found them rough going in any footwear other than thick-soled walking shoes. Buildings of brick worn over the years to a rosy hue followed a bend in the road until they petered out and gave way to a narrow road bordered by hedgerows that cut through the grassy green fields beyond and into the countryside. Penelope found the town enchanting. She felt as if she had stepped into a storybook and even the inconveniences didn't bother her-WiFi that was spotty at best, narrow streets instead of wide modern roads, an absence of large chain stores and shopping malls save the Tesco that had opened in recent years. The Open Book was equally enchanting. It was fusty and musty in the best possible way with books spilling willy-nilly from the shelves and arranged according to Mabel Morris, the proprietor's, unique shelving system, which Penelope soon discovered made finding a volume more of a treasure hunt than the usual cut-and-dried affair. There was a low ceiling crisscrossed with wooden beams and a large diamond-paned front window where Penelope could imagine Charles Dickens's newly published A Christmas Carol might have been displayed while men in greatcoats and women in long dresses walked up and down the sidewalk outside, occasionally peering through the glass at the array of books. Penelope negotiated the roundabout at the top of the high street and was admiring a red sweater in the window of the Knit Wit Shop when a horn blaring close by made her jump. She returned her attention to the road and was horrified to see another car coming straight at her. She jerked the steering wheel, overcorrected, bumped up over the curb, slammed on her brakes, and came to a stop within an inch of a cement planter filled with bright orange and yellow mums. Her heart was beating hard, her palms were sweaty, and there was a haze in front of her eyes. The other car, a Ford, had stopped in the middle of the road and the driver was now standing next to it. Penelope took a deep breath, opened her door, and got out. "What do you mean driving down the wrong side of the street," she said, still slightly breathless, as she approached the other driver. The driver looked amused. He wasn't handsome but had a kind, open face that was very appealing. He was an inch or two shorter than Penelope's six feet. Penelope had sprouted up early and there had been hopes that she would follow in her mother's and sister's footsteps to model; but although she was attractive enough, the camera didn't love her the way it did them. Besides, Penelope had no interest in parading around having her picture taken. The fellow still looked amused. She knew she needed to rein in her indignation but it was her default setting and not easy. "You scared me half to death," she said, pushing her glasses back up her nose with her finger. "You're American," the fellow said. He had a slight Irish lilt to his voice. Penelope raised her chin slightly. "Yes." She was about to say what of it when a horn honking made her jump. A line of cars had formed behind the driver's Ford Cortina and a red VW Golf was attempting to pull around it. Penelope's hand flew to her mouth as the realization hit her. "I was on the wrong side of the road," she said in a horrified voice. "Exactly." "I'm so sorry. I forgot . . . I thought . . ." Penelope stuttered to a halt. "I'm so terribly sorry. You're not hurt . . . or anything . . . are you?" She swayed slightly. "I'm fine," the fellow said, his face creasing in concern. "But I'm worried about you." "I'll be okay." Penelope took a deep breath. "It's only that I think I forgot to eat lunch." It used to drive Penelope's sister crazy that she had to constantly watch her diet to maintain a slim figure, while Penelope could go a whole day without even thinking about food, then devour a meal worthy of a linebacker and still never gain an ounce. "As long as you're sure . . ." Penelope waved at him. "I'll be fine." She gestured toward the cars lined up down the road. "You'd better get going. That mob looks ready to attack you." He smiled. "I guess I'd better." Mabel Morris, whose Miss Marple-like appearance and demeanor belied her former career as an MI6 analyst, was behind the counter when Penelope pushed open the door to the bookstore. She was all rounded curves and had fluffy white hair that tended to want to go every which way and pale powdery skin. Her blue eyes, however, had depths that suggested she wasn't unacquainted with tragedy and the seamier side of life. "My sainted aunt," she said when she saw Penelope, "you look like you could use a good strong cup of tea." "A shot of whiskey is more like it," Penelope said as she slumped against the counter. "Not that I'm in the habit of drinking in the middle of the day." "This is strictly medicinal." Mabel pulled a bottle of Jameson and a glass from under the counter. She poured out a generous splash of whiskey and handed it to Penelope. "Drink up and then tell me what's having you look like Hamlet's father's ghost." Penelope tossed back the whiskey and sighed as the warmth traced a path down her throat, to her stomach, and out to her limbs. She felt her shoulders and neck relax and her agitated breathing slow. "I very nearly had an accident," she said, putting her glass down on the counter. Mabel inclined her head toward the glass. "Another?" Penelope shook her head. "Not on an empty stomach." "You haven't eaten?" Mabel looked alarmed. "I'll be fine," Penelope reassured her. "Thank goodness the other fellow was able to stop in time." "What happened?" Penelope sighed. "I'd like to say it was the other driver's fault, but I'm afraid I forgot where I was and ended up on the wrong side of the road." She felt her face color. She didn't like making mistakes. "This is how many near misses now?" Mabel turned and put both hands palms down on the counter. "Maybe you should consider giving up the car. You can walk to the Open Book and if you need to go any farther than that, you can hire a taxi." "That's very tempting," Penelope said, briefly reliving the horror of seeing another car headed straight at her. She raised her chin. "But I'm determined to nail this driving on the other side of the road if it's the last thing I do." Mabel raised an eyebrow. "That's what has me worried-that it will one day be the last thing you do." Gladys Watkins wandered up to the counter. She handed over a copy of romance novelist Charlotte Davenport's latest, The Fire in My Bosom, which featured a rather long-haired, bare-chested man on the cover and a damsel whose look of considerable distress seemed to match Gladys's own. "I can't begin to imagine what the queen thinks of it," Gladys said as Mabel dropped some coins into her outstretched palm. "I imagine the poor thing is simply beside herself." "One can't quite imagine the queen being beside herself," Mabel said, as she turned toward the register and ripped off the receipt. "She's made of sterner stuff than that." Excerpted from Murder in the Margins by Margaret Loudon All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.