From the New York Times bestselling author of the Library Lover’s Mysteries and Death of a Mad Hatter comes a tale of hat shop owners who put a cap on crime.   MURDER CAN BE SO OLD HAT   Cousins Scarlett Parker and Vivian Tremont’s fashionable London hat shop, Mim’s Whims, is visited by a new customer bearing an old hat box. Ariana Jackson is getting married and wants to restore her mother’s bridal hat and veil for the occasion. The elegant item was made by Scarlett and Vivian’s grandmother over thirty years ago, so Viv is delighted to take the job.    When Scarlett goes to Ariana's office to consult about the restoration cost, she finds her outside, standing over her boss’s dead body. Though Ariana claims to know nothing about his demise, the investigation unveils a motive for murder. Now, with the bride-to-be in custody and the wedding on hold, Scarlett and Viv must find the real killer before Ariana's future is boxed up for good. Praise for the Hat Shop Mysteries “Fancy hats and British aristocrats make this [series] my sort of delicious cozy read.”—Rhys Bowen, USA Today bestselling author of the Royal Spyness Mysteries “A delightful new heroine.”—Deborah Crombie, New York Times bestselling author “Thoroughly entertaining.”—Hannah Dennison, author of the Vicky Hill Mysteries The hardest decision  New York Times  bestselling author  Jenn McKinlay  ever had to make was what to major in during college. Then she discovered the sanctuary of the library and library science—a major that allowed her to study all the subjects. She loves working as a librarian. After all, what other occupation allows you to research the ethnobotanical properties of agave, perform a puppet show for twenty wiggly toddlers and try to answer why the rabbit’s foot is considered lucky, all in the same day? Jenn is also the author of the Cupcake Bakery Mysteries, the Hat Shop Mysteries and the Bluff Point romance series. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, in a house that is overrun with books, pets, kids and her husband’s guitars. Chapter 1 I stood at the counter of Mim’s Whims, the hat shop my cousin Vivian Tremont and I had inherited from our grandmother Mim, and I gazed out the window. All I could see was gray. Gray clouds, gray sheets of rain, gray fog filling the streets and alleyways, gray, gray, gray. Or as the Brits like to spell it, grey. Our shop is nestled in the midst of Portobello Road and takes up the bottom floor of the three-story white building that our grandmother bought over forty years ago. I’ve always loved it and found the bright blue-and-white-striped awning and matching blue shutters on the windows above to be cheerful, but even they couldn’t defeat the never-ending gloom that seemed to descend upon our section of London. Having been raised in the States and hailing most recently from Florida, I was being pushed just to the right of crazy by this late September weather. Three solid weeks of rain will do that to a girl. Besides, I was quite sure I was going to sprout mold if I didn’t get some sunshine, and soon. “It’s the last one,” Fee said. “You should have it.” “No, no, I insist you take it,” Viv said. She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder as if the gesture added weight to her argument. Fee is Fiona Felton, my cousin Viv’s apprentice. She’s a very nice girl with a tall willowy build, a dark complexion courtesy of her West Indies heritage and a bob of corkscrew curls that she likes to dye new and different colors. Currently, she was rocking green streaks, which I thought was pretty cool but would look hideous in my own auburn shoulder-length hair. Viv is the mad hatter of our little trio. Growing up down the street, she trained to be a milliner beside Mim. My own attempts at millinery were encouraged, but it became readily apparent that I did not have the family gift for twining ribbons into flowers or shaping brims or anything artistic or even crafty. Viv and Fee were standing on the other side of the counter, taking a break from their current creations in the workroom. They were pushing a plate back and forth between them which contained one rogue piece of Walker’s Toffee, the last of the package we had been nibbling on all day. “After such a large tea this afternoon, I couldn’t eat another bite,” Fee said. “Fee, honestly, I insist you take the last piece of toffee,” Viv said. She sounded very bossy about it. “No, I couldn’t possibly. You absolutely must have it,” Fee said. She blew a green curl out of her eyes. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I said. “I’ll eat it just to end this.” I scooped up the last piece of toffee and popped it into my mouth. Viv and Fee both turned to look at me with wide eyes. “What?” I asked while chewing. “Nothing,” Fee said and glanced away. “It’s fine,” Viv agreed. I stopped chewing. I knew the stone-sinking sensation of committing a social gaffe when I felt it. Scarlett Parker, boorish American, that’s me. “Aw, man,” I said. “I messed that up, didn’t I?” “It’s f