Praise for
Little Shop of Homicide
“Veteran author Swanson debuts a spunky new heroine with a Missouri stubborn streak. . . . Readers will like this one for its slightly zany, multigenerational take on small-town mores.”
—Library Journal (Starred Review)
“A new entertaining mystery series that her fans will appreciate. . . . With a touch of romance in the air, readers will enjoy this delightful cozy.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Swanson has a gift for portraying small-town life, making it interesting, and finding both the ridiculous and the satisfying parts of living in one. I wish Dev a long and happy shelf life.”
—AnnArbor.com
“A top-notch new mystery . . . all the right ingredients for another successful series.”
—Romantic Times
Praise for the Scumble River Mystery Series
“Endearing . . . quirky . . . a delight.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns. The quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy.”
—Agatha Award–winning author Earlene Fowler
“Charming, insightful.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Death Comes Silently
“[A] lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life.”
—Hartford Courant
“A fun and fast-paced mystery. . . . As always, Skye Dennison and Scumble River provide a reliable, enjoyable mystery. Reading about Scumble River is as comfortable as being in your own hometown.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Top-notch storytelling, with truly unique and wonderful characters.”
—CrimeSpree Magazine
“Smartly spins on a solid plot and likable characters.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“Denise Swanson keeps getting better and better. . . . She knows just how to add humor and warmth to her books, making them unforgettable reads!”
—Roundtable Reviews
“A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Denise Swanson hits all the right notes in this brisk and witty peek at small-town foibles and foul play.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
“Another sidesplitting visit to Scumble River . . . with some of the quirkiest and most eccentric characters we ever have met.”
—Butler County Post (KY)
“An endearing and realistic character . . . a fast-paced, enjoyable read.”
—The Herald News (MA)
“Delightful.”
—Mysterious Women
“Another delightful and intriguing escapade.”
—Mystery News
“More fun than the Whirl-A-Gig at the County Fair and tastier than a corn dog.”
—The Charlotte Austin Review
Also by Denise Swanson
DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE MYSTERIES
Little Shop of Homicide
SCUMBLE RIVER MYSTERIES
Murder of the Cat’s Meow
“Not a Monster of a Chance,” short story in
And the Dying Is Easy
“Dead Blondes Tell No Tales,” e-book novella in
Drop-Dead Blonde
Murder of a Creped Suzette
Murder of a Bookstore Babe
Murder of a Wedding Belle
Murder of a Royal Pain
Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde
Murder of a Real Bad Boy
Murder of a Smart Cookie
Murder of a Pink Elephant
Murder of a Barbie and Ken
Murder of a Snake in the Grass
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
Nickeled-and-Dimed to Death
A Devereaux’s Dime Store Mystery
Denise Swanson
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi–110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue,
Parktown North 2193, South Africa
Penguin China, B7 Jaiming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North,
Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-101-60409-0
Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Preview of Murder of a Stacked Librarian
Thanks to all my Facebook peeps, who answer my questions, wade in with their opinions, and encourage me to write the next book.
CHAPTER 1
* * *
I mentally tapped my toe as I waited for Miss Ophelia to make her selection from the glass candy case. As the foremost authority on etiquette in Shadow Bend, Missouri—population 4,028—she’d been whipping the future generations of my hometown into excruciatingly correct behavior for the past fifty years. And since I had bought the dime store ten months ago, it had become h
er habit to stop in to purchase a single treat for herself every Saturday afternoon. Her last class on the proper way to dine, dance, and flirt with the opposite sex ended promptly at three thirty, and she arrived at my store exactly seven minutes later.
While Miss Ophelia dithered between a hand-dipped dulce de leche truffle and this month’s signature candy, a red velvet bonbon, I glanced at the vintage Ingraham schoolhouse regulator hanging on the wall behind the front counter. Although the clock was manufactured in the 1920s, its beautiful carved oak case, convex glass, and brass pendulum still looked brand-new, and it kept perfect time. It was now 3:52.
Eight more minutes and my weekend clerk, Xylia Locke, and I could shoo out the loiterers, flip off the neon OPEN sign, and bolt the door. Devereaux’s Dime Store and Gift Baskets closed at four on Saturday, and today I wasn’t letting the customers linger a single second longer. I had smoking-hot plans for the evening, and only ninety minutes to make myself beautiful enough to fulfill them.
After a lengthy verbal debate with herself, Miss Ophelia finally made her choice—completely changing her mind at the last minute and going with the butter crunch toffee. While Xylia was ringing up the older woman’s purchase, I began the process of herding the stragglers toward either the register, for those who wanted to make a purchase, or the exit, for those who were sitting at the soda fountain, using the free Wi-Fi and socializing.
My clerk had one foot over the threshold as she said good-bye to me, when an attractive thirtysomething brunette carrying a large package rushed past her into the store. I called out that we were closed, but the woman either didn’t hear me or ignored my admonishment. Xylia raised a questioning eyebrow, but I waved her away. Whatever the last-minute shopper wanted, she’d have to come back on Monday.
I locked the door behind my assistant, not wanting another eleventh-hour customer to sneak in, then said to the brunette standing near the cash register, “I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the day.”
“Do you own this store?” the woman demanded, making no move to leave.
“Yes.” Considering the cardboard carton in her arms, I wondered if she had a complaint about a previous purchase. “I’m Devereaux Sinclair. And you are . . . ?”
“Elise Whitmore.” She thunked the box down on the marble counter, and I heard a metallic clinking sound. “I understand you like old stuff.” She scrutinized me, her expression clearly indicating that she found wanting my less-than-fashionable jeans, yellow sweatshirt with DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE embroidered across the chest, and frizzy cinnamon gold hair scraped into a ponytail. “Is that true?”
“If you mean vintage and antique items, yes, I am interested in them. I both collect them and use them for the gift baskets I make.” When I had purchased the dime store, I had added the basket business.
“Good.” Elise unfolded the carton’s flaps and reached inside.
My treasure-hunting curiosity was piqued.
“I’ve got some old chocolate molds I want to sell.” Elise pulled out a pair of metal Easter Bunny casts. “What do you think?”
One bunny was close to a foot tall and had a basket attached to his back, and the other bunny, about half the size of the first, was carrying a mushroom. I loved them. They would be perfect for my Easter window display and for the traditional basket orders I had for the holiday. The erotic baskets I made needed a vastly different type of merchandise.
“They seem nice,” I answered neutrally, hoping to keep the price within a range I could afford. “How much do you want for them?”
“You can have the whole box for a thousand bucks.” Elise put down the ones she was holding, then lined up three more Easter-themed molds—a girl bunny, a set of four eggs, and a rabbit riding a duck.
I didn’t know much about these particular collectibles, but I had a hunch this was an extremely good deal. “Can you give me a second?” When she nodded, I slipped into the storeroom, bent over my computer, and typed ANTIQUE CHOCOLATE MOLDS into Bing.com. Zowie! According to several of the Web sites I clicked on, the largest rabbit alone was worth 950 dollars.
Suddenly afraid that the woman would leave or change her mind about selling the molds, I hurried back out to the sales floor and, keeping my voice cool, said, “Since they’re a seasonal item and there’s only three weeks left until Easter, I’ll give you seven fifty.”
Elise frowned, then shrugged. “Eight hundred, but I want cash.”
Since so many people used credit and debit cards, I wasn’t sure I had that much money in the till. “Eight fifty if you’ll take a check.” I was willing to pay fifty bucks more to cinch the deal.
“No.” She shook her head. “Cash, or I take these to the pawn shop at the edge of town.”
“Let me see what I have on hand.” I went behind the counter and opened the register. As I added up the contents of the drawer, I held my breath. I really wanted those molds.
“I don’t have all day.” Elise tapped her foot. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“One second.” I dug in my jeans pocket and pulled out a twenty, two fives, and a single. “Here you go.” Adding them to the stack in front of me, I handed the pile to Elise.
She counted the money, nodded, and stuck it in her Dolce & Gabbana handbag, then turned on her heel and marched toward the exit. I followed her and unlocked it. She hesitated halfway through, and I nearly hit her with the door I was already closing.
Elise took a swift step to avoid the collision, then said over her shoulder, “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone where you got the molds.”
“Why?” I called after her. A sinking feeling made my stomach clench. “They were yours to sell, weren’t they? You are the owner, right?”
But it was too late; she had already gotten into her red Lexus and was backing into the street. As she sped away, I noticed her license plate read WUZ HIZ. Damn! I knew that had been too easy. Why hadn’t I asked more questions? Had I just committed a felony?
* * *
After hastily sticking the chocolate molds into my safe, I finished locking up the store and jumped into my sapphire black Z4. It was one of the few possessions I had kept from my old life—the one where I earned a six-figure salary as a financial consultant employed by Stramp Investments.
I’d allowed myself to hang on to the BMW by rationalizing that in this economy I’d never get what it was worth if I sold it. However, the truth was, I loved that car, and I knew there was more of a chance of me winning the Miss Missouri contest than of ever owning a vehicle like it again.
Chuckling at the thought of being a beauty pageant queen, I put the Z4 in gear and headed home. I lived with my grandma, Birdie, just outside of Shadow Bend on the ten remaining acres of the property my ancestors had settled in the 1860s.
Because of the three generations before me that had produced only one child each, relatives who had moved away, and several Sinclair men who’d died in various wars, Gran and I were the last of our clan in Shadow Bend. My grandfather’s death fifteen years ago had forced Gran to begin selling off the land surrounding the old homestead to pay the taxes and support herself and me. Piece by piece, my heritage had been stripped away, and I treasured what we had left. Just as I cherished my grandmother.
It was when Gran had started to have some memory issues that I had quit my job in Kansas City and purchased the dime store. Going from a sixty-hour or more workweek to a little over forty had given me the time I needed to be there for her. As had swapping my two-hour round-trip commute for a twenty-minute drive.
Gran had taken me in thirteen years ago when my parents deserted me. Although my father hadn’t had a choice about it—he’d been sent to prison for manslaughter and possession of a controlled substance. My mom didn’t have any excuse.
She had dumped me on Birdie’s doorstep with a suitcase and a fifty-dollar bill and run off to California. I was sixteen at the time, and even though Gran had showered me with love and attention, I never got over my mother’s actions or the feelings of rejection an
d abandonment they instilled.
Which is why when Gran’s doctor had informed me that she needed me to be around more, I hadn’t hesitated to find another way to earn a living. I put in my two weeks’ notice at Stramp Investment as soon as the deal for the dime store purchase was complete. Some people thought I resigned from my job because I found out my boss, Ronald Stramp, was a crook, and that he paid for my silence. But I’d been as surprised as the rest of the world when his Ponzi scheme was revealed.
Just as my father had claimed he had been set up and was as innocent of committing manslaughter as he was of the bank embezzlement of which he’d also been accused but never convicted, Stramp also maintained his innocence. However, unlike Dad, the jury at my boss’s trial acquitted him—a fact that the people Stramp had bilked out of millions still resented.
Unfortunately, most people blamed me for the not-guilty verdict that freed him. I hadn’t been able to testify about Stramp’s scam because I hadn’t been aware of it. I don’t know which I felt worse about: that my ignorance allowed him to get away with his crime or that I was so dumb I never noticed what he was doing. My only defense was that Stramp was an extremely secretive and clever man.
All of this was on my mind as I made the short drive home. After both my father’s and ex-boss’s scandals, I had struggled to rehabilitate my image. As a teenager, I had shunned any and all controversy—never getting so much as a detention at school or a speeding ticket around my hometown.
And having made it through the Stramp disaster, I had pledged to avoid even the hint of dishonesty. Heck, I had solved a murder in which I was the prime suspect in order to escape being tainted by more gossip. Of course, my fear of being sent to prison might have also motivated me to find the real killer.
Now, as I tore down the blacktop toward home, passing farmhouses, fields, and pastures of grazing cows, sheep, and goats, I wondered if my love of collectibles and antiques had led me to commit a crime. If I had, could I make things right before my reputation was damaged beyond all repair?
Hitting the steering wheel, I groaned. Great! My good name was on the line again. And this time, it was my own damn fault.
Nickeled and Dimed to Death Page 1
